Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

‘And I’m not ruling out a walk on the beach,’ she said, writing hers down and handing it to him. This was a moment to be strong. Poor guy. He needed to know she was in his corner. ‘Now let’s talk about something really serious. Tell me what music you like.’

The first bars of Colonel Bogey sounded in Jo’s bag. She took out her mobile and pressed the green key.

‘Sweetie, how are you placed?’

Too bad. The caller wasn’t Jake. Five days had gone by and she’d heard no more from him. It was Gemma.

‘You mean right now?’

‘I mean can you come over?’

‘Where to?’

‘The print works. Fishbourne. You know it, don’t you?’

‘Is that wise? I might meet someone.’

‘It’s okay. The boss isn’t in.’

‘What’s the problem, then?’

‘Bit of a mystery. Tell you when you get here-if I haven’t spontaneously combusted by then.’

Even allowing for Gemma’s dramatising, this sounded like an emergency. The last week had been stressful enough, but you back your friends when help is asked for. Wondering what she was getting into this time, Jo told Adrian the boss she was feeling woozy, got into the Panda, and drove the couple of miles to Fishbourne.

Kleentext Print Solutions was housed near the railway station in a boxlike 1950s utility building with a cluster of wooden annexes where the real work was done. Jo parked beside a silver delivery van and used the main entrance, under a sign saying ADMINISTRATION. Inside, she was confronted by a six-foot wall of cartons that screened off the reception desk. She squeezed past.

‘I hope you’re from the council.’

The receptionist’s voice was confrontational.

Jo gave her name and explained why she was there.

‘So you’re not.’

‘Not what?’

‘From the council. They should have sent someone to collect that lot,’ the receptionist said, eyeing the cartons. ‘They’ve been there two days, blocking my light. How can I do this job when I can’t see people coming? It’s really inconvenient.’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ Jo said, privately suspecting the opposite.

Gemma was waiting on the top floor when the lift opened, arms wide in welcome. ‘You’re a true amigo. Where would I be without you?’ She gave Jo a hug. ‘Come and see the office. It’s all right. I’m entirely alone.’

Her workplace was carpeted and comfortable, with veneer panelled walls and framed scenes of Chichester with picture lights over them. Her desk was on one side and a large leather sofa on the other. Copies of Country Life, Trout and Salmon, and Today’s Golfer were displayed on a low glass-topped table. The aroma of coffee came from somewhere.

‘Cosy.’

‘Have a seat.’ Gemma waved her to the sofa. ‘Did you notice all those boxes downstairs?’

Jo smiled. ‘Is that what half a million brochures look like?’

‘Until we pulp them, yes. Hillie on reception throws a wingding every time I walk by.’

‘How did your boss take it?’

‘This is the kick in the pants. The ratbag hasn’t seen them. It’s Thursday and he hasn’t shown his face all week. The last I saw of him was Friday when he sloped off early with Fiona. He hasn’t phoned or anything.’

‘How about Fiona?’

‘She’s off work too.’

Jo raised an eyebrow.

Gemma nodded. ‘You’re onto it. She’s reeled him in, hasn’t she? What’s your reading of it? A week in Paris?’

‘It does look suspicious,’ said Jo.

‘Suspicious? I’ve heard of dirty weekends, but a whole week is gross. And not so much as a postcard to say sorry.’

‘Mean.’

‘Mean? You can do better than that.’

‘All right,’ Jo said. ‘What a prick!’

Gemma added seamlessly, ‘… as Fiona remarked in the honeymoon suite at the Paris Ritz. She’s way ahead of us. It knocks our little scheme on the head, doesn’t it? He’s not going to sack the creature for incompetence if he’s just spent the week playing mothers and fathers with her-not unless she’s rubbish at that as well.’

‘Smart lady.’

‘All those bloody council brochures, Jo. What am I going to do with them?’

Sometimes it takes an outsider to think of a solution. Jo sensed she was expected to supply one. ‘Does everyone know they were ordered by Fiona?’

‘Not really.’

‘Spread the message, then. Fiona ordered these by mistake. Shout it from the rooftops. It’s ammunition for later. Then get them pulped, like you said. They’ve lost their impact now.’

‘What a waste.’

‘Spoils of war. The reckoning comes later.’

‘He can’t invoice the council for the true cost.’

‘I should hope not,’ Jo said. ‘I don’t want it going on my council tax.’

‘You’d think he’d have been in touch,’ Gemma said, and it was apparent how deep this had gone with her. ‘Muggins is running the show here.’

‘Bosses can do stuff like that, take off when they want. He knows he can depend on you to hold the fort.’

‘Yes, and when he comes back I’ll be shown the fort door. It’s so bloody unfair. I feel like stamping my little foot.’

‘You can do better than that,’ Jo said.

And Gemma responded to the challenge. ‘Nail him to the wall and play darts with him. Put him in the lion enclosure wearing a zebra suit. Dose him with laxative and stand him on guard at Buckingham Palace.’ She sighed. ‘Help me, Jo. What can I really do?’

‘What we need,’ Jo said with a show of sisterly defiance, ‘is a master plan.’

Gemma held up her hand for a high five. ‘Put it there, hon. I knew I could rely on you.’

Jo slapped her palm against Gemma’s without the faintest notion what to suggest.

Fortunately Gemma had it worked out for herself. ‘This may sound sneaky. Well, it is sneaky, but this is war, right? I’m not supposed to know Fiona is off with Mr Cartwright. On the face of it, as the temporary team captain, I ought to be getting worried about her. Not a word has come in. She could have had a heart attack and be lying dead in her house. There’s a four-year-old kid. She’s obviously farmed him out to the father, or some friend, but I’m not to know that, am I? The poor wee bairn could be in that house in total squalor trying to feed raw potatoes to his dead mother.’

Jo was amused and showed it. ‘This is good, Gem.’

‘So I already phoned a couple of times and left messages on the answerphone asking Fiona to get in touch urgently.’

‘That’s good, too.’

‘The decent, caring thing is to go round to the house and speak to the neighbours. Chances are they don’t know anything. I doubt if she told the people next door she’s shacking up with the boss for a week. All this fuss is because we’re worried about the kid. You see where I’m coming from?’

‘It’s being responsible.’

‘Exactement. I knew you’d have the answer.’ She’d supplied it herself, but for some reason she wanted Jo to take the credit. ‘The next step is to try and break in, but that’s a matter for the police.’

At the mention of police, Jo’s heart rate stepped up. She didn’t want another meeting with Hen Mallin. She tried not to show it.

Gemma was still in full flow. ‘They force an entry and listen to the answerphone and look at the letters and find she hasn’t been there all week. After that, it’s in the lap of the fuzz. They may take no further action.’

‘Unlikely.’

‘That’s what I think. They’ll want to know when she was last seen. They’ll probably come here and talk to the workforce. Someone may have seen her getting into Mr Cartwright’s car on Friday afternoon.’

‘Right, and you’ll be in denial, appalled at the idea.’