Peter Lovesey: The Headhunters

‘How did you meet this Gemma?’

‘In yoga. She and I are the ones who couldn’t lie on our backs without laughing. We had a giggle about it in the break and decided to leave at the same time. I haven’t known her long. Don’t know much about her.’

‘Except she’d like to murder her scumbag boss.’

‘Her na-eeeeece scumbag boss.’

‘I’ve always thought the right way to go about it is to make them disappear,’ Rick said. ‘Without a corpse the police are buggered.’

‘Easier said than done.’

‘There are plenty of ways.’

‘Such as?’

‘Lost at sea is one.’

‘What-push him overboard?’

‘Preferably with a ton weight attached. The sea idea isn’t perfect, though. I’ll give you that.’ He raised his finger. ‘Here’s a better method. I remember reading about a woman who was kidnapped back in the sixties. It went on for weeks. She was the wife of some rich guy in the newspaper industry. In the end, after several attempts to set up a ransom arrangement, they arrested two brothers, but the poor woman was never found. These kidnappers had a farm, you see, and the police reckoned she must have been fed to the animals. Pigs are supposed to eat everything-skin, bones, the lot.’

‘Ugh!’ Just like a man, making the whole thing grotesque. At least Gemma’s zany ideas had been redeemed by humour. ‘I’m going to change the subject. Where shall we go this evening? Fancy Portsmouth for a change?’

‘Is that, like, a joke?’ he said. They’d gone clubbing in Portsmouth’s Gun Wharf for the past two Saturdays.

‘Name someplace else, then.’

After four frames, she was getting nowhere in the bowling. She should have guessed Rick would be good at it. He’d already scored two strikes and was way ahead on the screen. She didn’t mind really. It wouldn’t be long before he offered hands-on advice how to pick the right ball and improve her action: the game within a game that girls play to win.

From infancy Jo had been burdened with high expectations. As the only child of a domineering mother, she’d been pushed to excel, whether in music, producing a sound on the violin like triplets being born; dance, in the fifth row back, extreme left, where they could grab her from the wings when she tripped; or skating, with an apparent mission to bring down everyone else on the ice. At school she’d been average, so her mother had arranged for private tuition to bring out her hidden talents. All it had brought was a mental breakdown, a gap year with a meaning all its own. Instead of university she’d gone to an undemanding, stress-free job at a garden centre. She’d left home (the best thing she ever did) and got to enjoy her work and feel like a human being again.

While Rick was waiting for the ball to return, she spotted a familiar figure just two lanes away: Gemma, looking the total athlete in stretch jeans and stripy top that revealed a flash of scarlet bra straps. The way she released the ball and immediately flapped her hand in disappointment showed she was used to winning at this game.

‘Your go,’ Rick said. He’d cleared the pins again.

‘See that girl with the ponytail? She’s the one I was telling you about, wants to murder her boss. Shall I tell her we’re here?’

‘We’re in the middle of a game.’

‘If she looks this way I’ll wave. You’ll like her. She’s fun.’

‘Okay, but let’s get on with it.’

She took her turn, not thinking about the aim, and struck down all ten-her first time ever.

‘Hey-how did you manage that?’ Rick asked.

Next time up, her next ball slipped to the side and disappeared down the back without a score. She heard her name being called.

Gemma was waving.

‘Meet you after for a bevvy,’ Jo called back.

Suggestions like that, made with the best of intentions, sometimes have unplanned results. Not long after, they were in Chicago Rock knocking back spritzers and eyeing up the possibility of grabbing a table as soon as some other people left.

‘Jake will give them one of his looks and they’ll get up and leave, no problem,’ Gemma said. She pointed a thumb at her bowling companion, who’d had to dip his head when he came through the door. Dressed entirely in black, Jake could have stepped out of an old Hammer horror movie. There was no question that his eyes were scary. With his pale face and twisted mouth he would have seen off Dr Phibes, no problem.

Rick was getting on fine with Gemma-a touch too fine, Jo thought-praising her bowling skills and saying she must have played the game before. There was no ‘How did you manage that?’ Strange. He hadn’t seen much of her play unless he’d been taking stock of her before Jo had pointed her out.

Jo tried talking to big Jake and found he was no conversationalist. Besides, he was working his influence on the people at the window table. His stare was making them increasingly ready to leave.

‘So do you like dancing?’ Rick asked Gemma.

‘Why-are you guys going somewhere later?’ she said.

‘Nothing planned. I was just thinking you move so well you have to be a dancer.’

‘Bit of a Sherlock Holmes, isn’t he?’ Jo couldn’t stop herself saying. ‘We’ll get you a pipe and deerstalker, my love.’ It sounded more sarcastic than she meant. She didn’t want Gemma thinking she was jealous.

‘We could all go clubbing,’ Rick said.

‘Me and Jake haven’t talked about what we’d do,’ Gemma said. ‘D’you want to go clubbing, Jake?’

Clubbing seals would be more to Jake’s taste, Jo thought.

Without looking away from the people by the window he said, ‘Whatever you want.’

‘Jongleurs?’ Rick said.

Jo couldn’t believe her ears. This was the same guy who’d bellyached about another evening in Portsmouth. Now he was pushing to go there. True, there wasn’t much in Chichester, but Jongleurs was scarcely a novel experience.

‘Cool,’ Gemma said. ‘Shall we drink up and get on the road?’

‘Hold on, I’m sure those people are about to leave,’ Jo said. ‘It’s early, anyway. Let’s sit down for a bit now we’ve got a chance.’

The other party moved out with some backward glances at Jake. He was too large and scary to take on. His knee rubbed against Jo’s under the table and it wasn’t because he was getting frisky, just that a leg the size of his had nowhere to go. She was opposite him and would have got the full force of the stare except that he was focusing somewhere over her head. I do believe the poor guy is shy, she thought, getting all maternal.

‘Are you from round here?’ she asked him.

He shook his head, still without eye contact.

‘Jake’s a Cornish lad,’ Gemma said for him. ‘Would you believe there’s a place called Bugle down there?’

‘Get away.’ Rick held an invisible bugle to his mouth and sounded a fanfare.

Jo tried again. ‘So what brought you to Chichester, Jake?’

‘Motorbike.’

‘You’re a biker?’

Another shake of the head.

‘He was riding pillock,’ Gemma said for him.

‘Pillion,’ Jake said.

‘All right. Have it your way.’

‘I like it Gemma’s way,’ Rick said with a laugh. ‘Riding pillock.’

Jake gave him a look and he went quiet.

‘What I meant,’ Jo said to Jake, doing her best to take the mockery out of this, ‘was what are you doing here?’

‘Having a drink.’ It was becoming clear that if you wanted information you had to phrase your question precisely.

‘Are you in work?’

‘Yup.’

‘You’re keeping her in suspense, Jake,’ Gemma said. ‘She’s asking about your job. He’s in nature conservancy, looking after the wildlife. He knows all there is to know about birds and before you say anything, Rick, we’re talking ducks and moorhens, right?’