Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

‘Is it possible he removed the clothes after the drowning?’

‘Why would he do that? To make identification more difficult, I suppose.’ Hen weighed the possibility for a moment. ‘It’s not out of the question, but I can’t see it. Struggling with wet clothes wouldn’t be easy or quick. Any killer’s impulse is to quit the scene as soon as possible. And why would she enter the water fully clothed?’

‘Dragged in?’

Hen pulled a sceptical face.

‘I guess you’re right,’ Stella said. ‘It’s pretty unlikely.’

‘It’s all unlikely until we find out who she was and why she was there.’

‘I came down to say that we’re about ready to move off.’

‘Let’s go, then.’ She stubbed out the cigar and felt for her scent spray. ‘Things can only get better.’

When the call came, early Saturday morning, Stella Gregson was at the window of the relocated incident room in Chichester Police Station looking out at the car roofs and thinking East Beach had its attractions. A sudden movement from behind her was reflected in the glass. DC Gary Pearce was waving frantically. He couldn’t shout because he was on the phone.

Stella picked up another receiver and was instantly all attention. An educated voice was saying, ‘… got back from St Petersburg last night and she wasn’t here and there was no message, so I called a few people and no one could tell me anything. We don’t live in each other’s pockets, but I was surprised and a little concerned. I decided to sleep on it and this morning I phoned my local police station and gave a description. They put me through to someone else and I’ve been transferred several times and now I’m being asked to go through it all again with you.’

Offering a silent prayer that they’d finally nailed it, Stella took over. ‘Thank you, sir. This is Stella Gregson, Detective Inspector, Chichester CID.’

‘Did you say Chichester?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t think why I’ve been put through to you.’

‘Forgive me, I just came in on the call,’ she said. ‘Thank you for getting in touch. I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Austen Sentinel. It’s about my wife Meredith. She’s missing.’

‘And you’re from?’

‘London, that is to say, Islington.’

‘You were saying you’ve been abroad?’

‘A British Council trip to Russia for a conference. I’m a geologist at Imperial College and I’m speaking from London. Look, we’re wasting each other’s time if you’re in Chichester.’

‘Not necessarily. Would your wife have visited Selsey lately?’

‘Selsey, on the south coast? Not to my knowledge. Why?’

‘Would you describe her?’

‘For the umpteenth time this morning? Five foot six, thirty-seven years of age, hair coloured blonde, slimly built. She’s from Kentucky, so she speaks with an American accent.’

She won’t be speaking to us, Stella thought.

‘But I’ve no idea what clothes she’s wearing.’

And that’s not a problem, Stella thought, but kept it to herself. ‘Do you have a computer, sir?’

‘What’s that got to do with Merry?’

‘It will speed things up.’

‘I’m sitting in front of one.’

‘Could you send us a jpeg of your wife?’

‘I’m with you now. Yes, there are several on the machine.’

‘Have you got a pen and paper there? I’ll give you an email address. Then if you send it right away we’ll know if we’re talking about the same person.’

‘Do you know where she is, then? Is she all right?’

‘Be patient with me, sir. We can’t confirm anything until we’ve seen the photo. Hold the line for a bit. I’ll need your contact details.’

Gemma didn’t appear in Starbucks at the usual time so Jo carried her coffee to one of the side tables, sat in an upright chair, and waited. The chatter from other tables, the music-the pure, warm sound of Ella in her prime-even the caffeine, did nothing to relax her. She was increasingly troubled.

‘Hi, babe.’

She jerked and slopped some coffee.

‘Easy,’ he said, seating himself across from her. ‘Anyone would think I was the law.’

Rick.

She asked what he was doing there.

‘It’s Saturday and I’m off work and this is a coffee shop and I happen to know you. Is that enough?’ he said. ‘No? Well, I’ll come clean. I was sent to find you.’

‘By Gemma?’

‘She called this morning and updated me on the Emsworth episode.’

Just as predicted, Jo thought bitterly. Big-mouth Gemma ignoring the pact of secrecy at the first opportunity.

‘So here I am, ready to pass on a message,’ Rick said, and stopped, insisting on a response.

‘Well?’

‘She can’t meet you because she was called to the print works. The police are there wanting to talk about Fiona.’

Typical Rick: playing on her nerves. Jo tried to appear unmoved.

In case she’d missed the point, Rick added, ‘There isn’t any doubt now. It was definitely Fiona’s body you saw in the Mill Pond yesterday.’ He watched her with expressionless eyes for a moment, then reverted to the role of friend. ‘Listen, I’ll get a coffee and join you.’

Obviously he knew everything. She felt like throttling Gemma. What was it she’d said with such sincerity about the incident being erased, deleted, wiped? And that was after she’d been warned not to tell Rick.

But Rick was spilt milk now. Real trouble was looming and she had no influence over it. She didn’t think of herself as a controlling person, but she felt helpless and alarmed about what Gemma might be saying to the police.

She tried telling herself the two of them had committed no great crime. She wasn’t even certain that failure to report a body in a millpond was a crime. It was more of a civic duty. Okay, they’d shirked their responsibility. Had anyone suffered as a result? Fiona had been long dead when they’d spotted her. They weren’t the first to turn their backs on a scene of sudden death. Surely the guilt she and Gemma shared was moral, not criminal?

Rick returned, Americano in hand, and sat opposite, enjoying himself, eyes like wasps over a cream tea. This morning he was another species from the wimp she’d shared the taxi with the last time she’d seen him, at the end of that evening at the cinema. Being in on the secret of their discovery in Emsworth had acted like something pumped into a main vein.

‘Lighten up, little lady,’ he said, at his most patronising. ‘I’m not going to shop you. I’m a friend, remember?’

She stared through him.

‘Besides, the police won’t be interested in you and Gem doing a runner. They’ve got more important stuff to find out, like how the body got in there in the first place. I think the boss man- what’s his name? Cartwright-has to be the main suspect. He’s done a runner himself by the sound of things. What a lamebrain. It’s no way to cover up a crime.’

‘We don’t know it was a crime,’ Jo said. ‘It could have been an accident.’

‘Get real, Jo. Cartwright killed her. They’ll find out why. Maybe she was pregnant and he didn’t want his wife to find out.’

‘There isn’t a wife as far as I know.’

‘Who told you that, Gemma? I wouldn’t bank on anything she says. When the imagination was being given out, Gem got a triple helping. Don’t get me wrong. She’s great company, but I take anything she says with a pinch of salt.’

‘What did she tell you about Fiona?’

‘That she was making a play for Cartwright and putting Gem’s job under threat.’

‘She said the same to me and I believe her. Fiona has a child. Did you know that?’

‘Poor little brat, yes.’

‘That’s why we went to her house, for the sake of the little boy, in case she’d had an accident, or worse, and he was with her. We called the police and they made a search.’