Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

‘Who was she?’

‘Don’t know yet.’ She crossed the room and switched off Glenn Gould. ‘Do you mind?’ She tuned in to Southern Counties Radio. They were playing Westlife. ‘Damn. Some other station must have it.’

‘Stay with it. They keep giving the news,’ Jake said.

‘I suppose. More coffee?’ She topped up his cup. ‘Mummy said the husband came forward. It’s been at least two weeks and more like three. I wonder why he left it so late?’

The question couldn’t be answered yet. Jake gave a shrug and looked at his watch. Radio bulletins generally come on the hour and half hour.

Jo remained standing, more tense than she expected, gripping her arms to stop them from shaking. She couldn’t explain why she was reacting like this. Hearing the name of the murder victim on the radio wasn’t going to resolve anything. In a subversive way the woman was about to become more real. The sight of the almost naked body draped with seaweed and curled against the breakwater was still vivid in her memory, often returning, but it was just that, a shocking image. Now it was as if the poor woman was about to acquire a personality and make a stronger claim on the imagination.

The music ended, and the news jingle followed. Then: ‘Southern Counties Radio at five o’clock. The stricken tanker in the Solent has been brought under control and is being towed towards Portsmouth. Coastguards report that the spillage of oil is less than was first feared and is being managed with booms. The woman found dead on the beach at Selsey two weeks ago and believed to have been murdered has been named as Mrs Meredith Sentinel of Islington. She was identified by her husband, Dr Austen Sentinel, a university lecturer, who has just returned from an overseas trip. Police are now trying to establish her movements prior to her death.’

Jo picked up the remote and switched off. Just as she’d feared, the dead woman seemed more real, more tragic, now that she had an identity. ‘A lecturer’s wife. I wonder what brought her to Selsey.’

Jake didn’t say anything. He’d taken out his mobile and was texting someone. If anyone else had behaved like that it would have been rude.

‘I mean she must have had a reason,’ Jo said. ‘It’s a long hike from London.’

He didn’t look up from the display.

‘If she came by car they would have found it, surely,’ Jo said, as much to herself as Jake, the thoughts tumbling from her in pity for a real woman, no longer just a corpse. ‘They didn’t even find her clothes. Well, I guess they’ll have more to go on now they know who she was. The husband must be devastated, poor man. Fancy coming home from abroad and finding your wife was murdered.’

Jake stood up. The colour had drained from his face, leaving an unhealthy sallow that picked out the dark hollows and crevices as if a spotlight was on him. ‘I must get home.’

‘Is something wrong?’ she said. ‘Are you ill?’

He shook his head. Back to minimal communication.

‘I’ve got painkillers if you want.’

‘No.’

She collected his coat. She wondered if she’d touched on some painful memory when she commented on the news of the dead woman. A man with a stricken past was a minefield.

They went downstairs to the car and were soon south of the city on the Selsey Road.

‘It’s been a good afternoon, anyway,’ she said to break the silence.

He said nothing.

One thing she’d learned was that you didn’t force Jake to communicate. Trying to hold back her tears, she gave all her attention to the series of sharp bends. The light was fading fast.

‘I don’t know exactly where you live,’ she had to say when they were approaching Selsey.

‘Keep going.’

They had driven some way up the High Street before he said, ‘Next left.’

She made the turn and he immediately said, ‘Put me down here.’

‘Now?’

‘Here. Don’t hang about.’

Up ahead, under a lamp-post, a police car was parked. He got out and started walking towards it.

All the way back to Chichester Jo was trying to make sense of Jake’s behaviour. She drove as if on autopilot and when she got out she had no memory of being in control of the car.

Her neighbour Doreen was in the hall, smiling and blocking the way, poised for a chat. Jo muttered something about being in a hurry, brushed past, and dashed up the stairs.

For a long time she sat in her living room staring at the wall. She wasn’t able to be rational. Her emotions had taken charge. Until now she hadn’t appreciated the impact this man had made on her. She was locked into his destiny. She cared enormously what happened to him. If he was in trouble, then so was she. Whatever had happened, she couldn’t believe the fault was his.

Eventually she composed herself enough to think back to the news item that had triggered the change in his mood. This, she was sure, had affected him more than anything she’d said herself. Affected him? Poleaxed described it better. His features had crumpled into an image of pain. Was it just the knowledge that the murder victim had been identified, or did the woman’s name mean something to him? He’d texted someone as if to confirm the news.

Whilst driving him back to Selsey in that almost unbearable silence, Jo had convinced herself that he’d recognised the name. He knew who the woman was and was grieving for the loss of a friend. Not an intimate friend-she was someone’s wife, for God’s sake-but someone he’d known from way back.

The police car in his street had come as more of a shock for her than Jake. When he’d insisted Jo didn’t drive up to the house she was reminded that he didn’t want her involved in whatever had to be faced. This was his overriding concern, the reason he’d been so reluctant to be seen with her in Selsey, why he’d worn the hood and why he wouldn’t even sit in a cafe and drink coffee. He was being protective. The moment he saw that police car he’d got out and walked towards it, dignified, resigned, and alone.

It was as if he’d expected the police to be there. His moment of shock had come earlier. By the time they’d driven to Selsey he was in control, calm, and resigned. He knew what to expect because he’d texted the police to tell them he was coming in.

She remembered his words that evening in the Lifeboat Inn after he’d been released from custody: ‘They’re sure I did it. They only let me go because they don’t have the evidence yet.’

A moaning sound, primal in its despair, came from the back of her throat.

She wanted desperately to know what was happening, but phoning Jake was not an option. He’d made a point of giving nothing away to the police about their friendship. To call him now would be a betrayal of all his efforts. She had to wait.

Her eyes moistened. Tears would not be long in coming. She felt for the box of tissues on the table beside her and her hand came to rest on something smooth and square-the Glenn Gould CD case. Jake had been the last to handle it. Instead of a tissue she pressed the cool perspex against her cheek. The disc, his choice, was still in the player. She reached for the remote and pressed PLAY. The music was a solace.

Jake was a suspect because of his time in prison. In his own harsh phrase he was an ex-con. ‘Crazy things happen to me,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t want you drawn into it.’

They would question him again. Presumably they’d found out about his connection with the dead woman, his friend. Or maybe, Jo reasoned-looking for a more acceptable explanation-the woman hadn’t been a particular friend, but just one of the many birdwatchers who visited the nature reserve at Pagham and were shown where some rare species could be observed. Something as innocent as that. Under questioning he would explain the coincidence and they’d have to release him.