Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

She hadn’t phoned ahead. Far better to turn up and find him. Phoning would call for an explanation and she didn’t know how to start telling him all that had happened in the past forty-eight hours.

Pagham Harbour is a southeast facing inlet about a mile across, between Selsey to the south and Bognor to the north. The reserve measures over 1,400 acres, about half of which is water. The shoreline is probably six miles around, with tidal creeks fringed by mudflats and salt marshes, so spotting someone isn’t straightforward, even though most of the protected area doesn’t extend far beyond the footpath. She thought when she parked by the visitors’ centre off the Selsey Road that she should have brought binoculars. She had some at home.

At this time of day no one was around. The centre is staffed only at the weekends. Hers was the only car, not a promising sign. Then she remembered Jake cycled to work from Selsey. But where did he leave the bike? Not here, apparently. She started wavering over her decision not to phone. I didn’t even get that right, she thought.

Now that she was here, she had to track him down. Having circled the buildings and found nothing, she got back in the car, consulted the map, and drove south to approach the reserve by Church Norton, which would be the nearest she’d get by car to the harbour entrance. From there she’d get a view of the shoreline.

She soon located a small car park that also catered to visitors to St Wilfrid’s Chapel, a Norman chancel, and a mound where a castle had once stood. You’d think with all those attractions there would be somebody to ask.

Disappointment again. The whole area was deserted. Stepping out along the footpath she passed some pools where wading birds foraged. Plenty of avian life and not a single human being. She could understand why the job appealed to Jake, with his need for open spaces.

The footpath brought her to the start of the bank of shingle that fronted the sea and lifted her spirits. Various plants had managed to flourish here, and she remembered Jake mentioning the shingle plants when he’d come to the garden centre. She wasn’t familiar with the names, but the sea-kale, looking like cabbage, was obvious.

Was it too much to hope that he was at work here with the labels he’d bought from her? She couldn’t yet see over the ridge. She used the wooden walkway Jake or his employers had provided. It made for easier progress as well as protecting the plants.

Disappointment awaited at the high point. He wasn’t anywhere in sight.

She tried to console herself with the broad band of the sea, glittering silver this morning. If nothing else, she was nourishing her mind with some glorious images. The worries of last night were already fading.

Then as she stepped along the shingle spit that was the southern bastion of Pagham Harbour, she turned and saw a movement, distant but unmistakable, a small boat no bigger than a dinghy chugging between the mudflats. She swore at herself for not bringing those binoculars. She could just about make out the single figure steering a course towards the place she’d first called at, where the visitors’ centre was. Could this be Jake? He hadn’t mentioned using a boat in his work, but then they hadn’t talked much about what he did.

Whoever this boatman was, if he came ashore he’d be worth speaking to. He might know where Jake could be found.

She was certain she was visible against the skyline. She waved several times and got no response, so she slid and leapt down the inner bank where the shingle was finer, but just as steep, trying to keep her footing without damaging the plants.

The boat seemed to have turned and was heading in her direction. She could see now that it was an inflatable. And she had a better view of the man.

Her pulse beat faster.

He was wearing a jacket with the hood up.

She completed her dash to the water’s edge and waved again with both arms. He put his hand to his eyes and stared back. She felt sure he was Jake. He was big enough.

Wouldn’t anyone wave back? This man didn’t. Her confidence dipped. Was she still visible down here at the water’s edge?

She waved again with huge movements as if hailing an aircraft.

Finally he raised a hand in salute like an Indian brave. The hood fell back from his head and she was certain.

‘Jake!’

He steered the inflatable in, stopped it in the shallows, turned off the outboard, jumped out, and hugged her. ‘Surprise.’

‘For me, too,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you used a boat.’

‘We patrol the harbour,’ he said. ‘There was a grebe that seemed to be in trouble, but it flew off.’

‘I thought I wasn’t going to find you. I’m supposed to be at work, but I took the day off.’

‘Problems?’

‘Yes. What’s that?’ She’d heard voices from somewhere behind. She’d thought the place was deserted. ‘Oh, blast. What timing.’

‘Visitors, I expect,’ he said.

‘They may want to ask you things.’

‘My job.’ He looked in that direction, came to a decision and gripped her arm. ‘Okay. In the boat.’

She wasn’t dressed for wading through water so she stooped to take off her shoes, but he said, ‘Don’t bother.’ He picked her up easily and carried her. ‘Lightweight.’

‘You said it. I can’t even make decisions.’ But her face was close to his and she felt the warmth from him.

He let her down gently on the centre seat, then turned the little craft, stepped in, sat by the outboard, and started the motor. The people still weren’t in sight. They’d have to manage without a warden.

Out in the deeper water there was nothing you could call a wave. Only ripples. Well out from the shore he switched off the motor for easier conversation.

‘What’s up, then?’

She told him everything, reminding him of the ill-fated banter with Gemma and Rick about murdering the boss, and then repeating what those two had admitted in the nightclub, and Gemma’s none-too-subtle reining back when she came visiting the next evening.

Jake listened without any change of expression. Finally, when she’d done, he said, ‘Obviously you believe him.’

‘Believe Rick? Yes, I do, and so does Gemma.’

‘Gemma would.’

She heard the remark without fully taking it in. ‘Why? What do you mean?’

‘She has a stake in this.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘She wants the murder to be true. Shows he’s nuts about her.’

This was almost telepathic. ‘That’s the word she used. She said he’s nuts.’

‘Look at it the other way round,’ he said. ‘Suppose Rick is lying.’

‘She’d go ballistic. He’d have conned her into sleeping with him. She’d hate that.’

‘So she believes him because she wants to.’

She understood.

He said, ‘You have to make your own judgement. Think about what Rick said, not Gemma.’

‘Rick didn’t say much at all.’

‘But he’s the one who knows.’

‘You’re right. Gemma’s only got his words to go on.’ She cast her thoughts back. ‘Gemma had to drag them from him. He didn’t want me to know.’

‘And that made it more believable?’

‘I’m sure it did. But he was very clear. You couldn’t take his words to mean anything else. He said he took the body to a paper mill in Kent and pulped it.’

He nodded. ‘Rick’s a serious guy. Now see it from his point of view, supposing he made it up about the murder.’

‘Just to get her to sleep with him?’ She thought about that. Up to now she’d relied heavily on Gemma’s account.

‘If he felt she was losing interest,’ said Jake.

‘She was,’ Jo said, remembering. ‘She’d been going on and on to me about Francisco. She even said to me that Rick wouldn’t stand a chance if Francisco asked her out.’ She thought again. ‘But she wouldn’t have told Rick.’