Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

The spit was the harbour’s bulwark against the sea, an artificial hump of shingle about a hundred metres wide. They reached it with time to spare.

She lit another while they waited. If truth were told, she was a mite uneasy about calling in the helicopter, for all her bravado. The top brass enquired into every mission, and flying over a nature reserve was sure to breach the bylaws. ‘Just a thought,’ she said to Gary. ‘If they ask, he’s on the run and dangerous, okay?’

‘Okay.’

She undermined this by what she said next. ‘Between ourselves, I get the impression Jake is a loner, but I suppose it’s possible he has a girlfriend. When you had the glasses on that couple did you look at the guy’s face?’

‘The lovers? He had his back to me, guv.’

‘Could you make a guess at his height?’

‘He was horizontal.’

She took a long, thoughtful drag on the cigarillo. Everything seemed so peaceful, too peaceful for an emergency.

‘We didn’t check inside that pub,’ Gary said.

‘You’re not helping.’

A buzzing from over Bognor heralded H902, the Eye in the Sky. Gary started waving a white handkerchief.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Hen told him. ‘We’re pretty damned obvious standing out here.’

The helicopter was yellow and black and noisy. The rotor action lifted some sand off the stones and flattened some of the shingle plants that grew in abundance here. One of the crew beckoned to Hen and Gary to go closer. When the aircraft touched down properly they bowed their heads and got in.

There was seating for eight, but only three crewmen were inside, including the pilot. ‘What exactly is the mission?’ one of them shouted to Hen.

‘A search for a murder suspect. White Caucasian male in his forties, about six foot six, dark, possibly hooded.’

‘Has he been sighted?’

‘Not yet. He works here. Familiar with the terrain.’

‘There’s no railway this side of Bognor.’

It was hard to hear. ‘Never mind.’

‘Let’s go, then. And chuck the stogie, for Christ’s sake.’

She’d forgotten she was still holding the cigar-butt.

The Explorer began a near vertical ascent that left Hen’s stomach on the ground.

With the door closed, conversation was possible. She learned that the crew were the pilot, a police observer, and a paramedic.

The pilot reported back to his flight controller in Shoreham and then said, for the benefit of his passengers, ‘Let’s be methodical. I’ll take you to the southern limit of the reserve and back, following the shoreline. Is this guy armed?’

‘Could be,’ Hen said, giving herself a fright as she realised that a shotgun would be needed by a warden, even in a nature reserve.

An aerial search was ideal for an area as big as this, no question. Happily the visibility was excellent this sharp October morning. They were flying low enough to observe anyone. A birdwatcher had set up his camera above the Severals, one of the shallow pools the waders used, and the sun glinted off the chrome tripod. The entire feathered population of the area took flight, leaving him with nothing to photograph. Hands on hips, he glared upwards. In Park Copse, outside the reserve, a woman was walking a Dalmatian. You could almost have counted the spots.

The pilot about-turned the helicopter and began the systematic tracking of the shoreline. ‘Soon as you see anything, scream out,’ he said. ‘You’re the eyes on this job, not me.’

Hen had a seat on the left, looking inland. Gary was watching the shoreline. They passed over a large gabled house. The police observer had a map out and said it was Norton Priory. I wouldn’t mind your job, squire, Hen thought. She didn’t know such a soft option existed.

Above the car park near the red-roofed chapel they spotted Gary’s little Nissan, still the only car in view. A short way on, Hen said, ‘Hey ho, cap. There’s the couple we saw earlier. Can we get a closer look at the man?’ She picked up Gary’s binoculars.

The pair had chosen a new spot at the edge of a reed bed.

‘Bit early in the day for that, isn’t it?’ the pilot said.

The couple’s movements indicated that they had found a way of lovemaking whilst fully clothed in padded jackets. The presence of a helicopter overhead didn’t inhibit the blonde, squatting astride the recumbent man, her long hair dancing with the rhythm.

‘The zips would worry me,’ the policeman said.

‘Just thinking about it makes my eyes water,’ Gary said.

‘Anyway, he doesn’t look as if he’s on the run,’ the pilot said.

‘And he’s better-looking than the man we’re after,’ Hen said. ‘Shall we leave them to it?’

They continued in an inland direction along the curve of the shore. It was mostly open land. The Selsey Road, with glittering cars moving in both directions, was ahead.

‘There must have been a ferry here one time, where the road crosses the water,’ the policeman with the map said. ‘That’s Ferry Farmhouse coming up.’

‘Sidlesham Ferry,’ Hen informed them. She knew the main points along the road.

‘Visitors’ centre on my side,’ Gary said. ‘Hello, there’s something in the car park. Looks like a Panda.’

Nobody said anything about wild animals.

‘Probably belonged to that couple,’ the pilot said.

‘No, they had bikes,’ Gary said. ‘I saw when we flew over.’

‘Does your suspect have a motor?’ the pilot asked.

‘Not to my knowledge,’ Hen said.

They moved on and Sidlesham Quay came up, with the little cluster of cottages around the Crab and Lobster, then a tricky promontory that curled around the inlet where the footpath led along the top of Pagham Wall, one more solid defence against the sea.

The police observer looked up from his map. ‘There isn’t a lot more after this. A section called Slipe Field and beyond that a holiday village, and then you’re getting into the outskirts of Bognor.’

‘We’ll finish the job,’ the pilot said. ‘Are you sure your man is down there somewhere?’

‘Dead sure,’ Hen said. ‘He works here.’ But behind the confident words, she was beginning to feel this would be viewed as an expensive mistake by the high-ups at headquarters.

The Explorer competed its circuit of the harbour and crossed over Pagham Spit and the narrow channel of water between.

‘Want to go round again?’ the pilot offered like a fairground attendant.

Hen was about to say it was the only thing to do, but Gary spoke first. ‘Can I borrow the glasses, guv? There’s an inflatable out in the middle.’

‘A boat? I thought the harbour was closed to shipping.’

‘It should be-unless it’s official. They have to get out and monitor the water levels and stuff like that.’

‘Can we get closer?’ Hen asked the pilot.

They made a sharp turn and zoomed across the water towards the small craft.

‘I think it’s him,’ Gary said. ‘He’s wearing the hood.’

Hen sent up a silent prayer that he was right.

The pilot said, ‘If I go too close there’s a danger of churning up water and sinking him.’

‘So?’ Hen said. ‘He’s a big boy. He can swim.’

‘We don’t work that way.’

They swooped close enough for Hen to see the problem for herself. There was already disturbance on the water below them. ‘Is there any way we can round him up?’

‘We can try. He’s aware of us by now.’

The pilot slowed the helicopter and let it hover to one side of the inflatable, creating a circular pattern of waves but not enough to splash over the sides.

‘He’s got the idea, I think,’ Gary said. ‘He’s heading for the shore.’

The little boat was chugging towards the Church Norton shoreline.