Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

It amused the troops.

Then Paddy said, ‘Speaking of challenges, ma’am… ’

‘Yes?’

‘What time is that inquest you’re attending?’

‘Sweet Jesus.’

Back at Jo’s flat the phone messages had stacked up. The garden centre couldn’t trace the paperwork for an order she’d taken last week. Her mother was on the warpath, too, reminding her it was Daddy’s birthday and claiming he was practically suicidal because she’d forgotten to call him or even send a card. The least she could do was get onto Interflora and get a bouquet sent round. And Gemma had left a message passing on her bit of news about the police taking an interest in Jake’s visits to the print works.

She called her father first and managed to wish him all the best without having to listen to a tirade from his wife which would have gone on for ages. Far from suicidal, the old boy sounded chirpy. She phoned the wine shop next and ordered a case of Beaujolais for him, delivery that afternoon. He’d prefer that to a bunch of chrysanthemums. Then she sorted out the problem at work.

Finally, she thought about the third message. She’d been so angry with Gemma Monday evening when she’d manoeuvred her way into Jo’s flat after being told plainly that she wasn’t welcome. The business about Mr Cartwright, true or otherwise, had been deeply unsettling. Gemma had come out of it with little credit, looking self-centred and manipulative.

And yet this morning had put all that in a different perspective. Jake-the one reliable friend Jo had-was doubtful if Rick had really killed Cartwright. In his laconic way he’d made the story look paper-thin. It seemed most likely that Rick had been posturing-as usual-and then felt unable to admit the whole thing was invented. Gemma couldn’t really be blamed for believing him. She was trusting and he was very plausible.

It was to Gemma’s credit that she’d phoned Jake to tell him the police were onto him about Fiona. Over this, she’d behaved as a friend should. There’s a responsible side to her, Jo thought, and we’ve had plenty of laughs together. Maybe we’ll get back on speaking terms. Not this morning, though.

Her big concern was Jake. Hiding from the police had been a mistake, however understandable. He’d been incensed by the helicopter and she worried how he would behave under questioning. What’s more, he had a fatalistic streak, and he was quite liable to admit to things he hadn’t done. When they’d talked that evening in the pub, he seemed to have resigned himself to being fitted up and sent back to prison. ‘It’s out of our hands,’ he’d said. And, ‘Crazy things happen to me.’ In that frame of mind he wasn’t going to fight for his freedom.

Somebody had to.

She was uniquely placed to discover the truth. Events had already brought her closer than she’d liked to one of the murders, and thanks to Gemma’s curiosity she’d come pretty close to the other. She knew some of the main suspects. A moment of decision, then.

If no one else was seeking out the killer, she would.

Hen’s hectic day brought her next to the court building in Chichester. She hadn’t had time to change. She hadn’t even picked up a sandwich before she appeared at the inquest into Meredith Sentinel’s death. So it came as a relief when her favourite coroner rattled through the formalities in under twenty minutes and the inevitable adjournment was declared.

In the corridor outside, she cornered Austen Sentinel before he could slip away and back to London. In court, he’d confirmed in evidence that he’d identified his late wife. Nothing else had been required from him at this stage. In a black pinstripe suit and dark tie, e’d made the right impression, still grieving, yet bearing up bravely. The demeanour became sharply more assertive as soon as he saw who was barring his way. ‘I have a train to catch,’ he said.

Hen became the party hostess determined to hold on to her guest. ‘No panic. Two or three go to London every hour. I’ll see that you get home all right.’

‘Thanks, but I’m leaving.’ He turned towards the main exit.

‘Not that way,’ she said. ‘There’s a media scrum outside. I’ll show you the back way out.’ She was already steering him towards the side door. In the street she asked, ‘Have you eaten? The pub across the way does a pie and chips to die for.’ Not the best form of words to use to a recently widowed man, but her hunger pangs were extreme.

Even before he turned her down she sensed that he wasn’t a pie and chips man. His fine Italian suit wouldn’t look right in the Globe. ‘Tell you what. The Cloisters Cafe in the cathedral is five minutes from here. A good class of place. Salads, home-made soups, and local apple juice.’

‘I can get myself something on the train.’

I wouldn’t trust the trolley service,’ she told him. ‘Besides, there are a couple of things I’d like your help on. I’d hate to put you to all the inconvenience of returning tomorrow.’

‘I thought we went over it all before,’ he said.

They went to the Cloisters. Hen made a phone call along the route and by the time they’d gone through the self-service and arrived with their trays at a table by the window, Gary had nipped round from where he’d been waiting in the Globe and was sitting there.

‘You remember DC Pearce from before?’ Hen said in a disrming tone to Dr Sentinel.

‘What’s all this about?’

‘Two of us have to be present when a witness is interviewed. It’s for your protection really.’

‘I didn’t agree to an interview.’

‘But you aren’t refusing? You heard the coroner say it’s crucial that everyone cooperates fully with the police investigation.’

‘Heaven knows I’ve done that.’

‘It’s only clarification at this stage.’

He glared at them both, sat down, and started ripping his croissant to shreds. And he’d looked so amenable when he was giving evidence. ‘Go on, then.’

She’d already decided to hit him early with the big one. ‘Your St Petersburg trip: Did you attend all the lecture sessions?’

Unprepared, he struggled for the right response. ‘One isn’t required to.’

‘The seminars, the visit to the Hermitage, the formal dinners?’

‘I read my paper.’

‘What-for two whole weeks? I get through mine in ten minutes over breakfast.’

He looked like a first class passenger forced to use the third-class toilet. ‘It’s an academic expression. I gave my prepared talk to the conference.’

‘I’m glad to hear that. You were sponsored by the British Council, I think you said.’

The blood pressure was rocketing, bringing a patchy orange look to the designer tan. ‘Does that have any relevance?’

Where did you go on all those days off?’

‘I fail to see what connection any of this has with my wife’s death. This is my professional life you’re questioning.’

Hen was unmoved. ‘Your hotel room wasn’t used most of the time you were booked in.’

That one practically floored him.

Eyes swivelling in panic, he said, ‘This is an intrusion on my personal liberty. Have you been checking up on me?’

‘On your story,’ Hen said as if it was the only reasonable way to go. ‘People tell us things and we make sure the information is reliable. You claimed you were in St Petersburg when your wife met her death and now it seems you may not have been. You can clear this up very easily.’

‘I gave my paper and did what I was asked.’

‘On the first or second day.’

His sigh was more like a rasp. ‘I took some time out from the conference to visit a colleague. That isn’t a matter for the police, so far as I’m aware.’