Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

‘You’re looking at me as if I’m trying to lasso you. It’s no big deal, going for a swim in the sea. I reckon at the end of a day’s work in the sun in August or September you must welcome a chance to cool off. You live a short walk from the beach, so why not?’ She realised as she spoke that this wasn’t a productive question, so she followed it with another. ‘When did you last have a dip?’

‘Two or three weeks ago.’

‘You know what I’m going to ask now. Were you alone?’

‘Yes.’ He put his hand to his mouth and yawned. ‘You’re wasting your time with me.’

Denis Cartwright’s house in Apuldram stood in its own grounds at the end of a lane. Brick built and faced with the local flint and mortar, it was not large, but had a fine position overlooking the inlet known as Fishbourne Channel-a property that spoke of a comfortable income.

Gemma parked on the gravel drive. ‘What now?’

Tension was clumping in Jo’s ears. ‘We look around.’

The front door had been forced and secured again with a padlock. A printed notice from the police stated that anyone with reason to enter should contact them.

‘We’re a long way behind the fuzz,’ Gemma said.

‘And we’ve got to catch up,’ Jo said. ‘No, I mean overtake.’

Being isolated, the house was easy to walk around without being seen. The paintwork was well cared-for, the climbing rose trimmed, the paths swept. They looked through all the windows they could. The interior looked nicely furnished. At the rear was a rose garden with a patio overlooking a swimming pool already covered for the winter.

‘I see there’s an alarm system,’ Gemma said. ‘Do you think it’s working?’

‘I expect the police disabled it.’

‘Do you think they turned it on again?’

‘Probably not, going by the way they padlocked the front door,’ Jo said, chancing her arm. ‘A bit rough and ready, wasn’t it?’

Without actually discussing their next move, they looked to see if by chance a window had been left open. But Cartwright was a careful owner.

‘Now that the police have been inside and seen what they want, they won’t be in a hurry to come back,’ Jo said, trying to sound confident. She was supposed to be the leader of this expedition.

‘Probably not. What exactly do you expect to find?’

‘I don’t know exactly. Something they haven’t noticed, I suppose.’

‘Proving he’s the murderer?’

‘Well, yes.’

Doubt had crept into Gemma’s eyes, but she continued to play along. ‘Shall we check the garden shed? That may not be locked.’

‘I bet it is, but we can try.’ Jo sensed that this was a delaying move from Gemma, dubious about a break-in to the house itself.

The lock on the shed had been forced recently and reattached so loosely that the hasp came away as soon as Jo touched it. The police must have looked inside.

There was a motor mower and some garden tools. Loungers, a sunshade, and some patio furniture.

‘What’s that hanging on the wall? Looks like a life-jacket,’ Gemma said.

‘Dusty,’ Jo said. ‘Hasn’t been used for some time.’

‘Well, he’s not going to offer one to the women he drowns.’

They giggled a bit and it eased the tension.

‘Living here so close to the harbour it’s quite likely he has a boat,’ Jo said. ‘You said the other day he could be living on the Costa del Crime, and it’s not impossible. Looking around, I get the feeling he’s closed the place down and gone.’

‘Sailed off into the sunset?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Smart move.’

‘Exactly,’ Jo said. ‘If I was on the run from the police I’d use a boat if I could. You’re more likely to get caught if you go by any other form of transport.’

‘Well, have we done the shed?’ Gemma asked.

Jo unhooked a wooden mallet from the tools hanging on the wall. ‘We’re going to need this.’

They closed the door and reattached the lock.

Law-abiding people have to be pushed past endurance to break with a lifetime of conformity. Jo couldn’t get out of her mind the sight of Jake being led away in handcuffs to the police cars. She knew he wouldn’t be treated fairly with his prison record. He was mentally scarred already. They’d reduce him to despair and he’d be broken, willing to sign anything they put in front of him.

Without another word to Gemma she walked across the patio to a small leaded window and smashed it. Three blows made a hole big enough for her to reach inside and unfasten the latch.

‘Who would’ve thought it?’ Gemma said.

‘What?’

‘Jo Stevens. Housebreaker.’

‘Are you going to help me in?’

They slid a plant tub against the wall and Jo used it to climb up and through the window space. She found herself in a toilet and stepped down by way of the pedestal. She located the living room, unlocked the patio windows, and let Gemma in.

‘Hooligan,’ Gemma said.

‘Accomplice.’

‘What happens now?’

‘We see what we can find, and preferably something that links him to Meredith Sentinel. Letters, photos, an address book. Anything.’

‘Shall I start in here, then?’

‘Better,’ Jo said. ‘I’ll do upstairs.’

She felt uneasy walking through someone’s home uninvited, but her reason for being there outweighed the reservations. She knew at once that she wouldn’t find much in common with Denis Cartwright. The stairs were carpeted in a bright synthetic green only a man would have chosen, and an insensitive man at that.

She found his bedroom. Better start in the most promising place, she decided. The colour scheme here was equally hideous: the walls in khaki with yellow stripes. The bed was king-size, with a brown quilt. A couple of pictures of old sailing ships were on the wall. No personal items on view. Not a single photo. A stack of books by the bed showed he was a reader of C.S. Forester and Patrick O’Brian-more evidence of a maritime interest.

In the wardrobe his bow ties had a drawer all their own. All the clothes were neatly folded and tidily arranged, but gave off a smell that reminded her of charity shops. She opened the bedside cabinet drawer. Cartwright took diazepam and was a chocolate eater. Nothing to suggest he was also a murderer.

The en suite was clean and bare. He’d taken his washing kit with him.

She went to the top of the stairs and leaned over. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Zilch,’ Gemma called back. ‘I don’t think much of his taste in music. It’s all brass bands and military stuff.’

‘I’ll join you shortly.’

She found a small guest bedroom that-at a stretch-might have been meant for a woman to use. The wallpaper was more feminine, sky blue with daisy shapes. A queen-size bed left little space for much else. A white dressing gown made of towelling hung in an otherwise empty built-in wardrobe. The only picture was a cheap print of Dell Quay. Why do people choose to hang pictures in their houses of local scenes they can visit in five minutes? She could find no evidence that any woman had recently used the room. Why would she, if she was the lover? Only, Jo thought, if the lady found his bedroom wallpaper so off-putting that she insisted on doing the business here.

She checked the bathroom and another bedroom converted into a computer room except that the computer had gone. The police must have taken it. There were just some outmoded diskettes, a printer, mouse-mat, mouse, and loose cables.

‘The place has been stripped of anything interesting,’ she told Gemma downstairs.

‘I know. I found a space where a filing cabinet stands. You can see where the sun bleached the wall above it, and there are paper clips on the floor.’

‘If he was more untidy I’d hope to find something. Isn’t it infuriating?’