Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

‘We haven’t found any connection. We’ve searched his house, his computer, his office at work. Nothing. But we’re quite sure Fiona’s killer also murdered Meredith Sentinel.’

‘What about the woman in his pool, then? If that isn’t a connection, I don’t know what is. That’s two out of three.’

Hen didn’t challenge the statement. ‘When you got here this afternoon, did you break in and search the house first?’

‘Yes.’

‘Find anything?’

‘No.’

‘And then you decided to look in the pool. Whose idea was that, yours, or Jo’s?’

Gemma frowned. ‘I don’t think that’s important.’

‘I’ll be the judge,’ Hen said.

She shrugged. ‘Jo thought of it. Either of us could have done.’

‘And was that blue cover in place?’

‘Right across the pool, but we managed to shift it. One end wasn’t properly attached, and that helped.’

‘What do you mean, not properly attached?’

‘Some of the springs weren’t fixed to the bolt things. That made it easier to get a start.’

‘What did you expect to find?’

‘We were looking for Mr Cartwright, weren’t we? He’s the missing person, after all. We didn’t know anyone else was missing. Have you found out who she is?’

‘Not yet.’

‘We did the decent thing reporting it,’ Gemma said in a too-obvious attempt to excuse their conduct. ‘We shouldn’t have broken into the house, but we found the body for you.’

Hen wasn’t giving votes of thanks. ‘Have you been in trouble before?’

‘What-with the police? Certainly not. You can check your records.’

‘You’re local, are you?’

‘I’ve lived here all my life.’

‘Do you have family down here in Sussex, then?’

‘Only an old aunt and I don’t see much of her. My parents died in a crash when I was nine. And in case you’re wondering, I wasn’t the maladjusted kid who turned to crime. I was with foster parents until I was seventeen.’

‘And then?’

‘A flat of my own. I went to Chichester Tech, as it was known then, got myself an Ordinary National Diploma in business studies, and took the job at Fishbourne. If you let me off with a caution I won’t trouble you again.’

Right now Hen had more on her mind than Gemma’s misdemeanour. ‘This man Rick is the fourth member of your little clique.’

‘Rick’s got nothing to do with this,’ she said at once.

‘You’re in a relationship with him.’

‘I wouldn’t call it that. He’s a friend. We’ve been out a few times. We don’t live together.’

‘You four band together and help each other out, is that right?’

‘Isn’t that what friends do?’

‘Provided it’s legal. But if you had serious doubts about one of your friends it wouldn’t be wise to cover for them. Loyalty is one thing. Conspiracy to cover up a crime is something else. Do you follow me?’

Gemma nodded.

‘Gary will help you with your written statement. You’ll have to give evidence at the inquest as well. Make sure it’s accurate.’

The next one could wait.

Hen went out to check on the search she’d organised of the garden area around the pool. The chance of a smoke was incidental to her supervisory duty.

About twenty unfortunate officers in uniform were moving slowly with heads down across the sodden turf in the unrelenting rain. She found the senior man from the crime scene investigators and asked if there was any chance of recovering DNA from the pool cover.

‘You think the killer handled it?’ the man said.

‘I’m sure of it. The body was hidden underneath and the two women found the cover in place, but one end had a few springs loose. He must have tried to fasten part of it at least to the things that keep it stretched.’

‘The anchors.’

‘Right. You’ll take it to the lab?’

‘Of course. But you must allow that the house owner would have handled it on a number of occasions. If we find any trace of his DNA, that doesn’t mean he’s guilty. And of course the women who found the body will have left some of their skin tissue on the fabric. It’s not so simple as it might appear.’

‘Nothing ever is.’

She went back to the house and questioned Jo for ten minutes. Little came out of it except the repeated insistence that Jake was innocent and should be released. At such times Hen despaired of her own sex.

Back in the garden she checked with the searchers and shook her head when she saw the result: a few rusty nails and the plastic cap from a tube of sunscreen. She watched the body being stretchered away to the mortuary van. The most pressing need was to identify the victim. But how? The face was too far gone to use in a photo appeal. The woman hadn’t been wearing a ring, or jewellery. The pink swimming costume looked like a standard garment unlikely to yield much.

She pondered the possible events leading up to the murder. The woman was most unlikely to have arrived at the house in a swimming costume. Logic suggested she’d changed out of her day clothes in the house. None had been found, but that was surely because the killer disposed of them, just as he’d disposed of Meredith Sentinel’s clothes the night he’d murdered her on Selsey beach. He’d realise they would help with identification.

If the latest victim had been persuaded to change for a swim she must have trusted her killer. You don’t get into a private pool with a stranger. She must have known him and come to the house. Who else could her host have been but Denis Cartwright? He’d got into the water with her and drowned her.

No.

Something was wrong here. Cartwright had been missing for almost two weeks. This body had been in the water for a much shorter interval-two to five days, the pathologist had estimated.

Was Cartwright alive, then? Had he returned to the house with this woman, persuaded her to join him for a swim, and drowned her?

Any other scenario was too far fetched. The killer pretends he owns the house and pool and makes elaborate arrangements to fool the woman into visiting? No chance.

Hold on, she thought. I’m assuming too much here. Kibblewhite spoke of immersion, but refused to say the woman had drowned, or anyone had drowned her. Did she die accidentally? A sudden heart attack while in the water?

Were other people present? A swimming party? Drinks, larking about, and she hits her head on the stone surround and nobody notices until it’s too late?

Whichever elaborate story you dream up, you’re faced with the fact that the woman’s death was concealed. Nobody pulls a cover across a small private pool without noticing a body in the water. It was a hidden crime, hidden with the expectation that nothing would be found until next year when the weather was warm enough for swimming.

The bottom line was this: Cartwright’s pool, in Cartwright’s garden, and Cartwright was missing.

The manhunt was stepped up.

Cartwright was no longer just a missing person. The official line, that he was wanted for questioning in connection with the deaths of three women, was sent out with a ‘not for publication’ note that he was believed to be a psychopath likely to kill again.

Hen’s morning started at the mortuary. She’d never been squeamish about attending autopsies. It was the tough-talking men-bless their little cotton socks-who were liable to faint as soon as the pathologist picked up the scalpel. Even so, this one was a severe test, definitely a face mask and tic tac occasion. The well-prepared Dr Kibblewhite had brought two cans of air freshener and they were put to good use from the start.

To put everyone at ease while cutting away the pink swimsuit, he talked with affection about one of Dr Quincy’s television episodes. ‘You didn’t see the dissection. Never did in those days. The only bits of the body you saw were the feet or the face. All very wholesome. So I can’t say for certain if Quincy would have destroyed a perfectly good costume as I’m doing here, but, if you think about it, even if I removed it without damage I doubt if anyone would wear it.’ He cut off the label and handed it to Hen. Speedo was so common a make that it was almost no help at all.