Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

Photos had to be taken at each stage, prolonging the operation. Kibblewhite stressed that drowning is difficult, if not impossible, to diagnose at post mortem when the body is no longer fresh. No question that water was in the lungs and would be sent for analysis with the other samples, but he doubted if he could state the cause of death even when the results came back. And with the sodden skin deteriorating and no other injuries apparent, he could find no external evidence that the woman’s demise had been homicidal.

Neither were there any useful clues to identity. No scars. She was aged about fifty, give or take five years, and she looked after her hair and nails, like a million other women. Two of the fingernails on the right hand were torn, but Kibblewhite said it would not be wise to read too much into that. They may have been damaged when the body was taken from the pool. ‘They go soft, you see.’

‘My lads lifted her out,’ Hen said. ‘I was watching them.’

‘So was I. It’s so easily done.’

‘I notice you just tugged out some hair at the roots.’

‘Deliberately. Another indication of the amount of time she spent in the water,’ Kibblewhite told her. ‘The hair loosens.’

‘Are you sticking with your estimate of two to five days?’

‘I am.’

‘You can’t be more precise than that?’

‘Too many variables.’

‘That hair you just removed. If you bag some up for me, I’ll ask for an immediate DNA test.’

‘You’re an optimist.’

‘I’m sure Quincy would take the trouble,’ she said, unable to resist the dig.

‘Quincy didn’t know about DNA.’ He used tweezers to put some hairs into an evidence bag and handed it to her. ‘Don’t forget to label it.’

The dissection was more productive, or so Kibblewhite claimed. He went so far as to mention the word ‘drowning’ as a possibility after finding froth in the main air passages and over-distension of the lungs. Only after he’d seen the results of lab tests would he know if he could say more.

Hen came away thinking she could have been better employed at the nick. Outside, the rain was belting down again. She sprinted through the puddles to her car. When she got there she swore mildly. The SAVE TUFTY umbrella was still on the back seat, neatly furled. She ran all the way back and returned the precious souvenir to its owner as he came out of the door.

‘But you’re drenched,’ Kibblewhite said. ‘Why didn’t you use it?’

There was better news when she got back to the incident room. Cartwright’s red Peugeot Estate had been found near the boatyard at Dell Quay. The registration had been checked with Swansea and the car transported to Chichester for forensic examination.

‘Hey, that’s the first good thing I’ve heard today. There’s sure to be evidence inside.’

‘Remember who we’re dealing with, guv. His middle names are spick and span,’ Paddy Murphy told her. ‘It’s as clean as a Buckingham Palace loo.’

Hen tried to stay upbeat. ‘We’ll get something back from the Motor Investigation Unit, if it’s only grit from his shoes. It’s safe to assume, then, that he put to sea.’

‘Well, his boat hasn’t been found.’

‘What sort is it?’

‘Quite modest. A twelve-metre yacht called Nonpareil.’

‘Called what?’

‘Did I say it wrong? It’s written on the board over there. Gary says it’s a printing term, a typeface.’

‘I think it also means the best. I wouldn’t call that modest.’

‘He was proud of the boat when he named her, I expect,’ Paddy said. ‘She isn’t in top nick, according to the locals, but seaworthy enough to cross the channel. A full description went out with the call to Interpol.’

‘At twelve metres, it has a sleeping berth, no doubt. He could lay up in some French port for weeks and not be noticed.’

‘Not for much longer.’

‘Let’s hope.’ A shadow crossed Hen’s face. ‘I can see some unfortunate Frenchwoman being invited aboard and becoming victim number four.’

‘Sweet Jesus. I hope not.’ Paddy passed a hand thoughtfully through his silver hair. ‘Most crimes I can understand, even when they’re evil. This one is a mystery to me. What’s in it for him?’

‘Better ask a shrink, Paddy. Pulling them in is my job.’

‘Yes, but we need to know the motive.’

‘With psychos you can’t tell. Some kill out of boredom. That’s not a motive. In this case we’ve got a pattern and we’re collecting evidence and we know who we’re looking for. Enough to be going on with.’

She walked across to the display board where the name of Cartwright’s yacht had been written. It was below his head and shoulders picture-one they’d found in his house and distributed to the press. He looked inoffensive and trying to appear likeable, like some local election candidate, hair parted in an old-fashioned style, eyes wide and hopeful, lips curved in a diffident smile. The check bow tie was the only remarkable feature. Did it reveal humour? Self-regard? Or a nut? Whichever, you would look in vain for signs of violence.

Hen wasn’t fooled. She’d seen killers in real life. Maybe one in twenty looked the person you wouldn’t share a lift with.

The other two mugshots on display-Dr Sentinel and Jake Kernow-were more believable as murderers, Jake especially. Sentinel’s thin lips arched in a cruel way. As for Jake, well, he’d curdle the milk by looking at it.

He was still in custody. She’d have to come to a decision soon.

‘Call for you, ma’am,’ one of the civilian staff said.

Hope rising, she picked up a phone, and wished she hadn’t. Headquarters. The Deputy Chief Constable himself.

She took a deep breath and listened.

‘We’ve been following this enquiry into the drownings. You appear to have someone in the frame now, this print manager.’

‘Cartwright.’

‘He’s being sought in all the French ports as well as our own. Is that correct?’ The voice was so courteous, so reasonable.

Ominously so.

‘Yes, sir. We found a third body yesterday afternoon, concealed in Cartwright’s swimming pool. I’m waiting for confirmation that she was drowned. It raises the stakes. There’s no question in my mind that we’re pursuing a serial murderer, so I alerted Interpol.’

‘No problem with that. But is it a fact that this was the second search of Cartwright’s house and garden?’

The knife unsheathed. Stella, you dozy mare, I’m walking the plank for you, she thought. ‘That’s true. The first search was Sunday morning, after the second victim was found. The last sight of her was leaving the Fishbourne office with Cartwright. Neither of them was seen alive after that, so I obtained a warrant and sent a team to the house.’

‘Didn’t you take charge yourself?’

‘I accept responsibility, but, no. I wasn’t there. I was following up another lead.’ Francisco. Please don’t ask, she thought.

‘Did your people take a passing glance at the pool?’

She couldn’t bluff her way through this. ‘I believe not.’

‘Don’t you know for certain?’

‘I haven’t had time to check with the inspector who led the search. I’ve just come from the post mortem.’

‘You’re obviously under a lot of pressure.’

Dangerous to concede. ‘But on top of the job.’

‘I would say it’s pretty obvious something was wrong with the search because the body was in that pool for up to five days.’

‘Two to five, yes.’

‘If the team had done its job, the hunt for Cartwright might be over by now.’

‘Conceivably.’

‘Somebody goofed, Chief Inspector. I wouldn’t go out of my way to cover for them if I were you. Being an effective leader matters more than loyalty to a colleague.’