Peter Lovesey: The Headhunters

‘Friends, swingers, clubbers. None of them married. Between them Jake, Gemma, and Jo link up in some way with each of the killings. They knew one or more of the victims or they discovered one or more of the bodies. Rick stays in the background but he may have things to tell us.’

Not many cars were parked in West Street so early in the day. Gary steered into a spot right outside the Georgian doorway of the surveyor’s. ‘Does he know we’re coming?’

Hen shook her head. ‘Watch how he reacts. You may learn something.’

She flashed the warrant card and instructed the receptionist not to announce them over the intercom. She didn’t want Rick leaping out of a top floor window.

His name was on the door at the top of the stairs: Richard O. Graham, member of this and fellow of that, a string of qualifications that didn’t include immunity from investigation. Hen turned the handle and they went in.

He was reading the Daily Mail. Guiltily, he slammed it into a drawer. His blue eyes blinked nervously. Unruly hair poked up like a tussock of sun-bleached grass. It didn’t look right for the grey suit.

Hen gave a kickstart to the interview. ‘Were you reading about the body your friends found in the pool? We’re CID, by the way. DCI Mallin and DC Pearce.’

‘Oh.’

‘That was a question.’

‘Er, no. I get it for the business pages.’

‘Didn’t the latest murder make the national press? It will tomorrow. She’s a local woman.’

Wanting to get over the shock of their sudden appearance, Rick tried letting them know that they’d invaded his territory. In a prim tone he said, ‘I have an appointment shortly.’

‘Not until this one is through.’

‘What exactly do you want?’

‘Information. You’re the listening post. Heard it all: dead bodies, an ID parade, a chase, an arrest.’

‘If you’re talking about Jake, I scarcely know the guy,’ he said. ‘He’s just a hanger-on.’

‘Hanging on to Jo as I understand it,’ Hen said. ‘She was your girlfriend and he took her over.’

‘I wouldn’t call her a girlfriend. He’s welcome to her.’

‘How very gracious that sounds. Didn’t she give you what you wanted? You swapped her for Gemma, I was told. Tricky when they’re close friends, I imagine. Leads to all kinds of comparisons.’

He reddened, either with anger or embarrassment. ‘I can’t see what relevance this has.’

‘All right, Rick, I’ll stop being personal. Tell me about your work.’

More signs of panic. He was out on the highwire again, and teetering. ‘Like what?’

‘Like does it get you out, looking at people’s houses?’

‘That’s part of it.’

‘Someone plans to move away, so they ask you to survey the property in line with the new government legislation. You should be telling me this. Have you been invited to do a job in Apuldram in the last three weeks? Desirable country house with swimming pool?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘The owner seems to have gone. I wonder who did the survey. Tell me, Rick, if you were surveying a house and the winter cover was over the swimming pool would you lift the end to inspect underneath?’

He started to bluster. ‘I know exactly what you’re talking about and why. I’ve never been to Cartwright’s house. I had nothing to do with what happened in Apuldram.’

‘Except by association,’ Hen said. ‘You’re sleeping with one of the women who found the body and the other is your ex.’

‘You said you’d stop being personal.’

An interruption: Hen’s phone gave its call note. ‘This had better be earth-shaking,’ she said to Gary, looking round for a place with more privacy. She settled for an armchair across the room from Rick’s desk.

The caller was Stella. ‘Sorry to disturb you, guv, but you ought to know this. We’re at Bosham, Sally Frith’s house. Huge place with an amazing harbour view. We started in her bedroom and almost the first thing we found beside the bed was this photo of a guy in swimming trunks, and written across it is-wait for it- “All My Love, Rick.”’

‘Have you got it there now?’

‘In my hand.

‘Describe him.’

‘Ten years younger than her, I’d say. Blue eyes, hair bleached blond by the look of it and cut in a style of-what shall I say? — more Rod Stewart than David Beckham, if you know what I mean.’

Hen’s heart had doubled its rate, but she was keeping her responses bland, trying not to give too much away to Rick. ‘Thanks, Stell. You did the right thing calling me.’

‘Boss, don’t go yet.’

‘What?’

‘Something else you ought to know. The place has a large indoor swimming pool.’

‘Has it?’ Keeping a poker face was difficult. ‘Worth noting. See you later.’ For a moment after switching off, she paused to let her brain catch up with what she’d heard. Deciding to go for broke, she crossed the room and said in a sharp, accusing tone, ‘Sally Frith of Bosham. One of your women, right?’

‘Huh?’ Rick swayed back as if she’d aimed a blow at him.

She spoke the name a second time.

‘What’s happened?’ he said, giving a fair rendering of shock.

‘Answer the question, Rick. Is Sally Frith your lover?’

‘I see her sometimes, yes. What is it?’

‘She was the body found at Apuldram.’

A stunned silence.

Slowly his hand went to his throat and clasped it. ‘Sally?’ He’d turned ashen. His voice was reduced to a murmur. ‘I can’t believe this.’

‘Can’t believe it happened, or can’t believe I know about it?’

‘Are you certain?’

Hen gave a nod. ‘That was my colleague speaking from the house.’ She waited briefly, then said, ‘You’ve done the surprised bit now, Rick. You can answer some questions, like how long have you known the lady?’

He shifted in his chair and dragged his fingers across his mouth, surely aware of the trouble he was in. ‘I don’t know. Eighteen months, maybe. I did some work for her, a survey for some reconstruction at the house. We formed a friendship. This is so hard to believe.’

‘She was some years older than you.’

‘It didn’t matter. We didn’t discuss our ages. She was a sweet person.’

‘You know she had a criminal record?’

‘She told me. She was badly let down.’ He took in a sharp breath. ‘Do you think he did this-the bastard who got her into all that trouble?’

‘The last we heard, he was in Hong Kong. It’s unlikely he’d risk setting foot in Britain again.’

‘One of his cronies, then?’

‘What would be the point? Everything came out at her trial.’

‘Was anything stolen from the house?’

‘Too early to say. When did you see her last?’

He gave the question some thought. ‘About ten days ago. I used to visit her most Sundays.’

‘Not for church, I dare say.’

He glared back. ‘She cooked us a roast lunch. It was a regular thing. I made no secret of it. Jo knew all about it, and so did Gemma.’

‘And we don’t need to ask what was for afters. This arrangement lasted eighteen months. You appreciate being mothered, obviously.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Ten days ago, you say. Weren’t you there on Sunday?’

He hesitated, weighing the options. ‘I called at the house, but there was no answer.’

‘When was this?’

‘Around midday.’

‘Had you spoken to her on the phone?’

‘No. I just turned up at the usual time. I was surprised and a bit concerned actually. I waited for a while and walked around the outside. It was all locked up.’

‘Everything in order?’

‘It seemed to be. There was no sign of a break-in. Nobody else was about. The house is detached in its own grounds, so it was no use asking neighbours. I tried phoning her and got no answer. After about forty minutes, I gave up and came away.’