Peter Lovesey: The Headhunters

‘You could be right, but I don’t see your mother on a pony.’

‘She ought to think about giving up riding.’

‘Try telling her.’

Telling her wouldn’t aid the recovery. Margaret Stevens was a stubborn woman. The mother-daughter relationship had foundered years ago when Jo went through teenage rebellion and Mummy went through her room looking for unsuitable reading and cannabis. Harmless things all her friends were trying at the time, like coloured hair and ripped jeans, became issues. If her mother had treated her with a modicum of understanding some of this might have made sense, but it was handled in a vindictive way. Mummy’s own self-indulgence, the gin and cigarettes and all the expense on the riding, was not for comment. Jo had a suspicion there were other dissipations, and it had suited her mother to turn the spotlight elsewhere. The trust between them had never recovered.

She was in a side ward in Accident amp; Emergency and as pale as the pillow but still in good voice. ‘You look like death, darling. What’s wrong? ’

‘You’re what’s wrong, Mummy, giving us a shock like this. How did it happen?’

‘Don’t ask me. It’s a blur. They’re keeping me in overnight. What a bore. You two had better go out for a meal. Your father won’t cook for himself. If I remember, there’s a good Italian restaurant opposite the hospital.’

Typical of her mother, directing operations.

‘Don’t suppose I’ll get much,’ she ranted on. ‘They have a system of ordering here and I missed the chance to see what’s on offer. I’ll get the leftovers, I expect, cold stew and semolina.’

‘You must be feeling better if you can think about food.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a drink right now.’

Jo reached for the jug of water on the cabinet.

‘I mean a tipple, not that stuff.’

‘You’re here to get your head right, Mummy.’

‘Fiddlesticks. What have you been up to? Ages since we saw you. It’s a funny old world when it takes something like this to get you calling on your parents. Are you still working in the glasshouse?’

‘Garden centre, Mummy. Yes, I am.’

‘What do you do-water the plants?’

‘I’ve told you before. Lots of things.’

‘It’s not good for you, working under glass. It’s no protection from those rays. You can get skin cancer. Tell her, Willy.’

‘I’m not telling her anything,’ her father said.

Mummy was unfazed. ‘She should get a different job. With the education we gave her, she ought to be doing something better than watering pansies.’

Daddy rolled his eyes and was silent.

‘Come on, dear,’ Mummy insisted. ‘What have you been up to? Is there a man in your life? I wish there was, someone you could start a family with, legally of course. No such luck, I suppose?’

Jo was beginning to think she would leave. She hadn’t come here for an inquisition into her private life. ‘How is the horse?’

‘Which horse?’

‘Penrose. Did he fall as well?’

‘I’ve no idea. I told you it’s a blur and you’re trying to change the subject.’

Her father said, ‘The stable lad who phoned said you went under a tree and got knocked off by a low branch.’

‘That doesn’t add up,’ Mummy said. ‘I’m too experienced for that.’

‘It happened before.’

‘Willy, I was a novice then. I don’t make basic errors these days.’

‘Something unseated you.’

‘I expect the horse reared. You can’t do much when that happens. A dog must have frightened him. People should keep them on leads. And muzzled. Josephine, you didn’t answer my question. What sort of company are you keeping?’

‘Mummy, I’m thirty-six years old. I don’t have to account to you for the friends I have.’

‘Be like that. I wouldn’t mind betting you won’t be so reticent when you want us to fork out for a big white wedding in the cathedral.’

‘Ha!’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means don’t worry. It won’t happen.’

‘I’m not worried. We took out insurance shortly after you were born.’

‘You what?’

‘Tell her it’s true, Willy. She can have a white Rolls Royce and a champagne reception for a hundred guests.’

He confirmed it with a shrug.

Instead of feeling grateful for such foresight, Jo thought it mercenary. She decided if she ever did get hitched she’d go to a register office and tell her parents later. The last thing she wanted was a monster shindig managed by her mother.

‘You’re getting overwrought,’ she said. ‘I’m going to leave. Get some rest while you’ve got the chance.’

Driving home, Jo had to admit she was the one who was overwrought. They still had the capacity to make her feel eleven years old. Maybe she should have gone for the Italian with Daddy. Stupid old man, he was no use at fending for himself. Never had been. Even if he’d offered, Mummy wouldn’t have wanted him in her kitchen.

One night of cheese sandwiches wouldn’t hurt him, she told herself, but she still felt bad about it.

There was a message on the answerphone. ‘Jo, this is only me.’ (It was Gemma’s voice) ‘Disappointed? I bet you are. I don’t know if you’ve seen the local rag, but you’re in it, babe. Front page news. “Woman’s Grim Discovery at Selsey. Miss Josephine Stevens, twenty-nine.” That’s pushing it a bit, isn’t it? I thought we agreed we were roughly the same age and I won’t see thirty-five again. The rest of it seems reliable, though. I thought you might want to get a copy. I’ll keep mine in case you can’t. See you Saturday, I hope. ’Bye.’

Nine thirty, just gone. She wasn’t going out again. If she wanted to see the paper she could pick one up in the morning. She wasn’t too excited about making the front page. Finding a body on a beach wasn’t much of an achievement, not like swimming the channel or rescuing someone from a blazing building. Any fool could stumble over a body.

She regretted being economical with her age to the reporter. Gemma was right. Twenty-nine was pushing it. Why did newspapers always want to know your age, as if it mattered? The people at work were going to have a ball. Twenty-nine and counting, they would say.

As she cooked herself a late supper of a mushroom omelette, she had a mental picture of her father alone at home with his cheese sandwich. She was still thinking what a mean cow she was when the smoke alarm went off. The omelette was burning. All in all, this hadn’t been one of her better days.

A regular at the garden centre was Miss Peabody, a white-haired, straight-backed woman always in the same pink hat like a huge scoop of strawberry ice cream on top of her head. She was in each day shortly after opening time, but emphatically a visitor rather than a customer. None of the staff could recall her buying anything. Her routine was to wander the aisles noticing plants that were ailing. ‘I know about plants,’ she would say to whichever of the staff she could buttonhole, ‘and you’ve got pansy wilt. Come and see.’ She was usually right, but on a busy morning when a consignment of bulbs had to be checked and bagged up, pansy wilt wasn’t a high priority. Adrian, the manager, advised the staff to treat the old lady with courtesy and find a reason to move away. He said he couldn’t ask her to leave. She lived just down the road in Singleton and regarded the garden centre as an extension of her own small garden.

This Monday morning, she’d crept up behind Jo.

‘Did you know you’ve got black spot?’

Jo dropped the trowel she was using. ‘For crying out loud! You gave me a start, Miss Peabody.’

‘Black spot, my dear, on your heart’s desire. Do you want me to show you?’