Peter Lovesey: The Headhunters

‘Pretty pissed off at missing your Sunday treat?’

‘A bit, if I’m honest. I tried calling her later. I was thinking she’d gone out for the day and forgotten to tell me.’

‘So what did you do for lunch?’

‘Sandwich.’

‘Where? A local pub?’

‘I went home.’

‘Pity. If you’d eaten out we might have a till receipt, or even someone who remembers you.’

‘I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t hang about because I was meeting some friends later. A birthday.’

‘And you forgot all about Sally? Where was the party?’

‘On the Isle of Wight.’

‘Anyone I know?’

‘Gemma. It was her birthday. We went to a club. And Jo was there, too.’

‘While Sally lay dead in Cartwright’s pool.’

He shouted, ‘I didn’t know that. I’ve never been near the fuck-ing place.’

Gary pointed a finger and said, ‘Cool it.’

‘Okay,’ Hen said in a calm, measured tone, ‘let’s explore what happened according to what you’ve told us. Sally wasn’t there when you arrived, and she turns up dead in Cartwright’s pool on Tuesday afternoon. The pathologist estimates she’d been dead for two to five days, probably drowned. The day of death was therefore Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. She was in a pink swimsuit. Did you ever swim with her?’

‘Never. I don’t like swimming.’

‘But Sally must have enjoyed it. She had a pool of her own.’

‘She told me she swam before breakfast every day. She believed in keeping fit.’

‘She’d need to,’ Hen said, and added, ‘All that cooking. What I can’t get my head round is why she’d go to an outdoor pool in October when she was used to swimming indoors and at home. Any suggestions?’

‘Cartwright must be alive.’

‘Did Sally know Cartwright?’

‘I couldn’t tell you.’

‘She didn’t ever mention him?’

‘She wouldn’t, would she?’

Watching for his reaction, Hen said, ‘Are you suggesting she was promiscuous?’

He shifted in his chair. ‘I’m not saying anything else without my solicitor being present.’

‘Good thinking,’ Hen said, untroubled. ‘Let’s all go back to the nick and do this properly in an interview room.’

After her disturbed night, Jo woke later than usual. The phone by the bed was going. She snatched it up, hoping to hear Jake.

The voice was male, and for a moment she was fooled into saying, ‘Sweet Jesus, I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been about you.’

The caller nervously announced himself as Adrian, her boss. ‘Have I woken you up? Sorry. You won’t have heard about the flooding. The road is under four feet of water at Singleton. There’s no way I can get in to work this morning, so I’m phoning round to see who can make it.’

Adrian lived at Midhurst, north of Singleton. Jo was south of the flooded area, and so was the garden centre. ‘I’ll try and get in.’

‘I’d be so grateful. Karen’s going to try as well. I’m not expecting customers in weather like this. My worry is that we may have flood damage ourselves. It could ruin the stock.’

‘I’ll call you if and when I get there,’ she said.

She tried Jake’s number next. No answer.

At the police station, Hen left Rick in a side room with his solicitor. The law’s delay was one of the few certainties in police work. She was not downhearted. More needed to be uncovered before she could make real inroads with this guy. Smart questioning uncovers the truth, but it has to be rooted in good detective work.

Still on her desk in the interview room in its transparent evidence bag was the invitation card that had lured Meredith Sentinel to her death. She picked it up and ran her fingertips across the embossed lettering. An elaborate con. No other cards had been traced and she was confident of her theory that this one was unique, an invitation to a non-existent reunion. If she could prove Rick had sent it, she’d be well armed for the next round.

But he couldn’t have sent it to a woman he didn’t know.

Was there a connection to Meredith, something yet to be discovered? Either he’d been around in 1987 and met her at the dig and fantasised about her ever since, or he’d got to know her more recently. Through his work? He belonged to various professional societies, and they would have meetings in London, where Meredith lived and worked. A chance encounter? She did some work for the World Wildlife Fund, her husband had mentioned. Was Rick involved in that in some capacity? He didn’t seem the sort.

She examined the card again. The embossed lettering hadn’t been done on a computer. This was a printer’s work.

Kleentext Print Solutions?

She called their number and asked to speak to Gemma Casey. The receptionist said she’d try. Some of the staff weren’t in because of the flooding.

Fortunately, Gemma answered, and Hen explained about the card and its importance to the case. ‘We think it likely that only one was printed. It’s nicely done on cream-coloured card with embossed lettering.’

‘Swanky. We do that kind of work, mainly as wedding stationery,’ Gemma said, ‘but I doubt if this was ours. Only one, you say? It would be uneconomic.’

‘Depends if the client was willing to stump up,’ Hen pointed out.

‘You’re talking fifty pounds minimum for one card.’

‘Understood,’ Hen said. ‘Well, maybe he had about fifty printed and destroyed all but one. They didn’t get sent out. I’m sure of that.’

‘Anyway, we’d have a record of it,’ Gemma said. ‘The proof would have come through my office and I can’t recall the wording you just read out. If you hang on, I’ll check to be certain. We keep a copy of everything.’ In under five minutes she was back. ‘No, it was definitely done by another printer. We don’t usually give out the names of our rivals, but in this case… ’

Hen noted them. ‘And while you’re on the line,’ she said to Gemma, ‘has your friend Rick ever spoken to you about the Selsey mammoth?’

‘The what?’

‘A mammoth was excavated in 1987.’

‘What’s it got to do with Rick?’

‘I’m wondering if he took part in the dig.’

‘All those years ago? I doubt it. I’m sure he would have boasted about it. You know what blokes are like. Jake’s the expert on things like that. He’s a fossil-hunter.’

‘True, but he wasn’t on the dig. What about you, Gemma? You were local. Did you volunteer?’

‘Me? I was only fifteen in 1987. Simon Le Bon grabbed me more than bones on a beach.’

‘Duran Duran? Didn’t they cover “Watching the Detectives”?’

‘Hey, you’re a new romantic.’

She tried the other local printers. No one remembered taking on the work. The fancy invitation wasn’t the clincher it had promised to be. If that bloody man Sentinel had found the envelope it came in, the whole investigation might have been over by now.

There was real danger of aquaplaning in several places where the road dipped between Mid Lavant and West Dean. Jo slowed and hoped she wouldn’t stall. The A286 runs alongside the River Lavant all the way up to Singleton, and there are sections where it can easily burst its banks. Fortunately everyone seemed to be treating the conditions with respect and she covered the six miles to the garden centre without mishap.

Karen from the sales staff was the only one there.

‘Any damage?’

‘Nothing serious that I’ve noticed,’ Karen said. ‘Some leaking from the roof where the glass blew out the other day. We’ve lost a few winter pansies, and that’s about it.’

‘Have you called Adrian?’

‘Not yet. Should we?’

‘He was practically having kittens when he called me an hour ago. I’ll give him a call now.’