Peter Lovesey: The Headhunters

At mid-morning, Hen called Stella for another progress report on the search at the Bosham house.

‘Like I said, we started upstairs. The main bedroom,’ Stella told her. After the Apuldram fiasco she was going to miss nothing. ‘The quilt was turned back for airing. Some of her clothes on a chair. Nightdress hanging in the bathroom. I get the impression she had a night’s sleep and got up and had a shower.’

‘Have you checked the pool area?’

‘Not properly.’

‘Do it next. According to Rick, she was in the habit of taking an early morning swim.’

‘Rick. What does he know about it?’

She updated Stella on the Sunday lunch routine.

Stella whistled and said, ‘He really had it made. Do you think he killed her?’

‘I’m taking this step by step. Have you looked for signs of a recent meal?’

‘There’s nothing obvious. If he was here, everything is cleared away. It’s extremely tidy. We’ll start our search of the kitchen shortly.’

‘Look in the fridge for the remains of a roast joint. And I expect there’s a dishwasher. See if that’s loaded. Oh, and be sure to check the rubbish, too.’

Stella wouldn’t normally need to be told. She may have felt she was being picked on for the past error. Hen wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

There was no complaint from Stella. She promised to call back shortly.

Adrian said he was ‘mightily relieved’ to know that the pansies were the only casualties. In his state of euphoria he suggested that Jo close at midday.

She passed on the good news to Karen.

‘Great,’ Karen said. ‘To tell you the truth, I found it quite eerie being alone here before you arrived. It’s weird, getting spooked by a garden centre, but I actually came out in goose pimples. I’ve never been here on my own before today. I was so pleased to hear you drive up.’

‘Yes, the place has a different feel to it,’ Jo said. ‘We haven’t even got Miss Peabody stalking us round the aisles.’

‘I can do without her,’ Karen said, grinning. ‘She lives up the road in Singleton, doesn’t she? Poor old soul, she’s probably under four feet of water.’

Singleton is the downland village where the Lavant first makes itself apparent. This sometime river (so benign in the summer months that it dries to an empty ditch) has its source in nearby East Dean. Serious flood problems affect the village in a specially wet winter because of a spring known as the Fountain, fed by another valley from the north.

Jo’s conscience stirred. ‘She’s my friend’s aunt. Maybe I should check and see if she’s all right.’

‘I expect the emergency people are doing that,’ Karen said. ‘You might get in their way.’

‘I don’t know. I think I owe it to Gemma to take a look. I could take the old lady some milk and bread from the Down Tools. They won’t be using any today. Luckily I put my wellies in the car in case I got stranded. I think it’s the first cottage you come to. We can see it from here.’

‘You can also see the flood water,’ Karen said. ‘Rather you than me.’ She laughed. ‘If you spot a pink hat floating past, you’d better give up and come back.’

Stella was quick to phone back. ‘I checked the kitchen, guv. The dishwasher had been emptied. There is a large joint of beef in the fridge.’

‘Hey, that’s what I needed to know,’ Hen said.

‘Uncooked.’

‘What?’

‘Looking at the sell-by date, it’s probably still okay. It doesn’t smell off.’

‘So she was expecting to cook.’

‘That’s for sure. There are fresh parsnips and carrots, greens, a marrow, and a packet of runner beans.’

‘Rick told the truth about that, then. She didn’t cook his Sunday lunch. She must have gone before then. She was probably dead.’

‘I also looked at the pool area, as you asked, and there’s one of those white bathrobes made of towelling.’

‘Where?’

‘Draped over a lounger, plus a spare towel.’

‘Flip-flops?’

‘Yes. Beside the lounger.’

Hen’s thoughts were in overdrive. ‘Stella, listen carefully. Don’t touch anything else. I want the pool area taped off as a crime scene. Get the white zipsuits out to the house as soon as possible. I’m almost certain she was drowned in her own pool and moved to Apuldram.’

‘The body was moved? Why?’

‘Shift the corpse and you shift the suspicion. We assumed the killer was Cartwright. Big mistake.’

Rick’s solicitor had delayed as long as he reasonably could and now the so-called voluntary statement was under way again.

Hen wasn’t wasting words. ‘What do you drive?’

Rick said, ‘An E Class Mercedes.’

‘On the street outside?’

‘Yes.’

‘The keys, please.’

‘Just a moment, officer,’ the lawyer said with a smile at Hen’s apparent naivety. ‘You can’t do that. My client is assisting with your enquiries. If you want the power to search his vehicle, you’ll have to arrest him.’

‘Is that the way you want to play it?’

‘Why do you need to search my car?’ Rick asked.

‘I believe Sally Frith was drowned in her own swimming pool and then transported to Apuldram and put in the pool in Mr Cartwright’s garden.’

‘And you think I did this?’ Some outrage showed in Rick’s response. Not enough for Hen’s liking.

‘If you did, there will be traces in your car. You can prove you didn’t by allowing us to make a forensic examination.’

The solicitor put a restraining hand on Rick’s arm. ‘I don’t advise it.’

‘I’ve nothing to hide,’ Rick said.

‘Let me put it this way,’ the solicitor said. ‘Impressed as I am with our estimable forensic science service and its painstaking methods, one hears of the occasional mistake being made through no one’s fault, of course, and leading to a wrongful conviction.’

‘Have it your way,’ Hen said without rising to the sarcasm. ‘Richard Graham, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything-’

‘Hang on,’ Rick interrupted, swinging to face his adviser. ‘If they do that, they can take my DNA and fingerprints and I’m on their bloody database for the rest of my life.’ He pulled the car keys from his pocket and and tossed them across the table to Hen. ‘You won’t find jack shit. Sally never even had a ride in my car.’

The solicitor said, ‘You could regret this.’

‘Get lost.’

The man was on his feet at once. ‘If that’s how you feel, Mr Graham, I’ll take you at your word. Find someone else.’

Hen groaned.

Another delay.

The rain had eased, so Jo had put on her Wellington boots and was striding through the puddles. Ahead were a barrier and a sign that the road was closed to traffic. It was no mystery why this valley flooded. To her right rose the great chalk hill called the Trundle, a favourite viewpoint. Left of her, purple-grey, with low cloud obscuring the highest point, a wooded stretch of the South Downs, the most significant upland range in Sussex.

From behind her the tinny notes of Colonel Bogey sounded.

She jerked the backpack from her shoulder and fumbled among cartons of milk and packs of sandwiches, found the phone and put it to her ear.

‘Darling, is that you?’ It was her mother’s all-too-familiar strident voice.

Jo almost slung the thing into the floodwater. ‘Hi.’

‘You don’t sound like your usual self. Are you keeping dry in this dreadful weather?’

‘More or less. Can I call you back later?’

‘Your father and I have been worried out of our minds about you. What’s going on, Jo? Your name’s in the paper again.’

‘Pure bad luck, Mummy. No need to be alarmed.’