Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

Hen had failed to smile, but she gave a nod.

‘It was a touch too realistic for Jo and freaked her out. Gemma believed me too, but she didn’t take it the same way. I think she really did want to see the back of Cartwright. But for Christ’s sake, it was a joke.’

Hen turned to Gary. ‘It must be the way he tells ’em.’

‘Only a bloody joke,’ Rick insisted.

‘A poor taste joke.’

‘This all started with the girls,’ he said in his defence. ‘They were having a laugh about it before any of the bodies were found. I joined in, like you do, to keep the conversation going. I suppose it got out of hand later, but don’t believe a word of it. Nothing happened, right?’

‘Have you finished?’ Hen enquired.

‘Er, I suppose so.’

‘Now let’s talk about Meredith Sentinel.’

He blinked, as if the switch to another victim had derailed him. ‘Can’t help you. Didn’t meet the woman, don’t know anything about her.’

‘I’ll fill you in, then,’ Hen said. ‘She came to Selsey expecting to attend a beach barbecue, a reunion of the mammoth excavation twenty years ago. A proper invitation was sent to her.’ She took the bagged card from her desk drawer and held it for Rick to see.

He gave it a glance. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘Twenty years ago, Meredith was a new student at Brighton. She was part of the dig. A great experience for her. A good memory. She expected to meet old friends when she returned here in September. Instead, all she met was her murderer. The grand reunion was a hoax. I notice you have an impressive string of letters after your name. Where did you do your studies, Rick?’

He took a deep breath, kept her waiting and finally gave a broad grin. ‘Edinburgh.’ Who said he didn’t have a sense of humour?

‘All of them?’

‘That’s where I was living until nineteen-ninety-two.’

It wasn’t the triumph Rick expected. Mentally, Hen excluded him. Suddenly she’d cut off. She still had the invitation in her hand and she stared at it as if she hadn’t seen it before. An entirely new line of thought had popped into her brain. She was tempted to end the interview there. But there was a chink of light ahead, and she decided to go for it. She restored her full attention to Rick.

‘You and Gemma are pretty close? An item, as they say?’

‘Good friends.’

‘Very good friends, according to her. She’s a local lass. She tells me she was only fifteen in the year the mammoth was dug up. It must have made an impression, though. It was a big deal in Selsey at the time. Some of the local kids joined in. The weather was really good by all accounts. A chance to show off their bikinis and meet some students. Has she told you about it?’

This was invention on Hen’s part. Nothing about the stronger attraction of Duran Duran. She had some expectation that he would answer yes.

He didn’t. Instead he said, ‘She told me once that she had more hands-on experience of fossils than Jake would ever have. I thought it was a joke. You don’t find out with Gem. I guess she could have meant the mammoth dig.’

There was no answer to Jo’s persistent knocking. Worrying. She put her wellies beside the sandbag and tried the doorknob. It turned and she was able to step inside. The mat was damp to the touch of her bare feet. Some flood water, at least, had seeped into the cottage.

The interior was dark and smelt musty. But as her eyes adjusted she could see that it had been kept tidy. There was no hallway. You stepped straight into the living room. She could make out the traditional stone fireplace and stove, which was both cooker and water heater. Glass-fronted cupboards were stacked with china. The little kitchen was across the room to one side of the hearth. She felt the squelch of the carpet as she moved over it.

A small fridge was in the kitchen. The electrics didn’t seem to be working and she wasn’t going to risk trying them. She took off her backpack and put the milk and sandwiches into the fridge. To her right was a door that might have led somewhere, but on opening it she saw only steps almost entirely immersed in black water. A cellar, she supposed. This place would take months to dry out.

She stepped back, felt her heel touch something soft, and almost lost balance. She’d trodden on a dishcloth. In reaching out for support, she knocked a plate off the draining board into the sink.

A voice said, ‘Is someone there?’

She wasn’t sure where it came from, but she called out, ‘Miss Peabody, are you all right?’

‘I’m upstairs.’

Through the living room on the opposite side she found the staircase. ‘It’s all right,’ she called, to set the old lady’s mind at rest. ‘It’s only Jo from the garden centre, come to see if you need any help.’

She mounted the stairs.

‘This came to me when we were interviewing Rick,’ Hen told Gary. She was pink-faced with excitement. ‘It turns the whole case on its head. Everything has a different interpretation. This.’ She brandished the invitation card. ‘This was never intended to bring Meredith to Selsey and lure her to her death. I made a false assumption. The envelope was addressed to Dr Sentinel and intended for him. He led the dig. He should have been the guest of honour at the reunion. But of course Meredith was a D. Sc as well. She was Dr Sentinel, too, a brilliant student who got a first and went on to take her doctorate at University College. She thought the envelope was addressed to her. Her husband was away in St Petersburg and couldn’t possibly attend. The way it was worded would have appealed to anyone. Listen to this: “Free food, drink and eighties music. No reply necessary. To have fun with old friends just turn up… like the mammoth did.” Imagine Meredith reading that at a time when old sobersides was out of the country. A chance of a night out. She was up for anything. She got on a train and came down here.’

‘Why was she murdered?’

‘Question of the day, Gary. Get me Sentinel’s number.’

Miss Peabody was wearing her pink hat. A hat in your own home? Odd, certainly, but just because she was eccentric didn’t mean the poor old duck should be left to fend for herself. The blue twinset didn’t go too well with the hat. The tweed skirt? Well, it had seen better days.

‘The door was open,’ Jo explained.

‘I left it open deliberately, in case someone came,’ the old lady said. ‘When the water started to come in downstairs I collected any precious things I had and brought them up here.’

They were in her bedroom and the narrow single bed was heaped with letters, newspapers, books, and a few dry groceries.

‘Sensible,’ Jo said.

‘It’s not the first time. I’ve had three major floods in my lifetime, so I know what to do. It’s the clearing up that I hate. It takes months to dry out, even with help from the council.’

‘It’s deep in that cellar below the kitchen.’

‘That always floods first. It was used as an ice-store once, but I’ve got no use for it except to grow mushrooms. The walls leak. That’s the trouble.’

‘I heard the forecast on the car radio. I don’t think it will get much worse, if that’s any consolation.’

She stared at Jo’s feet. ‘Don’t you wear shoes?’

‘Wellies.’ Jo smiled. ‘Left them on the step. Can I make you some coffee while I’m here? I tucked a few things in the fridge.’

‘Tea would be nice. Milk and no sugar. The kettle is on the stove, so it should be hot. Have we met before?’

‘The garden centre.’

‘Oh, yes.’ She was a little forgetful.

When Jo returned with the tea on a tray, she said, ‘I have a friend called Gemma and you’re her Aunt Jessica.’

‘You know Gemma?’