Peter Lovesey: The Headhunters

‘This deluded creature murdered Merry? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘The two women meet for a non-existent barbecue. They wait on the beach for others, who, of course, don’t turn up. They drink some wine-she’s sure to have brought some to make the evening a success, and Merry may have brought some, too-and it all appears friendly, swapping their memories of nineteen-eighty-seven. Finally, Merry is invited for a moonlit swim.’

‘And she was attacked in the water and drowned?’

‘She made two fatal mistakes. The first was going there at all.’

‘And the second?’

‘Admitting she was your wife.’

He took a sharp breath. ‘What kind of lunatic was behind this?’

‘An attractive young woman you loved and left who developed an obsession about you.’

‘Grotesque.’

From all she had seen of Austen Sentinel, Hen was inclined to agree. Actually, the man sounded as close to genuine regret as he was ever likely to get.

The right moment for Hen to take it a stage further. ‘Think back and tell me if there was anyone who might match up.’

‘God, what an impossible question! In those days I was sleeping with hundreds of women.’

Talk about delusions, Hen thought.

He was wrestling with the impossible. ‘Someone from the dig? All I can recall at the moment are summer nights after the tide was in and we’d salvaged and stored our finds. We used to adjourn to a pub close to the beach near the lifeboat station.’

‘It’s called the Lifeboat Inn.’

‘We’d drink the evening away. We were young people, warmed by the sun, pleased with a good day’s work. I have a faint recollection of slipping away from the crowd with a local girl and indulging in a few kisses on the beach.’

‘Only kisses?’

‘It may have led to something more intimate.’

‘“May have”? Who are you kidding?’

She’d massaged his ego. ‘Two or three times. Once in the back of the van, I think, because doing it on pebbles is not ideal. But if you’re asking me to remember the girl’s name, I’m stumped. Certainly I wouldn’t have expected her to fantasise about me later.’

‘She would have been young, younger than your students.’

‘You obviously have someone in mind.’

‘I do. And so do you, Dr Sentinel. Tell me some more about her.’

It seemed for a moment as if he would try and hold out, but then he clicked his tongue and said, ‘Not her name. That’s gone. Yes, there was a local girl, young and not too experienced.’

‘A virgin?’

‘Well… yes.’

Jo was looking for an excuse to escape from Miss Peabody and her photo collection. She’d been in the cottage longer than she intended. Nearly an hour, now. She’d looked at shots of Gemma and her family till she felt ready to climb the walls.

‘You could sort these out and put them in some kind of order,’ she said, preparing to move. ‘If you’re stuck at home for a few days it may be a good time to do it.’

‘How sensible. I’ve been meaning to make the effort. The oldest ones at the beginning, and so on. It’s a pity I don’t have any of Gemma as an older child.’

‘Didn’t the foster parents take any?’

‘Oh, they were devoted to her, always taking photos. They were lovely people. So caring. They took her everywhere, along with the other children. I had pictures of her at Disneyland and in Paris. But after she was fostered again, when she was twelve, she came to see me and went through the album and removed every single one I had of her with that family. I didn’t make a fuss; I expect she wanted to start her own collection.’

‘Why was she refostered if it was working so well?’

Miss Peabody shook her head. ‘It was awfully sad for the parents. They took on a new child, a little girl of about eight called Janice. Gemma’s first foster sister. She had four brothers, but they wanted another girl in the family. Within weeks the parents took the children on holiday in Portugal. They went to some kind of amusement park and the boys went on that up and down thing.’

‘The rollercoaster?’

‘Yes, Gemma would have loved to go on that. She’s always been adventurous. But her new foster sister was nervous, so the girls were given a ride on some kind of boat thing, a two-seater shaped like a swan.’

‘A pedalo?’

‘No it wasn’t that. It was driven by something under the water so that it went in a circuit, and there was a stretch where it was enclosed. Really I think the ride was meant for young couples, a chance for a cuddle without people watching.’

‘The tunnel of love.’

‘That sounds like it. The two girls had a boat to themselves. Sadly, the young one, Janice, fell out while it was going through the tunnel. It seemed she had a fear of the dark. She must have stood up, I suppose. She was caught under the machinery and drowned. Well, the poor foster parents were held to be negligent and all the children were taken away from them.’

Two deaths by drowning: a brother and a foster sister. A pulse had started hammering in Jo’s head. ‘I’ve got to leave, I’m afraid. I’m getting a headache.’

‘What a shame. Do you want something for it?’

‘No. I’ll be all right.’

She crossed to the stairs, went down, remembered her backpack and went to collect it. A shock awaited.

Somebody was in the kitchen.

Gemma.

With a meat mallet raised.

A different Gemma to the person she knew, a wild-eyed, angry Gemma, practically spitting her words. ‘Stupid interfering bitch. My so-called friend, spying on me, squeezing every sodding detail from the old crone.’ She stepped closer, bracing herself to wield the mallet. It was a heavy wooden thing with sharp ridges to break the meat fibres.

Jo stepped back, horrified.

Gemma made a sideways move across the doorway, blocking the exit. ‘Get back, shithead.’

‘Gem, what are you doing? I came to help your aunt. I am your friend.’

‘Some friend!’ She lunged forward. She meant to use the mallet.

Jo backed off again. As she did so, her foot dipped into a cavity and she felt her balance go. She’d taken a step down into the flooded cellar. Her foot was in water to above the ankle.

Gemma swung the mallet.

Jo raised her arm, swayed, ducked the blow, lost balance entirely and fell backwards, splashing into filthy water so deep that her head went under. She came up for air and felt a huge restraint on her shoulder.

Gemma was forcing her down with her foot.

She couldn’t withstand the weight. She felt herself go right under again. Air was escaping from her mouth, bubbling upwards.

This was the pattern of the killings, pressing the victim under until her lungs filled and she drowned.

Her limbs were leaden. Her eyes bulged. She was trying to resist and the strength wasn’t there. Drowning, she knew, places a massive strain on the heart. The shock can be instantaneous. The inrush of cold water to the mouth and nasal passages can cause cardiac arrest. If you survive that, the drowning takes minutes rather than seconds. The struggle to survive is instinctive, but in a small space you can’t battle with someone who has a foot on your shoulder.

She had never known pain like this. Her eardrums felt ready to explode. She tried to hold her breath but the water surged through her nostrils, causing her to gulp more of the foul liquid.

All the time, Gemma’s foot bore down. The bundle of nerves giving so much pain in Jo’s shoulder stiffened. All sensation was going. Every cell in her body screamed for oxygen.

Sussex and Hampshire police forces combined in the hunt for Gemma Casey. An all units call was broadcast after it was reported that she’d driven away from the Kleentext print works in the unmarked silver Mercedes van owned by the company. Hillie, the sharp-eyed receptionist there, had seen her go. Her yellow Smartcar was still in front of the building.