Peter Lovesey: The Headhunters

‘Where’s the woman who drove the van up here?’ Hen asked.

‘My niece Gemma? In my cottage being stupid. That’s why I came looking for help. She’s going to kill the nice woman who came to help me out-if she hasn’t done so already.’

‘Call an ambulance,’ Hen said to the nearest policeman.

They got in the cars and burned rubber for the extra three hundred yards or so, some way past the barrier, when they were forced to get out and wade through water.

Gemma faced them defiantly from the cottage doorway with arms folded. ‘Here come the plod, too late, as usual.’

Hen shoved her towards an officer who had the cuffs out and ready.

In the poorly lit interior Hen looked about her and saw nothing. She dashed through to the kitchen and discovered the body half submerged in black water. With Gary’s help she lifted it from the hole.

‘It’s Jo.’

She tilted the head back and cleared the airways as well as she could.

‘Feel for a pulse.’

Gary tried. ‘I don’t think there is one.’

Hen pinched the nose shut and gave two slow breaths into the mouth. Jo’s chest gently inflated.

‘Check again.’

Gary shook his head.

Hen started chest compressions, the lifesaving method now preferred to the kiss of life.

After half a minute Gary said, ‘There’s a faint pulse, guv.’

Hen continued. There was a rattle from Jo’s chest. They turned her on her side and she debouched some water.

‘She’s breathing now.’

When the paramedics arrived they said Hen’s action had saved Jo’s life. It remained to be seen if the drowning had caused permanent brain damage.

Jo’s first visitor in hospital was Jake. Totally out of character, he was saying more than she was, trying to explain what he’d heard from the police. She had little memory of the attack, and his version was second-hand, but by degrees it became clear that she was thinking straight. She gripped his hand and didn’t let go even when her second visitor entered the ward: her mother, with Daddy in tow.

Up to now Jo had dreaded the day when Jake met her parents, but it didn’t seem to matter any more. All went miraculously well, and Mummy approved. ‘What I like most about the young man is that he’s a good listener, like your father.’

Daddy just winked.

In view of Jo’s amnesia, Miss Peabody’s recollection of the attack in the cottage was vital. The old lady made a long and lucid statement not only about the day’s events, but about Gemma’s childhood. She mentioned what was known about the drownings of the small brother Terry and the foster sister Janice. But she was scrupulous in declining to draw conclusions.

For Hen, it was confirmation of the suspicion she already held, but no less disturbing. Cases of killing by children are not unknown. Fortunately, they are rare.

Gemma, when questioned about the murders, was unrepentant, even eager to be heard. To her unbalanced way of thinking, the grievances were still open sores. Meredith, she said, must have been fated to come to Selsey. This harpy had turned up instead of the lovely man who should have come. She’d brazenly admitted who she was and it became clear that she’d trapped Austen Sentinel into a disastrous marriage. That evening on Selsey beach the two women had shared a bottle of wine and Merry had admitted to serial adultery. She’d mocked Austen’s failings as lover and careerist, and admitted no fault in herself. She’d destroyed two people’s happiness, and didn’t see it. Half drunk and laughing, she’d walked hand-in-hand into the sea with Gemma and justice had been done.

Fiona’s demise had been a consequence of her unstoppable desire to undermine Gemma. She’d discovered that one of the printing staff had put aside some top quality cream-coloured card at Gemma’s request. It swiftly became Fiona’s chief mission to find out what was going on. She’d picked her moment to sit at Gemma’s desk and search her computer files. In the recycle bin she’d found an early draft of the invitation Gemma had thought she’d fully deleted. Triumphantly she’d accused Gemma of doing private work in office time. This interfering bitch couldn’t be allowed to live. It was fortunate that she had a week off work coming up, because Gemma was responsible for the staff vacation roster. No one else except the boss knew that Fiona had time off. Gemma picked her evening to drive to Bosham and waited. Late in the evening, madam stepped out of her car and was helped into the Mill Pond and held down and ceased to be a nuisance.

As for Sally, she was a rich older woman keeping up with a toyboy who happened to be Gemma’s consolation after the shocks of the past few weeks. Being a gentleman, Rick couldn’t bring himself to ditch the old crone, though it was obvious he was weary of her. Gemma wasn’t of a mind to be just another member of a harem. She needed sole possession. The problem had to be removed. It was just a matter of visiting the pool at the time of the daily swim. Sally had fought quite well for a lightweight. The idea of moving her to Cartwright’s house was an afterthought. At the time it had seemed rather smart.

‘All this is on record now,’ Hen said. ‘Are you aiming to plead guilty at the trial?’

‘Why not?’ Gemma said. ‘I don’t want anyone to think I’m sane. I can’t wait to be deconstructed by some fascinating shrink.’

Hen called a meeting of her team and thanked them. She said Gemma’s full history could not have been discovered from the records they’d searched. Nobody had suspected until now that she’d drowned her own brother and her foster sister. Both events had been regarded as accidents, and her link to them had not been reported at the time. With hindsight it was clear that jealousy had been the main factor in each. After getting away with those juvenile crimes, she was always liable to repeat them if the motivation and opportunity arose. She was a well-concealed murderess, articulate, witty, and good at her job, but with a potential to take life whenever she was thwarted.

The team celebrated the same evening at the Crown and Anchor at Dell Quay. Unnoticed by them-a mere stone’s throw away-a small yacht called the Nonpareil glided serenely back to its mooring. It had also been missed by Interpol, the coastguard, and the harbour police. Denis Cartwright looked fit and tanned after two weeks in the south of France. He knew nothing of what had been going on. By his own decision he’d been out of contact, the only way he was guaranteed a chance to relax. When interviewed later wearing one of his trademark bow ties, he was surprised by all the fuss over his so-called disappearance. ‘I told my personal assistant I was off sailing for a couple of weeks. I can’t understand why she didn’t let everyone know. She’s usually so reliable.’