Peter Lovesey - The House Sitter

“We must be getting close. Slow up.”

The pictures reverted to normal speed. The time was showing three forty-one. A grey Toyota was at the pump. The elderly driver filled up, went to pay, returned, and picked up a cloth to clean his windscreen.

“Get off, you old git,” Diamond said to the screen.

The man got in and drove away his Toyota and a blue BMW glided into its place.

“Oh, fuck a duck!” Diamond said-by his moderate standards, a cry of desperation, if not despair.

There could be no argument. The man who got out to use the pump was in a black T-shirt and jeans. He had dark, curly hair. There was no mistaking Ken Bellman.

Further proof followed at the end of the afternoon. When the fingerprints were compared, it was obvious that the last person to drive Emma Tysoe’s stolen car was not Ken Bellman. They could forget him.

That same evening, Hen drove along the coast to Swanage. She’d had a call from Stella to say that the two Australian lifeguards, Trevor Donald and Jim Leighton, had been traced to a campsite a mile outside the town. She would meet Stella at Swanage police station at around seven thirty. It was that blissful time of year when daylight lasts until late and the low evening sun gives cut grass the lush look of velvet. There wasn’t a cloud anywhere.

This time she felt the odds were in her favour. Other suspects had been eliminated, and the nature of the crime on Wightview Sands beach had undergone a reassessment. More and more it was becoming likely that the motive had no connection to Emma’s work as a profiler and instead was casual and callous. The typical seaside crime is like that. Any detective working in a holiday resort knows there is something in the carefree attitude of visitors that gives the green light to criminals. At its most serious, the result is murder. The victims, usually women and usually alone, are unknown to the killers. Generally they are strangers to the town. They may be backpackers, campers, drifters, foreigners. But a minority of those attacked are affluent and invite trouble by flaunting their possessions: jewellery, handbags or sports cars.

It was likely Emma had been killed for no better reason than that she owned a flash sports car. The killer had seen her park the gleaming Lotus Esprit, watched as she chose her spot on the beach, picked his moment and strangled her. Then he’d taken her bag with the car keys and stolen the car. The fact that it had been found on a caravan site-also used by campers-underlined the casual nature of the crime.

Hen’s reliable assistant was waiting for her as she drove up. Stella had a glow about her, and it was more elation than sunburn. “They’re in a pub only five minutes away, guv. The local CID have had them under observation. How would you like to play this?”

Hen made some rapid decisions. “I’m not interviewing them in a pub and certainly not together. Invite them here for questioning about the stolen car. We’ll split them up. If they don’t cooperate, we book them.”

“Both?”

“Which is the guy we haven’t seen at all?”

“That’s Jim Leighton.”

“We’ll take him first. Yes, bring them both in and nick them if they won’t play ball. See to it, Stella. I need a smoke first.”

She went in to make sure an interview room was available.

Jim Leighton certainly looked the part in a yellow singlet and faded denim shorts that set off the seaside tan. He was a handsome hunk of maleness, too, Hen didn’t fail to notice: blue-eyed, with a swimmer’s meaty shoulders and a thick blond ponytail. He had a single gold earring and around his neck was a chunky gold chain.

“For the record, this will be a voluntary statement,” Hen started to say for the tape.

“I said nothing about a statement, lady,” he said with the Aussie twang.

He turned his head away, and she got a sight of the profile. Why do most Australians have big noses, she wondered, and it made her wonder something else, indelicate and not easy to verify in the circumstances.

“You’re here of your own free will?”

“You’re joking. My own free will is to be in the pub. I came because I was asked, to let you know I didn’t swipe anyone’s car. I can smell cigars. Is someone smoking here?”

“ Was smoking. Do you want one?” Hen offered.

“Christ, no, unless you have something sweeter on offer.”

Hen ignored that. “How long were you in Bognor?”

“Three, maybe four weeks, doing the lifeguard bit with my mate Trevor. Piece of cake, that is, until you get an east wind.”

“Not much saving of lives?”

“None at all. Basically it’s stopping stupid drongos from going out too far on airbeds. You get the occasional lost kid and minor injuries. Wasps and weever fish can be a problem.”

“Were you there on the day the woman was killed?”

“Sure.”

“But you didn’t get interviewed.”

“Trevor did. He lifted her off the beach and into the hut. Look, you don’t think I topped the poor lady? I was told this was about a car, for Christ’s sake.”

“The car belonged to the woman who was killed,” Hen said.

“So where were you at the end of the afternoon when the body was found?”

“What time?”

“Say between four and five.”

“You really think I remember? It’s a beach and I was there every day. Maybe I was chatting up crumpet. Or eating a burger. Or kicking a ball around.”

“You were on duty earlier?”

“Sure.”

“At the lifeguard station? What time did you go off duty?”

“Who can say? We’re not the army. If I felt like a break at the end of the day, I’d take one. The job gets easier with the tide in. Trevor could manage without me.”

“Mid-afternoon?”

“I guess.”

“If you went for a burger, did you go through the car park?”

He grinned. “Trick question. Everyone who goes to the café walks past some cars unless they cross the road where the toilets are. To save you the bother of asking, I didn’t see the Lotus at all.”

“But you know it was a Lotus?”

“Trick question number two. Give me a break, will you? Everyone knows her car went missing and it was a Lotus Esprit.”

“It must have been parked quite close to where you were. She was on the same stretch of beach.”

“I know that,” Leighton said. “I spoke to her.”

“You did?” Hen leaned forward. “When was this?”

“What time? When? Lady, I’m a beach bum. I don’t look at my watch each time I speak to a woman.”

“After you went off duty, which you said was mid-afternoon?”

“If you say so.”

“So what was said?”

“One of my standard pick-up lines, I reckon. Like ‘Excuse me, is that a tattoo on your ass or a love-bite?’ ”

“I’m sure that goes down a treat. Did she have a tattoo?”

He flashed the teeth in a wide smile and shook his head. “But they always check.”

“What was her response?”

“Told me to get lost, if I remember right.”

“And then?”

“I got lost, I guess. It’s all a blur. One day is like another in the lifeguard profession.”

Hen was losing patience. “Get a grip, will you, Mr Leighton? That day wasn’t like any other. A woman was strangled. You were there, or somewhere nearby. What else can you tell me about her?”

“She was stretched out behind a windbreak. Bag. Big blue towel. White bikini. That’s all.”

“We asked for witnesses. You didn’t come forward.”

“Because Trevor told you everything. He’s the bloke who was in on the action.”

“That doesn’t wash,” Hen said. “You knew she was on that beach. You spoke to her. Yet you didn’t tell us until now. I think you know she was murdered. I think you saw an opportunity to take a joyride in a Lotus.”