Peter Lovesey - The House Sitter

“When actually he was free to stalk Emma and murder her. Oh my God!”

“Worth getting his prints, anyway.”

“Peter, you’re not so dumb as I thought.”

There was one more call to make, and this time he had to wait for office hours, so he went down to the canteen and ordered a proper breakfast.

“You’re early, Mr D,” Pandora, the doyenne of the double entendre, said, her ladle ready with the baked beans.

“Late,” he said. “I’ve been on duty all night.”

“So was my husband, poor lamb. He was glad to get out of bed and back to work this morning.”

He managed a tired grin.

At nine fifteen, he succeeded in getting through to Mrs Poole at British Metal. She promised to check for the names he needed.

At nine forty, thinking only of bed, he opened the front door of his house in Weston and Sultan streaked out and into the front garden, pursued by Raffles. There were tufts of white cat fur all over the carpet.

Hen and Stella were on the road by nine, heading for the caravan park at Bracklesham. They’d been informed that Garth (now revealed as Garth Trumpington, twenty-six, unmarried) had a mobile home there. He’d been described by his employers as reliable and friendly, if a bit slow in dealing with the public. He’d held the car park job for just over a year. He drove an old Renault 5.

“The funny thing about mobile homes is that most of them aren’t mobile at all. They’re static,” Hen said as they drove into the park. “The owners have no intention of moving them anywhere.”

Caravans and tents occupied most of the field. The more permanent homes were lined up on the far side. Hen steered a bumpy route around the edge and came to a stop near a woman who was hanging washing behind her van, and asked if Garth was about.

“Third one from the end, if he’s in,” the woman said. “He works at the beach, you know, on the car park.”

“It’s his late morning,” Hen said. “We got that from the Estate Office. Do you know him?”

“He’s all right,” she said. “Bit of a loner, but that’s up to him. He’s paid for his bit of ground, hasn’t he?”

They drove the short way to Garth’s residence, a medium-sized cream-coloured trailer secured to the ground at each end. Some of the paint was peeling off the sides. A red Renault was parked close up.

“Velvet glove, at least to start off with,” Hen said to Stella.

The man was at home. He answered Hen’s knock right away, opening the door a fraction to look out. From what Hen could see through the narrow space he was in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt. He hadn’t shaved and his breath smelt.

“Garth, we’ve met at the beach,” Hen reminded him, “DCI Mallin, Bognor CID, and this is DS Gregson.” They showed their IDs.

“What’s up?” he said in a shocked tone.

“A few simple questions. May we come in?”

His brown eyes widened in alarm. “No. It’s not convenient.”

“Untidy, is it? Don’t worry, Garth. We’re used to that.”

“You can talk to me here.”

“Certainly we can talk to you here, but it’s going to be overheard by some of your neighbours.”

Garth opened the door a little wider to look about him. As if on cue, a couple of small girls stepped in close to hear what was going on.

“If you prefer,” Hen said, raising her voice a fraction, “we can do this at Bognor police station, but I don’t suppose you want to make a big deal of it.”

“No, I don’t,” he said.

“So may we come inside?” she asked, becoming curious at to what he wanted to hide from them. Was someone in there with him? Or was it evidence he didn’t wish them to see?

“Can we do it in your car?”

This was a battle of wills, gently as it was being contested.

“No,” Hen said. “We can’t. What’s your problem, Garth? Something to hide?”

He folded his arms as if to ward off the cold, even though it was a fine, warm morning. “No.”

“Stolen goods?”

He shook his head.

“You see, you’re making me suspicious before we start,” Hen said. She held out her hands in appeal. “OK, if you’re going to insist, we’ll take you down to the nick.”

“I don’t want that.”

Hen turned to Stella. “Give the young man his official caution.”

Stella spoke the approved words at the speed of a tobacco auctioneer.

“Right,” Hen said. “Step this way, Mr Trumpington.”

“I’ve got something cooking,” he said on an inspiration.

“Better see to it, then,” Hen said, putting her foot on the retractable step.

He tried shutting the door, and she said, “Naughty,” and slammed the flat of her hand against it. Stella gave the door a kick and so it was that they gained admittance, forcing him back inside.

Of course there wasn’t anything cooking, except possibly an alibi. They found themselves in the kitchen area, and there wasn’t even a tap running. Hen stepped through to the living section and said, “Now isn’t this something? What do you make of the décor, Stell?”

Every portion of wall space was taken up with colour photos of cars. The ceiling was covered with them, too. And there were model cars on every surface, shelves, table, the top of the TV set. A large stack of motoring magazines stood in one corner.

“Talk about bringing your work home…” Hen murmured.

“It’s none of your business,” Garth was bold enough to say.

“We’ll find out,” Hen responded. “Let’s all sit down.”

Stella brought a stool from the kitchen and they started, Hen seated in the only armchair, Garth tense on the edge of a put-you-up.

“Cars are obviously your thing,” Hen commented. “Is that your Renault outside?”

He nodded.

“I’d have thought a man like yourself would have gone in for something more flash, but I guess it’s what you can afford. You see some really smart motors drive past your kiosk at Wightview Sands, I reckon. Do you ever get the urge to drive one of them?”

“No.” He was watchful, and his well known conversational habit had temporarily deserted him.

“The reason I ask is that we’ve had a spate of joyriding over recent months-from your car park, so I’m sure you know all about it. Nothing too serious. The cars are recovered later. Not much damage, if any. The doors aren’t forced, because the joy-rider goes to the trouble of borrowing the key, usually from clothes or handbags left on the beach. The owners are so pleased to get their cars back that they don’t press charges. So it’s one of those minor problems. Annoying, but not high priority for us. Would you know anything about it?”

“No.”

“Pity. Your advice would be taken seriously. You’re well-placed to see what goes on.”

“I’m too busy issuing tickets,” he said, finding something to say in his defence.

“All day long?”

“While I’m there.”

“How long is that? A couple of hours at a time?”

“Longer,” Garth said. “Four, five hours.”

“That’s a long stint.”

“I do mine back to back for preference.”

“Then what do you do? Rush to the loo, I should think.”

He didn’t smile. “If I want to go during my duty hours, there are people I can ask.”

“OK,” Hen said. “So you knock off after four or five hours. Is that your working day over?”

“Could be, unless I’ve promised to do another turn later.”

“Coming back to my question, how do you spend your time off?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I might get something to eat. If it’s nice, I could go on the beach.”

“And match up the drivers to the cars you fancy?”

“No.”

It was said a shade too fast. Hen paused, letting him squirm mentally. She was playing a tactical game here. Nothing had been said about the murder. The aim was to manoeuvre him first into admitting the joyriding episodes.