‘It’s a party, isn’t it?’
‘A wingding? More like some kind of outburst, I think. Yes, from what I saw of Hillie she isn’t the sort to throw a party. Did you get to meet the mysterious Mr Cartwright?’
‘Saw him. He walked through the office. Didn’t speak.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Dark hair, slicked back. Suit and bow tie. Glasses. Average height.’
‘Bow tie? You know the saying? Dicky bow, no dick below.’ The moment she spoke, Jo wished she hadn’t. It was girl talk, strictly, strictly girl talk, of the sort she’d have a giggle over with Gemma.
‘Haven’t heard that one,’ he said, straight-faced. Then smiled and said, ‘Like fur coat and no knickers.’
‘Much the same, yes.’ He’d spared her blushes and she was grateful for that. ‘And was Fiona about?’
‘I couldn’t tell you. Gemma took over.’
‘I know what you mean. Meeting Gem for the first time is an experience. We were in the same yoga group and for some reason she homed in on me and we were asked to leave for being disruptive. Embarrassing really, but yoga classes are two-a-penny and Gemma’s a one-off. And I’ve interrupted what you were telling me.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You know the rest.’
‘She chatted you up?’
‘Told me I should get a life. Offered to take me bowling. That’s where you came in.’
‘At Chichester Gate. Wasn’t that a strange evening? Rick being difficult and I’m not sure why. Maybe he was miffed about spending the evening with other people. It’s not as if he and I were close. We’d been out together a couple of times and he kept on about this older woman called Sally he’s known for ages who lives in a big house and cooks a roast for him on Sundays, so I was very much the second choice of date, or so I felt. He was totally open about her. I wonder if he’s told Gemma.’
‘Are they going out now?’
‘Rick and Gem? She’s dead keen. He can lay on the charm when he wants. She cleared it with me. We’ll stay friends. Have one of the biscuits.’
‘Thanks.’
‘They’re total opposites,’ she said, ‘so they ought to complement each other, like the two hemispheres of the brain. I never remember which is the intuitive, creative side, but that’s Gemma.’
‘The left.’
‘And Rick is the analytical one. Put them together and you get something formidable. Gemma talks about murdering her boss- which is pretty outrageous-and Rick thinks of ways to go about it. Her ideas are off the wall, but he thinks it through like a chess player. Creepy. He’s harmless, I’m sure, but I felt uncomfortable that evening we discussed it.’
‘The power of suggestion.’
‘Yes, and when I actually discovered a body not long after, it was very weird indeed. Then, on top of that, Fiona dies.’
The phone rang.
She said, ‘Sod it.’
‘Could be important,’ Jake said.
She picked it up and of course the voice was her mother’s. ‘Didn’t you get my message? Does that machine of yours work?’
She carried it through to the kitchen. ‘I only just came in. Is everything all right?’
‘Where were you, then?’
‘Out for a walk. Does it matter where I was? If you want to reach me, Mummy, I carry the mobile almost everywhere. I wrote down the number for you. It’s tucked in with your credit cards.’
‘You haven’t been listening to the radio, then?’
‘No. Is something going on?’
‘You’d better switch it on. Or look at the television. They’ve identified that poor woman you found on the beach. You’d like to know who she was, wouldn’t you?’
‘I suppose, yes. Did they say how she got there?’
‘It’s still a mystery, apparently, but now they know who she is they’ll soon sort it out.’
‘How did they find out?’
‘From the husband. Why don’t I get off the line and let you hear it for yourself?’
One of Mummy’s better suggestions. ‘All right. Take care.’
She stepped back into the living room. ‘I don’t know if you heard. That was my mother. It seems we ought to be listening to local radio. They’ve named the woman I found at Selsey.’
‘Who was she?’
‘Don’t know yet.’ She crossed the room and switched off Glenn Gould. ‘Do you mind?’ She tuned in to Southern Counties Radio. They were playing Westlife. ‘Damn. Some other station must have it.’
‘Stay with it. They keep giving the news,’ Jake said.
‘I suppose. More coffee?’ She topped up his cup. ‘Mummy said the husband came forward. It’s been at least two weeks and more like three. I wonder why he left it so late?’
The question couldn’t be answered yet. Jake gave a shrug and looked at his watch. Radio bulletins generally come on the hour and half hour.
Jo remained standing, more tense than she expected, gripping her arms to stop them from shaking. She couldn’t explain why she was reacting like this. Hearing the name of the murder victim on the radio wasn’t going to resolve anything. In a subversive way the woman was about to become more real. The sight of the almost naked body draped with seaweed and curled against the breakwater was still vivid in her memory, often returning, but it was just that, a shocking image. Now it was as if the poor woman was about to acquire a personality and make a stronger claim on the imagination.
The music ended, and the news jingle followed. Then: ‘Southern Counties Radio at five o’clock. The stricken tanker in the Solent has been brought under control and is being towed towards Portsmouth. Coastguards report that the spillage of oil is less than was first feared and is being managed with booms. The woman found dead on the beach at Selsey two weeks ago and believed to have been murdered has been named as Mrs Meredith Sentinel of Islington. She was identified by her husband, Dr Austen Sentinel, a university lecturer, who has just returned from an overseas trip. Police are now trying to establish her movements prior to her death.’
Jo picked up the remote and switched off. Just as she’d feared, the dead woman seemed more real, more tragic, now that she had an identity. ‘A lecturer’s wife. I wonder what brought her to Selsey.’
Jake didn’t say anything. He’d taken out his mobile and was texting someone. If anyone else had behaved like that it would have been rude.
‘I mean she must have had a reason,’ Jo said. ‘It’s a long hike from London.’
He didn’t look up from the display.
‘If she came by car they would have found it, surely,’ Jo said, as much to herself as Jake, the thoughts tumbling from her in pity for a real woman, no longer just a corpse. ‘They didn’t even find her clothes. Well, I guess they’ll have more to go on now they know who she was. The husband must be devastated, poor man. Fancy coming home from abroad and finding your wife was murdered.’
Jake stood up. The colour had drained from his face, leaving an unhealthy sallow that picked out the dark hollows and crevices as if a spotlight was on him. ‘I must get home.’
‘Is something wrong?’ she said. ‘Are you ill?’
He shook his head. Back to minimal communication.
‘I’ve got painkillers if you want.’
‘No.’
She collected his coat. She wondered if she’d touched on some painful memory when she commented on the news of the dead woman. A man with a stricken past was a minefield.
They went downstairs to the car and were soon south of the city on the Selsey Road.
‘It’s been a good afternoon, anyway,’ she said to break the silence.
He said nothing.
One thing she’d learned was that you didn’t force Jake to communicate. Trying to hold back her tears, she gave all her attention to the series of sharp bends. The light was fading fast.
‘I don’t know exactly where you live,’ she had to say when they were approaching Selsey.
‘Keep going.’
<
br /> They had driven some way up the High Street before he said, ‘Next left.’
She made the turn and he immediately said, ‘Put me down here.’
‘Now?’
‘Here. Don’t hang about.’
Up ahead, under a lamp-post, a police car was parked. He got out and started walking towards it.
TEN
All the way back to Chichester Jo was trying to make sense of Jake’s behaviour. She drove as if on autopilot and when she got out she had no memory of being in control of the car.
Her neighbour Doreen was in the hall, smiling and blocking the way, poised for a chat. Jo muttered something about being in a hurry, brushed past, and dashed up the stairs.
For a long time she sat in her living room staring at the wall. She wasn’t able to be rational. Her emotions had taken charge. Until now she hadn’t appreciated the impact this man had made on her. She was locked into his destiny. She cared enormously what happened to him. If he was in trouble, then so was she. Whatever had happened, she couldn’t believe the fault was his.
Eventually she composed herself enough to think back to the news item that had triggered the change in his mood. This, she was sure, had affected him more than anything she’d said herself. Affected him? Poleaxed described it better. His features had crumpled into an image of pain. Was it just the knowledge that the murder victim had been identified, or did the woman’s name mean something to him? He’d texted someone as if to confirm the news.
Whilst driving him back to Selsey in that almost unbearable silence, Jo had convinced herself that he’d recognised the name. He knew who the woman was and was grieving for the loss of a friend. Not an intimate friend-she was someone’s wife, for God’s sake-but someone he’d known from way back.
The police car in his street had come as more of a shock for her than Jake. When he’d insisted Jo didn’t drive up to the house she was reminded that he didn’t want her involved in whatever had to be faced. This was his overriding concern, the reason he’d been so reluctant to be seen with her in Selsey, why he’d worn the hood and why he wouldn’t even sit in a cafe and drink coffee. He was being protective. The moment he saw that police car he’d got out and walked towards it, dignified, resigned, and alone.
It was as if he’d expected the police to be there. His moment of shock had come earlier. By the time they’d driven to Selsey he was in control, calm, and resigned. He knew what to expect because he’d texted the police to tell them he was coming in.
She remembered his words that evening in the Lifeboat Inn after he’d been released from custody: ‘They’re sure I did it. They only let me go because they don’t have the evidence yet.’
A moaning sound, primal in its despair, came from the back of her throat.
She wanted desperately to know what was happening, but phoning Jake was not an option. He’d made a point of giving nothing away to the police about their friendship. To call him now would be a betrayal of all his efforts. She had to wait.
Her eyes moistened. Tears would not be long in coming. She felt for the box of tissues on the table beside her and her hand came to rest on something smooth and square-the Glenn Gould CD case. Jake had been the last to handle it. Instead of a tissue she pressed the cool perspex against her cheek. The disc, his choice, was still in the player. She reached for the remote and pressed PLAY. The music was a solace.
Jake was a suspect because of his time in prison. In his own harsh phrase he was an ex-con. ‘Crazy things happen to me,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t want you drawn into it.’
They would question him again. Presumably they’d found out about his connection with the dead woman, his friend. Or maybe, Jo reasoned-looking for a more acceptable explanation-the woman hadn’t been a particular friend, but just one of the many birdwatchers who visited the nature reserve at Pagham and were shown where some rare species could be observed. Something as innocent as that. Under questioning he would explain the coincidence and they’d have to release him.
In her heart she knew that couldn’t be so. Jake would fold. He wasn’t capable of explaining anything under the workover he’d get. They’d harass and bully him until he broke down. They’d find some spurious evidence and stitch him up.
She used the Kleenex this time.
Stop being a wimp, she told herself. All this speculation was negative and wouldn’t help Jake or herself. The sensible thing was to get more information. Knowledge was strength, and if anyone needed some strength right now, she did. The dead woman’s name was distinctive and so was her husband’s. He was a university lecturer. Lecturer in what, and where?
She collected her laptop, switched on, put the name ‘Sentinel’ into a search engine and waited to see if anything came up.
Over a hundred hits appeared straight away. This was hot news:
Selsey Murder Victim Named
Police investigating the murder by drowning of a woman in Selsey have today named the victim as Mrs Meredith Sentinel, 38. She was the wife of Dr Austen Sentinel, a geology lecturer at Imperial College, London, who has recently returned from a conference in St Petersburg. He was not aware of his wife’s disappearance. Upon finding she had not used their Islington house for several days he informed the police. From his description they linked her to the murder victim and confirmed the identity with photographs. This morning he formally identified the body as that of his wife.
Mrs Sentinel was American by birth and came to this country to pursue an academic career. She met and married Austen Sentinel in 1990, when she was an undergraduate and he a visiting lecturer at the University of Sussex. She later obtained a D. Sc in Zoology and was employed part time at the Natural History Museum, South Kensington. Her parents still live in Louisville, Kentucky, and are reported to be devastated.
As yet the police have been unable to account for the circumstances of Mrs Sentinel’s death. Her almost nude body was found on the beach at Selsey, West Sussex, on September 30. The post mortem revealed that she was held under water until she drowned. Despite an extensive search of the beach and adjacent gardens her clothes have still not been found. She had not indicated to her husband that she intended to visit Selsey while he was abroad.
DCI Henrietta Mallin of Chichester CID is leading the enquiry and has appealed for help from the public. ‘We have interviewed a number of individuals who were on the beach on the day the body was found, but we still know very little about Mrs Sentinel’s last hours. Anyone with information should contact Sussex Police using the emergency number.
Another website had a photo of the couple wearing evening clothes and holding glasses of wine. Meredith Sentinel was blonde and her hair was pinned up except for some wayward strands suggesting that the party had passed the point when perfect grooming mattered. The look in her blue eyes helped to create the impression. A gorgeous, sexy woman, Jo thought. The birdwatcher theory was unravelling already. She couldn’t imagine this charmer sitting in a freezing hide waiting for a Brent goose to fly in.
Austen Sentinel, too, was a looker, quite a hunk for an academic: broad-shouldered, tall, and tanned. The hair was dark, a mass of tight curls. The confident brown eyes left little doubt that his plans for later matched his wife’s. His hand curled over her bare shoulder.
On another website Jo was startled to see her own name. Little else was accurate. Described as a resident of Selsey (wrong), she was supposed to have stumbled over the body (she didn’t stumble over anything) whilst exercising her dogs (what dogs?) on Medmerry Beach (East Beach). A salutary reminder not to believe everything on the internet.
Austen Sentinel’s name cropped up on numerous websites unrelated to the murder. He’d written books and articles and was much quoted in scientific literature. Apparently he was a serial attender of conferences in foreign countries. Was this significant? How did the beautiful wife amuse herself while he was away? Selsey, for all its charms, wasn’t the obvious place a lively lady might choose to visit.
The phone went. She let the answerphon
e play to find out who was on the line. The voice was Gemma’s.
‘Have you heard, poppet? They’ve discovered who your mystery woman was.’
Trust Gem to want to chew it over. But she wasn’t the only one. Jo badly needed shaking out of her embattled state of mind, and no one was a better shaker than Gemma. She switched off Glenn Gould and picked up the phone. ‘Hi. Just heard your voice. Yes, I caught the news on local radio.’
‘A university wife in nothing but her kecks,’ Gemma said. ‘Am I completely out of touch, or is this the end of civilisation as we know it?’
‘I know. I’d already convinced myself she must be some poor homeless woman with a stack of problems.’
‘My thought exactly,’ Gemma said. ‘Mind, she was probably an alky. They’re well known for irrigating the tonsils, aren’t they, university types?’
‘Some of them,’ Jo said. ‘There’s a picture on the internet of these two holding wineglasses.’
‘Completely stonkered.’
‘I don’t know about that. No, I think that’s unfair. Everyone’s been snapped with a glass in their hand at some stage.’
‘If it’s the same picture I just saw on South Today, “stonkered” is being charitable.’
‘She’d had something to drink before she died,’ Jo said. ‘There were traces in her blood, but not a huge amount, the paper said.’
‘She was probably gaga. The stress gets to these lecturers’ wives, trying to keep up with intellectuals. In the end they don’t know if it’s pancake Tuesday or half-past breakfast time. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know, university life.’
‘I didn’t know you went to uni.’
‘Chichester Tech-as was. They’re all universities now, aren’t they? Doesn’t matter if it’s Oxbridge or Chi. The same things go on. You know the saying, don’t you? If you want to get laid, go to college, but if you want an education use the library.’
‘Oh, Gem!’
‘True. They arrive as freshers thinking it’s all about lectures and essays and quickly find out their pointy-head tutors are expecting a shag. Some of them are dim enough to come across. And a few get spliced. It never lasts. A couple of words out of turn at high table, the confidence goes, and they’re ready to jump off a cliff.’
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