The Headhunters ihmi-2

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘I know all that,’ Hen said. ‘Didn’t you hear my question?’

  ‘He was driven beyond all.’

  ‘So Fiona brought it on herself, did she? The old story.’

  ‘I’m not excusing him,’ Gemma said. ‘I was putting myself in his shoes. He’s a yellow-bellied coward if you really want to know. Anything unpopular with the staff, he asked me to speak to them. He wanted everyone to think he was mister nice guy. But if he was pushed into a corner I’m sure he’d bite back. That was Fiona’s big mistake.’

  ‘She pushed him into a corner?’

  ‘Onto his office floor, to be accurate. And they weren’t discussing the petty cash.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘My office is next door. I heard the audio version.’

  ‘Did anyone else know of this?’

  ‘It was all round the office. She wanted a top job and a seat on the board.’

  ‘If this is true, and Cartwright felt pressured, he may have had a motive. But nothing like this happened with the other victims.’

  ‘I can’t say, can I? I don’t know what went on between them and him.’

  ‘We haven’t found any connection. We’ve searched his house, his computer, his office at work. Nothing. But we’re quite sure Fiona’s killer also murdered Meredith Sentinel.’

  ‘What about the woman in his pool, then? If that isn’t a connection, I don’t know what is. That’s two out of three.’

  Hen didn’t challenge the statement. ‘When you got here this afternoon, did you break in and search the house first?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Find anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And then you decided to look in the pool. Whose idea was that, yours, or Jo’s?’

  Gemma frowned. ‘I don’t think that’s important.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge,’ Hen said.

  She shrugged. ‘Jo thought of it. Either of us could have done.’

  ‘And was that blue cover in place?’

  ‘Right across the pool, but we managed to shift it. One end wasn’t properly attached, and that helped.’

  ‘What do you mean, not properly attached?’

  ‘Some of the springs weren’t fixed to the bolt things. That made it easier to get a start.’

  ‘What did you expect to find?’

  ‘We were looking for Mr Cartwright, weren’t we? He’s the missing person, after all. We didn’t know anyone else was missing. Have you found out who she is?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘We did the decent thing reporting it,’ Gemma said in a too-obvious attempt to excuse their conduct. ‘We shouldn’t have broken into the house, but we found the body for you.’

  Hen wasn’t giving votes of thanks. ‘Have you been in trouble before?’

  ‘What-with the police? Certainly not. You can check your records.’

  ‘You’re local, are you?’

  ‘I’ve lived here all my life.’

  ‘Do you have family down here in Sussex, then?’

  ‘Only an old aunt and I don’t see much of her. My parents died in a crash when I was nine. And in case you’re wondering, I wasn’t the maladjusted kid who turned to crime. I was with foster parents until I was seventeen.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘A flat of my own. I went to Chichester Tech, as it was known then, got myself an Ordinary National Diploma in business studies, and took the job at Fishbourne. If you let me off with a caution I won’t trouble you again.’

  Right now Hen had more on her mind than Gemma’s misdemeanour. ‘This man Rick is the fourth member of your little clique.’

  ‘Rick’s got nothing to do with this,’ she said at once.

  ‘You’re in a relationship with him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it that. He’s a friend. We’ve been out a few times. We don’t live together.’

  ‘You four band together and help each other out, is that right?’

  ‘Isn’t that what friends do?’

  ‘Provided it’s legal. But if you had serious doubts about one of your friends it wouldn’t be wise to cover for them. Loyalty is one thing. Conspiracy to cover up a crime is something else. Do you follow me?’

  Gemma nodded.

  ‘Gary will help you with your written statement. You’ll have to give evidence at the inquest as well. Make sure it’s accurate.’

  The next one could wait.

  Hen went out to check on the search she’d organised of the garden area around the pool. The chance of a smoke was incidental to her supervisory duty.

  About twenty unfortunate officers in uniform were moving slowly with heads down across the sodden turf in the unrelenting rain. She found the senior man from the crime scene investigators and asked if there was any chance of recovering DNA from the pool cover.

  ‘You think the killer handled it?’ the man said.

  ‘I’m sure of it. The body was hidden underneath and the two women found the cover in place, but one end had a few springs loose. He must have tried to fasten part of it at least to the things that keep it stretched.’

  ‘The anchors.’

  ‘Right. You’ll take it to the lab?’

  ‘Of course. But you must allow that the house owner would have handled it on a number of occasions. If we find any trace of his DNA, that doesn’t mean he’s guilty. And of course the women who found the body will have left some of their skin tissue on the fabric. It’s not so simple as it might appear.’

  ‘Nothing ever is.’

  She went back to the house and questioned Jo for ten minutes. Little came out of it except the repeated insistence that Jake was innocent and should be released. At such times Hen despaired of her own sex.

  Back in the garden she checked with the searchers and shook her head when she saw the result: a few rusty nails and the plastic cap from a tube of sunscreen. She watched the body being stretchered away to the mortuary van. The most pressing need was to identify the victim. But how? The face was too far gone to use in a photo appeal. The woman hadn’t been wearing a ring, or jewellery. The pink swimming costume looked like a standard garment unlikely to yield much.

  She pondered the possible events leading up to the murder. The woman was most unlikely to have arrived at the house in a swimming costume. Logic suggested she’d changed out of her day clothes in the house. None had been found, but that was surely because the killer disposed of them, just as he’d disposed of Meredith Sentinel’s clothes the night he’d murdered her on Selsey beach. He’d realise they would help with identification.

  If the latest victim had been persuaded to change for a swim she must have trusted her killer. You don’t get into a private pool with a stranger. She must have known him and come to the house. Who else could her host have been but Denis Cartwright? He’d got into the water with her and drowned her.

  No.

  Something was wrong here. Cartwright had been missing for almost two weeks. This body had been in the water for a much shorter interval-two to five days, the pathologist had estimated.

  Was Cartwright alive, then? Had he returned to the house with this woman, persuaded her to join him for a swim, and drowned her?

  Any other scenario was too far fetched. The killer pretends he owns the house and pool and makes elaborate arrangements to fool the woman into visiting? No chance.

  Hold on, she thought. I’m assuming too much here. Kibblewhite spoke of immersion, but refused to say the woman had drowned, or anyone had drowned her. Did she die accidentally? A sudden heart attack while in the water?

  Were other people present? A swimming party? Drinks, larking about, and she hits her head on the stone surround and nobody notices until it’s too late?

  Whichever elaborate story you dream up, you’re faced with the fact that the woman’s death was concealed. Nobody pulls a cover across a small private pool without noticing a body in the water. It was a hidden crime, hidden with the expectation that nothing would be found until next year when the we
ather was warm enough for swimming.

  The bottom line was this: Cartwright’s pool, in Cartwright’s garden, and Cartwright was missing.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The manhunt was stepped up.

  Cartwright was no longer just a missing person. The official line, that he was wanted for questioning in connection with the deaths of three women, was sent out with a ‘not for publication’ note that he was believed to be a psychopath likely to kill again.

  Hen’s morning started at the mortuary. She’d never been squeamish about attending autopsies. It was the tough-talking men-bless their little cotton socks-who were liable to faint as soon as the pathologist picked up the scalpel. Even so, this one was a severe test, definitely a face mask and tic tac occasion. The well-prepared Dr Kibblewhite had brought two cans of air freshener and they were put to good use from the start.

  To put everyone at ease while cutting away the pink swimsuit, he talked with affection about one of Dr Quincy’s television episodes. ‘You didn’t see the dissection. Never did in those days. The only bits of the body you saw were the feet or the face. All very wholesome. So I can’t say for certain if Quincy would have destroyed a perfectly good costume as I’m doing here, but, if you think about it, even if I removed it without damage I doubt if anyone would wear it.’ He cut off the label and handed it to Hen. Speedo was so common a make that it was almost no help at all.

  Photos had to be taken at each stage, prolonging the operation. Kibblewhite stressed that drowning is difficult, if not impossible, to diagnose at post mortem when the body is no longer fresh. No question that water was in the lungs and would be sent for analysis with the other samples, but he doubted if he could state the cause of death even when the results came back. And with the sodden skin deteriorating and no other injuries apparent, he could find no external evidence that the woman’s demise had been homicidal.

  Neither were there any useful clues to identity. No scars. She was aged about fifty, give or take five years, and she looked after her hair and nails, like a million other women. Two of the fingernails on the right hand were torn, but Kibblewhite said it would not be wise to read too much into that. They may have been damaged when the body was taken from the pool. ‘They go soft, you see.’

  ‘My lads lifted her out,’ Hen said. ‘I was watching them.’

  ‘So was I. It’s so easily done.’

  ‘I notice you just tugged out some hair at the roots.’

  ‘Deliberately. Another indication of the amount of time she spent in the water,’ Kibblewhite told her. ‘The hair loosens.’

  ‘Are you sticking with your estimate of two to five days?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You can’t be more precise than that?’

  ‘Too many variables.’

  ‘That hair you just removed. If you bag some up for me, I’ll ask for an immediate DNA test.’

  ‘You’re an optimist.’

  ‘I’m sure Quincy would take the trouble,’ she said, unable to resist the dig.

  ‘Quincy didn’t know about DNA.’ He used tweezers to put some hairs into an evidence bag and handed it to her. ‘Don’t forget to label it.’

  The dissection was more productive, or so Kibblewhite claimed. He went so far as to mention the word ‘drowning’ as a possibility after finding froth in the main air passages and over-distension of the lungs. Only after he’d seen the results of lab tests would he know if he could say more.

  Hen came away thinking she could have been better employed at the nick. Outside, the rain was belting down again. She sprinted through the puddles to her car. When she got there she swore mildly. The SAVE TUFTY umbrella was still on the back seat, neatly furled. She ran all the way back and returned the precious souvenir to its owner as he came out of the door.

  ‘But you’re drenched,’ Kibblewhite said. ‘Why didn’t you use it?’

  There was better news when she got back to the incident room. Cartwright’s red Peugeot Estate had been found near the boatyard at Dell Quay. The registration had been checked with Swansea and the car transported to Chichester for forensic examination.

  ‘Hey, that’s the first good thing I’ve heard today. There’s sure to be evidence inside.’

  ‘Remember who we’re dealing with, guv. His middle names are spick and span,’ Paddy Murphy told her. ‘It’s as clean as a Buckingham Palace loo.’

  Hen tried to stay upbeat. ‘We’ll get something back from the Motor Investigation Unit, if it’s only grit from his shoes. It’s safe to assume, then, that he put to sea.’

  ‘Well, his boat hasn’t been found.’

  ‘What sort is it?’

  ‘Quite modest. A twelve-metre yacht called Nonpareil.’

  ‘Called what?’

  ‘Did I say it wrong? It’s written on the board over there. Gary says it’s a printing term, a typeface.’

  ‘I think it also means the best. I wouldn’t call that modest.’

  ‘He was proud of the boat when he named her, I expect,’ Paddy said. ‘She isn’t in top nick, according to the locals, but seaworthy enough to cross the channel. A full description went out with the call to Interpol.’

  ‘At twelve metres, it has a sleeping berth, no doubt. He could lay up in some French port for weeks and not be noticed.’

  ‘Not for much longer.’

  ‘Let’s hope.’ A shadow crossed Hen’s face. ‘I can see some unfortunate Frenchwoman being invited aboard and becoming victim number four.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus. I hope not.’ Paddy passed a hand thoughtfully through his silver hair. ‘Most crimes I can understand, even when they’re evil. This one is a mystery to me. What’s in it for him?’

  ‘Better ask a shrink, Paddy. Pulling them in is my job.’

  ‘Yes, but we need to know the motive.’

  ‘With psychos you can’t tell. Some kill out of boredom. That’s not a motive. In this case we’ve got a pattern and we’re collecting evidence and we know who we’re looking for. Enough to be going on with.’

  She walked across to the display board where the name of Cartwright’s yacht had been written. It was below his head and shoulders picture-one they’d found in his house and distributed to the press. He looked inoffensive and trying to appear likeable, like some local election candidate, hair parted in an old-fashioned style, eyes wide and hopeful, lips curved in a diffident smile. The check bow tie was the only remarkable feature. Did it reveal humour? Self-regard? Or a nut? Whichever, you would look in vain for signs of violence.

  Hen wasn’t fooled. She’d seen killers in real life. Maybe one in twenty looked the person you wouldn’t share a lift with.

  The other two mugshots on display-Dr Sentinel and Jake Kernow-were more believable as murderers, Jake especially. Sentinel’s thin lips arched in a cruel way. As for Jake, well, he’d curdle the milk by looking at it.

  He was still in custody. She’d have to come to a decision soon.

  ‘Call for you, ma’am,’ one of the civilian staff said.

  Hope rising, she picked up a phone, and wished she hadn’t. Headquarters. The Deputy Chief Constable himself.

  She took a deep breath and listened.

  ‘We’ve been following this enquiry into the drownings. You appear to have someone in the frame now, this print manager.’

  ‘Cartwright.’

  ‘He’s being sought in all the French ports as well as our own. Is that correct?’ The voice was so courteous, so reasonable.

  Ominously so.

  ‘Yes, sir. We found a third body yesterday afternoon, concealed in Cartwright’s swimming pool. I’m waiting for confirmation that she was drowned. It raises the stakes. There’s no question in my mind that we’re pursuing a serial murderer, so I alerted Interpol.’

  ‘No problem with that. But is it a fact that this was the second search of Cartwright’s house and garden?’

  The knife unsheathed. Stella, you dozy mare, I’m walking the plank for you, she thought. ‘That’s true. The first search was
Sunday morning, after the second victim was found. The last sight of her was leaving the Fishbourne office with Cartwright. Neither of them was seen alive after that, so I obtained a warrant and sent a team to the house.’

  ‘Didn’t you take charge yourself?’

  ‘I accept responsibility, but, no. I wasn’t there. I was following up another lead.’ Francisco. Please don’t ask, she thought.

  ‘Did your people take a passing glance at the pool?’

  She couldn’t bluff her way through this. ‘I believe not.’

  ‘Don’t you know for certain?’

  ‘I haven’t had time to check with the inspector who led the search. I’ve just come from the post mortem.’

  ‘You’re obviously under a lot of pressure.’

  Dangerous to concede. ‘But on top of the job.’

  ‘I would say it’s pretty obvious something was wrong with the search because the body was in that pool for up to five days.’

  ‘Two to five, yes.’

  ‘If the team had done its job, the hunt for Cartwright might be over by now.’

  ‘Conceivably.’

  ‘Somebody goofed, Chief Inspector. I wouldn’t go out of my way to cover for them if I were you. Being an effective leader matters more than loyalty to a colleague.’

  From deep in her subconscious she dredged up an old saying. ‘But if you can’t ride two horses at once, you shouldn’t be in the circus.’

  It stopped him in his tracks.

  He took a few seconds to think about it before saying, ‘Another thing: you’re still holding this man, Kernow. Why?’

  ‘He’s been under strong suspicion for some time. He knew the first victim, Meredith Sentinel, and met her in London. And we’ve established that he visited the print works and spoke to victim number two, Fiona Halliday. What is more, he served two years for GBH.’

  ‘I know all that, but if Cartwright is your man-as everything seems to suggest-Kernow can reasonably claim wrongful detention. I’m not his solicitor, but if I were, I know what I’d be doing.’

  How could she explain the feeling in her bones that Cartwright was not the killer, even in the face of all the evidence?