The Headhunters

by Peter Lovesey

  What now, then? She had the choice of continuing the walk on the path above the beach or venturing down in one of these sections between the breakwaters and coming to a forced stop. This, in the end, was her choice. She picked a stretch inhabited only by herring gulls bold enough to stand their ground as she approached, the wind ruffling their feathers. She stood for a while watching the breakers until the same wind that was producing the spectacular choppy sea started to chill her, threatening a headache. She wished she’d put comfort before image and worn the woolly hat after all. Time to turn back, she decided. She was struggling up the bank of stones when her attention was caught by a pale object in the shadow of the breakwater.

  All kinds of rubbish is cast up on a beach, particularly when the sea is rough. At first sight this had the smooth curved surface of a large fish, a beached dolphin perhaps.

  Jo went closer and lifted away some seaweed. This was no dolphin, nor any other marine species.

  She had found a human body.

  ‘NO WAY! All I ever find is lolly-sticks and fag-ends. What did you do?’ Gemma asked when they met the next Saturday in Starbucks.

  ‘Went up the beach and knocked at the door of the first house I came to. They called the police.’

  ‘So whose body was it?’

  ‘Some woman. She was nude except for her pants.’

  ‘Drowned?’

  ‘They thought she probably fell overboard and got washed up.’

  ‘In her Alan Whickers? That doesn’t sound likely.’

  ‘I don’t know. If she was sunbathing on the deck of some yacht, a freak wave could have swept her overboard.’

  Gemma raised her eyebrows in mocking disbelief. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘It’s only a suggestion. There has to be an inquest, doesn’t there? They look at reports of people lost at sea.’

  ‘What age would she have been?’

  ‘Late thirties, the cop said. I didn’t go too close when I took them down to see. I just pointed to where she was. They took my details and said I could leave. They’re going to put something in the paper in case anyone knows about her. A reporter phoned me later.’

  ‘Didn’t you get a look at the face?’

  ‘No, thank God. She was turned away from me.’

  ‘Are they certain she’d been in the water? She might have snuffed it on the beach.’

  ‘Some seaweed was twisted round her. It’s more likely she came in on the tide. They say the sea gives up its dead, don’t they?’

  Gemma was remembering something. ‘When I was having my winter break in Tenerife last year there was a body washed up on the beach and the locals said he was an asylum seeker. These poor bloody Africans put to sea in boats that are unsafe and hundreds of them never make it. Was your woman black?’

  ‘Extremely white, by the time I saw her. I don’t think she was an asylum seeker.’

  ‘Escaping from the Isle of Wight,’ Gemma said, that fertile imagination at work again.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘You’re smiling, but there are prisons on the Island.’

  ‘Her pants didn’t look prison issue to me.’

  ‘Honey, these days they don’t wear kit with little arrows over it.’

  ‘Naff off, will you?’

  They were perched on tall stools by the front window watching the people walk by. The pedestrianised North Street in Chichester, stiff with shoppers, was a far cry from Selsey beach last Sunday morning. ‘The way you tell it,’ Gemma said, ‘you don’t seem to have panicked. If it had been me, I’d have run a three minute mile, screaming all the way.’

  ‘Strangely enough, I didn’t feel anything at the time,’ Jo said. ‘I mean, I didn’t trip over her, or anything. If I had, I might have screamed. I noticed something large and pale under the seaweed and walked over to where she was and that was it.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a dead body.’

  ‘That was my first. There isn’t much to it.’ She gave Gemma a faint smile. ‘If you’re going to murder your boss like you said the other day you’ll have to face up to it.’

  ‘Won’t be so scary if I’m expecting it. What I wouldn’t like is finding one I didn’t know was there, like you did. They’re always doing that in films.’

  ‘The people who make films are out to shock you, aren’t they? The quick burst of music and the sudden close-up? Real life isn’t like that.’

  ‘Real death.’

  ‘All right. Real death. It’s not the big deal we’re all led to believe. Don’t worry, Gem. When the time comes, you’ll be fine, just fine.’

  ‘I’m going to need someone like you to keep the heeby-jeebies at bay.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to be party to a murder.’

  ‘A brilliant undiscovered murder.’

  ‘If you insist.’ She smiled and sipped her coffee. ‘You know, if they served this in smaller mugs, everyone would drink it quicker and the place wouldn’t get so crowded.’

  ‘It’s their marketing strategy. You bet they’ve worked it out. There are good commercial reasons for large mugs, but don’t ask me what they are.’

  A tall, good-looking guy in a suit paused outside the shop and appeared ready to come in, then changed his mind and walked on.

  ‘Did we do that?’ Jo asked.

  ‘We were the reason he stopped in the first place,’ Gemma said. ‘He’ll be back.’

  ‘You wish.’ They weren’t teenagers. They were in their thirties. Jo had been thinking for some time it would be no bad thing if they started behaving like grown-ups.

  But Gemma wasn’t of the same mind. ‘Did you see the size of his feet?’

  ‘No. Should I have? Why?’

  Gemma shook with laughter. ‘If you don’t know by now, I’m not going to tell you.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ Jo sniffed. ‘It’s a myth.’

  Gemma spooned some of the froth from her coffee and licked it. ‘Mind if I ask something personal?’

  ‘Ask away. If it’s off limits I’ll tell you.’

  ‘You and your squeeze. Have you known him long?’

  ‘Rick, you mean? Not very. Why?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  They watched more people cross their vision. In her mind Jo was running through the reasons for Gemma’s question. Could it be the solution to the dilemma she’d been facing all week?

  ‘You want to know if I’m serious about him? As it happens, I’m not. He’s just someone I’ve been out with a couple of times. We don’t have much in common, as you probably noticed last weekend. Was he coming on to you in the cinema?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘What a prick.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Gemma said, and she was actually blushing. ‘It wouldn’t have bothered me normally.’

  ‘How embarrassing. It crossed my mind when he mentioned the headache. His excuse to cover up what had been going on, was it?’

  ‘To be fair it was only a problem because I thought you and he were, like . . . you know. I let him know he was out of order.’

  ‘What did you do—mark the back of his hand with your fingernails? I would have.’

  ‘I just told him to leave off.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  A customer looking for a place to sit caught the full force of Jo’s annoyance and slopped coffee over his tray.

  Gemma said, ‘Oops.’

  Jo ignored the guy. ‘Him, not you. I’m not saying just because I’ve been out with him a couple of times he’s got to be totally loyal to me, but you are my friend and it was the first time he’d met you. That entitles you to some respect.’ She gave a sharp, angry sigh. ‘That’s Rick and me finished. I wasn’t that keen on him anyway.’

  Gemma said after a pause, ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘You heard me, Gem. He’s just a bad memory now.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t curse me and my progeny for a thousand years if I went out with him?’

  Jo, tiptoeing as lightly as Gemma, said, ‘But what about Jake
? Isn’t he your boyfriend?’

  ‘Jake?’ Gemma squeaked at the suggestion. ‘God, no. Don’t run away with that idea. He’s only a customer—at the printer’s, where I work. We’re doing some Christmas cards for the wildlife thing he’s part of, and he said he’d seen me at the bowling. When he asked me to play some ends with him I thought it was naughty talk, but it wasn’t. The guy’s got the sense of humour of a wombat. I felt sorry for him, so I went as an act of charity. He hasn’t a clue how to chat up a girl.’

  ‘He got a result with you.’

  ‘Get away.’ She laughed. ‘A game of ten-pin. Call that a result? Not where I was brought up, ducky. If you want the truth I was trying to think of ways of unloading him on someone else when we met last week and you were the unlucky one who copped him.’

  ‘So you won’t be seeing him again?’

  ‘The son of Frankenstein? You’re joking. I’ve done my bit for customer relations.’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘You don’t actually fancy him, do you? Omigawd, Gemma puts her foot in it again.’

  ‘I didn’t say I fancy him,’ Jo said—which was true. She hadn’t said anything about him. She hoped she looked indifferent. ‘He was okay with me. I’ve nothing against him.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Gemma said, ‘but you wouldn’t want to wake up in the morning and find that face next to you on the pillow. Know what I mean?’

  ‘His looks don’t bother me.’

  Gemma gave her a nudge. ‘I think you do fancy him on the quiet. A bit of Rocky Horror, eh?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call him that.’

  ‘Nor would I—to his face. Well, you have a clear run as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ Jo said, and tried to make it sound ironic.

  ‘Got any plans for tonight?’

  ‘Nothing definite.’

  ‘Not for publication?’

  ‘Yet to be decided.’

  ‘He hangs out at the bowling place most Saturdays, I heard. Play your cards right and you could even get to see the penguins again.’

  Jo screwed up her paper napkin and threw it at Gemma.

  ‘I was going to give you the latest goss on Mr Cartwright,’ Gemma said. ‘Don’t know if I will now.’

  ‘Goss on the boss? Go on. It had better be good.’

  ‘Well, he’s started chatting up this woman in accounts called Fiona. She’s a good twenty years younger, about twenty-four. This isn’t like him. Whatever I’ve said about him in the past, he’s not a skirt-chaser.’

  ‘Given the incentive, they all are,’ Jo said. ‘Pretty, is she?’

  ‘I suppose. Well, yes. A redhead.’

  ‘Say no more. Is he married?’

  ‘Divorced. He lives alone.’

  ‘Then I don’t see what the problem is.’

  ‘Fiona is the problem. The thing is, she’s a single mum. There’s a four-year-old son. She needs the work and she’s afraid if she gives him the big E she’ll lose her job.’

  ‘Are you sure she isn’t out to pull him?’

  ‘Jeez. You want to work with him.’

  ‘Some women are turned on by power.’

  ‘Running a print business in Fishbourne? It’s not exactly Microsoft International.’

  ‘Have you talked to her?’

  Gemma nodded. ‘She’s the homespun type, a bit short of confidence. Doesn’t know how to handle it.’

  Jo giggled a bit. ‘Handle what? What exactly has he been up to?’

  ‘Get a grip, girl. You’re positively slavering. No, it isn’t physical. Not yet, anyway. But the early signs are there. Yesterday he was in the stock room showing her the papers we use, telling her about quality and sizes.’ With a glare at Jo, who was grinning again, she said, ‘Sizes of paper. Today he was with her for over an hour explaining how the big colour printer works. She’s in accounts, Jo. She doesn’t need to know that stuff.’

  ‘And she spoke to you about it?’

  ‘In the loo at the end of the day. She knows I’m his PA. We haven’t talked much before this, but she said she’s getting embarrassed about all this interest and some of the other women are noticing. Basically she was asking if I think he’s got the hots for her.’

  ‘Obviously he has. Is that what you said?’

  ‘Come off it. I was trying to reassure the poor wee lass. I said I’ve never known him get heavy with a female employee, which is true.’

  ‘There’s always a first time. Was she asking for support?’

  ‘Not directly. No, I wouldn’t say so. I guess she wanted me to know it wasn’t welcomed—in case I was jealous, or something. Which I most definitely am not.’

  ‘But you’d like him to cool it?’

  ‘For everyone’s sake, yes.’

  ‘Does he know she’s got a kid?’

  ‘He ought to. He interviewed her when she joined. He could easily look at the file.’

  ‘I expect he’s conveniently put all that out of his mind. Randy old men are like that.’

  Gemma rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘But you just said he hasn’t tried it on with you.’

  ‘Please! I was speaking generally. This is about Fiona, not me. She’s got to find a way of giving him the elbow without putting her job at risk.’

  ‘You want my advice?’ Jo said. ‘Don’t get involved or you’ll end up getting grief from both of them. She’s a grown-up. She can deal with this herself.’

  SHE DIDN’T, after all, go bowling. There was a phone message from her dad to say Mummy was in Southampton Hospital with concussion after falling off Penrose, her white gelding.

  ‘Wasn’t she wearing a riding helmet?’ Jo asked him when they met outside the ward.

  Daddy was a silent man with a large moustache that was his defence barrier. ‘You know Mummy,’ he said, as if that explained all. Really it did. This was the third time she’d fallen and ended up in the hospital.

  ‘Couldn’t she get a safer horse?’

  ‘I’m not sure it was the horse’s fault.’

  ‘He’s so tall. It’s a long way to fall.’

  ‘You could be right, but I don’t see your mother on a pony.’

  ‘She ought to think about giving up riding.’

  ‘Try telling her.’

  Telling her wouldn’t aid the recovery. Margaret Stevens was a stubborn woman. The mother-daughter relationship had foundered years ago when Jo went through teenage rebellion and Mummy went through her room looking for unsuitable reading and cannabis. Harmless things all her friends were trying at the time, like coloured hair and ripped jeans, became issues. If her mother had treated her with a modicum of understanding some of this might have made sense, but it was handled in a vindictive way. Mummy’s own self-indulgence, the gin and cigarettes and all the expense on the riding, was not for comment. Jo had a suspicion there were other dissipations, and it had suited her mother to turn the spotlight elsewhere. The trust between them had never recovered.

  She was in a side ward in Accident & Emergency and as pale as the pillow but still in good voice. ‘You look like death, darling. What’s wrong? ’

  ‘You’re what’s wrong, Mummy, giving us a shock like this. How did it happen?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. It’s a blur. They’re keeping me in overnight. What a bore. You two had better go out for a meal. Your father won’t cook for himself. If I remember, there’s a good Italian restaurant opposite the hospital.’

  Typical of her mother, directing operations.

  ‘Don’t suppose I’ll get much,’ she ranted on. ‘They have a system of ordering here and I missed the chance to see what’s on offer. I’ll get the leftovers, I expect, cold stew and semolina.’

  ‘You must be feeling better if you can think about food.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a drink right now.’

  Jo reached for the jug of water on the cabinet.

  ‘I mean a tipple, not that stuff.’

  ‘You’re here to get your head right, Mummy.’

&
nbsp; ‘Fiddlesticks. What have you been up to? Ages since we saw you. It’s a funny old world when it takes something like this to get you calling on your parents. Are you still working in the glasshouse?’

  ‘Garden centre, Mummy. Yes, I am.’

  ‘What do you do—water the plants?’

  ‘I’ve told you before. Lots of things.’

  ‘It’s not good for you, working under glass. It’s no protection from those rays. You can get skin cancer. Tell her, Willy.’

  ‘I’m not telling her anything,’ her father said.

  Mummy was unfazed. ‘She should get a different job. With the education we gave her, she ought to be doing something better than watering pansies.’

  Daddy rolled his eyes and was silent.

  ‘Come on, dear,’ Mummy insisted. ‘What have you been up to? Is there a man in your life? I wish there was, someone you could start a family with, legally of course. No such luck, I suppose?’

  Jo was beginning to think she would leave. She hadn’t come here for an inquisition into her private life. ‘How is the horse?’

  ‘Which horse?’

  ‘Penrose. Did he fall as well?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I told you it’s a blur and you’re trying to change the subject.’

  Her father said, ‘The stable lad who phoned said you went under a tree and got knocked off by a low branch.’

  ‘That doesn’t add up,’ Mummy said. ‘I’m too experienced for that.’

  ‘It happened before.’

  ‘Willy, I was a novice then. I don’t make basic errors these days.’

  ‘Something unseated you.’

  ‘I expect the horse reared. You can’t do much when that happens. A dog must have frightened him. People should keep them on leads. And muzzled. Josephine, you didn’t answer my question. What sort of company are you keeping?’

  ‘Mummy, I’m thirty-six years old. I don’t have to account to you for the friends I have.’

  ‘Be like that. I wouldn’t mind betting you won’t be so reticent when you want us to fork out for a big white wedding in the cathedral.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means don’t worry. It won’t happen.’

  ‘I’m not worried. We took out insurance shortly after you were born.’