The Headhunters

by Peter Lovesey

  She heard the shingle being crunched behind her as one of the team approached.

  ‘Saying goodbye to it, guv?’ Stella said.

  ‘Damn good thing, too,’ Hen said. ‘Let it go back to being a beach instead of a crime scene.’

  ‘Don’t you think people will remember?’

  ‘Not for long. The tides come and go. The whole thing changes. By next summer there’ll be children bathing from here.’

  ‘And we’ll have put the case to bed?’

  ‘Don’t count on it. This one could stay unsolved.’

  ‘I hope not. It’s an ugly crime.’

  ‘Too bloody true.’ Hen had been locked for too long in her own morbid thoughts. Sharing them was a relief. ‘I was watching the waves and thinking about the physical and mental demands of holding someone under the water until they stop breathing. Apparently death by drowning can take all of five minutes. Longer, even. Can you imagine holding someone under for that long?’

  Stella gave a shudder. ‘Slow murder. Horrible.’

  ‘Different from pulling a trigger or knifing them. Plenty of time to think about what you’re doing. You’d have to be pitiless.’

  ‘Imagine being the victim, held for that long.’

  ‘Yes, you’d fight for your life, but it wouldn’t be easy. All your efforts are constricted by the water. You might inflict some scratches or bruises, but if your killer has a good grip, it must be bloody hard to break free.’

  ‘I’d give it a go.’

  ‘Anyone would. You’re also trying to hold your breath until you have to let go and give way to the inrush of water into your lungs. You’re panicking and getting weaker all the time. To be honest, Stell, this is the first case of homicide by drowning I’ve had to deal with, and it gives me the creeps just thinking about it. They’re mercifully rare. Pathologists don’t like them, either. Drowning is difficult to prove at post mortem.’

  ‘You’d think it would be obvious.’

  ‘For one thing—and this is what I learned from the guy who did the autopsy—a fresh water drowning produces a reaction quite different from sea water. The blood volume increases rapidly when fresh water pours into the lungs and there’s a strong chance of it causing a heart attack. It can be quick, very quick, if there’s a cardiac arrest, as there often is, from the shock. Then they die from submersion, rather than drowning. But almost the opposite happens in the sea. Water is sucked from the plasma into the lungs, so the heart isn’t under the same strain. Your chance of survival is higher in the sea.’

  ‘Plenty of people do drown.’

  ‘I’m not disputing that. You’re more likely to have an accident at sea than you are in the bath at home or the local pool. I’m simply saying that if you’re immersed in salt water you may last longer. When someone holds you down the result is the same; it takes more time, that’s all.’

  ‘I suppose if they first got you drunk, or drugged, it would be quicker.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Do we know the time of death?’

  ‘You’re joking, of course. Does a pathologist ever give you a time of death? They can only make informed guesses. The body was found between eight and nine in the morning, so it’s likely she was killed the evening before, or during the night, or in the early hours of daylight.’

  ‘The reason I asked is that if she was given alcohol or drugs it could have been at some kind of beach party the night before. It was a warm September night, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Warm enough for a barbie, yes.’

  ‘But no signs of one? Was any alcohol found in the body?’

  ‘A small amount. The signs are that she hadn’t had much.’

  ‘Except that she’d stripped almost naked. I’d need a few drinks before I did that on a public beach. Even on a dark night.’

  ‘I’d have to be out of my head,’ Hen said.

  ‘Moon bathing, guv. You must have tried it some time.’

  Hen returned the cigar to her lips and visited old times. ‘Once in my youth—and in a decent one-piece costume. I’m an Essex girl. The only beach I knew was Southend. I wouldn’t recommend romping in the nude there.’

  ‘Do you think he undressed her?’

  ‘The heavy seduction scene? I can’t picture it happening. It’s much more likely the stripping was voluntary on her part. If, say, we forget the moon bathing and think about an early morning photo call, our lady there to have her picture taken, a boob shot, she might have agreed to strip down to her pants.’

  ‘Back to the calendar idea?’ Stella asked.

  ‘Or some sort of glamour picture. We agreed she wasn’t young enough to be working as a model, but any woman in her thirties is vulnerable to some guy with a camera suggesting she’d look gorgeous flashing her tits.’

  ‘I still favour the midnight bathing. They go skinny dipping and—just like you—she’s too shy to do it in the buff so she keeps her pants on.’

  ‘Either way, there’s a nasty element of deception. She’s conned into stripping off by someone she trusts. She’d be crazy to do it for a stranger.’

  ‘Is it possible he removed the clothes after the drowning?’

  ‘Why would he do that? To make identification more difficult, I suppose.’ Hen weighed the possibility for a moment. ‘It’s not out of the question, but I can’t see it. Struggling with wet clothes wouldn’t be easy or quick. Any killer’s impulse is to quit the scene as soon as possible. And why would she enter the water fully clothed?’

  ‘Dragged in?’

  Hen pulled a sceptical face.

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Stella said. ‘It’s pretty unlikely.’

  ‘It’s all unlikely until we find out who she was and why she was there.’

  ‘I came down to say that we’re about ready to move off.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’ She stubbed out the cigar and felt for her scent spray. ‘Things can only get better.’

  eight

  WHEN THE CALL CAME, early Saturday morning, Stella Gregson was at the window of the relocated incident room in Chichester Police Station looking out at the car roofs and thinking East Beach had its attractions. A sudden movement from behind her was reflected in the glass. DC Gary Pearce was waving frantically. He couldn’t shout because he was on the phone.

  Stella picked up another receiver and was instantly all attention. An educated voice was saying, ‘ . . . got back from St Petersburg last night and she wasn’t here and there was no message, so I called a few people and no one could tell me anything. We don’t live in each other’s pockets, but I was surprised and a little concerned. I decided to sleep on it and this morning I phoned my local police station and gave a description. They put me through to someone else and I’ve been transferred several times and now I’m being asked to go through it all again with you.’

  Offering a silent prayer that they’d finally nailed it, Stella took over. ‘Thank you, sir. This is Stella Gregson, Detective Inspector, Chichester CID.’

  ‘Did you say Chichester?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t think why I’ve been put through to you.’

  ‘Forgive me, I just came in on the call,’ she said. ‘Thank you for getting in touch. I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Austen Sentinel. It’s about my wife Meredith. She’s missing.’

  ‘And you’re from?’

  ‘London, that is to say, Islington.’

  ‘You were saying you’ve been abroad?’

  ‘A British Council trip to Russia for a conference. I’m a geologist at Imperial College and I’m speaking from London. Look, we’re wasting each other’s time if you’re in Chichester.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Would your wife have visited Selsey lately?’

  ‘Selsey, on the south coast? Not to my knowledge. Why?’

  ‘Would you describe her?’

  ‘For the umpteenth time this morning? Five foot six, thirty-seven years of age, hair coloured blonde, slimly built. She’s from Kentucky, so she speak
s with an American accent.’

  She won’t be speaking to us, Stella thought.

  ‘But I’ve no idea what clothes she’s wearing.’

  And that’s not a problem, Stella thought, but kept it to herself. ‘Do you have a computer, sir?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with Merry?’

  ‘It will speed things up.’

  ‘I’m sitting in front of one.’

  ‘Could you send us a jpeg of your wife?’

  ‘I’m with you now. Yes, there are several on the machine.’

  ‘Have you got a pen and paper there? I’ll give you an email address. Then if you send it right away we’ll know if we’re talking about the same person.’

  ‘Do you know where she is, then? Is she all right?’

  ‘Be patient with me, sir. We can’t confirm anything until we’ve seen the photo. Hold the line for a bit. I’ll need your contact details.’

  GEMMA DIDN’T appear in Starbucks at the usual time so Jo carried her coffee to one of the side tables, sat in an upright chair, and waited. The chatter from other tables, the music—the pure, warm sound of Ella in her prime—even the caffeine, did nothing to relax her. She was increasingly troubled.

  ‘Hi, babe.’

  She jerked and slopped some coffee.

  ‘Easy,’ he said, seating himself across from her. ‘Anyone would think I was the law.’

  Rick.

  She asked what he was doing there.

  ‘It’s Saturday and I’m off work and this is a coffee shop and I happen to know you. Is that enough?’ he said. ‘No? Well, I’ll come clean. I was sent to find you.’

  ‘By Gemma?’

  ‘She called this morning and updated me on the Emsworth episode.’

  Just as predicted, Jo thought bitterly. Big-mouth Gemma ignoring the pact of secrecy at the first opportunity.

  ‘So here I am, ready to pass on a message,’ Rick said, and stopped, insisting on a response.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She can’t meet you because she was called to the print works. The police are there wanting to talk about Fiona.’

  Typical Rick: playing on her nerves. Jo tried to appear unmoved.

  In case she’d missed the point, Rick added, ‘There isn’t any doubt now. It was definitely Fiona’s body you saw in the Mill Pond yesterday.’ He watched her with expressionless eyes for a moment, then reverted to the role of friend. ‘Listen, I’ll get a coffee and join you.’

  Obviously he knew everything. She felt like throttling Gemma. What was it she’d said with such sincerity about the incident being erased, deleted, wiped? And that was after she’d been warned not to tell Rick.

  But Rick was spilt milk now. Real trouble was looming and she had no influence over it. She didn’t think of herself as a controlling person, but she felt helpless and alarmed about what Gemma might be saying to the police.

  She tried telling herself the two of them had committed no great crime. She wasn’t even certain that failure to report a body in a millpond was a crime. It was more of a civic duty. Okay, they’d shirked their responsibility. Had anyone suffered as a result? Fiona had been long dead when they’d spotted her. They weren’t the first to turn their backs on a scene of sudden death. Surely the guilt she and Gemma shared was moral, not criminal?

  Rick returned, Americano in hand, and sat opposite, enjoying himself, eyes like wasps over a cream tea. This morning he was another species from the wimp she’d shared the taxi with the last time she’d seen him, at the end of that evening at the cinema. Being in on the secret of their discovery in Emsworth had acted like something pumped into a main vein.

  ‘Lighten up, little lady,’ he said, at his most patronising. ‘I’m not going to shop you. I’m a friend, remember?’

  She stared through him.

  ‘Besides, the police won’t be interested in you and Gem doing a runner. They’ve got more important stuff to find out, like how the body got in there in the first place. I think the boss man— what’s his name? Cartwright—has to be the main suspect. He’s done a runner himself by the sound of things. What a lamebrain. It’s no way to cover up a crime.’

  ‘We don’t know it was a crime,’ Jo said. ‘It could have been an accident.’

  ‘Get real, Jo. Cartwright killed her. They’ll find out why. Maybe she was pregnant and he didn’t want his wife to find out.’

  ‘There isn’t a wife as far as I know.’

  ‘Who told you that, Gemma? I wouldn’t bank on anything she says. When the imagination was being given out, Gem got a triple helping. Don’t get me wrong. She’s great company, but I take anything she says with a pinch of salt.’

  ‘What did she tell you about Fiona?’

  ‘That she was making a play for Cartwright and putting Gem’s job under threat.’

  ‘She said the same to me and I believe her. Fiona has a child. Did you know that?’

  ‘Poor little brat, yes.’

  ‘That’s why we went to her house, for the sake of the little boy, in case she’d had an accident, or worse, and he was with her. We called the police and they made a search.’

  ‘I know all this.’

  ‘They weren’t inside. The boy must be staying with the father.’

  ‘You don’t have to convince me, of all people,’ Rick said as if he could walk on water. ‘I don’t think you guys murdered her.’ He followed that with a sly smile. ‘You were planning to bump off her boss. Take it from me, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you drinking coffee if Cartwright’s body had been found.’

  ‘Don’t joke about it.’

  ‘You’re so wound up this morning.’

  ‘I’ve reason to be.’

  ‘Why?’

  She felt so isolated that telling Rick—even Rick—might be a crumb of comfort. ‘You heard about the dead woman I found on Selsey beach? The police gave me a really hard time over that, like I was holding back information.’

  ‘That woman was murdered, wasn’t she? You don’t want to take it personally because they fired some questions at you. They’ve got their job to do.’

  ‘I know, but if it gets back to them that I found another body, they’ll give me the third degree. I’m worried sick what Gemma might be saying to them.’

  ‘If they come knocking at your door, you just have to tell the truth. Stuff happens, as the man said about the war.’

  She nodded. She wasn’t going to tell Rick about the print order she and Gemma had sabotaged to try and get Fiona into trouble. He might have had heard about that already, but he hadn’t mentioned anything yet, so maybe Gemma had for once had the sense to keep something to herself. ‘I’m hoping they treat Fiona’s death as an accident.’

  ‘Dream on.’ He couldn’t resist another twist of the knife.

  ‘You don’t think they will?’

  ‘What you have to hope is that she had no marks. The woman on the beach was marked, wasn’t she?’

  ‘So they told me. Bruises on the neck that showed she was held under the water. But the two cases aren’t similar. The woman I found was nude except for her knickers. Fiona was fully dressed.’

  ‘They both ended up in water. That’s one thing they had in common. And they were both discovered by you. That’s the other.’

  ‘Pure chance.’

  ‘Sure.’ He gave that evil grin again.

  ‘I didn’t even know Fiona,’ Jo said, goaded by him. ‘And nobody knows who the other woman is. They’re appealing for help.’

  ‘They should show her face on TV. Someone would know her. The face wasn’t damaged, was it?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but I didn’t look. I saw the back of her head, and that was more than I wanted to see.’

  He leaned forward on his elbows, his face a foot away from hers. ‘So you can’t be certain if you knew her?’

  ‘Come on, Rick. There’s no reason I should have known her. It was a chance discovery.’

  ‘Be strange, wouldn’t it, if that corpse was someone you knew?’r />
  ‘Highly unlikely.’

  He pointed to her mug. ‘Care for a top-up?’

  ‘No. When are you seeing Gem again?’

  ‘Tonight, supposedly, if she’s still in the mood to go clubbing.’ He drew back from the table, trying to appear less confrontational. ‘How about you? I heard you were getting friendly with the big, silent guy.’

  ‘Jake? I had a drink with him the other evening.’

  He smiled. ‘A drink and two words. Or did he manage three?’

  ‘He’s okay. Not everyone has your gift of gab, Rick.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Life hasn’t been easy for Jake.’

  ‘So we make allowances, is that it?’

  ‘No, but you don’t have to pick on him at every opportunity. When we meet again as a foursome, as I hope we will, it would be good if we could all be more relaxed with each other.’

  He tilted his head and ran his fingers down the stubble on his cheek. ‘“Life hasn’t been easy.” The big guy’s got to you, hasn’t he? I missed a trick here. Should have told you how my wicked stepmother threw out my teddy bear and made me join the boy scouts. I might have got my leg over.’

  ‘A knee in your groin.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘And your ouch would have been heard in Australia.’

  ‘I’m outta here. I only came to pass on the message.’

  HEN COMPARED the jpeg of Mrs Sentinel with the photo they had of the woman in the mortuary. ‘No question,’ she announced to everyone in the incident room. ‘It’s our mystery woman. Nice work, everyone. Let’s treat ourselves to a lunchtime drink.’

  ‘Don’t know about that, boss,’ Stella said. ‘The husband, Dr Sentinel, is on his way. Should be here in another hour.’

  ‘The rest of you can get a drink, then. Stella and I will be offering condolences.’ She lowered her voice for Stella alone. ‘We celebrate later. You gave him the bad news?’

  ‘I said there was a resemblance.’

  ‘So now he knows we have a dead woman here. Does he also know she was murdered?’

  Stella took this as criticism. ‘There was no point in being mysterious about it. The rest of Britain knows it’s a murder.’