Still, a low-level task like sweeping up broken glass was a help. She needed to get last night in proportion. Decisions made in anger are usually wrong.
She looked forward to getting home, a simple meal, a quiet hour or two, and an early night. The backlog of missed sleep had caught up with her. Adrian must have seen her yawning because he said she’d been such a help she could leave early.
THE SIGHT of a familiar yellow Smartcar outside the house was not the welcome home she wanted. She said, ‘Sod you, Gemma!’ and drove straight past. Another face-to-face with that woman would be too much. She drove around the block and drew in between two cars in a neighbouring road, switched off, and banged her head repeatedly against the steering wheel. Ten minutes passed before she told herself she couldn’t stay there all night. But what else could she do? She wouldn’t go crying on Jake’s shoulder. He’d think what a wimp she was. And only an irredeemable wimp would spend the evening sitting in the car, or alone in some pub trying to make a club soda last for hours.
She’d have to tell Gemma to piss off home.
As it worked out, Gemma wasn’t waiting on the doorstep when she drove up the second time. The Smartcar had got smart and gone.
Brilliant, she thought. She parked, locked the car, stepped up to the door, and let herself in.
‘Here she is,’ her neighbour Doreen said. ‘I said to your friend you’d be home any minute. You’re later than usual.’ The old lady was standing in the hallway and Gemma beside her with a sly grin.
What could she do? Give Gemma the bum’s rush she would have given her on the other side of the door? Not in front of sweet old Doreen in her frilly apron, smiling as if she’d just baked the perfect Victoria sponge, convinced she’d done the right thing in admitting Gemma.
‘I’m not seeing anyone today.’
‘Something wrong with the eyesight, then? This can’t be put off, Jo dear,’ Gemma said in a butter-wouldn’t-melt voice meant more for Doreen than her. ‘It won’t take long and it’s very important. I know you weren’t expecting me because I’ve been trying to call you all day. Your mobile must need recharging, or something.’
Switched off to keep you off my back, Jo almost said. What she actually said was, ‘I’m too tired.’
‘Dear, oh dear,’ Doreen said in her most sympathetic tone. ‘Can I get you an aspirin, or something?’
‘I’ll be fine. I just refuse to see a visitor.’ She made a move towards the stairs.
‘But I don’t count as a visitor, do I?’ Gemma said. ‘I was telling Doreen here, we’re the closest of pals. Would you believe, Doreen, she was the only girl at my birthday treat yesterday? Tell you what, Jo, I’ll come upstairs and make you a nice cup of tea.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t be so hasty, dear,’ Doreen said. ‘It’s a very kind suggestion. Nothing like a nice cup of tea.’
‘Leave me alone,’ Jo said to Gemma. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘But I’ve something to say to you,’ Gemma said, ‘and it can’t be put off. You really must listen, Jo.’
‘You said it all last night. Go away.’ She started up the stairs and put her key in the lock.
‘We’ll leave it like that, then, ‘ Gemma said, as calm as she’d ever sounded. ‘If you don’t want to hear it from me, I’ll have that nice cup of tea with Doreen and put her in the picture. Then she can tell you later.’
Doreen said at once, ‘What a splendid idea. Come in, dear, and I’ll get the kettle on.’
Shit and derision. God only knew what Gemma would say to Doreen if she didn’t get her way. ‘All right,’ Jo said, outwitted. ‘I’ll give you five minutes maximum.’
Gemma beamed at Doreen and followed Jo up the stairs.
‘That was underhand,’ Jo said as soon as the door was closed, ‘taking advantage of an old lady—and of me.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘I notice you moved your car to put me off my guard.’
‘That isn’t fair, Jo. I’m trying to mend fences here. We have to talk. We’re friends, for God’s sake. Can’t leave it as we did last night.’
‘So that’s why you’re here. You’re so bloody obvious.’
‘I know you wouldn’t grass up your friends.’
‘Don’t count on it.’
But the tone of Jo’s voice had given Gemma the reassurance she had come to hear. The relief was written all over her face. ‘You obviously got back all right. Was it a rough crossing?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘Yes, I could see you were shocked out of your skull, but when a death is involved there’s no way of putting it gently. We thought you had a right to know, considering you were in on this from the beginning.’
‘Hang about. Don’t make me into an accessory,’ Jo said. ‘Murder was never seriously discussed that night in Chicago Rock, and you know it. What we talked about was just a joke in very bad taste.’
‘Too right,’ Gemma said. ‘Pity Rick didn’t cotton on that we were joking.’
‘What are you saying now—that you weren’t part of it?’
‘I bear some responsibility; of course I do. I shouldn’t have floated the idea of killing Mr Cartwright, even for a laugh. But we both under-estimated Rick. Jo, he’s nuts.’
‘You’re changing your tune, aren’t you?’ Jo said. ‘Last night you were calling him some sort of genius.’
‘That’s true. I had to act up. To be honest, he scares me. I don’t know what he’d do if I told him I disapproved. Is that weak of me? I suppose it is. I’m worried sick.’
This was a turnaround, and Jo might have been impressed if Gemma had not been so two-faced. ‘Report him yourself, then.’
Gemma gaped at the suggestion. ‘Turn him in? I daren’t. He’d report me. And you, too, I reckon.’
She was hell-bent on spreading the guilt.
‘Haven’t I made clear that this has nothing to do with me?’ Jo said.
‘To me, but not to Rick. You and I know we were joking. He doesn’t. With his tunnel vision he’s convinced he was acting on our suggestions.’
This, at least, had a spark of truth. Rick had never understood the humour in plotting Mr Cartwright’s death. He took things literally. All he’d been able to contribute was the grisly story of the woman eaten by pigs. Jo recalled having to shut him up when he’d wanted to repeat it.
‘You say he scares you, but you told me last night you’d slept with him.’
‘I know.’ Gemma shook her head. ‘How dumb was that?’
‘It’s true, then?’
‘It was only a shag, Jo.’
‘But he’d just told you he was a murderer. How could you do it?’
‘You had to be there.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Really. I was, like, scared shitless when I realised what he was saying was true, that he’d topped Mr Cartwright. For real. I mean, it was the worst moment of my life. Terrifying. But then he goes, “I took the body to the paper mill and it’s gone without trace.” I was so relieved that I hugged him. Misery to joy in two seconds flat. Next thing we were ripping each other’s clothes off.’
This Jo could believe. The best sex she’d ever had was to make up after a bitter argument. ‘So you’re hoping no one will ever find out. Haven’t you thought that you’re an obvious suspect, working for Mr Cartwright, and being treated unfairly?’
‘There’s no corpse,’ Gemma said, folding her arms. ‘Nobody can say for sure what happened to him.’
‘That’s no guarantee. There have been cases of people being convicted without a body turning up.’
A pause. ‘You’re trying to scare me now.’
‘Gemma, I have no interest in scaring you. Why don’t you get a grip on reality?’
‘What, and run to the police? You haven’t, so why should I?’
‘That’s your decision.’
‘I won’t shop Rick.’
‘You still like him, don’t you?’
She plucked at the
lobe of her ear. ‘He did all this for me, Jo.’
‘All this? A cold-blooded killing?’
‘He’s not cold-blooded with me.’
Amazing, Jo thought, what some women are willing to overlook in men who play around with them. ‘You don’t know how dangerous this is. I’m telling you now, I don’t want to be near him ever again.’
‘Your choice.’
‘Right—my choice, Gemma. And don’t come running to me when your choice gets ugly with you.’
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ Gemma sighed, shrugged, and turned away as if she was hard done by.
But she’d got what she came for, Jo reckoned: the reassurance that nothing had been said to the police.
The birdbrain left without saying any more. To report to Rick, no doubt.
fifteen
‘ARE WE ALL HERE now?’ Hen asked. Every space was taken in the incident room for Tuesday’s early-morning briefing, but she had a feeling someone was missing.
‘Ready to go, guv,’ Stella said without quite answering the question. She would always cover up for a colleague.
‘Let’s crack away, then. Most of you will know that the bouncer has been bounced out of here by his crafty solicitor. Am I bothered? No. We got enough out of Francisco to convince me he was a minor player. We’ll do him for car theft later.’ She paused, as if to draw a line under Francisco, then spoke in a slow, grave tone she rarely used. ‘But the killer remains at liberty and I’m increasingly concerned that someone else is going to die. At our last meeting, somebody—I think it was you, Paddy’—she made brief eye contact with Sergeant Murphy—‘suggested we might be dealing with a serial killer and I shot you down in flames because two similar murders doesn’t amount to a series.’
Murphy—not normally reticent—had the sense to nod and say nothing. The boss was leading up to something.
Her voice sounded taut. ‘Confession time. Paddy’s words are starting to haunt me. I can’t deny the risk that another drowning may happen, and it’s our duty to prevent it. There’s an intelligent brain behind these crimes, a cunning, cruel determination to dispose of the victims by a method almost unknown in serial killing. It’s cunning because a drowning leaves few traces of the perpetrator. And cruel because it’s a slow, agonizing death.’ She paused, and there was an extraordinary stillness in the room as each of the team imagined being held under water, fighting for breath, swallowing, struggling, becoming weaker and knowing this was certain death.
‘What’s so unusual,’ Hen continued, ‘is that the murderer has to find ingenious ways of getting his victims into water. Meredith Sentinel appears to have gone into the sea by choice, or by invitation. Fiona Halliday was fully dressed, so she must have been forced into the Mill Pond, but the bruising was all related to the drowning.’ She paused, then added almost as an afterthought, ‘Or maybe he doesn’t work like that at all. Pursuing this serial killing idea, the choice of victim may be unimportant. The killer may choose the place of execution and wait, spiderlike, for some hapless woman to come along.’
She took a moment for them to absorb the image. ‘I hope and pray it isn’t so random, because that will be hell to crack. I’m going to put even more pressure on you all to bring an end to this. I feel in my bones that we’re on a countdown and someone else is due to suffer if we can’t stop it.’ She put her hands to her face and patted her cheeks as if to restore the upbeat persona she usually presented to the world. ‘And so, Paddy . . . ’
‘Ma’am?’ DS Murphy had a told-you-so expression.
‘I asked you to check all the recent drownings in Sussex and Hampshire. What’s the picture?’
His face changed. He hadn’t expected to find himself centre stage. He cleared his throat, a sure indicator of loss of nerve. ‘I went over five years of records as you asked.’
‘And?’
‘Thirty-seven drownings, almost all of them accidental and more than half young children.’
‘Nothing homicidal?’
‘There was that Portsmouth millionaire who drowned his lover in their private pool, but he’s doing a life sentence for it. I looked at a couple of cases where open verdicts were returned, but no. In all honesty I couldn’t find anything similar to our drownings.’
‘A negative report, then?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘After this, how do you feel about your theory?’
Paddy blinked twice. This was like a slapped face after the earlier praise. ‘I would have to say it looks less likely.’
‘Unless the killer moved here recently.’
‘From another county?’ The sergeant’s features registered relief, but that changed rapidly to panic as he viewed the prospect of checking the figures for the remaining fifty-three counties in England and Wales.
‘Or from overseas. If you need civilian help, let me know.’ Hen said. ‘It’s top priority. Meanwhile, we do the business on the suspects we have.’ She looked to her left. ‘Stella, you were checking the movements of Dr Sentinel—the husband, not the victim— and you got through to someone else at the St Petersburg hotel where he was staying. Update us on that.’
Stella had already told Hen what she’d discovered. This was for the benefit of everyone else. ‘Yes, they eventually let me speak to someone from housekeeping, who admitted that after the first night of the conference Sentinel’s bed wasn’t slept in until the night before he came home.’
‘Got him!’ someone said from the back of the room.
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ Hen said in a mild, but effective rebuke. ‘In theory, he could have got back here and carried out the murder—a scenario we considered before. But Stella also checked every airline passenger list and nobody of his name appears.’
‘False passport?’ Murphy suggested.
‘Possible, but unlikely unless he was into some other racket. Professional criminals know how to acquire false passports. I doubt if an academic wanting to murder his wife would have the contacts.’
‘So what was he up to, if he wasn’t flying home?’ Murphy said.
‘Sightseeing,’ said Larry Soames, a laid-back DC known for rubbishing everything he deemed farfetched.
‘We’ll ask him,’ Hen said, echoing Larry’s throwaway tone. ‘He’ll be coming to Chichester for the inquest and I’ve got to be there, too. When’s that, Stell?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘Is it?’ Her manner changed. ‘God, is it Tuesday already?’
‘It’s sure to be adjourned.’
‘Of course, but it’s an opportunity.’ She glanced down to see if she was wearing something suitable for the courtroom. Her grey trouser suit would have been better. Maybe she’d slip home at lunchtime. Needing to get her thoughts back on track, she turned towards the display board. ‘We have a picture here of the missing man who is also firmly in the frame. Cartwright, the employer of the second victim, Fiona Halliday. He was seen leaving the print works with her on the Friday afternoon and that was the last sighting of either of them alive. Is he another victim, or could he be the killer? Stella, you searched his house in Apuldram.’
‘Me, and a CSI team,’ Stella said, addressing the team rather than Hen. This process of keeping everyone in the loop was vital. ‘It was all in good order. No signs of violence. He’s a tidy guy. Even washes up his breakfast things before leaving the house.’
‘How do you know it was breakfast?’
‘I just assumed he didn’t go back to the house after the Friday because of all the mail on the mat.’
‘Okay. We’re getting nowhere fast. Anything else on Cartwright?’
‘They looked especially for traces of Fiona’s DNA.’
‘Where—in the bed?’
‘There, yes, and the sitting room downstairs. The results aren’t back yet, of course. For what it’s worth, I didn’t see anything to suggest he’d had a woman there recently.’
‘It’s in Apuldram. Do I know the place? I don’t think I do.’
; ‘South of Chichester, between the Witterings Road and the harbour. You must have been to the pub at Dell Quay.’
‘I have,’ Hen said, ‘but you don’t have to put it as if I’m familiar with every watering hole in the county.’
‘Well, Dell Quay is Apuldram,’ Stella said.
‘Is he a boating type?’
Stella’s eyes widened. ‘He could be. His bedside reading was some kind of sea story. And some of his clothes are from the chandler’s shop at the marina. But they’re the kinds of things anyone would wear in cold weather.’
‘Better look into it, hadn’t we? He could have murdered Fiona and sailed off into the sunset.’
‘We didn’t find anything really obvious like maritime maps.’
‘He’ll have taken them with him,’ Larry Soames said. He’d never been comfortable serving under this all-woman management, and he saw it as his mission to provide the practicalities only a man would think of.
Hen nodded and glanced Stella’s way. ‘See if he has a mooring at Apuldram or the marina.’
‘Or Emsworth,’ Larry Soames chipped in.
‘Good thinking, Larry. Your job.’
‘Ah.’ He’d overdone it this time.
At this point the door handle squeaked. All eyes watched it turn slowly, as if to cause minimal disruption.
‘Don’t be shy,’ Hen called out.
DC Gary Pearce put his youthful face around the door, crimson with embarrassment.
‘I had a feeling someone was missing,’ Hen said. ‘Come in, laddie. What was it—your grandmother’s funeral?’
‘No, guv. I’ve been at Fishbourne. You asked me to visit Kleentext, the printers, to ask if they did any work for the nature reserve.’
‘So I did. What’s the story?’
‘I got there too late last night. The office staff had all gone, so I called on my way to work this morning. I thought I’d still make the meeting, but it took longer than I expected. I’m sorry.’
‘And did you discover anything to mollify me?’
‘To what, guv?’
‘To calm the old bat down.’
‘Possibly I did. I saw the woman in charge, Miss Gemma Casey. She said all the official Pagham Harbour literature, the maps and guides and things, is done through the County Council and another printer has the contract.’
The Headhunters Page 20
