The House Sitter

by Peter Lovesey

  “But she was sleeping with Ken.”

  “No, she’d stopped sleeping with Ken. That’s what makes him special.”

  He returned to the basement to finish reading Emma Tysoe’s files. The third was dated two days before her death. It turned out to be the shortest.

  Can’t get Jimmy Barneston out of my mind. I know he’s working all hours on the case and I can’t expect him to call me and make another date, but I keep wondering if he thinks of me as nothing more than an easy lay. It didn’t seem like that at the time. OK, neither of us made a big emotional deal of it. We fancied each other and went to bed. But the sex was special (I ought to know) and I’ve never felt so good as I did lying beside him afterwards. I’d like to be cool and tell myself he was just another shag, but I can’t. There’s a whole lot more about Jimmy that I find attractive. I want more. I want a real relationship.

  Computer, what can I do? Sit here biting my fingernails, or think of something positive? I could ask to meet Anna Walpurgis, I suppose, but even if it could be arranged I really doubt if she can tell me anything useful. I sense I’ll get nothing more from her than I did from Matthew Porter. I’m thinking they were chosen because of their fame, to create more of a sensation when they are killed. I say ‘when’ because in spite of all the security I feel strongly the Mariner knows what he’s doing.

  Hold on. I’ve just made a whopping assumption. OK, profiling is all about probabilities rather than certainties, but let’s stand this one on its head. All along I’ve been reminding myself there may be nothing personal in the Mariner’s selection of these people as targets. Could I be mistaken?

  From a profiling perspective, I’m conditioned to expect the victims to be randomly picked. Serial killers-the true serial killers-have no personal involvement with the people they kill, no other motive than that they fit a pattern. That’s why they’re so difficult to catch. They choose a class of victim, like prostitutes, or schoolgirls, or young boys, or old women, and prey on them ruthlessly. I’ve taken it for granted that the Mariner fits the mould and has targeted the famous and successful. He gives the impression of being detached, cool, calculating, everything I expect.

  But is he a true serial killer after all?

  Maybe-just maybe-he does know them personally. I’VE GOT TO EXPLORE THIS. The fact that he has named his second and third ‘victims’ in advance is a departure. It adds another dimension to his agenda as the killer, and makes the whole process more difficult for him. Why take the risk? Is it because he wants to strike fear into these people’s hearts? Is there a personal grudge behind all this?

  If so, then Porter and Walpurgis are the key to this case.

  I should insist on a meeting with Walpurgis. She may tell me some detail of real importance, maybe linked to what I already know about Summers, or Porter. She’s the one I know least about, simply because bimbo popstars don’t interest me at all. But I’ve looked her up on the Internet, and there’s plenty. She’s better known for the clothes she wears than her talent. She can afford the best. She did very nicely out of the pop singing, first with the Fates, and then her solo career. She topped the charts in Britain and America in her best years and had a huge three-album contract with one of the record companies. And when the first album flopped they paid her off with about twenty million. Twenty million for not singing! She married one of the super-rich kings of industry and came into all his money when he fell off the perch not long after. In one of those lists of Britain’s richest women she’s in the top twenty and has the controlling interest in her old man’s company, so she can’t be a total airhead. Even so, I can’t see her discussing poetry with Axel Summers, but let’s not prejudge.

  (Later) Jimmy isn’t sure if he can fix an early meeting with Walpurgis. He says she’s in a panicky state, close to a breakdown, and finding the security hard to take. They think she shouldn’t be disturbed in her present mental state. Ridiculous. I reminded him that I have a Ph.D in psychology, but it cut no ice. ‘Maybe in a couple of days,’ he said. I told him the profile can’t progress until I’ve spoken to her. You have to get tough with Jimmy, as I discovered when I insisted on meeting Matt Porter (my pin-up). This time he didn’t promise to get back to me, or anything.

  I asked him if he’d spent any time with Walpurgis, and he said he had about forty minutes with her when they broke the news that she was on the Mariner’s death-list, and he’s visited her in the safe house a couple of times since. This man-eater has seen Jimmy more times than I have. Soon I’ll be getting jealous.

  I said if I couldn’t get to see her myself, could I give him a list of questions to put to her? He agreed, so I jumped in with both feet and said it wasn’t quite so simple as making a list. In view of her fragile mental state I’d need to brief him personally about the way it was done, and debrief him afterwards (I have no shame), and how was he fixed this weekend?

  He sounded slightly ambushed, but that’s it. Perfecto! He’s agreed to see me tomorrow morning (Saturday), and I’m off (or on) for the weekend, I hope. The weather’s going to be glorious. I shall pack my swimsuit, just in case I can tempt him out of the nick and down to the coast.

  Wish me luck, Computer.

  Diamond smiled at the last line, then shook his head and sighed, as if it had been addressed to him in person. Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye. Emma’s luck had run out on Wightview Sands.

  He closed down the computer and went upstairs.

  14

  Hen Mallin had read the files overnight. “I learned a sight more than I expected,” she said on the phone next morning to Diamond. “Almost enough to bring a blush to my innocent cheek. And I thought profiling was all about maps and diagrams.”

  “Like so much else it comes down in the end to people making judgements about other people,” he said, in a rare reflective vein. “Emma Tysoe had it right about one thing. We’re all governed by our hormones.”

  “Snap out of it, Pete. You’re talking like an agony aunt.”

  He laughed.

  “So what’s next?” Hen asked. “Do you pull in this guy Ken and wrap it up fast? He looks bang to rights.”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Meaning you haven’t nicked him yet?”

  “Still trying to trace him.”

  “He’s right in the frame,” Hen said as if Diamond needed more convincing. “The jilted lover, consumed by jealousy. It’s one of the oldest motives around. I’m willing to bet he was the guy in the black T-shirt the Smiths saw.”

  “Olga Smith saw,” he corrected her. “The husband didn’t see him.”

  “So what? My money’s on him.”

  A bit sweeping, ma’am, Diamond thought. He liked accuracy, and he also liked to understand why things happened. “If that was Ken, what took him all the way down to Wightview Sands?”

  “Car, obviously. Emma gives him the elbow, but he won’t go away. Guessing there’s another guy in her life, he follows her to Horsham and sees her cosying up to Jimmy Barneston. While those two spend Saturday night together, the luckless Ken is sitting in his car thinking murderous thoughts. In the morning he trails her down to Wightview Sands and tries to talk her round. When his limited amount of charm doesn’t succeed, he gets really mad and strangles her.”

  “Maybe,” he said, leaving plenty of room for doubt.

  “Give me a better scenario if you can.”

  “I’m still thinking about yours. We don’t know for certain if she spent another night with Barneston.”

  “So are you going to ask Jimmy?”

  “We’ll have to, obviously. Indeed, if you’d prefer to have a word with him yourself…”

  “Nice try, matey,” she said in a tone that was not impressed at all. She probably regretted airing her theory now.

  “You know the bloke better than I do.” He gently turned the screw. “You might get more out of him than me.”

  She wasn’t fully tuned in to the Diamond sense of humour. There was a stiff silence, broken eventual
ly by Diamond. “All right, let’s see him together.”

  “When do you suggest?” she said with a definite lift in the voice.

  “ASAP. You’re sure you don’t object to me being there?”

  “Object? You’re a star. I’ll buy you a pub lunch.”

  “You’re on.”

  “And you say Bramshill have got their own copy of the files?”

  “They commandeered them. It’s just a question of how long they take to decrypt them. I’m hoping you and I get to Barneston first.”

  “He won’t like it one bit.”

  “We’re entitled,” Diamond emphasised. “He’s become a crucial witness.”

  She sighed. “OK, I’m convinced.”

  “He could be a suspect, in fact.”

  “Hold on, Peter. That’s pushing it. He’s a brother officer. He’s one of us.”

  His skittish mood suddenly altered. His stomach tightened. That argument had been tried on him in the worst weeks of his life, and it had proved to be false. “He’s got to be treated like anyone else.”

  “What, for being the last bloke Emma was seen with?”

  “We don’t know what passed between them that last night. She had another night of passion in mind, but Jimmy could have gone cool on her.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s not unknown.”

  “She’d be devastated,” Hen said. “That’s an angle I hadn’t considered. A falling out between those two. But surely it couldn’t have ended in murder? Do you truly think that’s a possibility?”

  “I don’t know enough about Barneston yet. It’s all speculation until we speak to him, isn’t it?”

  “Let’s do it, then.”

  There was a danger of being carried away by Hen’s get-up-and-go. “Before we do, I’d really like to hear from Olga Smith, if she’s recovered enough to talk.”

  “About what she saw on the beach? Now that’s a smart move. She’s out of hospital. She’s at home now. Her sister is looking after her.”

  “Any news on the husband?” Diamond asked.

  “He’s facing charges of smuggling cigarettes.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Honey, this wasn’t a few packets in his hand luggage. This was big-time smuggling, a profitable scam at the airport with some baggage handlers. They delivered them to his stockroom in cartons the size of tea chests, and he acted as a conduit to the criminal trade right across the south-east.”

  “Which explains the large cash deposits?”

  “And why he cut and ran when Stella Gregson called at the house. Customs and Excise have taken it over now. He’ll go down for a spell.”

  “And I reckon a few of those fags will have found their way into officers’ pockets. Did he deal in cigars?”

  Hen laughed. “No such luck.”

  They agreed to meet at midday at the Smiths’ house in Crawley. Hen would call Olga Smith and arrange an interview. Later they would drive the short distance to Horsham and speak to Jimmy Barneston-and not by appointment.

  Ingeborg was back in the incident room using a phone when Diamond looked in. He asked if she’d identified Ken.

  She shook her head. “I’m still checking the reservations at Popjoy’s.”

  “Do they ask their customers for phone numbers?”

  “Yes. I’m running through the list right now. The thing is, they only write down the surnames.”

  “Did you think about checking the credit card slips? You might pick up some initials there. ”

  “Oh.” She put down the phone. “Good thinking, guv.”

  When he told Ingeborg and Halliwell he could be contacted later if necessary at Horsham police station, knowing glances were exchanged. Not much escaped them. He was damned sure they knew about Jimmy Barneston’s romp with Emma Tysoe.

  On the drive through Wiltshire and across Salisbury Plain he welcomed the chance to catch up mentally on the past twenty-four hours. Emma’s lively love life had shifted the balance of the case. Earlier, he’d assumed her reputation as a top profiler had put her in the path of her killer. Now it seemed possible it was a crime of passion.

  He hoped not. If this turned out to be no more than a matter of pulling in Ken-whoever he was-and charging him with the strangling on the beach, there would be no pretext for staying involved in the more fascinating case of the Mariner. He really wanted to pit himself against this arrogant killer. But as soon as someone else was charged with the murder of Emma, Jimmy Barneston could say, “Hands off. The Mariner is my investigation.”

  It was almost a temptation to hang fire for a bit. Pity he’d suggested the credit card slips to Ingeborg. She might have found the right name already.

  A small, solemn girl with her hair in bunches tied with white ribbon came to the door.

  “You must be Haley,” Hen said.

  A nod.

  “We’ve come to see Mummy, my darling. Can we come in?”

  Olga Smith, pale and tight-lipped and wrapped in a black dressing gown made of towelling, was sitting in the living room they knew from their previous visit. Another woman sat at the table in the window bay, arms folded, making it clear she intended to remain. She had the watchful look of a solicitor.

  Olga said, “My sister Maud is here to support me.”

  She could still have been a solicitor.

  Hen said, “Whatever you wish.”

  So the sister remained. Haley had already nestled close to her mother on the sofa.

  “This is not easy for any of us, Mrs Smith,” Diamond opened up, “and we’re grateful to you for seeing us. You’re looking much better than when we saw you last.”

  She said, “I’ve been advised not to discuss the trouble my husband is in.”

  “That’s fine by me. We’re here on another matter entirely.”

  “The woman at Wightview Sands?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t mind talking about that. I wanted to say something when we first heard what happened, but Mike, my husband-”

  The sister interrupted. “Careful, Olga.”

  Diamond said evenly, “That’s OK. We understand. Just tell us what you remember of that Sunday on the beach.”

  “I’ll do my best. We got there at about eleven, I think, and it was already crowded in the car park. We found a spot on that part of the beach near where the lifeguards have their lookout, and we hadn’t been there long when she arrived and sat more or less in front of us.”

  “On her own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember what she was carrying?”

  “A blue towel and a windbreak for sure.”

  “A bag?”

  “Yes, some kind of beachbag, blue, like the towel, with a dolphin design, about the size of the average carrier bag, but not so deep.”

  This was new, and possibly important. Olga Smith had made the journey worthwhile already.

  “She was wearing a headband that she took off and put in the bag. I think she was in denim shorts and a top that she took off later. She spread out the towel on the sand and set up the windbreak. She took her sunglasses out of the bag and put them on. And she had a bottle of sunscreen. After that, she settled down behind the windbreak and I couldn’t actually see her. But later I went down the beach to take an ice cream to Haley, and when I returned I had a different view and the woman was sunbathing in a white two-piece.”

  “She didn’t speak?”

  “Not that time. She smiled at me. And quite soon after that, a man came by and spoke to her. They seemed to know each other from what I overheard.”

  “What did you overhear?”

  Olga Smith blushed. “I’m not nosy. You can’t help picking up bits of conversation on a beach. He was being amusing, or trying to, trotting out that line from some old film about all the gin-joints in all the world.”

  “‘Of all the gin-joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.’”

  “That’s it.”

  “Humphrey Bogart in C
asablanca.”

  “Was it? Anyway, as a chat-up line, it didn’t seem to work very well. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I heard his side of the conversation. He offered to get an ice-cream or a drink and she wasn’t interested. Then he asked to join her and she obviously gave him a short answer because he said something like, ‘Suit yourself, then. I’ll leave you to it.’ Then he swore and walked away.”

  “What were the words?”

  “The swearing?” She blushed again and glanced at her sister, who turned her head and looked out of the window.

  “He said, ‘Oh, what the fuck.’” She mouthed the final word, unseen by her small daughter.

  “He was angry, then?”

  “Annoyed, anyway. After he’d gone, he didn’t look back.”

  “This is really helpful,” Diamond told her. “Can you remember what the man looked like?”

  “I’d say he was around thirty. He had a black T-shirt and I think he was wearing jeans. His hair was black, quite curly. Latin looks, I think you’d call them.”

  “Was he tall?”

  “Not specially. About average, I think, with wide shoulders and narrow hips. He was nice-looking, a broad, strong face. I think he had sunglasses on, because I don’t remember his eyes.”

  “But you’d recognise him if you saw him again?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Your husband told us he didn’t see this man. Why was that?”

  “Mike was face down with his eyes closed.”

  She’d sketched a pretty good word-picture. Diamond had his own mental image of the Smiths relaxing on the beach while this potentially fatal rebuff took place in front of them.

  “Before I ask you about the rest of the afternoon, do you remember who else was sitting to either side of you?”

  “A French family to our right. Parents and three small children. And to our left, three girls in their teens.”

  Tourists and teenagers. He doubted if any of them would come forward as witnesses. “You seemed to suggest just now that the woman spoke to you at some stage of the day.”

  “Yes, it was when I went down to the sea to collect Haley. We were going to eat some sandwiches for lunch. Haley and I had a little race up the beach and I was some way behind. The woman said she wished she had such energy, or some such. That was all.”