The Headhunters

SIXTEEN

‘This time we’ve got him,’ Gary said in the car on the way to Pagham.

Hen gave him a look. ‘There’s an old saying, Gary. Don’t sell the skin till you’ve caught the bear.’

‘New to me.’

‘I dare say. But worth remembering.’

‘Like don’t count your chickens?’

‘This one is more bear than chicken.’

She’d visited this part of the coast a few times before without taking in the existence of the nature reserve. All she’d taken in were drunk and disorderlies from the Crab and Lobster at the north end-and that was way back, before it became an upmarket restaurant. Walking and birdwatching were not pursuits of choice for Hen. She studied the map while Gary did the driving. ‘Bigger than I thought,’ she said after a long silence.

‘That bear?’

‘The place where he hangs out.’

‘His den.’ Gary seemed to be enjoying himself.

‘The main acreage of the reserve is inland, to the north of us, farmland put to grass by the look of it. Before we look there I want to be certain he isn’t on view around the edges of the harbour. The footpath goes right around.’

‘Exposed, then?’

‘By the looks of it. We’ll see if we can spot him from the viewpoint I know. If nothing else, I get to have a smoke,’ Hen said.

‘In a nature reserve, guv?’

‘It’s the open air.’

She lit up the moment she stepped out of the car. She’d brought Gary to the rear of the Crab and Lobster at Sidlesham Quay because she knew they didn’t need to walk far to have a panoramic view of the harbour. The pub would also be a good meeting point if reinforcements were needed. Coppers know how to find pubs.

‘We’re going to need glasses.’

‘Plenty in the pub, I reckon,’ Gary said.

‘Field glasses.’

He opened the boot of his car and handed her a pair of 8x binoculars.

‘Good planning. You wouldn’t have size five wellies as well? I thought not.’ She told him to look through the glasses for a tall, solitary man, possibly hooded. Meanwhile, she found a flat rock and sat inhaling from her cigarillo.

‘Any joy?’

‘Not yet,’ Gary said. ‘It’s as quiet as the grave this morning. Just a courting couple on the Church Norton side.’

‘How do you know they’re courting?’

‘He’s unbuttoning her jacket.’

‘They must be good glasses.’

‘They’re steaming up.’

‘Isn’t there anyone else in view? Who’s that on the other side?’

Gary put the binoculars down to check and then refocused. ‘A little bald guy in a shellsuit walking his dog.’

She came to a decision. ‘Obviously we can’t see all of the harbour from here. We’ll have to find another viewpoint.’

‘Church Norton?’

‘Voyeur.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You just want a closer view of that couple.’

‘Seriously, guv. Church Norton looks like the best bet. We could follow the footpath.’

‘That isn’t serious, Gary. It’s at least a mile off.’

They returned to the car and used the roads to reach the car park created for birders and visitors to St Wilfrid’s Chapel. Theirs was the only vehicle. A short walk in the harbour direction gave them a view right across to Pagham. Nobody of Jake’s description was in sight. Even the lovers had disappeared.

Hen lit up again. She was getting anxious. This manhunt wasn’t the doddle it had first appeared.

‘You know what? This is a job for the Eye in the Sky.’

Gary was wide-eyed. ‘The chopper?’

‘Think big, lad.’

There was only one helicopter for the whole of Sussex Police, a McDonnell Douglas 902 Explorer, based at Shoreham airfield.

‘Get on to the Air Ops Unit and see if it’s available. From all I’ve heard there are four pilots on standby and they spend most of their time playing poker.’

‘It costs a bomb to run.’

‘Six-fifty an hour. A lot of those hours are spent collecting suicide victims at Beachy Head. This will give the lads a break: a real, live suspect to find. Tell them we’ll meet them on the Church Norton shingle spit. Too many trees around this poky little car park. They can put down there, no problem.’

Gary got busy with his personal radio. The chopper would arrive in under twenty minutes, he informed Hen.

‘I’m surprised we qualify to use it,’ he told her as they stepped out towards the spit, and then added, ‘Do we?’

‘Leave that for me to sort out,’ she said. ‘We’re dealing with a serious crime here.’

She’d not flown in the helicopter and she was sure Gary hadn’t. It was supposed to be used when life was at risk or a serious crime in progress, but she’d once seen a headline in the Mail on Sunday: SPY IN THE SKY POLICE AIM TO TRAP SPEEDSTERS. The Sussex chopper was ‘bringing more misery to Britain’ by reporting speeding motorists, timing them from eight hundred feet between sections of road marked with spots as large as dinner plates. Hen was occasionally tempted to put her foot down. She’d been caught in a speed trap once and only escaped thanks to a good story and a sympathetic traffic officer. If the helicopter crew hadn’t got anything better than speeding motorists to occupy them, she reasoned, they could help round up Jake.

The spit was the harbour’s bulwark against the sea, an artificial hump of shingle about a hundred metres wide. They reached it with time to spare.

She lit another while they waited. If truth were told, she was a mite uneasy about calling in the helicopter, for all her bravado. The top brass enquired into every mission, and flying over a nature reserve was sure to breach the bylaws. ‘Just a thought,’ she said to Gary. ‘If they ask, he’s on the run and dangerous, okay?’

‘Okay.’

She undermined this by what she said next. ‘Between ourselves, I get the impression Jake is a loner, but I suppose it’s possible he has a girlfriend. When you had the glasses on that couple did you look at the guy’s face?’

‘The lovers? He had his back to me, guv.’

‘Could you make a guess at his height?’

‘He was horizontal.’

She took a long, thoughtful drag on the cigarillo. Everything seemed so peaceful, too peaceful for an emergency.

‘We didn’t check inside that pub,’ Gary said.

‘You’re not helping.’

A buzzing from over Bognor heralded H902, the Eye in the Sky. Gary started waving a white handkerchief.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Hen told him. ‘We’re pretty damned obvious standing out here.’

The helicopter was yellow and black and noisy. The rotor action lifted some sand off the stones and flattened some of the shingle plants that grew in abundance here. One of the crew beckoned to Hen and Gary to go closer. When the aircraft touched down properly they bowed their heads and got in.

There was seating for eight, but only three crewmen were inside, including the pilot. ‘What exactly is the mission?’ one of them shouted to Hen.

‘A search for a murder suspect. White Caucasian male in his forties, about six foot six, dark, possibly hooded.’

‘Has he been sighted?’

‘Not yet. He works here. Familiar with the terrain.’

‘There’s no railway this side of Bognor.’

It was hard to hear. ‘Never mind.’

‘Let’s go, then. And chuck the stogie, for Christ’s sake.’

She’d forgotten she was still holding the cigar-butt.

The Explorer began a near vertical ascent that left Hen’s stomach on the ground.

With the door closed, conversation was possible. She learned that the crew were the pilot, a police observer, and a paramedic.

The pilot reported back to his flight controller in Shoreham and then said, for the benefit of his passengers, ‘Let’s be methodical. I’ll take you to the southern limit of the reserve and back, following the shoreline. Is this guy armed?’

‘Could be,’ Hen said, giving herself a fright as she realised that a shotgun would be needed by a warden, even in a nature reserve.

An aerial search was ideal for an area as big as this, no question. Happily the visibility was excellent this sharp October morning. They were flying low enough to observe anyone. A birdwatcher had set up his camera above the Severals, one of the shallow pools the waders used, and the sun glinted off the chrome tripod. The entire feathered population of the area took flight, leaving him with nothing to photograph. Hands on hips, he glared upwards. In Park Copse, outside the reserve, a woman was walking a Dalmatian. You could almost have counted the spots.

The pilot about-turned the helicopter and began the systematic tracking of the shoreline. ‘Soon as you see anything, scream out,’ he said. ‘You’re the eyes on this job, not me.’

Hen had a seat on the left, looking inland. Gary was watching the shoreline. They passed over a large gabled house. The police observer had a map out and said it was Norton Priory. I wouldn’t mind your job, squire, Hen thought. She didn’t know such a soft option existed.

Above the car park near the red-roofed chapel they spotted Gary’s little Nissan, still the only car in view. A short way on, Hen said, ‘Hey ho, cap. There’s the couple we saw earlier. Can we get a closer look at the man?’ She picked up Gary’s binoculars.

The pair had chosen a new spot at the edge of a reed bed.

‘Bit early in the day for that, isn’t it?’ the pilot said.

The couple’s movements indicated that they had found a way of lovemaking whilst fully clothed in padded jackets. The presence of a helicopter overhead didn’t inhibit the blonde, squatting astride the recumbent man, her long hair dancing with the rhythm.

‘The zips would worry me,’ the policeman said.

‘Just thinking about it makes my eyes water,’ Gary said.

‘Anyway, he doesn’t look as if he’s on the run,’ the pilot said.

‘And he’s better-looking than the man we’re after,’ Hen said. ‘Shall we leave them to it?’

They continued in an inland direction along the curve of the shore. It was mostly open land. The Selsey Road, with glittering cars moving in both directions, was ahead.

‘There must have been a ferry here one time, where the road crosses the water,’ the policeman with the map said. ‘That’s Ferry Farmhouse coming up.’

‘Sidlesham Ferry,’ Hen informed them. She knew the main points along the road.

‘Visitors’ centre on my side,’ Gary said. ‘Hello, there’s something in the car park. Looks like a Panda.’

Nobody said anything about wild animals.

‘Probably belonged to that couple,’ the pilot said.

‘No, they had bikes,’ Gary said. ‘I saw when we flew over.’

‘Does your suspect have a motor?’ the pilot asked.

‘Not to my knowledge,’ Hen said.

They moved on and Sidlesham Quay came up, with the little cluster of cottages around the Crab and Lobster, then a tricky promontory that curled around the inlet where the footpath led along the top of Pagham Wall, one more solid defence against the sea.

The police observer looked up from his map. ‘There isn’t a lot more after this. A section called Slipe Field and beyond that a holiday village, and then you’re getting into the outskirts of Bognor.’

‘We’ll finish the job,’ the pilot said. ‘Are you sure your man is down there somewhere?’

‘Dead sure,’ Hen said. ‘He works here.’ But behind the confident words, she was beginning to feel this would be viewed as an expensive mistake by the high-ups at headquarters.

The Explorer competed its circuit of the harbour and crossed over Pagham Spit and the narrow channel of water between.

‘Want to go round again?’ the pilot offered like a fairground attendant.

Hen was about to say it was the only thing to do, but Gary spoke first. ‘Can I borrow the glasses, guv? There’s an inflatable out in the middle.’

‘A boat? I thought the harbour was closed to shipping.’

‘It should be-unless it’s official. They have to get out and monitor the water levels and stuff like that.’

‘Can we get closer?’ Hen asked the pilot.

They made a sharp turn and zoomed across the water towards the small craft.

‘I think it’s him,’ Gary said. ‘He’s wearing the hood.’

Hen sent up a silent prayer that he was right.

The pilot said, ‘If I go too close there’s a danger of churning up water and sinking him.’

‘So?’ Hen said. ‘He’s a big boy. He can swim.’

‘We don’t work that way.’

They swooped close enough for Hen to see the problem for herself. There was already disturbance on the water below them. ‘Is there any way we can round him up?’

‘We can try. He’s aware of us by now.’

The pilot slowed the helicopter and let it hover to one side of the inflatable, creating a circular pattern of waves but not enough to splash over the sides.

‘He’s got the idea, I think,’ Gary said. ‘He’s heading for the shore.’

The little boat was chugging towards the Church Norton shoreline.

‘Any chance you can put us down?’ Hen asked the pilot.

‘Do my best.’

From the air it seemed an unequal contest, the helicopter capable of ten times the speed. But they needed a landing area reasonably close to where the inflatable would put ashore. Jake knew the ground better than Hen or Gary, and might easily make a run for it and get away.

She asked Gary if he’d still got his personal radio. He wasn’t wearing it on his lapel or anything so obvious.

‘Fixed to my belt.’

‘Good.’ She spoke to the pilot. ‘If you track him from the air after you put us down, we can keep in radio contact.’

‘Can you run a bit?’

‘Gary can.’

‘I noticed a car park near the chapel. It’s small, and there are trees around, but I think I can put you down there.’

‘We know it.’

‘Your suspect might have a good start.’

‘Gary can do it,’ Hen said with confidence.

‘Gary and whose army?’ Gary said. ‘He’s six foot six.’

‘You’ve got the law on your side. And I won’t be far behind.’

Gary looked at the others in the aircraft for offers of help. The paramedic shook his head. The police observer lifted his trouser-leg a few inches to reveal an artificial limb. ‘It’s why I was given the job.’

The pilot said, ‘The Eye in the Sky will watch over you, son.’

‘Thanks a bunch,’ Gary said.

Below, the inflatable dinghy continued steadily towards the Church Norton shore. Probably it would take another minute.

‘We’ll go for it,’ the pilot said, veering left, inland, and over the roof of St Wilfrid’s Chapel. ‘Want me to call up ground reinforcements?’

‘You bet I do,’ Hen said. ‘You’re carrying cuffs, are you, Gary?’

Gary nodded. He was looking pale.

They touched down in the car park and jumped out, Gary first. ‘Don’t wait for me,’ Hen yelled, on her knees. ‘Get weaving.’

The helicopter soared again and away over the trees, to keep tabs on Jake.

Hen pulled herself upright and jogged along the footpath some way behind Gary, taking shallow breaths and regretting the years of smoking. Her mouth was dry and her chest hurt, but she made the best speed she could. For all the tough talk she didn’t want Gary tackling Jake unaided.

The Eye in the Sky was hovering only about a hundred yards ahead, an encouraging sign. Hen redoubled her efforts, climbed up a small rise and saw that Gary had already reached the inflatable. But to her amazement, he wasn’t struggling with Jake. He hadn’t made the arrest or taken out the handcuffs. He was helping to beach the dinghy.

Chest heaving now, she had to walk the last stretch. She could see as she approached that the hooded boatman wasn’t tall enough to be Jake. Not a boatman at all, she now discovered, but a boatwoman whose face was familiar.