The Headhunters

TEN

All the way back to Chichester Jo was trying to make sense of Jake’s behaviour. She drove as if on autopilot and when she got out she had no memory of being in control of the car.

Her neighbour Doreen was in the hall, smiling and blocking the way, poised for a chat. Jo muttered something about being in a hurry, brushed past, and dashed up the stairs.

For a long time she sat in her living room staring at the wall. She wasn’t able to be rational. Her emotions had taken charge. Until now she hadn’t appreciated the impact this man had made on her. She was locked into his destiny. She cared enormously what happened to him. If he was in trouble, then so was she. Whatever had happened, she couldn’t believe the fault was his.

Eventually she composed herself enough to think back to the news item that had triggered the change in his mood. This, she was sure, had affected him more than anything she’d said herself. Affected him? Poleaxed described it better. His features had crumpled into an image of pain. Was it just the knowledge that the murder victim had been identified, or did the woman’s name mean something to him? He’d texted someone as if to confirm the news.

Whilst driving him back to Selsey in that almost unbearable silence, Jo had convinced herself that he’d recognised the name. He knew who the woman was and was grieving for the loss of a friend. Not an intimate friend-she was someone’s wife, for God’s sake-but someone he’d known from way back.

The police car in his street had come as more of a shock for her than Jake. When he’d insisted Jo didn’t drive up to the house she was reminded that he didn’t want her involved in whatever had to be faced. This was his overriding concern, the reason he’d been so reluctant to be seen with her in Selsey, why he’d worn the hood and why he wouldn’t even sit in a cafe and drink coffee. He was being protective. The moment he saw that police car he’d got out and walked towards it, dignified, resigned, and alone.

It was as if he’d expected the police to be there. His moment of shock had come earlier. By the time they’d driven to Selsey he was in control, calm, and resigned. He knew what to expect because he’d texted the police to tell them he was coming in.

She remembered his words that evening in the Lifeboat Inn after he’d been released from custody: ‘They’re sure I did it. They only let me go because they don’t have the evidence yet.’

A moaning sound, primal in its despair, came from the back of her throat.

She wanted desperately to know what was happening, but phoning Jake was not an option. He’d made a point of giving nothing away to the police about their friendship. To call him now would be a betrayal of all his efforts. She had to wait.

Her eyes moistened. Tears would not be long in coming. She felt for the box of tissues on the table beside her and her hand came to rest on something smooth and square-the Glenn Gould CD case. Jake had been the last to handle it. Instead of a tissue she pressed the cool perspex against her cheek. The disc, his choice, was still in the player. She reached for the remote and pressed PLAY. The music was a solace.

Jake was a suspect because of his time in prison. In his own harsh phrase he was an ex-con. ‘Crazy things happen to me,’ he’d said. ‘I don’t want you drawn into it.’

They would question him again. Presumably they’d found out about his connection with the dead woman, his friend. Or maybe, Jo reasoned-looking for a more acceptable explanation-the woman hadn’t been a particular friend, but just one of the many birdwatchers who visited the nature reserve at Pagham and were shown where some rare species could be observed. Something as innocent as that. Under questioning he would explain the coincidence and they’d have to release him.

In her heart she knew that couldn’t be so. Jake would fold. He wasn’t capable of explaining anything under the workover he’d get. They’d harass and bully him until he broke down. They’d find some spurious evidence and stitch him up.

She used the Kleenex this time.

Stop being a wimp, she told herself. All this speculation was negative and wouldn’t help Jake or herself. The sensible thing was to get more information. Knowledge was strength, and if anyone needed some strength right now, she did. The dead woman’s name was distinctive and so was her husband’s. He was a university lecturer. Lecturer in what, and where?

She collected her laptop, switched on, put the name ‘Sentinel’ into a search engine and waited to see if anything came up.

Over a hundred hits appeared straight away. This was hot news:

Selsey Murder Victim Named

Police investigating the murder by drowning of a woman in Selsey have today named the victim as Mrs Meredith Sentinel, 38. She was the wife of Dr Austen Sentinel, a geology lecturer at Imperial College, London, who has recently returned from a conference in St Petersburg. He was not aware of his wife’s disappearance. Upon finding she had not used their Islington house for several days he informed the police. From his description they linked her to the murder victim and confirmed the identity with photographs. This morning he formally identified the body as that of his wife.

Mrs Sentinel was American by birth and came to this country to pursue an academic career. She met and married Austen Sentinel in 1990, when she was an undergraduate and he a visiting lecturer at the University of Sussex. She later obtained a D. Sc in Zoology and was employed part time at the Natural History Museum, South Kensington. Her parents still live in Louisville, Kentucky, and are reported to be devastated.

As yet the police have been unable to account for the circumstances of Mrs Sentinel’s death. Her almost nude body was found on the beach at Selsey, West Sussex, on September 30. The post mortem revealed that she was held under water until she drowned. Despite an extensive search of the beach and adjacent gardens her clothes have still not been found. She had not indicated to her husband that she intended to visit Selsey while he was abroad.

DCI Henrietta Mallin of Chichester CID is leading the enquiry and has appealed for help from the public. ‘We have interviewed a number of individuals who were on the beach on the day the body was found, but we still know very little about Mrs Sentinel’s last hours. Anyone with information should contact Sussex Police using the emergency number.

Another website had a photo of the couple wearing evening clothes and holding glasses of wine. Meredith Sentinel was blonde and her hair was pinned up except for some wayward strands suggesting that the party had passed the point when perfect grooming mattered. The look in her blue eyes helped to create the impression. A gorgeous, sexy woman, Jo thought. The birdwatcher theory was unravelling already. She couldn’t imagine this charmer sitting in a freezing hide waiting for a Brent goose to fly in.

Austen Sentinel, too, was a looker, quite a hunk for an academic: broad-shouldered, tall, and tanned. The hair was dark, a mass of tight curls. The confident brown eyes left little doubt that his plans for later matched his wife’s. His hand curled over her bare shoulder.

On another website Jo was startled to see her own name. Little else was accurate. Described as a resident of Selsey (wrong), she was supposed to have stumbled over the body (she didn’t stumble over anything) whilst exercising her dogs (what dogs?) on Medmerry Beach (East Beach). A salutary reminder not to believe everything on the internet.

Austen Sentinel’s name cropped up on numerous websites unrelated to the murder. He’d written books and articles and was much quoted in scientific literature. Apparently he was a serial attender of conferences in foreign countries. Was this significant? How did the beautiful wife amuse herself while he was away? Selsey, for all its charms, wasn’t the obvious place a lively lady might choose to visit.

The phone went. She let the answerphone play to find out who was on the line. The voice was Gemma’s.

‘Have you heard, poppet? They’ve discovered who your mystery woman was.’

Trust Gem to want to chew it over. But she wasn’t the only one. Jo badly needed shaking out of her embattled state of mind, and no one was a better shaker than Gemma. She switched off Glenn Gould and picked up the phone. ‘Hi. Just heard your voice. Yes, I caught the news on local radio.’

‘A university wife in nothing but her kecks,’ Gemma said. ‘Am I completely out of touch, or is this the end of civilisation as we know it?’

‘I know. I’d already convinced myself she must be some poor homeless woman with a stack of problems.’

‘My thought exactly,’ Gemma said. ‘Mind, she was probably an alky. They’re well known for irrigating the tonsils, aren’t they, university types?’

‘Some of them,’ Jo said. ‘There’s a picture on the internet of these two holding wineglasses.’

‘Completely stonkered.’

‘I don’t know about that. No, I think that’s unfair. Everyone’s been snapped with a glass in their hand at some stage.’

‘If it’s the same picture I just saw on South Today, “stonkered” is being charitable.’

‘She’d had something to drink before she died,’ Jo said. ‘There were traces in her blood, but not a huge amount, the paper said.’

‘She was probably gaga. The stress gets to these lecturers’ wives, trying to keep up with intellectuals. In the end they don’t know if it’s pancake Tuesday or half-past breakfast time. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know, university life.’

‘I didn’t know you went to uni.’

‘Chichester Tech-as was. They’re all universities now, aren’t they? Doesn’t matter if it’s Oxbridge or Chi. The same things go on. You know the saying, don’t you? If you want to get laid, go to college, but if you want an education use the library.’

‘Oh, Gem!’

‘True. They arrive as freshers thinking it’s all about lectures and essays and quickly find out their pointy-head tutors are expecting a shag. Some of them are dim enough to come across. And a few get spliced. It never lasts. A couple of words out of turn at high table, the confidence goes, and they’re ready to jump off a cliff.’

‘It wasn’t suicide, Gem. Someone drowned her.’

‘Okay, she was such a misery-guts she drove him to it.’

‘Oh? What are you suggesting now? The husband killed her? I thought he was in St Petersburg.’

‘His story. Who’s going to check?’

‘I’m sure the police will if they have any suspicions. He must have given a lecture there.’

‘It might have been scheduled but there’s no telling he actually gave it. Or-how about this? — he gave his spiel on the first day and caught a plane home the same night and did the deed.’ Gemma on cracking form, weaving an entire whodunnit out of nothing.

‘Why would he bring her all the way down to Selsey?’

‘You don’t piss on your own doorstep.’

‘We’re talking about an intelligent guy, Gem. There are cleverer ways of killing your wife than drowning her and leaving the body on the beach.’

‘Ah, but he meant it to be taken for suicide or an accident. He didn’t bargain for the marks on the neck.’

‘You really think he did it?’

‘The spouse is always the main suspect.’

‘They don’t seem to have charged him.’

‘Like you say, they’ll check the alibi first. See if he really was in St Petersburg.’

‘A moment ago you said they wouldn’t check.’

She chuckled. ‘I could have been wrong there. Actually I don’t have a lot of confidence in the rozzers. Plenty of crimes go undetected and it’s only thanks to informers that any get cleared up at all.’

‘There’s some truth in that.’

‘They take the easy option every time. The next thing is they’ll put Dr Sentinel on TV appealing to the public for help. That’s the giveaway. You see it so often. Men think they can bluff it out. Can they, hell?’

‘You don’t think they suspect anyone else?’

‘Like you, for instance, just because you found the body? No, babe, don’t waste any sleep over that.’

Jo wasn’t thinking about herself. ‘Someone local, maybe?’

‘I doubt it. Selsey’s got its share of weirdos, I’m sure, same as every other place, but this looks like a domestic. If it was a sex crime, you could be right, but this wasn’t, was it? I know she was practically starkers, but there was no sign of ground rations that I heard of.’

‘Ground what?’

‘Naughties. Brace up, ducky.’

‘It would be all over the papers if there was.’

‘The lines are open again. Have you asked yourself why she wasn’t wearing clothes?’

‘They went for a midnight swim?’ Jo said. ‘People do. It’s supposed to be liberating.’

‘You’re firing on all cylinders now. Think about it. She’d have to know her killer pretty well to skinny dip with him. Which is precisely why I don’t think it was some yobbo she’d met over a couple of drinks the same night. It’s got to be the husband or a lover.’

‘I think you’re right.’ Jo hoped the police were working along the same lines. She was feeling better for talking to Gemma. ‘But in the picture I saw he appeared to be quite fond of her.’

‘That’s the one he gave the fuzz, I expect. He’s not daft.’

‘He doesn’t look like a killer.’

‘They don’t all have slitty eyes and bad teeth. The Boston Strangler was a dish. Tony Curtis played him in the film.’

‘Gemma, you’re the bloody limit, did you know that? Speaking of murder suspects, have they found your boss yet?’

‘No chance. If you ask me, he’s living it up on the Costa del Crime.’

‘And are you still running the business?’

‘Trying to. I did what you said and pulped all those council pamphlets. Even Hillie on reception has gone quiet now. The next thing will be Fiona’s funeral, I suppose. Some of us will have to show our faces there.’

‘Has it been arranged?’

‘I don’t think they’ve released the body yet. I say… ’ Gemma took a gasp that could be heard down the phone. ‘I just had a thought. What if Dr Sentinel murdered Fiona as well as his wife?’

‘I don’t see how,’ Jo said. Gemma’s capacity for invention knew no bounds.

‘He was in the area.’

‘He was in St Petersburg.’

‘We dealt with that. He came back. First he drowned his wife and then Fiona.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s for the Old Bill to find out. Far be it from me to speculate but if I was in charge I’d look for a connection, like was Fiona ever a student of his?’

‘Unlikely,’ Jo said. ‘She was trained in accountancy, you told me. He’s a geologist.’

‘Yes, and he gets his rocks off by drowning women.’

‘Oh, come on!’

‘It’s worth investigating. I may have a word in that inspector’s ear if she comes by again.’

‘Do that,’ Jo said, deciding to humour her.

‘I’d better go and put on some face. I’m meeting the gorgeous Rick tonight.’

‘It’s still on, then?’

‘Bubbling nicely. We had a slight falling-out over this woman he sees on Sundays, but we’re over it now.’

‘Sally.’

‘I call her his dinner lady, which irks him a bit, because she’s posh and very rich. Lives in a mansion overlooking the harbour at Bosham. It’s got a studio, a games room, and an indoor pool. I wondered why he was wasting his time with me until I found out Sally’s fifty-three.’

‘As old as that? I didn’t know.’

‘A mother-figure, you see. Some men have a lifelong need for them.’

‘He won’t get much mothering from you.’

‘Christ, no. And how’s yours?’

‘Mine? You mean Jake? I still like him, yes.’

‘Cool. Why don’t we all meet for a drink tonight, mend some fences?’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘Just for an hour. We don’t have to spend the whole evening together. Rick and me are going clubbing, anyway, and that’s not Jake’s style. You two could go bowling after. He likes that. But it’s not for me to organise your evening. Let’s say we’ll be in the Slug amp; Lettuce between seven and eight and we’ll look out for you guys.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Go on. Give it a whirl. Jake won’t mind. I’ll call him if you like.’

‘No. Don’t.’ To fend off that possibility, Jo said, ‘If we can get there, we will, but don’t wait around.’ The right moment, she thought, to end the call. ‘Thanks for phoning, Gem. I don’t believe half of what you say, but you always cheer me up.’

After putting down the phone, she shook her head and smiled at the riot of fantasy she’d just heard. A lecturer not only drowns his alcoholic-or insane, or depressed-wife while skinny dipping, but is confirmed as a serial killer by drowning Fiona as well. All of this while he’s attending a conference in St Petersburg.

Inside the terraced house Jake rented in Selsey, Hen Mallin picked a lump of stone off the top of a bookcase. ‘Tell me about this, Jake.’ She’d learned at the first interview that she’d get more out of the man when he relaxed a bit. The rocks on display weren’t things of beauty, so they had to hold some other appeal for their owner. ‘Looks to me like an oyster.’

He emitted a long, tense breath. Even in his own setting he was stumped for words.

Jake may have preferred to move on. Hen didn’t. ‘It’s not shell any more. It’s rock, so this is a fossil, yes?’

A definite nod this time.

She exchanged a glance with Stella, then pressed Jake harder. ‘You’re going to have to help me here. I suppose it has a Latin name?’

‘Gryphaea.’

‘Cop that, Stell. And it’s special, obviously. Very old?’

‘Hundred and fifty.’

‘Thou?’

A shake of the head.

‘Million? Hundred and fifty million? That’s prehistoric.’ She tossed it across the room to Stella, who made a one-handed catch. ‘Have you handled anything as ancient as that, Stell, not counting that sandwich in the police canteen today? And it looks just like a modern oyster to me.’

‘Me, too,’ Stella said. ‘Except this is a Gry-?’

‘-phaea,’ Jake said and volunteered something else. ‘Extinct.’

Now that he’d broken cover, he had to be pursued. ‘Ah,’ Hen said, ‘but it takes an expert to tell the difference. How can you tell it isn’t a common or garden oyster, a mere ten thousand years old?’

‘Thicker,’ he was moved to say. He retrieved the fossil from Stella and returned it to the bookcase. ‘The valve is thicker. In folklore… ’ His voice trailed off, as if he suddenly realised he’d been manoevured into uttering more than a couple of words.

‘Go on, Jake. We’re listening.’

‘In folklore these are devil’s toenails.’

‘So this innocent-looking oyster gets a bad name. I guess devil’s toenails are easier to remember than Gry- whatever.’ She eyed the rest of the exhibits, thinking there wouldn’t be much mileage in them. They were uninspiring. She wouldn’t have minded insects in amber or sharks’ teeth. These were plain old rocks, even if they had Latin names like the extinct oyster.

He was shaping to say something else.

‘Go on,’ she encouraged him. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘Good for arthritis.’

‘Are they, by all that’s wonderful? But how do you take them? Not swallowed, surely?’

‘Grind them to powder.’

‘When my joints start giving me gyp, I’ll know where to come. You’re an authority, obviously.’

‘Amateur.’

‘Shall we talk about the reason you texted me?’ she said, deciding that the confidence-giving had run its course. ‘You say you know the dead woman, Meredith Sentinel.’

‘Met her, yes.’

‘Well, there’s a thing. You’re pulled in for questioning for being close to the scene and having a record and now it turns out the victim is known to you.’

‘Coincidence,’ Jake said, reddening.

‘Really? Let’s look into that. Where did you meet?’

‘Natural History Museum.’

‘London? You visited there?’

‘A few times.’

‘I get the connection, I think. Mrs Sentinel had a part-time job in the fossil department. Not such a thumping great coincidence, then. Showing her some of your specimens, were you?’

He shook his head. ‘Looking at theirs.’

‘Did you meet Mrs Sentinel outside the museum?’

The question startled him. ‘No.’

‘But you knew her by name?’

‘She introduced herself.’

‘Bully for you. Pretty woman, wasn’t she, Jake?’

He didn’t answer that.

‘I thought we might agree on that,’ Hen said. ‘Most guys like a good-looking blonde. She must have made an impression, for you to remember her. How did you find out she was the dead woman on the beach? Saw her picture on TV?’

‘Radio.’

‘I follow you… I think. You recognised the name and decided to tell all before we kicked your front door in. Wise move, Jake.’

He lifted his shoulders a fraction.

‘Where were you when you heard this news?’

‘With a friend.’

‘I said where, not who with.’

‘Chichester.’

‘How long was it before you texted?’

‘Immediately.’

‘Aside from the discussions you and Meredith had about fossils, did you get to know the lady at all? Was she friendly?’

The inevitable nod.

Hen was annoyed with herself. She needed to phrase her questions better to get a response. ‘What did you learn about her life outside the museum?’

‘She cared.’

‘Cared about you?’

‘The rainforests.’

‘Conservation? She shared your opinions, then?’ She saved herself from another nod by saying, ‘You don’t need to answer that. I’m thinking aloud. I’m interested in where you talked about such matters. Must have been difficult in the fossil gallery, or whatever it’s known as.’

‘Over coffee in the restaurant.’

‘Ah-it got as friendly as that? I’m getting the picture now. And what did she have to say about personal matters?’

He frowned.

‘Like life at home?’ Hen prompted him.

‘Not much.’

‘But there was something?’

‘Her husband wasn’t in-’ The statement stopped there.

‘Are you saying you went to the house, Jake?’

‘No.’ He backtracked. ‘Wasn’t in agreement.’

‘With what?’

‘Climate change. He said it was cyclical.’

‘Right,’ she said, the disappointment obvious in her tone. She didn’t want to get into a debate on global warming. ‘Did she at any point talk about coming to Selsey?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t invite her down to see your fossils or go looking for them on the beach?’

Another shake of the head.

‘We don’t know why she was here and neither does her husband. Fossil-hunting seems as likely a reason as any. Do you have any suggestions? No? I wasn’t expecting any, but I had to ask.’

His small living room was pretty basic, emulsioned in the uni- versal off-white called magnolia, with a patch of blue carpet over brown-stained boards. Three-piece suite, vintage 1970, portable TV, bookcase stacked mainly with maps and magazines, coffee table with a bunch of Fair Trade bananas still in their wrapper. A Vernon Ward on the wall of wildfowl flying over water. Not a family photo in sight.

‘How long have you been living here?’

‘Four, five years.’

‘Get on with the neighbours, do you?’

‘No problems.’

‘Do you get out much?’

‘Got an outside job.’

‘Yes, but do you have a social life? Know what I mean?’

He lowered his eyes as if his large feet held the answer. Finally he said, ‘I’m okay.’

In the car, Stella said, ‘Am I missing something here, guv?’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘You don’t think we should pull him in?’

‘Why, do you?’

‘He’s our only suspect apart from the jogger we haven’t traced. And this links him to the victim.’

‘It was a voluntary statement.’

‘I know that, guv. If he’s our man, he’s made a smart move. We would soon have made the link. I happen to think he’s a whole lot brighter than we take him for. He can’t string six words together at a time, but when he does say anything, it’s measured.’

‘I don’t underrate him,’ Hen said. ‘He’s holding down a responsible job. The problem is that the custody clock starts ticking and what do we get out of him? We’ve been over his movements in the hours leading up to the murder. He isn’t fireproof, but any connection is circumstantial.’

‘This link to the victim has some clout, surely?’

‘Not enough to make a charge stand up. Next time I don’t want him to walk away.’

‘So you rate him as the killer?’

Hen tossed it back. ‘Do you?’

‘I was trained to look for motive, means, and opportunity. He had the means to hold her under. He’s a big, strong guy. He had the opportunity. She came to Selsey knowing he lived here. He takes her down to the beach on a fossil hunt. But what would have been his motive?’

‘The visit turned sour,’ Hen said. ‘He’s an ex-con trying to hide his past. Maybe she got wind of it and he panicked and attacked her. Or she told him his fossils are a heap of rubbish.’

‘She was supposed to be a charmer,’ Stella said. ‘I can’t see her treating him like that.’

‘All right. Here’s another angle. She was the first woman who’d agreed to go out with him in five or six years.’

‘She was married, guv.’

‘Yes, and we’ve both seen what the husband is like. Would you stay loyal to a self-regarding berk like Austen Sentinel? You’d find it a strain.’

‘To say the least.’

‘Let’s say Meredith was tempted to play away. She had interests in common with Jake and he was the opposite of her old man, the strong, silent type. But it turned out he wasn’t up for it. He was thinking fossils while she was thinking sex.’

‘Or the reverse.’

Hen frowned, thought about it and gave a nod. ‘I guess. Either way, there’s a fatal moment of discovery. He’s big and strong and violent in a crisis. All the frustrations of the past erupt in him. He grabs her and holds her under till she can’t struggle any more.’

‘I can believe that,’ Stella said.

‘I’ve only got one problem with it,’ Hen said.

‘What’s that?’

‘How come you and I just went to and his house and felt so safe with him?’