Jo didn’t laugh. She’d just heard a confession of murder and she was appalled. She couldn’t believe Gemma found it funny. A man was dead.
‘As a matter of fact, he’d only just told me when you came along. Well, shortly before Jake arrived. He’d been holding out all this time. I wouldn’t play poker with him if I were you. Lighten up, darling,’ Gemma told her. ‘Drink up and have a good laugh.’
‘How can you say that?’ Jo said. ‘You must be out of your mind.’
Rick turned to Gemma and said, ‘Didn’t I warn you?’
Gemma said, ‘Don’t make an issue out of this, Jo.’
‘Don’t make an issue!’ Jo hurled the words back as her shock found an outlet in anger. ‘Have a good laugh? I don’t think so!’
‘You knew it was being talked about. You joined in. We’re the Headhunters, the three of us and Jake.’
‘Don’t involve me in this,’ Jo said. ‘Or Jake. We were joking when we said those things. It was never serious.’
‘It was for me, ducky. I had to put up with sodding Cartwright every day. You didn’t even meet him, so you don’t have to feel sorry for him.’
‘Feel sorry! What I feel isn’t important. This is cold-blooded murder, Gem. It’s a crime, the worst of all crimes, taking someone’s life. I don’t care who he was, you can’t do that.’
‘It’s a bit bloody late to be saying so.’
‘I’d have said the same thing when we first discussed it if I’d believed you had the slightest intention of carrying it out.’
‘I was serious,’ Rick said. ‘Did anyone see me laughing at the time?’
Gemma took him by the arm and looked admiringly into his face. ‘He said he could carry out the perfect murder, and now he’s proved it.’
‘Just as long as nobody shops us,’ Rick said.
Jo was getting the shakes. She put her glass on the ledge. ‘I can’t stay and listen to you two. I’m leaving.’
‘You want to ruin everything?’ Gemma said, red-faced.
‘It wasn’t me who ruined it.’
Rick said, ‘Keep this to yourself, Jo.’
She felt like spitting in his murderous face. Without another word she turned and walked off, out of the dance area, across the foyer, and towards the fresh air. She needed some.
Rick shouted after her, ‘Remember what I said. Keep your bloody mouth shut.’
She ran to the nearest taxi and got in. At this time of the evening the last hovercraft had left. The only way back to the mainland was by the ferry a couple of miles west of Ryde. That had always been their intended route home. The steamships sailed into the small hours.
Grateful that the driver wasn’t the talkative sort, Jo huddled in the back, gripping her arms, and tried to get control of her thoughts. The way Gemma and Rick had spoken about the killing and disposal of Denis Cartwright-as if it was something to be proud of-was chilling. To be strictly truthful, it was Gemma who’d wanted to crow about the murder. She’d had to force the admission from Rick. Yet it was obvious from the way he’d spoken that he, too, thought of it as some sort of achievement, the so-called perfect murder.
They’d been expecting congratulations.
How do you get into a mindset like that? Horrible as it was to contemplate, the killing must have been kindled out of their relationship. Rick had done it to please Gemma. He must have. He had nothing personal against Mr Cartwright. Like Jo herself, Rick didn’t know the man when they’d all talked in that ludicrous way about methods of disposing of him.
Gemma had said more than once that she hadn’t yet slept with Rick. Had she offered sex as the reward for killing her boss? The thought was grotesque, but what else could have motivated Rick? Arrogant as he was, he hadn’t stooped to murder just to prove a point.
Gemma was triumphant. That was why she’d found it impossible to keep the knowledge to the two of them. She wanted it known that this guy was so in thrall that he’d killed for her.
They couldn’t call it a perfect murder any more.
‘We’re there, love.’
It was the driver breaking into her thoughts. She paid him and walked over to the ferry and bought her ticket. This would be the last crossing tonight, the man told her. The sea was “churning up a bit” and there was a storm coming in.
Rick and Gemma would be stuck on the Island for the night. Not a problem for those two, Jo thought. They’d share a bed somewhere and wallow in their cleverness.
She was so glad she’d left when she had.
FOURTEEN
Sometimes a night in custody softens up a suspect.
‘Have you thought about what I was asking you last night?’ Hen asked Francisco.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And I’m saying sod all without a lawyer.’
Sometimes not.
The problem, as Hen well knew, was that he would say sod all with a lawyer. Trying not to show annoyance, she asked if he had one.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m a good boy, ain’t I? Never needed one till you came along.’
She sent Gary to fetch the list.
The fallout from Rick’s confession of murder had troubled Jo all night long. ‘Confession’ wasn’t the word; there was no contrition in it. He’d explained what he’d done in that spine-chilling matter-of-fact manner that left Jo in no doubt it was true.
What now? Her moral duty was to report him, but this wasn’t so simple. Her dealings with the police over the body on Selsey beach had left her feeling more of a hindrance than a help. Without any evidence that Rick had killed Cartwright, it would be her word against Rick’s and Gemma’s. Those two would deny everything. That Chief Inspector Mallin already thought she was a time-waster.
And she couldn’t forget the threat from Rick, shouted at her back when she quit the nightclub. Behind his tough words was a desperate man who regretted speaking out. She was at risk. If he decided she was going to shop him to the police, why shouldn’t he kill again?
Bloody Gemma had engineered this. By pressing Rick to tell all, she’d made sure she was no longer the only one in on the secret. If Rick was tempted to silence her he’d need to silence Jo as well. So the threat was shared.
What a thicko I’ve been, she thought. I went out with Rick a few times, snogged, petted, and came horribly near to full sex with him, and failed to see the danger signals. He’s always had an edge, the dark quality that is part of the attraction of the man. But I didn’t believe in him as a killer, even after he revealed his interest in murder.
What drove him to do it? Rick had nothing personal against Cartwright. He hadn’t met the man when he’d started talking about disposing of him. His motive was to impress Gemma. Had to be. Clearly there was a sexual element. Gem had confided more than once that she hadn’t slept with him when they’d started going out. He’d listened to her stupid talk about killing the boss and taken it seriously. He knew the sure way to pull her.
As for Gemma, she gloried so much in the murder that she couldn’t keep it to herself. The logic of her behaviour was that she had a share of the guilt. She was-what did they call it? — a conspirator. A latter-day Lady Macbeth. She hadn’t struck the fatal blow, but she’d urged him on. She’d made killing Cartwright a test of Rick’s passion and rewarded him with sex.
If Gemma’s up to her eyes in this, Jo thought, then what about me? I was never serious. I wasn’t involved. But I am now. I know about this crime and I’m not telling the police.
Before nine, her phone rang. She checked the number. Gemma. She didn’t take the call.
Francisco had looked down the list and picked a tricksy old solicitor called Woolf, who asked how long the custody clock had been ticking and said he would need time to get up with the case. Hen told him his new client had already admitted to stealing the dead woman’s car. Woolf wasn’t fazed. He said in that case he’d need to listen to the tapes of all the interviews so far.
Hen left him to it and said to Stella, ‘You know what
his game is? He’ll keep this going until the twenty-four hours is up.’
‘We can ask for an extension.’
‘Not with the case we have so far. Nicking the victim’s car isn’t a serious arrestable offence.’
‘And we haven’t charged him yet.’
‘We’re investigating two murders, Stell. I’m not getting sidetracked over the bloody car.’
‘You mean there isn’t enough to detain him?’
‘If we can prove the car theft is linked to the killings we might get somewhere.’
‘Like he was disposing of the evidence?’
‘That would be terrific, but it doesn’t wash. It’s not as if he used the car to move the body somewhere. She was drowned a few yards from her front door and his.’
‘Suppose he murdered her for the car.’
Hen pulled a face. ‘I don’t think so. Do you?’
Stella shook her head. ‘Not really.’
They returned to the incident room, now dominated by a pin-board featuring photos of the crime scenes.
‘A couple of guys from Emswoth CID searched his house,’ Hen told Stella. ‘There was nothing obvious like a pair of jeans on a clothes rack.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Whoever killed Fiona was in the water with her.’
‘But surely he’ll have dumped his clothes if he’s got half a brain.’
‘I’m not sure he has. The longer this goes on, the more it looks to me as if he’s nothing else but a failed car thief.’
‘He’d have to be an idiot to steal a car belonging to a murder victim.’
‘We haven’t established when it was taken. It could have been during that time she was away from home and no one suspected she was dead.’
‘That makes more sense. Then all hell breaks out because she’s murdered and Francisco’s got a problem he didn’t expect-the victim’s motor parked in a field with his fingerprints all over it.’
‘He’s got no form as a car thief.’
‘First offence, maybe. Or he’s always got away with it.’ Stella looked away, at a pen she was rolling across her desk. ‘Mind if I ask something?’
‘Fire away.’
‘I was told you have an ingenious theory that he’s impotent and gets into a murderous rage each time he tries to have sex. Is that right?’
‘Are you being sarky?’
‘Not at all, boss. It’s-well-ingenious. The best we’ve got.’
‘I’ll take that. And now you can tell me what’s been going on while I’ve been wasting precious time on bloody Francisco. Did you search the missing manager’s house at Apuldram?’
‘Yesterday. Quite a nice pad.’
‘What did you find there?’
‘He’s tidy to the point of obsession. No signs of disturbance whatsoever. It was almost eerie. His car’s gone. The mail on the mat shows he’s been away for over a week.’
‘Which we know. Does he have a computer?’
‘We took it away. It’s being checked. We also picked up the letters and his filing cabinet. There’s a photo of him we can use.’
‘Neighbours?
‘The house is on its own at the end of a lane. The locals don’t seem to know him much.’
‘You checked the outbuildings, I expect?’
‘The patio, the garden shed, the pool. Just about everywhere.’
‘Nothing exceptional, then?’
‘His collection of bow ties. He has about fifty in his wardrobe, every colour you can think of, and spots, stripes, tartans, florals.’
‘We need better than that, Stell.’ Hen sighed. ‘What would really make my day is a link to Meredith Sentinel.’
‘Could be on the computer. If it’s there, we’ll find it,’ Stella said.
‘Yes, and find Cartwright himself while you’re at it. No clues as to where he might have vanished to? Have we learned any more about the guy, apart from his job and the fact that he’s divorced and lives alone?’
‘I talked to his staff when the office reopened this morning. It’s an open secret that he fancied Fiona. She was doing her best to advance her career.’
‘By cosying up to him?’
‘Seems so. His PA, Gemma Casey, wasn’t thrilled about it. She was left running the business while Cartwright flirted with Fiona.’
‘Is he unpopular with all the staff?’
‘By no means. “Nice” is the word that keeps coming up. He knows them by name and smiles and opens doors for the ladies.’
‘A right old smoothie.’
‘I wasn’t going to say it, but yes.’
Hen turned towards the visuals on the display board. ‘That’s two possible suspects, Francisco and Cartwright. I haven’t ruled out the others.’
Stella’s eyes widened. ‘I thought we’d moved on from Dr Sentinel.’
‘Well, deputy dear, early in this investigation you suggested he may have hired a hitman. Sounded wild at the time, but I’m not ruling it out.’
‘To kill his wife, yes.’ Stella was frowning now. ‘But there’s nothing to link him to Fiona’s death, is there?’
‘Well… ’ Hen paused and raised her eyebrows.
‘Well, what?’
‘What if the hitman happened to be a bouncer called Francisco?’
Stella reddened in surprise. ‘How is that possible?’
‘Let’s say the hitman was hired to kill Meredith Sentinel while her husband was out of the country. He did a fair but not faultless job of faking an accidental drowning. You and I know that Francisco’s not the brightest. Maybe he boasts about it, or flashes his blood money around. His neighbour Fiona reads the papers, gets suspicious, and asks a few leading questions. He drowns her, too, and makes her car disappear to give the impression she’s gone away.’
‘Neat.’
‘I wouldn’t say so. It’s a cock-up.’
‘I meant your explanation.’
‘Ah.’ A quick smile crossed Hen’s lips. ‘Dr Sentinel returns and plays the distressed husband and is secretly incensed that so much has gone wrong, but he’s still not in the frame. We need to know whether Sentinel had any dealings with Francisco.’
‘You think Francisco will tell us?’
‘If he’s allowed to. If not, we may have to get it out of Sentinel himself.’
Stella liked the theory. She was persuaded. ‘We’ve got to pursue this, guv. It explains both killings.’
‘And yet,’ Hen said, ‘I keep coming back to the tree-hugger, Jake Kernow. He’s the one with a record of violence. He has local knowledge. He was seen along the beach on the day Meredith was found. He’s into fossils and so was she. He drank coffee with her at the museum in London. How much more do we need on this guy?’
‘A link to the second drowning.’
‘Don’t I wish!’ She sighed like the young Judy Garland on the road to Oz. ‘He’s quite a loner. How would he have met Fiona?’
‘She visited Pagham Harbour?’
‘Did she?’ Hen’s voice hit a higher register.
‘That was a question. A suggestion.’
The disappointment showed.
Stella said, ‘I was just thinking it’s more likely she would find him than the other way round. She was the go-getter.’
‘Agreed. But suppose his line of work gave him some reason to visit the print works.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘They have posters at nature reserves, don’t they? Leaflets, maps, lists of the birds and mammals you’re likely to spot. What if he needed some new ones printed?’
‘He goes to Kleentext and meets her? It’s not impossible, guv.’
‘We can check with them. See if they’ve done any printing of that sort. I’ll get Gary onto it. This has been useful, Stell. If only one of these suggestions bears fruit, we’ll celebrate in style.’
Getting through a day’s work at the garden centre had been a minor miracle, Jo thought while driving home. She’d been on autopilot, her mind in ferment. Fortunately, her boss Adrian was like a headles
s chicken himself because last night’s storm had damaged many of the outdoor plants and blown out several panels in the main greenhouse. ‘What a wicked night!’ he’d said when he first came in, and Jo in her jumpy state had thought he’d somehow got to hear of her trip to the Island.
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.
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