In the canteen, her spirits plunged. A small familiar figure was waiting at a table with a teapot and cups. Hen Mallin stood to greet them, eyes wide in anticipation.
Sergeant Malcolm shook his head.
The start of a smile turned into a puzzled frown. ‘You’d better get back, then. You’ve got work to do.’
The sergeant nodded to Jo and left her with Hen Mallin.
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Black, without, please.’
‘Help yourself.’
She poured it and slopped some in the saucer.
‘So you weren’t able to help?’ Hen said with a sharp note of accusation.
‘I did what I was asked.’
‘A waste of everyone’s time.’
That stung her. ‘I can’t think why, if it proves you’ve got the wrong man.’
‘It doesn’t prove anything,’ Hen pointed out, ‘except that you didn’t see the killer. Apparently.’
‘All I saw at Selsey were people acting normally. God knows why you asked me here. It’s not as if I witnessed the murder.’
‘You placed two men near enough to the scene to be of interest to us. If you’d picked out the suspect we’d be a damned sight closer to charging him. We’ll have to release him now. There’s a limit to how long we can hold a man and we’ve just about reached it.’
‘Don’t you have any other witnesses?’
Hen watched her, level-eyed. ‘There is one actually.’
Jo suppressed the spasm of panic she felt. ‘Did they see the woman killed?’
‘Christ, no. If we’d got that lucky we wouldn’t need you. Just some guy who was out walking that afternoon like you and gave us a description.’
‘And did he identify the man?’
‘In a parade, you mean? No need.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s local, like the suspect. He gave us the name of the bastard.’
BACK IN her flat, she tried to calm herself enough to get a sense of what had been going on. She was in no doubt as to whom their suspect was. She’d never seen anyone so shattered, looking just as you would after hours of questioning. The only conceivable reason for putting Jake through this ordeal was that the other witness must have seen him on the front at Selsey that fatal morning.
Jo couldn’t think how she had missed him.
Was one sighting enough for them to pull him in as a suspected killer?
They’d need more. What else had they got on Jake? Whatever it was, it could only be circumstantial. Maybe he was linked in some way to the victim. Had they managed to identify the dead woman? She hadn’t asked, and they weren’t telling.
Out of all this wretched business there was one consolation. She now understood why Jake had failed to meet her at Selsey yesterday. Not because he’d forgotten, or lost interest. It could only be because they’d arrested him.
Whatever the police suspected, she was sure Jake was innocent and he would get her backing. Poor guy, he needed oceans of support after this. Unfortunately there was a difficulty. She didn’t have his address or phone number. And it was too late in the day to phone his work and leave a message.
She spent the next hour trying to think of ways of contacting him. The police had said they couldn’t hold him any longer, so he’d be home by now. How frustrating was that?
JUST BEFORE seven, her phone rang. She picked it up and gave her name. At first no one answered. She waited in dread that it was only a cold call, someone in India trying to sell her cheap electricity.
Then a man’s voice said, ‘Sorry about yesterday.’ And she knew instantly who it was.
‘Jake. How are you?’
‘In a spot of trouble.’
‘I know. I know all about it.’
‘You do?’
‘I was there today for that stupid identification parade.’
‘You?’ There was a pause, then a despairing, ‘Oh, Christ.’
‘They made me do it because it was me who discovered the body on the beach. I was supposed to see if I recognised one of the men I’d seen. Jake, it freaked me out when I saw you in the line-up. God knows what the police think they’re doing. Anyway, you’re home, are you?’
‘Mm.’ He sounded preoccupied, still absorbing what she’d told him.
‘How did you get my number?’ she asked.
‘Number?’
‘The phone. I’m ex-directory.’ How it was done didn’t matter squat, but talking about it was giving her time to get her own jumbled thoughts in order and decide what to say next.
‘Gemma,’ he said.
‘Of course. Good old Gem. She’s in the book. She put you onto me. I really appreciate this call, Jake.’
‘Can we meet?’
‘Meet?’ Her pulse quickened. ‘I’d love to.’
‘To talk.’
‘I understand. All right. When? Tomorrow?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Are you sure? You looked out on your feet.’
‘A pub would do.’
‘What’s the one near the beach in Selsey? The Lifeboat Inn.’
‘I can come to Chichester.’
‘I won’t hear of it after all you’ve been through,’ she told him. ‘Selsey. Definitely Selsey.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Eight-thirty in the Lifeboat?’
HE WAS already at a corner table with a pint in front of him when she arrived. The sight of him here, a free man again, was a huge reassurance. The dark rings were still around his eyes, but some of the strain had gone from his face. She said she’d have a tonic.
‘How long did they hold you at the police station?’ she asked when he put the drink in front of her.
‘Since yesterday morning.’
‘Oh my God. Is that legal?’
He nodded.
‘But you haven’t done anything.’
‘It’s a murder case.’
‘They told me you were seen by someone at the beach the day I found the body,’ she said. ‘Surely that isn’t enough for them to arrest you. Were you really there? I didn’t spot you.’
‘Thought I might get lucky,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said . . . ’ The words stopped coming.
‘Go on.’
‘ . . . you walk there sometimes.’
Her heart felt like Big Ben striking. ‘You were there because of me?’
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s not a bad place to walk. Normally.’
If his remark was meant in humour, it escaped her. She was seized by the need to let him know she’d shared his idea. ‘That’s why I went, in hope of meeting you. How could we have missed each other? Jake, I’m sorry. If I’d known you were about, I wouldn’t have gone back to the car. Do you know who it was who spotted you?’
‘Some local guy.’
‘And what was he doing there?’
‘Walking his poodle dog.’
‘Him! In combat clothes. I saw him. I told the police about him, but they didn’t show any interest.’
‘He knows who I am.’
‘It doesn’t mean he’s in the clear. He could be shifting the interest away from himself. I was really shocked when I saw you in that line-up. Did they rough you up? You looked awful.’
His mouth twitched into a half-smile. ‘So what’s new?’
‘I don’t suppose you slept at all. They should have found out in the first two minutes that you had nothing to do with it.’
He sighed and stared into his drink. The broad shoulders sagged. ‘There’s something you don’t know.’
Her skin prickled. Were the new shoots of joy about to be trampled? She was so certain he was a decent man, unfairly accused.
He said, ‘I’ve got form.’
‘What?’
‘A record. Been in prison.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Tell me.’
‘When I was nineteen . . . ’ He primed himself with a sip of beer. ‘When I was nineteen, in Cornwall, there was a main road bu
ilt near where I lived, a bypass.’
She nodded, but so much was going on in her own shocked brain that she was hearing his voice as a distant sound.
He passed a hand over his head and held it against the back of his neck. He was making a terrific effort to speak more than his usual few words. Gaps came between sentences, but he persevered and Jo heard him out. ‘I was against it. Habitats were under threat. Trees, ecosystems . . . I joined the protesters. We set up camp, lived rough, in the trees. Said the developers would have to kill us if they felled the trees. That didn’t stop them. . . . They sent in the police, then the army. Ordered us down through loudhailers. We refused, but they had the equipment.’ He paused for longer at this point. The words had been flowing more than anything he’d communicated before. ‘It was no contest. I’m lashed to a branch in a sixty-foot beech. Three squaddies come for me. I try to hold them off, but one gets a grip on my foot. I stick my free boot against his shoulder and brace my leg. He falls off. He’s on ropes, but he hits a branch and breaks his spine. Paralysed.’
Jo had a vivid picture in her head. She whispered, ‘What a nightmare.’
‘Lots of people saw. It was filmed. They got me down soon after. Threw me into a van with the others. Charged me. Grievous bodily harm. When it came to court . . . ’ He paused to summon up more words. ‘In court the judge said the injury warranted a long custodial sentence.’
‘Jake, how horrible.’
‘On top of that, I was acting unlawfully by resisting arrest. But he said there was doubt about the intent. I got two years.’
‘That’s awful.’
‘Not so awful as spending the rest of your life in a wheelchair.’
‘I suppose. But you didn’t mean that to happen.’
‘If I hadn’t put up a fight he’d be okay.’
‘You were young and idealistic. Committed to the cause.’
‘Impetuous.’
‘You must have gone through a terrible time in prison.’
‘Rather not talk about that.’ He sat back in the chair. ‘You serve your time, but your record is always there. Something violent happens. . . . They pick you up and find you did time for GBH and they’re not going to pat you on the head and send you away.’
She reached across the table and put her hand over his. ‘I had no idea about any of this. You didn’t say.’
The skewed smile appeared. ‘Not much of a chat-up line, is it?’
‘Makes no difference. I still want to be friends.’
Gently, but firmly, he withdrew his hand from hers. ‘Better not.’
She felt the chill of rejection. ‘I don’t see why. They’ve freed you now. You’re entitled to meet anyone you choose.’
‘They see us together, they’ll think we cooked something up. Likely they’ll pull you in for questioning.’
‘So what? I can put them right.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s uncool linking up with an ex-con.’
‘We’re together right now, aren’t we?’
‘I asked to see you just so you’d know about me.’ He paused and then emphasised each word. ‘And we draw a line and no one is hurt.’
‘Jake, I’ll be far more hurt if I can’t even speak to you.’
‘They’re sure I did it,’ he said. ‘They only let me go because they don’t have the evidence yet.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. This woman was murdered, strangled by the sound of it. Your so-called crime was pushing a soldier out of a tree. That wasn’t murder, that was accidental.’
‘An act of aggression.’
‘I don’t accept that.’
‘The words of the judge who sent me down.’
‘Nuts to that judge. I don’t believe you’re a violent man.’
‘That’s good to know,’ he said nodding, ‘but it doesn’t change anything. It’s out of our hands.’
‘The police have their own agenda?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you think they’ll arrest us both if you’re seen with me? That’s crazy, Jake.’
‘Crazy things happen to me. I don’t want you drawn into it.’
She bit her lip, on the verge of tears. She could tell he meant every word and truly cared about her. From his perspective, separation made sense. From her own selfish point of view what he was suggesting would be an outrage, a denial of freedom. ‘I’d rather take the risk and stay friends. Let’s at least exchange mobile numbers so we stay in contact.’
He looked startled, then acquiescent, then pleased. ‘Okay, but don’t put the number . . . don’t put it in the memory. The first thing they do is go through your directory.’
‘And I’m not ruling out a walk on the beach,’ she said, writing hers down and handing it to him. This was a moment to be strong. Poor guy. He needed to know she was in his corner. ‘Now let’s talk about something really serious. Tell me what music you like.’
six
THE FIRST BARS OF Colonel Bogey sounded in Jo’s bag. She took out her mobile and pressed the green key.
‘Sweetie, how are you placed?’
Too bad. The caller wasn’t Jake. Five days had gone by and she’d heard no more from him. It was Gemma.
‘You mean right now?’
‘I mean can you come over?’
‘Where to?’
‘The print works. Fishbourne. You know it, don’t you?’
‘Is that wise? I might meet someone.’
‘It’s okay. The boss isn’t in.’
‘What’s the problem, then?’
‘Bit of a mystery. Tell you when you get here—if I haven’t spontaneously combusted by then.’
Even allowing for Gemma’s dramatising, this sounded like an emergency. The last week had been stressful enough, but you back your friends when help is asked for. Wondering what she was getting into this time, Jo told Adrian the boss she was feeling woozy, got into the Panda, and drove the couple of miles to Fishbourne.
Kleentext Print Solutions was housed near the railway station in a boxlike 1950s utility building with a cluster of wooden annexes where the real work was done. Jo parked beside a silver delivery van and used the main entrance, under a sign saying ADMINISTRATION. Inside, she was confronted by a six-foot wall of cartons that screened off the reception desk. She squeezed past.
‘I hope you’re from the council.’
The receptionist’s voice was confrontational.
Jo gave her name and explained why she was there.
‘So you’re not.’
‘Not what?’
‘From the council. They should have sent someone to collect that lot,’ the receptionist said, eyeing the cartons. ‘They’ve been there two days, blocking my light. How can I do this job when I can’t see people coming? It’s really inconvenient.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ Jo said, privately suspecting the opposite.
Gemma was waiting on the top floor when the lift opened, arms wide in welcome. ‘You’re a true amigo. Where would I be without you?’ She gave Jo a hug. ‘Come and see the office. It’s all right. I’m entirely alone.’
Her workplace was carpeted and comfortable, with veneer panelled walls and framed scenes of Chichester with picture lights over them. Her desk was on one side and a large leather sofa on the other. Copies of Country Life, Trout and Salmon, and Today’s Golfer were displayed on a low glass-topped table. The aroma of coffee came from somewhere.
‘Cosy.’
‘Have a seat.’ Gemma waved her to the sofa. ‘Did you notice all those boxes downstairs?’
Jo smiled. ‘Is that what half a million brochures look like?’
‘Until we pulp them, yes. Hillie on reception throws a wingding every time I walk by.’
‘How did your boss take it?’
‘This is the kick in the pants. The ratbag hasn’t seen them. It’s Thursday and he hasn’t shown his face all week. The last I saw of him was Friday when he sloped off early with Fiona. He hasn’t phoned or anything.’
‘How
about Fiona?’
‘She’s off work too.’
Jo raised an eyebrow.
Gemma nodded. ‘You’re onto it. She’s reeled him in, hasn’t she? What’s your reading of it? A week in Paris?’
‘It does look suspicious,’ said Jo.
‘Suspicious? I’ve heard of dirty weekends, but a whole week is gross. And not so much as a postcard to say sorry.’
‘Mean.’
‘Mean? You can do better than that.’
‘All right,’ Jo said. ‘What a prick!’
Gemma added seamlessly, ‘ . . . as Fiona remarked in the honeymoon suite at the Paris Ritz. She’s way ahead of us. It knocks our little scheme on the head, doesn’t it? He’s not going to sack the creature for incompetence if he’s just spent the week playing mothers and fathers with her—not unless she’s rubbish at that as well.’
‘Smart lady.’
‘All those bloody council brochures, Jo. What am I going to do with them?’
Sometimes it takes an outsider to think of a solution. Jo sensed she was expected to supply one. ‘Does everyone know they were ordered by Fiona?’
‘Not really.’
‘Spread the message, then. Fiona ordered these by mistake. Shout it from the rooftops. It’s ammunition for later. Then get them pulped, like you said. They’ve lost their impact now.’
‘What a waste.’
‘Spoils of war. The reckoning comes later.’
‘He can’t invoice the council for the true cost.’
‘I should hope not,’ Jo said. ‘I don’t want it going on my council tax.’
‘You’d think he’d have been in touch,’ Gemma said, and it was apparent how deep this had gone with her. ‘Muggins is running the show here.’
‘Bosses can do stuff like that, take off when they want. He knows he can depend on you to hold the fort.’
‘Yes, and when he comes back I’ll be shown the fort door. It’s so bloody unfair. I feel like stamping my little foot.’
‘You can do better than that,’ Jo said.
And Gemma responded to the challenge. ‘Nail him to the wall and play darts with him. Put him in the lion enclosure wearing a zebra suit. Dose him with laxative and stand him on guard at Buckingham Palace.’ She sighed. ‘Help me, Jo. What can I really do?’
The Headhunters Page 7