The House Sitter

by Peter Lovesey

  I’m certain, looking at the scene, that he would have made a dummy run-maybe without the weapon-some previous evening, getting a sight of Summers sitting with his usual drink. If so, it would have been in the last couple of days after Summers finished filming the sea sequences. So the Mariner would have decided precisely where to set up. I know from Jimmy Barneston where the bolt appeared to have been fired from, a position fifteen yards or so away, behind a small rhododendron bush. Actually tried it. Lay on my tummy and looked down an imaginary telescopic sight at the wooden seat where the body was found. The place is incredibly quiet, apart from birdsong. He must have been in place before Summers appeared with his g &t. And after the bolt was fired, he calmly entered the house and left his note.

  It helped to confirm some earlier thoughts. Here is a killer who is painstaking, yet audacious. If he’d shot his quarry and quit the scene, we wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of catching him. By choosing to leave a note, he issues a challenge, and takes a huge risk. He relishes the thrill of taking us on.

  Aubrey Wood, the housekeeper, lives alone in a terraced cottage in the village. He was willing to talk when I explained who I was. Made me tea and brought out some home-made jam tarts that if they were from a shop would be way past their sell-by date. Poor man, I felt sorry for him. He’s around fifty, slow of speech, and not yet over the shock. He had a nice little number working for Axel Summers, and now he’s ‘on the social’. There aren’t many openings as a gentleman’s gentleman in Bramber. He’s not a countryman, so he’ll probably return to London. I understand there’s a modest legacy, a couple of thousand, coming his way.

  He’d worked for Summers for nearly ten years, cooking and cleaning and doing jobs about the house. When Summers was away on film projects, he’d look after the place and sort the mail. He wasn’t asked to travel. But he saw various friends of his boss when they came to the house. He never detected any bad vibes.

  He said Summers had been planning this film for at least ten years and finally got the backing he needed about a year ago. He’d gone to infinite lengths to get the screenplay right, and the cast he wanted. It was over budget, but his films had a good record at the box office and no one was too concerned. He was very tired when he came home two days before he was killed. Prior to that he had been away filming in the Mediterranean for five weeks. He returned to Sussex knackered, but pleased that this phase of the project was complete. There was still a lot to be done, in particular the special effects sequences, bits now vivid in my brain like the skeleton ship with Death dicing with Life-in-Death, the souls of the crew whizzing upwards, the storms and calms and the water-snakes. Summers was modifying things he’d mapped out in storyboard form. He’d been too busy to do any entertaining since his return. Hadn’t even walked to the village for a paper, as he sometimes did when he was home.

  On the evening of the killing, Wood served a light evening meal about six, loaded the dishwasher and left sharp at seven, on his bike. He noticed nothing unusual. No car parked in the lane and no strangers about. He left Summers in a good frame of mind, some crucial decisions about the film made. He was relaxed and looking forward to some late-night television programme. Wood met his friends at seven-fifteen and was driven to Plumpton for the pub quiz they’d entered as the local team. I’m satisfied he’s incapable of anything so callous as this killing.

  After that, I had to get to the 4 p.m. case conference in Horsham and made it with not much to spare. Met in the incident room: the entire murder team and a couple of people from Bramshill. Jimmy Barneston chaired it. Watching him in action, I was more smitten than ever. He has a way of energising everyone, encouraging them to chip in and picking out the salient points. As expected, I was invited to contribute, but I made clear it was too soon to give them anything reliable, and I’d come to listen. They were OK with that.

  Jimmy went through the various lines of enquiry. Sightings of cars around the village (inconclusive). Forensic reports on the fingertip search (little of interest). Crossbow manufacturers and retailers (more promising, although they don’t all keep records of customers). The crossbow bolt was picked for the job, apparently, with a three-bladed head normally used for killing game. He spent some time going over Summers’ career, pointing out that jealousies and hurts are common in show business. Even a man so popular and friendly must upset people when he makes decisions on casting and scripts. An embittered actor or writer might fit the profile of the killer. At the use of the ‘p’ word, heads turned to see if I had any comment. I looked steadily ahead and said nothing.

  Two of Jimmy’s senior people gave similar rundowns on Porter and Walpurgis. Was there some deeply wounded person who had been damaged by all three? Apart from possible attendance at a TV awards dinner in 2001, nothing to connect them had so far been discovered.

  A question was asked about the security arrangements for Porter and Walpurgis. Jimmy answered that steps had been taken to safeguard each of them, but for obvious reasons he was not willing to comment any further. A long discussion about the practicality of keeping Summers’ death out of the papers. Some kind of embargo could be enforced for a time, and the press would cooperate until word leaked out from some source-as it surely will.

  It was after seven when the meeting ended. Jimmy asked if I’d like to eat before getting on the road. I took this to mean several of them would be going to some local pub and it seemed a good idea, because by the time I got back to Bath it would be getting late for a meal. Then would you believe it? He used his mobile and booked a table for two at a local Italian restaurant. Wow!

  Mild panic. I’m in my denim jacket and designer jeans, still dusty at the knees from lying on the ground simulating the shooting. So I nip into the ladies and brush myself down and do some repair work on the face. Probably makes a bit of difference. Not as much as I would have liked.

  Wasn’t entirely sure if Jimmy fancied me or just thought I might give out some more about my thoughts on the case. In ten minutes we’re in the window seat at Mario’s looking at each other by candlelight, with Neapolitan love songs in the background. No, we weren’t there to talk shop. Having established that we were both free of ties (he’s divorced and has lived alone for two years), we spend the next hour getting to know each other the way you do on a first date. He’s a graduate (business administration at Reading) and he shares quite a few of my tastes in music and film. Plays squash and goes to a gym.

  We share a bottle of Orvieto-with none of that sexist nonsense over the ordering-and have chicken and pasta, and at the end he suggests coffee at his place. No heavy breathing or smouldering looks. Just a casual take-it-or-leave-it.

  I answer just as casually that it might be sensible to get some caffeine into my system before I get on the road. So I find myself next in his gorgeous stone-built house beside the River Arun. Slate floors and expensive rugs. Real coffee, Belgian chocs and Mozart’s flute and harp concerto, and I just know I won’t be driving back to Bath that night. He takes me onto the terrace to see the view of the river and that’s where we kiss.

  Jimmy is a natural. Knows without asking what gets me going and goes for it with such a sense of sharing the excitement that I came very quickly still standing outside under the stars and before taking off any clothes. Talk about hitting the spot! It was obvious we both wanted more, so we moved inside to his bedroom and undressed each other and I set about enjoying him with a sense of freedom I never had with Ken or any other bloke. After several Himalayan-class peaks, we drift off to sleep some time after midnight, and that isn’t the last of it. I wake up around four feeling the urge again and climb on him and ride him like a showjumper. A clear round. No faults.

  Was it a one-night stand, or can it develop into something more permanent? The morning is when you find out, usually. Each of us played it cautiously over breakfast (toast and very black coffee), not wanting to seem possessive, and no commitment was made. But this man really is special, and I honestly think he finds me more adventurous (exciting?)
than the average girl, so I’m hopeful of another invitation. It won’t be easy keeping a relationship fresh when we live a couple of hours from each other, but we do have a good excuse to stop over. This case requires close and frequent consultation!

  Here, the file ended. Just as well, because Diamond was at the point of spontaneous combustion. Jimmy Barneston and Emma Tysoe! Barneston hadn’t even hinted at this when they’d talked about the case. He knew the dead woman’s private life was fundamental to the investigation and he’d said bugger all. It wasn’t as if he needed to feel guilty. He wasn’t having a fling with a suspect, or a witness, or even one of his team. She was a profiler, an extra. But once Emma had been murdered, everything about her, and not least her love life, had to be out in the open. Barneston had a duty to declare it.

  “Ride him like a showjumper,” he muttered to himself. “He’s a dark horse, for sure.”

  13

  In the incident room he found Keith Halliwell and Ingeborg Smith looking at a website for the British Crossbow Society. Clearly it was no use any longer trying to keep the murder of Axel Summers to himself. Clive had talked. Those two had put him through the third degree. They were professional detectives and it was their job to root out information.

  “Vicious weapon, isn’t it?” he said, deadpan. “I’d better bring you up to speed on the file I’ve just been reading-unless you’ve got your own copies already.”

  Ingeborg reddened and Keith grinned sheepishly.

  He gave them all the facts he knew about the murder of Summers, ending with a belated warning that Bramshill wanted to keep the lid on it. “Emma Tysoe was involved in this case at the time of her death, so we have more than a passing interest in it, much as they’d like to insist we don’t. But we still have a duty to keep it from the public-and that means anyone outside the team, right?” He made eye contact with each of them.

  And each nodded.

  “I know,” he said. “You’re about to tell me I should put a gag on Clive, and I thought I had. I’ll speak to him again.” He took a glance at his watch. “I haven’t finished reading the files, and I’ll give you a fuller rundown when I’m through, later in the day, if my head can stand it. Meanwhile there are two things you can do. Ingeborg.”

  “Guv?”

  “We got a false impression of Dr Emma Tysoe from her colleagues up at the university. She wasn’t the shrinking violet they made her out to be. She had an above-average appetite for sex and a lover she dumped called Ken.”

  “That’s all we know about him?”

  “It’s pretty obvious he lives locally. Do some ferreting, will you?”

  “Outside the university?”

  “Outside the Psychology Department for sure. She kept her private life well hidden from that lot.”

  “Wise.”

  “Yes, if they’d known she was such a goer I’m sure someone would have wired her up and set up a research project. Anyway, Ken-whoever he is-has to be regarded as a suspect.”

  “Because she dumped him?”

  “Right. He took her for a meal at Popjoy’s the evening after she was given this profiling job. There was some little spat over the way he ordered the wine, but I think the writing was already on the wall.”

  “You mean she was dating another bloke?”

  Diamond wasn’t ready to go into that, not knowing how much tittle-tattle Clive had passed on. “They fell out before she slept with anyone else. Ken had passed his sell-by date, it’s clear from the file. I’m about to find out what happened next.”

  Halliwell asked, “Will anyone else get to read this steamy stuff?”

  He couldn’t suppress a touch of sarcasm. “One way or another, I’m sure you will, Keith. Now, the other matter I want you to follow up is the whereabouts of her dark green sports car. She mentions in the file that she didn’t put it in the garage one evening when she got back home.”

  “In Great Pulteney Street?” Halliwell said. “It doesn’t have garages.”

  “Right.”

  “She rented one nearby?”

  “That’s my assumption. And I want to know if the car is still in there.”

  “How can it be?” Ingeborg said. “She’d have needed it to drive to Wightview Sands. She arrived there alone according to Michael Smith.”

  “So where is it? They didn’t find anything belonging to her in the beach car park. They accounted for every car left there at the end of that day. What make is it?”

  Halliwell glanced towards Ingeborg, saw the startled look in her eyes, and attempted to cover up. “As you recall, guv, Bognor were doing the index check.”

  “And none of you thought to ask?” Diamond said. “I give up! Even I know how to do a vehicle check. Get on that bloody PNC yourselves.”

  Ingeborg recovered enough to say, “I daresay one of her neighbours would know if she rented a garage nearby. Are there mews at the back of Great Pulteney Street? They’re very big houses.”

  “Both sides,” said Halliwell. “You’ve got Pulteney Mews facing the Rec, and Henrietta Mews to the north.”

  “Maybe a garage came with the flat. We can ask the landlord.”

  “Do that,” Diamond said. “If anyone wants me, I’ll be in the basement, catching up on the next instalment.”

  I’m keener than ever to make an accurate profile of the Mariner [Emma’s second file began]. Let’s confess an unprofessional thought to you, Computer: I’d love to amaze Jimmy with my findings. The problem is there’s so little data to go on. I keep reminding myself this isn’t a serial crime like others I’ve worked on. Not yet. As of today it’s a single crime with the threat of more to come. Fortunately, the little we know is so exceptional that I’m beginning to firm up on certain assumptions:

  (a) The killer is above average in intelligence, educated to a pretty high level. [The Coleridge quote]

  (b) He’s methodical and cool under stress. [The absence of any traces at the scene]

  (c) He must have had some practice with the crossbow and knowledge of its firepower. [One bolt had to be enough]

  (d) It’s quite likely he has experience of stalking and killing animals-i.e., treats the killing of people as a logical extension of the rough shoot or the cull. [The effective use of cover]

  (e) He has an exalted opinion of himself and his ability to outwit the police. [The naming of future victims]

  (f) He may feel he is underrated, or cheated by some failure in his own career. [Choice of famous victims suggests he envies people in the limelight]

  (g) He is well up with media gossip and may even have inside information. [He knew when Summers was back from the Med]

  Not enough to be of use to the police, unfortunately. It’s still too theoretical. He’s little more than a concept, some way short of being an individual. What Jimmy needs from me are notes that will pin him down as an individual. Age, appearance, living arrangements, daily routine. Oh dear, I’m still a long way from that degree of detail.

  The way forward must be to look more closely at the choices the killer has made. Why pick Axel Summers, by all accounts a charming, well-respected and talented man? What is it about the others that singles them out for slaughter? Is it only that they are so well known?

  I definitely need to know more about Porter and Walpurgis. How do they spend their time when they’re not working? Do they own houses in the country, like Summers? What are their backgrounds, their interests, their politics (if any)?

  A few minutes ago I phoned Jimmy. Glad to say he sounded pleased to hear from me. You can tell straight away when a man wants to back off (don’t I know it, from past experience), and he doesn’t. But this was strictly business: I was putting my case for a meeting with Matthew Porter. It caught Jimmy unprepared and at first he dug in his heels and said he couldn’t risk it and anyway he didn’t want Porter being troubled. This young man is under enough stress already, and so on. Gently steering him towards the worst possible outcome, I made the point that while Porter is alive we have the chance to
question him about people he may have crossed and threats he may have received. If we’d had that opportunity with Axel Summers, we’d have a list of suspects.

  He saw the sense in this. The police have put all their resources into investigating the murder and providing elaborate protection for Porter and Walpurgis. Nobody has sat down with either of them and gone through their recent history looking for possible enemies. So Jimmy took the point. He said he’d need to talk to the high-ups. He promised to get back to me.

  (Later, in bed) Nothing yet from Jimmy, but I’ve had Ken on the mobile wanting to start over, giving me the hard sell about how he’s missing me and his cat was sick yesterday and he almost pranged the car and he really loves me and can’t face life without me. What a wimp. I know if I give him the slightest encouragement he’ll be ten times as hard to get off my back. So I bit the bullet and told him I was seeing someone else-which gave him a seismic shock and showed him in his true colours. This guy who really loves me and can’t face life without me called me a slag and a whore and lots of other disgusting names. I just said, ‘Grow up,’ and switched off. Closure-I hope. We’ll see. I was very shaky, though, and poured myself a neat whisky-something I never normally do.

  Keep thinking of things I should have said, like the cat isn’t the only one who’s sick.

  I hope I sleep all right.

  Better news. A message on the answerphone from Jimmy saying I should meet him in the coffee shop at Waterloo Station at 2.30 today. And I should erase the message after listening to it-real cloak and dagger stuff which was as good as saying he’d fixed the meeting with Matthew Porter. Brilliant.

  I got to the station early and sat on one of those tall stools drinking an Americano. I’d put on the style for this, the dark red number with the split skirt. Black pashmina and matching tights. My Prada shoes. It’s not every day you get to meet a top sports star. I got some looks.