The House Sitter

by Peter Lovesey

  “Can it wait?”

  “No. I want to pass it on to you now, for what it’s worth.”

  “Be my guest,” she said with a sigh.

  “This joyriding theory of yours. If it’s true, the killer was more interested in the car than the victim, right? The motive was to steal that handsome car and belt the life out of the engine for a couple of hours.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “You said it’s not the first time at Wightview. Am I right? Other cars-nice cars-have been nicked and later found abandoned?”

  “Over the past year, yes.”

  “You thought kids were responsible?”

  She yawned. “We’ve been over this before, Peter.”

  “So what if we’re dealing with a serial joyrider, someone who makes a habit of pinching cars from the beach? Generally he follows the owner onto the beach and waits for them to go for a swim, leaving their bag or clothes unprotected. Then he helps himself to the car key and drives off in their nice car.”

  “That’s the pattern.”

  “Now, on this occasion, the owner didn’t go for a swim. By all accounts, Emma Tysoe remained where she was, stretched out on the sand. Our thief watches her and waits… and waits. He can’t snatch the bag containing the car key because she’s being careful with it, keeping the shoulder strap close to her hand. He’s tantalised. He really covets that car. In the end he decides to go for the bag while she’s still there. He moves in. There’s a struggle. She hangs onto her bag. Trying to get it away from him, she passes the strap over her head. He grabs it, twists and strangles her. That would explain the ligature. Or the strap came away from its fixing and he twisted the free end around her neck. Are you with me?”

  “Just about,” Hen said. “Where does it get us?”

  “Back to the killer.”

  “Some kid, you mean?”

  “Maybe someone slightly older, but still nuts about cars, the man in the perfect position to pick out the one he wants to joyride, someone who sees every car drive in.” He waited, wanting her to make the connection.

  Finally she said, “The car park attendant?”

  “We know he was on duty in the morning when she drove in, because Ken Bellman saw him chatting with her, holding up the queue.”

  “That was Garth,” she said. “A weird guy with slicked-back hair. But we didn’t consider him because he was on duty.”

  “All day?” Diamond said with more than just a query in the voice. “I don’t think so. They wouldn’t have one man in the kiosk for the whole of the day. Someone will have taken over by the afternoon.”

  She was so long reacting that he wondered if the line had gone.

  Finally she said, “You’re right. I was told on the day of the murder. Someone else came on duty at two. When I spoke to Garth he tried to give the impression he didn’t leave the kiosk all day.”

  “Giving himself an alibi?”

  “When actually he was free to stalk Emma and murder her. Oh my God!”

  “Worth getting his prints, anyway.”

  “Peter, you’re not so dumb as I thought.”

  There was one more call to make, and this time he had to wait for office hours, so he went down to the canteen and ordered a proper breakfast.

  “You’re early, Mr D,” Pandora, the doyenne of the double entendre, said, her ladle ready with the baked beans.

  “Late,” he said. “I’ve been on duty all night.”

  “So was my husband, poor lamb. He was glad to get out of bed and back to work this morning.”

  He managed a tired grin.

  At nine fifteen, he succeeded in getting through to Mrs Poole at British Metal. She promised to check for the names he needed.

  At nine forty, thinking only of bed, he opened the front door of his house in Weston and Sultan streaked out and into the front garden, pursued by Raffles. There were tufts of white cat fur all over the carpet.

  24

  Hen and Stella were on the road by nine, heading for the caravan park at Bracklesham. They’d been informed that Garth (now revealed as Garth Trumpington, twenty-six, unmarried) had a mobile home there. He’d been described by his employers as reliable and friendly, if a bit slow in dealing with the public. He’d held the car park job for just over a year. He drove an old Renault 5.

  “The funny thing about mobile homes is that most of them aren’t mobile at all. They’re static,” Hen said as they drove into the park. “The owners have no intention of moving them anywhere.”

  Caravans and tents occupied most of the field. The more permanent homes were lined up on the far side. Hen steered a bumpy route around the edge and came to a stop near a woman who was hanging washing behind her van, and asked if Garth was about.

  “Third one from the end, if he’s in,” the woman said. “He works at the beach, you know, on the car park.”

  “It’s his late morning,” Hen said. “We got that from the Estate Office. Do you know him?”

  “He’s all right,” she said. “Bit of a loner, but that’s up to him. He’s paid for his bit of ground, hasn’t he?”

  They drove the short way to Garth’s residence, a medium-sized cream-coloured trailer secured to the ground at each end. Some of the paint was peeling off the sides. A red Renault was parked close up.

  “Velvet glove, at least to start off with,” Hen said to Stella.

  The man was at home. He answered Hen’s knock right away, opening the door a fraction to look out. From what Hen could see through the narrow space he was in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt. He hadn’t shaved and his breath smelt.

  “Garth, we’ve met at the beach,” Hen reminded him, “DCI Mallin, Bognor CID, and this is DS Gregson.” They showed their IDs.

  “What’s up?” he said in a shocked tone.

  “A few simple questions. May we come in?”

  His brown eyes widened in alarm. “No. It’s not convenient.”

  “Untidy, is it? Don’t worry, Garth. We’re used to that.”

  “You can talk to me here.”

  “Certainly we can talk to you here, but it’s going to be overheard by some of your neighbours.”

  Garth opened the door a little wider to look about him. As if on cue, a couple of small girls stepped in close to hear what was going on.

  “If you prefer,” Hen said, raising her voice a fraction, “we can do this at Bognor police station, but I don’t suppose you want to make a big deal of it.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said.

  “So may we come inside?” she asked, becoming curious at to what he wanted to hide from them. Was someone in there with him? Or was it evidence he didn’t wish them to see?

  “Can we do it in your car?”

  This was a battle of wills, gently as it was being contested.

  “No,” Hen said. “We can’t. What’s your problem, Garth? Something to hide?”

  He folded his arms as if to ward off the cold, even though it was a fine, warm morning. “No.”

  “Stolen goods?”

  He shook his head.

  “You see, you’re making me suspicious before we start,” Hen said. She held out her hands in appeal. “OK, if you’re going to insist, we’ll take you down to the nick.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  Hen turned to Stella. “Give the young man his official caution.”

  Stella spoke the approved words at the speed of a tobacco auctioneer.

  “Right,” Hen said. “Step this way, Mr Trumpington.”

  “I’ve got something cooking,” he said on an inspiration.

  “Better see to it, then,” Hen said, putting her foot on the retractable step.

  He tried shutting the door, and she said, “Naughty,” and slammed the flat of her hand against it. Stella gave the door a kick and so it was that they gained admittance, forcing him back inside.

  Of course there wasn’t anything cooking, except possibly an alibi. They found themselves in the kitchen area, and there wasn’t even a t
ap running. Hen stepped through to the living section and said, “Now isn’t this something? What do you make of the décor, Stell?”

  Every portion of wall space was taken up with colour photos of cars. The ceiling was covered with them, too. And there were model cars on every surface, shelves, table, the top of the TV set. A large stack of motoring magazines stood in one corner.

  “Talk about bringing your work home…” Hen murmured.

  “It’s none of your business,” Garth was bold enough to say.

  “We’ll find out,” Hen responded. “Let’s all sit down.”

  Stella brought a stool from the kitchen and they started, Hen seated in the only armchair, Garth tense on the edge of a put-you-up.

  “Cars are obviously your thing,” Hen commented. “Is that your Renault outside?”

  He nodded.

  “I’d have thought a man like yourself would have gone in for something more flash, but I guess it’s what you can afford. You see some really smart motors drive past your kiosk at Wightview Sands, I reckon. Do you ever get the urge to drive one of them?”

  “No.” He was watchful, and his well known conversational habit had temporarily deserted him.

  “The reason I ask is that we’ve had a spate of joyriding over recent months-from your car park, so I’m sure you know all about it. Nothing too serious. The cars are recovered later. Not much damage, if any. The doors aren’t forced, because the joy-rider goes to the trouble of borrowing the key, usually from clothes or handbags left on the beach. The owners are so pleased to get their cars back that they don’t press charges. So it’s one of those minor problems. Annoying, but not high priority for us. Would you know anything about it?”

  “No.”

  “Pity. Your advice would be taken seriously. You’re well-placed to see what goes on.”

  “I’m too busy issuing tickets,” he said, finding something to say in his defence.

  “All day long?”

  “While I’m there.”

  “How long is that? A couple of hours at a time?”

  “Longer,” Garth said. “Four, five hours.”

  “That’s a long stint.”

  “I do mine back to back for preference.”

  “Then what do you do? Rush to the loo, I should think.”

  He didn’t smile. “If I want to go during my duty hours, there are people I can ask.”

  “OK,” Hen said. “So you knock off after four or five hours. Is that your working day over?”

  “Could be, unless I’ve promised to do another turn later.”

  “Coming back to my question, how do you spend your time off?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I might get something to eat. If it’s nice, I could go on the beach.”

  “And match up the drivers to the cars you fancy?”

  “No.”

  It was said a shade too fast. Hen paused, letting him squirm mentally. She was playing a tactical game here. Nothing had been said about the murder. The aim was to manoeuvre him first into admitting the joyriding episodes.

  “You know a lot about cars. That’s obvious. You must be an expert, Garth. A connoisseur.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “You could probably tell me the makes of cars that were taken for joyrides in recent weeks. An MG. A Lancia. A Porsche.”

  “No,” he said. “You’re wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “There was never a Porsche. That’s wrong.”

  “I believe you. You’d remember, I’m sure of that. It must have been something else in the sports car line. But you confirm the MG and the Lancia, do you?”

  “I didn’t say I took them.”

  “Borrowed them, Garth. Joyriding is only borrowing really, isn’t it? What do you say, Stella? It’s hardly a crime if the cars aren’t damaged.”

  Stella said, “Kids’ stuff.”

  Hen said, “We issue an unofficial warning usually. It’s too much trouble to take them to court.”

  Garth wiped some sweat from his forehead.

  “We’re inclined to be lenient if they admit to the joyriding, and haven’t been caught before,” Hen continued. “Mind you, if they deny it, we don’t have much difficulty proving their guilt. They leave their fingerprints all over the cars, and those surfaces pick up the prints really well. Remind me, Stella, did we find prints in the MG?”

  “And the Lancia,” Stella said, nodding.

  “And the Porsche?”

  “There wasn’t a Porsche,” Garth blurted out.

  “I keep forgetting,” Hen said. “You should know. You’re better placed to know than anyone else, aren’t you? Did you go for a spin in the MG, Garth?”

  “No.”

  “The Lancia?”

  He shook his head.

  “So you’re in the clear. You won’t mind letting us take your fingerprints down at the nick just to remove all suspicion?”

  She watched his hands clench, as if to press the telltale ridges out of shape. He was hopelessly trapped. He said the only thing he could, knowing in his heart that it was hopeless.

  “What if I said I took those cars for a ride?”

  “Admitted it?”

  “Yes.” His face had gone white.

  “Admitted you were the joyrider?”

  “Yes. Would you let me off with a warning, like you said? I wouldn’t do it again, ever.”

  Hen said, “Let’s get this clear, then. You’ve been taking cars from the car park without the owners’ consent and driving them just for the pleasure of being at the wheel?”

  “That’s it,” Garth said, nodding vigorously. “Just the pleasure. I wasn’t stealing them.”

  “But you stole the keys first. Tell us about that.”

  “Borrowed them.”

  “Borrowed them, then. How, exactly?”

  He was forced to explain. “I remembered who the owners were.”

  “So what’s the system? You chat to them from your kiosk, just to get a good look at them?”

  “Usually, yes.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “When I go off duty, I go looking to see where the car I fancy is parked. Then I make a search for the owner. They nearly always pick a place on the beach near the car. I observe them. I might watch from the sea wall, or go down on the beach myself. I wait for them to go for a swim. Then I choose my moment to pick up a bag or some clothes with the keys.”

  “What about the people around? Don’t they say anything?”

  He shook his head. “Not if you do it with confidence. I know what I want and I go directly to it. The stuff goes into a beachbag and then I’m away and straight to the car. I find the key and drive off.”

  Stella said, “What about when you go past the barrier to get out? Aren’t you afraid of one of the other attendants spotting you in a smart car?”

  “They’re facing the other way, checking the incoming cars.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out,” Hen said. “You’re a smooth operator.”

  “I’ll stop now,” he said, desperate to draw a line under this. “I knew it was wrong. It was getting to be a habit. I’m sorry. It was stupid of me.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if that’s all it was,” Hen said. “Unfortunately, Garth, we all know it’s far more serious than you make out. The last time it happened, things went wrong, didn’t they? There was a struggle for the bag containing the key. You killed the woman.”

  “No,” he said vehemently. “No, no-I didn’t do that!”

  “This joyriding was more than a habit. It was a compulsion. You had to get that key from her, and she didn’t leave her bag unattended for one second. So you snatched it.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “And she wasn’t asleep, as you thought. She was awake, and she tried to hang onto her bag, which was very unwise of her, because you panicked, thinking she would scream and make a scene, and you killed her.”

  “No,” he said, his eyes stretched wide.

  “OK,�
� Hen said calmly. “We’ve got the fingerprints on the car-the dark green Lotus Esprit-and we’ll check them against yours. You’re under arrest, Garth. We’re taking you for fingerprinting now.”

  He gave a sob and sank his face into his hands. Any uncertainty was resolved in that moment.

  25

  Diamond finally got to bed at ten-fifteen that morning, later than he wished, and with a Band-Aid on his right hand. He’d had to get out the ladder to collect Sultan from one of the high branches of the hawthorn in the front garden. Reluctant to be dislodged from this place of safety, Georgina’s pet had let Diamond know with a couple of swift, efficient paw movements, almost causing him to tip backwards. Only with the greatest difficulty had he brought the terrified cat down the ladder. All of this had been observed from the front room window by Raffles with an expression of supreme contempt.

  The exhausted man sank immediately into a deep sleep, blanking out everything. So when Ingeborg phoned him from Bennett Street twenty minutes later, he slept through the sound. After an hour the phone beeped again, this time with more success, because he happened to be turning over. He groaned, swore and reached for it.

  “Guv, are you there?”

  All he could manage was another groan.

  “Guv? This is Keith Halliwell. It’s an emergency.”

  “Mm?”

  “We just heard from one of the lads on watch in Bennett Street.”

  Bennett Street. Bennett Street, Bennett Street. The conscious mind groped for a connection. He forced himself to pay attention.

  “Ingeborg put in a routine call about ten thirty to make sure Anna Walpurgis was all right and got no answer. She tried several more times. Nothing. She tried calling you as well, and you didn’t answer. In the end she acted on her own and used the key to let herself in.”

  “Oh, Christ.” He was fully awake.

  “And now we can’t raise her, either.”

  He felt as if the floor caved in and he dropped a hundred levels. “Tell them to go in after her-all of them. I’m coming at once. Get everyone there you can. This is it, Keith!”

  Recharged and ready to go, he threw on some clothes, dashed out to the car and drove to Bennett Street at a speed he would normally condemn as suicidal.