The Headhunters (28 page)
A small fridge was in the kitchen. The electrics didn’t seem to be working and she wasn’t going to risk trying them. She took off her backpack and put the milk and sandwiches into the fridge. To her right was a door that might have led somewhere, but on opening it she saw only steps almost entirely immersed in black water. A cellar, she supposed. This place would take months to dry out.
She stepped back, felt her heel touch something soft, and almost lost balance. She’d trodden on a dishcloth. In reaching out for support, she knocked a plate off the draining board into the sink.
A voice said, ‘Is someone there?’
She wasn’t sure where it came from, but she called out, ‘Miss Peabody, are you all right?’
‘I’m upstairs.’
Through the living room on the opposite side she found the staircase. ‘It’s all right,’ she called, to set the old lady’s mind at rest. ‘It’s only Jo from the garden centre, come to see if you need any help.’
She mounted the stairs.
‘THIS CAME to me when we were interviewing Rick,’ Hen told Gary. She was pink-faced with excitement. ‘It turns the whole case on its head. Everything has a different interpretation. This.’ She brandished the invitation card. ‘This was never intended to bring Meredith to Selsey and lure her to her death. I made a false assumption. The envelope was addressed to Dr Sentinel and intended for him. He led the dig. He should have been the guest of honour at the reunion. But of course Meredith was a D.Sc as well. She was Dr Sentinel, too, a brilliant student who got a first and went on to take her doctorate at University College. She thought the envelope was addressed to her. Her husband was away in St Petersburg and couldn’t possibly attend. The way it was worded would have appealed to anyone. Listen to this: “Free food, drink and eighties music. No reply necessary. To have fun with old friends just turn up . . . like the mammoth did.” Imagine Meredith reading that at a time when old sobersides was out of the country. A chance of a night out. She was up for anything. She got on a train and came down here.’
‘Why was she murdered?’
‘Question of the day, Gary. Get me Sentinel’s number.’
MISS PEABODY was wearing her pink hat. A hat in your own home? Odd, certainly, but just because she was eccentric didn’t mean the poor old duck should be left to fend for herself. The blue twinset didn’t go too well with the hat. The tweed skirt? Well, it had seen better days.
‘The door was open,’ Jo explained.
‘I left it open deliberately, in case someone came,’ the old lady said. ‘When the water started to come in downstairs I collected any precious things I had and brought them up here.’
They were in her bedroom and the narrow single bed was heaped with letters, newspapers, books, and a few dry groceries.
‘Sensible,’ Jo said.
‘It’s not the first time. I’ve had three major floods in my lifetime, so I know what to do. It’s the clearing up that I hate. It takes months to dry out, even with help from the council.’
‘It’s deep in that cellar below the kitchen.’
‘That always floods first. It was used as an ice-store once, but I’ve got no use for it except to grow mushrooms. The walls leak. That’s the trouble.’
‘I heard the forecast on the car radio. I don’t think it will get much worse, if that’s any consolation.’
She stared at Jo’s feet. ‘Don’t you wear shoes?’
‘Wellies.’ Jo smiled. ‘Left them on the step. Can I make you some coffee while I’m here? I tucked a few things in the fridge.’
‘Tea would be nice. Milk and no sugar. The kettle is on the stove, so it should be hot. Have we met before?’
‘The garden centre.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She was a little forgetful.
When Jo returned with the tea on a tray, she said, ‘I have a friend called Gemma and you’re her Aunt Jessica.’
‘You know Gemma?’
‘We’ve done quite a lot together.’ And how! ‘I expect she would have come to make sure you’re all right, but I’m just up the road so I offered to look in.’
‘I don’t see a lot of Gemma these days.’
The very thing Mummy would say, given the opportunity. The older generation like to portray themselves as neglected. ‘She’s been really busy at work, having to take over from the manager.’
‘I’m her only living relative.’
Cue the plaintive violin music. ‘She told me.’
‘Her parents died when she was quite a small girl, you know. Killed in a car crash. Dreadful. Her mother was my sister, Angela. A lovely young woman. I’ve got a picture of her somewhere. It’s among the things I carried upstairs for safety. My photo album was the first thing I made sure was safe. You can’t replace such a thing and it holds so many memories.’ She spilt some of her tea turning to look over the old-fashioned eiderdown. ‘There it is. The big red book. Could you hand it to me carefully so that nothing falls out?’
Old people and old photos. Jo could see this taking longer than she’d expected. She didn’t really want to be looking at ancient snaps for the next hour.
‘I haven’t stuck them all in,’ Miss Peabody said, seating herself on the bed and opening the album on her lap. She’d drunk the tea hot and placed the empty cup back on the tray. ‘I’ve been promising myself for years that I’d do it. Well, that’s a bit of luck.’ She’d picked up a small snap in colours so faded that they were almost monochrome. ‘Here they are on their wedding day. They were married in that tiny little church at Upwaltham. A lovely setting for a wedding.’
Jo gave it a polite glance. ‘She was a beautiful bride.’
‘I was the maid of honour. I didn’t want to be called the bridesmaid. They’re usually much younger than I was. I had a pink headdress and a matching pink bouquet.’
That figures, Jo thought, wondering if the pink hat went back to those days. She handed back the photo and glanced at her watch. She’d been in the cottage twenty minutes already.
‘Carnations mainly.’ Miss Peabody was still on about the bouquet. ‘A hardy plant, the carnation. It can survive mild frost conditions and under glass it will flower all the year round.’ She started sorting through a mass of pictures. ‘Here’s one that will amuse you. Gemma at five years old with Terry. Look at her expression, as if she really could be doing something better than being made to pose for a picture with her little brother. Isn’t it a scream?’
Jo tried to show some enthusiasm. The small girl with chubby arms folded did have a pout, as if she would rather have been elsewhere. The curly-headed boy had managed a cute smile for the camera. ‘Very amusing.’
‘She was rather put out when Terry came along. It can be difficult for the older child.’
Fifteen minutes more passed and they’d only started on the photo collection. Jo was trying to think of ways of bringing this to an end without being hurtful. Outside she heard a vehicle stopping somewhere near. With any luck it would be the fire service or the police and they would take over.
No one knocked.
‘Oh, dear. Here’s the
Chichester Observer
report of the accident,’ Miss Peabody said, handing across a yellow press clipping. ‘It’s family history, so I kept it, but I didn’t know it was among the photos.’
Jo scanned it rapidly and then read it a second time:
TWO DIE IN SOUTH MUNDHAM CAR CRASH
A fatal car crash in South Mundham on Tuesday evening has shocked the village. The victims were named as Patrick and Angela Casey, both aged 27. Their overturned Ford Cortina was found by office cleaner David Allday close to Limekiln Barn in Runcton Lane. He was returning from his late shift at 1.45 a.m. The couple appeared to have died instantly, a police spokesman said. ‘No other vehicle seems to have been involved. There was ice on the road and they may have taken a turn too fast.’
The Caseys are survived by one daughter, Gemma, aged 8. Their son Terry died in another tragic incident in 1978, when he drowned in their garden pond at the age of 3.
‘So sad, isn’t it?’ Miss Peabody said. ‘Gemma had to be fostered. My health wasn’t good, or I would have taken her on. Between you and me, she was quite a handful. Very wilful. Still is, from what I see of her.’
‘And the little brother drowned?’
‘Yes, that was awful. One August afternoon the children were playing in the garden. I think Angela was watching television. Gemma came in and said Terry was lying in the pond and wasn’t moving. She’d tried to lift him, poor mite. Her little dress was soaking. When Angela got out there it was too late.’
AUSTEN SENTINEL WA S H I S usual unfriendly self. ‘Some other time. I’m interviewing students,’ he told Hen on the phone.
‘Fine,’ she said, prepared for this. ‘Finish your interview. We’ll have a car pick you up in twenty minutes.’
With an impatient sigh, he said, ‘What is it?’
‘Cast your mind back to nineteen-eighty-seven. The dig at Selsey. You told me you were only twenty-five at the time.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Young, energetic, and with leadership qualities.’
‘I don’t remember claiming all that.’
‘In short, attractive.’
‘That was for others to judge.’
‘You mentioned all those young girls in bikinis.’
‘Ha.’ From the satisfied sound, he might have been a chess player whose opponent has at last revealed her strategy. ‘You won’t get me on that. I behaved myself.’
‘I believe you. You told me after the inquest—I’m quoting you now—you would have been a total idiot to risk your career by going to bed with a student.’
‘And I stand by that.’
‘You also said that the ratio of women to men at the university meant you were the proverbial kid in the teashop.’
‘There’s no contradiction there. One can look at the sweets without sampling them.’
‘But what about the sweetshop across the street?’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘You said you recruited local people for the dig as well as students. It wouldn’t have broken university rules to chat up some of the local totty.’
‘So why are you raising it?’
‘Because one of the Selsey lasses apparently took a shine to you. And I dare say you encouraged her.’
‘If I did, the memory has faded.’
‘Hers didn’t fade. She carried a torch for you for twenty years.’
‘Oh, what nonsense.’
‘It wasn’t nonsense to her. She formed a plan. She’d have a reunion with you, a private one. Just the two of you, at Selsey, letting you believe it was a beach barbecue for everyone who took part. She went to all the trouble of getting an invitation printed— just for you—and sent it.’
‘You’re mistaken. That invite wasn’t meant for me.’
‘It was.’
‘My wife opened it. I told you.’
‘Because it was addressed to Dr Sentinel. You both had doctorates.’
Some seconds of silence followed.
Hen resumed, ‘Unluckily for the sender, you were booked for St Petersburg, and Helsinki. If you saw the invitation, you chucked it aside.’
‘So what are you accusing me of?’
‘Nothing. I’m telling you why your wife was murdered. She found the invitation. She may have been the one who opened it. If so, I’m sure she found it tempting.’
‘Oh, she would, knowing Merry.’
‘She decided to go.’
‘We know that.’
‘Right. But this is the crux. When Merry got there it was a tremendous shock for your old flame, expecting you to turn up. And when Merry said who she was—your wife—the shock must have been seismic. I doubt if the wretched woman knew you were married. People who harbour fantasies for many years don’t move on mentally. She pictured you as you were in nineteen-eighty-seven, young, amorous, and hers alone. The existence of a wife would have been unthinkable.’
‘This deluded creature murdered Merry? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘The two women meet for a non-existent barbecue. They wait on the beach for others, who, of course, don’t turn up. They drink some wine—she’s sure to have brought some to make the evening a success, and Merry may have brought some, too—and it all appears friendly, swapping their memories of nineteen-eighty-seven. Finally, Merry is invited for a moonlit swim.’
‘And she was attacked in the water and drowned?’
‘She made two fatal mistakes. The first was going there at all.’
‘And the second?’
‘Admitting she was your wife.’
He took a sharp breath. ‘What kind of lunatic was behind this?’
‘An attractive young woman you loved and left who developed an obsession about you.’
‘Grotesque.’
From all she had seen of Austen Sentinel, Hen was inclined to agree. Actually, the man sounded as close to genuine regret as he was ever likely to get.
The right moment for Hen to take it a stage further. ‘Think back and tell me if there was anyone who might match up.’
‘God, what an impossible question! In those days I was sleeping with hundreds of women.’
Talk about delusions, Hen thought.
He was wrestling with the impossible. ‘Someone from the dig? All I can recall at the moment are summer nights after the tide was in and we’d salvaged and stored our finds. We used to adjourn to a pub close to the beach near the lifeboat station.’
‘It’s called the Lifeboat Inn.’
‘We’d drink the evening away. We were young people, warmed by the sun, pleased with a good day’s work. I have a faint recollection of slipping away from the crowd with a local girl and indulging in a few kisses on the beach.’
‘Only kisses?’
‘It may have led to something more intimate.’
‘“May have”? Who are you kidding?’
She’d massaged his ego. ‘Two or three times. Once in the back of the van, I think, because doing it on pebbles is not ideal. But if you’re asking me to remember the girl’s name, I’m stumped. Certainly I wouldn’t have expected her to fantasise about me later.’
‘She would have been young, younger than your students.’
‘You obviously have someone in mind.’
‘I do. And so do you, Dr Sentinel. Tell me some more about her.’
It seemed for a moment as if he would try and hold out, but then he clicked his tongue and said, ‘Not her name. That’s gone. Yes, there was a local girl, young and not too experienced.’
‘A virgin?’
‘Well . . . yes.’
JO WA S looking for an excuse to escape from Miss Peabody and her photo collection. She’d been in the cottage longer than she intended. Nearly an hour, now. She’d looked at shots of Gemma and her family till she felt ready to climb the walls.
‘You could sort these out and put them in some kind of order,’ she said, preparing to move. ‘If you’re stuck at home for a few days it may be a good time to do it.’
‘How sensible. I’ve been meaning to make the effort. The oldest ones at the beginning, and so on. It’s a pity I don’t have any of Gemma as an older child.’
‘Didn’t the foster parents take any?’
‘Oh, they were devoted to her, always taking photos. They were lovely people. So caring. They took her everywhere, along with the other children. I had pictures of her at Disneyland and in Paris. But after she was fostered again, when she was twelve, she came to see me and went through the album and removed every single one I had of her with that family. I didn’t make a fuss; I expect she wanted to start her own collection.’
‘Why was she refostered if it was working so well?’
Miss Peabody shook her head. ‘It was awfully sad for the parents. They took on a new child, a little girl of about eight called Janice. Gemma’s first foster sister. She had four brothers, but they wanted another girl in the family. Within weeks the parents took the children on holiday in Portugal. They went to some kind of amusement park and the boys went on that up and down thing.’
‘The rollercoaster?’
‘Yes, Gemma would have loved to go on that. She’s always been adventurous. But her new foster sister was nervous, so the girls were given a ride on some kind of boat thing, a two-seater shaped like a swan.’
‘A pedalo?’
‘No it wasn’t that. It was driven by something under the water so that it went in a circuit, and there was a stretch where it was enclosed. Really I think the ride was meant for young couples, a chance for a cuddle without people watching.’
‘The tunnel of love.’
‘That sounds like it. The two girls had a boat to themselves. Sadly, the young one, Janice, fell out while it was going through the tunnel. It seemed she had a fear of the dark. She must have stood up, I suppose. She was caught under the machinery and drowned. Well, the poor foster parents were held to be negligent and all the children were taken away from them.’
Two deaths by drowning: a brother and a foster sister. A pulse had started hammering in Jo’s head. ‘I’ve got to leave, I’m afraid. I’m getting a headache.’
‘What a shame. Do you want something for it?’
‘No. I’ll be all right.’
She crossed to the stairs, went down, remembered her backpack and went to collect it. A shock awaited.
Somebody was in the kitchen.
Gemma.
With a meat mallet raised.
A different Gemma to the person she knew, a wild-eyed, angry Gemma, practically spitting her words. ‘Stupid interfering bitch. My so-called friend, spying on me, squeezing every sodding detail from the old crone.’ She stepped closer, bracing herself to wield the mallet. It was a heavy wooden thing with sharp ridges to break the meat fibres.
Jo stepped back, horrified.
Gemma made a sideways move across the doorway, blocking the exit. ‘Get back, shithead.’
‘Gem, what are you doing? I came to help your aunt. I
am
your friend.’
‘Some friend!’ She lunged forward. She meant to use the mallet.
Jo backed off again. As she did so, her foot dipped into a cavity and she felt her balance go. She’d taken a step down into the flooded cellar. Her foot was in water to above the ankle.
Gemma swung the mallet.
Jo raised her arm, swayed, ducked the blow, lost balance entirely and fell backwards, splashing into filthy water so deep that her head went under. She came up for air and felt a huge restraint on her shoulder.
Gemma was forcing her down with her foot.
She couldn’t withstand the weight. She felt herself go right under again. Air was escaping from her mouth, bubbling upwards.
This was the pattern of the killings, pressing the victim under until her lungs filled and she drowned.
Her limbs were leaden. Her eyes bulged. She was trying to resist and the strength wasn’t there. Drowning, she knew, places a massive strain on the heart. The shock can be instantaneous. The inrush of cold water to the mouth and nasal passages can cause cardiac arrest. If you survive that, the drowning takes minutes rather than seconds. The struggle to survive is instinctive, but in a small space you can’t battle with someone who has a foot on your shoulder.
She had never known pain like this. Her eardrums felt ready to explode. She tried to hold her breath but the water surged through her nostrils, causing her to gulp more of the foul liquid.
All the time, Gemma’s foot bore down. The bundle of nerves giving so much pain in Jo’s shoulder stiffened. All sensation was going. Every cell in her body screamed for oxygen.
