‘I can’t think what else we can try, guv. The posters are everywhere. We had the front page in all the local papers. Television news.’
‘And what have we got for it? Sweet FA.’
‘There can’t be anyone left in Selsey who hasn’t heard.’
‘Have we scared them off, parking this Port-a-Loo at the scene, or what? Even the attention-seekers are shunning us. We might as well shut up shop and shift back to the nick. At least you get a burger and chips there.’
‘You get freshly caught fish here. I took home two beautiful fillets of plaice last night.’
‘Great-if you’ve got the energy to cook at the end of the day.’
‘My fellow does the cooking.’
‘Be like that.’ Hen lived alone in a Bognor terrace. Her police career had always come first, and, unlike Stella, she’d never thought of sharing her home with a cop. She’d been raised in a working class family in Dagenham, but the raising had stopped at five foot one, and when she’d confided to her sister and two older brothers that she wanted to join the police they’d teased her without mercy. For the next year she was PC Shortarse and had to put up with ee-ah siren sounds whenever she appeared. She’d refused to be downed and answered a recruitment ad as soon as she was old enough. For the interview she’d added extra inches with platform shoes and her hair on top in a bun. Even the interviewer had poked fun, telling her the ballet school was up the street, but she’d toughed it out and said she had her own version of the Nutcracker called the ballbuster. And here she was, twelve years on, running a murder squad.
Stella switched the talk back to the investigation. ‘I’ve been asking myself why it’s so quiet. It’s a small community, just a village really. Suppose word got round that talking to us is not encouraged?’
‘A conspiracy of silence? I don’t think so, Stell. You don’t see that in their faces. Nobody cares enough. If we could put a name to the victim, we’d get a response, believe me.’
‘There are still no reports of missing women.’
‘I’m wondering about house-to-house.’
Now it was Stella’s turn to get uptight. ‘Do you want my honest opinion, guv?’
‘Save your breath,’ Hen said. ‘I know where you’re coming from. It wouldn’t be cost-effective. If we knew what happened to the victim’s clothes, we might get somewhere.’
‘Taken by the sea?’
‘I doubt it. You’ve seen the tideline all the way along. Enough rubbish to fill a quarry. Things get washed up here, not swept out.’
‘And everything along the beach has been sifted by the search squad.’
‘I’m not complaining at the effort,’ Hen said. ‘I want to know why, that’s all. Either some local ne’er-do-well found her kit and nicked it and is scared to own up, or the killer saw the sense in disposing of it. I would, and so would you.’
Uncomfortably close to home. Stella hesitated before asking, ‘So are we talking about someone with police experience?’
‘Not these days. Any couch potato with a telly gets the basics about forensics most nights of the week.’
The dialogue was interrupted briefly by some screaming gulls fighting over a fish head. Burgers still got Hen’s vote.
Stella threw in another suggestion. ‘What about the woman who found her?’
‘Jo Stevens?’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Ordinary. Profoundly shaken up by the experience. Lives in Chi and has the occasional walk down here at weekends. I got the impression she was keeping something back. It could be down to nerves, but she was pretty tight-lipped when I asked.’
‘Could that be because she picked up the victim’s clothes?’
Hen turned to look at her. ‘That’s a thought.’
‘Is she short of a few bob?’
‘Shouldn’t be. She’s in work. Mind, we don’t even know if the clothes were worth taking. No, on second thoughts she’d have found nicking them difficult. She was still at the scene when the patrol car answered the shout. The things must have walked before she got here.’
‘What’s she holding back, then?’
‘Don’t know. It’s just the vibe I was getting from her.’
‘Would you like me to have a go at her?’
Hen shook her head. ‘I don’t want her retreating into her shell.’
Stella wasn’t known for bullying tactics, but she let the remark pass. ‘Could she be a suspect?’
Hen flicked ash on the pebbles. ‘What, drowned the woman and raised the alarm herself? It wouldn’t be unknown in the annals of crime. I dare say there’s a syndrome with a special name for it. In the absence of any other suspects, Stella, I’m keeping an open mind on Miss Jo Stevens.’
‘And the men she saw along the beach, the jogger and the dog-owner?’
‘Still trying to trace them. Like I said, Selsey people aren’t the best at coming forward. This box on wheels looks too much like a prison vehicle. Speaking of which, I’m still interested in local villains.’
‘We checked the sex offenders’ register on the first day and drew a blank, as you know.’
‘This may not be about sex.’
‘Nothing showed up in the post mortem.’
‘My point exactly. It’s easy to get carried away with the idea that because she was undressed it was for one thing only.’
‘What else is there?’
‘Skinny dipping, for starters. This was a warm September night. At this end of summer, the sea temperature is as high as it gets.’
‘I haven’t heard of nude bathing down here.’
‘These things go on, Stell.’
‘In Selsey?’
‘All along the coast. There’s an entire beach in Brighton that is set aside for the birthday suit brigade. I once walked by out of curiosity. Didn’t exactly inflame me. And then there’s art.’
‘There’s what?’
‘Photography in the main, celebrating the naked form, usually female. Page three girls. Not just the Sun. Lads’ mags. Even posh Sunday colour magazines pay big bucks for that kind of stuff. Beaches are favoured locations. Not that your average girl-fancier wastes much time looking at the background.’
‘And they call it art!’
‘I hope I haven’t got a Philistine on my team. This is commercial art. Cash for the models, fees for the photographers, and sales for the newsagents.’
‘Do you think our victim was a model, then?’
‘Actually, no. At thirty plus, she was a bit old for that. Unless it was amateur photography. The local camera club.’
‘A Women’s Institute calendar. What was that film?’ Stella asked, playing to Hen’s improving mood.
‘It had a thousand imitations. The world’s moved on.’
‘But has this place?’
‘Going by Bognor, where I live, probably not. But I haven’t heard Selsey is planning anything quite so risque. Someone would have told us, wouldn’t they?’
‘Are they telling us anything?’
‘You can’t get up to frolics like that without half the village knowing about it.’
‘We don’t know half the village.’
‘Which is why house-to-house has its attractions,’ Hen said. ‘You walked into that.’
Behind them, a phone went. One of the computer operators inside the van would take it.
‘What we need is someone out here under an awning,’ Hen said. ‘Know what I mean? A canvas thing with coloured stripes. We’re on a beach, for God’s sake. Let’s meet the public as they walk by.’
She was called to the phone.
Stella waited, hoping whoever it was would put the awning out of the boss’s mind. Outside was no place to be when the wind got up.
‘Breakthrough,’ Hen said, stepping out again, elated. ‘A witness has surfaced. Says he was on the beach on the day she was found. He was exercising his dog. This is the guy with the poodle.’
Twenty past two and Jake was late. They were supposed to meet on the path opposite the lifeboat station, and it wasn’t the best of choices. The sharp east wind coming off the sea was getting through Jo’s padded jacket and chilling her. Unusually for her, she was shivering. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand here.
She should have asked for his mobile number. She assumed he carried a phone. He’d need one in his line of work, just to keep in touch with colleagues. She wasn’t sure what nature conservancy entailed, except that labelling shingle plants was part of it. A man out on the reserve would need to stay in contact.