On the face of it, Cartwright now had centre stage. A body in his pool, his garden, surely clinched it, allowing that he’d gone missing. The manhunt must be stepped up, using Interpol. He’d kill repeatedly until he was caught.
Yet the strange thing was that the search of his house and office hadn’t yielded any clue to a fixation with drowning. His hard disk had been picked apart for downloads that would confirm his guilt. He was a sailing enthusiast, admittedly. Looked at the websites, read the books, took the magazines. But floating on water wasn’t the same as wanting to be in it with your hands on some poor woman’s shoulders, forcing her under for minutes on end until she drowned.
Denis Cartwright appeared to be a loner with no history of mental illness, no previous, whose divorce had left him out of touch with everything except his business, obsessive about tidiness and eccentric in dress (the bow ties), but friendly to his staff, vulnerable to advances from an ambitious young woman like Fiona, yet with no obvious potential for violence. You’d expect to have found something if it existed.
His ex-wife might have given some helpful insights. Unfortunately she’d died of cancer three years after the divorce. There were no children and no close relatives.
Hen felt in her pocket and fingered her pack of cigarillos.
Extra pressure was inevitable now that a third victim had been found. A media frenzy would follow. Just as surely, the high-ups in headquarters would question whether an officer of chief inspector rank was competent to investigate. Trouble was looming about the use of the helicopter this morning. And when they learned that Cartwright’s house and garden had been searched previously and the body missed they’d really have something to chew on. She didn’t relish the next couple of days.
Sensing, correctly, that this wasn’t the right time to comment on victim number three, Gary asked, ‘Did you get much out of Jake, guv?’
She stared ahead. Large drops of rain were hitting the windscreen. Typical of the day so far if the crime scene took a drenching that washed away all traces of the killer. ‘What did you ask?’
‘About Jake.’
The big man still in custody was just one more problem. ‘If I tell you he’s not saying much, you’re going to say, “So what’s new?” The latest on Jake is that he’s not said anything to incriminate himself. Yet.’
‘But he resisted arrest.’
‘He’s an ex-con. He doesn’t expect any favours from us. I don’t blame him for that.’
‘And what does he say to the fact that he met Fiona as well as the first victim?’
‘Nothing sinister in it, according to him. He was at the printer’s ordering Christmas cards for the nature reserve. He claims she came by and asked if he was being looked after and he answered yes and those were the only words she ever spoke to him. In fact, he was more interested in Gemma Casey, who we’re shortly going to meet again. They went ten-pin bowling together. A cosy little quartet was formed that evening. Jo Stevens was the other woman and she was partnered by a man called Rick, who I haven’t met yet. But I’m seeing more than I wish of the two women. They’re a pain in the backside.’
‘Is Jo the one who acted as a decoy at Pagham this morning?’
‘Yes, she’s batting for Jake.’
‘What does Rick think about that?’
‘I just told you I haven’t met the guy. I gather he switched to Gemma. And now the same two women turn up in Apuldram sniffing around Cartwright’s place and finding the body that my own officers missed. God, I could do with a smoke. Put your foot down, Gary.’
Sheltering from the downpour under a conifer, she’d got through two of her cigarillos and was lighting a third when the pathologist arrived. The white-clad crime scene officers and uniform PC’s had secured the area around the pool with tape and retreated to their transport. Everyone had a valid excuse to stay under cover until the pathologist had done his stuff. Only the dead woman lay exposed to the rain, adrift in the middle of the pool, any parts of the pink costume above the waterline now as saturated and strawberry-coloured as the rest.
Dr Kibblewhite was new to Hen, a tall white-haired man with a stoop and a squeaky voice. He was carrying a huge blue umbrella with the words SAVE TUFTY written on it in white. ‘A freebie from a previous case,’ he explained to Hen. ‘You never know what’s coming your way in this job. Tufty was a pedigree bull under threat of slaughter in a bovine TB scare. There was a huge campaign and more tests were ordered and he was saved and it was champagne all round, but one of his supporters was unwise enough to pat him on the head. I did the autopsy. Would you mind holding the brolly over me? Should keep us both dry with any luck.’
They stepped out to the pool’s edge and Kibblewhite rubbed some warmth into his surgical gloves and drew them on. ‘She’s no use to me where she is.’
‘That’s where she was found,’ Hen said.
‘If you think I’m going to wade out to see her, you’re mistaken,’ he said. ‘Can someone find a boat hook and pull her to the side?’
A boat hook in a private garden?
Hen called Gary over and explained the problem. He went across to the garden shed and returned with a rake.
‘Well done, young man,’ Kibblewhite said when the floating corpse had been pulled to the pool edge. ‘Now fetch some help and let’s see if you can land the beauty.’
Gary shouted for assistance and two uniformed officers came running from under the trees. Ropes were passed under the body and it was hoisted from the pool and gently lowered onto the tiled surround.
With Hen holding the umbrella with one hand and a tissue to her nose with the other, Kibblewhite crouched and began the examination. ‘My estimate is that she’s been in the water more than two days and less than five,’ he said after he’d pulled some hair from the head and examined the wrinkled hands and feet. ‘The obvious results of immersion.’
‘Drowning?’ Hen asked.
‘I said immersion. There’s a distinction.’ Kibblewhite turned to look up at her. ‘I can tell you now, Chief Inspector, that you’ll hear nothing about drowning from me at this juncture, and you may not hear it at all.’
‘And what’s the good news?’
‘I mean it. After several days have gone by, as they obviously have, it’s not easy to form an opinion and I certainly won’t give you one at the poolside.’ He’d taken a tape recorder from his pocket and started addressing it in a way that brooked no interruption. ‘Maceration well under way. Skin tissue deteriorating already.’ As if on second thoughts he turned to Hen again. ‘Pardon me if that sounded unfriendly. It wasn’t meant as such. But don’t expect any Quincy-type revelations from me.’
‘Did you say Quinsy?’
‘Quincy, M.E., as on television. The M.E. standing for medical examiner. You must have seen it. He solves the mystery and outwits the police every time. I first got hooked in the late seventies.’
‘Before my time.’
‘Isn’t it on any more? It was a while ago. I’ve got the entire series on DVD. The technical stuff is way out of date now, but I enjoy the stories. I expect you watch that CSI thing.’
‘Can you say anything that will help us identify her?’ Hen asked, not wanting to go any further down the television road.
‘Not a lot. The slight distension you see is trapped gas and will have brought the body to the surface. Left any longer the effect will increase markedly. She’s small in stature, smaller than you and probably slimmer, if I may be personal. Age fifty, give or take.’
‘Give or take how much?’
‘Five years. May I continue? Dyed hair and painted nails- which you can see for yourself.’
‘Bruising?’
‘No chance of finding any. Look at the state of the skin. When I’ve examined the internal organs I may have more to tell you.’ He stood up. ‘Where’s that young man disappeared to?’