‘Fifty-three.’
‘I wonder who dealt with it. You and I were still working out of Bognor CID two years back.’
‘I’ll get the file up.’
‘No, I’ll check the paperwork You’d better get out to Bosham right away and see what you can find at the house apart from dodgy Chippendale chairs. Take Paddy with you.’
‘Paddy?’ The silver-haired sergeant was the one fixed point in the incident room.
‘He needs to get out more.’
‘You don’t want to come?’
‘I’ve got other fish to fry.’
‘Meaning this guy Rick?’
‘Spot on. We’ve got nothing on him, but he swims into view every once in a while.’
‘The one that got away?’
‘Or a red herring. I’ll let you know.’
Light words, but behind them, serious intent.
First, she accessed Sally Frith’s file. The case had been handled by a DI who had since moved on to Brighton CID, and he’d written a useful account of the case. Frith, twice divorced and with a small fortune from the second marriage, seemed to have become a soft touch for a fraudster. She’d met a slippery character called Fu Chin and allowed him to store antique pottery in her large house in Bosham. The items turned out to have been stolen from a museum in Brussels. Fu Chin had spun her some yarn about needing cash for medical treatment for one of his children in Hong Kong and she’d found buyers for five of the pieces and transferred the money to his numbered account. Described by the judge as a foolish and gullible woman, she’d taken the rap. Fu Chin was still at liberty.
Hen recalled the lily-white body floating in the pool. You see dead flesh and know nothing of the personal story behind it. This hapless woman had been conned again, putting on her swimsuit for a dip with a serial killer. How foolish and gullible is that?
More urgently, what did it say about the killer?
He must have persuaded two of his three victims to go into the water. There wasn’t any evidence of compulsion about the apparent way Meredith had stripped to her undies and walked into the sea. And Sally Frith must have put on the pink swimsuit before going into the pool. Had they been charmed to their deaths? At a stretch Hen could imagine taking a midnight bathe on a warm September night with Jack Nicholson about the time he made Easy Rider, but a dip in an outdoor pool in an English October was something else. Not sexy old Jack nor any man alive could have talked her into getting her kit off in those conditions. She could only suppose the murderer had turned on the heating well in advance.
Such thoughtfulness.
A little shudder ran through her body.
She told Gary to get his coat on. Rick Graham’s office was in West Street. ‘Normally I’d walk,’ she said, ‘but look at that sky. It’s going to tip down again any minute. Fetch your car. I’ll see you out front.’
‘What’s Rick’s connection with the case?’ Gary asked when they were in motion, staring through the wipers at the lights of the car ahead.
‘Yet to be discovered,’ Hen told him. ‘He’s one of the pain-inthe-bum quartet.’
‘Jake, Gemma, Jo, and Rick?’
‘Friends, swingers, clubbers. None of them married. Between them Jake, Gemma, and Jo link up in some way with each of the killings. They knew one or more of the victims or they discovered one or more of the bodies. Rick stays in the background but he may have things to tell us.’
Not many cars were parked in West Street so early in the day. Gary steered into a spot right outside the Georgian doorway of the surveyor’s. ‘Does he know we’re coming?’
Hen shook her head. ‘Watch how he reacts. You may learn something.’
She flashed the warrant card and instructed the receptionist not to announce them over the intercom. She didn’t want Rick leaping out of a top floor window.
His name was on the door at the top of the stairs: Richard O. Graham, member of this and fellow of that, a string of qualifications that didn’t include immunity from investigation. Hen turned the handle and they went in.
He was reading the Daily Mail. Guiltily, he slammed it into a drawer. His blue eyes blinked nervously. Unruly hair poked up like a tussock of sun-bleached grass. It didn’t look right for the grey suit.
Hen gave a kickstart to the interview. ‘Were you reading about the body your friends found in the pool? We’re CID, by the way. DCI Mallin and DC Pearce.’
‘Oh.’
‘That was a question.’
‘Er, no. I get it for the business pages.’
‘Didn’t the latest murder make the national press? It will tomorrow. She’s a local woman.’
Wanting to get over the shock of their sudden appearance, Rick tried letting them know that they’d invaded his territory. In a prim tone he said, ‘I have an appointment shortly.’
‘Not until this one is through.’
‘What exactly do you want?’
‘Information. You’re the listening post. Heard it alclass="underline" dead bodies, an ID parade, a chase, an arrest.’
‘If you’re talking about Jake, I scarcely know the guy,’ he said. ‘He’s just a hanger-on.’
‘Hanging on to Jo as I understand it,’ Hen said. ‘She was your girlfriend and he took her over.’
‘I wouldn’t call her a girlfriend. He’s welcome to her.’
‘How very gracious that sounds. Didn’t she give you what you wanted? You swapped her for Gemma, I was told. Tricky when they’re close friends, I imagine. Leads to all kinds of comparisons.’
He reddened, either with anger or embarrassment. ‘I can’t see what relevance this has.’
‘All right, Rick, I’ll stop being personal. Tell me about your work.’
More signs of panic. He was out on the highwire again, and teetering. ‘Like what?’
‘Like does it get you out, looking at people’s houses?’
‘That’s part of it.’
‘Someone plans to move away, so they ask you to survey the property in line with the new government legislation. You should be telling me this. Have you been invited to do a job in Apuldram in the last three weeks? Desirable country house with swimming pool?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘The owner seems to have gone. I wonder who did the survey. Tell me, Rick, if you were surveying a house and the winter cover was over the swimming pool would you lift the end to inspect underneath?’
He started to bluster. ‘I know exactly what you’re talking about and why. I’ve never been to Cartwright’s house. I had nothing to do with what happened in Apuldram.’
‘Except by association,’ Hen said. ‘You’re sleeping with one of the women who found the body and the other is your ex.’
‘You said you’d stop being personal.’
An interruption: Hen’s phone gave its call note. ‘This had better be earth-shaking,’ she said to Gary, looking round for a place with more privacy. She settled for an armchair across the room from Rick’s desk.
The caller was Stella. ‘Sorry to disturb you, guv, but you ought to know this. We’re at Bosham, Sally Frith’s house. Huge place with an amazing harbour view. We started in her bedroom and almost the first thing we found beside the bed was this photo of a guy in swimming trunks, and written across it is-wait for it- “All My Love, Rick.”’
‘Have you got it there now?’
‘In my hand.
‘Describe him.’
‘Ten years younger than her, I’d say. Blue eyes, hair bleached blond by the look of it and cut in a style of-what shall I say? — more Rod Stewart than David Beckham, if you know what I mean.’
Hen’s heart had doubled its rate, but she was keeping her responses bland, trying not to give too much away to Rick. ‘Thanks, Stell. You did the right thing calling me.’
‘Boss, don’t go yet.’
‘What?’
‘Something else you ought to know. The place has a large indoor swimming pool.’
‘Has it?’ Keeping a poker face was difficult. ‘Worth noting. See you later.’ For a moment after switching off, she paused to let her brain catch up with what she’d heard. Deciding to go for broke, she crossed the room and said in a sharp, accusing tone, ‘Sally Frith of Bosham. One of your women, right?’