A burgeoning scenario withered and died. Stella had almost persuaded herself that Littlewood had driven to the beach with a few six-packs and chanced upon his enemy Shiena Wilkinson sunbathing close by. She preferred it to the notion that he’d followed her there in the car.
She tried a different tack. “Has Dr Wilkinson been to visit you here?”
“Why should she? I’m all right. It’s just bruises and stuff. You’ve only got to touch me and I bruise.”
“So you haven’t heard from her?”
“She’s busy, isn’t she? Got people who are really ill to look after.”
Between them, they finished shelling the peas.
“I’ll be given a load of spuds to peel now,” Ann Littlewood said as Stella left her. “This is no holiday.”
All the signs were that she would discharge herself and return to her violent husband in a matter of days.
Hen Mallin called St Richard’s hospital at eleven thirty and asked if Dr Mears, a colleague of Shiena Wilkinson, had been in as arranged to identify the body recovered from Wightview Sands. He had not. A call to the health centre revealed why. At eleven fifteen in the Waitrose supermarket one of the doctor’s patients had collapsed with chest pains. Dr Mears was at the hospital, in attendance at an intensive care ward, not the mortuary. The living had priority over the dead.
Hen seriously thought about having twenty minutes with her Agatha Christie tapes. It was that or another cigar. This case was an obstacle course. She had to be certain that the body was Dr Wilkinson’s. Stella had reported back with news of a violent character who had created a scene in the surgery the week before. Really they should interview this man as early as possible. Yet all she could do at present was chain-smoke.
She got through two more deciding how to pitch the TV appeal. She wanted her message to reach the Smiths, the family who had reported the dead woman on the beach. It was a tough decision whether to name them and their child, Haley. Normally you kept children out of it, but this name pinpointed them and might prompt friends and neighbours into asking if they were the Smith family in the news. On balance, she thought she would go for it. The Smiths might not even have heard about the strangling. Some people sailed through life without ever reading the papers or looking at television news.
She would also ask for other witnesses. Plenty of the public had been on that stretch of beach when the body was found. The sight of four men lifting a lifeless woman from the water must have created some interest. And who were those four men? Smith, for sure, the lifeguard for another, and two others. How much had they seen?
By the time she went in front of the cameras she would expect to know if the dead woman was Dr Wilkinson. If the information was right that the doctor’s nearest relatives lived in Canada, she’d make sure the police over there were requested to break the news to the family. Then she could go public and show a photo of the victim on TV-no reason not to-and ask for help in tracking her movements up to the moment of her murder. They’d need a bank of phones to handle all the calls coming in.
Now it was a case of drafting the text for her short slot in the regional news. Maybe thirty seconds. Every word had to count.
Satisfied at last with what she would say, she went for a late lunch in the station canteen. Half the murder squad was down there drinking coffee. She couldn’t blame them.
Hen enjoyed her food. Light lunches were out. She had a theory that in this job she could never be certain where the next meal would come from, so she stoked up with carbohydrates like a marathon runner packing energy before the race. Steak and kidney pie and chips today, followed by apple tart and custard. She claimed she could go for hours after a lunch like that, though she wouldn’t turn down a good supper.
At two thirty-eight, a call came in from a car park attendant at Wightview Sands. Hen was back in the incident room to take it.
“Yes?”
The speaker was self-important, typical of a certain kind of minor official, and he obviously had difficulty accepting a woman as chief investigating officer. “Am I speaking to the person responsible for the murder?”
“Not literally. He’s the one I’m trying to catch. If you want the person heading the enquiry, that’s me.”
“The senior detective?”
“Right. Have you something to tell me?”
“I’m speaking from the car park at Wightview Sands.”
“I’ve been told that.”
“Are you sure you’re in charge?”
“Look, do you have something to tell me, squire, or not? We’re very busy here.”
“I’m not personally involved,” he said. “If that’s what you’re thinking, you’re wrong. I wasn’t even on duty when the woman was found.”
“So what’s this about?”
“Actually a lady here would like a word with you.”
What a relief. “Put her on, then.”
The new voice was easier on the ear, low-pitched for a woman, well in control. “I understand you’ve taken possession of my Range Rover. My name is Shiena Wilkinson. How do I get it back, please?”
5
Hen Mallin’s television appeal needed some rapid script changes now. So it was Stella who drove out to Wightview Sands and met Dr Wilkinson. Not an easy assignment.
The first thing she noticed was the hair. Mrs Bassington, the health centre receptionist, had been right. It was emphatically more chestnut than copper. Thick, long, and worn loose, as if to make clear Shiena Wilkinson was off duty. She was in T-shirt and close-fitting denim shorts, with a figure that… well, maybe she looked more like a GP in her work clothes.
They spoke in the windsurfers’ club, close to where the Range Rover had been parked. The car park attendant who had spoken to Hen on the phone lingered as if he might have something to contribute, but he was a new face. Another man had been on duty when the body was found. From the looks he was giving the young doctor it was obvious what this fellow’s agenda was. He was around thirty, with thick, slicked-back hair and a stupid grin. Stella asked him if he shouldn’t be back in his kiosk.
“It’s on automatic,” he said. “We put it on automatic when things are quiet. People put in their money and the gate goes up. I can get you ladies a coffee if you want.”
“Thanks, but no,” Stella said. “Unless…” She gave Dr Wilkinson an enquiring look and was grateful for a shake of the head.
The car park man still hovered. “I expect you thought Dr Wilkinson was the victim, being the owner of the Range Rover.”
Stella gave him a look she reserved for really pathetic cases. “I’m asking you to leave us now, Mr, em…”
“Garth,” he said. “My name’s Garth.”
When the two women were alone, Shiena Wilkinson said, “I understand you took my car away because you thought it belonged to that unfortunate woman who was found dead. Well, I need it back-urgently.”
“Understood.”
“It contains things essential to my work. I’m a doctor.”
“And I’m a detective, so I know you are.” Stella smiled to ease the tension. “You’ll get your things back directly. But as for the car, you’ll need to hire another for the next day or two. We had to look inside. We’ll put the damage right, of course.”
“Damage?”
“We broke a window.”
“I thought you had bunches of keys for a job like that.”
“We couldn’t wait. We had a body, obviously murdered. We needed to identify her quickly.”
“Point taken,” Dr Wilkinson said in a more accepting tone.
“What made you leave it here?”
“That’s personal. I was going to collect it today. Hairy moment for me when it wasn’t here.”
“Do you mind telling me?”
She sighed. “I met a friend on the beach yesterday and spent the night with him in Brighton. He took me there in his car. It’s as simple as that. He offered to bring me back today to collect mine and he did.”