“You’ll talk to her, then?”
“I’ll do my best. Thanks.” Ashamed of herself, she handed back the picture and went to collect Haley.
Miss Medlicott strolled back across the playground. The head teacher, Mrs Anderson, was at the school door. “Was that the child’s mother?”
“Yes. The mother is very sensible. She’ll be supportive. She looked rather stressed herself, so I’m afraid I ducked telling her the most disturbing part of the child’s story.”
“What was that?”
“Well, that her daddy was with this woman who died on the beach.”
6
Nine days after the body was found, Hen Mallin said to Stella, “What is it with this case? Have we hit a brick wall, or what?”
With a touch of annoyance, Stella informed her boss that she had checked the Missing Persons Index regularly. “Do you know how many we’ve followed up?”
“Don’t take it personally. I’m not knocking your efforts, Stell. I’m trying to think of a reason why nobody misses this woman in all this time-a smart dame apparently not short of money-who doesn’t come home, doesn’t report for work, visit her friends or answer the phone.”
“Phones answer themselves.”
“Only for as long as you’re satisfied talking to a machine.”
“There isn’t much you can do about it.”
“Eventually you do. You ask yourself why the bloody thing is in answer mode all day and every day.”
“How long is it now?”
“Over a week. It looks more and more as if someone is covering up.”
“How, exactly?”
Hen spread her hands as if it were obvious. “Making it appear she’s away on holiday, or too ill to speak to her friends.”
“You’re assuming he was the man in her life? The old truth that the vast majority of murders are domestic?”
“It looks that way. We accounted for all the cars in the beach car park, so how did she get to the beach?”
“Someone drove her.”
Hen agreed. “That’s got to be the best bet. They find a place on the beach and put up their windbreak and he waits for her to relax. She turns on her front to sunbathe. He chooses his moment to strangle her and then goes back to his car and drives off. Because he’s regarded as the boyfriend, he’s able to reassure her friends and work colleagues that she’s still alive. He can keep that going for some time.”
“While we’re going spare.”
“But there’s always a point when the smokescreen isn’t enough. People get suspicious.”
“If you’re right,” Stella said, “it’s going to be simple when we reach that point because someone is going to say she’s missing and point the finger at the same time.”
“We collar the guy.”
“Case solved,” Stella said with an ironic smile.
When the breakthrough came, on day twelve, it was not as either of them had foreseen. The MPI churned out a new batch of names and Stella found one that matched better than most, a thirty-two-year-old unmarried woman from the city of Bath. She was the right height and build and age and, crucially, her hair colour was described as “auburn/copper”. No tattoos, scars or other identifying marks.
Hen Mallin was intrigued by the missing woman’s profession. Emma Tysoe was listed as a “psych. o.p.”.
“What’s that when it’s at home?”
“I guess it’s shortened to fit the space. Psychiatric outpatient?”
“That’s hardly a profession, guv.”
“What’s your theory, then?”
Stella pressed some keys and switched to a glossary of abbreviations and found the answer: psychological offender profiler. “She’s not a patient. She’s a shrink. I’ve seen them on TV telling us how to do our job.”
Stella’s reaction was understandable. Television drama had eagerly embraced profiling as a fresh slant on the well-tried and ever-popular police series. Cracker had been Sherlock Holmes updated, an eccentric main character with amazing insights who would point unerringly to the truth the poor old plod couldn’t see. The professionals never missed an episode, yet claimed it was a million miles from the real thing.
Hen was more positive. “Profilers have their uses. The best of them are worth listening to. Check her out, Stella. Is there a photo? See if you can get one on screen.”
This took some organising with Bath police and when it appeared on the monitor it was in black and white and not the sharpest of images. It must have been taken in bright sunshine that picked out the features sharply but whitened the flatter areas of the brow and cheeks, giving no clue as to flesh tone. Wide, intelligent eyes, an even nose and full lips, a fraction apart, showing a glimpse of the teeth. A curved jawline above a long, narrow neck.
Even so, it convinced Hen. “That’s our lady. I’ll put money on it.”
“All bets are off,” Stella said. “I agree with you.”
“I feel I know her better looking at this than I did beside her body,” Hen said. “There’s a bright lady here.”
“It’s the eyes, guv.”
“What do we know about her?”
“Her job.”
“Have we ever used her?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“What was she doing on our patch, then?”
“Sunbathing. It’s allowed.”
Hen merely nodded. “There’s a list of profilers approved by the NCF-the National Crime Faculty at Bramshill. Let’s find out if she’s on it and what they know about her. I’ll take care of that. And you can get on to Bath police again. Presumably she lives or works there if they reported her missing.”
“Are you sure?” the young-sounding sergeant in Bath queried. “She only went onto Missing Persons yesterday.”
“Would I call you if I didn’t think this was a good match?” Stella said.
“It’s so quick, though.”
“Not for us. We’ve had a body on our hands for twelve days. Can you send someone to look at it?”
“The next of kin, you mean? You’ll have to be patient with me. I’m not fully up with it.”
“Why not? It’s been on national television. Didn’t I tell you she was murdered?”
“Yikes-you didn’t.”
“So you’d better get up with it fast. Are you CID?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Why don’t you get hold of someone who is and ask him to call me in the next ten minutes? I’m DS Gregson, at the incident room, Bognor police station.”
The name of Bognor never fails to kindle a smile. There is a story told of that staid old monarch, George V, that it was his favourite seaside place, and on his deathbed he was offered the incentive that if he got better he might care to visit Bognor, whereupon he uttered his last words, “Bugger Bognor”-and expired. According to his biographer, they were not his last words at all. He spoke them in happier circumstances when told that thanks to his patronage Bognor was about to be accorded special status as Bognor Regis. It’s still worthy of a smile.
“Bognor?” Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond repeated.
“But the body was found at Wightview Sands,” the sergeant who had taken the call informed him, then, listening to his own words and thinking how daft these places sounded, wished himself anywhere but in Diamond’s office.
However, Diamond said without a trace of side, “I know Wightview Sands. Big stretch of sand and a bloody long line of beach huts. And this is murder, you say?”
“They say, sir.”
“A Bath woman?”
“Emma Tysoe. A profiler.”
“A what?”
“Psychological offender profiler. She helps out in murder enquiries.”
“She’s never helped me.”
The sergeant was tempted to say Perhaps you didn’t ask. Wisely, he kept it to himself. “All I know is that she was reported missing by the university. She often goes away on cases connected with her work, but she always keeps in touch with the department. This time she didn’t get in touch. After some days, they got concerned.”