‘The last we heard, he was in Hong Kong. It’s unlikely he’d risk setting foot in Britain again.’
‘One of his cronies, then?’
‘What would be the point? Everything came out at her trial.’
‘Was anything stolen from the house?’
‘Too early to say. When did you see her last?’
He gave the question some thought. ‘About ten days ago. I used to visit her most Sundays.’
‘Not for church, I dare say.’
He glared back. ‘She cooked us a roast lunch. It was a regular thing. I made no secret of it. Jo knew all about it, and so did Gemma.’
‘And we don’t need to ask what was for afters. This arrangement lasted eighteen months. You appreciate being mothered, obviously.’
‘That’s unfair.’
‘Ten days ago, you say. Weren’t you there on Sunday?’
He hesitated, weighing the options. ‘I called at the house, but there was no answer.’
‘When was this?’
‘Around midday.’
‘Had you spoken to her on the phone?’
‘No. I just turned up at the usual time. I was surprised and a bit concerned actually. I waited for a while and walked around the outside. It was all locked up.’
‘Everything in order?’
‘It seemed to be. There was no sign of a break-in. Nobody else was about. The house is detached in its own grounds, so it was no use asking neighbours. I tried phoning her and got no answer. After about forty minutes, I gave up and came away.’
‘Pretty pissed off at missing your Sunday treat?’
‘A bit, if I’m honest. I tried calling her later. I was thinking she’d gone out for the day and forgotten to tell me.’
‘So what did you do for lunch?’
‘Sandwich.’
‘Where? A local pub?’
‘I went home.’
‘Pity. If you’d eaten out we might have a till receipt, or even someone who remembers you.’
‘I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t hang about because I was meeting some friends later. A birthday.’
‘And you forgot all about Sally? Where was the party?’
‘On the Isle of Wight.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘Gemma. It was her birthday. We went to a club. And Jo was there, too.’
‘While Sally lay dead in Cartwright’s pool.’
He shouted, ‘I didn’t know that. I’ve never been near the fuck-ing place.’
Gary pointed a finger and said, ‘Cool it.’
‘Okay,’ Hen said in a calm, measured tone, ‘let’s explore what happened according to what you’ve told us. Sally wasn’t there when you arrived, and she turns up dead in Cartwright’s pool on Tuesday afternoon. The pathologist estimates she’d been dead for two to five days, probably drowned. The day of death was therefore Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. She was in a pink swimsuit. Did you ever swim with her?’
‘Never. I don’t like swimming.’
‘But Sally must have enjoyed it. She had a pool of her own.’
‘She told me she swam before breakfast every day. She believed in keeping fit.’
‘She’d need to,’ Hen said, and added, ‘All that cooking. What I can’t get my head round is why she’d go to an outdoor pool in October when she was used to swimming indoors and at home. Any suggestions?’
‘Cartwright must be alive.’
‘Did Sally know Cartwright?’
‘I couldn’t tell you.’
‘She didn’t ever mention him?’
‘She wouldn’t, would she?’
Watching for his reaction, Hen said, ‘Are you suggesting she was promiscuous?’
He shifted in his chair. ‘I’m not saying anything else without my solicitor being present.’
‘Good thinking,’ Hen said, untroubled. ‘Let’s all go back to the nick and do this properly in an interview room.’
After her disturbed night, Jo woke later than usual. The phone by the bed was going. She snatched it up, hoping to hear Jake.
The voice was male, and for a moment she was fooled into saying, ‘Sweet Jesus, I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been about you.’
The caller nervously announced himself as Adrian, her boss. ‘Have I woken you up? Sorry. You won’t have heard about the flooding. The road is under four feet of water at Singleton. There’s no way I can get in to work this morning, so I’m phoning round to see who can make it.’
Adrian lived at Midhurst, north of Singleton. Jo was south of the flooded area, and so was the garden centre. ‘I’ll try and get in.’
‘I’d be so grateful. Karen’s going to try as well. I’m not expecting customers in weather like this. My worry is that we may have flood damage ourselves. It could ruin the stock.’
‘I’ll call you if and when I get there,’ she said.
She tried Jake’s number next. No answer.
At the police station, Hen left Rick in a side room with his solicitor. The law’s delay was one of the few certainties in police work. She was not downhearted. More needed to be uncovered before she could make real inroads with this guy. Smart questioning uncovers the truth, but it has to be rooted in good detective work.
Still on her desk in the interview room in its transparent evidence bag was the invitation card that had lured Meredith Sentinel to her death. She picked it up and ran her fingertips across the embossed lettering. An elaborate con. No other cards had been traced and she was confident of her theory that this one was unique, an invitation to a non-existent reunion. If she could prove Rick had sent it, she’d be well armed for the next round.
But he couldn’t have sent it to a woman he didn’t know.
Was there a connection to Meredith, something yet to be discovered? Either he’d been around in 1987 and met her at the dig and fantasised about her ever since, or he’d got to know her more recently. Through his work? He belonged to various professional societies, and they would have meetings in London, where Meredith lived and worked. A chance encounter? She did some work for the World Wildlife Fund, her husband had mentioned. Was Rick involved in that in some capacity? He didn’t seem the sort.
She examined the card again. The embossed lettering hadn’t been done on a computer. This was a printer’s work.
Kleentext Print Solutions?
She called their number and asked to speak to Gemma Casey. The receptionist said she’d try. Some of the staff weren’t in because of the flooding.
Fortunately, Gemma answered, and Hen explained about the card and its importance to the case. ‘We think it likely that only one was printed. It’s nicely done on cream-coloured card with embossed lettering.’
‘Swanky. We do that kind of work, mainly as wedding stationery,’ Gemma said, ‘but I doubt if this was ours. Only one, you say? It would be uneconomic.’
‘Depends if the client was willing to stump up,’ Hen pointed out.
‘You’re talking fifty pounds minimum for one card.’
‘Understood,’ Hen said. ‘Well, maybe he had about fifty printed and destroyed all but one. They didn’t get sent out. I’m sure of that.’
‘Anyway, we’d have a record of it,’ Gemma said. ‘The proof would have come through my office and I can’t
