“Did you see any other property? A bag?”
“Only the towel she was lying on. I got some lads to help us move her.”
“Did Smith help?”
“He joined in, sure. We got her up here and into the beach hut.”
“How did you know she was dead? Did you feel for a pulse?”
“No need.”
She said with a sharp note of criticism, “You’ve had first-aid training, I take it? You know you should always check?”
“She’d gone. Anyone could tell she’d gone.”
“That simply isn’t good enough for someone in your job. You know why I’m asking, Sunny Jim? If you’d felt for the pressure point on her neck you would have noticed the ligature mark.”
The lifeguard didn’t answer.
“So you dumped her in the hut and put in a nine-nine-nine call. Why didn’t you ask Smith to stick around after the body was brought up here? You must have known we’d want to speak to him.”
“I did. I asked him.” Relieved to be in the right again, he responded with more animation. “I said, ‘The police’ll want to talk to you.’ Those were my actual words. He said he had nothing to tell the police. His wife and kid were waiting and he had a long drive home. I asked him a second time to hold on for a bit, and he said he needed to see his wife and tell her what was going on. He promised to come back, but he never did.”
“They hardly ever do,” Hen said, making it sound like a comment on the fickle tendencies of mankind as a whole. With a knowing glance at her companion, she turned away.
Before the two of them stepped inside the beach hut, Stella said, “Guv, do you really think you should smoke in here?”
Hen looked at the half-spent cigar as if it was a foreign object. “Do you object?”
“The pathologist might.”
She stubbed it out on a stone wall.
Inside, she directed the torch beam up and down the corpse. “Any observations?”
“Would you point it at the head, guv?” Stella knelt and studied the line of the ligature, gently lifting some of the long, red hair. “The crossover is at the back here. Looks as if he took her from behind. Difficult to say what he used. Not wire. The mark is too indefinite. Would you hold it steady?” She bent closer and peered at the bruising. “There’s no obvious weave that I can see, so I doubt if it was rope. Leather, maybe, or some fabric?”
“Let’s ask the pathologist,” Hen said. “I thought you were going to tell me how she rates in the fashion stakes.”
So Stella fingered the hair, looking at the layers. “It isn’t a cheap haircut.”
“Is any these days?”
“All right. She went to a good stylist.”
“The manicure looks expensive, too.”
“Obviously she took care of herself.”
“The swimsuit?”
“Wasn’t from the market, as you put it. See the logo on the side of the shorts? She won’t have got much change out of two hundred for this.”
“A classy lady, then? No jewellery, I notice.”
“No ring mark either.”
“Does that mean anything these days?”
“Just that she doesn’t habitually wear a ring. Did they find any sunglasses?”
“No.”
“I would have expected sunglasses. Designer sunglasses.”
“Dropped on the beach, maybe. We can look through the stuff the fingertip search produced. Thanks, Stell. What kind of car does a woman like this tend to own? A dinky little sports job?”
“Maybe-for the beach. Or if she’s in work, as I guess she could be, a Merc or a BMW would fit.”
“Let’s see what the car park trawl has left us with.”
Outside, Emerson the lifeguard asked if he was needed any more.
Hen Mallin, half his size, took out a fresh cigar and made him wait, coming to a decision. “What time is it?”
“Past eight. I’m supposed to be meeting someone at eight.”
“You’re meeting one of my officers and making a statement.” She flicked her lighter and touched the flame to the cigar. “Then you’ll be free to go.”
Soon enough there wouldn’t be much daylight left. The sky over the sea already had an indigo look to it. In the car park, a few of the search team dropped kebab skewers and tried to look busy when Hen and Stella approached.
“Eight thirty. Car park closed. So what are we left with?” Hen asked the sergeant in charge of this part of the investigation. “How many unclaimed vehicles?”
“Four, ma’am. Two Mitsubishis, a Peugeot and a Range Rover.”
Hen muttered to Stella. “I know what your money’s on.” To the sergeant, she said, “Did you check with the PNC?”
“Yes, guv.”
“And?”
“Two have women owners. That’s one of the Mitsubishis and the Range Rover.”
“How did I guess? Tell me who owns the four-by-four.”
The sergeant read from his notes. “Shiena Wilkinson, 37 Pine Tree Avenue, Petersfield. Had the vehicle from new, two years ago.”
“Mrs, Miss or Ms?”
“Dr.”
“Is she, indeed? And the Mitsubishi owner?”
“A Ms Claudia Cameron, Waterside Cottage, near Boxgrove. She bought it secondhand last January.”
“And the others are registered to men?”
The sergeant told him the second Mitsubishi was owned by a Portsmouth man called West, and the Peugeot belonged to a Londoner called Patel.
“It doesn’t prevent a woman from driving them,” Hen said. “However, let’s start with the obvious.”
Dr Shiena Wilkinson’s Range Rover was parked near the entrance gate in front of the windsurfing club premises, a black vehicle in mint condition. Hen walked around it, checked the tax disc, and saw that it had been issued in Petersfield in April. Forced to stand on tiptoe for a sight of the interior, she looked through the side windows. On the front passenger seat was a pack of mansize Kleenex. A paperback of Jane Austen’s
“I need to get inside.”
“We’ll have to break in unless you’re willing to wait, guv,” the sergeant said.
“As you must have discovered, my darling, there are women who will, and women who won’t. I belong to the second group.”
A jemmy did the job, at some cost to the side window. Hen put on gloves and overshoes, stepped in, tried the seat and said, “She’s longer in the leg than I am, but that doesn’t tell us much.” In the glove compartment she found a roll of peppermints, a bottle of cologne and a small bag of silver coins, presumably for parking machines. Right at the back was a doctor’s prescription pad. “Some people would kill for one of these.” Attached to the door on the driver’s side were a couple of tickets for the Waitrose car park in Petersfield dated a week before.
Dr Wilkinson’s medical bag was out of sight in the storage space at the rear. It held a stethoscope, blood- pressure gauge, speculum, syringe, sterile pads and dressings, tweezers and scissors. Nothing so useful as an address book or diary.
“Order a transporter, Stella. I want this vehicle examined by forensics.”
“Will you be wanting to look at the others, ma’am?” the sergeant asked.
“Hole in one, sergeant.”
The Mitsubishi owned by the Boxgrove woman was some distance away, near the beach cafe and close to the
