The Headhunters ihmi-2 Page 2

  ‘I’m sure there are. Take Jo’s job.’

  ‘What?’ Jo said. She’d been listening to this and wishing Rick would shut up. ‘This is nothing to do with me. He’s not my boss.’

  ‘She works in a garden centre,’ he told Gemma as if she didn’t know already. ‘All she has to do is stick him in a raised flowerbed in one of the glasshouses and cover him with compost. You can get stuff to rot anything down. He’ll be pushing up next summer’s bedding plants and no one will be any the wiser.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Jo said.

  ‘She’d find it difficult on her own,’ Gemma said.

  ‘You’d help her, wouldn’t you?’ Rick said. ‘It’s your boss we’re knocking off.’

  Gemma exchanged a look with Jo that said, some men never know where to draw the line. ‘I meant it wouldn’t be easy moving his mortal remains.’

  ‘What are those little carts for that they have in garden centres?’

  Gemma burst out laughing again.

  Jo had heard more than enough. ‘If you think I’d risk my job to carry out your crazy scheme, you’re nuts.’

  ‘Lighten up, babe,’ Rick said. ‘I was only using you as an example. Who knows? You might need our services if your boss turns nasty. We’d better think up a team name.’

  ‘The Cretins?’ Jo said.

  ‘I was thinking the Headhunters.’

  Gemma said, ‘Neat.’

  Rick gave her a smile and continued stirring. ‘Between us, we’ve got it made. Take Jake, for instance. I expect he goes out in a boat looking at his waterfowl. I guarantee he knows places where you could shove a body overboard and it would stay there. What do you reckon, Jake?’

  Jake appeared to ponder the matter for a while. Finally, he said, ‘I don’t dance.’

  A real conversation-stopper.

  Rick frowned. ‘Get with it, mate. We’re dumping a body.’

  ‘No problem, Jake,’ Gemma said. ‘Jongleurs is a comedy club as well. You can sit and have a laugh. And if we do some dancing no one’s going to notice you. It’s too crowded.’

  ‘Don’t know about that,’ Rick said. ‘He would stand out in a crowd.’

  Gemma giggled again. It seemed unkind.

  Jo said, ‘We don’t have to go dancing. We could see a film.’

  ‘Bor-ing,’ Rick sang out.

  ‘You haven’t even checked what’s on.’

  ‘March of the Penguins,’ Jake said at once, belying the impression that he was slow.

  ‘That’s a documentary, isn’t it?’ Rick said. ‘Came out yonks ago.’

  ‘I didn’t see it,’ Jo said. ‘It’s supposed to be a classic.’

  ‘What else is on?’ Rick said. ‘There must be something better than a line of bloody penguins walking across the screen.’

  ‘It’s good,’ Jake said.

  ‘What-the penguin film?’ Rick said. ‘How do you know, mate? Have you seen it?’

  Jake nodded.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to see it again, then.’

  ‘Would.’

  ‘Oops, I’m forgetting. Hands up anyone who wants to look at the penguins with the bird man of Chichester.’

  Jo hesitated. She’d become increasingly irritated by Rick’s attempts at humour. She said, ‘If you and Gemma would rather see something else, maybe we can all meet up after.’

  A pivotal moment. Rick looked shocked, Gemma disbelieving. To Jo it seemed obvious that she wasn’t making a play for Gemma’s Neanderthal boyfriend, and at this minute she didn’t care what Rick thought. Besides, Gemma hadn’t declared yet. She had the chance of seeing the penguins if she chose.

  Rick recovered enough to say, ‘Fair enough, but count me out. Don’t know about you, Gemma, but I’d like to find out what else is on.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Gemma said.

  SO IT WAS that Jo found herself seated next to Jake in a dark, almost empty cinema. He watched the film intently. Jo, too, was absorbed in the drama of the penguins’ long treks across the ice. It was only towards the end that her attention strayed as she tried to think of her strategy for when the lights came on. She couldn’t get up and walk away. The others had gone to see the latest Russell Crowe on Screen 3 and she’d noticed the running time was at least an hour longer than the penguins.

  ‘Amazing,’ she said after the credits had rolled. ‘What an existence.’

  ‘Migration,’ Jake said.

  ‘I know, but under those conditions.’

  ‘They get on with it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it’s a mistake to think of them in human terms, but I can’t help sympathising with them. How about you?’

  ‘I’d like-’ Jake said, and stopped.

  ‘Yes?’ She almost completed it for him by saying, ‘A drink?’

  ‘-to turn off the commentary.’

  She had to think for a moment. ‘But it needs explaining to people, doesn’t it, or we wouldn’t appreciate the distances they march and the reasons?’

  ‘I can watch the pictures.’

  ‘True, but… ’

  ‘Don’t need the voiceover.’

  ‘I suppose it would grate a bit if you’ve seen the film before.’

  ‘Five times.’

  ‘Five?’ She laughed and Jake gave a faint smile. Next time you’d better take earplugs. Do you fancy a bite to eat? After all that ice and snow I’d like to get something warm inside me. The others won’t be out for some time.’

  He thought about that and gave a nod.

  They went to Frankie amp; Benny’s, where the music was from the fifties. A Johnny Mathis CD was playing.

  ‘How did you and Gemma meet?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Print job,’ he said, as if that explained all. She wasn’t going to get the romantic version, for sure.

  ‘I think that boss takes advantage of her,’ she said. ‘He leaves all the decisions to her and if there’s any credit going, he takes that for himself. I wonder if she’ll leave.’

  He didn’t seem to have an opinion.

  After they’d ordered, she tried another tack. ‘Do you live in Chichester, Jake?’

  ‘Selsey.’

  This, at least, was a place she could talk about. ‘I like Selsey, the seafront, anyway. I sometimes go there for an early morning walk. Doesn’t matter if the tide’s in or out. Always interesting.’

  ‘Seolesig.’ His eyes focused directly on hers for the first time and weren’t so off-putting. Dark and deep-set they might be, but now they wanted to communicate, as if to make up for his halting conversation.

  ‘What was that you said?’

  ‘Anglo-Saxon. Seolesig.’

  He’d surprised her. ‘Does it have a meaning?’

  ‘Seal Island.’

  ‘But it isn’t an island, is it? Oh-did it used to be? Of course, you can see when you drive out there. The road is raised up in parts, like a causeway.’

  ‘Big question,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Managing the landscape.’

  ‘Whether to shore up the sea defences or let nature take its course?’

  He nodded. ‘Pagham Harbour. East Head. Habitats.’

  ‘All this comes into your work?’

  ‘One time-’ he began to say.

  She waited.

  He drew another breath. Long sentences were definitely an ordeal. ‘-at Sidlesham-’

  She encouraged him with a nod.

  ‘-there was a ferry.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ she said. ‘Tell me again. Seal Island. Seole-’

  ‘-sig.’

  ‘Seolesig. There you go. I’ve learnt something. I suppose it was a favourite place for seals in the old days.’

  He made a simultaneous movement with his mouth and shoulders that conveyed that he didn’t know for certain, but she could be right.

  There was more to Jake than she’d first appreciated. He was hard work, but when you persevered he had depth to him, unlike golden boy Rick. ‘Next time I go for one of my walks I�
�ll think of it in a different light. Don’t suppose I’ll spot a seal, though.’

  ‘Might.’

  ‘I never have up to now.’

  ‘I see them.’

  She gave an uneasy laugh and said, ‘Really?

  ‘Common seals. Grey seals, too.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where I work. Pagham.’ A place just along the coast from Selsey. He paused, making a huge effort to say more. ‘On the mudflats at low tide.’

  After that, she had to believe in the seals. She’d lived locally for some years and never seen or heard of one before.

  The food came. Jake had chosen a cheese and tomato pizza. She had fish and chips. It was predictable but embarrassing that the waitress assumed they were a couple and tried to talk them into buying the house wine, with some remarks about putting them in the mood. Jo handled it smoothly and said they were meeting friends later and just wanted water at this stage.

  ‘Was that all right, speaking for us both?’ she asked when the waitress had left them.

  Jake nodded. ‘Water is good.’

  ‘We could have ordered coffee.’

  He shook his head.

  The food provided a break from conversation, and gave Jo a chance to reflect on how this evening had turned out. First impressions can be misleading. Jake’s looks were against him and his problem communicating hadn’t allowed him to appear as anything but oafish, even sinister. In company he was fated to be the victim of the quips Rick excelled at. But like this, one-to-one, if you persevered he had thoughtful things to say. She couldn’t imagine him starting a conversation, not with someone who was virtually a stranger, but he’d made efforts to respond. Was he short of confidence? There wasn’t any speech impediment she could detect. Maybe he’d been given a hard time at school by people like Rick. Being so tall and-well-grim-faced, he’d no doubt been picked on by other kids, particularly when they sensed he wasn’t the threat his size suggested.

  She wanted a chance to know him better. And if Rick disapproved, tough. She hadn’t liked what she’d seen of him tonight.

  The situation with Gemma was more complex. She valued her as a friend. You can’t take over your best mate’s boyfriend the first evening you meet him. But was Jake her regular bloke? Gemma had never mentioned him before. She seemed to treat him without much affection. She’d blithely gone off with Rick.

  Hard to tell.

  ‘I go for my walks at the weekend, really early, before many people are about,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t matter what the weather is doing. I always enjoy it.’

  ‘Nice,’ he said without looking up from his plate.

  ‘Won’t be there tomorrow, more’s the pity. I sometimes have to work Sundays.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  A short time later they returned to the multiplex and waited in the foyer for the others to come out. When they did, Rick’s face suggested the Russell Crowe film was a turkey. His mood had taken a plunge. He’d changed his mind about Jongleurs. He complained of a raging headache and said he needed to get home right away. They called a taxi. Jo did the decent thing and joined him in the cab.

  He closed his eyes most of the way.

  ‘I’d ask you in for a coffee,’ he said when they reached the block where his flat was, ‘but I’m damn sure I’m running a temperature and I don’t want to pass some bug on to you. The driver will take you home.’

  ‘Make sure you take something for it.’

  Before getting out, he said, ‘Messed up your evening, didn’t I?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I had a good time.’

  He took out his credit card, but she said she’d got change and would take care of the fare. He thanked her and turned away.

  It was difficult to be certain, but he hadn’t carried total conviction as a headache victim. Jo had her own theory and wondered if Gemma would confirm it the next time they met in Starbucks.

  TWO

  A week later, just after seven on Sunday morning, Jo got in her Fiat Panda and took the winding road to the coast. The shoreline at Selsey had always appealed to her as a place to walk: stimulating, never the same. And now its possibilities had increased.

  The night had been mild for late September, but when she arrived in the car park at the end of the High Street, an offshore wind was whipping foam off the crests of some sizeable waves. A few people, as always, were sitting in their cars watching from behind glass, as if it was television. Jo had definitely come to walk, but before getting out she checked her face in the mirror. She’d decided not to wear the woolly hat she sometimes pulled on for blustery days. Instead she’d fastened her hair at the top with two red clips and let the rest hang loose.

  She stood for a moment to savour the smell of beached seaweed and feel the spray against her cheeks. The last high tide had spread pebbles and bits of driftwood across the concrete path above the sea wall. She picked her way through for a few paces and then took the steps down and crunched into the shingle. A real beach this, she thought, where you could hear the rattle of stones shifted by the waves and see the stacks of lobster pots. Free of day trippers, too. Most favoured the broad, clinically clean sands of West Wittering, a few miles up the coast.

  The breakwaters at this end were almost submerged and easy to step over. She continued down to where the stones got smaller and blended with tiny shells. Strips of sand were exposed in places. In another hour there would be a clear stretch to walk on.

  When she’d rounded the narrow section below the high sea defences at Bill Point, the southernmost tip of Sussex, she returned to the path for a bit and was treated to the long view of the East Beach stretching for a couple of miles to Pagham Harbour, the conservation area where Jake worked. Much closer stood the grey lifeboat house and slipway at the end of a pier long enough for launchings, even at low tide. Around it was moored the last of Selsey’s ancient fishing fleet, much favoured by photographers, about twenty small, brightly coloured craft moored to orange buoys. Beyond, a good six miles off, looking as if it was just a continuation of the walk, was the tentlike roof of Butlins at Bognor.

  As always there were people walking their dogs, although fewer than usual this morning.

  You could spot anyone coming from a long distance. A man of Jake’s height would be more obvious than most. She passed one tall guy a good bit younger, in a fleece top and tracksuit trousers. A jogger, maybe, though he was walking. He had iPod earphones.

  Not that she expected to see Jake. Nothing had been arranged. But a chance meeting wasn’t out of the question. She told herself she wasn’t even sure if she wanted it to happen today. He might think it was a set-up. How cringe-making would that be? Far better at some time in the future.

  Only a short way on she was reconsidering. A chance meeting might not be so hard to handle. The way she pictured it, they would exchange a few friendly words and then move on. Unless. Unless what? Well, unless he suggested they stop and sit on one of the benches facing the sea.

  Get real, she told herself. He’s Gemma’s boyfriend and she’s your friend from yoga. You can’t behave like that.

  Absorbed in these thoughts, she strolled for another ten minutes or more, past the lifeboat station and the upended dinghies opposite the place where the fish was sold.

  It was increasingly obvious that Jake was nowhere on the front.

  This end of the beach was divided by stout wooden breakwaters, and the tidal movement had produced a strange effect. On the side facing her the stones were heaped almost to the top, but on the reverse the wood was exposed, producing a drop of at least ten feet.

  At one point she paused to watch a youngish man in army fatigues throwing a ball for a large frisky poodle. They’d been hidden below the breakwater until she got level with them. The dog was running fearlessly into the waves, emerging with the ball and insisting on a repeat performance.

  What now, then? She had the choice of continuing the walk on the path above the beach or venturing down in one of these sections between the breakwater
s and coming to a forced stop. This, in the end, was her choice. She picked a stretch inhabited only by herring gulls bold enough to stand their ground as she approached, the wind ruffling their feathers. She stood for a while watching the breakers until the same wind that was producing the spectacular choppy sea started to chill her, threatening a headache. She wished she’d put comfort before image and worn the woolly hat after all. Time to turn back, she decided. She was struggling up the bank of stones when her attention was caught by a pale object in the shadow of the breakwater.

  All kinds of rubbish is cast up on a beach, particularly when the sea is rough. At first sight this had the smooth curved surface of a large fish, a beached dolphin perhaps.

  Jo went closer and lifted away some seaweed. This was no dolphin, nor any other marine species.

  She had found a human body.

  ‘No way! All I ever find is lolly-sticks and fag-ends. What did you do?’ Gemma asked when they met the next Saturday in Starbucks.

  ‘Went up the beach and knocked at the door of the first house I came to. They called the police.’

  ‘So whose body was it?’

  ‘Some woman. She was nude except for her pants.’

  ‘Drowned?’

  ‘They thought she probably fell overboard and got washed up.’

  ‘In her Alan Whickers? That doesn’t sound likely.’

  ‘I don’t know. If she was sunbathing on the deck of some yacht, a freak wave could have swept her overboard.’

  Gemma raised her eyebrows in mocking disbelief. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘It’s only a suggestion. There has to be an inquest, doesn’t there? They look at reports of people lost at sea.’

  ‘What age would she have been?’

  ‘Late thirties, the cop said. I didn’t go too close when I took them down to see. I just pointed to where she was. They took my details and said I could leave. They’re going to put something in the paper in case anyone knows about her. A reporter phoned me later.’

  ‘Didn’t you get a look at the face?’

  ‘No, thank God. She was turned away from me.’

  ‘Are they certain she’d been in the water? She might have snuffed it on the beach.’

  ‘Some seaweed was twisted round her. It’s more likely she came in on the tide. They say the sea gives up its dead, don’t they?’