knew I could depend on you,’ Gemma said. ‘You know what?’
‘Tell me.’
‘When I top the bastard, you’re definitely on the team.’
four
‘THIS IS GETTING TO ME,’ Hen Mallin said to Stella Gregson, who was managing the mobile incident room on the front at Selsey. They were sitting on the steps in front of the open door so that Hen could smoke one of her evil-smelling cigarillos. ‘I never fancied a caravan holiday.’
Stella had worked with Hen ever since their days at Bognor police station and knew when the boss was in danger of erupting. Ten days into the investigation they still hadn’t identified the victim. ‘Things could be worse. Makes a nice change from the nick. Fresh sea air.’
‘You think so? I’m an Essex girl, raised on petrol fumes.’
‘A tough case brings out the best in you.’
‘It isn’t a case at all yet.’
‘I can’t think what else we can try, guv. The posters are everywhere. We had the front page in all the local papers. Television news.’
‘And what have we got for it? Sweet FA.’
‘There can’t be anyone left in Selsey who hasn’t heard.’
‘Have we scared them off, parking this Port-a-Loo at the scene, or what? Even the attention-seekers are shunning us. We might as well shut up shop and shift back to the nick. At least you get a burger and chips there.’
‘You get freshly caught fish here. I took home two beautiful fillets of plaice last night.’
‘Great—if you’ve got the energy to cook at the end of the day.’
‘My fellow does the cooking.’
‘Be like that.’ Hen lived alone in a Bognor terrace. Her police career had always come first, and, unlike Stella, she’d never thought of sharing her home with a cop. She’d been raised in a working class family in Dagenham, but the raising had stopped at five foot one, and when she’d confided to her sister and two older brothers that she wanted to join the police they’d teased her without mercy. For the next year she was PC Shortarse and had to put up with ee-ah siren sounds whenever she appeared. She’d refused to be downed and answered a recruitment ad as soon as she was old enough. For the interview she’d added extra inches with platform shoes and her hair on top in a bun. Even the interviewer had poked fun, telling her the ballet school was up the street, but she’d toughed it out and said she had her own version of the Nutcracker called the ballbuster. And here she was, twelve years on, running a murder squad.
Stella switched the talk back to the investigation. ‘I’ve been asking myself why it’s so quiet. It’s a small community, just a village really. Suppose word got round that talking to us is not encouraged?’
‘A conspiracy of silence? I don’t think so, Stell. You don’t see that in their faces. Nobody cares enough. If we could put a name to the victim, we’d get a response, believe me.’
‘There are still no reports of missing women.’
‘I’m wondering about house-to-house.’
Now it was Stella’s turn to get uptight. ‘Do you want my honest opinion, guv?’
‘Save your breath,’ Hen said. ‘I know where you’re coming from. It wouldn’t be cost-effective. If we knew what happened to the victim’s clothes, we might get somewhere.’
‘Taken by the sea?’
‘I doubt it. You’ve seen the tideline all the way along. Enough rubbish to fill a quarry. Things get washed up here, not swept out.’
‘And everything along the beach has been sifted by the search squad.’
‘I’m not complaining at the effort,’ Hen said. ‘I want to know why, that’s all. Either some local ne’er-do-well found her kit and nicked it and is scared to own up, or the killer saw the sense in disposing of it. I would, and so would you.’
Uncomfortably close to home. Stella hesitated before asking, ‘So are we talking about someone with police experience?’
‘Not these days. Any couch potato with a telly gets the basics about forensics most nights of the
‘Tell me.’
‘When I top the bastard, you’re definitely on the team.’
four
‘THIS IS GETTING TO ME,’ Hen Mallin said to Stella Gregson, who was managing the mobile incident room on the front at Selsey. They were sitting on the steps in front of the open door so that Hen could smoke one of her evil-smelling cigarillos. ‘I never fancied a caravan holiday.’
Stella had worked with Hen ever since their days at Bognor police station and knew when the boss was in danger of erupting. Ten days into the investigation they still hadn’t identified the victim. ‘Things could be worse. Makes a nice change from the nick. Fresh sea air.’
‘You think so? I’m an Essex girl, raised on petrol fumes.’
‘A tough case brings out the best in you.’
‘It isn’t a case at all yet.’
‘I can’t think what else we can try, guv. The posters are everywhere. We had the front page in all the local papers. Television news.’
‘And what have we got for it? Sweet FA.’
‘There can’t be anyone left in Selsey who hasn’t heard.’
‘Have we scared them off, parking this Port-a-Loo at the scene, or what? Even the attention-seekers are shunning us. We might as well shut up shop and shift back to the nick. At least you get a burger and chips there.’
‘You get freshly caught fish here. I took home two beautiful fillets of plaice last night.’
‘Great—if you’ve got the energy to cook at the end of the day.’
‘My fellow does the cooking.’
‘Be like that.’ Hen lived alone in a Bognor terrace. Her police career had always come first, and, unlike Stella, she’d never thought of sharing her home with a cop. She’d been raised in a working class family in Dagenham, but the raising had stopped at five foot one, and when she’d confided to her sister and two older brothers that she wanted to join the police they’d teased her without mercy. For the next year she was PC Shortarse and had to put up with ee-ah siren sounds whenever she appeared. She’d refused to be downed and answered a recruitment ad as soon as she was old enough. For the interview she’d added extra inches with platform shoes and her hair on top in a bun. Even the interviewer had poked fun, telling her the ballet school was up the street, but she’d toughed it out and said she had her own version of the Nutcracker called the ballbuster. And here she was, twelve years on, running a murder squad.
Stella switched the talk back to the investigation. ‘I’ve been asking myself why it’s so quiet. It’s a small community, just a village really. Suppose word got round that talking to us is not encouraged?’
‘A conspiracy of silence? I don’t think so, Stell. You don’t see that in their faces. Nobody cares enough. If we could put a name to the victim, we’d get a response, believe me.’
‘There are still no reports of missing women.’
‘I’m wondering about house-to-house.’
Now it was Stella’s turn to get uptight. ‘Do you want my honest opinion, guv?’
‘Save your breath,’ Hen said. ‘I know where you’re coming from. It wouldn’t be cost-effective. If we knew what happened to the victim’s clothes, we might get somewhere.’
‘Taken by the sea?’
‘I doubt it. You’ve seen the tideline all the way along. Enough rubbish to fill a quarry. Things get washed up here, not swept out.’
‘And everything along the beach has been sifted by the search squad.’
‘I’m not complaining at the effort,’ Hen said. ‘I want to know why, that’s all. Either some local ne’er-do-well found her kit and nicked it and is scared to own up, or the killer saw the sense in disposing of it. I would, and so would you.’
Uncomfortably close to home. Stella hesitated before asking, ‘So are we talking about someone with police experience?’
‘Not these days. Any couch potato with a telly gets the basics about forensics most nights of the
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