The House Sitter (6 page)

The findings gave minimal assistance as to identity. She was about thirty to thirty-five and sexually experienced, but had not given birth.

“So what’s new?” Hen muttered to Stella as they left the autopsy room. “Don’t know about you, but I need a smoke and a strong coffee.”

Today, unusually, the class teacher, Miss Medlicott, walked across the playground with Haley, hand in hand. For a moment it crossed Olga’s mind that her child might be unwell, so she was relieved to see some colour in her face and a broad smile. Like many of the others, Haley was holding a sheet of paper.

“I’ve done a lovely picture, Mummy,” she called out, and waved it so energetically that it was in danger of tearing. “Do you want to see?”

Olga nodded, at the same time searching Miss Medlicott’s face for some clue as to why she was with Haley. “Beautiful!” she said without really looking. Devoted as she was to her child, she knew she was no artist. Other children did work strikingly more colourful, confident and technically proficient than Haley’s best efforts.

“It’s the seaside.”

“Isn’t it lovely?” Miss Medlicott said with a warm smile at Olga. She was a sweet young woman and the children adored her. “I’d like a word, if you can spare a minute.”

“Of course.” Olga turned to Haley, “Why don’t you have a ride on the swing while I talk to Miss Medlicott?”

“I’ll take care of your picture,” Miss Medlicott offered.

Haley ran across to the play area.

“Is there a problem?”

“Not really. At least, I don’t think there is,” Miss Medlicott said. “As you see, we were doing some art work this afternoon. I think this is one of her best efforts this term.” She held out the painting. There were several horizontal stripes in blue and yellow across the width of the paper. Some of Haley’s characteristic stick figures were there, probably done with a marker pen.

“Is that the right way up?” Olga asked.

“Yes, I’m certain it is. The people are supposed to be lying down. They’re sunbathers or swimmers, depending which bit of the picture they’re drawn in, so Haley informed me. It’s got its own logic. Her work usually has. She’s a good observer.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

“The reason I wanted to speak to you is that she insists one of these figures is a dead lady.”

Olga felt her flesh prickle.

“This one, I think,” Miss Medlicott said, with her finger on one of them, “though they’re all rather similar. I tried to persuade her that it couldn’t be so—that she must have seen someone asleep who was lying very still. But she won’t be budged. She’s adamant that she saw a dead lady when you took her to the beach a few days ago. When would that have been?”

“Sunday,” Olga said. “It was Sunday.”

“Yes. Obviously something made an impact. If certain of the children talked like this, I’d think nothing of it. The boys, in particular, have lurid imaginations. Dracula, dinosaurs, zombies, all the horrors you could name. But Haley isn’t like that. She’s in the real world, very practical, very truthful. That’s why I’m just a bit concerned about this. It’s real to her, and I think it troubles her.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“She said you were sitting just behind this woman, whoever she was.”

Olga wrestled with her loyalties. This young teacher was wholly sincere, concerned only with Haley’s mental well-being. “There was an incident,” she said. “It was in the papers. Wightview Sands. A woman found dead. I expect Haley overheard us talking about it and linked it to someone she noticed lying near us.”

“Do you think so? That would explain it, then.”

“It may have been on the television as well. You can’t always stop them seeing unpleasant things.”

“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

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.

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.”

“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.”

“
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.”

“Where does she live?”

“A flat in Great Pulteney Street.”

“Posh address. There must be money in profiling, sergeant.”

“It’s only a basement flat, sir.”

“Garden apartment,” Diamond said in the tone of an upmarket estate agent. “No such thing as a basement flat in Great Pulteney Street. Why haven’t I heard of this woman before?”

The sergeant sidestepped that one.

“How was she topped?” Diamond asked.

“Strangled. It’s been in the papers.”

“It’ll be all over them when they know what she did for a living. Strangled on a beach?”

“On a Sunday afternoon when everyone was down there.”

“Odd.”

“They don’t have any witnesses either.”

“People are holding back, you mean? Someone must have seen it. This is weird. You’ve got me all of a quiver, sergeant.”

He sent a couple of young detectives to Great Pulteney Street to seal the missing woman’s flat and talk to the neighbours. One of them was DC Ingeborg Smith, the sometime newshound, bright, blonde and eager to impress, recently enlisted to the CID after serving her two years in uniform. He asked Keith Halliwell, his trusty DI, to go up to the university and establish that Emma Tysoe was known to the Psychology Department.

Then he collected a coffee from the machine—with a steady hand for a man who was all of a quiver—and passed a thoughtful twenty minutes pondering why a profiler should have been strangled on a public beach on a Sunday afternoon. Finally he called Bognor and spoke to Stella Gregson. Inquiries into the background and movements of Emma Tysoe were well under way, he told her. He looked forward to full cooperation over this case, which he expected would require a joint approach. He would therefore accompany the identity witness to Bognor and use the opportunity to make himself known to the SIO.

“Peter Diamond? I’ve heard of him, and he is. I’ve also heard that he pulls rabbits out of hats, so we’ll see if his magic works for us. Don’t look so doubtful, Stella. I’ve handled clever dicks like him before. When they stand up to take a bow, you pull away the chair.”

“I guess we can’t avoid linking up with Bath.”

“We’re not going to get much further unless we do. That’s where Emma Tysoe lived, so that’s where we look next.”

And Diamond duly arrived that afternoon, a big man of about fifty with a check shirt, red braces and his jacket slung over his shoulder. Going by looks alone, the beer belly, thrusting jaw and Churchillian mouth, he was pushiness personified. With him was a less intimidating individual, altogether smaller and more spry, a kind of tic-tic bird in tinted glasses.

“This is Dr Seton,” Diamond said. “He’s a professional colleague of Dr Tysoe, here to see if he can identify the body.”

Dr Seton’s face lit up, suggesting he was relishing the prospect. “But I have to make clear I’m not a doctor of medicine,” he said. “I’m a behavioural psychologist.”

“No one in Dr Tysoe’s family was available,” Diamond said, virtually admitting Dr Seton was second best. “There’s a sister, but she’s in South Africa.”

“Good of you to come,” Hen said to Dr Seton.

“He was volunteered by the professor,” Diamond said. “Shall we get on with it?” Considering Dr Seton had given up most of his day, this seemed unnecessarily brusque.

Hen started as she meant to go on with Diamond. She knew he must have quizzed Seton thoroughly on the journey down and could probably have summed up the salient facts in a couple of sentences. However, she intended to hear everything first hand. “Before we do, I’d like a few words of my own with Dr Seton— that is, if you don’t object.”

Diamond shrugged.

She swivelled her chair away from him and asked, “So, Dr Seton, are you involved in Emma Tysoe’s work as a profiler?”

“Absolutely not,” the man said, as if it was tainted. “That’s extracurricular.”

“Something she does independently?”

“I believe it arose out of her Ph.D research into the psychology of violence.”

“So you have some idea of what she does?”

“She acts as an adviser to the police.”

“Regularly?”

“Pretty often, yes. She has an arrangement with the university and takes time off when required.”

“Convenient.”

“Enviable,” Diamond said, winking at Hen.

“And was she currently working on a case?” Hen asked Dr Seton, ignoring Diamond.

“I presume so. We hadn’t seen her for a while.”

“But you wouldn’t happen to know the details?”

“No.”

“Did she keep it to herself, the offender profiling?”

“It doesn’t interest me particularly. We all have different areas of interest.”

“So what’s yours, Dr Seton?”

“Masturbation.”

For a full five seconds nothing was said. Diamond, who had spent the last two hours with the man and must have known what was coming, was gazing steadily out of the window at the trees in Hotham Park. Stella covered her mouth with her hand.

Dr Seton ended the silence himself. “The subject was rather neglected until I started fifteen years ago. Surprisingly little was known of the psychology, yet it’s a fascinating aspect of behavioural science and, let’s face it, something we’ve all experienced.”

“Hands on,” Diamond said, but only for Stella’s ears. Still with her hand over her mouth, she made a sound like a car braking.

Now he had started on his pet subject, Seton didn’t want to stop. “It was unfortunately branded as a sin by the religionists, so there’s this burden of guilt that goes with it. Genesis Thirty-eight. I can quote if you like.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Hen managed to say. “Getting back to Emma Tysoe, do you share an office with her?”

“No. It was decided I should have my own room.”

Diamond murmured, “I can’t think why.”

Stella closed her eyes and went pink in the face.

Hen carried on resolutely, “So do you know her well?”

“Not particularly. We meet in the staffroom on occasions.”

“Does she have any close friends in the department?”

“How would I know? I’m not sure why the professor picked me for this.”

Diamond said, “Perhaps he thought you should get out more.”

Stella made the braking sound again.

Hen’s glare at Diamond left the big man in no doubt that she’d had enough. “All right. Let’s go to the mortuary.”

Stella drove them to St. Richard’s, and not much was said on the way. Hen asked Dr Seton if Emma Tysoe gave lectures and was told all the staff were timetabled to lecture. Dr Tysoe normally did five hours a week and her topic was forensic psychiatry. When she was away on a case, colleagues would cover for her and usually tried to speak on something from their own field that related to the course. Nobody asked Seton what he found to talk about.

In the anteroom of the mortuary the formality of identification was got through quickly.

“That’s her.”

“Dr Emma Tysoe?”