Free The House Sitter by Peter Lovesey Page A

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.
    When the breakthrough came, on day twelve, it was not as either of them had foreseen. The MPI churned out a new batch of names and Stella found one that matched better than most, a thirty-two-year-old unmarried woman from the city of Bath. She was the right height and build and age and, crucially, her hair colour was described as “auburn/copper”. No tattoos, scars or other identifying marks.
    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.