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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 Emma was on the back seat.
    “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 café and close to the last remaining barbecue. This owner was not so tidy as Dr Wilkinson. The floor was littered with used tissues and parking tickets. A pair of shoes. Sweet wrappings. The tax disc was a month out of date.
    “Do you want this one opened, ma’am?”
    “Please.”
    The jemmy came into play again, but not for long. From behind them came a scream of, “What the bloody hell are you doing to my car?” and a woman came running from the barbecue.
    “I thought you told me the owner wasn’t around,” Hen muttered to the sergeant.
    “You bastards! You’ve smashed my bloody window and the paint on the door is chipped,” Ms Claudia Cameron protested. She was wearing a white wrap made of towelling and candy-striped sandals. Her spiky blond hair looked like the result of poking a wet finger into a live socket.
    “Hold on, love,” Hen said as if she was speaking to a child. “Didn’t you see us checking this vehicle?”
    “Yes, but I thought you