Читать книгу CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel - Mark Sennen, Mark Sennen - Страница 11

Collier’s earlier allusion to issues with profiling took substance later in the morning as Savage overheard the beginnings of a call Hardin took on his mobile.

‘But, sir, do we really need to—’ the DSupt said before he stomped away, phone in hand, pushing through the doors of the crime suite and out into the corridor.

Five minutes later he was back, the phone thrust into a pocket in his jacket.

‘This is total bollocks!’ Hardin thumped a desk, causing a young DC sitting nearby to nearly wet herself. ‘Mr Peter Wilson didn’t have much success the last time did he? In fact he should have been done for wasting police time in my view. If I recall the only profiling he put any effort into was that of a certain blonde indexer who went by her squad nickname of Big Marge. I can’t believe the Chief came up with this stupid idea.’

‘Do you mean Dr Wilson, sir?’ Savage said, trying to understand the gist of the conversation from having heard only a fragment of it. ‘The psychologist?’

‘Yes,’ Hardin said. ‘That was the Chief Constable. He wants us to consult Wilson. Apparently Wilson’s been in touch with the Police Commissioner. The Commissioner’s not supposed to dictate tactics, but he’s been all over the media this morning arguing the case should be the force’s number one priority and that we should explore all avenues. Including profiling. Local politicians are getting reports from hoteliers and B&B owners that cancellations are already beginning to come in. And as you know tourism is worth millions to the local economy. No tourists, no economy.’

‘And we’re approaching the busiest time of year.’

‘Exactly. Which is why the Chief wants to throw everything at this one.’

The Chief was Simon Fox, known as Foxy to the rank and file. Like all leaders, he had a tendency to push down directives from on high. Any complaints would be met with a smile on his lamb-like face. Followed by a sting from his scorpion tail.

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I no longer have to worry about budgetary constraints. I’m doubling the number of people assigned to Radial. We’ll have enough officers for comprehensive door-to-door enquiries, plenty of indexers and a team to staff the hotline number twenty-four-seven.’

‘But Wilson?’

‘That’s not so good. I’m surprised Dr Wilson has the nerve. Considering.’

Considering.

Back when the Candle Cake Killer first surfaced Dr Wilson had, from what Savage had heard, been a walking disaster. Fox, recently arrived in Devon as the new Chief Constable, had insisted on bringing a psychologist on board, despite the resistance of the SIO, DCI Walsh. They had to show willing, Fox said, had to show they were trying everything, because if the media saw they’d given up they’d be holed below the waterline. After the disappearance of Heidi Luckmann confirmed they were looking for a serial offender, Wilson came up with his first profile. He said the killer would strike again, that they would escalate. The clay which had been found in Mandy Glastone’s throat led Wilson to hypothesise that the killer worked in arts and crafts. He also said he drove some kind of van, had a history of mental illness and a severe problem in relating to women.

‘Don’t we all’ was – according to office legend – what the recently divorced Walsh had said as he’d torn up the pages Wilson had prepared and asked the psychologist to leave the building and not bother coming back.

Simon Fox had got wind of the event and although Wilson had resigned in a huff and couldn’t be persuaded to return, the Chief insisted on Walsh working the art angle. Every gallery, art shop, pottery and studio was marked down for a visit. Every artisan in Devon and Cornwall tracked down and interviewed. Lists were procured of people farther afield, their names ticked off against elements of Wilson’s profile, those who merited further investigation interviewed by detectives travelling from Devon or by local forces.

Nothing.

After the killer had missed his midsummer appointment a year later, Walsh informed the team the investigation was being scaled back. And he got a cheer when he mentioned Wilson was being investigated for professional misconduct with a female patient and that Devon and Cornwall Police were seeing if they could recover any of the fees they’d paid.

‘I would quite like to deliver a personal message to Wilson,’ Hardin said, interrupting Savage’s thoughts. ‘F-off. He’d like that, being a psychologist. Unfortunately it looks as if we’ve got to get all cuddly with the man instead. Fox is adamant. We’ve got to “move with the times” apparently. Wilson failed before because he wasn’t given enough assistance. I’m hearing words like “bygones”, “hatchet” and “bury”.’

‘You’re saying we’re being forced to use him?’

‘Not officially, not on the payroll, but yes. You might know that Wilson has worked with the FBI over in the States. According to the CC he’s got the experience we need to crack the case. Personally I think he doesn’t want to rock the boat. Profiling is good PR and Fox believes it would be better to have Wilson on board rather than having the man trying to capsize us with snide remarks in the media.’

‘I haven’t heard much good about Wilson,’ Savage said, ‘but it makes sense to at least talk to him, doesn’t it?’

‘No,’ Hardin said. ‘It bloody doesn’t. And seeing as how close you were to DCI Walsh I’d have thought you were the last person who’d want to do that, but if you want to consult with Wilson then be my guest. I’ll mark you down as his liaison officer. Apparently he’s up in London on Home Office business. Back Tuesday evening. I’ll pencil you in to meet with him Wednesday, shall I?’

Savage opened her mouth to say she hadn’t meant for her to consult with Wilson, but Hardin had already pulled out his phone and a couple of swipes later the task was.

The improving weather had brought out a trickle of walkers, but otherwise nothing disturbed the empty streets of Princetown. The little settlement at the heart of the moor was not much more than a bunch of houses hugging a T-junction, the buildings clinging to the throughways as if letting go would mean they would vanish into the wilderness. With the incredible scenery right on the doorstep, the town should have been the South West’s equivalent of Windermere. For some reason it wasn’t and the place was one of the most deprived in Devon. Without the prison as a source of employment it was doubtful if there would be a reason for anyone to remain.

Enders turned off the road and into the prison car park, pulling up in an empty bay alongside a minibus.

‘Grim,’ Riley said. ‘Can’t say I would enjoy being banged up here, the place is a ghost town.’

‘You wouldn’t be worrying about nightlife, sir, and think of the views from your cell window.’

‘Well, at least I would be looking out. From here the place looks like some northern mill.’

The grey granite buildings with their tall chimneys did resemble a factory from the nineteenth century. The sunshine washed the stone with a golden glow, but failed to warm the atmosphere. Riley could only imagine what kind of hell the place would be in bad weather, with mist and rain swirling round the satanic structures.

They got out of the car and walked to reception, where they introduced themselves to a prison officer who was all smiles. Riley wondered if he was as friendly to people who arrived in the back of a van.

‘You here about Devlyn?’ the officer said, taking a second glance at Riley’s tracksuit as he prepared visitor’s badges for them. ‘We’re all very worried. His wife is distraught. Nice man. Straight, honest, prisoners relate to him well.’ He shook his head. ‘Barry will take you up to see the Governor.’

A large man with a severe haircut appeared and he beckoned them along a corridor, unlocking the first of a number of gates which took them along more corridors to the Governor’s office. The anteroom resembled a doctor’s surgery with numerous health and wellbeing posters as well as information on prisoner rights. A secretary asked them if they would prefer coffee or tea and then the Governor emerged from his office.

‘Keith Rose.’ The man held out his hand and Riley introduced himself and Enders.

Rose was younger than Riley expected, maybe late thirties, with bushy uncontrollable blond hair which added to his youthful appearance. He wasn’t at all the stereotype of the older, caring governor Riley had been expecting, nor did he look like one of the evil and vicious characters he had seen portrayed in numerous prison films.

They went into Rose’s office. A formal area with a large desk and a computer monitor on it lay to one side, on the other a sofa and two armchairs clustered round a low table. Rose gestured to the sofa as the secretary came in with cups and a pot of coffee and put them on the table.

‘First time here?’ Rose said as he dismissed the secretary and poured the coffees himself. ‘I’m glad you’ve come on a good day. Too often the weather only serves to confirm people’s stereotypes of the moor and the prison.’

‘I had my preconceptions,’ Riley said, ‘but once inside there is far more space than I would have imagined.’

‘We try as hard as we can. Removal of liberty is the punishment, nothing beyond, despite the growing clamour from the public and some sections of the media. You know, we’ve got some good things going on here, people really trying to make a difference.’

‘Storybook Dads?’ Riley had seen a feature on the news the other week. Prisoners recording stories for their children to listen to at bedtime.

‘Yes, a fantastic initiative which I can’t take any credit for, but I am delighted the prison is associated with the work they do. There’s been some great publicity and the scheme shows prisoners are simply human beings like the rest of us.’

‘Devlyn Corran.’

‘Ah, yes. To business.’ Rose took a sip from his cup of coffee before continuing. ‘I can’t tell you how concerned I am about Devlyn. I mean, how can he go missing on a Sunday morning when there is only open moorland between here and his home?’

‘That’s what we need to discover,’ Riley said. ‘But perhaps we could start with the basics.’

‘Of course. What do you want to know?’

‘Let’s get the facts around Sunday morning down first. Mr Corran had been on a night shift, right?’

‘Yes. He started at nine on Saturday and clocked off at eight the next morning. He cycles to work when the weather is fine and someone saw him unlocking his bike and leaving sometime soon after eight. You know it was his daughter’s fifth birthday party Sunday afternoon? The previous evening he’d joked he needed a quiet shift because he’d only be able to grab a few hours of sleep before the party started.’

‘And was it? A quiet shift, I mean.’

‘Oh yes. Rarely anything other. You shouldn’t believe everything you read or see. Prisons these days are about training and education, not rioting. Especially not here at Dartmoor.’

‘You’re Category C, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Meaning there aren’t any dangerous prisoners here? Ones who might bear a grudge, who might be able to arrange for something nasty to happen to a prison officer?’

‘I don’t think that’s likely.’ Rose paused and then leant forwards, took the coffee pot and poured himself a top-up. ‘But anyway Devlyn has only been here for a year or so. He transferred from somewhere up north, I believe. If you give me a moment I’ll check.’ Rose got up and went over to his desk where he sat down. He clicked the mouse a couple of times and then stared at the monitor screen for a few seconds. ‘Full Sutton, Yorkshire.’

‘Can you tell us anything about the reason for his transfer?’

‘No, his record just says the move was due to personal circumstances. His time at Full Sutton was exemplary. He worked with long-term prisoners and sex offenders. Still does, as a matter of fact, few days a month over at the Vulnerable Offenders Unit at Channings Wood in Newton Abbot.’

‘And the prison, Full Sutton? What’s that like?’

‘Nothing like here.’ Rose stood and returned to the sofa. He picked up his cup, took a gulp of coffee and then ran his tongue over his teeth, as if trying to remove something unpleasant or bitter. ‘HMP Full Sutton is a Category A prison and houses some of the most dangerous men in the system.’

After working through a number of administrative details with Hardin, Savage left the station and headed back to Tavy View Farm, intent on catching up with John Layton. In the lane outside the farm a Sky TV van straddled the verge, in front of the van a BBC outside broadcast car. Satellite dishes on their roofs pointed heavenward, ready to supply up-to-the-minute reporting.

She parked behind the Sky van, went into the farmyard past a watchful PC, and headed for the field. The temporary aluminium tracks remained in place but the big yellow digger had gone, a huge water bowser in its place. Nearby, the crime scene tent stood in an area of devastation, three new exploratory trenches carving through a landscape of mud and spoil heaps. The pump unit stood idle and the trenches had backfilled with a thin layer of grey sludge. Two CSIs, their white suits plastered with mud, were washing debris through sieves and the resulting discharge trickled down across the field. Savage tracked the stream to where it reached the boundary fence and the railway embankment. Then she went to find John Layton.

When Savage explained her intentions he wasn’t happy.

‘Your call, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but the DSupt won’t like it.’

Layton shook his head and followed Savage down across the field. Two strands of slack barbed wire marked the edge, beyond a hedge in need of attention, the hawthorn trunks thick and ineffective as a barrier. She climbed over the barbed wire, slipped through a break in the hedge and pushed up through some scrub before stepping onto the railway line. The ballast was wide enough for two tracks but only one remained. To the right the track curved back towards the village and the station; to the left the lines of steel headed across the Tavy Bridge and seemed to converge in the distance, pointing almost, Savage thought.

‘That way,’ she said, ‘and I’ll take the rap for any Health and Safety issues.’

Savage knew DSupt Hardin would want things done by the book, in this case meaning getting permission from Network Rail before venturing onto the line. The result being half a dozen men in fluorescent vests tramping along the tracks with them, leaving her no room to think.

‘Over the bridge?’ Layton came through the scrub and then looked up the track away from the crossing. ‘Not back towards Bere Ferrers station?’

‘We’re on a peninsula. It’s a long way to get here from anywhere. Plus the village is tiny. A car parked in a lane would be noticed as being unusual. I reckon the killer came from the Plymouth side.’

‘He dragged the bodies across the bridge?’

‘There are no trains in the middle of the night and in darkness no chance of being spotted. The burial site is only a short way from the end of the bridge.’

Layton shrugged his shoulders and they started walking. The bridge began as a stone structure but after a couple of spans became steel, a series of seven columns forging their way through the rising water of the river Tavy. Halfway across, Layton paused and moved to one side. He peered down into the water at the swirling eddies caused by the incoming tide.

‘We need to dive the area to be sure, but I guess any evidence, such as clothing or a weapon, will be long gone.’

‘What about the heads?’

‘You mean plop, plop, plop?’ Layton looked down into the water again, bit his lip and then shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Charlotte. Whoever removed the heads has most likely kept them as trophies.’

‘Along with the genitals?’

‘Yes.’

‘Great. If we ever find this guy – assuming it is a guy – remind me to let you enter his property first.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure.’ Layton turned from the edge of the bridge and grinned. ‘But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

They walked on and the bridge ended with another stone section, the line arriving at the far bank where woodland came down to the edge of the estuary mud. To the left of the track a chain-link fence hung loose from a set of concrete posts. A light push and you’d be able to hold the fence down while you climbed over it. Even if you were carrying a body. Beyond the fence a rough path wriggled past a number of mature trees and crossed an area filled with saplings. On the other side of the young trees a swathe of mud and gravel ran away from them parallel to the railway line.

‘That track runs to Tamerton Lake,’ Layton said. ‘From there a lane goes to Tamerton Foliot where you’re right on the edge of the city. If your hunch is correct then the killer is away in minutes. Anything goes wrong and he gets spotted burying a body on the peninsula we’d be setting up roadblocks and checking vehicles in totally the wrong place while he hotfoots it over here.’

‘Clever,’ Savage said, ‘but I wonder if there’s more to it than that.’

‘Some connection to the village, you mean?’

‘If he just wanted to dispose of a body there are many places more remote. We’re going to need to trawl through all the Candle Cake Killer stuff.’

‘I don’t recall any of the physical evidence linking to this particular area, but I’ll check.’

‘John?’ Savage stood at the fence and pointed to the top wire where several pieces of thread had snagged.

‘Trying to do me out of a job?’ Layton smiled and then came over, bent and examined the material. ‘Looks like denim. I wouldn’t mind betting this is a shortcut home for kids from the peninsula who’ve missed the last train or bus.’

‘There.’ Savage pointed at something half-hidden behind a tree. She clambered over the fence and stumbled through the undergrowth to a nearby medium-sized oak. A chain encompassed the trunk and then wrapped itself several times around the top tube of a bicycle. A padlock secured the two ends of the chain. Oldish but well-oiled, the bike a little rusty but the tyres inflated and in good condition. ‘I think you’re right, but it’s not just kids. Someone is using the route regularly, maybe as a commute to work.’

‘Crafty bugger.’

‘Well, it would save them miles by going this way. A quick walk down to the bridge, across and then take the bike along that.’ Savage looked through the trees to where the track snaked away from them. ‘It’s only a mile or so to the edge of the city.’

‘Unlikely they would have seen anything.’

‘Unlikely, but possible. They could have been doing the journey for years.’

Layton joined her at the tree for a moment before moving off towards the track.

‘Get a four-by-four down here,’ he said as he peered up and down the rutted surface. ‘Not a car though, not without a risk of getting stuck. And an hour from here and you’re anywhere in Devon.’

‘So if my hypothesis is correct, the killer drives in from this end at night, takes the body over the bridge when it’s quiet and there are no trains, and buries it in the field. That part of the farm is well away from the farmhouse so they’ve got several hours of darkness to do their work. The area is covered with scrub and small trees so the dump site is shielded from the field. As Joanne Black said, she or her farmworker could pass within a few metres and not see anything.’

‘Jesus.’ Layton pulled his phone out. ‘We’re going to have to do a fingertip search of the railway line and the whole of this area. Been a year ago or more, but given it’s not a regular thoroughfare – Mr Shortcut excepted – we might get something.’

‘The rail company? I was hoping to avoid them.’

‘Not now, boss. Can’t have my guys and girls on the line with trains coming back and forth. We’re at least going to need some guidance on how to proceed. My guess is they’ll send a crew down. Be some jobsworth in charge as well. Sorry.’

Layton shrugged and began to punch in a number as Savage strolled up the muddy track. The direct link into Plymouth crystallised the problems they were up against, she thought. ‘Anywhere in Devon’ Layton had said. Which meant anyone in Devon. And the population of the county was well over one million people.