Читать книгу CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel - Mark Sennen, Mark Sennen - Страница 14

Savage got hold of her old boss first thing Tuesday; Walsh’s soft burr as he answered her call hinting at a modicum of surprise. He was, as she expected, keen to be involved, keen to see the scene out at the farm. The experience, he admitted, would provide some sort of closure. He’d meet her there within the hour.

Savage was waiting in the farmyard when Walsh drove in and tucked his little Fiat between Layton’s Volvo and the big tractor.

‘Morning, sir,’ she said as Walsh got out and retrieved a pair of wellies from the boot.

‘You don’t have to call me sir, remember?’ Walsh pulled on the boots, steadying himself on the car. He was only in his early sixties, but with his hair long gone grey, if anything, he looked older. Retirement could be cruel to some people, Savage thought. Shorn of the excitement of the job ex-officers searched around for something to replace the adrenaline rush, but nothing could. A sort of mental deflation often followed. It was sad to think of Walsh going that way.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, smiling to try and deflect her mood. ‘I mean, of course. It’s easy to forget.’

‘You know, Charlotte?’ Walsh made a half glance towards the edge of the farmyard where a white-suited figure struggled with a wheelbarrow, atop which sat two plastic boxes filled with mud. ‘Sometimes I wish it was.’

‘This time we’ll get him.’

‘We?’ Walsh chuckled. ‘Hands up, last time I failed, but this time catching the bastard isn’t down to me, is it?’

‘No.’ Savage shook her head and they began to walk out of the farmyard, following the aluminium track down across the field. Away in the distance, up close to the boundary hedge, the white tent stood in the centre of the muddy patch, like some sad remnant of a festival. Only nobody had partied here.

‘Odd,’ Walsh said. ‘The location, I mean. Far easier places to dispose of a body or three. Risky too. Does the farmer have dogs?’

‘Yes, she does, but they’re shut up at night. If they bark it’s usually at foxes or cars in the lane.’

‘She?’

‘Women have got the vote, sir. In case you haven’t noticed.’

‘Only joking, Charlotte.’ He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. ‘And does she have a gun?’

‘Yes, a shotgun. The farmworker too. He occasionally goes out at night to shoot a few rabbits. He’s seen nothing suspicious though.’

‘This guy wouldn’t want to take risks. You know his form. We believed, back then, that the victims had been targeted weeks in advance. He was careful not to be disturbed, not to leave fingerprints or anything else. The kidnappings had been planned to a T.’

‘Dr Wilson? I’ve been reading his reports. I’m supposed to meet with him.’

‘Fuck Wilson,’ Walsh raised a hand and tapped his forehead. ‘This was common sense, nothing you couldn’t work out with half a thimbleful of intelligence and a couple of true crime books as reference material.’

Common sense or not, Savage knew Wilson had identified the killer as a highly organised psychopath. Intelligent, educated, he was in control of the situation. Wilson had gone further: the lines on the body of Mandy Glastone were akin to the final brush strokes on a canvas, he’d said. Beforehand the artist had to prepare by deciding on the subject, gathering the materials, preparing the canvas, arranging the materials. Wilson stressed in this case his ideas were not metaphors; the killer actually was an artist of some type, he would view the killing as a project. The head and genitals of the victim he would keep as a trophy, part of the post-crime re-enactment cycle.

However, the actual evidence for the killer having any connection to the art world had been circumstantial: the cuts on Mandy Glastone could have been caused by a craft knife. Equally the PM report said they could have been made by any blade with a razor edge. The patterns themselves were interesting; whether one had to be an artist to create the swirling forms was a matter of conjecture. Finally there had been the material found in the victim’s oesophagus, stuffed down her throat before the head had been removed. Clay. Could the killer be a potter or regularly work around potters, maybe in some communal studio somewhere?

‘What about the arts and crafts theory?’ Savage ventured. ‘Was that common sense?’

‘No,’ Walsh said. ‘Total lunacy. Where these guys get their ideas from I haven’t a clue. I was against committing resources to that particular angle, but as you know the Chief Constable disagreed. Personally I think Wilson was leading us a merry dance. Down the garden path to a potter’s shed.’

‘You think he was deliberately misdirecting you?’

‘Charlotte,’ Walsh grabbed Savage’s arm and stopped walking. ‘When you get to meet Wilson you’ll realise the guy is a charlatan. They all are, psychologists. Circus tricks to impress the common people. They make the stuff up as they go along and then couch it all in terms you and I can’t understand. The longer the report, the more obtuse and difficult to fathom the better.’

‘Leading to a bigger bill?’

‘And a bigger ego.’ Walsh stared to laugh and then carried on walking. ‘You know I reckon all the pseudo-scientific garbage these people come out with is just something to cover up their inadequacies.’

They left the metal track and followed a row of scaffold boards which in turn led to some industrial-sized stepping plates which Layton had managed to procure to replace the pallets. Savage pointed out the railway line and told Walsh how she believed the killer had come across the bridge.

‘Now that does make sense,’ Walsh said. ‘But we still need to work out why here?’

‘“We”, sir?’

‘Ha! No, “you” and it’s not sir.’

Walsh began to ponder the history of the farm. They’d need to find out about disgruntled farmworkers, neighbouring farmers, villagers who for some reason bore a grudge.

Savage explained about Joanne Black and her uncle. The farm had been an inheritance, before that the uncle had in turn inherited it from his parents. There didn’t seem to be any other relations involved. If the killer had a connection to the farm it wasn’t through his family.

‘It’s not exactly convenient though, is it?’ Walsh said as they approached the tent. ‘There has to be a reason.’

Savage gave a little cough to alert the two CSIs in the tent and then introduced Walsh. Both nodded a greeting and then went back to trowelling through the layers of silt. Despite the fresh breeze blowing through the open ends of the tent, the stench was still appalling. A sweet, sickly odour which cloyed at the throat.

‘Jesus!’ Walsh said.

Walsh would have been to many crime scenes, so Savage guessed the reaction was to the size of the hole rather than the smell. Leaning forwards, Savage pointed out where the bodies had lain. The sides of the hole had been shored up with more scaffold boards and to the left a yardstick stood upright. Alongside, pinned to the boards at differing heights, little numbered labels marked the depths of various finds.

Noting her interest, one of the CSIs pointed to the lowest label, which was some thirty centimetres from the bottom of the pit.

‘Reckon we’ve reached the limit now,’ the CSI said. ‘The last thing we found was a ring down the foot end of body number one. The Kendle woman apparently wore a ring on a toe. The thing has gone off for the poor next-of-kin verify.’

‘Poor next-of-kin’ wasn’t a term you could apply to Phil Glastone, the first victim’s husband. Glastone had been a suspect on account of his record of domestic abuse, he hardly deserved sympathy. Might he, Savage wondered aloud to Walsh, deserve a second look?

‘Tosser,’ Walsh said. ‘Arrogant beyond belief Mr Glastone was. We had him pegged until he came up with an alibi for the day Sue Kendle went missing. We tried to disprove it but couldn’t make headway.’

‘What about the third? Heidi Luckmann?’

‘No specific alibi for that day, but by then Wilson’s theory had gained credence. Glastone’s solicitor was canny and somehow the Chief Constable got to hear about the pressure I was applying. Since Glastone was a programmer and hadn’t been near a paintbrush since primary school, the Chief told me to steer clear.’ Walsh nodded towards the far end of the pit. ‘Glastone liked women. You know, really liked them. The type of guy who won’t take “no” for an answer. He’ll have found himself a new squeeze and if he’s knocking bells out of her then maybe she’d be keen to spill a few beans. Of course just because he likes to get a bit heavy-handed doesn’t make him a killer, but nevertheless it might be worth a word for this latest one.’

Walsh began to tell her some more about Glastone, how he’d been clocked more than once picking up toms in cities across the UK. His car registration had been recorded kerb-crawling in Bristol and Nottingham and he’d received a caution for an incident involving an escort in a travel tavern in Birmingham.

‘This goes back, mind, but I doubt he’ll have found God in the intervening years.’

‘What about his alibi for the Kendle murder?’

‘Brick wall that, Charlotte. Unless he had an accomplice.’

‘Two of them?’

‘Many hands.’ Walsh turned away from the tent. ‘Could explain how he was able to kidnap them so easily.’

‘Did you think this before, back when you were SIO?’

‘Toyed with the idea.’ Walsh nodded down towards the railway line. ‘But the bridge has got me thinking. It’s a long way across and this hole is bloody deep. Having somebody to help makes a lot of sense.’

‘Shit,’ Savage said. ‘If this is a double act Hardin won’t want that to get out. We’ll have a full-scale panic on our hands.’

‘If the media reaction last time around is anything to go by, full-scale panic won’t be the half of it.’ Walsh began to walk away from the tent and up towards the farm. He stopped half a dozen stepping plates later and turned back to Savage with a smile on his face. ‘As I said, Phil Glastone probably hasn’t found God, but if you think praying might be a good idea then it’s not too late for you.’

When Riley arrived at the crime suite on Tuesday morning he found Davies beaming from ear to ear.

‘Big fan of the Chief Constable, Darius,’ the DI shouted across the room. ‘We’re both off Maynard’s bloody bird-watching excursion, thank fuck. Missing screws are apparently more important than a couple of litres of illicit diesel.’

When Riley came over Davies explained Hardin had no option but to pull them from Operation Cowbell. Simon Fox had requested a couple of experienced officers be permanently assigned to the Corran misper investigation as a personal favour to the Governor at HMP Dartmoor, and every other available detective seemed to be dealing with the Candle Cake Killer.

Davies took Riley’s elbow and steered him to the corner of the room where the DI had set up a mini incident room. A small whiteboard rested against the wall. On it an aerial photograph showed Princetown and HMP Dartmoor, the buildings within the circular walls of the prison looking like spokes on a bicycle wheel. There was also a mugshot of Devlyn Corran in uniform and an array of Post-its, Davies’ handwriting scrawling across them. The DI had obviously been hard at work.

‘So,’ Davies said. ‘Fill me in. What did you discover yesterday?’

Riley recounted the facts as he saw them. He explained about the search team, told Davies about the prison governor’s comments regarding Full Sutton and Channings Wood and outlined Layton’s theories concerning the bike.

‘He’s dead though, isn’t he?’ Davies said, jabbing a finger up at the snap of Corran. ‘This sort of thing is hard to fake so I don’t think Corran’s taken a dive. Stands to reason we’re looking for a body.’

Riley nodded but didn’t say anything. Davies would be desperate to make the Corran case turn into something juicy, something which would keep him from having to go back to Operation Cowbell for a good while. A misper inquiry might run for a couple of days, but if leads weren’t forthcoming then the pair of them would be back in the soggy ditch with Maynard. Murder, on the other hand, was an entirely different ball game.

‘So do you reckon it’s down to some nonce then?’ Davies said. ‘Corran pissed somebody off or maybe found out something and they or associates of said pervert top him.’

‘Difficult to say, boss. Needn’t be a sex offender at Channings Wood or Full Sutton. Could be a prisoner at HMP Dartmoor.’

‘Nah. Petty thieves, minor fraudsters, a few in for a bit of aggro. They’re hardly going to get angry enough to risk a life stretch because Corran spat in their food tray.’

‘I don’t know where you get your ideas of prison from, sir. These days Shawshank it isn’t. You know what they call the place dealing with sex offenders over at Channings Wood?’ Davies shook his head. ‘The Vulnerable Prisoners Unit.’

‘Vulnerable? Bollocks. They’d be bloody vulnerable if I ever got to work there I can tell you.’

‘What I’m saying, sir, is I think it’s highly unlikely Corran was bashing someone around at any of the prisons he worked at.’

Riley sighed inwardly. Davies’ ideas about policing and criminal justice came from either underworld Plymouth or from whichever bedside trash he was reading at the time. To be fair to the DI, underworld Plymouth would have surprised a lot of people, but it didn’t translate to much else. Certainly not to the red diesel inquiry. Maynard had found the whole thing amusing. Every time Davies started on another story Maynard would mumble, ‘Quiet out here, isn’t it,’ and then point to some countryside feature which neither Riley nor Davies were the least bit interested in. The man drove Davies crazy.

‘Well,’ Davies said. ‘If prison is a dead end, then what else?’

‘Anything from a simple hit and run to gambling debts, marital problems, an affair, a family feud even. I’ve actioned getting hold of Corran’s financial information.’

‘Gambling debts, I could go with that one. Corran runs up a big debt, keeps on borrowing, gets to the point where he can’t or won’t pay and then—’

‘I don’t know, sir. How does knocking off Corran get them their money back? Better to threaten his wife and kid.’

‘And if that doesn’t work they have to whack him, right? Leave a message.’

‘But what’s the message? A few bits of broken bike lamp?’

‘Corran will turn up and mark my words, he won’t be looking pretty when he does.’

‘Right.’ Riley glanced down at the spread of printouts on the desk, grabbed a couple so as to look willing and then turned to leave. ‘Going to read through these and then do some research on Corran’s missus. The locals were in contact with her on Sunday and Monday, but I need to speak to her myself so when I’m done I’ll be off to Dousland for an interview. I’ll take DC Enders with me. Do you want to follow up your idea and go over to Channings Wood?’

‘What, you mean get up close and friendly with those sickos?’ Davies shook his head as if in distaste, but then grinned. ‘Be my pleasure.’

As Riley reached the doors of the crime suite he remembered something. He shouted across to Davies.

‘What about DI Maynard, sir? He’s up on the moor again this morning. Shouldn’t we let him know we’re not going to be joining him?’

‘Maynard?’ Davies chuckled. ‘Leave him. He’s happy enough out there on his own getting a hard-on over some fucking chiffchaff. Be a shame to spoil his fun, wouldn’t it?’

Savage returned to Crownhill and collected DC Calter at a little after eleven. They headed out of the city into the rolling countryside of the South Hams on their way to Salcombe and a meeting with Phil Glastone. Calter wasn’t buying Walsh’s theory about Glastone having an accomplice nor him being in the frame on account of his record of domestic violence.

‘Don’t get me wrong, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘I’d like to live in a world where we could legally take a pair of garden shears to his bollocks, but hitting his wife doesn’t make him a killer. Besides, even if he’d killed his wife, why would he go on to kill those other women and why the gap of all those years until this one? And I’m sorry, but Walsh’s idea of him having an accomplice sounds like sour grapes because Glastone’s alibi back then played out.’

Savage slowed as they came up behind a tractor winding its way into the village of Modbury. Calter didn’t miss a trick and she was probably right. Walsh had had tunnel vision. Easy, Savage thought, to get fixated on one suspect and do everything to make the evidence fit. In the circumstances she could understand why that had happened. The pressure to get a result back then would have been enormous; the public outcry, the political pressure both locally and nationally, the feeling the inquiry was slipping away from them.

‘Let’s run with it for now,’ Savage said. ‘See what Mr Glastone has to say for himself.’

Twenty minutes later and Savage was parking on double yellow lines opposite Phil Glastone’s place on Devon Road. No chance of finding a space nearby with the season beginning to take off.

‘Impressive place,’ Calter said, peering up at the property. ‘For a wanker.’

The houses were on one side of the street only, sitting above triple garages. The door to Glastone’s garage was open, inside a Volvo SUV and an Alfa Spider, beside the cars a smart RIB on a trailer, a huge outboard attached to the back of the boat. With nothing opposite but a wooded area which fell away steeply, the house had uninterrupted views. On the estuary far below a yacht glided by, heading seaward past another on the way in. The harbour master’s boat was already on its way to intercept the newcomer, to collect fees and guide the boat to a buoy. On the far side of the estuary the beach at Millbay thronged with mums and pre-school children, busy on the golden sand. Salcombe itself was spread out below and to their left, a town of winding streets and overpriced boutiques, chock-full of tourists in the summer, but a ghost town of empty holiday properties in the winter.

On the first-floor balcony of Glastone’s place a figure stirred from a sun-lounger, reached for a shirt and pulled it on over a bare torso. Then he waved down and disappeared inside French windows. Seconds later and the man came through the front door and pointed to a patio area to the left. His shirt was only buttoned halfway up, dark curls of hair on his broad chest matching the curls on his head. His biceps were pumped and there wasn’t a shred of fat round his waist. He glared down at Savage. Didn’t speak.

Savage and Calter climbed the steps and joined Glastone on the patio.

‘Mr Glastone? DI Charlotte Savage and DC Jane Calter.’

Glastone nodded. Indicated the chairs around a teak table. Sat. Still said nothing.

‘Just a few questions,’ Savage said, pulling out a chair and sitting.

‘Now you’ve found the bodies I guess an apology will be forthcoming,’ Glastone said. ‘Not that sorry is worth much after all this time. Mud sticks, and you clowns threw a lot of the stuff at me.’

‘Last year, twenty-first of June,’ Savage said, taking an instant dislike to the man. ‘Can you account for your whereabouts around that time?’

‘Account for my whereabouts?’ Glastone laughed, but the laugh vanished into a sneer. ‘What you mean is, did I fucking murder this latest one?’

‘There’s no need to get angry, Mr Glastone,’ Calter said, scraping a chair out for herself. She pulled out her notepad and waited with pencil poised. ‘Just tell us where you were.’

‘As it happens I was here. Like most other days. I work at home, see?’

‘You’re a web designer, aren’t you?’ Calter said, looking at her pad. ‘Bed and breakfasts, local shops, is that the sort of thing?’

‘No I’m not a bloody web designer. I’m a database developer.’

‘Databases?’ Calter turned her head to take in Salcombe. ‘Much call for that sort of thing around here?’

‘What sort of Stone Age rock have you crawled out from under? I work remotely for a Swiss company. Occasional meetings in London or Zurich, a lot of time on Skype, millions of emails.’

‘So no work colleagues to verify your story?’ Savage said. ‘A visitor to the house maybe?’

‘Without checking my diary I can’t tell you who I spoke to that day, but there’ll have been emails I’m sure.’

‘What about your wife, Mr Glastone?’ Savage turned her head to peer in through the open door. ‘Was she around back then?’

‘My wife?’ Glastone raised his hand to his mouth, a sure sign, Savage thought, of a lie or an indiscretion.

‘Your new wife. I believe you remarried after Mandy’s death?’

As if in answer there was a clatter of dishes from inside, something falling to the floor and breaking. Savage made to rise from the table and go and investigate but Glastone waved her to sit down.

‘Carol?’ Glastone raised his voice. ‘What the hell’s going on in there?’

A moment or two later and a figure ghosted out from the dark shadow and stood blinking at the door.

‘I …’ The woman paused at the sight of Savage and Calter. ‘I dropped a plate. Clumsy me.’

A smile broke on the thin features of the woman’s face but it lasted only a second. She moved forward and placed a hand on Glastone’s shoulder, as if for support. She had mouse-brown hair and wore a bright summer dress with short sleeves. A shawl half-covered her arms which were slim and goosebumped, despite the warmth. Above the right elbow, a black and purple bruise encircled the arm. The woman drew the shawl across the bruise and looked at Glastone.

‘Police, Carol,’ Glastone said. ‘They’re still trying to fit me up for Mandy’s death all this time later.’

‘We are not trying to fit you up,’ Savage said to Glastone before turning to Carol. ‘If you can remember what you were doing around the twenty-first of June last year it would be very helpful.’

‘Last year? The twenty-first?’ Carol looked to Glastone yet again, as if he should answer, but then spoke for herself. ‘I’d have been at the school, I think. I help out most days as a teaching assistant. I’d be back here by four-ish and then I’d prepare the dinner.’

‘But you don’t know, you’re just guessing?’

‘No, I remember clearly now. We had some fresh fish I bought on the way home. We opened a bottle of Sancerre and I made a béarnaise sauce. I recall thinking it would be a lovely evening for eating on the balcony, knowing the light would be with us until late. The longest day, see?’

‘Yes,’ Savage said, thinking she had asked Carol to remember and the woman had remembered all too easily. ‘Is that Salcombe Primary? Where you work?’

Carol muttered an assent and Savage and Calter got up.

‘We’re finished for the moment, Mr Glastone. If you could check your emails and send us a record of any you sent on the twentieth to the twenty-second of June, that would help. Any calls too.’ Savage placed a business card down on the table and nodded to Carol, catching the woman’s eyes and trying to appear friendly. ‘And anything else you would care to share with us, Carol, just get in touch. Anything at all.’

As they walked down the steps to the road Calter leant close to Savage.

‘The bruise, ma’am, did you see it?’

‘Yes.’ Savage glanced back up at the house, but Glastone and his wife had already retreated inside. ‘Changed your opinion of Mr Glastone yet?’

‘No, but I’m going to check in the boot. See if there isn’t a pair of garden shears in there.’

‘No easy alibi for last year and I thought Carol was a little too quick to remember what she was doing, right down to the sauce she poured over their fish. Would you be able to do that?’

‘Easy for me, ma’am. It’s always vinegar. But I still contend beating his wife doesn’t make him a serial killer.’

‘No, but we need to get over to the school and check Carol’s story and if it doesn’t pan out then I want to talk to her alone. See if we can get her to open up. Glastone’s not off my radar just yet.’