Читать книгу The Boneyard: A gripping serial killer crime thriller - Mark Sennen, Mark Sennen - Страница 12

Back at work, Savage tried to forget about Malcolm Kendwick. Hardin had arranged for a twenty-four-seven surveillance on the man, but she wasn’t involved. Other than that she was aware there’d been an incident in Chagford involving a reporter and a smashed camera and had seen a lurid headline in one of the tabloids. Thankfully, in the week that followed, more pressing matters arose to distract her, including a woman who’d fallen from the eighth floor of a block of flats in Devonport. Suspicion was pointing to her boyfriend, ‘a right scrote,’ according to DC Enders who’d had dealings with the guy. Savage was reminded of her conversation with Riley about men being arseholes. They certainly weren’t all arseholes but Plymouth seemed to have more than its fair share of them.

On Friday, five days after Kendwick had arrived in Devon, DSupt Hardin summoned Savage to his office. He told her he was axing the surveillance op, citing manpower and budgetary constraints.

‘Nothing I can do about it, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘Besides, we can’t keep watching him indefinitely. At least the bugger will have got an idea of how serious we are about keeping tabs.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Savage said. ‘But he’s done nothing and gone nowhere, right?’

‘Hmmm.’ Hardin stared down at a log sheet detailing Kendwick’s movements. ‘Yesterday he went to the local shop, then to the pub for lunch, took a short walk, went back home, visited the pub again in the evening, went to bed. Not much of a life. He’s got a rental car, but doesn’t appear to have gone anywhere in it aside from a couple of jaunts on the moor.’

‘If you ask me he’s playing a game with us. He knows we’re watching him.’

‘Which was my intention. From now on he’ll be looking over his shoulder, wondering if we’re there.’

No, Savage thought. Kendwick was too canny for that. He’d be well aware the surveillance had stopped. He’d only let himself be followed so closely because he had nothing to lose. Now they were no longer keeping an eye on him he could come and go as he pleased.

‘So that’s it then? We’re done with him?’

‘Not quite.’ Hardin picked up the log sheet and flicked the surface with a finger. ‘I want you to pay Mr Kendwick a visit. Give him a bit of a talking to. Perhaps you can warn him off, maybe even scare him away. If he upped sticks and moved to another area it would be a weight off our backs.’

‘And what am I supposed to say to him?’ Savage sighed, exasperated. She’d spent five hours stuck in a car with Kendwick and wasn’t sure what another hour’s conversation would accomplish. ‘Please bugger off?’

‘I don’t know, Charlotte. You’re the one with the interpersonal skills. Be his friend. Tell him Devon’s no place for him. If he doesn’t buy that then make it clear we’re going to catch up with him eventually. He’ll get the message, I’m sure he will.’

Savage took an early lunch and then drove north from Plymouth. At Yelverton she headed up onto the moor, following the twisting road to the town of Princetown. A strong sun beamed down, flattening the landscape and obliterating the shadows. The tors stood a uniform grey, almost formless in the harsh light, their dark foreboding temporarily banished.

She drove across the moor and arrived at Kendwick’s place in Chagford at a little after two o’clock. A knock on the front door of the cottage brought no response, so she moved to a window and peered in. She could see through the open plan living area to the kitchen where the back door stood open. She turned and walked along the street and went down a passage which led to the rear of the terrace. A path bisected the long, narrow gardens. Kendwick’s was the one at the end and she found him lying in a teak reclining chair next to a small table. He wore a pair of shorts and a light shirt and a jug of something resembling Pimm’s sat on the table beside a half-empty glass. He hadn’t tied his hair up and his black mane cascaded across the back of the chair. Kendwick held a book in his hands. He closed the book as Savage approached.

‘Charlotte!’ Kendwick pushed himself up from the chair and stuck out his hand. ‘How nice of you to visit!’

‘Hello, Mr Kendwick,’ Savage said. She shook hands, once again noticing how dry and cool the man’s palm was. ‘Just a courtesy visit.’

‘Courtesy? Well that makes a nice change from the cops in the US. Manners are something which don’t seem to have been invented over there. They’re likely to pull a gun and cuff you just to tell you your stop light isn’t working.’ Kendwick nodded at the jug on the table. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

Savage shook her head. ‘Cut the false bonhomie, Mr Kendwick. I’m here to warn you that although we’re stopping the surveillance you’re not off the hook. One false move, one foot over the line, and we’ll be onto you.’

‘Not so much a courtesy visit then, more of a threatening one?’

‘Stay on the straight and narrow and you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘I assume it’s the same for every citizen.’ Kendwick eased himself back down into his chair and gestured at another recliner. He pulled a hairband from his pocket and tied up his hair. ‘I’d hate to think I was being treated any differently.’

Savage moved over and sat down, perching on the edge of the seat. ‘You’ve got history, Mr Kendwick.’

‘Can we drop the “Mr Kendwick” tag please? We managed to be civil on the journey back from the airport. I’d like to think we can again.’

‘Sure, no problem.’

‘As to my history, that’s a matter of conjecture. History isn’t immutable, is it? Differing viewpoints tell differing stories. My story is I’m innocent of all the charges against me. I didn’t kill anyone in the US. I’m pretty sure the US justice system sees it that way too, otherwise I’d still be over there.’

‘So how do you explain your confession to Janey Horton?’

‘It wasn’t a confession.’ Kendwick scowled at Savage. ‘The bitch tortured me so I made stuff up to feed to her. If I hadn’t she’d have killed me. The confession was pure fiction. I just blurted out the names of the girls I’d read about in the papers or seen on the news.’

‘But your fiction happened to match fact. How come Horton was able to find a body from your directions?’

‘The irony was the body wasn’t her daughter.’

‘True, but once officers searched the area they discovered the remains of the other missing girls, including those of Sara Horton.’

‘It was luck. Just bad luck. If I’d mentioned a different river valley, a different forestry track, then she’d have found nothing.’ Kendwick half smiled. ‘Unless, of course, there are dozens of serial killers dumping bodies out in the wilderness.’

‘And you expect me to believe that?’

‘I expect you to believe the results of the polygraph test I took.’ Kendwick pushed himself upright and sat leaning forward. ‘Look, there was nothing found to link me to the body dump. What is it, Locard’s Principle? The notion that every contact both takes and leaves traces behind? Well, there were no traces at the site, at my house, in my car or on me. I’m either made of Teflon or completely innocent.’

Savage stared at Kendwick, trying to keep a blank face. Body dump, Locard’s Principle? Kendwick seemed all too knowledgeable about police terminology.

‘What about the rape kit found in your car?’

‘Rape kit? Listen to you! I leave a few things in a rucksack and the cops immediately label them as the tools of the trade of a serial killer. It was just stuff anyone might have in their possession.’

‘Handcuffs?’

‘Really, Charlotte. I bet half the couples you know have played around with a bit of bondage. I like to imagine you have.’

Savage ignored Kendwick’s smirk. ‘And the hair scrunchy found at your house? The one which belonged to Sara Horton. Strikes me that was a trace.’

‘I picked it up while crossing the park. Have you never done that? I bet you have.’ Kendwick cocked his head on one side. ‘I bet your daughter has.’

‘My daughter?’ Savage felt a lurch in her stomach. How on earth did Kendwick know about her daughter? ‘Leave her out of it.’

‘Touchy.’ Kendwick tutted. ‘But I understand why. I’ve been doing some research on you on the internet. I thought if I knew you a little better I might be able to understand you a little more. So, I put your name into Google and all these news stories came up. A mother, wronged. A hit-and-run. A family tragedy. One of your twin daughters taken from you by a rogue driver. The irony that you, a cop, can’t make the law work for you, can’t get justice. Well, Charlotte, it happens the other way around too. Justice can easily become injustice. Which is why you should sympathise with my predicament.’

‘I don’t.’ Savage stood. The interview was over. She’d delivered the message from Hardin and now it was time to go before the odious creature riled her. ‘Remember what I said, we’re watching.’

‘Oh, I know you are. But I’m not going anywhere. No need.’ Kendwick smiled again. He shifted his head and then craned his neck to peer over into the next-door garden. ‘I’ve got everything I want right on my doorstep.’

Savage turned to look. The adjoining plot was neatly manicured. A large area of grass and, at the far end of the garden, a raised area of decking. Two expensive wicker loungers sat on the deck and lying on the loungers were two young women, sunning themselves in the unseasonal warmth. Twenties. Skimpy clothing. Blonde hair.

‘That’s why I’m out here. Mammary watch.’ Kendwick grinned. He reached for his glass and sat back in the recliner. ‘They’re down from London for a couple of days. Quite friendly really. I’d told them I’d go for a meal with them later, show them the sights of Chagford, act the friendly local. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be quite safe with them. They wouldn’t dare hurt me, not with a choir of guardian police angels watching on.’

‘Mr Kendwick, if anything—’

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Kendwick spat the words out, his mood changing in an instant. ‘I’m innocent, so just fuck off and let me live my life. Now, get out of here before I call my solicitor and ask her to look into pursuing a harassment case against you and the force.’

‘I’m off, but there’s one thing.’ Savage moved over to Kendwick and stood next to his chair. ‘If you ever mention my daughter again, I’ll …’

‘You’ll what?’ Kendwick jerked his head. One of the girls from next door stood beside the hedge. She smiled at Kendwick, mouthed a ‘sorry, later’ and then walked off.

Savage waited until the young woman had disappeared inside the house and then she kicked the back of Kendwick’s chair, knocking the prop free. Kendwick fell backward in a heap, his drink sloshing over his chest.

‘I’ll fucking kill you, that’s what.’

With DI Savage gone, Kendwick went back inside the house to dry off and change his shirt. Savage’s warning and sudden burst of anger had unsettled him, and staring at the girls next door was no longer fun.

Inside, he cleaned himself up and then poured himself another Pimm’s. He went to the living room and lowered himself onto the sofa. He’d had a fair bit to drink and the alcohol was having a soporific effect. He sat back and tried to picture his neighbours, tried to imagine the pair of them sprawled naked in the garden. He sipped his drink, his free hand moving to his shorts, loosening the button. But then he shook his head. Nothing. He felt nothing.

He put the drink on a side table and lay back and closed his eyes. Memories swirled in his head. A dream of another garden, another time, a time when he had felt something. Felt something for someone. What was she? Seventeen, eighteen? He’d been younger, having turned fifteen a few weeks before. They’d been in the back garden, his parents out somewhere, Kendwick left behind as usual. The girl had been from across the street. Lithe, leggy, confident of what she wanted. Still, he’d scoffed when she’d suggested a game of hide and seek. Wasn’t that for kids? ‘Depends what you’re seeking, doesn’t it?’ she’d replied with a coy smile. So he’d stood there, counting …

Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred! Ready or not, here I come!

He whirls round, scanning the garden. Beginning to search. Over by the rose bushes? No! Standing straight behind the big old oak? No!! Hiding beneath the tarpaulin which covers the wood pile? No!!! Where on earth is she? He shakes his head and turns round once more. He spies the shed. Of course! He creeps over the lawn and clicks open the door. There she is!

Found you!

She doesn’t move. Just lies there, her eyes closed but a smile gracing her lips, her pretty summer dress rucked up round her waist, her knickers round her ankles. He steps inside the shed and pulls the door shut. Darkness. A slant of golden light from the crack in the door running up her thigh. He breathes in. The air tastes dry and dusty, but there’s a hint of something else too, something sweet and intoxicating. He slips one foot across the wooden floor, then another. Now he’s standing over her. Marvelling at her stillness. He lowers himself to the floor of the shed and lies beside her. She doesn’t move. He reaches out with his finger and traces a line on her thigh, following the shaft of light. His heart is beating ten to the dozen, his breathing coming in tiny little gulps. She, on the other hand, only betrays the fact she is alive with an almost imperceptible heave of her chest, her breasts swelling with each intake of air. She is passive but so very powerful. So utterly bewitching.

He pushes himself up and lies on top of her, trying to support himself with one hand while the other fumbles with his trousers. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, only knows that this was meant to be.

The girl’s eyelids flutter for a second as he enters her and then she sighs, a long exhalation of air, the breath warm on his face. Then she is still again and he’s the only one moving, his gasps now matching his rhythm, her face frozen but serene.

‘Oh God!’ he cries, as mere seconds later his body convulses. Now he falls on her in utter bliss and amazement, moaning in her ear, telling her that he loves her more than anything and will do so forever and ever and ever.

She says nothing and her eyes stay shut as he continues to whisper to her, to promise her his heart and soul. And then she blinks at a sound from outside.

Voices.

She pushes him off and stands, hurriedly pulling up her knickers and tidying her dress.

‘Stay,’ he pleads. ‘Stay with me!’

She shakes her head, nothing in her eyes but contempt. She moves across the shed, flings the door open, and vanishes into the garden.

He turns to the door, pulls it shut and then slumps back down to the floor. The moment has gone and he wonders if anything can recapture the feeling he had as she lay there beneath him.

The next day he goes to the girl’s house. Knocks on the door. Her mother answers. No, he can’t come in. Her daughter doesn’t want to see him. The mother raises her hand as if to shoo him away like a bothersome fly. He stares past her into the hallway where huge cardboard boxes sit in stacks. He can see a roll of carpet sticking from the door of the front room. The windows in the bay are bare, the curtains lying in neat folded piles. He gets it then. The family are moving. The girl is leaving. She tricked him.

Kendwick shook his head, pulling himself into the present and his current predicament. He reached for his glass and took a sip of his drink. The girl in the shed had engendered a terrible feeling of rejection, a feeling he’d known since he was a baby and she had reinforced.

‘Bitch,’ Kendwick said, not entirely sure if he was referring to the girl in the shed, the woman who’d smiled over the garden fence a few minutes ago or DI Savage. It didn’t really matter. They were all the same. Sweetness and light and flashing a smile or a bare patch of skin so they could take control of his emotions. And then, when they’d got what they wanted, they simply walked away, leaving him lusting after something he couldn’t have.

He’d learned to get the better of them by turning on the charm himself, but deep inside he couldn’t kid himself. He always felt weak when he saw a woman he desired, weak because of the power she held over him, weak at the thought of what he might be able to do to her. If, of course, she’d let him.

And if she wouldn’t let him?

Well, Malcolm Kendwick had ways of dealing with that.