CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  ‘If you’d seen the Naval cadets I’m teaching at the moment you’d still worry. Last week a crash-gybe nearly had me—’

  Savage didn’t hear the rest of the story; she’d already waved goodbye and headed out the door.

  On the drive into the station the roads seemed quieter than usual first thing. Perhaps people were already being careful. They’d remember the last time, of course, memories which should have been consigned to history since the Candle Cake Killer case was dormant, the trail gone cold several years ago. Savage knew a statutory review took place annually, but the general consensus was that the killer was dead. It seemed the only explanation for the cessation of the crimes. At the time the story had been front page news, an unwelcome focus on Devon and Cornwall and one the tourist board wanted to erase all memory of.

  It had been the cake, of course, which had given him his name: a Victoria sponge, sprinkled with icing sugar, a varying number of blue or pink candles on top, the candles lit and blown out. The candles and holders were obtainable from any of the large supermarkets, the sponge homemade, rich and moist, baked with duck eggs in a nine-inch tin. One slice of cake cut and removed, crumbs on the floor indicating the missing piece may have been eaten there and then.

  Fifteen candles on the first cake, seven on the next, nineteen on the final one. Pink, blue, pink.

  Whether the cake was intended to wish someone happy birthday, represented another type of anniversary, or was something completely different, the police had no idea.

  The victims were females aged thirty-four, twenty-five and thirty-nine. Not known to each other and having no connections other than living in Devon.

  And they had all gone missing on the longest day of the year.

  Mandy Glastone had been the first. Thirty-four and recently married, no children, a nurse by profession, she had vanished on the twenty-first June 2006. Her husband had arrived home to find the cake on the kitchen table, along with his wife’s handbag containing car keys, house keys and mobile phone. Nobody on Devon Road in Salcombe, quiet in a summer rainstorm, had seen or heard anything.

  Phil Glastone had been the main suspect, a few years older than his wife and previously married to a woman who claimed she’d received more than the occasional beating from her husband. A claim the police saw no reason to disbelieve. Glastone was questioned, investigated, questioned again. He denied having anything to do with his wife’s disappearance.

  When some two weeks later a fisherman came across Mandy Glastone’s headless and mutilated body in a river high on Dartmoor, Mr Glastone was arrested on suspicion of murder. Glastone’s car was impounded and a forensic team went over every inch. Hairs from Mandy’s head were found in the boot, but that didn’t prove a thing.

  DCI Derek Walsh, the SIO at the time, hadn’t been entirely happy with the case, specifically the marks on the body. A criss-cross of cuts overlaid with spirals and other shapes. River creatures had been at the corpse, but the cuts hadn’t been made by them. As far as the pathologist could tell the woman hadn’t been beaten and cause of death couldn’t be determined. Were the marks a sign of some kind of ritual killing? Was the date significant, the murder something to do with pagans, the summer solstice, mumbo-jumbo and witchcraft? Then there was the clay, a lump found down in her throat below the point at which her head had been severed, the purpose of the material not clear.

  With no further evidence and the complications of the cake and the cuts, the CPS decided charging their suspect was a step too far. ‘No evidence, no motive’ they’d told the team and Phil Glastone had walked free.

  Twelve months later, June the twenty-first again, a twenty-five-year-old woman disappeared after having spent the evening in her local pub. Single, employed as a manager in a shoe shop and living in a rented flat in Paignton, Sue Kendle was never seen again. When friends called round the next day to collect her for a prearranged outing they became worried when she didn’t answer the door. Two police officers gained entry and found signs of a struggle: furniture tipped over, a picture frame smashed, the carpet in the hallway rucked up. And in the kitchen a Victoria sponge with seven candles on it, a slice missing, crumbs on the table.

  Glastone was brought in once more. Under intense questioning he broke down and admitted beating Mandy, but denied killing her. The interrogation team pushed hard but it turned out that this time he had been away on business in Switzerland; his alibi appeared to be cast-iron. He was released without charge.

  No body this time either and despite ongoing searches, Sue Kendle was never found. With no leads, the investigation went nowhere.

  Twenty-first June 2008. Thirty-nine-year-old Heidi Luckmann lucked out. She had risen early and driven her car to Burrator Reservoir from her home in Horrabridge, a village between Plymouth and Tavistock. A couple in the car park at the eastern end of the reservoir remembered the rather tatty red Vauxhall Corsa and the attractive woman with the Border Collie. As they geared up for their walk – stout boots for the moor and waterproofs against the summer drizzle – the dog had bounded across for a chat, Heidi coming over and apologising, the couple not minding one bit.

  When they returned four hours later they noticed the dog lying by the side of Heidi’s car, waiting for his mistress.

  The Dartmoor Rescue Group and a search helicopter scoured the surrounds of the reservoir and the nearby moor all that afternoon and well into the evening until the light faded from the sky sometime after ten p.m. They found nothing.

  Police forced their way into her cottage in Horrabridge and in the kitchen they found the cake. Nineteen candles. Missing slice. Crumbs. There was no sign of Heidi Luckmann and despite an exhaustive search over the following weeks she, like Sue Kendle, was never found.

  The story broke then, someone leaking details about the cakes which previously had been kept from the press. The media lapped it up and trust the good old Sun to come up with the name which would stick: The Candle Cake Killer. Not good English but fantastic copy nevertheless.

  For a while hell descended on Devon in the form of various TV companies from around the world and dozens of reporters, but with no more bodies, no leads, and never a word from whoever was responsible, the interest dried up.

  The next year the police were ready. Early June and they put out measured warnings, trying not to alarm the public but appealing for vigilance on and around the twenty-first of June. The media became fired up again, hoping for another misper, praying the cycle would continue.

  It didn’t. Nobody went missing. Nobody was murdered. There was a brawl outside a pub, a boy racer killed himself and his girlfriend when their car overturned on the A38, a house fire claimed the life of a much-loved family pet in Plymstock. All good stuff, but hardly justifying the presence of television crews from across the globe. The TV vans packed up, the reporters paid their hotel bills and the police scratched their heads. Had the warnings worked? Or had the killer got scared and decided to give this year a miss?

  A year later and again nothing happened. The media had lost all interest now, no TV crews and only an occasional feature appearing in the national press. There was nothing much more to say and for the police, nothing much more to go on. The case remained open, but in the absence of fresh leads it lay dormant. Waiting. Like Heidi Luckmann’s dog.

  Crownhill police station was on the north side of the city, situated in a tangle of arterial roads. The twin grey-brown concrete buildings at first sight resembled two upturned cardboard boxes. Rows of narrow slits had been cut in the side of the boxes to serve as windows, but Savage thought the place looked more like some sort of bunker than anywhere people might work. She slotted her car into one of only a few free spaces in the car park and went inside.

  Up in the crime suite excitement was writ large. A huge sheet of paper on one wall was adorned with a giant ‘5’, below, in smaller writing, ‘days left’. Savage thought about the caller to the radio show. Tension, amongst the general public as well as within the investigation team, could only rise a
s the days ticked by.

  A dozen officers and indexers sat at desks in the open plan room. Each person had a keyboard with two screens and a phone headset to hand. Steam rose from several cups of coffee, one officer passed around a bag of M&Ms, while another bit down on a bacon roll. Most focused on the screens in front of them, where a cascade of documents threatened to overwhelm the casual observer. Savage stood by the entrance for a moment. She felt a frisson of emotion. She knew most of these people well, they were her second family. Each had their good points as well as a whole host of foibles, but each understood that they would only succeed in their task if they worked together as a team. Savage respected all of them and liked most; for one or two she even had an affection approaching love.

  She went across the room to speak to Gareth Collier, the office manager. He’d abandoned a fishing trip but was sanguine about having to come in even though he’d booked a few days’ leave.

  ‘Was supposed to be out at Eddystone today,’ he said. ‘After a few pollack. To be honest I’m not bothered. Sea’s a bit lumpy and I had a couple too many last night.’

  Savage couldn’t imagine Collier having too many beers, nor could she see him being seasick. He was ex-military, with a severe haircut to match, discipline his middle name. She cocked her head on one side. Collier held his hands up.

  ‘Alright. It’s my brother-in-law. He’s down for the week and this is better than spending eight hours stuck on a small boat with him.’ Collier shook his head, embarrassed at the lie. ‘Anyway, Radial. The name.’

  ‘Radial?’ Savage said. ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Don’t blame me. You know how it is. The computer spits out the name of the operation at random. Mind of its own.’

  ‘You put that up?’ Savage pointed to the countdown.

  ‘Yes. It’s called an incentive. Something to focus the mind.’

  DC Calter raised her head from a nearby desk and glanced over.

  ‘Something to scare us all shitless more like,’ she said.

  ‘That too.’ Collier allowed a hint of a smile to show on his face. ‘But knowing the date when the killer is likely to strike at least means we can organise our resources more effectively. We can also use the fact to lean on external agencies to pull their fingers out. If they don’t we can blame them when things go tits up.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Savage said. ‘Now explain this to me.’

  Collier had manoeuvred a number of whiteboards into the centre of the room. The middle one had ‘POA’ written in marker pen at the top.

  Plan of Action.

  The office manager began to outline his thinking. Confirming identification, he said, would be the key. Once established beyond doubt the bodies belonged to the missing women, they could proceed on the basis that this was the work of the Candle Cake Killer. Until then they could only assume.

  ‘But we’ll go with the assumption for now,’ Collier said. ‘Because we’ve sod all else.’

  ‘And once we’ve confirmed ID?’ Savage said.

  ‘We move through my plan.’

  Collier indicated a set of bullet points, lines leading away to boxouts where he’d scrawled instructions. Savage picked out an awful lot of uses of the word ‘review’: Review victim case history. Review connections between victims. Review family suspects. Review forensic evidence. She expressed her concerns to Collier. Didn’t the word imply the previous investigation had missed something?

  ‘Yes.’ Collier reached up and scratched the stubble on the top of his head. ‘Of course it does. And they did miss something. Else I’d be out on that bloody pollack boat with my brother-in-law.’

  Collier moved on. Off to one side of the board he’d boxed out another area. Inside the box was the word ‘profiling’. As he pointed the word out a smirk slid across his face.

  ‘Dirty word, hey?’ he said. ‘Round here, anyway.’

  The trek back to the lane for the rendezvous with Enders took Riley forty minutes. The route had to be circuitous to avoid any possibility of being seen and at two points he had to crawl on his hands and knees. By the time he reached Enders’ car he was muddy, soaked and in a foul mood.

  ‘Did you bring my stuff?’ Riley said as the young DC’s smile emerged from behind the steamed-up glass as the window slipped down.

  Enders jerked a thumb towards a holdall sitting on the rear seat. Riley got in the back and as Enders started up he opened the holdall and began to change into the spare kit. The clothing was gym gear Riley used if he fancied running home from the station, but it was better than remaining wet.

  Before long they reached the main road and headed north. Within half an hour they drummed across a cattle grid and onto Dartmoor. They left the jumble of little fields behind and the rugged moorland terrain opened out before them, the road sweeping its way north-west, climbing towards Princetown.

  Riley had expected the weather on the moor to be dank and dreary, what with the earlier mist and rain. However, as they climbed upwards they emerged into sun and blue sky, leaving behind a bank of cloud hugging Plymouth and the lowlands. The rolling hills and granite tors appeared flat, washed of any contrast by the harsh light. Riley leant back in the warmth and wondered if Maynard and his foil-wrapped sandwiches had been just a bad dream.

  Enders interrupted his thoughts by filling him in on the misper. He told him the bare facts as he knew them from the brief he’d been given: the man, Devlyn Corran, was a prison officer at HMP Dartmoor and he’d disappeared yesterday morning after he’d finished his night shift and left to cycle home. He never arrived and there’d been no word from him since. No sign of his bike either.

  ‘Horrid place to work,’ Riley said. ‘On a good day it looks like Colditz Castle. Dread to think what the inmates are like.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too many movies,’ Enders said. ‘Dartmoor is only one step above an open prison. If you were hoping for a load of baying psychos you’re going to be disappointed.’

  ‘Actually I’m tired and wet so what I really fancy is to get my head down for a few hours in a segregation cell. Do you think the Governor can fix that for me?’

  Before Enders could answer they spotted a white Land Rover up ahead. The vehicle was crawling along on the wrong side of the road with its offside wheels bouncing on the rough verge. The words ‘Mountain Rescue Ambulance’ ran along the body of the Land Rover above a chequerboard of orange and white reflective squares.

  ‘Dartmoor Rescue Group,’ Enders said. ‘They must be searching for Corran.’

  To the front of the vehicle, about twenty metres away, a man and a woman were striding through the moorland heather parallel to the road. A Border Collie ran back and forth, sniffing the air as it covered the ground in great scampering bounds.

  ‘Callum Campbell,’ Enders said. ‘He’s one of the group’s leaders. Met him last year when I went on that moorland hunt with DI Savage.’

  Enders accelerated past the Land Rover, beeped the horn once, pulled over and they got out. Campbell raised an arm and walked across. He towered over them, a giant of a man with blond hair stuffed under a fleece hat, eyes the colour of the clear sky, a Scottish accent when he spoke.

  ‘Nicer weather than last time,’ Campbell said to Enders, before turning to Riley and shaking his hand.

  Riley introduced himself and recalled Enders’ trip across the moor had taken place during the night in appalling conditions. In sleet and snow the team had fought their way to a remote tor, only to discover a body which had lain there for weeks. Enders had told Riley the story at least half a dozen times.

  ‘Any sign of Corran?’ Riley asked.

  ‘No. We were out all yesterday afternoon and evening, but I wanted to conduct a more detailed search this morning. We started at Dousland, where he lives.’ Campbell looked back down the road the way they had come. ‘The village is about three miles yonder and we’ve done the right-hand side only. Figured if he got knocked off his bike he’d be on this side, since
he was heading home. I am pretty sure we didn’t miss anything on the first pass, but I wanted to make sure.’

  ‘He was definitely on his bike though?’ Riley said.

  ‘Yes. Apparently he cycled to and from work most days. It’s about five miles from the prison to his house and mostly downhill, so he could have done the trip in fifteen minutes or so.’

  ‘Not much time for something bad to happen,’ Riley said. ‘Assuming, that is, something bad did happen.’

  ‘Well, if it didn’t then where the hell is he?’ Campbell spread his arms in an expansive fashion, sweeping them round to encompass the wide open panorama. Then he shrugged and plodded back onto the rough ground to continue the search.

  Chapter Five

  Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Monday 16th June. 10.21 a.m.

  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.’