CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  ‘And how did Phil feel about that?’

  ‘He wasn’t happy, but we parted on good terms. I think. He didn’t rant and rave, if that’s what you mean. In fact, we made love before he left.’ Kirsty paused and put her head on one side. She pointed up at the smashed lock. ‘Look, what’s this about? You broke that, didn’t you? Not burglars.’

  ‘How long was Phil with you yesterday?’

  ‘We had a very late lunch at the Ship and got back here about four-ish. We went to bed and I guess he went off at about seven. Maybe a little later.’

  ‘He’s out of the frame, ma’am,’ Enders said. ‘She was taken late afternoon.’

  ‘Who was taken?’ Kirsty said. She glanced at Enders and then back at Savage. ‘You’re talking about the girl on the news, aren’t you? You’re crazy, Phil can’t have had anything to do with that. He was here with me and then he went home to his wife.’

  ‘Yes, we know.’ Savage turned to Enders. ‘Patrick, get on the phone and call someone out to deal with the broken lock. Then we’ll get back and charge Mr Glastone with what we’ve got. Which from what we saw of Carol Glastone is quite enough.’

  ‘Charge Phil,’ Kirsty said. ‘What with for God’s sake?’

  ‘Assaulting his wife,’ Savage said. ‘If you could give Patrick your contact details because we might have a few more questions for you. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

  Back at the station from her jaunt in the countryside, Savage found herself cornered by Hardin. She told him about Glastone being out of the picture. He wasn’t happy.

  ‘Good news would have been handy,’ Hardin said. ‘Because there’s a press conference in twenty minutes with the parents. The Chief Constable has deigned us with his presence and he wants a good showing of senior officers.’

  Savage followed Hardin down to the media room, the place already packed with reporters. Paula Rowland’s parents sat alongside Simon Fox, the harsh lights from the TV crews probing every small facet of their faces. Not that there was much probing to do. Distraught was the only word to do justice to their expressions. Fox too wore a grimace as the hacks moved closer to get their pictures. They were hardened to this sort of thing, had seen it all before: the appeals for the missing person to come home, for whoever who was holding her to release their little baby. A family friend or relative would run through a short bio. She was a lovely girl, always laughing, many friends, caring. She was thoughtful, giving, looking out for others. Please come home.

  Savage felt heartless and cynical for a moment as she wondered if there was any other type of victim. Were people involved in tragedies always angels at school, friends with everyone, the life and soul of the party with so much to look forward to?

  Cameras flashed and the journalists started to ask questions. Fact was, they already knew the answers from covering similar cases whose victims had become immortalised in the public’s psyche. History was composed of events like this and you revealed your age by how far back you could remember. Was it the searches on the moors, the prostitutes who weren’t missed in Halifax and Leeds, the runaways who vanished into the hell which was Cromwell Street or two little girls missing in Soham?

  The story each time differed, but the ending was always the same, predestined. While Mr and Mrs Rowland might be clinging to any little scrap of hope, looking for any chink of light in an otherwise black night, everyone else in the room knew the truth. Paula Rowland was dead. Brutally murdered. Probably raped first. Maybe tortured. The CC and the other police in the room would hope not. The journalists expected and hoped for the worst. The more gruesome the tale, the more column inches they could write and the bigger their expense accounts. In a few months one or two might bring out books. The Candle Cake Killer was a cash machine and every new victim meant a bunch of crispy notes spewing forth.

  Savage was brought back to reality by the Chief Constable wrapping the conference. The Rowlands were being ushered to one side by their solicitor and a family liaison officer. Simon Fox came the other way and he approached Hardin and Savage.

  ‘Jesus, Conrad,’ he said, loosening the top button on his uniform. ‘This is a bloody nightmare. Do you know the Police and Crime Commissioner is beginning to make noises about leadership?’

  ‘Positioning, sir,’ Hardin said. ‘Elections later this year.’

  ‘All the effort we’ve made to keep everyone onside. Policing by consent. Public cooperation. The plan’s going down the pan. The Commissioner’s been talking to his chums up in London. The Home Secretary is apparently concerned. Looking to take a personal interest. Total meltdown.’

  ‘Sir?’ Savage said. ‘It’s the councillors on the Crime Panel. Alec Jackman, amongst others. They’re ramping things up and putting the Commissioner under pressure.’

  ‘Well he should be able to take it. Not wilt at the first piece of heat. Pathetic. Typical of a politician. To be honest the whole concept was flawed from the start.’

  Fox wiped the back of his hand across his brow where perspiration glistened in the white light. Savage had always thought the man a cool cookie, but now she wondered what had got into him. The Rowlands? Over the other side of the room Mrs Rowland had broken down. She hadn’t been able to make it from the room and had collapsed on one of the plastic chairs which had been put out for the press. The situation was distressing, yes, but Savage thought Fox would have been able to deal with it. Perhaps it was the way things had run out of control. They had prepared for the worst before D-Day but had been unable to prevent the killer striking again. The impotence would hurt.

  ‘Where’s DS Riley?’ Fox said. Savage shook her head, not understanding. ‘I want a word with him. This prison officer death. I hear the man was murdered. As if we haven’t got enough on our plate.’

  ‘He’ll be in the crime suite,’ Savage said. ‘I’ll take you up there myself.’

  ‘No,’ Fox said. ‘Not necessary. I can find my own way.’

  Fox moved off and headed for the door. Hardin shook his head.

  ‘When the skipper looks like he’s about to abandon ship then it’s time for the rats to get jumpy too, hey Charlotte?’

  Savage nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Riley was about to leave for home so he could get back and make up to Julie for missing most of the weekend when Simon Fox strode into the crime suite. Heads went down over keyboards, hands went to pens and scribbled on pads. Fox ignored everyone and walked over to Riley’s corner. The CC wanted to know how the investigation into Corran’s murder was going. Terrible turn of events, he said. Riley stood and apologised for the absence of DI Davies.

  ‘He’s working on tracing the gun, sir. Contacts.’

  ‘Right.’ Fox nodded.

  Davies’ contacts were notorious, stretching the gamut from small-time drug hustlers and street toms right to the very top of the Plymouth underworld. If the gun had been obtained in the city Davies would find out. Killing a prison officer was way out of line. Business would be affected. Unnecessary heat would rain down. Bad form.

  ‘The thing is,’ Fox said, ‘if you get a likely suspect then if at all possible I’d like to know before any arrest is made.’

  ‘Sir?’ Riley didn’t like the way the conversation was going so he played dumb. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Rumours, Sergeant, rumours.’ Fox glanced around and lowered his voice. ‘Corran dealt with sex offenders, I understand.’

  ‘Yes. I believe he did a couple of courses up at Full Sutton and has worked over at Channings Wood. Vulnerable offenders.’

  ‘Vulnerable offenders?’ Fox cracked a smile. ‘There’s a certain stupidity about the label wouldn’t you say? It’s a contradiction in terms lost on the leftie do-good brigade.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Riley held his tongue. He wasn’t about to get drawn into a political debate with the CC.

  ‘All I’m saying is should a person of interest come onto your radar and the person is also, how shall I say it … a VIP? Then I want, if possible, to know of it f
irst. Understood?’

  ‘A VIP? How will I know?’

  ‘You’ll know. Possibly they might not even be a suspect, not related to the Corran investigation in any way, just somebody you come across in the course of your investigations. And if and when you do find such a person you’re to come to me, not Davies.’ Fox smiled and then pointed at the photo of Corran on the whiteboard. ‘See, there’s just a possibility this hit and run incident could be, ah, how shall I say it? – career changing?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Promotion. Demotion. That sort of thing. Get my drift?’

  Riley nodded, but Fox had already turned away and was walking towards the door, his message delivered.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  You don’t do it all in one go. What would be the point of that? You like to take a break now and then. Give your victims time to think. At some point in the day you make yourself lunch. Cheese on toast. Four minutes and fifty-one seconds under the grill. A little Tabasco. Ground pepper. A sprinkle of oregano. A few hours later, it’s a snack. Those crumpets again. Marmite for you, jam for Mikey. A cup of tea. You sit in the kitchen and munch and slurp. Not long to go now, you think, sad that it will be over so soon.

  Five minutes later and you’re back in the dining room and hard at work, the plastic sheeting swimming in blood and other fluids, the flash of the knife as you move it back and forth once more. Beside you, Mikey is grinning. It’s the grin of a man whose brain is barely more complicated than a cabbage, but the emotion behind the smile is pure.

  As it would be.

  Mikey doesn’t have the wit or intelligence to understand exactly the reasons you do what you do, but he enjoys the process nevertheless. Like you, he can see the beauty, the justice and the meaning in the patterns the knife weaves as it caresses and opens the skin. He understands the process is about pain, because he’s experienced his share too. He knows these few hours may stretch to a day or two, maybe even three with the strong ones, but they must stand in for years of misery, compressing all the horror into such a short space.

  When the process is over, you never feel it is enough, but it has to do. Until the next time.

  She’s done screaming now, done doing anything much except for the occasional gurgle or cough. She’ll be dead soon, but for now the blood still flows, oozing from the cuts, seeping from the wounds. The way you slipped from your mother’s own wound and found life. Or rather, life found you.

  Mikey wouldn’t understand the symbolism. The only sort of symbol he understands is the stupid Apple logo on his phone which promises him mindless entertainment as he slides his fingers across the screen. He never gets bored, never tires of the games.

  And neither do you.

  The knife slits open another long gash, blood appearing moments later as if the blade is some sort of brush with a five -second delay. And really the knife is like a brush, you like an artist, the woman like a canvas. Only nobody gets to see your work except for Mikey, and he gets excited by a potato stamp painting.

  You guess that must make you a true artist, not worried about the fame and fortune, not falling for the rubbish you see espoused in the papers by those egos who can serve up a plate of dog turds or a rotting fish and sell it for thousands. Your art must exist only in your own mind and, for a short while, in the mind of your victims.

  Ephemeral. From the Greek. Meaning to last only one day.

  Like this woman.

  She’s dead now, Mikey’s grin changing to a frown, his eyes turning to you as a dog looks to his master.

  ‘Oh God,’ you say, moving to slump in a plastic-covered chair, aware of Mikey pawing at the body, aware he is clambering onto the table. ‘Awful. This is awful.’

  But you know this is far, far worse than awful. It’s sickening, the scene an abomination, the whole process degrading, inhumane, beyond any sort of comprehension.

  ‘Clay, Mikey,’ you say, trying to focus. ‘We forgot the clay.’

  Mikey’s not listening. He’s otherwise engaged.

  You shake your head. You’ll shove some clay in later when Mikey’s had his fun, but for now you’re exhausted. Emotionally and physically. You wipe the knife on your trousers and get up and place the blade back in the display case. You’ll finish up tomorrow and for the next part of the job you need something a little less subtle than the knife.

  Your felling axe should do.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bovisand, Plymouth. Monday 23rd June. 7.50 a.m.

  Monday. No news. As Savage made herself breakfast, the TV showed pictures of yesterday’s developments in the continuing hunt for Paula Rowland: soldiers yomping over Dartmoor checking bogs and mine workings; coastguard rescue teams walking the coastal path; house-to-house searches in parts of Plymouth; helicopters with thermal imaging equipment buzzing isolated villages; a group of vigilantes intent on carrying out unofficial investigations of their own.

  ‘Nutters,’ Pete said. ‘Why can’t they just let you do your job?’

  ‘The trouble is,’ Savage said, ‘we’re not doing it very well.’

  ‘Like us as parents.’ Pete pointed to the kitchen table where a mess of Cheerios and milk and half-eaten toast had been left by Samantha and Jamie. ‘A certain lack of discipline, methinks.’

  Savage grabbed a dishcloth from the sink. Wondered if Pete was casting aspersions on her specifically. He seemed to read her mind, because he held up his hands.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘Takes two to tango. You were left holding the babies. But that’s par for the course when you fall for an incredibly good-looking, high-flying naval officer.’

  Savage bundled the cloth and threw it across the room at Pete, just as Samantha came in from the hallway.

  ‘Mum! Dad!’ she said. ‘Are you fighting again?’

  Again? Savage half-laughed, reassured Samantha everything was OK, and then told her to go and call Jamie so they could get off to school.

  After she’d dropped off first Jamie and then Samantha, she drove out to Bere Ferrers. When the bad news about Phil Glastone had come through Hardin had insisted on a return to the farm. He’d spoken to a PolSA, the search adviser agreeing to set up a new sweep of the Bere Peninsula. Alongside the search there’d be a door-to-door blitz, repeating the one which had been done before Paula went missing.

  When she arrived at the village the enquiry teams were just getting started and several officers stood in a group at one end of the main street, a DS allocating properties to be visited. Savage pulled up outside the farm where Enders stood at the gate, talking to another detective.

  As she was getting out of her car she took a call from the officer who’d been interviewing Carol Glastone over at the Referral Centre. The medical evidence was strong, the officer said, and the statement Carol had given backed up the assault charges. Glastone had battered Carol and then raped her. Far from the first time it had happened. They’d be able to see him go down for that at least. At least? Savage wanted to know more.

  ‘The rest of the stuff,’ the woman said, ‘is, I’m afraid, total fiction. You remember Carol said her husband arrived home in the early hours, washed his clothes, acted suspicious? Well she’s retracted that part of her statement.’

  Savage hung up. The conversation only served to confirm what they knew regarding Phil Glastone’s movements on the day Paula had gone missing. She walked across to Enders and told him.

  ‘She lied to you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘All the material we were going to use is gone.’

  ‘She partly lied,’ Savage said. ‘He did rape her. Kirsty Longworth had ended her affair with Glastone. She said they parted on good terms. Evidently not, because when he returned home he was in a foul mood. He beat Carol and assaulted her.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘Yes. And I can understand why she lied as well. She wanted to dump her husband in it. She was probably worried her evidence alone wouldn’t see him put away. It will though, we’ll see to that. It’s just a shame she didn�
�t realise, because we’ve wasted time on this when we could have been trying to find Paula Rowland.’

  ‘So where do we go from here?’

  ‘God knows. This place, the farm, isn’t just a body dump. There are far more convenient places. I’m convinced there must be a reason the killer used the location. Something historical which could link in with Tavy View Farm.’

  ‘And Dr Wilson?’

  ‘Haven’t put it to him yet. We’ve got to hope the door-to-door teams come good.’

  As it turned out hope was not enough. Come lunch time, with the search of the peninsula still taking place, it was apparent the DtoDs had produced nothing new. Back in the farmyard the PolSA talked about widening the parameters of the sweep but it was obvious the man wasn’t keen. The river was a natural boundary, he said, people over the border in Cornwall hardly knew of the existence of the village. Waste of resources.

  ‘Crap,’ Hardin said to Savage as the search adviser stepped away. ‘Eight teams, two up each one, scouring the peninsula and they don’t come up with anything. Quality officers, Charlotte. That’s what the force is lacking. You know I have to account for their time? And return on investment so far is zero.’

  Savage wasn’t quite sure what Hardin had expected the local enquiry teams to produce, but then again she was as surprised as him that nothing of any value had turned up.

  ‘You can’t blame them, sir,’ Savage said. ‘If we don’t find anything then we can’t make things up.’

  ‘Sometimes, Charlotte, life would be a darn sight easier if we could.’ Hardin huffed to himself and shook his head. ‘We’re coming under a lot of pressure. The Chief Constable rang me this morning. Had the effrontery to ask if we needed any help.’

  ‘Additional resources?’

  ‘That would be fine, but no. What he was talking about was sending down some clowns from the Met. Can you imagine a load of city-boys out here?’ Hardin took his car keys out of his pocket. He turned to the farmyard gate. ‘First time they lost their mobile internet or they couldn’t find a latte within fifty metres they’d be panicking.’