CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  Savage smiled to herself as Hardin strolled away, not at the image the DSupt had brought up, but rather the thought of a group of Met detectives slipping and sliding their way across the muddy fields of Tavy View Farm.

  Riley arrived back at his flat a little after one. He’d done an early shift and now he was looking forward to an afternoon off. The Corran investigation was getting nowhere, Davies so far failing to turn up any information on the gun. Riley had been concentrating on finding more about Corran’s past life in York, but detective work by telephone was proving difficult. He’d try and get hold of the Governor at HMP Full Sutton, but if nothing came of that then it was looking as if someone was going to have to take a trip to the North East.

  Julie was staying over and she was kissing him before he’d closed the front door. Then she was waving him into the living room as she ran to the kitchen.

  The summer had arrived with a vengeance and the room was hot, just the hint of a breeze coming in through the doors to the balcony. Riley discarded his jacket, unbuttoned the top couple of buttons on his shirt and went out there, picking up a pad and pencil from the coffee table as he did so. Last night he’d been mulling over a few things to do with Corran’s hit and run when his mind had wandered again to the incident involving Clarissa Savage. Now Riley lowered himself into one of the recliners and with barely a glance out at the view, took up where he’d left off.

  If, Riley thought, the official investigation into the death of Savage’s kid had failed to turn up anything, there were only two reasons. First, it was possible the evidence simply wasn’t there. Layton said the team had worked their butts off and yet they’d still found nothing. If that reason held then Riley would be able to do no better. Which meant he had to bank on the second reason: the evidence was there but the team hadn’t managed to unearth it. Riley drew a line on his pad and split it into a Y shape. The left-hand branch suggested evidence which was buried beyond the reach of the police. To get to that he’d need to explore avenues of dubious legality. Davies was the obvious answer. Down in the ditch. The right-hand branch, on the other hand, was more worrying. It represented evidence which had been found but which had been covered up.

  Riley dropped his pencil down and leant back in his chair. Shook his head. Conspiracy theories weren’t really his thing. He closed his eyes and felt the sun hot on his face. There was a low hum of traffic noise, people down at street level talking, somewhere far off a helicopter chopping through the thick air. He opened his eyes, aware of how strong the sun was, aware too he needed to change out of his work clothes. He got up and went inside. The living room was dark, but Julie had flicked the TV on. Spotlight were showing the clip of Simon Fox at Sunday’s press conference.

  We’re keeping calm, making rational decisions, we’ll get the killer in the end.

  Except in the case of Clarissa Savage they hadn’t.

  A chink-chink came from the kitchen. Julie preparing a jug of something. Water, rum, chunks of fresh pineapple, lemons. Ice cold. Unlike Simon Fox’s hand when he’d approached Riley in the crime suite after the conference.

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

  Riley shook his head. He was making the same mistakes a novice investigator would. He was linking two situations which had similar appearances but with entirely different contexts.

  Julie came through from the kitchen with two tall glasses on a tray. She’d discarded her dress and now wore a bikini, a sheen of moisture from suntan lotion on her skin. Riley looked at her. Realised how much he adored this woman, with her smile, her curves, her easy manner.

  ‘I’ve got a question,’ she said, smiling at Riley. ‘Balcony or bedroom?’

  ‘You need to ask?’ he said and reached forward and switched the television off.

  After checking on the progress of the door-to-door teams again Savage returned to the farm to find Calter sitting in Joanne Black’s cosy kitchen, a coffee aroma in the air, drop-scones cooking on the Aga hotplate. Joanne flipped a scone over and asked Savage if she wanted coffee. Savage said she would and then turned to Calter.

  ‘It’s work, ma’am. Honestly.’ Calter pushed away an empty plate and pointed to her laptop. ‘And I think we’re on to something.’

  Joanne, Calter explained, had phoned in yesterday about a possible lead. A story to do with the farm. There’d been a family who lived at the farm once. Or rather, not at the farm, but down in a bungalow which used to be on the concrete slab next to the dump site.

  ‘And?’ Savage looked across at Joanne. ‘You think this could have something to do with the killings?’

  ‘It sounded silly when I told DC Calter,’ Joanne said, ‘but yes.’

  ‘There was a teenage girl,’ Calter said. ‘Apparently Joanne’s uncle fancied this girl but she was having none of it and the family moved away. I’m thinking harassment, assault, maybe just bad feelings. Goes way back, so the whole thing could’ve been a bit of a long shot, but I thought I’d look into it.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Joanne’s information about the girl pans out. I’ve had collaboration from one of the door-to-door teams. An old lady down the far end of the village remembers the story.’

  ‘OK. So tell me.’

  ‘Well there was a family with a young girl in the bungalow back in the late sixties. The girl was called Lara Bailey. Joanne would have been six or so, this girl a teenager.’

  ‘I used to play with her,’ Joanne said. ‘One time I turned up to find the family had moved away. My uncle offered no explanation as to why. I’d grown quite fond of Lara and I remember being upset she’d left.’

  ‘Now we’re getting to the gist of it,’ Calter said, turning to her laptop for a moment. ‘Turns out Joanne’s uncle wasn’t quite telling the whole story. He probably wanted to spare her feelings. The girl and the family did move away, true, but there was a reason for the move. According to the old lady interviewed by the DtoDs Lara got herself pregnant by someone in the village. Even post the swinging-sixties, that was a big taboo. Especially in a rural area like this.’

  ‘The uncle?’

  ‘Not sure, but it was what happened after the family moved away which flagged the thing up for me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve been chasing old records online and I’ve discovered that later on Lara Bailey drifted into prostitution. Received various convictions for soliciting and petty theft over the years. Did a two-year stretch for assault back in the nineties. A decade later in 2005 she was found in the front room of a derelict house on Caroline Place with her head bashed in. This was back when the Stonehouse area was crawling with working girls.’

  ‘She died?’

  ‘Yes. She’d been working the streets again and it looked as if she’d been done in by a client. No one was ever charged with the offence.’

  ‘Shook me, that did,’ Joanne said. She carried a plate of drop-scones to the table and then returned to the cooker for a pot of coffee. ‘The way Lara’s life turned out, a woman in her fifties selling herself, dying in such an awful manner.’

  ‘Tragic I agree,’ Savage said. ‘And an unfortunate coincidence she was murdered, but I don’t see what it could have to do with our case. I can see what you’re trying to do, Jane – and it’s a commendable effort – but I can’t see a connection with the Candle Cake Killer.’

  ‘Neither could I, ma’am. Until, that is, I noticed the date of the woman’s murder.’ Calter lowered her head and peered at the screen of the laptop. She placed a finger on the touchpad and brought up a new window. ‘Here’s the crime report.’

  Savage looked down. She ran through the text, trying to find the relevant details.

  ‘There.’ Calter’s finger splodged on the screen top right. ‘Twenty-first June 2005, ma’am. The longest day – and the year before Mandy Glastone was murdered. Another unfortunate
coincidence?’

  Savage drove away from the scene, intent on returning to Crownhill to consult with Gareth Collier, the office manager. DC Calter had come up with something, but quite how the information could be jigsawed into the existing investigative strands she had no idea. As she headed up the hill away from the village she slowed for somebody walking in the narrow lane. A mum carrying a baby in a sling. She thought about the words Pete had used earlier that morning:

  Holding the baby.

  There were babies in this case. The one presumably born to the young girl at Tavy View Farm. Kat Mallory’s child given up for adoption. The tiny rabbit left on Paula Rowland’s barbecue. Coincidence? Could be, but then again she sniffed the start of a possible trail. She filed the thought for later.

  Back at the station Savage found Collier in the crime suite perusing a copy of the previous day’s Herald, the headline Why No Handle On The Candle Cake Killer? He looked up as she approached.

  ‘Easy for them to say.’ Collier shook his head and pointed down to the text of the article. ‘But they’re right about the reasons. One, no motive. Two, nothing linking the victims together. Three, the time gap between the first lot of killings and the second. Four, the lack of any forensic evidence.’

  ‘Look,’ Savage said. ‘I’ve got an idea. Don’t dismiss it out of hand, OK?’ Collier nodded. Savage went on: ‘DC Calter’s discovered some information about a bungalow which sat on the concrete plinth near the dump site. A young girl lived there with her parents decades ago. She fell pregnant as a teenager and moved away. Years later she’s found murdered on the twenty-first of June.’

  ‘Right.’ Collier moved to one of the whiteboards. Picked up a marker pen. ‘Name?’

  ‘Lara Bailey.’ Savage waited while Collier scribbled on the board. ‘I’ll say it again: murdered on the twenty-first.’

  ‘I get the date, ma’am. One in three hundred and sixty-five. Long odds, I’ll admit, but you know the birthday problem?’ Savage shook her head. ‘If you’ve got twenty-three people in a room there’s a fifty per cent chance two of them will share the same birthday. Same, I guess, applies to murders.’

  ‘Yes, of course the timing could be a coincidence. But there’s two things which make me think not. First the murder took place in 2005, the year before Mandy Glastone was killed. Second, what about if we add in the fact that Kat Mallory also became pregnant as a teenager?’

  ‘And was murdered on …’ Collier began to draw a line on the board. He stopped. ‘The others have children?’

  ‘As far as we know, no, but I’m also thinking about the baby rabbit I found on the barbecue at Paula Rowland’s place. I thought it was an embryo, figured some right-wing anti-abortion angle to the killings.’

  ‘Interesting. Suggested actions?’

  ‘We need to find out whether the information about children is correct. There must be birth records at the Registry Office. I should imagine it’s hard to obtain and I doubt we can just go digging around. No special favours just because we’re the police. However, Kat Mallory’s death puts a different gloss on the right to privacy. The child she gave up for adoption is at risk, and as you know “risk” is a word which gets people to sit up and take notice.’

  ‘Too right. “Risk” means the buck stops with you if you fail to do something which later turns out to be negligent.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So …’ Collier drew a circle on the board with his pen. Put a big question mark inside. Raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s the motive? Preventing teenage kids from having sex?’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense. The killer buried the bodies and expected they’d never be found. No deterrent effect there.’

  ‘He’s the one who got the victims pregnant?’

  ‘Can’t see that either. Not if Lara Bailey is our first victim. Anyway, why would you kill them after the babies had been born?’

  ‘OK.’ Collier scribbled on the board again. ‘We go with what we’ve got already. I’ll pull together some actions on the Bailey family – tracking down relatives and the child Lara had. Then I’ll contact the Registry Office and find the parents who adopted Kat Mallory’s baby. Interview everyone concerned and eliminate.’

  ‘Or not.’

  Collier had added a little stick-figure baby beneath the picture of Kat Mallory and now he drew a line from the baby to the top of the board, where the word ‘killer’ sat in a circle.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Or not.’

  After making love with Julie, Riley had prepared a meal. He’d raided the fridge and magicked up a Greek salad. Crusty bread with olive oil drizzled on top and a light white wine. The whole lot taken out onto the balcony, from which they could watch the procession of yachts heading back to their marina berths. They’d whiled away the rest of the afternoon chatting, Julie doing some paperwork, Riley dozing and reading.

  ‘Popping out for a run,’ Riley said to Julie around five. ‘An hour, no more.’

  ‘Make sure it isn’t,’ Julie said, brushing her lips against his cheek. ‘Because I’ve got plans for a special dessert for you. Very sweet, but it won’t keep for long.’

  Riley grinned to himself as he rode the lift down and emerged out onto street level, knowing exactly what Julie had in mind. The thought kept him motivated for the first ten minutes and for the next five he slowed a little, not wanting to arrive too sweaty and out of breath. Padding across the grass of Victoria Park he tried to get his bearings. There, on the north edge, was St Barnabas Terrace, and halfway along he could see a familiar car tucked into a disabled parking bay.

  Riley jogged across the park, crossed the road and paused at the car. There was a disabled badge in the windscreen. Riley shook his head, not getting it, and then opened the front gate and walked up the concrete ramp to the porch.

  A couple of raps on the door and a shadowy figure appeared behind the glass.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Davies said, swinging the door open and eyeing Riley up and down. ‘Don’t tell me Hardin’s had you run over here to pester me out of hours?’

  ‘No, boss,’ Riley said. ‘But you don’t look too pleased to see me either way. Can I come in?’

  ‘Thrilled. And yes, come in off the street. You plus that hoody, lowering the tone of the neighbourhood.’

  Riley stepped into the hallway, dark after the bright sun. The passage went to the back of the house and Riley followed Davies through, aware as he did so of grab rails on the walls, some sort of lift on the stairs.

  Davies paused in the kitchen, grabbed a couple of bottles of beer from the fridge, and then continued through to the garden.

  Out back a small area of lawn ran just a few metres to a wooden shed and a boundary wall. Beyond the wall a strange grey building loomed, arched windows in a gable end.

  ‘St Barnabas?’ Riley said before noticing a woman in a wheelchair clipping a shrub to one side of the lawn.

  ‘My wife,’ Davies said.

  The woman looked up. Dark brown hair tumbled across her face as she moved. She shook her head to flick the hair aside. Smiled.

  ‘You must be Darius,’ she said, placing the secateurs in her lap and swinging the wheelchair round. ‘I’ve heard all about you from Phil. I’m Eva.’

  Riley stepped forward and took her hand. Eva, he thought, was gorgeous. A vivacity radiated from her and for a moment he wondered if he’d misheard Davies. Was this woman his wife? Eva smiled again, almost as if she could read his mind, and then she was asking him about police work, life in London, his move to Devon. Ten minutes later and she made her excuses and wheeled herself inside, leaving Riley still wondering how she’d ended up with Davies.

  ‘Is she …?’ Riley found himself stumbling. He was never good at dealing with stuff like this. Felt stupid for asking.

  ‘No. Not going to get better if that’s what you mean. She fell off a horse years ago. Suffered serious spinal injuries. Paralysed from the waist down. As you can see we’ve had the house adapted and there’s a carer who comes in to help
four days a week, nights if I’m on a late one.’

  ‘Still tough though,’ Riley said.

  ‘Tough. Yeah. That’ll be it, Darius. Not that you’d know anything about it.’

  ‘Boss, I …’

  ‘Don’t judge. Not until you’ve assembled all the evidence, right?’

  ‘It doesn’t make the stuff with Fallon right, but I guess I understand.’

  ‘Sergeant, I wasn’t looking for your approval, but thanks anyway.’ Davies raised his bottle and touched it against Riley’s. ‘Now, remind me again why you’ve disturbed my afternoon?’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Thuck.

  You give an experimental swing and the axe hisses through the air and embeds itself in the block of wood next to which the body of Paula Rowland lies. Her eyes are open, staring. Whichever side of her you move they seem to follow you. You walk across the yard, lean on the gate, glance back. She’s still looking, the stare unblinking, accusing. The eyes unsettle you, make you wonder about the propriety of all this. But then you think about what the bitch did, the potential misery she might have caused, and you know you are right.

  You walk back to Paula and heave the body sideways, lifting it so the girl’s neck is on the wooden block, a graceful arch, the throat exposed.

  You adjust your stance, like a golfer readying yourself for the swing.

  Thuck.

  The axe falls, hitting Paula’s neck and embedding itself in the block. Her head breaks loose, the spine severed but for some strands of skin and muscle holding the skull. A lump of clay oozes, sausage-like, from the oesophagus. Like the cake, the clay is part of your signature, although its use with Mandy Glastone was entirely functional. You stuffed her mouth full of the stuff to stop her screaming.

  The clay slips to the ground as the head moves backwards and forwards a couple of times, odd in the way the flap of skin holding the head to the body resembles some kind of hinge. Paula is very much unhinged now. But then she must have been when she was alive. To do what she did. To a child.