by Mark Sennen
‘Indeed. I’m a professor of criminology. I’m visiting Plymouth University to give a talk on the law and migrant workers and … Well, to cut a long story short, I attempted to contact Dr Wilson and discovered to my horror he’d been arrested for these cake killings.’
‘And you have some additional evidence which might help us?’
‘Not quite. Dr Wilson and I are associates. He’s lectured a number of times at Manchester, giving talks on his work with the FBI.’
‘That’s all well and good but—’
‘Dr Wilson could not have taken part in the latest killing. I checked on the web and the girl went missing at the weekend, Saturday, yes?’ Savage nodded. ‘On Saturday Dr Wilson was at a conference in Manchester. He attended a number of meetings and sat on two seminar panels. At three o’clock he gave a lecture to over three hundred people. Afterwards there was a buffet reception which lasted for some two hours.’
‘So he could have returned to Devon after that?’
‘No. A group of us then proceeded to the staff bar where we stayed until after midnight. Dr Wilson was with us. The next morning I picked him up from his hotel – the Radisson – took him to the airport and saw him onto a flight to Exeter. You have quite the wrong man, Inspector.’
As Savage expected, Hardin didn’t take the news well. He summoned Layton and Savage to the briefing room, his face reddening from a hint of pink to a fiery tomato as Savage went through the alibi again. Then he exploded.
‘How the hell could you let this happen, John?’ Hardin banged the table and Layton flinched. ‘And you, Charlotte? I warned you about cross-contamination. You get close and cuddly with Wilson during the week and then on Saturday you look round the crime scene. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what happened. Heavens knows what a half-decent defence lawyer could do with it.’
‘It didn’t happen, sir,’ Layton said. ‘I told you the hair came from near the top of a door, caught under a sliver of wood. I’ll stake my reputation that there’s no way it could have got there accidentally.’
‘John,’ Hardin said with a sneer, ‘it’s not your reputation which is on the line.’
‘The hair was left by Wilson.’ Layton sat back and folded his arms. ‘End of.’
‘Unless somebody planted the evidence.’ Hardin’s gaze turned to Savage. ‘Someone who wanted to get Wilson removed from the case, discredit him at least.’
‘Sir, I—’ Savage didn’t manage to get any more out because Hardin thumped the table again.
‘Ex-DCI Walsh. You and him are like that, aren’t you?’ Hardin held out his hand, first two fingers crossed. ‘Walsh never liked Wilson, saw him as a jumped-up quack. He bitterly resented the fact the Chief Constable insisted Wilson be retained last time. I can’t imagine how he was thinking when he discovered Wilson was to be used in the current investigation.’
‘Sir, Walsh hasn’t been near Paula Rowland’s house. Check the scene log.’
‘Precisely. Which can only mean somebody planted the hair for him.’ Hardin leant forwards and smiled. Looked at Layton again. ‘Right?’
Layton unfolded his arms and moved a hand up to his brow as if searching for his hat.
‘You can’t be suggesting Charlotte …?’
‘Sir,’ Savage said. ‘I’d never be involved in anything dodgy. There’s no way I’d plant evidence against Dr Wilson.’
‘Is that so?’ Hardin’s tongue crept out and slid across his lower lip as if tasting the air for the truth. ‘Because the way I see it, considering events at the start of the year, bending the rules a little is exactly the sort of thing you might do.’
‘I resent that, sir. Wilson must have returned here somehow.’
‘Some time after midnight until he was picked up from his hotel in the morning.’ Hardin tapped the right forefinger of his hand on the table several times. ‘Not long. What’s the minimum journey time back from Manchester? No planes or trains that time of night so by road it must be. Four hours by car? Three hours if you’ve got your foot to the floor. But in that case you’d be triggering every speed camera en route and any patrols you passed would be on to you. And anyway, you’re forgetting one thing. Paula went missing some time around four o’clock. Wilson was at a reception up in Manchester, probably trying to get into the knickers of some young student drunk on fizz by regaling them with tales of his FBI heroics. Whatever, he was surrounded by dozens of people and has a perfect alibi. He’s out of the frame. To put it in your words, John: end of.’
Savage made the journey back to the custody centre, using the time stuck in traffic to work out what the hell had gone wrong. Had Layton really messed up? The CSI was so painstaking in the way he dealt with crime scenes, but had he for once let emotion get the better of him and not followed procedure?
Inside Charles Cross the custody officer nodded and led her down the corridor. No smile, but in the interview room Bradley’s grin stretched from ear to ear. Wilson sat impassive, arms folded, feet up on the table.
‘Reason and logic,’ Wilson said. ‘They always win out in the end.’
‘Why,’ Savage said, ‘didn’t you tell us you were in Manchester on the evening of Paula Rowland’s disappearance?’
‘I told you I didn’t do it, Inspector. Was my word not good enough?’
‘You were playing with us. You could have been out of here but you let us go round in circles.’
‘But you had the DNA.’ Wilson smiled, raised the pitch of his voice. ‘Incontrovertible evidence. Do you know I thought I must be losing my mind, that you must be right all along? A split personality. The nice Dr Wilson and – growl – the evil monster. Of course, I am relieved to discover otherwise.’
‘There’ll likely be a compensation claim,’ Bradley said through her grin as she shuffled some papers on the desk and slipped them into her briefcase. ‘I understand Dr Wilson’s garden has been damaged during a search. There’s also a matter of an apology. We’ll work on the wording for that.’
Wilson swung his legs off the table and stood.
‘No hard feelings, Charlotte.’ Wilson held out his hand. Savage kept hers by her side and moved to let him past. ‘And tell DCI Walsh – ex-DCI Walsh – how close you were to catching the killer. Sadly, in the same way as he dismissed my advice, you have too. Now the killer will kill again. Pity.’
Wilson glided through the door to where the custody sergeant waited to book him out. Bradley stopped next to Savage. Looked her up and down.
‘You need a break, love,’ Bradley said. ‘Some new clothes, a little time to pamper yourself. Because it’s all beginning to slip away. Such a shame.’
She turned and followed her client down the corridor.
‘There’ll still be charges,’ Savage shouted after her. ‘Assaulting a police officer. Possession of an illegal weapon. Wasting police time.’
Bradley raised an arm in acknowledgement but didn’t look back.
‘Bitch,’ Savage said.
It wasn’t until the weekend that Riley had a chance to continue his unofficial investigation. Thursday and Friday he’d spent with his head down working hard on the Corran investigation as the flak over the arrest and release of Dr Wilson flew around the crime suite. Come Saturday morning he left Julie sleeping in, a note on the kitchen table promising lunch at a country pub, maybe a stroll somewhere. Later, an evening out with friends. Nothing on the note about where he was going.
Riley wondered, as he drove through Plymouth, if the deceit was a bad sign, something akin to cheating. Cross with himself for even going down that route, he flicked the radio on in search of distraction. The callers on the local BBC morning show were having kittens. Wilson’s release meant the Candle Cake Killer was still at large. What were the police playing at? seemed to be the general consensus. Ten days ago, at the outset, Riley had been annoyed not to be on the case. Now he could see benefits, one of which was some spare time to do some more digging into the circumstances surrounding Clarissa Savage’s death.
ReKlame Autos.
Kenny Fallon had told him the breakers had supplied a panel for a blue Subaru Impreza one day after the accident in which Clarissa was killed. As a coincidence it seemed improbable.
Riley found the yard at the unloved end of an industrial estate on the outskirts of the suburb of Plympton. Stacks of cars, six or seven high, sat to one side of the front lot, looking for all the world like a cross between an art installation and the set of a post-apocalyptic movie. He pulled his own car in alongside a classic Jag showing more rust than paint and got out.
High double doors to the warehouse stood wide, inside, rows of steel shelving reaching to the ceiling, each shelf stacked with car parts: alternators, shock absorbers, carburettors, brake hubs, cylinder heads. To the right of the main entrance a small door led to an office. Riley opened the door and went inside. Behind the counter a balding man of about fifty looked up from the girlie magazine he was reading. Next to the magazine a ledger book was also open, a pile of receipts to one side. The man nodded when Riley asked him if he was William Hegg.
‘You must be Riley,’ Hegg said. ‘Kenny Fallon mentioned you’d be round. Don’t get many of your type in here as a rule.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Detectives.’ Hegg grinned, flicking the page on the magazine and eyeing the mature blonde sprawled diagonally top to bottom. ‘Just look at her. Full bush, nice rack. Stunning.’
‘I’m more interested in the racks out there,’ Riley said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the warehouse. ‘Specifically something you sold a while back.’
‘Hey?’ Hegg closed the magazine. ‘Oh, wit. Very good.’
‘I’m trying to trace a customer of yours who bought a front wing panel a few years ago.’
‘Blue Impreza.’ Hegg nodded, and reached for the ledger book. ‘Kenny gave me the details. I told him I’d look into it. Well, now I’ve looked into it.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing doing, nothing found. Even if I’d found something, my customers value their privacy.’
‘But Fallon said—’
‘I don’t care what Kenny said. In case you lot didn’t realise he’s not quite the big gun he used to be. We’re mates, sure, but I’m not a monkey doing tricks on his say-so. Now if you don’t mind I’ve got to get on with my accounts.’
‘I see.’ Riley turned away from the counter and made to leave. ‘How would your precious customers feel if they turned up to see a squad car parked outside your front gate? Extended lunch break. Every day. From now until whenever. Bet their presence would quieten things down a bit so you’d have time to do your accounts.’
‘Look,’ Hegg flipped his book shut and the waft of air lifted a couple of receipts and blew them from the desk. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
‘There’s not going to be any trouble if you just tell me who you sold the panel to.’
Hegg peered past Riley through the door to the warehouse and shook his head. He bent for the receipts and then stuffed them and the ledger book into a drawer beneath the counter.
‘Tim Hamilton. Runs a panel shop over Okehampton way.’ Hegg pulled a sliver of white card from the drawer and slid it shut. ‘He was nothing to do with your problem, he’s a mechanic. Just fixing up a car for someone.’
The card snapped down on the counter.
‘Thanks,’ Riley reached for the card. ‘I won’t forget you helped me.’
‘I’d prefer you did.’ Hegg flicked open his girlie magazine again. Two brunettes were getting friendly head-to-toe. ‘Now, as I said, I’ve got work to do, so I’d be grateful if you’d bugger off.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Close. Very close. The police finding the hair. Need to think about that in the future. You don’t want any more silly mistakes, else you’ll end up back inside. And this time there’ll be no getting out, no rebirth. It’ll be a whole life term.
A slice of luck how things turned out though. The Manchester alibi. If only your good fortune extended to the state of your dishwasher. Right now you don’t want to be worrying about such things, but it’s gone wrong again and when you called up the repair man he refused to come out.
‘Tricky, driving all the way out there,’ the fuckhead said. ‘You living in the countryside, see? One of the downsides. Not worth my while.’
Really?
You’ll show him what is and isn’t worth his while. His job is repairing washing machines, not making philosophical judgements on the country–city dichotomy. His attitude makes your blood …
Steady.
You don’t need any more trouble. Which means you simply have to make a decision: Dixons, Currys or Amazon?
There’s enough wire and electricity and electrons and shit swirling around in a new machine to make you sick. Better not add to the sum by buying from Amazon. Besides, they’ll take cash in one of the stores and you might get to speak to a girl in a smart uniform. If you can avoid the slimy male sales assistants with their false bonhomie.
Alright, sir? How can I help you?
They could help by fucking off and leaving you alone for five minutes. You’re sure that was the problem the last time. You’d decided on a basic model – quite adequate for your needs – when spotty boy comes across and talks you into buying a much more expensive unit.
Which six years, three months and five days later went wrong.
Six years, three months and five days? Is that how long things are expected to last in the twenty-first century?
Call that progress?
No, you don’t.
You sigh and glance out the window.
The dog is going crazy. Barking, growling, straining at the limits of its chain, wanting to play with Mikey. The lad is out there with his football trying some step-overs. Only these are more like trip-overs, Mikey falling in the mud, face down. You shake your head, wondering not for the first time why you took him in. But the boy was alone on the streets. Homeless. He needed somebody. And after all these years you’ve grown rather fond of him.
Splat.
You’ve got to admire his perseverance because over he goes again. And again. And again.
Not much progress there either, Mikey about as close to emulating Cristiano Ronaldo as the police are to catching you.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Monday 30th June. 9.07 a.m.
Savage spent Saturday at home with Pete and the kids, Sunday afternoon out on their boat tootling around the Sound. Fish and chips collected on the way home, the kids in bed early, worn out from being on the water. There’d been little wind, their colourful spinnaker barely filling in the light air, the boat wallowing in the swell; a welcome change from the last trip. When they’d left the boat though, Pete had doubled up the ropes and added a few extra fenders.
‘Summer storm,’ he said. ‘Coming in tomorrow. Best be on the safe side.’
The safe side had been Hardin’s call too. Play it cautious. He’d stood down the majority of the team for the weekend. A few detectives worked over, but the DSupt had wanted to cool everyone down. The last thing they needed, he said, was a spot of red card rage, an over-zealous officer going hell for leather after a fresh suspect or someone trying to pin something on Wilson.
Monday morning, and Pete’s forecast was correct. The weather was brewing, trees beginning to bend and swirl in a strengthening breeze, the sun more often than not hidden behind clouds. Over the weekend the media had cooked up their own storm, keen to ratchet up the tension. There was fresh talk about whether the police could cope. In a Sunday morning TV interview a Home Office minister had expressed her ‘utmost confidence’ in Simon Fox and the Devon and Cornwall force; shorthand for ‘Get your fingers out, or else.’
At Crownhill Savage headed to the crime suite, almost bumping into Layton on a corner.
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Layton said. ‘Busy, busy, busy.’
The CSI held a small ziplock bag in one hand, in the other hand a gun. Grey metal and wood. Th
e target pistol recovered from Dr Wilson’s house.
‘Where are you going with that?’ Savage said.
Layton didn’t answer. Instead he smiled and jerked his head to the side as if to hint she should follow. He set off at a trot, almost collided with an officer with a steaming cup of something, and barged into the crime suite. Savage caught the double doors before they could close and followed him in.
‘Well, well, well.’ Davies looked up from a desk. ‘If it isn’t the Fairy Godmother and Cinderella. Brought us an invite to the ball, have you? Only there’s a rumour going around that your magic’s all used up.’
Riley stood at Davies’ side and he shook his head and shrugged. ‘John. Ma’am.’
‘Well the rumour is wrong,’ Layton said. He walked into the room and placed the gun on a desk. ‘This is the gun I found in Dr Wilson’s house. Not concealed but it had been recently fired.’
‘Wonderful,’ Davies said.
‘And this is a bullet fired from the same gun.’ He placed the plastic bag alongside the pistol. ‘It came from a point two-two LR rimfire cartridge.’
‘Fantastic.’ Davies feigned disinterest and looked at his screen. ‘Do you mind telling me what this has to do with our operation?’
‘The bullet was extracted from the brain of Devlyn Corran. I believe you and DS Riley were there when Nesbit performed the PM?’
‘What?’ Davies snapped round and stared down at the bullet. ‘Bloody hell! You are joking me?’
‘Jokes are for comedians,’ Layton said, a smile showing he was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Conjecture for fools. This is fact. I’ve fired the gun and the test bullets match.’
‘So Wilson killed Corran?’ Savage said.
‘I’ve no idea who fired the gun, but it was used to murder Corran.’ Layton looked away from the desk and turned to Savage. ‘I gather you met him at his office on the Wednesday after the initial discovery of the bodies at the farm.’
‘Yes,’ Savage said. ‘But what’s that got to do with anything?’
