The Boat House

by Mark Sennen

  Savage stared at the pot, screwing her mouth up in disgust. She wondered how long it would be before Frey came ashore to look for her.

  ‘I’ll serve this presently, before it spoils.’ Whiddon took a ladle and reached for one of the bowls. He scooped up a ladle-full of broth and splashed the contents down into the bowl. Lumps of something white and decidedly unappetising floated in the milky liquid. ‘Been cooking for hours. Lovely and tender now. This one’s yours, OK?’

  ‘No,’ Savage hurriedly said. Jesus! Which serial killer was it who’d boiled up heads in a pot? Dennis Nilsen, that was his name. When police had arrived at his home he’d calmly showed them to a wardrobe where body parts had been stored in bin liners. ‘Can we—’

  ‘No!’ Whiddon put the plate on the table and then flung the ladle back into the pot. ‘I’m talking. Getting there. Like the way the creek winds its long journey to the sea. Water flows downhill, downhill all the way. Always gets to the ocean in the end though.’

  Whiddon moved to the left of the range. He fiddled with a nail set into the wall. Savage could see now that the range sat partly in a large inglenook, one side of which had been boarded up. Whiddon was removing a panel from the wall, revealing a large recess behind.

  Oh God! Savage edged away. Really she should run for the door and scream for Frey.

  ‘Where you going, girl? Thought you was keen to see the body? Come over here next to me.’

  Savage nodded and then inched her way over.

  Whiddon manoeuvred the panel away from the wall and stood the hardboard sheet to one side. The space was narrow but tall. Enough room for a person to stand in.

  ‘Here, take a peek.’ Whiddon turned to Savage and grinned. ‘If you dare.’

  Savage edged forwards. The recess was dark with shadow but there was something within. She cocked her head on one side, trying to make out the shape. Then she had it. Somebody was sitting on a chair deep in the back of the space. Somebody tall, perhaps a little thin. Somebody female.

  ‘There she is. Told you, didn’t I?’ Whiddon turned and beamed at Savage. Then he pulled a candle from the shelf above the range and held it out. ‘That enough of a body for you?’

  ‘But …’ Savage leant closer. The woman was perhaps in her forties, pale skin contrasting with black hair and bright red lipstick. She was wearing some type of formal dress, a huge cleavage glistening in the flickering light. Dainty hands sat neatly folded on her lap, the skin wrinkled and dry. ‘Where did you find her? More importantly, Mr Whiddon, why is she here?’

  ‘Find her? That’s a bloody daft question. She found me. As for why she’s here … well, the stove keeps her nice and dry, doesn’t it? Anywhere else and she’d have rotted away.’

  ‘Mr Whiddon, I don’t want to sound funny, but most people who find a dead person report the matter to the police and leave it to us. They don’t usually bring the corpse home with them.’ Savage moved another step nearer and peered into the recess. The skin on the face was similar to the hands; wrinkled and paper thin. She was no longer so sure of the woman’s age and now she was closer she could see the breasts were plastic, a fake joke pair pushed in under the bodice. ‘I need to go outside and speak to my colleague.’

  ‘Stay where you are.’ Whiddon stood next to Savage, the large needle in his hand again. He leered at her. ‘You’re going to help me or else I’ll prise you open like a fresh oyster. Find out if you’ve a pearl inside you.’

  Savage put her hands palms out. ‘Steady, Mr Whiddon. Calm down.’

  ‘Oh I’m calm, love. Never been calmer. Now you listen to me, right?’

  ‘OK.’ Savage nodded and backed up a couple of steps.

  ‘Been doing a lot of thinking recently. Getting older aren’t I? Not much longer left. Fuzzy in the head some days. Only take one slip and I’d go over the side of my little boat. Don’t reckon much for my chances if I did. Thing is, if I did die she’d be left all alone, wouldn’t she? Walled up in that cavity with the stove getting cool. If the rats didn’t get her then she’d just moisten up and rot away. I couldn’t have that so I called you lot so you can take care of her. I want her looked after, understand?’

  ‘No, Mr Whiddon, I don’t understand.’ Savage tried to recall the missing person’s list she’d seen recently. Were there any women on it who could possibly be the female in the recess? ‘How long has she been there?’

  ‘Let me see …’ Whiddon bit his lip and glanced down at his feet. Shook his head. Tutted. ‘Be twenty-five years this Christmas gone.’

  ‘Twenty-five … That means she must be—’

  ‘My wife, yes.’

  Savage let out a long breath. According to Frey, Whiddon’s wife had run off with another man around the time Whiddon had moved to the boathouse. People had assumed he’d retreated to the creek because he’d been heartbroken.

  ‘Why, Mr Whiddon? Why is she in there?’

  ‘There was this fella caught her eye. She fancied he was a better bet than I was. He had a flash motor, a bit of cash. Seems like for you girls that’s more important than anything else. Anyway, when he went off up country she went with him. Only she didn’t reckon on me coming and bringing her back.’ Whiddon shook his head, sniffed. His eyes were watery. ‘Once she was here I thought she’d change her mind, but she wouldn’t. We argued and I bashed her with a frying pan. Killed her stone dead. She was lying on the floor, face a picture, so serene. Got to thinking about that fox. Pretty as ever, wasn’t it? No trouble though. That’s what the master at the big house said. And from then on she wasn’t, was she? She wasn’t no trouble at all.’

  Whiddon was lost in his thoughts, shaking his head and staring into the cavity at the husk sitting on the chair. Savage backed away until she reached the door. She turned and examined the latch. It had some sort of pin holding it down and she leant forward and worked the pin loose.

  ‘Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?’ Whiddon yelled across the room. ‘I’ve not finished yet.’

  ‘I’ve seen enough, Mr Whiddon. I need to speak to my colleague.’ Savage fiddled with the catch again. Whiddon was an old man. If he came at her she fancied her chances.

  ‘COME HERE AND SIT DOWN!’ Savage whirled round to see Whiddon holding a shotgun he’d pulled from the recess. He nodded to one of the chairs. ‘NOW!’

  ‘Steady, Mr Whiddon,’ Savage said. She moved away from the door. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Whiddon waved the gun. ‘Now sit down.’

  Savage went to the table and sat on one of the wheel-back chairs. In front of her steam rose from the bowl of soup. Her stomach lurched.

  ‘Wine?’ Whiddon was leaning in close, one hand on the gun, the other reaching for the bottle of red. He took the bottle and poured a generous measure into Savage’s glass. ‘Good stuff. From the cellar up at the big house.’

  ‘Mr Whiddon—’ Savage eyed the gun and felt her heart quicken.

  ‘Quiet.’ Whiddon took the empty bowl and placed it on the range. He served himself a ladle of soup and then returned the dish to the table. He sat in the chair opposite Savage, placing the gun down by the side of his chair, and then poured himself some wine. ‘Now we eat.’

  Savage stared at the broth. ‘I’m not really all that hungry to be honest.’

  ‘EAT!’ Whiddon took up his spoon and began to slurp mouthful after mouthful of soup into his mouth. ‘It’s lovely.’

  Savage probed the soup with her spoon. A lump of white flesh surfaced but she avoided it and took a spoonful of liquid. The soup tasted salty but fishy. Maybe there was nothing to worry about.

  ‘I forgot,’ Whiddon said as he reached for his glass. He held the glass up and moved it towards Savage. ‘Let’s have a toast on this special occasion.’

  Savage took her own glass and chinked glasses with Whiddon. She pretended to take a sip while Whiddon necked his drink in on go.

  ‘What special occasion is this, Mr Whiddon?’ Savage asked, hoping to get him talking,
to buy herself time. She indicated the spread on the table. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of effort.’

  ‘Our wedding anniversary.’ Whiddon gazed across at the alcove where his wife sat. ‘She might have cheated on me once, but for these last twenty-five years at least she’s been grand. Like I said before, she’s been no trouble at all. Cheers!’

  *

  When Savage and Frey arrived at Charles Cross police station it was awash with the green of the Argyle fans and the red and white of those from Exeter. Jeffrey Whiddon was booked in quietly amid all the confusion. By ten p.m. it was done and dusted. Whiddon had forgone his right to legal representation and made and signed a statement admitting to killing his wife. He’d been formally charged and would appear before magistrates first thing on Wednesday morning. Savage completed the paperwork, still buzzing with adrenaline, thinking how easy it had all been. If this was what being a detective was like then she wanted more of the same. Much more.

  Now Savage and Frey stood on the steps outside the station as drizzle drifted in the night air.

  ‘Well done, detective,’ Frey said. ‘Not a week on the job and you’ve bagged a murderer.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Savage said. ‘I didn’t have to do very much. Whiddon confessed. It’s not like I investigated anything.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Frey paused as an Argyle fan tottered down the steps next to them. The fan had a dark and swollen patch of skin around his left eye but was grinning from ear to ear. ‘What was the score, mate?’ Frey asked.

  ‘Three nil. We bloody hammered them.’ The man raised a fist in triumph as he reached the street. ‘Brilliant result, hey?’

  Want more DI Savage?

  OUT 12 FEBRUARY 2015

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  Prologue

  Stars. Pinpricks of light vaulted across the sky. Hundreds of them, thousands, more than he can count. Perhaps, he thinks, there are even as many stars in the sky as there are girls in the city. He licks his lips, the notion exciting him. That’s one hell of a lot of stars. A hell of a lot of girls.

  You know what you do with stars, Chubber? Make a wish.

  ‘Oh yes, a wish!’ Chubber whispers to himself as he swings his eyes earthward, down from the heavens. ‘I wish, I wish … I wish I could find her!’

  In front of him, the moor is a heaving landscape of shadows rolling towards the distant orange glow of civilisation. All around, tors rise from the scrub and heather, grey granite forms that watch and wait. Chubber is waiting too, crouched behind a prickly clump of gorse, well wrapped in a homemade sheepskin cloak. The night is cold and frosty. A lacework pattern of ice glitters amongst the bog plants. Chubber’s eyes follow the silver trail as frozen water winds up towards a spring. She’s up there. Hiding. If Chubber hadn’t slipped over he’d have caught her by now.

  Silly Chubber!

  Yes. Silly. She’d been safely locked away but he’d wanted to give her a chance. The game was more exciting when he gave them a chance.

  Exciting, yes! The thrill of the chase. You love it.

  Chubber scans the hillside hoping his wish will come true, but there’s nothing moving, nothing living out here. Not at this time of year.

  December, Chubber. Nearly Christmas.

  He should have waited for the big day, he thinks. Now he’ll have nothing to look forward to but a ready meal from the microwave and the chocolate orange he’s been saving. If only she would … there! His heart leaps as he spots her eyes sparkling green in a shaft of moonlight. He jumps up and starts to run. She runs too, but now Chubber’s grinning, he’s getting closer. Gaining. Soon he’ll catch up with her.

  ‘There, there,’ Chubber shouts out. ‘No need to run from Chubber, my little beauty. Chubber’ll be nice and gentle. Promise. Just a bit of gliding and sliding and then … and then …’

  She lets out a little cry, the noise disappearing into the dark of the night, the moor sucking the sound down into the boggy ground, where centuries of secrets lie hidden in the peaty soil. Chubber stumbles after her, but then pauses. There she is, standing on a ridge in the distance, for a moment silhouetted against the starry sky. She’s found harder ground and now she darts away, across the moor and into the night; disappearing behind a tor, the hunks of granite sheer black against the sprinkling of stars.

  Bugger.

  Chubber stands and pants. Hard work, chasing. Bloody hard work. Especially when you don’t catch them. Air wheezes in and out of his lungs. A hand moves down to loosen the tie on his baggies. Slips inside. Touches himself and then scratches his bollocks.

  Double bugger, he thinks. Waste of an evening. She’s well and truly gone. Disappeared behind that … Chubber feels a breeze glide across his exposed tummy. He shivers. Realises he’s chased his prey far over the moor.

  Too far, Chubber. Much too far.

  Yes, because he knows this place. The tor. What lies beyond.

  Chubber moves slowly now, climbing to the ridge so he can see down into the valley beyond. A group of rocks stands in a circle, the hunks of granite clustering like sentinels, guarding a large, flat boulder at the centre. This place is bad, cursed, he thinks. An ancient place of witches and ghouls, spirits and will-o’-the-wisps. In the daytime you might sit and eat a picnic, but at night …

  Ch … Ch … Chubber!

  Chubber looks again. The rocks are moving, dancing, one with a towering headpiece of antlers.

  Not rocks, Chubber – people!

  Six standing stones and six people dancing in and out, weaving some sort of pattern. A soft wind carries a plaintive melody across the ground, a woman’s voice, as sweet and clear as the cold night air. Then other voices join in, a low hum providing a background drone. Chubber tries to understand the song, but the words mean nothing, the language foreign to him, alien.

  He stares down and his lip quivers. He moves to the tor and slides behind a large boulder. His head peeks round as the six figures begin to move faster and faster, back and forth between the stones. The tall figure with the antlers starts to sing a different chant, the figures whirling until there almost seems to be more than six. As if the very stones have somehow come alive and are joining in.

  Chubber, run!

  But he can’t, he’s frozen to the spot, mesmerised. Seconds pass, minutes, hours maybe. He doesn’t know. The figures race round and round until their chants conflate to a single drone. Chubber blinks. Something has happened. The six figures have rushed away from the circle. They are pulling something from behind a stand of gorse. It’s a person. A man. He’s limp, not resisting. Now they shove him down next to the flat rock and push him into a shallow trench alongside it. The six figures position themselves around the huge slab and slowly push the boulder over the hole in the ground. The scraping echoes into the night and the rock moves the final few inches and seals the chamber.

  Chubber turns from the tor and runs back down the hill. Twice he tumbles over and rolls in the bog, clothes soaking, body cold. When he’s put two ridges between himself and the stone circle, he finally pauses for breath. He thinks of the man, the one in the hole. Chubber looks to heaven, raises his hand and passes his palm across his eyes, recreating what happened back at the stone circle. The tapestry of moon and stars and galaxies soaring overhead are wiped away, replaced by the utter blackness of the tomb.

  Chubber whimpers at the thought of it. He knows he’s a bad man, but what he’s just witnessed goes far, far beyond bad. Those people, they were …

  Evil, Chubber, those people were evil.

  Evil. He doesn’t like the sound of that. He quickens his pace again. Not long to the track where he’s parked his van. Just a few more steps and he’ll be there.

  Chubber!

  Oh God! There’s the track and there’s the van and …

  And, Chubber, and?

  And standing by the car is a hooded figure with a towering headpiece of antlers.

  Chapter One

  Sunday 24th Augus
t

  ‘Bee, Mummy, Bee.’ Jamie pointed at a blur of wings hovering over the food. ‘Buzzy bee.’

  ‘It’s a fly, sweetheart,’ she said, swatting the insect away with a hand and offering her son another Dairylea sandwich. ‘They’re like bees, only they don’t make honey.’

  ‘Bee,’ Jamie repeated before he took the sandwich and chomped it down. There was the tinkle of a bell and Jamie looked up. ‘Horse.’

  She turned to follow his gaze. Samantha and Clarissa were riding up and down the narrow lane on their bicycles, every now and then one of them uttering a ‘trot on’ or a ‘woah’ to control their mounts.

  ‘Pretend horses.’ She turned and scanned the horizon until she picked out a group of Dartmoor ponies grazing near a clump of gorse. ‘There’re some real ones, darling.’

  Jamie had by now lost interest in the local wildlife and turned his attention to his collection of chunky plastic cars. She cleared away the picnic things, then lay back on the woollen blanket, shielding her eyes from the light. The respite wouldn’t last long, she knew. Jamie would need attention or the girls would all of a sudden come over and profess extreme boredom. But for the moment she would enjoy the warmth of the sun, the sound of birds in the heather, the stillness of the surrounding wilderness.

  ‘Vroom,’ Jamie said. ‘Vroom, vroom, vroooooom.’

  She felt something on her thigh. The wheels of a truck climbing the impossibly steep hill of her body. She worried about Jamie sometimes. His sisters were nine – seven years older – and they played with him only when it suited them, so he was, in effect, an only child. With her husband away for much of the time, Jamie only had her to spice up his life. Of course he went to nursery five days a week; she figured the girls there spent many more hours playing with Jamie than she did. Not for the first time she felt a pang of guilt, but then dismissed the thought. She wondered if her husband ever had the same doubts as he lay on his bunk at night.