by Mark Sennen
He noted the details without really thinking about them, the result of half a lifetime as a detective, but when he opened the envelope his interest was piqued. The letter inside had been handwritten in a Gothic script with eloquent curls and flowing lines. The Fs, Ps, Qs and Ys were nothing less than calligraphic perfection. This, Hardin thought, was somebody who thought presentation was as important as content.
Having read the first few lines, he was swiftly disabused of the notion. The content was waffle and he’d barely skimmed through half the letter before dismissing the message as the mad ramblings of somebody who needed psychiatric help.
Hardin stuck his tongue out over his bottom lip, as he always did when he was deep in thought. The letter had been addressed to him personally and began in an overly familiar fashion.
Dear Conrad …
He paused and started from the beginning again, once more struggling to make any sense of most of the content. However, towards the bottom of the page a line stood out.
How about your sense of duty, PC Hardin? What about your sense of respect? Do you have any left? Are you ready to repent?
PC Hardin?
It was a long time since he’d been a police constable. For a moment Hardin smiled to himself, memories flooding back. He looked up from the letter, his eyes drawn to the map of Devon on the wall. He’d started out at Kingsbridge nick, what – twenty-five, thirty years ago? Things had been very different then. He’d patrolled the town on foot, the lanes and nearby villages on a bicycle. If he was lucky he went out with a colleague two up in a squad car. Stopped for lunch in a sunny layby with a view of the sea. Back in the eighties the area had hardly entered the twentieth century. A few drunks, the occasional burglary, some Saturday night argy-bargy after closing time. So different from the inner-city problems he had to deal with now.
He stifled the smile and bent to the letter again.
You probably won’t recall me, but you must remember what happened all those years ago. When you were just a bobby on the beat. Before you became a DETECTIVE. Who could forget that face in the photograph?
Of course he remembered. The event was imprinted on his memory. He’d pushed the details as far back into the recesses of his mind as he could, but every now and then an echo came sliding to the surface, like a body rising bloated from the depths of a lake.
How about your sense of duty, PC Hardin?
Duty? He’d done his duty back then. Ever since, too. What was this joker hinting at? Were they trying to scare him? Was this some kind of blackmail scam or a threat, even? He’d put away dozens of criminals in his career, many of them dangerous, and yet it seemed unlikely the letter was from one of them. No professional felon would act in such a way.
A prank then. A prank or a madman.
He read the final paragraph.
Last time you failed them and you failed me too. Back then you obeyed your superiors and followed orders, but now we’re going to start afresh. We’re going to play a game, PC Hardin, and this time we’re going to play by my rules.
Hardin shook his head and then refolded the letter and placed the piece of paper back in the envelope. Really he should report this, get John Layton and his CSIs up here to examine the thing. By the book was Hardin’s motto. He tapped the envelope with a fingertip and stared at his name, wondering how he could possibly explain the circumstances to Layton. He shook his head once more and sighed. Then he opened one of his desk drawers, popped the letter in, and slid the drawer closed.
As a young kid, Jason Hobb had liked playing out on the mud next to the old hulk. His grandad had told him the wreck was a pirate vessel which, one dark night, had foundered in the shallows as the crew argued with the captain about the division of their loot. While they bickered, the falling tide left them stranded and by the time dawn broke the game was up. They were arrested by customs officers and, after a quick trial, five of the crew were hanged and the rest thrown into prison.
Now, eleven and a half years old and somewhat wiser, Jason realised the story was entirely made up. After all, according to his grandad, the pirates had been hanged from the Tamar Bridge, their bodies dangling for days until the seagulls had picked the corpses down to the bone. By the time Jason had discovered the bridge had been built in the 1960s, his grandad had passed away, the little wink the old man gave whenever he told Jason something outlandish just about the only thing he could remember about his face.
Right now, Jason leant on his spade near the wreck. He didn’t play so much nowadays, not since his dad had gone away. The area around the old ship was no longer a place of adventure. More often than not he came to the mud to dig for bait. He sold the ragworms to the local fishing shop in nearby Torpoint, the few quid he earned clattering down on the kitchen table and bringing a hint of a smile to his mother’s face.
‘You’re a good boy, Jason,’ she’d say, pocketing the coins and sometimes handing a couple back to him. ‘If only your old man had been as thoughtful.’
While he was sad he no longer got to see his grandad, he couldn’t care less about his old man. His father, Jason had come to realise about the same time he began to doubt his grandad’s stories, was nothing more than a lazy, drunken fuckwit.
Water began to slosh around Jason’s boots, the incoming tide sweeping over the mudflats. If he wasn’t careful he’d be getting wet. He pulled the spade from the mud and picked up his bait bucket. A dozen raggies wriggled in amongst the silt, no more. Hardly enough to make a journey round to the fishing shop worthwhile. Jason scanned the shoreline. Usually around this time there’d be a couple of fishermen setting up their gear in advance of the rising tide. Today there was no one. Jason sighed, wondered about tipping the bucket’s contents back into the sea. Then he caught sight of the old houseboat moored a couple of hundred metres along the shoreline. Larry the lobster fisherman lived there. As dusk fell, Larry liked to hunt for young boys. He’d capture them, keep them overnight in a huge crabbing pot, and then in the morning he’d slice them thinly and fry them in a pan with a few langoustines for his breakfast. At least that’s the story Jason’s grandad had spun him.
Jason squelched towards the shoreline. In Torpoint the streetlights had begun to pop into life. This time of year, night fell quickly and in a few minutes it would be dark. As he reached the harder ground where the mud mixed with shingle, a car pulled up. Two men got out and sprung the boot of the hatchback. They began to unload fishing gear. Jason quickened his pace and arrived just as one of the men was lighting a cigarette. He nodded at the man and pointed at his bucket. Did they by any chance need some bait?
‘No, lad,’ the man said. ‘We’re sorted, ta.’
Jason trudged away along the shoreline. Another hundred metres and he’d cut up into town and head home. Over at the old houseboat a light flickered in one of the windows. Looked as if Larry was in. The lobster man wouldn’t pay him anything, but perhaps Jason could swap the worms for a brace of crab. Despite his grandfather’s tales, Jason figured the man was worth a visit. It was the only way he might get a reward for his hard work. In another couple of minutes he was at the narrow gangplank which led from the shoreline to the boat. On one side of the gangplank a rope hung from a series of rickety posts. Jason stepped onto the wooden slats and walked out to the boat. Larry’s accommodation was a jumble of marine plywood nailed onto uprights and resembled a floating cowshed. Jason reached the end of the gangplank. He edged around the side deck of the boat until he found what he guessed must be the front door. He knocked. There was no reply. Either Larry was asleep or he wasn’t in. Jason shivered in the damp night air and turned away. He hurried across the gangplank and back to the shore, strangely grateful Larry hadn’t answered.
‘I’ve been looking for a boy like you, Jason.’ The voice hissed in the darkness as a shadow stepped from behind a concrete groyne. ‘Want to come along with me?’
The shadow jumped forward and Jason felt a hand across his mouth. Then there was a grunt and something slid around his throat
, a thin strip of leather tightening across his windpipe. Jason slipped to the ground, aware as he did so he’d let go of his bucket, the worms slithering free and disappearing into the soft mud.
Chapter Three
Near Bovisand, Devon. Tuesday 20th October. 6.47 a.m.
Something woke Savage early. There’d been a bang from outside, a splintering noise. She reached out to prod Pete into consciousness. He stirred, mumbled something, but then turned over. He’d been out at an official Navy dinner the night before and the meal had turned into a serious drinking session. Disappointed Pete hadn’t been around to discuss the inquest, she’d opened a bottle of wine for herself. Half a glass had been enough to make her realise alcohol wasn’t going to help and, after she’d put Jamie to bed and checked on Samantha’s progress with a history project, she’d read for a while and then called it a day.
Savage got out of bed, strode to the window and peeled the curtain back to reveal an ethereal predawn, a mass of dark clouds tinged on their undersides with a violent red. In the garden below, a fence panel had launched itself across the lawn and smashed into the corner of the house. The previous evening there’d been a strange calm with barely a breath of wind, but now a full gale blew.
September had seen something of an Indian summer and the warm weather had lingered well into October. While most people had been glad the onset of autumn had been delayed, Savage had been eager for the first storm. She wanted a break in the seasons, something to mark the end of the events concerning Simon Fox. Today, she supposed, signalled that. Now it was time to move on.
Once dressed, Savage headed outside. Their house stood in an isolated position on the east side of Plymouth Sound, clinging to a sloping garden at the far end of which cliffs tumbled to the sea. The place wasn’t much to look at. A succession of owners had added their mark, leaving a hotchpotch of building styles, the whole lot covered in white stucco and resembling a multi-tiered wedding cake. The location made up for any architectural failings though, and the view across the Sound and out to sea lifted Savage’s spirit, no matter the weather conditions.
She stepped away from the house and into the full force of the gale. The wind howled across the lawn, buffeting her clothing and snagging her long red hair. At the end of the grass a hedge marked the boundary of the garden and on the other side lay an area of scrub. A rhythmic boom came from beyond the hedge every few seconds, accompanied by a wall of spray as waves smashed into the base of the cliffs. She stood for a moment and looked across the Sound, tasting the salt in the air. Then she got to work. She pulled the broken fence panel away from the house and weighed it down with several old bricks. Next she moved over and examined the rest of the fence. The remaining panels had adopted a forty-five-degree angle to the wind, but they wouldn’t remain standing for long. The storm had broken several of the posts which had held them up, the posts having rotted in the ground. The whole lot would need renewing.
Savage returned to the house to fix breakfast. Being out in the wind had been exhilarating. Usually, something like the broken fence would have depressed her, the destruction a sign of decay, of change. Today she had a different feeling. That area of the garden had always been a bit of a mess. Having to replace the fence meant she could clear away some of the old shrubs and start afresh.
‘All right, love?’ Pete came into the kitchen. He tousled his hair and shook his head. ‘The kids won’t get out of bed and I’ve got one heck of a hangover.’
‘The fence is bust. We’ll need to replace the whole thing.’
‘Great.’ Pete opened a cupboard and fumbled inside for painkillers. ‘Any more bad news?’
‘No,’ Savage said. She moved across to Pete and reached past him into the cupboard. Extracted some ibuprofen tablets from the top shelf. Kissed him on the shoulder. ‘None at all.’
Savage was snug in her tiny office at Crownhill Police Station by eight thirty, leaving Pete to do the school run. Since the frigate he’d commanded had been decommissioned, he’d had much more time to be a proper parent. She remembered when, a dozen years before, he’d been away for great chunks of the year. As a newly qualified detective constable she’d somehow managed to juggle the day-to-day family routines and the demands of the job. With toddler twins the task had involved running on little sleep and copious amounts of black coffee. These days she got more sleep, but hadn’t kicked the caffeine addiction and a full cup sat on the desk beside her keyboard. She reached for it and took a sip before getting down to work. This morning she had to prepare for a presentation. A management meeting had been scheduled for later and DSupt Hardin wanted her to come up with some pointers for, in his words, ‘adding value’ to their detection strategy. An hour into the task, the coffee long gone, she was starting to make real headway when there was a knock at the door.
‘Ma’am?’ The voice had a strong South-West accent and came from a young woman who’d peered into the room. Twenties. Blonde bob. Big smile. DC Jane Calter.
Calter was a junior detective but enthusiastic. While DS Darius Riley was the closest thing Savage had to a confidante, it was Calter whom she often worked alongside. The DC’s quick thinking and have-a-go attitude had saved Savage’s bacon on more than one occasion.
‘Yes, Jane?’ Savage glanced up from her notes.
‘Misper,’ Calter said. ‘A kid from over Torpoint way.’
‘And?’ Savage wasn’t usually so curt, but she needed to finish her work for the meeting. A missing child surely wasn’t anything to do with Major Crimes. Uniformed officers and other agencies should be dealing with the issue. She said as much to Calter.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Calter said, holding out a sheet of paper, a mugshot of the missing boy top right. ‘But the mother’s got a new squeeze. The guy has previous for assault. We informed the woman, but she went with the man anyway.’
Calter went on to explain that the woman’s own mother – the kid’s grandmother – had contacted the police requesting information regarding the new boyfriend. When the police had alerted the woman, she’d taken the warning as interference from her mother and ignored the advice.
‘And this man, the boyfriend, where is he now?’
‘That’s just it, ma’am. He’s missing too.’
Savage sighed. She turned from the screen and reached for a pad and pencil. ‘From the top then, Jane.’
‘Jason Hobb. He’s eleven. According to his mother, Jason went digging for bait yesterday afternoon. He usually does that on the shore alongside Marine Drive.’
‘Time she last saw him?’
‘She says she gave him some lunch around oneish and then he went off.’
Savage raised her eyebrows. ‘Lunch? But it was Monday. Shouldn’t the lad have been in school?’
‘Yes.’ Calter looked down at her notes. ‘According to one of the local PCSOs, he’s a well-known truant.’
‘Right. Go on.’
‘When it began to get dark and Jason hadn’t returned home, the mother began to get worried.’
‘And she called us?’
Calter sighed. ‘No. She rang round a few of Jason’s friends but she didn’t report him missing until this morning.’
‘Jesus.’ Savage shook her head. In any investigation, but especially one involving the disappearance of a vulnerable individual, time was of the essence. ‘Other agencies?’
‘Mobilised first thing, as soon as we got word. PCs on the ground plus the lifeboat, coastguard and the MoD Police launch. So far the only sign of him is a blue bait bucket found at the high tideline next to Marine Drive.’
‘OK.’ Savage pushed back her chair and reached for her jacket. ‘Let’s organise a door-to-door and get over there. What’s the name of the boyfriend?’
‘Ned Stone. Thirty-nine. Originally from down near St Austell but living here now. Beat up his wife a dozen years ago. Ex-wife now, of course. Got three years inside for his troubles.’
‘Other offences?’
‘A couple more assaults.’
; ‘Right. So he’s a bit of a bad boy, but I’ve known worse.’
‘Yes, ma’am, but I’ve got a theory. This kid’s in the way, right? He’s a gooseberry in Stone’s tasty new pie. Say the kid does something to annoy Stone. He loses his rag with the kid, lashes out and accidentally kills him. Then he panics and takes the body somewhere.’
Savage cocked her head. She had to admire Calter’s keen-as-mustard attitude, but in this case the DC was wide of the mark. ‘Hang on, Jane, we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. First, let’s get some officers doing the door-to-doors. Second, we find Stone.’ Savage paused. Computed what Calter had told her. Made a judgement. ‘Single mum with new boyfriend trying to muscle in and be the boy’s new dad? I reckon the lad’s probably just run away.’
As mornings off went, Tuesday, Detective Sergeant Darius Riley thought, was turning out to be pretty decent. Some time after eleven in the morning and here he was doing what he liked doing the best. A little R and R. In bed. With his girlfriend, Julie. Decadent, she’d said. The luxury of several hours between the sheets while the rest of the world was out earning an honest crust.
Decadent, maybe, Riley thought as he poured Julie another cup of coffee from the pot and then went back to massaging her feet. But what was wrong with enjoying yourself?
‘I could get used to this,’ Julie said, as she sipped her coffee and then lay back, her dark hair spreading across the fluffed-up pillows. ‘The goddess treatment.’
‘Fine by me,’ Riley said. ‘As long as the goddess dishes out a few favours now and then.’
‘Well, there’s no time like the present, is there?’ Julie smiled and placed her cup on the bedside table. She kicked her feet free from Riley’s grasp. ‘And, unless you’ve developed an overriding foot fetish, I’m sure there’s other parts of me which might interest you.’
