by Mark Sennen
Was that it? Had Sleet somehow got mixed up in something he shouldn’t have? Had some Royal Marine training exercise gone horribly wrong? Riley put the thought from his mind and moved across to the Audi. Collier hadn’t said anything about the keys, but then, even if Riley had had them, he wouldn’t have risked opening the car for fear of contaminating the inside. He peered in through the driver’s window. As noted on the sheet of information, there was a cup of coffee in the drinks holder, the flask the cup had come from sitting on the passenger seat. It seemed unlikely Sleet had been indulging in a bout of passionate sex. More likely he’d poured the cup while waiting for somebody, or perhaps he’d simply come up here after his lunch at the pub in order to pass the time until his next appointment.
There didn’t seem to be anything untoward inside the car. Sleet’s jacket was lying on the rear seat. A briefcase poked up from the rear footwell. The report mentioned that the boot contained several boxes of samples and Riley recalled a wallet had been found in the jacket. There had been no blood or any sign of a struggle.
He straightened. If something had happened, it had happened away from the car. Riley looked to the sides of the lane. There was plenty of room to pull off the road, but none of the indentations in the grass appeared fresh. If somebody had arrived after Sleet then they had made sure their vehicle remained on the hard tarmac.
He peered back towards their own car. Imagined Sleet sitting drinking coffee and spying a vehicle in his rear mirror. He’d have placed the cup in the holder and got out of the car. He’d left his jacket behind, so he’d either expected the rendezvous to be over quickly or his emotions had overcome any thoughts about getting cold. If it had been a woman, perhaps Sleet had leapt from his seat and run to meet her.
Riley paced back up the road a few metres. He examined the verges again. Nothing except some pieces of litter. No, not litter. Confetti. Confetti?
He moved to the side of the road where several pieces of yellow and pink paper lay on the verge. Sodden with rain, they’d stuck to the sparse vegetation. He tried to get his head around what might have occurred here. Confetti suggested a birthday or some kind of a celebration. Then Riley thought of a present on a nest of the little pieces of paper. An item of jewellery? He imagined a woman opening a velvet case and seeing a sparkling ring, Sleet scattering a handful of confetti in the air as some kind of symbolic gesture.
‘Patrick?’ Riley knelt and beckoned the DC over. ‘What do you make of this?’
Enders strolled up the lane and hunkered down next to Riley. He picked up a couple of the pieces of paper.
‘From a hole punch, sir?’ Enders placed the pieces on his hand and examined them. ‘That’s my guess.’
‘Hey?’
‘They’ve been cut from a sheet of paper. Look, there’s letters on the surface.’
Riley stared down at Enders’ hand. Not letters, letters and numbers. And not from a hole punch either. Shit, he had it now. He glanced down at the ground and picked another piece from the grass.
‘Know what these are, Patrick?’ Enders shook his head as Riley showed him the pink dot on the end of his finger. ‘They’re AFIDs. Anti-felon identification tags. They’re ejected whenever a Taser weapon is fired. Each carries a code to identify the particular Taser which was used.’
‘Are you telling me this guy was Tasered?’
‘Look. Over there.’ Riley pointed to a clump of heather where a flash of yellow lay amongst purple flowers. Still on his knees, he shuffled closer, feeling the damp of the moor seep through to his skin. The sliver of bright yellow plastic looked something like a piece of disposable packaging. ‘That’s part of a Taser cartridge. Totally illegal for private use of course.’
Riley didn’t pick up the plastic. Instead he stood. This put a whole different slant on the situation. Not only would Sleet’s car need to be gone over by the CSIs, now they’d need a team up on the moor too.
‘So Sleet’s …’ Enders stood as well and turned his head back and forth. ‘Where?’
‘Fuck knows,’ Riley said.
The day had been long and largely fruitless, Savage thought as she traipsed across the car park about to head home in the gathering gloom. There’d been some excitement when it turned out Jason’s father, like Ned Stone, also had several convictions for assault, less when he was tracked down to a cell in HMP Exeter. As for Stone, he was certainly an unpleasant piece of work, but she remained to be convinced he had anything to do with Jason’s disappearance.
‘Ma’am!’ The shout came from DC Calter, half tripping down the steps from the entrance to the station. She jogged across the car park and stood next to her, shoulders down. ‘It’s the boy, ma’am. A body. Sorry.’
‘Oh.’ Savage put out a hand and steadied herself against her car. For a moment anger welled inside, but she was surprised how quickly the feeling was replaced with resignation. As if, deep down, she’d known the probable outcome all along. She stared past Calter towards the concrete monstrosity of the station. ‘Sometimes I wonder why we do this job.’
‘Me too.’
Savage shook her head. Focused on Calter. ‘Where?’
‘On the Drake’s Trail cycle path. The Shaugh Prior tunnel. In there.’
‘Get back inside the station,’ Savage said as she opened the car door. She ducked in. ‘Find Gareth Collier and start setting things in motion. I want Ned Stone brought in and questioned too. Oh, and if no one else has, then you’d better call the DSupt as well.’
‘In hand, ma’am. Apparently he’s heading out to the crime scene himself.’
‘Hardin? Great, that’s all we need.’
Savage slammed the door, started up, and swung the car out of the station car park. She headed north up the Tavistock Road, swept along in the dwindling traffic of the rush hour. She then turned right down past Bickleigh Barracks. After passing the entrance to the army base, the road narrowed and turned left and then right before crossing over the disused railway line, now a cycle trail. The lane followed a strip of woodland and then crossed back over the line at the entrance to the Shaugh Prior tunnel. She pulled over to the left-hand side of the road and parked behind a marked police car. The lights on top flashed, each flash painting the surroundings with a blue-grey streak. As she got out, the door to the car opened and a uniformed officer emerged.
‘Evening,’ he said. He nodded into the car where a woman officer sat in the passenger seat half turned so she could watch the middle-aged man slumped in the rear. ‘PC Dawson, ma’am. I’ll take you down to the scene while Lisa here stays with the gentleman who found him.’
‘No one remained with the body then?’ Savage said.
‘Er, no.’ The officer reached up and scratched the back of his neck. ‘Bit nippy. Plus somebody had to stay up here with this fella.’
‘Both of you?’
‘Yes. Backup in case he got nasty or tried to do a runner.’
‘I see.’ Savage peered in the window again at the man in the back. He appeared too shell-shocked to do anything much. She gestured to where a narrow path led from the road down to the cycle track. ‘Shall we?’
PC Dawson nodded and then tramped along the road and down the path. Savage followed. The path curled round and down into the railway cutting. As they reached the bottom a cyclist swished past, the taillight on the bike blinking into the distance in the near dusk.
‘Jesus!’ Savage said. ‘We need to close this as soon as possible. Where’s the body?’
‘Way up in the tunnel,’ Dawson said, pulling out a penlight torch and handing it to Savage. ‘Our witness says he found it when he stopped halfway to take a leak. I left a fluorescent safety vest next to the boy.’
Savage moved forward, Dawson just behind her. Deep in the cutting the light was fading and Savage wanted to get her bearings before night came. She’d been up and down the cycle path many times with her children. On most of the route the gradient was easy and with several tunnels and viaducts there was always something for the kids
to get excited about.
A graceful horseshoe curve of granite blocks marked the entrance to the tunnel, the surface of the stones covered with moss and ivy. Inside the mouth, a strip of concrete stretched into the darkness, ballast to either side. Water dripped from the ceiling and splashed on the floor.
‘Looks as if the lights are out,’ Savage said. When she’d been in the tunnel before, there’d been lights every fifty metres or so. The lights had been strong enough to dispel the slight sense of unease as she’d ridden through. Now there was nothing but inky black. Savage made a mental note to check whether the failure had been reported and then pushed on, the torchlight swathed in the darkness, picking out the rough walls. They’d gone a hundred metres when something glowed bright in the beam.
‘There,’ Savage said. ‘The reflective tape on the safety vest. You stay put.’
‘On my own?’ Dawson said.
‘Stop wittering. I’ll only be a few steps away.’
‘Yeah, but you’ve got the torch.’
Savage stayed in the centre of the tunnel and walked on, leaving Dawson trying to get some illumination from his phone. Beyond the flare of light from the fluorescent jacket something lay up against the wall, seemingly half buried in the stonework. As she got closer she could see whatever it was had been pulled into a small recess. A few more steps and she stood next to the safety vest. Now when she flashed the torch into the recess she could see the tumbled form of a body. A boy, naked apart from Y-fronts and a pair of wellington boots on his feet. The body lay face down, dark fluid glistening on the ballast beneath the boy’s right hand.
‘Shit,’ Savage whispered to herself. She’d seen many bodies, some in the most appalling of states and circumstances, but she’d never become immunised to the shock. Here was somebody who a day or so ago had been walking and talking, feeling happy or sad. They’d been laughing or crying. Taking in the world through their eyes, nose, ears and fingertips. For the short time this boy had lived he’d been different from the soil and the rocks and the inanimate objects which were no more than a collection of atoms. Now he was just that. A bunch of decaying cells. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. A life gone, the poor kid’s consciousness extinguished forever.
‘You found the body then?’ Dawson’s voice brought her back to the tunnel. His words echoed off the stonework for a moment before being choked to nothing by the mass of rock around them.
‘Yes.’ Savage remembered to breathe. She slowly exhaled. She tried to suppress her anger and emotion and instead focused on the scene around her.
‘Why here?’ Dawson said. ‘They must have known the body would have been discovered fairly quickly.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Other cyclists must have passed through the tunnel today. It was just fortuitous that ours decided to stop and relieve himself next to this hole.’
‘It’s a refuge for railway workers,’ Dawson said knowledgeably. ‘If a train came, they could shelter as it passed.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re a railway nut, PC Dawson.’
‘No, ma’am. There’s an information board on the cycle route. Tells you all about the old line. Did you know that—’
‘No, and I don’t want to know either.’ Savage stepped away from the body and then turned and walked back to the PC. ‘Get along to the far side of the tunnel and stop any more cyclists coming through.’
‘Hey? Must be a couple of hundred metres and it’s pitch black, ma’am. I’ll probably brain myself. That’s if the killer is not waiting for me. I’d rather not.’
‘Don’t be stupid. Here, take this.’ Savage handed Dawson the torch. ‘I’ll make my way out and secure this end. I don’t want to think about what our chief CSI is going to say when he arrives.’
Dawson huffed but reached out and took the torch. ‘You’ll be OK, ma’am?’
‘Yes, now go before anyone else comes through.’
The PC shuffled off, his shadow dancing away in a circle of light. Savage turned to where a faint glimmer marked the edge of the tunnel. She took tentative steps on the concrete surface as utter blackness folded in around her. As the sounds of Dawson walking off grew fainter, she heard the drip, drip, drip of water falling from the ceiling. She tried not to think about the killer nor about the hundreds of tonnes of rock balancing overhead. This was a strange place to bring the body. Did the killer come here merely to dump the corpse or was this where some sort of assault took place? Did the tunnel have a special meaning or was the place just convenient?
Lost in her thoughts for a moment, she stepped off the central concrete slab and onto the rough ballast at the side. She put her hands out to steady herself against the tunnel wall. The stones were rough, damp and slimy. She moved away from the wall, stumbling on something at her feet. She crouched and felt around in the darkness. There. A rustling. A plastic bag containing something soft.
Savage put her hand in her pocket and pulled out her phone. She pressed a button on the side and the screen flashed into life. She turned the phone so the screen pointed downward. The bag contained a bundle of fabric. She used the phone to prod the bag open. Clothing. Tracksuit bottoms, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. Too much of a coincidence to belong to anyone but the boy.
She stood and moved back to the concrete path. The whole tunnel would need to be fingertipped from end to end. They’d need arc lights, generators, dogs and God knows what else. Never mind, that would be down to Layton. It was just the sort of logistics problem he loved.
‘Maaaaaa’am! Are you in there?’ The echoing voice belonged to DC Calter.
‘I’m coming, Jane. Stay where you are.’ Savage moved forward again, aware of lights up ahead. Activity. The rest of the team. ‘What took you?’
‘The boss man.’ Calter stood at the entrance to the tunnel dressed in a high-vis jacket and wielding a large rubber torch in her right hand. She jerked a thumb behind her. ‘He insisted on coming but I had to wait for him to phone the Hatchet.’
Savage peered up the railway to where a large round figure barrelled down the path from the road and staggered onto the track. Detective Superintendent Conrad Hardin.
‘That you, Charlotte?’ The voice boomed across to Savage and then echoed down the tunnel. ‘Couldn’t have made it any more difficult, could you?’
Hardin brushed some debris from his trousers and marched towards them, shoulders hunched, as if he was still playing front row forward for the Devon Police First Fifteen. Sadly, Hardin’s glory days on the rugby pitch were well in the past and ‘First Fifteen’ was now used as office banter, referring to the DSupt’s penchant for finishing an entire pack of chocolate digestives single-handed and at one sitting.
‘Sir,’ Savage said. ‘You didn’t need to come. You could have coordinated things from the station.’
‘Of course I needed to bloody come,’ Hardin said, puffing from the exertion. ‘The CC is keeping tabs. Next thing you know she’ll have a security tag around my bollocks.’
When Maria Heldon had taken up her post, she’d instigated a full-scale, force-wide audit of operational procedures. The audit was yet to be completed, but Heldon had already decided there was a lack of leadership due to senior officers spending too much time in meetings and not enough time on the ground. Hence Hardin’s presence at the scene.
Savage shook her head. The last thing she wanted was the DSupt poking his nose in.
‘Well?’ Hardin gestured into the tunnel.
‘Bad news I’m afraid, sir. He’s in there. Jason Hobb. And we’re not talking accidental death.’
‘Bugger.’ Hardin stared into the blackness as if he had some kind of superhero night vision. He shook his head and there was silence for a moment. Then he stuck his tongue out over his bottom lip before speaking again. ‘Where the fuck is that John Layton?’
It was early evening before Riley managed to make his way over to Plymstock to interview Perry Sleet’s wife. Getting the CSIs organised and up onto the moor had seemed to take forever and by the time he’d returned to Ply
mouth and dropped Enders off at the station the streetlights were on and the rush hour over.
Sleet lived in a new-build just off the A379 to the west of the River Plym, the estate set in a huge quarry. A sign announced to Riley that he’d arrived in Saltram Meadow, although the estate had been built in the old quarry workings and was next door to what had once been the local tip. Still, Sleet’s property wasn’t bad, a three-storey townhouse with what looked like a pretty decent garden out the back.
Riley pulled up outside and stared at the house. These days property developers provided you with a ready-made dream, the garden with a front lawn and little flowerbeds, inside everything fully fitted. He wondered if that included the family. Except in this case, just a few months into their new life, it appeared as if things had gone very wrong for the Sleets. Would the developers be honouring their money-back guarantee if the dream soured?
The woman who opened the door introduced herself as Catherine and she was even better looking in real life than in the Facebook shot Riley had seen. She smiled at Riley and ushered him in and through to the living room, the furnishings within almost exactly as he’d expected, right down to the white leather sofa with double recliners. One of the recliners had been tilted back, a fleece blanket thrown to one side, the TV flickering on the far side of the room with the volume muted. On the arm of the recliner sat a box of tissues.
‘Any news?’ Catherine asked as she walked across to the sofa and touched a button on the side. The recliner moved into an upright position and the woman sat. She gestured at Riley to do the same. ‘He’s usually so reliable and nothing’s been bothering him. I can’t think why he would have left the car and set off onto the moor.’
Riley nodded. He hadn’t asked any questions yet, but Catherine Sleet seemed keen to give answers. He took one of the armchairs. This woman appeared at first sight so cool and in control that he wondered if the box of tissues was part of an act.
