by Mark Sennen
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Catherine continued. Riley still hadn’t said anything more than his name and rank but he nodded. ‘You’re thinking why isn’t she blubbing her eyes out. Well, I’m trying to hold it together for the sake of the kids.’
‘I’m not here to judge you,’ Riley said. ‘Your husband is missing and it’s our job to find him. Besides, people have varying reactions to stress. We all cope in different ways.’
‘Well, I’m struggling, if you must know. It’s been over twenty-four hours without a word. That’s not like him.’ Catherine shook her head. ‘Shit, what am I saying? He’s never done anything like this before. Not been missing for a minute, understand?’
Riley nodded. ‘Perry was up Tavistock way on business, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s a rep. Animal health. Visits farms and the like?’
‘Uh-huh. He drives all over Devon and Cornwall selling drugs and supplements to farmers. Not that he carries the stuff around in his car, only samples. He gets the farmers to sign up to trials, that sort of thing.’
‘And you knew where he was going yesterday?’
‘Yes. I gave the schedule to one of your officers. Perry is very meticulous. If he makes an appointment for eleven o’clock then he’s there on the dot.’
Riley looked down at his notebook. ‘It seems he kept his meeting at Lydford Gorge before lunch, but not his next over at a farm near Mary Tavy. The appointment wasn’t until three and it appears as if Perry drove onto the moor to wait. Would you say that was unusual?’
‘No. Perry always insists the client is the most important person in the loop. If he had to kill a couple of hours then he’d do it.’
‘Yes.’ Riley tried not to wince at the unfortunate expression. ‘You said when I came in nothing was bothering Perry. Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ Catherine swung her eyes to the sideboard where there was a sequence of family photographs in multicoloured frames. Kids on slides, in the sea, at a birthday party. ‘We mean everything to him.’
‘So there’s no reason he might have run off? Nothing at all which could be worrying him? Nothing he’s keeping from you?’
‘I told you …’ Catherine paused and then stared hard at Riley. ‘What are you implying?’
‘Could he have gone up to the moor to meet somebody?’
‘Who? You mean a client? I can’t see why he’d …’ Catherine shook her head and then froze. She spoke flatly. ‘You mean a woman.’
‘We have reason to believe someone else was up there on the moor with Perry. Does the name “Sarah” mean anything to you?’
‘Sarah?’ Catherine’s mouth dropped open for a second. ‘No it doesn’t. Perry loves me, loves the children. He wouldn’t do anything to threaten our family.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t, but we need to explore all the possibilities. To your knowledge has Perry ever had an affair, Mrs Sleet?’
‘No he bloody well hasn’t!’ Catherine pushed herself up from the sofa. Her body language suggested the interview was over. ‘Why don’t you get out there and look for Perry instead of asking stupid questions?’
‘Thank you for your time.’ Riley stood too. He tried to sound conciliatory. He wanted to end the interview on a good note. ‘We’ll find him, don’t worry.’
He strode out into the hallway and opened the front door, aware of the woman’s eyes at his back. He turned on the step, about to say something else, but Catherine Sleet slammed the door shut in his face.
Chapter Eight
Near Shaugh Prior, Devon. Wednesday 21st October. 6.48 p.m.
‘That John Layton’, as it turned out, had been delayed by an RTC which had blocked the Tavistock Road.
‘Nightmare,’ Layton said as he supervised the unloading of equipment from a van up in the lane. ‘You lot go blazing off at one hundred miles an hour but by the time I head out there’s an accident involving a bus and a car. Coincidence? I think not.’
‘Get on with it,’ Hardin said. ‘That poor lad’s probably been lying in a tunnel for the best part of twenty-four hours.’
‘Right you are.’ Layton shrugged. ‘Still, can’t do much until the pathologist gets here.’
‘Give me strength. If this farce continues much longer, the CC will have tags for the lot of us.’
‘Hey?’
Layton didn’t get an answer because Hardin turned and walked away. The CSI looked at Savage for an explanation.
‘Let’s just say that since Maria Heldon took over, the DSupt has developed a castration complex. Now, shall we get down to the scene so we can at least be ready when Nesbit arrives?’
Ten minutes later, suitably attired in her PPE kit, Savage returned to the tunnel. The darkness of earlier had now gone, banished by a number of halogen lights set atop a series of tripods. She found Layton a little way in, hunched over the bag of clothes, the whole area bleached with white light. Beyond, several more sets of lights led up to the body, while, even deeper in, shadowy figures wielded spotlights and head torches as they searched the rest of the tunnel.
‘What do you think?’ Layton said as Savage approached.
‘I think this is a dump site,’ Savage said. ‘Whatever went on, it happened somewhere else. Hence the bag containing the clothes.’
‘Bloody sicko.’ Layton stood and held a hooded tracksuit top in his gloved hands. ‘You know, when I started in this job I was quite liberal. Rehabilitation, understanding, treatment not punishment. Over the years my left-leaning political outlook hasn’t changed much, but my views on what should happen to these kind of people has.’
‘You’re not the only one.’ Savage patted Layton on the shoulder. ‘Seeing this sort of thing hardens us, I suppose. And I’m with you. Hanging’s too good for them.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Layton bagged the top. ‘I just hope you’re there at the bust.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Savage Justice. Haven’t you heard the banter at the station?’ Layton paused, a wry smile on his lips. ‘That Harrison guy, he burned to death in a car you were tailing. Those twins who killed women on Midsummer’s Day: one committed suicide while the other fell down a mineshaft and broke his neck. Then there was the Chief Constable: you discovered him sitting in his car with a vacuum cleaner hose attached to the exhaust pipe.’
‘Bloody hell, John, you’re kidding me, right? Is this sort of stuff going round the canteen?’
‘It’s not malicious, Charlotte. They’re saying it in admiration. They probably don’t quite believe the stories themselves, but they’d like to think they were true.’
‘Well, they’re not, OK?’
‘No, of course not. Still, I don’t think the rank and file would be too bothered if they were.’
‘Well I am bothered. You don’t know—’
‘Here he is. About bloody time.’
Savage turned to see a thin, stick-like figure silhouetted against the glare of the lights. Dr Andrew Nesbit, the pathologist. As he moved closer, the details on the silhouette filled out. Like Savage and Layton, Nesbit was wearing a white coverall, but as he walked towards them he was struggling to close up the front, the zip having snagged the tweed jacket beneath. Without the white PPE, Nesbit would have resembled an elderly actor who’d come to audition for the part of Sherlock Holmes, although he was sans deerstalker and pipe and wore a pair of half-round glasses.
‘Charlotte. John.’ Nesbit jerked a thumb back over his shoulder and then managed to free his jacket and zip up the coverall. ‘These crime scenes will be the death of me one day. Nearly broke my leg coming down the path to the railway line.’
‘You’re not the only one, Andrew,’ Savage said. ‘I think the DSupt is thinking of installing a stairlift. Although a forklift might be more appropriate where he’s concerned, don’t you think?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’ Nesbit paused and peered at Savage over his glasses. Then he turned his head, his bushy eyebrows arching a
s he stared deep into the tunnel. ‘Shall we?’
Savage, Nesbit and Layton moved on until they reached the last set of lights. The body was lit on three sides by an elaborate series of tripods holding an array of halogens. Now there was no hiding from the horror. The boy’s pale white skin contrasted with the dark stones of the ballast he was lying on. Apart from the Y-fronts and boots, he was naked. He lay on his side, arms stretched above his head, legs slightly bent. Savage tried to swallow a sudden rush of nausea which rose in her throat. At most crime scenes there’d be something to ameliorate the horror. In a woodland setting there’d be flowers or the sound of birds in the trees. In the city you could hear a constant background noise, reminding you that although you stared down on death, elsewhere there was life. Here in the tunnel there was nothing but the dank smell of the underworld.
Savage and Layton stopped a few metres from the body and allowed Nesbit to approach alone.
‘Do we know the boy’s name and age?’ Nesbit said.
‘Jason Hobb,’ Savage said. ‘He was just eleven.’
‘Just eleven? That says it all, doesn’t it, Charlotte?’
‘Yes. He’ll never be anything else but eleven and a headline in the papers.’
‘Quite.’ Nesbit put his bag down on the concrete and then stepped over and surveyed the body. ‘There’s wounding on the hands. Cut marks. Not much blood though. I think he died somewhere else. The body was brought here afterwards.’
‘I wondered if that was the case,’ Savage said. ‘What we can’t quite work out is his attire.’
‘No? Well, we’ll leave his underwear and boots in place until the PM.’ Nesbit moved closer to the body and knelt. He touched one of the arms and then bent to the head. His gloved fingers examined the boy’s neck. ‘Seems the killer used a ligature. Did the boy have a belt?’
‘No. From the clothing in the bag it appears he was wearing tracksuit bottoms.’
‘Then I’d say the killer may well have used his own. Look, there’s more bruising on the back. I think the belt was used like a choke chain. The killer pulled up with one hand on the belt while pushing down with the other. The boy would have been powerless.’
Powerless. Savage shook her head, not understanding how anyone could gain pleasure or satisfaction in subjugating another person, let alone killing them.
‘This one’s dangerous, eh, Charlotte?’ Layton pointed at the figure of Nesbit hunched over the body. ‘And I’ve got a bad feeling in my waters.’
‘I thought you were like Dr Nesbit, John? Scientific enquiry, evidence, reason.’
‘I’m just saying I’m uncomfortable with this. I can’t quite place my finger on it, but something’s not right here.’
‘Andrew?’ Savage said. ‘How say you?’
‘Well, there is something odd here.’ Nesbit was peering at one of his hands, holding a gloved finger up and rotating it. ‘There’s a substance on the surface of his skin. Something sticky.’
‘Sticky?’
‘Perhaps more slippery than sticky. Possibly grease. Perhaps it’s something from the tunnel. Oil from the trains maybe?’ Nesbit bent to the body again. He lifted one of the legs. ‘Of more importance is the fact he’s still in rigor. I’ll take a rectal temperature reading to establish time of death. Give me a few minutes and I’ll have an answer for you on that.’
‘OK, doc,’ Savage said. She turned away and walked back to the tunnel entrance, leaving Nesbit and Layton arguing over the ambient air temperature. She walked along the track and climbed the little path to the lane. She found Hardin standing in a pale circle of light cast by the mobile incident room van.
‘Layton and Nesbit any good?’ Hardin said. ‘Because if those two can’t find anything, we’re buggered. There’s nothing yet from the wider search and little chance of any witnesses.’
‘The barracks at Bickleigh. They’re not far away.’
‘A bloody squaddie? That’s all we need. They’ll close ranks, deal with it internally.’
‘No, sir. I meant cameras. They have them at the entrance. Perhaps they filmed a vehicle passing late at night. Possible a sentry also saw something suspicious.’
‘Good idea. I’ll get someone on to it.’ Hardin paused and cocked his head. ‘What’s it like in the tunnel, Charlotte? Grim, I’ll bet?’
‘Very.’
‘Well, I’ll go in when Nesbit’s finished.’ Hardin looked over Savage’s shoulder into the lane. ‘Before that lot take the body away.’
Savage turned round. A little way up the road a white coroner’s van eased onto the muddy verge, hazard lights flashing. Jason Hobb would soon be going from one cold grey place to another.
‘Ah, here’s Nesbit,’ Hardin said.
‘Conrad. Charlotte. It’s as Charlotte suspected.’
‘What is?’ Hardin snapped.
‘He was killed somewhere else and brought to the tunnel. The lividity shows he died in a different position from the one he’s in now. Looks as if the killer used a ligature to asphyxiate him. Rigor is still present and this and the body temperature indicate to me the boy has been dead for around twenty-four hours.’
‘I suppose that’s good news,’ Hardin said. ‘Unlikely anything we could have done since we heard he was missing would have made any bloody difference.’
That, Savage thought, was one way of putting it.
Savage pushed through the double doors into the crime suite at a little after ten. The tunnel had been sealed and officers stationed at either end. A thorough search of the surrounding area would take place come daylight. The post-mortem was due first thing in the morning as well, an event she was not looking forward to.
Collier had left for the day, but he’d scribbled bullet points on one of the whiteboards beneath the name for the operation: Lacuna. One, initial lines of enquiry would be discussed at a meeting of the team scheduled for directly after the post-mortem the following morning. Two, Ned Stone had, so far, not been located. According to a neighbour, he’d left his bedsit in the morning, shortly after being questioned. Three, DC Calter had been sent to Torpoint to interview Mrs Hobb.
Savage pondered the last point. Calter would need to conduct the interview with sensitivity, but they had to get to the bottom of why Jason’s mother had failed to report the boy missing on Monday night. Was it because she was trying to protect somebody? On the other hand, perhaps there was some kind of genuine misunderstanding.
She was putting together her thoughts into a brief summary document when Layton came through the double doors carrying a plastic crate. He plonked the crate down on a table with a crash and waved at Savage.
‘Got anything from the mother yet?’ Layton said.
‘No. DC Calter is over there at the moment. I’m thinking the delay in reporting Jason as a misper is down to her hiding something. She’s a single mum and there’s a boyfriend and – get this – the boyfriend’s got form.’
‘Nice theory, but it’s a dead end.’ Layton flipped up the lid on the crate. He delved inside and pulled out a number of plastic bags. Each held an item of clothing. ‘Because unfortunately there’s a problem. A big problem.’
‘Go on.’
‘These are the clothes you found in the tunnel. Likely they belong to the dead boy.’ Layton picked up one of the bags. Inside was a hooded sweatshirt. ‘But they don’t belong to Jason.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve checked the misper details. Jason was wearing an Argyll top, jeans with a belt, and some kind of cag with an inner fleece. Nothing like this. I’ve taken a look at the crime scene pictures. It’s no surprise we made the mistake since the dead lad is around eleven too, certainly no older. But we’ve fucked up big time because wherever Jason Hobb is, he isn’t lying dead in the Shaugh Prior tunnel.’
‘Christ.’ Savage stared at the other plastic bags. A T-shirt, a pair of socks, boxer shorts, some tracksuit bottoms with a rip in one knee. How had she missed this? She wondered about the inquest. Was she still too wrapped up in her o
wn problems, even though she’d told Pete everything was fine? ‘You’re saying this is entirely coincidental? That Jason could be safe and sound somewhere?’
‘Be nice to think so.’ Layton pursed his lips and then pressed them together into a thin smile. ‘But as you well know, happy endings are hard to come by in this business.’
‘Shit.’ Savage was already reaching for her phone. She needed to call DC Calter. Right now.
Calter was buzzing when she left the crime scene and, despite the lateness of the hour, was not displeased to be dispatched to interview Angie Hobb. The woman, Collier reckoned, needed to give them the full lowdown on her relationship with Ned Stone.
‘Preferably before you break the bad news,’ Collier had added. ‘That way she’ll be more responsive.’
Over at Torpoint the front door cracked open to reveal the angelic face of Luke Farrell, a family liaison officer. Farrell reached up and ran his fingers through his blond mop, looking something like a cross between a scarecrow and a teddy bear. He showed Calter into the hallway.
‘News?’ Farrell said. Calter nodded. ‘Bad, I take it?’
‘The worst. A body in a tunnel on the Drake’s Trail.’ Calter paused at the entrance to the living room. Kept her voice to a whisper. ‘But I just want a couple of minutes before I tell her, OK?’
‘Sure, but go easy.’
‘You know me,’ Calter said, smiling. ‘When do I ever not go easy?’
Angie Hobb filled an armchair in the living room, legs pulled in underneath her, a cup of cold tea on a table to one side. Bare arms showed a healthy tan, but her face was devoid of colour. She barely glanced up as Calter and Farrell entered and sat on the sofa. Calter pulled out a pad and pencil.
‘DC Jane Calter, Angie,’ Farrell said. ‘She’s got a few extra questions for you. Nothing to worry about.’
