Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  And then a thought came to me: I didn’t need to get him out. Not all of him, anyway.

  The Shepherd blinks and finds himself sitting in the rocking chair. The light has gone from the day, hours gone from his life. He turns to the clock. Five thirty. He shakes his head. He must have been asleep since lunchtime, but once again a series of bad dreams means he doesn’t feel rested. An ache spreads across his shoulders and he flexes his muscles to try to relieve the tension. Then he pushes the floor with his feet, setting up that comforting rhythm which enables him to think.

  He’d dreamt of cellars and concrete and bodies rotting in the ground. He’d dreamt of a cane swishing through the air, punishment administered without rhyme or reason. He’d dreamt of abuse carried out by the powerful with the cooperation of the weak and cowardly. Finally, he’d dreamt of the cove again. The sea tumbling over itself, the wind howling, salt spray in the air, screams in the darkness.

  That night, he thinks, God was absent from the world, for what God would send a storm to punish three innocent children?

  Two innocent children …

  Two innocent children, yes. The boy who plays with the skull wasn’t innocent. Not then and not now. The other two boys, though, had done nothing to deserve such wrath. Yet come the dawn, one was dead and the other swept out to sea.

  The Shepherd shakes his head. His faith these days is absolute and unbreakable. The questions which come from his dreams are there to tempt him to stray from the path he has set out upon, but the certainty of scripture provides all the answers.

  Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths. Be not wise in thine own eyes: fear the Lord, and depart from evil.

  Yes, the Shepherd thinks, fear the Lord and depart from evil. For it is only by doing so the nightmare can be ended. He ceases rocking and listens. There. The voices once again. The sound of two boys singing.

  Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove …

  The Shepherd smiles to himself. He stares into the dark of the room and mouths the lyrics until he reaches the final line.

  And remain there forever at rest.

  Then he closes his eyes and sleeps again.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ivybridge, Devon. Wednesday 28th October. 6.00 p.m.

  When Savage phoned the sexual liaison officer to discuss Brenden Parker, she was shocked to discover that no interview had yet taken place.

  ‘Out, ma’am,’ the officer said. ‘We knocked, spoke to the neighbour, hung round for a good half an hour in case he’d gone to the shops. Nothing. I guess, from what you told us, he could be so traumatised that he’s changed his mind about wanting to talk.’

  Savage hung up, thinking that wasn’t it at all.

  By six o’clock Savage and Calter were outside Parker’s house in Ivybridge. Lights glowed in the windows of neighbouring properties, but Parker’s place was dark. They got out and Calter went up to the front door and tapped on the glass panel.

  ‘Still not here, ma’am,’ she said as she bent to the letterbox and peered through. ‘I reckon he’s gone AWOL.’

  ‘Right.’ Savage paused for a moment and then made a judgement call. ‘We bust it.’

  ‘You sure about this, ma’am?’ Calter said as Savage returned to the car and pulled out a wheel brace. ‘Don’t we need a warrant?’

  ‘I’ve got my feeling.’

  ‘About Brenden?’

  ‘About the Parkers in general.’ Savage glanced at the door. ‘I think once we’re inside we might find an answer. If we need an excuse, we can use Jason Hobb as a justification.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you, ma’am. You’ve got a way of making everything seem perfectly reasonable and above board.’

  Savage gave Calter a half glance and then swung the wheel brace at the section of glass next to the lock. The glass crazed and Savage used the brace to knock the pieces out. She slid her hand in, undid the latch and pushed the door open. She moved into the house. Calter tiptoed in behind.

  ‘Take a look at the post, would you?’ Savage gestured at a shelf in the hall where a mass of envelopes and circulars lay in a pile. ‘See if there’s anything interesting. Brenden?’ she hollered out down the hall. She moved along and into the bare living room. She reached for the light switch and as the light came on, her eyes were drawn to the paper she’d noticed on their earlier visit, an Ivybridge and Salcombe Gazette from late August. She walked across and picked up the newspaper. She flicked through the slim publication, stopping at a page within the property section where a picture had been roughly cut from the page. Beneath the picture some of the text for the advertisement remained.

  … ideal for conversion to a boutique B&B, a small hotel, or a number of flats. Alternatively, the property would make a grand residence for an extended family. With breathtaking sea views and easy access to the yachtsman’s paradise of Salcombe, this property …

  Savage moved her eyes to the top of the page. Marchand Petit was the agent’s name. The same name as on the board at Woodland Heights.

  On its own, the fact Brenden Parker had shown enough interest to cut out the picture of the children’s home was unremarkable. Parker Junior had lived in the home for a number of years. He may have cut out the advertisement simply to show to a friend. On the other hand, the date, August, was around about the time the concrete in the cellar had been disturbed and partly relaid. Was it possible Parker or somebody else had become alarmed at the thought the property might be redeveloped? Redevelopment would almost certainly see the cellar inspected. Bearing in mind the dampness down there, a surveyor or architect may have advised that some sort of remedial work should take place.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Calter leant into the room, wanting to know what Savage had found. Savage showed her the newspaper and explained her theory.

  ‘The property was going to be sold,’ Savage said. ‘Which is why somebody came and retrieved Jason Caldwell’s body. Only they didn’t get it all.’

  ‘The fragment of metatarsal?’

  ‘Yes. Though I daresay the bone would have been missed had the floor been dug up by builders.’

  ‘Probably.’ Calter nodded and then passed Savage a greetings card. ‘I found this amongst the mail. It might explain Brenden Parker’s extended sick leave.’

  There were flowers on the front of the card, ‘Condolences’ written in gold script. Inside was a sickly-sweet poem from the card designer and a one-line written note.

  ‘She’s dead? Frank Parker never said anything when he mentioned her.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t know Deborah Parker’s dead.’ Calter pointed to the signature. ‘And look who it’s from: Ned Stone.’

  ‘Stone? Bloody hell. I wouldn’t have thought he was the type of bloke to have sympathy for anyone.’

  ‘He was there though, wasn’t he, ma’am?’ Calter pointed to the blank hole in the newspaper. ‘At the home?’

  ‘Yes. Before the two boys went missing. He must have been friends with Brenden. Close friends. Get on to Collier and double-check the dates, would you?’

  Calter nodded and pulled out her phone. Savage, meanwhile, made her way to the back of the house and the kitchen. The fridge had been emptied and cleaned, switched off and the door held open with a rolled-up tea towel. The oven was spotless. The cupboards held not much other than a few tins of stew and some bottles of still spring water. She went to the sink and turned the tap. Nothing other than a slight hiss of air. The water had been turned off at the mains. Likewise the gas.

  Parker had pulled a fast one on them, Savage thought. He hadn’t been living permanently in the house for weeks, but for some reason he’d come back earlier in the day. The empty fridge explained why he’d been forced to give them condensed milk. It had been pure good fortune he’d been in when they visited.

  Savage looked around the kitchen again. To the left of the back door a key hung on a hook. She stared through the glass. In
the gloom, she could see a small patio and an area of lawn. At the edge of the lawn stood a shed. Not a common or garden shed, but a substantial metal workshop. She unlocked the back door, walked across to the shed and tried the key from the hook. The key slotted perfectly into the heavy padlock.

  The lock clicked open and she swung the door outward. Inside, there was a smell of sawdust and wood oil. Against one wall stood a workbench with a vice. Nearby, a router table sans router. Above the workbench there was a rack with hooks and slots for tools, a place for everything. Only nothing was in its place, for the rack was empty.

  Brenden Parker was obviously a keen woodworker. So keen that wherever he’d gone to he’d taken his tools with him.

  Savage moved to the bench and ran her hand over the surface, picking up sawdust on her fingertips. She raised her hand to her nose. The sawdust smelt fresh. Parker had been making something recently.

  She brushed the sawdust from her hands and watched as the flecks floated to the floor, several alighting at her feet next to a large tub with a red lid. She stared down at the tub for a moment, trying to understand why it might be important. Then, with a growing sense of unease, she realised. Liam Clough’s body had been covered with some sort of sticky substance which had turned out to be grease. She bent and read the label on the tub, feeling a frisson of excitement as she took in the brand name: Castrol.

  As Savage came in through the kitchen door, she turned back and looked at the shed again. She wondered when Parker had taken up his woodworking hobby. Then she remembered he was a teacher at a local secondary school. What was it Collier had said, DT?

  Design and Technology.

  This wasn’t a hobby at all, this was Parker’s profession. Shit, Savage thought. The drawings of the box in the ground had been created by somebody with draughting skills. Parker obviously had those skills as well as the equipment to construct such a thing.

  There was a creak from the ceiling. Calter was up there exploring the bedrooms. Savage went into the hallway and shouted up the stairs.

  ‘We’ve got this totally wrong, Jane,’ she said. ‘Brenden Parker is the killer of Liam Clough and Jason Hobb’s kidnapper. He was right under our noses and we’ve let him slip through our fingers.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Makes sense, ma’am.’ Calter’s voice floated down from above. Her voice sounded flat and unsurprised. ‘Come up here.’

  Savage took the stairs two at a time. On the landing a door stood open to a bathroom.

  ‘In the bedroom, ma’am.’ Calter’s voice came from a room at the back. ‘We’re too late.’

  Savage moved along the landing to the master bedroom. She stepped inside. A double bed was positioned between a set of built-in wardrobes, high-level cupboards spanning the space above. Her eyes were drawn to the mirror on the ceiling above the bed.

  ‘Wow,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Bit kinky for a suburban semi.’

  Savage glanced around. A double duvet on the bed had been scuffed back and a pile of clothes sat on a chair. She could see nothing amiss.

  ‘I thought you’d found him. Parker.’

  ‘No.’ Calter gestured across to the bed. ‘But somebody else has.’

  Savage moved across to where Calter was standing. The DC pointed down at a small dark stain.

  ‘Blood?’ Savage said. ‘But not much more than from a minor cut. A nosebleed perhaps.’

  ‘Not the blood, ma’am.’ Calter waved her hand in a circle. ‘Those.’

  Scattered across the bed were a number of small pieces of paper. Confetti. Only the confetti looked like none Savage had ever seen. Yellow and pink and each with an identical sequence of numbers on.

  ‘Shit,’ Savage said. ‘Brenden Parker’s been Tasered.’

  Riley received a text message from Kenny Fallon at a little after six thirty p.m.

  Flat A, 25 Emma Place

  Ten seconds later, Riley was talking to somebody in the control room and within ten minutes he had confirmation from officers on the ground over in Stonehouse that Stone was in handcuffs in the back of a squad car on his way to the custody centre.

  ‘Result,’ Riley shouted to Collier, who was fixing a picture of a forty-something man to one of the Lacuna whiteboards. ‘We’ve got Ned Stone.’

  ‘Great.’ Collier tapped the picture and smiled. ‘If you could just round up this guy as well, I’d be very grateful …’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Riley laughed. ‘But after I’ve dealt with Stone, OK?’

  He left the crime suite and went in search of Enders. Once he’d found the DC they went over to the custody suite in the centre of town, where an hour went begging while Stone sorted a lawyer. While they were waiting, a call came through from DI Savage. Brenden Parker was now the main suspect in Lacuna, she said, leaving Riley free to question Stone under the auspices of Operation Caldera. While he was doing so though, he should try to connect Stone with Parker. Stone apparently knew Parker well enough to send him a condolence card.

  When Riley and Enders entered the interview room, Riley caught a whiff of pine disinfectant mixed with a heavy perfume. Neither did anything to disguise the fact somebody had recently urinated in one corner.

  ‘Really, mate,’ Stone said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been grilled over the disappearance of Angie’s boy and now you’re trying to pin a murder charge on me. It’s out of fucking order.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Riley approached the table where Stone was sitting, the source of the perfume, his brief, Amanda Bradley, perched on a chair alongside. Bradley was one of the area’s top lawyers. She had a preference for Chanel suits worn with low-cut tops and push-up bras. Riley had long suspected her attire was designed to win over male clients and distract male officers, but he wondered why she bothered; with her encyclopedic knowledge of the law and shrewd argumentative powers, she was a formidable opponent whatever she was wearing. Riley nodded a greeting to her and then turned back to Stone. ‘Once you’ve answered our questions.’

  ‘I’m not answering—’

  Bradley put out her hand to silence her client. She smiled at Riley, her teeth glinting like diamonds. ‘I’m sure Mr Stone will be happy to answer your questions.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Riley pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Otherwise he’s in deep shit.’

  Enders prepared the interview equipment and conducted the preliminaries. Stone was suspected of being involved in the murder of Benedict and the abduction of Sleet. In addition, there were still questions regarding the disappearance of Jason Hobb.

  ‘So you see, Ned,’ Riley said, ‘You are, to all intents and purposes, fucked.’

  ‘No way!’ Stone said. ‘I didn’t do any of those things.’

  ‘Really?’ Riley picked up his notes. ‘You went to see Sarah Hannaford about Perry Sleet. First, Sleet goes missing and then Tim Benedict turns up critically injured. He dies a day later.’

  ‘You can’t fucking pin all that on me.’ Stone spat the words out, phlegm on his lips. ‘I never went near Sleet or the vicar.’

  ‘Do you deny you visited Mrs Hannaford and asked questions specifically about the whereabouts of Sleet?’

  ‘That old bint?’ Stone grinned. ‘She should keep her mouth shut.’

  ‘So you admit you did visit her?’

  ‘Might have.’

  ‘Why did you want to know where Perry Sleet was?’

  ‘He’s an old friend. We go way back.’

  ‘Right. Would that be back to the Neanderthal age then?’ Riley shook his head. He took a piece of paper and slid it across the table to Stone. ‘Here’s a picture of Sleet to remind you. Where do you know him from?’

  ‘I told you, he’s an old friend.’

  ‘And one morning you suddenly decide to look him up. This after how many years?’

  ‘Be twenty, twenty-five years. More. And yeah, that’s about how it happened.’

  ‘And you and Perry Sleet …’ Riley gestured at Stone. ‘You’ve got a lot in common, have you? Him wi
th a good job, loving wife, nice family and house. You with, what? A pile of clothes on the floor of some stinking bedsit? Come on, Ned, you can do better than this. At least spin me something believable.’

  ‘I just fancied meeting up with him, all right?’

  Riley sighed. This wasn’t going well. ‘You knew him from the home, didn’t you? Woodland Heights? You were a resident there.’

  ‘So what if I was?’ Stone shook his head. ‘I was eleven fucking years old. Perry lived in the village. I guess he must have been my friend.’

  ‘You guess? And that was good enough for you to try and make contact after nearly three decades? “Hello, Perry. I was a little tyke in the children’s home and you were a middle-class kid in the village. We might have been friends. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”’ Now it was Riley’s turn to shake his head. ‘Come on, Ned, we’re in fantasy land. Tell us the truth.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Stone turned to Bradley. ‘It’s no wonder people don’t come forward if this is what happens when they do.’

  ‘No, you’re right.’ Bradley, silent until now, scented an in. She bared her teeth. ‘I think it’s entirely unreasonable to expect my client to discuss events surrounding the children’s home with you when he’s under arrest. These are sensitive and possibly distressing matters we are talking about and he was only eleven years old. Nothing which happened back then can be relevant to this investigation, therefore I ask you to desist from that line of questioning.’

  ‘We’re trying to get to the bottom of why Mr Stone was interested in reacquainting himself with Perry Sleet,’ Riley said. ‘A man he just said was a friend. Let’s start with what happened when you met him, Ned.’

  ‘Met him?’ Stone stared deadpan across the table. ‘I didn’t meet him. Scout’s honour.’

  ‘And you expect me to believe that?’