by Mark Sennen
‘I think you should,’ Bradley said, leaning back in her seat and shifting her shoulders to emphasise her cleavage. ‘If my client says he doesn’t know … well, he doesn’t know. Remember, Mr Stone is possibly a victim himself and I keep hearing from the police that victims are to be believed in all circumstances.’
‘Bollocks.’ Riley leant forward. ‘We’ll soon have evidence from your bedsit and car, Ned. Our CSI guys are so good that if Sleet or Benedict have even breathed in your general direction they’ll find something. It will be too late for explanations then, so you best tell us now what happened.’
‘Look, you thickos.’ Stone leant over the table too, his face just inches from Riley’s. ‘I never met Sleet, OK? I tried to find out his details but failed. Then I thought better of it. Like you said, me from the scrote end of Plymouth, and him all married with kids and a new house and all. Not compatible, were we?’
‘Where were you on Sunday night, Monday morning, Ned? You’ve been AWOL for days. What have you been up to?’
‘I was with Angie. Went round there Saturday night and stayed until yesterday.’ Stone smiled. ‘She needed comforting, didn’t she? I’m sure she’ll back me up.’
‘Angie?’ Riley half turned to Enders. The DC hunched his shoulders. This wasn’t what they needed to hear. If Stone really was over at Mrs Hobb’s house in Torpoint in the early hours of Monday, then he couldn’t have been dumping Tim Benedict in a bin on the Erme estuary. ‘Can anyone else confirm you were there?’
‘Yeah, as a matter of fact I reckon they can.’ Stone was grinning now, realising he was off the hook. ‘I ran out of fags Sunday night, so first thing Monday I snuck round to the local shop. The guy there’ll remember me because we had a natter about the Pilgrims. We won away at Luton on Saturday, didn’t we? Top of the league, by a mile. Reckon we’ll—’
‘There.’ Bradley tapped Stone on the shoulder and motioned for him to be quiet. ‘I’m sure you can verify Mr Stone’s account, but I don’t think my client could have put it plainer or been more helpful. Any more questions?’
Riley cursed to himself. Things weren’t going to plan. The elation he’d felt when Collier had identified Stone from the EvoFIT had long gone. Riley was about to wrap the interview so they could take a break and reassess when he remembered Savage’s request.
‘One more question,’ Riley said. ‘When did you last see Brenden Parker?’
‘Bren?’ Now it was Stone’s turn to be wrong-footed and he appeared to be lost for words for a few seconds. Then he smiled. ‘Oh, yeah, I bumped into him a while back. Went for lunch. Brenden, Angie, and me.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Old times. Jobs. Plymouth. You know. After lunch we went to the park for a kickaround.’
‘A kickaround?’ Riley raised an eyebrow, trying to imagine Stone larking about, having fun. ‘What, you and Brenden?’
‘Yeah. Me, Brenden and the kid. We had a right laugh, especially since we’d had a couple of jars. Three and in. Penalties. One v two. Angie even had a go. Brenden loved it. You could see he wished he had kids of his own. Funny thing was, it reminded me of when I was back at the home, playing footie on the fields out the back. Good times in amongst all that crap.’
‘By “the kid”, do you mean Jason Hobb?’
‘Hey?’ Stone cocked his head. ‘Yes, of course. Why do you ask?’
Chapter Thirty
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Wednesday 28th October. 9.01 p.m.
Savage returned to Crownhill, leaving Brenden Parker’s house swarming with police. Layton and his team of CSIs were going through every room while a team of locals checked a patch of scrub at the back for any evidence of Jason Hobb. Up in the crime suite, she found Gareth Collier finishing off some admin.
‘Any sign of the boy?’ Collier said.
‘No,’ Savage said. ‘He’s not at Parker’s place.’
‘Well I’ve put the Dartmoor search and rescue teams on standby and made sure the force helicopter is available. I’ve informed the RNLI too. Wherever Jason is, I’m confident we can be there within the hour. Oh, and I’ve let Derriford know they might be dealing with a medical emergency as well. I wanted to make sure all the bases are covered.’
‘Good work, Gareth.’ Savage stared at one of the whiteboards where little red stickers adorned a map of South Devon and wished she was as positive about finding Jason Hobb alive as Collier.
At half nine, DS Riley called through from the custody suite.
‘Two points, ma’am,’ Riley said. ‘One to do with Stone, the other Frank Parker. First, Stone’s come over. He seemed genuinely shocked when I said Brenden Parker had probably kidnapped Jason Hobb. Turns out that Stone, Angie Hobb and the boy met up with Brenden a few weeks ago. That’s how Brenden knew about Jason. Anyway, Stone’s pretty much changed his tune now. Says he’ll do all he can to help.’
‘And you don’t think Stone’s got anything to do with killing Tim Benedict?’
‘No, ma’am, I don’t. He’s got a cast-iron alibi.’
‘So if not Stone, then who?’
‘Brenden Parker. Stone said he spoke to Sarah Hannaford about Perry Sleet and then passed the info on to Parker. I believe that was the extent of his involvement.’
‘That doesn’t ring true. We’ve just discovered Taser evidence in Brenden Parker’s bedroom. Parker’s not the killer. At least not Brenden Parker. I’m leaning towards Frank Parker being responsible for everything.’
‘Perhaps, but that leads me to my second point. Parker Senior has been ensconced with a duty solicitor for the past two hours and together they’ve come up with a written statement. Not being on the case, I don’t get much of it, but the good news is he’s admitted to killing the Caldwell boy. The bad news is he’s going “no comment” until he’s charged with an offence.’
‘Shit.’ With a confession they had enough to charge Parker, Savage thought, but it didn’t help with the search for Jason Hobb. ‘Thanks, Darius. Send the statement through, would you?’
Savage hung up and went across to a nearby terminal. She logged into her email account and five minutes later an email pinged into her inbox. She read the statement. The fact Parker had coughed to the Hobb murder was good. What was not so good was he was now blaming the minister for putting him up to it. Parker’s first wife, Deborah, had apparently been having an affair with the minister and he’d used his relationship with Deborah to get close to the boys. Parker had tried to stop the abuse but he was in too deep. The sordid triangle had left Parker on the verge of a breakdown, but in the end, the death of Jason Caldwell had pulled Parker to his senses. He escaped from his wife’s clutches and left the home with Edith Bickell, the housekeeper. Six months later, Parker filed for divorce from Deborah, citing irreconcilable differences.
‘Problems?’ Collier had taken his jacket from a nearby chair. He pulled it on. ‘Or can I go home?’
‘Nothing I can’t deal with.’ Savage smiled at the office manager. ‘You can go. Goodnight.’
With Collier gone, Savage focused in on the details about the minister again. What part had he played? Whatever it was, she needed to speak to Hardin right now. She pulled out her phone, aware there was a text she’d missed.
Urgent. Call me now. CH.
She cursed. CH? Conrad Hardin. Savage pressed call and Hardin answered after a single ring.
‘Charlotte, thank God! Everything’s turning to ratshit. When I got home there was a letter waiting. The wife picked it off the front doormat mid-afternoon. Hand-delivered for Christ’s sake!’
‘Sir?’
‘Are you listening, Charlotte? The bastard knows where I live.’
‘The letter, sir, what does it say?’
‘The nutter wants me to go to Soar Mill Cove. Tonight.’
‘Shit, you’re joking?’
‘No.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘I’ll sort out some backup, but I want you to meet me there in forty-five minutes. Can you come?’
> Savage was already on her feet. She crossed the room and pushed through the doors into the corridor. ‘Yes, sir, I can.’
‘I’ll see you in the coast path car park then. Soonest.’
Five minutes later and she was in her car heading away from the station and towards the dual carriageway. The streets were quiet, just the occasional set of headlights reflecting on roads slick with drizzle. At Soar Mill Cove, she thought, there’d be nobody at all. Nothing but the sea and the cliffs and the wind and the rain.
She arrived at the coast some thirty-five minutes later, the shape of Woodland Heights looming black against the night sky. She ignored the track to the home and instead followed the road round to the National Trust car park where a solitary vehicle stood near the entrance. Inside the car the interior light illuminated the bulky figure of DSupt Hardin. As she pulled up alongside, he opened his door and got out.
‘Sir?’ Savage said as she got out of her own car. ‘Where the hell’s the backup?’
‘Not coming, Charlotte.’ In the darkness, Savage couldn’t make out the expression on Hardin’s face, but she heard him exhale a sigh. ‘This is personal. I wasn’t stupid enough to come here on my own, but I needed someone I can rely on, not a load of grunts. We’re different, Charlotte, you and I. I usually do things by the book. Bullet points. A click of the mouse. One, two, three. You’re a maverick, you act on impulse, make it up as you go along. I guess the clue’s in your name. Savage. The name comes from the French, doesn’t it? Doesn’t mean aggressive or nasty at all. It means wild. That’s your nature.’
‘Sir?’ Savage was lost. She’d never heard Hardin talk like this before. ‘What did the message say?’
‘Here.’ Hardin reached into his jacket and pulled out a scrap of paper. He passed the paper across to Savage.
Savage leant into the car so she could use the interior light to see. The handwriting had the same distinctive curls as the first letter, but there was just one line.
‘This doesn’t make sense,’ Savage said. ‘With the evidence we found at Brenden Parker’s place, it looks like he’s the killer of Liam Clough and the person who’s got Jason Hobb.’
‘So?’
‘But somebody’s Tasered Parker. They’ve abducted him. The same person who took Perry Sleet and killed Tim Benedict has now got Brenden Parker.’
‘But why …?’
‘Something to do with the home. Something those men have done. Sir, I really don’t think we should be going down to the cove without backup. This could be dangerous.’
‘Nonsense. I’m going to do my duty. Just like the letter said.’ Hardin went round to the rear of his car and sprung the hatch. He pulled out a set of walking boots and a couple of torches. He handed one to Savage. ‘Take this and if you’ve got any gear then get it on.’
‘But, sir—’
‘Shut it, DI Savage. That’s an order. If you don’t want to come, then fine. Otherwise let’s get moving.’
Savage shook her head, but took the torch. She went to her car, retrieved her waterproof and in the boot found a pair of wellingtons. Not ideal for walking the coast path, but they’d have to do.
They kitted up and set off. The path was level for the first half a mile and then dropped sharply away down to the cove. They trudged along, little pools of light from the torches the only thing to focus on.
‘So Brenden Parker’s out of the picture now, is he?’ Hardin said as they walked. ‘He kidnapped Liam and Jason and killed Liam Clough. However, the tables have been turned. But if somebody has captured Parker and he’s the killer, then how did he hand-deliver a note to me this evening?’
‘That’s why I said it’s a trap, sir.’
‘So who did it? Parker Senior is in custody, as is Ned Stone.’
Savage left the question unanswered and they walked on in silence, taking care on the steep path which zigzagged down the hillside. The going wasn’t easy in daylight, and now, with only torches and in the wet, the path was treacherous. Finally, they reached the bottom, where a slippery concrete ramp led down to the beach. Savage could hear the waves in the distance, a line of white surf punctuating the darkness.
The cove felt very different at night. The beach sloped down to the sea, bisected by a stream which tumbled over little stones and made a constant low gurgle to complement the rhythmic noise from the waves. To either side, the cliffs rose like black curtains. Above, rain floated down from dark clouds, becoming silver speckles as the drops were caught in the torch beams.
‘Here we are,’ Savage said as they stepped onto the beach. ‘What now?’
‘We split up.’ Hardin played his torch on the stream. ‘You’ve got wellies so you take the right side. Save me getting wet, won’t it?’
Savage was going to protest, but Hardin had already set off into the darkness, moving across the beach to the eastern side, the beam from his torch sweeping back and forth as he went. She turned and plodded through the stream, the water surging up the side of her boots.
She reached the far bank of the stream and trudged over an area of wet sand and seaweed. Hardin appeared to think they’d find something down here, but what? Some kind of message, a cryptic clue, a bad joke? Suppose there was nothing to find, suppose he’d got it wrong and she’d got it right? Suppose somebody was going to find them?
She turned her torch off to make her presence less obvious and then criss-crossed the beach, going from the stream to the cliffs and back again and working her way down towards the sea. Her night vision improved with every passing minute and before long she found she’d covered most of her side. Now she reached a rocky outcrop which she needed to climb over.
‘Charlotte!’ Hardin’s voice boomed out across the cove. Light reflecting on the cliffs marked his position at the far edge of the beach. ‘Anything yet?’
Jesus, Savage thought. Talk about keeping a low profile. She shouted back that she was still looking and then began to edge over the rocks. The wellingtons, useful for keeping her feet dry as she’d crossed the stream, were now a liability, the last sort of footwear she wanted when clambering over wet rocks. She moved slowly round the outcrop, using the torch intermittently to guide her way. On the other side, she knew there was a fissure in the cliff face, a crack which turned into a cave. Beyond, the cliffs jutted round to another beach which could only be reached at low tide. She wouldn’t go there, not without Hardin.
As she eased herself off the rocks onto a finger of sand, her heart missed a beat. Something lay in the sand. She switched her torch on. A shoe. Black leather with a flat heel, a woman’s style. She peered along the finger to where the sand ran between two outcrops and into a pool of water which led into the cave. She shone the torch on the water. Tiny fish darted away from the beam and on the bottom of the pool a crab moved sideways across the sand. The water was too deep for her wellingtons and she didn’t fancy clambering across the seaweed-covered rocks. She flicked the torch beam beyond the pool and into the cave. The light penetrated the darkness and what had been a gaping hole leading to the underworld was revealed as not much more than a crack in the rocks leading back just a few metres. There was nothing in there other than a few pieces of flotsam and jetsam: a couple of plastic fishing buoys, some pieces of wood, a tangle of netting.
Savage turned to go back the way she’d come, but as she did so she slipped on a patch of seaweed. She put her hand out to brace herself as she dropped to the sand, at the same time letting go of the torch. The torch fell into the pool, the light extinguished immediately.
Blackness. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to regain her night vision. When she opened them, the black had changed to grey. She pushed herself up, aware of her damp clothes covered in sand. She wondered how she was going to get back around the outcrop without a torch. She could call Hardin, she supposed, but she never liked to ask for help unless absolutely necessary. For one, Hardin would assume he was coming to her aid because she was a woman.
Savage glanced around. The shadows were
making her uneasy; her night vision had partially returned, but overhead the clouds had thickened, the rain now heavier. She peered up to see if there might be any chance of a respite. Above the cliffs dark shapes scudded across the sky, the wind sweeping in from the south-west. A gust tore at her hair and she reached up to tuck a strand back under her hood. As she did so, something bumped against her hand. Savage ducked, thinking she had got too close to the cliff face. She turned and looked up to see a naked foot swing past her eyes.
Savage stepped back and tripped over again. Dangling there in mid-air hung the body of a woman, her hands and feet bound together, one foot bare, the other foot wearing a black shoe. There was a noose around the woman’s neck and the rope from the noose disappeared up into the darkness of the night, the body slowly rotating in a grotesque parody of a dance.
Chapter Thirty-One
A lot’s been happening since I rescued Jason from the cellar. The home is going to close down on orders from the Home Office. According to Father, it’s all to do with some government initiative, but Bentley is involved somewhere, I’m sure. The incident with Jason and Liam brought too much attention on the place and shutting the home was the best option. The upheaval has finally brought to light the problems in Father and Mother’s relationship. They’re splitting up and Mother is leaving. Surprisingly she’s taking me with her. She sat me down and told me she had been a bad parent, but that she would make it up to me. Of course, with the home closing, it means we’re moving. And when I say ‘we’, I mean Mother and Smirker and I.
Smirker is my new friend. My only friend. He’s perfect. He always listens and he always wants to play. For the record, I guess I need to explain how Smirker came into being. You see, when I retrieved Jason’s head from the cellar I realised I couldn’t keep him. Not in his present state. Still, I didn’t want to lose him, not again. I stole a large pot from Miss Bickell’s kitchen and that night I took it down to the cove. I gathered driftwood and at the entrance to the cave I built a fire. I filled the pot with seawater and set it to boil. Once the water was bubbling, I delved into my rucksack and brought out Jason’s head. I dropped the head in the pot and boiled it for several hours, at some point falling into a deep sleep. A strange light woke me and I blinked my eyes open to see a dawn sky of deepest crimson. I drained the water from the pot and found the skin had sloughed away from the skull. I pulled out the skin and put it to one side, thinking I might dry the scalp and make some kind of wig from it. Then I lifted the skull from the pot. I found that the brain had softened and it was a simple matter to extract everything using a fork. Next, I took the head down to the shoreline and washed it until there was nothing left but gleaming bone.
