by Mark Sennen
‘No, Jane, I’m not. Now just lift the lid.’
Calter slipped the glove onto her right hand and reached across the stove. Her hand curled as she grasped the handle on the lid. As she lifted the lid a whoosh of steam rose upward like a mushroom cloud and she stepped back to avoid being burned.
Savage moved closer. Inside the pot the water was on a rolling boil, bubbles tumbling over and over. And in amongst the turbulence, Savage could see a mass of blond hair swirling back and forth.
‘Sickening,’ Hardin said. ‘The worst possible news imaginable.’
Savage stood with Hardin and DC Calter on the track leading to the house. The garden, orchard and house were out of bounds. John Layton’s territory. No argument. He’d already investigated a lean-to at the side of the house and found a whole host of woodworking tools and now he was up in the bedroom with Nesbit and a photographer. He’d commented that the joists wouldn’t take any more weight.
‘Wouldn’t want the whole lot to come crashing down into the living room, would we?’ he’d said.
Hardin was off on one of his rants about managing media expectations. They’d played this wrong, he said. The pressure arising from the discovery of Tim Benedict had meant they’d taken their eyes off the ball. The grisly discovery of Jason’s body would refocus the media’s attention. When it came to light that the police had questioned the killer but done nothing, all hell would break loose.
‘Fucking nightmare.’ Hardin shook his head and then stared at Savage. ‘You were there. At Brenden Parker’s place. How come you never twigged? You, of all people, Charlotte. Hunting killers was in your blood, you said. You had a track record, you said. Well, I never should have listened to you. Get this – Parker admitted to you that he killed Jason Caldwell, but you didn’t think to take it further. Sussing out Parker was the only chance we had of finding Jason. Except now we’ve bloody found him, haven’t we?’
Savage tried not to stare at the ground. This wasn’t her fault, she thought. Hardin was out of order. Brenden Parker hadn’t killed Caldwell, it had been his dad. Sure, the incident must have affected the boy and the guilt he’d carried all these years had probably led to his current mind state, but was there any way she could have known?
‘Sir?’ Savage decided to try to calm the DSupt down. ‘If it hadn’t been for a member of the public coming forward, we’d never have found this place. It’s off the radar, not in any of our evidence.’
‘Well, why the bloody hell wasn’t it in any of our evidence?’ Hardin swept his arm around and jabbed at the house. ‘One look at the house and even the dimmest DC would realise this is the lair of some fucking nutter. If somebody had an ounce of brains, Jason Hobb would still be alive.’
‘Presumably the killer chose his mother’s place because he thought we’d never discover it without his help.’
‘Don’t get clever with me, DI Savage. If we start waiting for criminals to help us out, we may as well pack up and go home now. Pathetic.’
Savage was about to say something else when Layton and Nesbit came out of the house. It was the signal for the mortuary attendants to go in. Savage shivered, thinking of having to separate the two bodies from each other and pack the dried, shrivelled corpse into a body bag. And then there was the pot with the head in. She didn’t even want to think about how they’d deal with that.
‘A stab wound in the stomach,’ Nesbit said as he approached. ‘Went deep enough to sever the aorta. Jason Hobb likely died in a similar manner to Jason Caldwell.’
‘Like father like son,’ Hardin said. ‘Brenden Parker is one fucked-up individual.’
‘Quite, Conrad.’ Nesbit half smiled. ‘Anyway, the trail of blood you saw was superficial. My hypothesis is Jason Hobb died from massive internal bleeding. His head, thank God, was almost certainly removed after death. We’ll know for sure after the post-mortem.’
‘And the woman?’ Savage said. ‘Natural causes?’
‘Much trickier to know. There aren’t any visible signs of death. Maybe the post-mortem will throw up something, maybe not. To judge by the state of the corpse, she’s been dead for a good few months. Assuming the grave in the orchard was dug at the time of death, we may be able to get something from that. What do you think, John?’
‘Yes. Soil samples and bugs,’ Layton said by way of explanation. ‘We’ll check out the rest of the orchard and blitz the house as soon as the bodies have been removed.’
‘Charlotte,’ Hardin said, pulling Savage away to one side and lowering his voice. ‘The minister, what do we know of his connection to this woman?’
‘According to Frank Parker, Deborah Parker had some form of relationship with the minister. Obviously when the boys went missing the heat became too much and he never came back to the home. Anyway, the place shut down not long after.’
‘But here?’ Hardin glanced back at the house. ‘Could there be anything we could use?’
‘I doubt it. The place has been stripped. There might be something at Brenden Parker’s house in Ivybridge.’
‘Talking of Parker, where is he? I thought he’d been Tasered by the nutter who’d captured Sleet and Benedict?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I think we’re close to the endgame though. Perhaps Parker knew he was in danger himself, knew his time was up. That could be why he killed Jason Hobb and placed him in the arms of his mother, almost as if she would protect him from any further harm.’
‘Jesus.’ Hardin shook his head. ‘So, taking stock, Brenden Parker is still somewhere out there. There are two dead boys, a dead woman, a dead clergyman and a man who’s still missing. Not to mention the historical abuse and murder and the involvement of a top government minister. Quite how I explain this to Heldon, I really don’t know.’
With that, Hardin wheeled about and headed towards several officers who were smoking next to the gateway. When he reached them he laid into the group with a torrent of expletives.
‘It’s getting to him,’ Calter said as Savage went over. ‘Think I’ll try and keep my distance for the rest of the day.’
‘It’s getting to us all,’ Savage said. ‘But this is personal not professional.’
‘Personal? You mean he’s connected to this somehow?’
‘Way back, yes.’ Savage turned to face the house. ‘When he was a young PC.’
Calter nodded, as if Savage had explained everything. She hadn’t, though. The burden of a secret, she thought. She of all people should know what that felt like.
She turned to the house where the two mortuary assistants had reappeared at the front door, a body bag slung between them. From the ease with which they were carrying the bag, she guessed it contained the old woman. Dry skin and bone and not much else, apart from Deborah Parker’s own secrets which she’d carried with her to her grave in the orchard.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Thursday 29th October. 4.15 p.m.
Savage was back at Crownhill by late afternoon. Hardin had called a press conference for five p.m. and already the vultures were gathering in the car park at the back of the police station. TV vans, local and national hacks, Dan Phillips amongst them.
‘Charlotte!’ Phillips shouted out as Savage climbed from her car. ‘Bad news, huh?’
‘There’s going to be a statement, Dan,’ Savage said as Phillips came over. ‘Five o’clock.’
‘You’ve found him, haven’t you? And he’s dead. No doubt in my mind, I can read it on your faces.’
‘No comment.’ Savage walked towards the entrance and pushed through the doors into the station.
In the crime suite the sombre mood which Phillips had spotted was evident. No jokes or wisecracks or larking around. Officers either stood in small groups talking in hushed tones or were heads down over their keyboards. Some of them, like Savage, had been to this place before. It was a place of press conferences with grieving families, flashes of light from the cameras illuminating tear-stained faces, words stuttered out by the mot
her or father or brother or sister. A place of soul-searching, where the silence was punctuated only by the ticking of the watchful clock as the errors were written into the policy book for a review team to pore over at a later date. Careers were broken by events like this, people too. It was, Savage had found, a place of utter darkness and despair where, unless one was very careful, emotions could take over from professionalism.
Gareth Collier was in his default position at one of the whiteboards, a marker pen in one hand. Savage went across.
‘I’ve been over the stuff we’ve got on Brenden Parker,’ Collier said. ‘I’m pretty sure we couldn’t have worked this one out without the help of your informer friend.’
‘Thanks, Gareth. If we can …’ she paused. Three desks away, Calter had just answered a telephone. Her manner had gone from professional and friendly to monosyllabic, her face from flushed with the heat of the room to white. In that instant, Savage knew the darkness and despair were about to get a whole lot worse.
Calter hung up. She placed both her elbows on the desk in front of her and clasped her hands together. Closed her eyes for a moment, head bowed.
‘Jane?’ Savage said. ‘What’s the matter?’
Calter opened her eyes and sighed. ‘Two boys have gone missing, ma’am. Modbury Primary.’
‘No.’ Savage felt her legs turn to jelly. ‘Go on.’
‘Some terrible mix-up. Their absence wasn’t noticed first thing this morning because they were supposed to be on a school trip. It was only when the coach returned this afternoon the teachers realised a mistake had been made. They double-checked with the parents but the boys had set off first thing this morning. A witness saw someone pick them up.’
‘Please tell me it wasn’t—’
‘It was, ma’am. We’ve got a description and it’s pretty much a ringer for Brenden Parker.’
Riley peered through the windscreen at the Dartmoor landscape. A narrow lane twisted between mossy banks. A strip of green in the centre of the tarmac. Potholes. Not many people came this way, Riley thought. Walkers, perhaps, maybe a family with a car full of screaming kids looking for a place for a picnic.
The lane ended abruptly, a set of tall wooden gates blocking the way, a chain wrapped several times around the gates, with a ‘Private Keep Out’ sign added for good measure. Neither walkers nor picnickers would get any further.
‘This is the last one on our list, Patrick,’ Riley said. ‘Probably be the same as all the others.’
‘Probably.’ Enders made no effort to move. ‘We’re somewhere between Cadover Bridge and Sheepstor, but it might as well be the high moor. There’s nobody here.’
Riley couldn’t blame Enders for feeling fed up. They’d received the news about the discovery of Jason Hobb a couple of hours ago and now the search felt almost academic. Plus they’d been at it since early morning and this was the tenth farm they’d been to. The previous nine had all checked out. No sign of Brenden Parker, no sign of Perry Sleet. Every farmer they’d spoken to had confirmed that they’d had deliveries of the specific brand of sheep dip in the past, but they’d also assured them no containers had ever gone walkabout. Empty barrels had been returned to the manufacturer for reuse, or rinsed out and stored, the residue disposed of along with the used dip.
Riley climbed out of the car and approached the gates. A heavy padlock secured the chain. They had a few tools in the boot of the car, but nothing which could get through this. He turned and moved to the bank at one side of the gates. He used one of the gateposts to pull himself up. Standing on the bank, he could see over the hedge. The security was an illusion. A field bordered the farmyard, a drystone wall running between the two. He looked back down the road. Fifty metres away a five-bar gate marked an opening. They could walk back down the lane, climb over the gate and go through the field. The wall wouldn’t be much of a problem.
Enders was standing next to the car when Riley returned. He didn’t fancy it.
‘I’d rather not, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ll get muddy.’
‘Not a problem.’ Riley sprung the hatch. Next to his own pair of boots there was a carrier bag. He’d almost forgotten it was there. ‘Davies’ wellies. Left over from the last op we did together on the Agri Squad. Bit of luck, no?’
They donned their boots and walked to the entrance of the field. They opened the gate and went through into an area of poor pasture dotted with clumps of rushes. They crossed the field and arrived at the wall. Enders took a couple of strides towards the wall and then heaved himself up, his boots scrabbling to gain purchase. He swung one leg up, then the other and slipped down the other side, knocking a large coping stone from the top of the wall. Riley jumped out of the way as the stone thudded into the earth at his feet.
Enders huffed and then muttered something from the other side as Riley took a couple of steps back and then ran at the wall and vaulted up and over in one clean movement. He landed with a squelch, ankle-deep in farmyard muck.
‘Well,’ Enders said. ‘We’re truly in the shit now.’
‘Over there.’ Riley pointed across to a set of low metal hurdles arranged in something of a maze. ‘A sheep race.’
Two years ago, when he’d still been in London, Riley would have thought a sheep race was some weird countryside sport played by perverted farmers. Now he knew a race was a series of hurdles used to confine and shepherd sheep for the purposes of shearing or foot trimming. Or, more pertinent to their investigation, in order to corral them into a sheep dip. The hurdles looked rusty and weeds grew up within the pens.
‘Nobody’s dipped here for a while, sir,’ Enders said. He peered down at his feet. ‘And this is cow shit, not sheep.’
‘Four years, remember?’ Riley said as he walked across to the hurdles. ‘This place isn’t in use any more other than as a watering spot for cattle.’
‘So why are we bothering?’
Riley stopped next to the sheep race. On the far side the weeds had run out of control and dock and nettle a metre or so high lay in a forest up against a stone wall.
‘There.’ Riley pointed along the wall to where the weeds gave way to an area of earth and yellowing plants. Three blue barrels stood against the wall, but it was obvious from the virgin soil that many more had recently been removed. ‘That’s why we’re bothering.’
‘They’re the same ones used on the rafts,’ Enders said. He turned and looked to where an old farmhouse stood in another patch of scrub, the windows boarded over. A little way beyond, a U-shaped configuration of buildings nestled against the hillside. ‘You think …?’
‘It’s worth a look.’
A stone byre sat on the left, open-fronted, several pieces of rusting farm machinery inside. Ahead of them was a long low building, the slate roof in need of repair, a gaping hole at one end. To the right there was a large stone barn with a corrugated cement roof. The structure was in a much better state. The stonework had been freshly pointed, the roof was clean of moss with several new sheets and a nice new health and safety sign advising the use of crawlboards. Stone steps led up to a substantial wooden door.
They plodded across to the buildings and climbed the steps. The door had a large hasp and padlock, but the hasp hadn’t been closed and the padlock hung unlocked.
‘Looks like somebody left in a hurry,’ Riley said. He pulled the handle on the door.
Inside, it was dark. Riley reached in and flicked a light switch to the right of the door. A series of fluorescent tubes sprang into life and illuminated a corridor.
‘Half finished.’ Enders nodded at the white walls and concrete floor. ‘A full-scale barn conversion. Must be worth a bit, I reckon. Maybe as a holiday home.’
Riley stared down the corridor. Enders had it wrong. This wasn’t any prelude to turning the building into a dwelling. The fittings were all too industrial. Bulkhead lights, electric cables in armoured trunking, a concrete floor and, above their heads, a ventilation tube.
‘I don’t think it’s a house.’
‘Post whatsit. Grand Designs. Kevin bloody McCloud. I shouldn’t be surprised if at the end of this passage there’s a kitchen with half an acre of stainless steel worktop.’
Riley shook his head. This wasn’t a house, more like a factory.
They walked a few metres down the corridor to where there was another door. Riley opened it. There was a small square hallway beyond. Two doors close together on one wall, and a door in each of the other walls.
‘Here.’ Riley went across to the pair of doors. The left door stood open and inside he could see a small room just a couple of square metres in size. Straw covered the floor and when Riley examined the door he saw two large bolts on the outside. ‘Some sort of cell. I reckon Benedict or Sleet was in here. We’ve found him, Patrick, found the guy with the raft.’
For the second time that day, Savage sat in a car haring west along the A38, this time with Calter at the wheel. Confusion still reigned, but what facts they had spoke for themselves. The boys had definitely been taken.
They’d left home at eight twenty for the short walk to the school. The teacher organising the trip had heard the boys were both ill, while staff remaining at the school thought the boys had gone on the trip. A witness had seen the pair get into a vehicle with Brenden Parker. Recognising Parker as one of her teenage children’s teachers, albeit from a different school, she hadn’t thought anything of it.
Savage shook her head, her own feelings as a mother overwhelming her need to concentrate. This was every parent’s nightmare. An ordinary day turned into a day to remember for the rest of your life. She’d had just such a day herself of course, and the memories had never left her. Even now, with the mystery surrounding Clarissa’s death cleared up and the man ultimately to blame gone, she struggled to accept the fact that she was not responsible. Deep down there was a part of her that thought she was a bad mother, that she and Pete had failed as parents. By any definition, losing a child proved that.
