by Mark Sennen
Crazy Harry!
Crazy. Sure he was crazy, but he also knew what he was seeing. The trouble was that the girls on the street weren’t right. Harry could tell that just by looking at them. Bits of flesh poked out everywhere and they wore makeup. Which meant they wanted it and that wasn’t good. But there was one place he had worked where the girls were the real thing and not like the girls on the street at all. They knew how to care, how to cuddle, and from the clothes they wore Harry didn’t think they were likely to be dirty either. And the miracle was he began to spot familiar faces there too. As if they had travelled in time. He’d go home and get his shoebox out and look at the old pictures and sometimes he would be sure. Then he would begin his observations and tests and if the girls were really lucky he might take it one step farther.
Like you did with me?
Yes. He discovered Trinny some months back. She had been the first he collected and he had got it all a bit wrong. There had been a misunderstanding.
And I was half naked. Was that a misunderstanding?
He wanted a few more pictures, wanted her dressed like he remembered.
Something else as well.
When her clothes slipped off he had seen the curves. He needed to touch them, feel them, stroke them.
Fuck me, more like.
No. That was the last thing he had wanted to do.
But you did.
Yes. Afterwards. When the girl had been quiet. When she had gone through the cleaning process and he knew she hadn’t been right.
And all that was Mitchell’s fault?
Mitchell had dragged him into his little circle of depravity and from then on in he had been slipping downhill. Actually it was like he was plummeting now. Freefall. Groundrush.
Drag, Harry? I don’t think the police would see it that way.
Of course they wouldn’t. Because they wouldn’t make allowances for his sensitivities. And the police didn’t know Mitchell and his way of twisting everything to his own advantage. That was how Harry had got involved with him in the first place. Mitchell had spotted Harry on the Hoe with his camera and guessed at what he was doing. He followed Harry into the shopping centre and watched him take upskirt shots on the escalators. Mitchell had confronted him and sprung his trap.
At least his time with Mitchell made him realise about the other type of girls. The sluts. The ones struggling on Mitchell’s bed may not have been begging for it, but they knew the risks. They went out for the night with their flesh on display, just waiting to be touched.
Touched, Harry? They were raped.
Like he had been.
You expect sympathy? After what you have done?
Harry knew that it wasn’t his fault, that somehow, somewhere, everything had got all mixed up. Wrong. Broken.
So what are you going to do to fix things, Harry?
That was a good question. Harry pondered it for a few minutes. He had tried to fix things with Trinny. Only that hadn’t worked out and he’d had to get rid of her. There was also the little matter of Lucy.
Juicy Lucy! That slut! She makes me look like a nun.
Lucy had come back from the past the same way as Carmel and Trinny had so he had collected her too. He couldn’t risk losing her in the way he had lost Carmel. Now she was tucked away downstairs. Safe. The sad thing was that she was just about the same as Trinny. Dirty.
I told you, Harry. And the new girl will be no different.
Emma. Sleeping upstairs.
Thinking about her made him smile. The time with her on Monday had been such fun. They chatted and joked like old friends. He suggested a drink and they talked some more. She laughed and giggled and giggled and laughed and began to get a bit confused. After that she started to look a little tired and he had offered to take her home.
She accepted.
Chapter 7
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Wednesday 27th October. 9.03 am
The vista from the operation Zebo incident room took in a line of white police vans and a few squad cars sitting on the car park. A crap view was no bad thing, Savage thought. At least all eyes would be on the job and not on the people walking past two floors below. Eight terminals, twice as many screens and a decent amount of spare desk space crammed into a few square metres. Cosy. DS Gareth Collier had been Hardin’s choice for office manager and Savage approved of the way the setup had progressed so far. Collier, always a stickler for procedure, liked things neat, well organised and locked down tight. He looked like he behaved, and with his greying hair trimmed in a parade ground cut he resembled a regimental sergeant major as he prowled around searching for unfiled scraps of paper or terminals which had been left unattended but not logged out of. Luckily he also had a great sense of humour. The opposing facets were a perfect match and ensured smooth progress and a happy team. One without the other made work either dull or frustrating, and if both were missing an investigation didn’t stand a chance.
Gordon Isaacs was banged up in the custody suite at the station in the centre of town and according to DS Darius Riley he was looking pretty miserable after an uncomfortable night brooding. Riley sat at a desk fussing over a crease in his expensive jacket and then fingering his collar where his black skin contrasted with brilliant white cotton. Savage knew the shirt would most likely be from an outfitter on Jermyn Street in London – Hawes and Curtis or Thomas Pink – rather than from the local M&S, which was the brand the other male detectives favoured. When Riley had arrived in Plymouth a year or so ago those officers old enough to remember the US TV show Miami Vice had taken to calling him Tubbs after the show’s stylish detective. Riley had borne the practise with good humour until someone from Human Resources had got wind of it and panicked, detecting a lawsuit and headlines. Nicknames were now banned, the penalty a day on an attitude reorientation course.
Riley undid the button on his collar and made some comment about the central heating being way too high before explaining what they had on Isaacs.
‘He has confessed to removing the girl’s underwear and wan–, um, masturbating over the body, but swears blind he knows nothing else about her. For the moment we can do him under sexual offences section seventy. Turns out he’s got previous though, sex with a minor, however it was over thirty years ago.’
‘The case was still on file?’ Savage asked.
‘No, he admitted it. He’s pretty ashamed of himself now and I think he is so terrified of what the wife is going to do to him he just wanted to come clean.’
‘So to speak,’ Calter said.
Savage had selected Riley and Calter for the initial interview. She had figured the combination of Riley, tall, black and disarming, and Calter, who in her own words described herself as a ‘hard-nosed bitch’, would unsettle Isaacs. In fact, the interview plan had gone a little astray because Mr Isaacs claimed he had a history of mental illness and was on medication. A check with his GP had confirmed the fact and they had to get someone along from Social Services to sit in as an appropriate adult. Still, Savage was pleased with the results even though they’d had to adopt a softer approach than she would have liked.
‘What’s your hunch, Jane?’ Savage asked Calter.
‘I am not sure, ma’am. Why would he call us and tell us about the girl? Why would he leave her on his land in the first place? On the other hand, he’s got previous and by assaulting the corpse he has put himself in the frame forensically.’
‘You don’t sound convinced though?’
‘Anything is possible, but all in all I don’t think he is seriously up for it. Not at this early stage anyway.’
‘Really? If the sexual offence from thirty years ago had been committed today he’d be on the sex offenders list. That, and his mental condition, should make us look twice.’
‘He’s not right in the head, ma’am,’ Riley said. ‘One raisin short of a fruitcake, I’d say. When we asked him about the previous conviction he went off on some rant about how the whole world was becoming soft and filled with poofte
rs and that we needed to get back to a time where men could be men and not ponce about like girls.’
‘We’ve got the underwear to consider too, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘I mean if the knickers and bra didn’t belong to the girl then where did they come from?’
When John Layton had arrived at the farm to collect the underwear he had shown Savage the clothing. Through the polythene of the evidence bag he folded the material, hunting for the label.
‘Sainsbury’s girls’ range, ma’am. Suitable for a twelve to thirteen year old. They wouldn’t be the right size for the victim.’
Now Savage thought about the underwear again. The knickers would fit her own daughter and although the young woman in the copse could have squeezed into them they didn’t belong to her.
‘But Isaacs has sworn he removed them from the girl,’ Riley said. ‘I can’t see any reason for him to lie.’
‘Unless he bought them to put on the girl,’ Savage said. ‘In that case he would want to remove the evidence after he’d had his fun.’
‘Some sort of fetish?’ Calter said, wrinkling her nose in mock disgust.
‘Whatever. The search team are going over the farm at the moment in the hope of finding the rest of the girl’s clothing. Come up trumps and we’ve got him. You two can have another go at him later this morning. Some extra pressure this time, please, I want him unsettled a little bit more. If that’s possible.’
She could imagine poor old Isaacs squirming at the sight of his interviewers returning for a second round. A man like that, whatever he had done, had pride, and he wouldn’t be comfortable with Riley and Calter squashing him underfoot.
‘Ma’am?’ Riley pointed to the terminal in front of him on which he’d pulled up a map of the area in a browser window. ‘The underwear was from Sainsbury’s, right?’
‘Yes. So?’
‘The closest supermarket to Isaacs’s place would be the Tesco Megastore at Lee Mill, near Ivybridge. Sainsbury’s is much farther away.’
‘You are right. And the more I think about it the more I can’t imagine Mr Isaacs trooping up and down the aisles searching for girls’ knickers. I bet he doesn’t even do any of the shopping, that would be Mrs Isaacs’s job and she’d use the local shops. He’d be lost in a supermarket.’
‘Well, if he didn’t buy the underwear then he is out of the frame, isn’t he?’ Riley clicked the browser window shut as if that was the end of the matter and that further questioning of Isaacs would be pointless.
The immediate priority, apart from dealing with Isaacs, was to identify the girl. Often murder victims knew their killers, so establishing the victim’s network could be the key to finding the murderer. Isaacs had said he had never seen her before he came across her in the wood, but if he was lying he would be in deeper shit than the muck in his farmyard.
A steady trickle of calls were coming into the incident room hotline about the girl and two officers logged the details into the system. DC Susan Bridge, an older officer recently transferred out of uniform, was raising actions on those calls, arranging for follow-up interviews or passing information to Savage if she wasn’t sure further investigation was needed. She was spot on when she had asked if they weren’t up against two problems at once.
‘I mean, ma’am, that we have a sort of reverse missing person case as well as the murder,’ she said. ‘We need to find out who the girl is, but that is being coloured by the fact she is dead.’
She was right. Already there had been a fair number of reports from people who claimed to know the girl, where she had been and what she had done. All of them, so far as the team knew, were plain incorrect. Well-meaning but misguided members of the public often did that sort of thing. They wanted a resolution to the story and the gaps were like missing an episode of Eastenders. In this case you couldn’t catch up on iPlayer or ask your friends what had happened so your mind filled in the blanks for you.
‘Ma’am?’ Enders broke into her train of thought. ‘I’ve got the results on screen.’
Savage had asked Enders to come up with a list of mispers reported in the last week and now she went over to where he was sitting in front of a terminal navigating through the missing person register on the COMPACT MISPER system. Riley and Calter came over too and the three of them peered over Enders’s shoulders at the screen.
‘Four on my shortlist, ma’am.’ Enders said as if announcing the winner of the Christmas raffle.
‘Number one, Alice Nash. She’s sixteen, from Ashburton, a town not far from Malstead, just along the A38 from Buckfastleigh. There seems to be some real concern about her. She left her work place in Ivybridge and never boarded the bus to Ashburton. When her dad realised that she hadn’t got her usual bus or the following two he called us. Some report of her possibly accepting a lift from–’
‘Idiot!’ Calter said, flicking the top of Enders’s head with her hand. ‘Read the date, Sherlock. She went missing Monday evening. Isaacs had found the body by then. Worrying for the parents, sure, but no way she can be our victim.’
Enders looked sheepish before carrying on.
‘Lindsey Nation, nineteen, I can see it’s not her. She’s blonde, not dark-haired like the girl in the wood.’
Enders clicked through his list.
‘Um, Jenny Smith?’
‘No.’
‘Simone Ashton?’
‘No.’
‘That’s your lot from round here.’
‘We need to widen the area or the timeframe or both.’ Calter chipped in.
‘Evidently.’
Enders went back to the search page where he changed some of the parameters.
‘Still sticking to Devon and Cornwall, but extending the date range to six months.’
‘That’s long enough. The girl died in the last week or so.’
‘Right.’ Enders hit the return key and data filled the screen. ‘Bloody hell. Eighty-four names.’
‘I’ll get some coffees, ma’am,’ Calter said as Enders began to scroll through the results.
Savage nodded and examined the list. They had searched for females between the age of fifteen and twenty-five missing in Devon and Cornwall in the past six months and the results were staggering. The figures would be distorted by the fact that the area was a tourist destination; many on the list would have gone missing while on holiday and turned up later back on their own patch. The problem was nobody bothered to inform the police. Even so the number seemed high. Savage knew a couple of hundred thousand people went missing in the UK each year but she’d always mistrusted the figure. Most would turn up, but the official guidance set down in procedure was clear: if the investigator had any doubt then they were to think murder. Her thoughts were interrupted by Enders jabbing at the screen.
‘Don’t bother with the coffees, I’ve found her.’
It was too late as Calter had already gone, but Enders was right. Savage looked at the record and the dead girl’s face stared out at her. Kelly Donal, eighteen years old, enrolled on an Early Childhood Studies course at the university with a work placement at Little Angels nursery. Her address was listed as Beacon Park, Plymouth. She had been reported missing thirteen weeks ago.
Enders gave a quick précis of the notes.
‘We have a report of an incident at the flat in the city that Kelly shared with a friend – this was the day before Kelly went missing – but by the time officers arrived it was over. According to the friend it was something to do with Kelly’s glamour modelling. A guy had turned up demanding to see Kelly and she wouldn’t let him in. There was a row in the street and a neighbour called the police. When they arrived a man known to them as David Forester was hanging about outside. He was allowed to leave when Kelly insisted she was not making a formal complaint. Forester had already received a conviction for ABH in late spring of this year. Managed to avoid a custodial, got a CSO instead. Before that he had a caution for possession. Let’s see, yes, registered address is in North Prospect. A right swillite by the sound of it.�
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‘If he’s implicated there is going to be some serious press heat,’ Riley said.
‘Yes, but for once it won’t be on us. Should have been banged up.’
‘Go on,’ Savage said. ‘There’s more.’
Enders continued reading from the notes.
‘Seems like Kelly told the flatmate she was going to a friend’s house for the weekend, something she often did. The next day was a Friday and the flatmate came back to find Kelly gone.’
‘And she didn’t worry because she thought she had gone away?’
‘Precisely.’ Enders pointed at the screen again. ‘It wasn’t until Monday evening that she called Kelly’s parents to ask them if Kelly had been there. They said that they hadn’t seen her and in turn called us.’
‘Appears we did bugger all,’ Riley said.
‘They were told to call again at the end of the week and did so. Seems like someone then decided the girl had gone off to London modelling. She mentioned something about an agent to the flatmate and in the weeks before she had fallen out with her parents. Further investigation led to the incident being classified as low risk with a flag to review the case and reassess it at a later date. As of today it doesn’t seem as if that has happened.’
Savage could understand why. The amount of resources needing to be deployed was not inconsiderable. They would need to get search teams into Donal’s property, obtain the necessary permission to access landline and mobile telephone records and bank accounts, check with the ferry companies to see if she had hopped on the cross channel link from Plymouth, maybe even widening that to include all UK points of exit... Now those resources would be forthcoming, but Savage wondered if the officers on Kelly’s case had been hesitant in taking the investigation to the next stage because of cost worries or if the error was down to negligence.
