Touch (DI Charlotte Savage)

by Mark Sennen

  ‘Really? Can’t say I had noticed.’

  She turned and retreated into the kitchen and Savage was about to go after her when she heard a shout from upstairs. She recognised Donal’s voice, the distinctive brusque tone echoing through the house.

  Savage left the woman in the kitchen and went up the stairs. Voices were coming from off to the right of the landing, and as Savage edged upward she could make out Donal’s words and those of another man, the latter almost a whisper.

  ‘I didn’t do it, Mr Donal. You’ve got the wrong man. A rather unfortunate case of mistaken identity, I am afraid.’

  ‘Oh but you did and now you are going to pay.’

  Savage crossed the landing and now she could see through the door where the voices were coming from. A large bedroom, probably the master. Donal stood in the middle holding a loaded crossbow, the weapon incongruous against his jacket and tie. His bulky frame filled the clothing, red neck and face poking through the tight collar, and patches of damp showed at the armpits. He noticed Savage, met her eyes and then peered down the crossbow’s sights again.

  ‘He did it, Inspector Savage. He killed my Kelly.’ The crossbow moved a little as Donal’s hands shook.

  Savage stepped forward to see more of the room. A man was standing over against a set of built-in mirrored wardrobes. He was wearing a blue towelling dressing gown and had wet hair, either from a recent shower or maybe sweat. The man was slumped over, his knees buckled, as if about to fall. He hadn’t done so because he had been impaled through his right shoulder by a crossbow bolt, the mirrored glass behind him cracked in a crazy cobweb pattern. There didn’t seem to be much blood until Savage looked down at the floor. A pool of red liquid was gathering on the snow white carpet at the man’s feet, oozing over and through the deep pile. Vivid colour, somehow both chilling and beautiful at the same time. The man raised his head at Savage.

  ‘Everett Mitchell. Your men were here this morning. I didn’t like their attitude but it was preferable to this. Perhaps you might...’ He made an almost imperceptible movement of his head in the general direction of Donal and let out an awful rasping sound.

  ‘Mr Donal,’ Savage began, ‘we need to question Mr Mitchell about some offences, but at the moment I have no evidence he is Kelly’s killer.’

  ‘Well I do. I got a package.’

  ‘What sort of package? Who from?’

  ‘Didn’t say. Came by courier this morning. Contained a DVD and a letter. Told me about Mitchell here who I now find out you had been questioning earlier. Told me to check out the DVD. I did. The material was shot by Forester. In this room. Everything makes sense now. The rapes, Kelly, the whole story. Just like the newspapers said.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you read,’ Mitchell said. He laughed, but the noise turned into a sort of snort and he coughed, blood trickling from his mouth. Savage moved forward, sliding one foot across the carpet.

  ‘Mr Donal, think of your children and your wife, don’t throw your life away.’

  ‘I am thinking of my children. Not only my children. Yours as well. Everybody’s children. These people can’t be allowed to get away with their crimes. The judge says a dozen years and they are out in six. The rest of us get life with no parole.’

  ‘If Mr Mitchell is guilty you have my word he won’t be getting out in six years, but we need proof. Do you want him to die if he is the wrong man?’

  ‘OK. Tell me about it then.’ Donal turned to Mitchell. ‘FUCKING TELL ME!’

  Donal clasped the crossbow and stared down the sights again. Savage risked another small step forward. She was now getting near to being in the line of fire and perhaps she had a chance to make Donal think twice about shooting. Mitchell groaned and muttered something about not knowing anything about Kelly’s killer.

  ‘Someone connected with a Spanish girl called Rosina Olivárez,’ Savage said, thinking about the photograph Nesbit had found inside Kelly.

  Mitchell sniggered, a nasty bubbling sound came from his nose and a drop of blood rolled out.

  ‘Oh, Mr Weirdo. We had a lot of fun with him. You think I am bad? Well Harry is mad, crazy like nutcase crazy. Blame the parents, that’s what I say. Apparently mummy and daddy weren’t very nice to him when he was a kid. Poor Harry. Now he likes girls. Oh we all do, of course, but Harry likes the caring sort. Reminds him of when he was little, he told me. Never understood it myself, but each to his own.’

  Mitchell was weaker now, his face pale, white like the carpet. Savage reckoned he didn’t have long unless she could end this quickly.

  ‘Harry who?’

  ‘Harry Houdini. Now you see him now you don’t. International man of mystery, our Harry. Except there is nothing mysterious about him. He is just a sad little pervert wanking over his pictures.’

  ‘SHE SAID HARRY FUCKING WHO?’ Donal shouted, enraged now and swinging the crossbow back and forth with a violent motion.

  Savage moved again. Mitchell’s face was ashen, his eyelids flickering. She sensed he realised he was dying, either way.

  ‘You’ll never know,’ Mitchell said. ‘Never know who stripped and fucked your Kelly.’

  ‘BASTARD!’

  Donal fired the crossbow and the bolt passed through Mitchell’s chest and embedded itself in the wardrobe behind with a thud, cracking the mirrored glass a second time. Blood spurted out splattering the mirrors and showering over the floor. Mitchell’s eyes rolled down, as if noticing the mess on the ground for the first time.

  ‘Didn’t like the carpets, Harry. Gave off the wrong sort of light he always said. Guess they can be changed now.’

  Mitchell's eyes closed and he let out a horrible wheezing sound as a final breath of air was expelled from his lungs. Then his body went limp and slumped down. Donal dropped the crossbow to the floor, went over and sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. Savage walked over to where Mitchell hung like an inanimate puppet and placed two fingers on his neck. There was no pulse and, judging by the amount of blood on the floor, no chance of resuscitation. She went over to Donal and put a hand on his shoulders.

  ‘I wish you hadn’t done that, Mr Donal. I really wish you hadn’t done that.’

  ‘I had to, Inspector, I just had to.’

  Savage thought of Kelly. The beautiful girl lying on the cold earth. Then she thought of the students Mitchell had raped. Finally she thought of her own children, Samantha and Jamie and poor little Clarissa.

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  *

  When Savage got outside Hardin was waiting for her.

  ‘I am not sure whether to give you a bloody medal or a suspension.’ Hardin shook his head. ‘Davies told me he ordered you not to enter the building.’

  ‘Sir, I knew he wasn’t going to hurt anybody but Mitchell.’

  ‘And suppose Mr Mitchell is innocent?’

  ‘The pictures he showed Riley and Enders were taken in the spare room, I checked. Take a look at the master bedroom. Mirrored wardrobes, like in the video footage we got from Forester’s computer. The bed is the same too.’

  As if to back up her words the air filled with the noise of an approaching train. Through the trees to the back of the property a long streak of colour flashed by, the sound increasing in intensity for a moment before leaving a diminishing whoosh. Hardin stared into the wood where a blizzard of autumn leaves spiralled in the train’s wake.

  ‘So what if Mitchell was guilty of rape and maybe murder? Last time I read up on sentencing policy we didn’t have the death penalty for homicide, for anything for that matter. He didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘Nine girls we are aware of, probably countless others who have never come forward. I’d say Donal did us a favour.’

  ‘Charlotte, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you.’

  Donal was being led out of the house now and put in a car. He appeared calm, his face having an almost serene appearance. He thought he had achieved closure, but Savage wasn’t so sure. Closure didn’t come so easy. It took ye
ars.

  The car drove away, Donal in the back with Davies, the detective grinning and patting Donal on the shoulder. Meanwhile Hardin was mulling things over. Maybe Mitchell had killed Kelly. It would solve a lot of problems, he explained. His reasoning was that in the ring of depravity comprising Mitchell’s group of rapists, Mitchell had gone one step further.

  ‘Anyone capable of carrying out so many attacks is surely capable of carrying out murder as well. He probably killed the Olivárez girl. Why not Kelly too?’

  ‘I’ll see what we can find to eliminate him, sir.’

  ‘No! I want you to see what you can find to evidence him.’

  ‘He didn’t kill Kelly, sir.’

  ‘Fuck it, Charlotte! He didn’t do it or you want to believe he didn’t do it? What’s got into you?’

  Hardin began a rant about Savage’s obsession with the Zebo case, how she was wallowing in her own self-pity, wanting the agony to be prolonged, enjoying the masochism. He wanted her to face the truth. Fact, Mitchell was linked to Forester. Fact, Mitchell was a serial rapist. Fact, he was sadistic. Fact, he had the opportunity and ability.

  The words washed over Savage although she realised Hardin was right about the self-pity. The loss of her daughter and the loneliness she felt with Pete being away should have had no bearing on her police work, but emotionally the whole lot were bundled up together, threads of feeling intertwined and looping back and forth until they created one huge tangle. That didn’t change the evidence though. If Mitchell was the killer then where was Forester’s Shogun, and where was Alice Nash?

  ‘Harry,’ she said. ‘We are looking for a man named Harry.’

  Chapter 27

  Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Thursday 4th November. 1.40 pm

  Sorting out the chaos created by Donal killing Mitchell had taken up most of the rest of the day and a good part of the next so it was Thursday afternoon before Savage was able to return her attention to Zebo. Because Savage had been present at Mitchell’s murder an inquiry had been initiated and the PIP, or Post Incident Procedure, was in full swing. Whether the matter would be dealt with internally – by Standards – or whether the IPCC would need to get involved, Savage had no idea, nor did she really care. She had done her best in the circumstances and had slept easy, knowing Donal, at least, was alive. Thank God she had persuaded Hardin that immediate suspension would be an overreaction and he had agreed she should carry on working.

  Hardin was now ensconced upstairs somewhere, getting all friendly with the incident manager no doubt and trying to charm away any trouble. Sometimes Hardin was a right pain, but Savage knew he would support her all the way.

  Back on Zebo and Savage was getting the team to focus on finding someone called Harry.

  ‘Nothing in our records, ma’am,’ Enders said. ‘Nothing in the statements, no witnesses with the name. Checked the Henrys as well. Nowt.’

  ‘Everett Mitchell also said something about this Harry liking the caring sort, whatever the caring sort means.’

  ‘Alice Nash,’ Calter said. ‘She is the caring sort, I mean. She works part-time at Cotton Socks Nursery in Ivybridge.’

  ‘What?’ The realisation hit Savage like a psychological battering ram. ‘Kelly Donal was doing an Early Childhood Studies course at the university and she had a work placement at Little Angels nursery. How did we manage to miss the connection?’

  ‘Alice worked as a checkout girl as well as at the nursery. The supermarket job is down as her main employment. I only remembered now because the photograph her Dad provided for the appeal was of her in her nursery uniform.’

  ‘Ma’am?’ Enders said. ‘This gets worse. I’ve just run the misper search again. Remember the results included a number of girls who did not match Kelly’s description?’

  ‘Don’t tell me...’ Savage groaned.

  ‘Yes. Simone Ashton. Full time job at Robins in Plympton.’

  ‘Ma’am?’ Calter, sounding even more tentative than Enders had. ‘Rosina Olivárez.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Just a hunch, ma’am. Bring her up, Patrick.’

  Enders switched programs and brought up the Leash files. Click, click and Rosina’s details flashed up on the screen. Occupation: Student. Occupation Notes: Degree in Aquaculture. Part time job at Tina’s Teds Playgroup in Mannamead.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Savage said. ‘There needs to be a major review of how the data is entered and analysed. The connection was right in front of us, but the system hid the link away. Whatever, this isn’t looking good.’

  ‘Coincidence?’ asked Enders.

  ‘Possibly. If not then I sure don’t know what to think. I mean, are these girls being targeted because they are child minders?’

  ‘Isn’t there a fetish where men dress up as babies, complete with nappies and dummies and stuff?’ Enders said, a look of disgust on his face.

  Riley came into the room carrying a pile of documents. He dumped them on a desk and nodded at Enders.

  ‘Paraphilic infantilism is the correct term: the desire to be treated like a toddler again. But last time I looked your average toddler wasn’t killing teenage girls, or stripping them and having sex with them.’

  ‘Alright Mr Fast-Track, what’s your suggestion then?’ Enders said.

  ‘As you guys are always telling me, I am the ebony boy from the ivory tower. What do I know about the real world?’

  Touché, thought Savage.

  Calter moved over from her desk to join the boys and soon the three of them were talking about fetishes, Enders arguing that if sex wasn’t in bed and the light wasn’t out then it was not for him, Riley insisting that having some kind of fetish didn’t make you mad, Calter saying she would try anything once with the right person. The conversation wasn’t leading anywhere useful so Savage grabbed her cup of coffee, got up and moved away.

  The main whiteboard had one victim photograph taped slap in the middle: Kelly Donal. How many more would they need to add? How many girls who never knew each other linked forever by death. How many more families destroyed?

  DS Collier joined her.

  ‘Problems, ma’am?’ He nodded at the board.

  ‘I think we may have some more,’ Savage indicated the screen which Enders was sitting at, with the thumbnail pictures of the girls smiling out. ‘We need action points on those three. Their workplaces, Rosina Olivárez, Simone Ashton and Alice Nash. I want their pictures up here on the board as victims.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, you’ve lost me.’

  Savage realised she was rambling, but she did her best to explain the nursery angle, how the victims had something to do with caring for young children. Collier said he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to generate a load of new actions around hunches.

  ‘We don’t know these new mispers are victims yet,’ he said. ‘We are stretched enough as it is and this will simply generate more and more threads to follow. We will be wasting precious resources on girls who might turn up tomorrow. We will have officers out on wild goose–’

  ‘Shut it, Collier,’ Savage said, angry with Collier’s focus on silly administrative details. ‘If the girls turn up alive and well then that is a result in my book. If, God forbid, they turn up dead then we will have done some useful groundwork. And anyway, I might remind you the Olivárez girl is very much dead.’

  Collier shrugged. He didn’t dare argue with his superior, but Savage saw he was riled. His office system was in danger of being overloaded now he was going to have to insert material from Leash into operation Zebo. All his careful planning was being blown out of the water. That couldn’t be helped though. Every piece of data would need to be re-evaluated in the light of the new evidence. It was going to be a mammoth task. Savage attempted to placate him by placing an arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Come on, I’ll get some fresh coffees and we will see how we are going to handle the new data. And then I will go and see Hardin and persuade him to get me some extra bodies in here.’

  *
>
  Savage had got the coffees and Collier began to explain about the problems of not letting Zebo get overloaded by the sheer quantity of data that had been gathered during the Leash inquiry.

  ‘Leash has been going on for twelve months flat out,’ he said. ‘Zebo has been going a week. There must be a hundred times more material in the Leash case.’

  Savage didn’t have time to address his concerns because DI Davies and DC Jackson had come in. Their faces wore glum expressions, like little kids who had opened all their Christmas presents at once and didn’t have anything else to look forward to.

  ‘It’s that little prick, Dickie boy Trent,’ Davies scowled. ‘He retracted his confession. He is now saying Mitchell carried out all the rapes and he just drove the car. He fingered Forester too. Told us Forester supplied the GHB and took the videos. Says he was too scared to tell us before.’

  ‘He knows Mitchell and Forester are dead?’

  ‘We had to tell the bitch Bradley, yes.’ Davies looked downcast. ‘Disclosure of evidence and all that fucking crap.’

  ‘Very convenient.’

  ‘Yeah. With those two out of the way, him and the bloody lawyer can concoct whatever story they like.’

  ‘So you are here about Forester?’

  ‘Clever girl!’ Davies beamed, a smile spreading like the Cheshire Cat just got the cream. ‘We need to get into his network and find out what connections he had.’

  ‘Have you threatened Trent?’

  ‘What with? Having charged him with the nine rapes he is going down for life even if he tells us where Elvis is living.’

  Savage could imagine Trent had worked everything out. Once he had admitted the rapes he would have known his situation couldn’t get any worse if he kept his mouth shut. He had been right because the other two suspects were dead and by changing his story he now had a way out.

  ‘We’ve got Forester’s mobile phone logs, they might be some help.’ She nodded at Collier and he went off to get a printout.