Puppet: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  ‘Yes, Naomi, right now.’ As she clicked the handle down, Riley reached out and touched her on the shoulder. ‘Act natural, bop around a bit, smile, grab a drink. Pretend you’re back at uni and remember all those wild parties you went to.’

  ‘I didn’t go to many parties, sir. Too busy studying.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. Eyeball the target and try to see if he’s made contact with anyone. Above all, stay calm and act as if you’re supposed to be there.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Hester clicked the door open and slipped out into the rain.

  Jesus, Riley thought. As wet as the pavement. Where did they find them these days?

  He glanced at his watch and noted the time. Eleven fifteen. If Andrei was meeting a contact, he’d be in and out. But if he was here for the girls, then he could be inside for a lot longer. Hopefully DC Hester would be able to suss out what was happening, but if not, they’d simply have to wait until Andrei left the party and continue the tail then.

  Riley tried to relax. He stared down the street. As the name suggested, Chestnut Boulevard was a wide road passing through an avenue of towering chestnuts. The trees, he guessed, had been planted more than a hundred years ago, long before the post-war detached houses had been built. Somebody had either been remarkably prescient or had simply had a fondness for grand statements. Whatever, the area was usually a peaceful haven for lawyers, doctors, university lecturers, small business owners and social climbers trying to muscle in on the neighbourhood; although to do that, you needed a hefty income because house prices started at half a million. Not London values, or anything close, but expensive for Plymouth.

  Riley had done alright from his move from London. He’d started with a great flat in the centre that had a cracking view out across the city, but had recently moved out to Sherford, a burgeoning development springing up to the east of Plymouth. His new place was a three-storey townhouse with a garage and a postage stamp size garden, one of hundreds of similar properties set on streets with names such as Orion Drive and Pegasus Place. The company behind the new suburb had a tagline: Building Futures. Corny, but totally applicable to his current situation since his girlfriend, Julie, was eight months pregnant. He smiled to himself. Life was full of surprises, and this was the biggest to come along so far.

  He turned to the house. A number of people were leaving. Young teens, mostly. Perhaps they had to be back home before their parents got worried. The older ones would carry on until the small hours. He imagined the state of the place. Spilt drinks and vomit and food trodden into the carpets. At some point, the neighbourhood team might turn up and put a stop to the party. If, of course, they had the time. There’d have been a call from local residents by now, but the problem was the availability of police officers. A rowdy party was way down the list of priorities when there were missing persons, domestic violence, burglaries and RTCs to deal with.

  More kids were leaving now, a bunch streaming through the front door. Several girls looked ashen, hands to their mouths, tears running down their cheeks. The party-goers were almost climbing over each other to escape. Something was kicking off, and DC Naomi Hester was right in the thick of it.

  Riley wrenched open the car door and leapt out. He heard the blare of a siren and caught the flash of a blue strobe as a patrol car swung into the bottom of Chestnut Boulevard. He dashed across the road and into the driveway. At the front door, he shoved a kid of fourteen or fifteen out of the way and pushed another backwards so he could get through. Several children – and now he realised that’s what most of them were – stared at him, open mouthed.

  ‘Police,’ he said, pulling out his warrant card.

  ‘Up there!’ A girl screamed at him. ‘The bathroom!’

  There was a wide hallway, and the stairs led up from the far end. Riley raced along the hall and ran up, taking the stairs two at a time. At the top, another girl pointed with a shaking hand. Riley thanked her and sprinted along the landing to where a door opened onto a vast bathroom. Double sinks, walk-in shower, a round tub big enough for a rugby team. Black-and-white tiles chequerboarded across the floor to where Naomi Hester lay surrounded by a growing pool of blood. A teenage boy held a towel against Hester’s side, and as Riley came in, he looked up.

  ‘Are you a doctor?’ the boy said.

  ‘No,’ Riley said. ‘I’m a fucking policeman.’

  Chapter 2

  Savage went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She stared at herself in the mirror. Middle-aged or not, the way her head was throbbing, she certainly couldn’t take her drink any longer. She opened the cabinet on the wall and found some painkillers. The last thing she needed was a hangover as tomorrow she had to drive to the north coast of Devon and give a talk to a local Women’s Institute group. A two-hour car journey, a couple of hours in a decrepit village hall, and another two hours back. With luck, she’d get lunch. If the overnight rain cleared and the weather turned out nice, she’d take the old MG. Then, on the way home, she could put the soft top down and come back across the moor.

  The benefits of being her own boss meant she was able to set her own schedule, make her own work. Sometimes, she wondered how the Police Commissioner squared the funding for PLOD. At other times, she wished the post would be axed so she could finally admit to herself that her police career was over.

  What would she do then? It was a scary thought. Her only job had been in the police. She’d joined when she was twenty-one and fresh out of university, keen to make a difference in the world. Now, after serving for two decades, she couldn’t conceive of a life outside of the force. ‘Write a book,’ Riley had suggested. ‘A picture of you on the cover, some lurid headlines about your past cases, expert testimony from Doctor Nesbit. Job done.’

  Although the suggestion had been a joke, Savage had considered it. She’d even travelled to London for a meeting with a literary agent. Keen as mustard, the agent had outlined what would be required: ‘The juicy details on all the murders you’ve solved, preferably with some tasty photographs. Plenty of office gossip. A hefty dose of conflict. Finally, some fact so startling it will capture the attention of the media. To be honest, the most important thing is getting you in front of the camera and into people’s living rooms.’ The agent came over all smarmy and leered at her. ‘And that’s always a lot easier with an attractive woman.’

  According to the agent, sales had little to do with the quality of her writing and more to do with the amount of publicity she could garner. Savage had sat on the train back to Devon and reflected that it didn’t sound like the kind of gig she was interested in.

  As she washed the paracetamol down with a glass of water, her phone rang. She picked up and answered.

  ‘Charlotte.’ It was Detective Superintendent Hardin. They hadn’t spoken for months, yet his gruff tone was as familiar as ever. ‘You OK to talk?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Savage said. ‘Although I was just off to bed. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. PLOD is heading to North Devon.’

  ‘You’ll have to shelve it. Something’s come up.’

  Savage felt a spark jump within. Was it possible her period of banishment was over? It seemed unlikely. ‘It won’t look good, sir. A hundred redoubtable members of the Bideford WI are looking forward to a talk on Murder and Modern Policing. There’ll be letters to the Western Morning News.’

  ‘Stuff the old biddies, Charlotte. I’m assigning you to a new job.’

  ‘What about PLOD?’

  ‘Forget PLOD. This is way more important than a piece of PR frippery. PLOD’s suspended indefinitely. Cancel all your appointments. Letters of apology. You sincerely regret, etcetera, etcetera.’

  ‘What’s this about, sir?’ Savage’s mind was racing. This was it. The end of the nightmare of the last two years. ‘There was nothing on the news.’

  ‘There won’t be. Not for a few hours.’ Hardin paused. A breath. Savage imagined him chewing his lip in the distinctive way he did when he was stressed. ‘But it’ll break by the morning. Big. On
every news channel, every front page.’

  ‘So, are you going to tell me what it is?’

  ‘Not yet. Wrap up warm and find your boots and waterproofs. I’m on my way to pick you up. Be ten minutes max.’

  Dead air from the phone before Savage had a chance to say anything else.

  ***

  Riley rode in the ambulance with Hester. She was lucid for a few minutes until the paramedic strapped a mask over her face and turned on the Entonox.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ Riley held onto a handle as the vehicle took a roundabout at speed. The paramedic was applying a compress to Hester’s side. ‘Is she going to be OK?’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ the paramedic said, bracing himself. ‘I get a stabbing every other Saturday night, and I’ve not had one die on me yet. Fingers crossed she ain’t going to be the first.’

  Riley sat back. Breathed out, aware they were pulling into the hospital forecourt. For a second, he felt giddy and wondered if the gas was leaking from Hester’s mask. Then he recognised the sensation was relief that Hester was in expert hands. Still, expert hands or not, nothing excused what had happened. He’d fucked up big time. He should never have sent Hester in alone. True, she was just supposed to mingle with the kids and report back, but he hadn’t factored in the possibility something might go wrong. He hadn’t, as DSupt Hardin would no doubt tell him later, done a risk assessment.

  ‘Piss poor preparation,’ he said aloud. The paramedic looked across. Riley shrugged. ‘Sorry. Nothing.’

  But it wasn’t nothing. A few years back, he’d lost an undercover officer he’d been working with. Dogs had attacked the officer, and he’d been finished off with a coup de grace gunshot to the head. Riley had witnessed the whole thing but had been powerless to intervene. He’d promised himself he’d never get in a situation where that could happen again, but he’d let Naomi Hester go into the party alone and unprepared. Bad call.

  The ambulance reversed into a slot, and then the back doors were swinging wide, the paramedics pulling the trolley out. Riley followed them into A&E until a nurse shepherded him away to a waiting area.

  A little later, a doctor came across to speak to him.

  ‘Detective Riley?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Riley stood. He was eager to hear the news as long as it wasn’t bad.

  ‘You can go now. We’ve sedated Naomi and will operate shortly. She won’t be conscious until the morning.’ The woman smiled. ‘And don’t worry, the knife punctured her small intestine but missed any other major organs. The long-term prognosis is good.’

  The woman wheeled about and marched off, and Riley thought about doctors and what they did, police officers and what they did, and wondered if he hadn’t perhaps chosen the wrong profession.

  ***

  Savage opened her front door as Hardin’s car drew up. The lights from the vehicle pierced a heavy rain, the water droplets swirling in a strong breeze. She stepped across the driveway and got in the car. She hadn’t seen the DSupt for a while, and his bulky frame appeared to have swelled considerably. A packet of crunch creams on the dash, half finished, suggested any attempt at maintaining the diet the HR doctor had recommended had failed.

  ‘Charlotte,’ Hardin said. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘You too, sir.’ Savage took another glance at the biscuits. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Crap. I missed my dinner.’ Hardin followed her gaze. ‘But nothing another couple of those won’t cure.’

  ‘Right.’ Savage looked away from the biscuits. Hardin said nothing. Stared forwards. Awkward. Since the whole incident with Malcom Kendwick, she hadn’t been on the best of terms with Hardin. She resented the PLOD assignment, seeing it as punishment without trial.

  Seconds ticked by, and then Hardin shoved the car into gear and drove off, the windscreen wipers on double speed.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she said as they sped down the lane. ‘Dartmoor?’

  Hardin ignored her and instead fired back his own question. ‘What do you know about Assistant Chief Constable Jack Duffy?’

  ‘A little. He holds the crime portfolio. Well-respected. Thorough and meticulous.’ Savage studied Hardin’s expression for a moment. Inscrutable. ‘Of course, I’m aware of the business with his daughter.’

  Hardin gave a flat grimace. ‘You could hardly not be. Wall to wall for a while, wasn’t it? Tittle tattle for the masses.’

  ‘Not surprising, sir. Girl goes missing isn’t much of a narrative, but daughter of top cop goes missing is a gem.’

  ‘So what have you gleaned from this gem of a story?’

  ‘The bare facts?’ Savage took a moment to gather herself, aware Hardin could be springing some kind of trap. If this was her chance to find favour, she needed to watch what she said. ‘Well, one Saturday in early January last year, Abigail, Duffy’s only child and seventeen back then, leaves her home in Topsham near Exeter and goes to a party in Torquay. She doesn’t return. ACC Duffy is asked by the Chief Constable to step aside from an operational role because of the conflict of interest, which he does. Devon and Cornwall Police and every other force in the country go all out on the investigation but find very little. We come down hard on every skanky snout, but it leads nowhere. There’s no ransom demand, no terrorist threat and no phone call home from Abi saying she’s run off but is safe. Mercifully, there’s no body either. The latter fact keeps the fire of the story burning. There’s the occasional sighting, but none can be verified. Now, well over a year in, the case is still open and unsolved. Last thing I saw was Duffy and his wife making a nationwide appeal on TV. The man looked wrecked.’

  ‘Quite.’ Hardin waved a hand, dismissing the emotion. He braked hard for a tight corner and then floored the accelerator. ‘With one or two minor corrections, you’re spot on. Abigail Duffy appears to have vanished from the face of the earth. Until now.’

  ‘She’s here in Devon?’ Savage shifted in her seat, her heart beating a little faster. She tried to keep the excitement from her voice. ‘And that’s why you called me?’

  Hardin didn’t answer. ‘You’ve met Jack Duffy, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, back when I was a DC and long before he was ACC. Operation Flintlock.’

  ‘Flintlock. Yes.’ Hardin nodded. ‘The paedophile ring. Ruffled a few feathers in high places that one, didn’t it? A Somerset MP, a judge from Bristol, and that rock star fellow. Unsavoury doesn’t even begin to describe it.’

  ‘Duffy reckoned those three were the tip of the iceberg, but the CC at the time wanted a quick conclusion and wound up the op as soon as they were in the bag. Duffy wasn’t best pleased. Said it was a stinker.’

  ‘That sounds like Jack.’ Hardin paused, Savage unsure if he was focused on the road ahead or at some point in the distant past. ‘I was at Hendon with him and I realised back then he was aiming high.’ Hardin smiled. ‘Unlike myself.’

  ‘You’ve done alright, sir,’

  ‘Alright, yes. Enough for my sense of wellbeing and fulfilment. And anyway, I wouldn’t want the responsibility that comes with the very top levels of command. You saw what happened to our previous CC, Simon Fox. Lost it, didn’t he? Jack takes all the pressure in his stride. I imagine he’d have made a great soldier.’

  Savage settled back in her seat. Hardin in reflective mood was like an entire box set. You couldn’t rush him. You simply had to wait for each episode to play out. The end-of-season cliff-hanger would come. Eventually.

  Hardin was silent as he slowed for a set of red lights at a junction. He inched the car across and started telling Savage about his various dealings with Duffy. Over the years, they’d remained firm friends, he explained. He’d always taken an interest in Duffy’s rise through the ranks, and Duffy, in turn, had followed Hardin’s investigations. Congratulating him on the many successes, commiserating with him on the few failures. Unsurprisingly, Duffy had on several occasions expressed an interest in a certain red-haired female detective under Hardin’s command who was more often than not successf
ul in solving various high-profile murder cases.

  ‘Now Jack is near the top of the tree he’s become orthodox. He follows the rulebook to the letter. I tease him about that because I’ve always tried to do the same, and he used to mock me for it.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘A while back, I suggested he could do with some help in finding Abigail. I thought a new pair of eyes from outside the investigation could look over everything afresh and provide a different perspective. He was grateful but wasn’t keen. I think he felt the team at Exeter would be resentful of an outsider. To be candid, though, if he’d accepted my offer, I’d have put you forward.’

  ‘But he didn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  They’d reached the A38, and Hardin powered along the slip road, taking the car up to a steady eighty and onto the dual carriageway. In the heavy rain, visibility was atrocious, and Savage wondered when the DSupt had last done an advanced driving course.

  ‘This was months ago, mind you, but I felt you were Abigail’s best bet. With Malcolm Kendwick, you did what it took to rescue your own daughter and worried about the consequences afterwards.’

  ‘Kendwick ran off and got lost on the moor, sir. Probably fell into a bog. That’s what I said in my statement to the IOPC, and there’s nothing to suggest otherwise.’

  ‘Just so, Charlotte, just so.’ Hardin indicated and overtook a truck, the car’s windscreen for a moment awash with water before they accelerated past. ‘Still, with my tacit approval, I knew you’d be prepared to bend the rules to find Abigail.’

  ‘And all because Jack Duffy is your friend?’

  ‘More than a friend. I’m Abigail’s Godfather.’ Hardin gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Not that I’ve been much of one.’

  Silence followed the revelation, as if Hardin was pondering his failings. Minutes passed, and Savage knew better than to speak.

  After several miles, they exited the dual carriageway, the off ramp narrowing quickly. Hardin took a succession of sharp turns, and then they were on a country lane, the road beginning to climb. Moss-covered stone walls blurred in the headlights. The occasional gate. An isolated thatched cottage. Hardin stayed silent, his expression intense as he concentrated on driving. The car ripped through deep puddles and skidded across patches of mud. Once, they aquaplaned, all control gone as the car glided over a stretch of water. Wherever they were heading, the DSupt wanted to get there in a hurry.