Puppet: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  ‘Sweet FA,’ Collier said. ‘Nobody at God’s Haven had seen Abigail in the locality. In fact, none of the residents there had even heard of her, which is a bit surprising, but then they’re an insular lot.’

  ‘What about the neighbourhood teams?’

  ‘They’ve got the opposite problem. Everyone recognises the girl, but separating fact from fiction is proving difficult. We’ve had several people who reckon they saw her last month, which, if Doctor Nesbit’s preliminary time of death is correct, is impossible.’ Collier spread his arms. ‘But if you remember, it was only a few weeks ago when Duffy and his wife gave that press conference, and Abigail’s picture was all over the news. You see and believe what you want to.’

  Hardin’s double-edged sword thought Savage.

  Since Abigail had likely been in the byre for several months, she hadn’t expected to get many leads, but to get nothing was disappointing. She told Collier to include outlying villages in the interview schedule.

  ‘Sure,’ he answered without much conviction. ‘Are you off to see the ACC?’

  ‘Yes.’ Savage had arranged to visit Jack Duffy and his wife, but it wasn’t something she was looking forward to. ‘And then I’ll drop in on Zak Francis at his halfway house and see what he has to say for himself.’

  ‘You think he’s a serious suspect considering all the work the Exeter team has done?’

  ‘Duffy obviously does.’ Savage gestured over to where the stack of documents relating to Francis lay on a nearby desk. ‘Personally, I believe he’s dangerous and will almost certainly offend again, but whether he killed Abigail remains to be seen.’

  ‘Speaking of nutters, they’ve started already.’ Collier went to the side of the room and pulled a plastic evidence bag from a tray. ‘Came this morning. Usual rubbish. Gets the facts completely wrong but expects us to believe he – or I guess she – was responsible. I’ll create a file because I doubt it will be the last one.’

  Savage took the bag. There was a hand-written letter inside, an almost unintelligible pencil scrawl on crumpled white printer paper. She read through.

  ‘The Puppet?’ Savage said, handing the letter back to Collier. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought.’

  ‘It’s nonsense,’ she said. ‘Ignore it.’

  ***

  She found Calter and headed for Duffy’s place, getting the DS to drive so she could catch up on some background reading and make some notes. She put aside the material as they crested Haldon Hill and passed Exeter Racecourse. East Devon lay spread out before them, the city of Exeter ahead and the small upmarket town of Topsham – where Duffy lived – sitting to the right of the city on the far bank of the Ex estuary. They turned off the dual carriageway and entered Topsham.

  ‘Nice,’ Calter said as she guided the car along the narrow main street. On either side, there were boutiques and art galleries, expensive food shops and estate agents. ‘If you can afford it.’

  At the southern end of the town, a lane ran between hedges for a couple of hundred metres. It swung left, away from the estuary, and on the corner, there was an open gate. Beyond the gate lay half an acre of immaculate lawn.

  ‘Jack Duffy’s done well,’ Savage said as they pulled into the driveway. ‘No way I could buy this sort of place on my salary.’

  ‘Certainly not on mine,’ Calter said.

  The house was a period property with roses climbing over a porch, leaded windows in crooked casements, a red-tile roof. A small flock of doves sat on the roof and took flight as Calter parked up. Savage watched the birds wheel in the air and disappear over a hedge. Had Abigail Duffy simply taken flight? By all accounts, she’d been a rebellious teenager, more than once tangling with the very officers her father was in command of. Perhaps family expectations had become too much, and Abi had sought to escape.

  ‘Take a stroll back into town, Jane,’ Savage said as she got out of the car. ‘Get a feel for the place and see what the locals think of Duffy and his wife.’

  As Savage walked across to the house, the front door opened, Jack Duffy standing in the shadows. He was a big man, good looking, with neat, cropped hair and the self-assured look of authority that many top-ranking officers had. If Abigail’s death distressed him, it wasn’t apparent.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ Savage said. ‘DI Charlotte Savage.’

  ‘We won’t have any of that, thank you.’ Duffy stretched out his hand. ‘I’m not your boss. Not here. Plain old Jack will do.’

  ‘Charlotte, then.’ She struggled for an appropriate phrase to convey her sympathy. Inadequate. Impossible. ‘I’m so sorry about Abigail, she—’

  ‘You saw her in the wood. At the scene.’ Brusque words. A statement, not a question. And if there was sorrow, a dark veil of discontent hid the emotion. ‘In that building. In the muck.’

  Duffy spun on his heels and led the way into the house, and for a moment Savage was left feeling she was responsible for his anger. He showed her through to a comfortable study with oak bookshelves and a Turkish rug on the floor. Three club chairs circled a low coffee table on which an array of documents lay spread in a fan pattern.

  ‘You got the stuff on Zac Francis.’ Another statement. ‘Most everything else relevant is here.’ Duffy stood by the table. There was no small talk, merely a simmering impatience to get on with what needed to be done. ‘Initial reports, sightings, forensic evidence, a copy of the policy book. I’ll get some coffee and give you a chance to look through the material. Then I guess you’ll have some questions.’

  Savage wasn’t sure whether to admire Duffy’s fortitude or be alarmed by it. Some matter-of-factness was to be expected as a defence against a complete mental breakdown, but the behaviour was uncharacteristic of a father who’d heard about the death of his only child less than forty-eight hours ago. Was Duffy heartless or just emptied out? Then a shocking idea came to her: was the strange emotional display a sign she should consider him a suspect?

  ‘I’d love a cup of coffee,’ Savage said. ‘But this lot can wait for later. Questions though, I do have. For you and your wife.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘I’m not a miracle worker, sir… Jack. Document analysis isn’t what I do, as DSupt Hardin will tell you. I’m not going to skim through that lot and somehow catch the murderer.’

  ‘Right.’ Duffy considered the documents and looked at Savage. ‘I’ve followed the cases you’ve been on closely. Not difficult. You’re something of a celebrity, and rightly so from what I can see. The facts speak for themselves: That guy who kidnapped young girls and kept their bodies in a freezer, Ricky Budgeon, those twins in the clay pit, my former boss who believed devil worship would solve all his problems, the nutter from the children’s home, the serial killer from the US. It’s an impressive list. Conrad said you were the best.’

  Savage smiled to herself at Hardin lauding her with praise. ‘A lot of those cases were down to luck. Anyway, I was working full time for weeks on some of them.’ Savage pointed at the documents. ‘Spending a couple of hours reading the case files won’t put me in a better position than your officers who’ve been investigating this for months.’

  ‘Intuition.’ Duffy reached up and tapped his right temple with his forefinger. ‘That’s what Conrad said. He told me he didn’t understand how you did it, but somehow you abandoned procedure and got to grips with a case by using your emotions. Don’t tell me that doesn’t work because it’s the way I used to play things. A hunch. A nagging feeling refusing to lie dormant. Did you know they called me Jumping Jack Flash? Many times I chucked the rulebook away and followed my nose.’

  ‘And what’s your nose telling you now?’ Savage said. ‘About Abigail?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Duffy bowed his head. ‘That’s the problem. I’ve gone over everything a hundred times. A thousand times. I can’t make sense of it.’

  ‘Neither of us can.’ A slim woman stood framed in the doorway to the room. She wore a plain, modest dress, a s
ilk scarf draped across her shoulders. Her hair had gone prematurely grey, and there were deep lines on her face. A profound sadness in her eyes. ‘That’s what makes this so difficult.’

  ‘Marjorie.’ Duffy turned and held out his hands as the woman walked in. There was a moment’s silence as the couple embraced. ‘This is DI Charlotte Savage. She’s here to help us find Abigail’s murderer.’

  ‘Oh!’ Marjorie backed away from her husband, a hand going to her mouth, a shudder running through her body. Her eyes brimmed with tears, almost as if she feared the outcome of a successful investigation. ‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you.’

  Marjorie Duffy was a small woman. Almost insignificant. The hell of the past year had eroded nearly all her strength, and the news late on Wednesday night had washed away whatever remained. Until that moment, Jack and Marjorie Duffy had endured months and months of agony. Savage could hardly imagine what it must have been like.

  ‘Coffee, Marjorie,’ Duffy barked. ‘And some biscuits. Quickly now.’

  For a moment, Savage misread the situation. Was Jack Duffy some sort of misogynist dinosaur, ordering his wife around as if she was his servant? Then, as Marjorie sniffed and left the room, Savage realised Duffy’s request was a relief to his wife. It gave her something to do, something to take her mind away from the situation.

  Duffy suggested they sat, and Savage lowered herself into one of the club chairs. For the first few minutes, Duffy diverted the conversation away from Abigail. Instead, he enquired after DSupt Hardin’s health, sought her opinion on the PLOD initiative, and asked if later she might like to take a short walk on the coast. Again Savage pondered his bizarre behaviour. She wondered about his relationship with his daughter. From what she’d read, it sounded as if it had been a troubled one.

  Marjorie Duffy returned with a cafetiere, three mugs, a small jug of milk, and a plate of ginger biscuits. She sat and smiled at Savage as she poured the coffees.

  ‘Sorry about earlier,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no need to apologise.’ Savage returned the smile. ‘I can’t promise a miracle, but I’ll do everything I can to help you discover what happened to your daughter.’

  For a second, it looked as if Marjorie might cry again, but then she took a deep breath and turned to her husband. ‘That’s all we want, isn’t it, Jack?’

  ***

  Dave Smeeton lived over on the east side of Plymouth in a grey pebble-dash house situated on a road that contoured along the side of a steep hill. Riley brought the car to a stop behind a shiny red Vauxhall Corsa. Fancy alloy wheels and a big tube exhaust. Purple seat covers. A couple of hefty speakers embedded in the rear parcel shelf.

  ‘Smeeton’s pride and joy,’ Davies said.

  ‘Very stylish.’ Riley clicked open his door and got out. ‘If you’re a knobhead.’

  He leaned on the roof of their vehicle for a moment. From this vantage point, they could see the suburb of Plympton spread below them, Chestnut Avenue visible to the south. This area was far from the well-to-do roads with big houses and extensive gardens, and the property itself looked run down and unloved. He put it to Davies.

  ‘Flash car apart,’ he said. ‘If this is the best Dave Smeeton can do, then crime definitely doesn’t pay.’

  ‘Smeeton’s a minor cog and has an amoeba level of intelligence.’ Davies was out of the car too, scanning the area. ‘Plus, he’s a user himself. Never mix business and pleasure, right?’

  Riley turned to the house. The front garden was a mess of tangled vegetation. Several burger cartons lay tossed to one side of the front door, while a windowsill bore a series of burn marks where somebody had repeatedly stubbed out their cigarette ends.

  They walked up the garden path, and Riley rapped on the door. Thirty seconds later, a shadow appeared behind the glass pane, and somebody pulled the door open. A young woman stood there, half dazed. She wore a long T-shirt and nothing else.

  ‘If it’s about the ’leccy, I paid the fucking bill yesterday.’ She held on to the door and steadied herself. Studied Riley and Davies. ‘Nah, you’re not bailiffs, are you? You’re selling something.’

  The girl moved to close the door, but Riley placed a foot in the way as he pulled out his ID. ‘Police,’ he said. He nodded back at the street. ‘Need to check some details on the Corsa.’

  The girl squinted and peered past Riley as if she was seeing the world outside for the first time. ‘That’s Dave’s.’

  ‘Your boyfriend?’

  ‘Dave? My fella? You’re bloody joking.’ The girl gave a mock shiver and let go of the door. ‘Is he in trouble?’

  ‘Could be. We won’t know until we’ve seen the logbook and insurance.’

  ‘Tosser was here last night, but I dunno where he is now.’ The girl blinked and a spark of brightness appeared in her tired eyes. The germ of an idea. ‘You could take a look in his room. There might be something on the car in there, right?’ She stepped back and glanced at a door in the hallway. ‘I’m going back to bed. Shut the front door on your way out. Can’t be too careful round here.’

  She turned, slouched back down the hallway and disappeared upstairs.

  Davies mock-punched Riley on the shoulder. ‘You heard, she invited us in.’

  Riley edged over the threshold, Davies behind him. The door to Smeeton’s room had a Yale lock, but there was space against the frame for something thin to be slipped in next to the latch. Davies kept a stiff piece of plastic in his wallet for just such occasions.

  He turned to Riley. ‘We found it unlocked, right?’

  ‘Unlocked. Sure.’ Riley wondered when exactly he’d crossed the line, when he’d decided the kind of policing practised by Davies was not simply palatable but essential if you were going to make any progress.

  Davies wedged the piece of plastic in the doorjamb. He gave it a sharp push, the latch clicked, and the door swung open. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Riley walked in and pulled them back.

  ‘The state of this,’ Davies said.

  A poster of a topless blonde woman with pneumatic breasts hung on one wall above a chest of drawers. The remains of an Indian takeaway lay in several foil trays on top of the chest. On the other side of the room, the bed was a mess of sheets and duvet, and Smeeton had chucked a pile of clothes in one corner. Riley moved to the clothes and prodded the pile with one foot. Then he bent, and using the tip of a finger, he hooked several garments out of the way, exposing a skimpy white blouse. There were dark red blotches on the sheer material.

  ‘He should do his laundry more often.’ Riley teased the blouse away from the pile. ‘This looks like it could be Faye’s. If we can match the blood to DC Hester’s, then Smeeton’s looking at a joint enterprise charge.’

  ‘Roll over Beethoven,’ Davies said.

  ***

  Savage sipped her coffee and nibbled a biscuit. A clock on the mantelpiece ticked seconds away. Otherwise silence. After a minute, Jack Duffy broke into the dead air, waving a hand above the spread of documents.

  ‘You’ll take this lot with you, right?’ he said. ‘There’s a lot to digest, but every facet of the investigation is in there.’

  ‘Yes’, Savage said. ‘I didn’t mean to be dismissive earlier. For now, though, I’d like to talk about Abigail. About what sort of young woman she was. About…’ Savage paused. ‘About her problems.’

  Duffy sighed. ‘Her problems. Right.’

  The exasperation that crossed Duffy’s face was all too familiar to Savage. ‘I have a teenage daughter myself,’ she said. ‘She’s a similar age to Abigail and a handful. Then again, she’s probably no worse than I was at her age. Young people these days have so much to deal with. So many expectations, so much pressure, so—’

  ‘Nonsense.’ The denial came from Marjorie, and the tone was strident and laced with anger. ‘Abigail had none of that. She got everything she wanted. A pony when she was younger. Ballet lessons. A new phone every year. A healthy allowance. All we asked was that she was respectful a
nd behaved herself and acted in a manner that befitted Jack’s position. Instead, she threw all our love back in our faces.’

  There were many children who’d have been grateful for what Jack and Marjorie Duffy provided for their daughter, but whether the monetary contributions were any sort of substitute for love and affection, Savage wasn’t sure.

  ‘And beforehand?’

  Duffy explained that when Abigail was younger, there wasn’t a problem. Growing up, she wanted, like many little girls, to be a ballerina. Later, in secondary school, she set her heart on becoming a doctor because she wanted to help people.

  ‘She did very well in her GCSEs but opted for Religious Studies, Sociology and English at A-level,’ Duffy said. ‘She’d changed her mind about being a doctor, you see? I wonder if that was the start of it.’

  ‘No, the sixth form was the start of it,’ Marjorie said. ‘She fell in with the wrong crowd, and her schoolwork suffered.’

  ‘And she was caught with drugs, right?’ Savage turned to Jack Duffy for confirmation.

  ‘She was arrested with a group who were in possession of a small amount of cocaine, yes, but she wasn’t charged.’ The pain was evident in Duffy’s face. ‘Still, you can imagine the problems it caused me. The press had a field day.’

  Savage remembered. There’d been headlines in the national tabloids. Joint Chief and Crack Down were two of them. Duffy continued.

  ‘She’d been going out with a succession of unsuitable boys—’

  ‘And that girl.’ Marjorie Duffy curled her lip, making no attempt to disguise her disgust. ‘As if the lowlife males weren’t enough.’

  ‘I can see we made a mistake in showing our disapproval,’ Duffy said, ignoring his wife. ‘The more you tell kids not to do something, the more they’re inclined to do it anyway. Rebellion is part and parcel of growing up. Unfortunately, I say all this in retrospect and with the benefit of hindsight.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful thing.’ Savage gave a half smile. ‘She went missing early in January last year, right?’

  ‘Yes. We’d argued about a party she was going to. She wanted to stay over, but I said “no.” She went anyway, and that was the last we saw or heard of her.’