by Mark Sennen
‘Sure, but would he really be so stupid to kill Abi?’
‘There’s no accounting for the behaviour of nutters like him.’
‘True, but the team at Exeter investigated Francis. Presumably, they satisfied themselves he wasn’t involved.’ Savage buckled her seat belt. ‘Still, best if we visit him and make our own minds up.’
‘And what about Duffy?’ Calter started the car and swung round in the driveway. ‘Is he in the clear?’
‘Jane, are you suggesting the ACC could have murdered his own daughter?’
‘Not really, ma’am.’ Calter nodded at the shops as they entered the high street. ‘I spoke to a few shopkeepers and a couple of local residents. Nobody had a bad word to say about Duffy. He’s universally liked and there’s nothing but sympathy for him and the wife. Still, the stats say ninety per cent of the time it’s the husband, boyfriend, lover. Even, occasionally, the father. Start close to home, isn’t that what we’re told?’
Savage didn’t answer. Jack Duffy’s behaviour was oddly unemotional, but hiding his grief could be his way of dealing with the situation. And yet, as unlikely as it seemed, she couldn’t discount his involvement simply because he was a high-ranking police officer.
Thirty minutes later, they entered Ipplepen, a village halfway between Newton Abbot and Totnes. It was a sprawling jumble of mostly post-war housing clustered around an older centre. Bungalows and semidetached properties, the occasional larger house. In the spring sunshine, the place seemed pleasant enough, though strangely quiet and empty. As Calter drove into the centre, they barely saw a soul.
Zac Francis lived in a halfway house on the outskirts of the village, part of the terms of his licence. Savage wondered if that was a sensible move by the authorities, putting him out here, away from the temptations a city might offer.
‘Shouldn’t have been released at all if you ask me, ma’am,’ Calter said as they searched for the property. ‘Pity he didn’t slip in the showers or take a dive over a landing.’
Savage nodded. She agreed with Calter completely, however, she bit her lip. She didn’t want to encourage Calter since the DS was prone to go off on one.
‘We need to stay calm when we meet him, OK?’ Savage said. ‘If we’re aggressive and argumentative, he’ll not only give us nothing, he’ll likely report us.’
‘I’ll try, ma’am.’ Calter gripped the wheel. ‘But if I lived here, I wouldn’t be happy if Zac Francis was my next-door neighbour.’
‘According to the probation reports, he’s a reformed character and no longer a danger.’
‘That’s a joke, right? How many times do we arrest someone who’s got previous? Recidivism’s built in with these guys, offending part of their DNA.’
‘Well, we’ll shortly find out.’
Calter slowed and turned into a cul-de-sac and pulled up outside Francis’s property. It was a non-descript bungalow with a large bay window overlooking a patch of lawn. They got out of the car and walked up the concrete path to the front door. The bell ding-donged, and a minute later, the door opened.
‘Yes?’ The question was demure and hesitant. ‘Can I help?’
Prison had undoubtedly had some sort of effect on Zac Francis beyond simply adding twenty years to his age, and the man who answered the door was very different from the brash figure in the press pictures Savage had seen. He’d become diminished and anonymous. Short, neat hair framed an angular face with a sharp Roman nose. There was a small scar on his right cheek, a dark mole above his top lip.
Francis bent his head, almost as if he was cowering at the world beyond the threshold. The bowing motion emphasised his short stature, and for a moment, Savage wondered how this little man had overpowered anyone. Then she remembered the crime reports. Francis had either tricked his victims or drugged them. By the time they’d realised what was going on, it was too late, and they were tied up or handcuffed, Francis looming over them with his diabolical torture instruments.
‘DI Charlotte Savage and DS Jane Calter.’ Savage flashed her ID at Francis. If he was surprised or angry, he hid his reaction well. ‘We’d be grateful for a quick word.’
‘Sure.’ Francis bowed again and stepped aside to let them in. Didn’t seem in the least bit perturbed. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’
They moved in past Francis. He guided them to a door on the right, and they found themselves in a spacious and airy kitchen.
‘Coffee would be great,’ Savage said. ‘Nice place.’
‘Yes,’ Francis said, offering them seats at a table while he went across and filled a kettle. ‘The halfway house is owned by a local charity that helps ex-prisoners make the transition to life on the outside. I’ve got a year to find my feet.’
‘Looks like you already have.’ Calter blurted out the statement as she panned her head round, taking in the kitchen. ‘Bet this lot cost a pretty penny.’
There was a giant Smeg fridge, double ovens, acres of work surfaces, a breakfast bar, a sink with a fancy tap. It looked like something from an executive show home. Savage wondered about the people who ran the charity. She imagined a board of retirees spending money like water and wanting to furnish this home like their own. Do-gooders perhaps not realising precisely the kind of scum they were do-gooding for.
‘I work at the Wellington, the local pub,’ Francis said. ‘I’m training to be a chef, and this kitchen helps. That’s the deal. Are you OK with that, or would you prefer I fester on benefits?’
Savage held up her hands to calm the situation. ‘And you live here alone?’
‘No, there are three of us. A warden visits daily to check up on us and provide support. The other residents are chefs too. It’s about the only useful skill you can learn inside prison.’
There was a pause while Francis scooped coffee into cups and pulled a carton of milk from the fridge. He brought the drinks over and sat.
‘You might wonder why we’re here?’ Savage said. ‘What we want?’
‘I know why you’re here and exactly what you want.’ Francis took a sip of his coffee. ‘It’s Abigail Duffy, isn’t it? I saw her picture on the telly yesterday. Knew it was bad news for me.’
Savage noted the phrasing, the concern for himself rather than the victim. A typical sociopathic response.
‘Our visit can’t be unexpected, Mr Francis, given the threats you made when you were sent down. Any reason that doesn’t put you at the top of our suspect list?’
‘That was half a lifetime ago. Something said in the heat of the moment as I was being dragged away to the cells. I got wise pretty soon after I started my sentence. I admitted and faced my guilt. I’m sorry for everything I did.’
‘Easy to say,’ Calter said. ‘And easy to pull the wool over the parole board’s eyes.’
‘Look, I’ve done my time, paid the price.’ Francis stared at Calter for a moment. ‘The neighbours have been informed I’m an ex-offender, but if you cause trouble, they’ll want to know more. When they discover my history, they’ll raise hell, I’ll lose my job, and the charity will be forced to move me on.’
‘Suits me.’ Calter scowled. ‘Get someone in here who deserves help.’
Another stare, this time longer, before Francis turned back to Savage. ‘If you’re trying to get me to cooperate, then your colleague isn’t going the right way about it.’
Savage cast Calter a glance. ‘Let’s talk about what you were doing back when Abigail went missing.’
‘I was in a hostel in Exeter. Like this but strict day release. You have to sign in and out, and there’s a curfew. You can’t be off the premises after seven at night without special permission. The police visited me back then, took me in for questioning. They were satisfied I had nothing to do with Abigail’s disappearance.’
‘Perhaps they were, but I’m re-examining the evidence.’
‘Well, you’ll have to re-examine it at the hostel. Unfortunately, I can’t help you.’
‘You hate Jack Duffy, don’t you?’
/> ‘I did hate him, sure, but now I’ve come to terms with what happened. I had therapy inside, and I’ve learned to control my emotions. I’m sorry for what I did, and I realise the appalling damage it caused. Hating Duffy because he put me away would be a waste of time and energy when I’m the problem, not him.’
The words came out parrot fashion, and Savage reckoned the sentiments were pat phrases Francis had picked up at his weekly therapy sessions. Not for the first time in her police career she wondered how so called health professionals could be taken in so easily.
‘Thank you, Mr Francis.’ Savage took a mouthful of coffee, and then, even though the cup was still three-quarters full, she pushed back her chair and stood. ‘Good luck with your job.’
Francis showed them out, the door clicked shut, and they walked back to the car.
‘What the hell was that about, ma’am?’ Calter said as they got in. ‘How has Zac Francis wormed his way into your good books?’
‘There was no point wasting any more of our time,’ Savage said as they got into the car. ‘We’ll doublecheck the work the Exeter team did on his initial alibi, but for now, it looks as if Francis is in the clear, at least concerning Abigail’s disappearance. When we get a more definite date for when she was murdered, we’ll need to re-evaluate.’
‘Back to square one, then?’
‘Yes.’
She turned to the house. Zac Francis stood in the bay window. He was motionless for a moment before slipping from view, but Savage detected the slightest of smiles on his face as he disappeared.
Chapter 9
There was rarely much downtime on a murder investigation, and Savage worked Saturday and half of Sunday dealing with the dribs and drabs of information flowing in.
Monday morning and Collier was sanguine about progress.
‘As you surmised, Zac Francis appears to be in the clear,’ he said. ‘He only moved to the halfway house three months ago. Before that, he was in the hostel in Exeter, where all his comings and goings were logged. There appear to be no discrepancies. If Abigail was murdered as long ago as we suspect, then he couldn’t have been involved. Nesbit will give you some idea of the time of death this afternoon, right?’
‘Yes,’ Savage said.
The post-mortem was scheduled for two, just the wrong side of lunch. Savage prodded at a salad in the canteen before giving up and heading for Derriford Hospital, intending to make sure she arrived on time.
Nesbit was waiting in the mortuary, chatting to John Layton. The CSI was extolling the virtues of holidaying in Ireland, but Nesbit was having none of it. Italy or the French Riviera was his chosen destination.
‘Sun, fine wine, good food and intelligent conversation,’ Nesbit said. He gave Savage a wink as she came in. ‘And you can only get one of those in Ireland.’
‘Afternoon, Andrew, John,’ Savage said.
‘Charlotte.’ Nesbit nodded a greeting. ‘Good to go?’
‘Not sure about “good”, but ready, yes.’
Nesbit waited until Savage and Layton had gowned up and then led the way through. Two stainless steel tables glistened in a harsh light, their surfaces clean and empty. A green sheet covered the third table, the material flowing over the body beneath.
Nesbit walked across and spoke to the mortuary assistant. ‘Could you?’
The assistant, a young woman not much older than Savage’s daughter, pulled the sheet back. What a job for a youngster, Savage thought, what a career path. Still, at least you’d have something to talk to your mates about at the weekend. If you had any mates, that was.
Under the lights, the corpse appeared pale and white, as if sculptured from paper. The skin had shrunk in, the body all angular at the elbows, knees, shoulders and neck. The hips, once contoured and shapely, now jutted out, and on one side, a white bone poked through. In places, the skin had flaked or crumbled away, revealing a dry, husky deposit beneath.
‘Abigail Duffy. Female. Aged seventeen at the time of her disappearance.’ Nesbit was speaking for the benefit of the overhead microphone. He rattled off Abigail’s height, weight and various other details before moving closer and describing the body as he saw it. ‘We have a partly mummified cadaver, desiccated we can hypothesise by the unusual conditions in the barn. Dried cattle bedding on the floor combined with the stack of old straw bales provided a sump for moisture, and the sun on the stone walls and corrugated roof covering ensured plenty of heat. Convection currents set up in the roof space led to air circulation, further enhancing the drying process. Impossible to say over how long this took place, but I would suggest four months minimum, most likely five or six.’ Nesbit paused and looked over at Layton and Savage. ‘Any thoughts?’
‘No,’ Layton said. ‘Sounds feasible.’
It sounded feasible to Savage too, but one question nagged her. If Abigail died only five or six months ago, what had she been up to before then? Aside from using her bank card on the night of her disappearance, there’d been no trace of her anywhere.
‘Now then…’ Nesbit moved to the head. He leaned over and used a pair of forceps to examine the nostrils. ‘Disturbingly, there is inhalation debris. I’ll check in the trachea later, but the debris points to the possibility that she was still breathing when she was covered up.’
‘She was buried alive?’ Savage was aghast.
‘Alive, yes, but I doubt she was conscious.’ Nesbit exchanged the forceps for a magnifier. He held it close to the forehead. ‘There’s a substantial injury to the frontal bone, a deep gash in the skin, behind which I can see a fracture. It’s consistent with a heavy blow or a fall.’
‘An RTC?’
‘Unlikely.’ Nesbit passed his hand over the rest of the body. ‘The only other major injury is to the rib cage. Again, that looks to be a blow or impact with a sharp object.’
‘So not a car?’
‘I can’t see how.’ Nesbit turned so he was facing Savage and made a karate chop motion at his chest. ‘This is more localised but deep. A vehicle would have resulted in a wider area of damage and blunt force trauma. There are also marks on the neck and wrists indicative of some kind of restraint. This was no accident.’
Nesbit continued to examine the head, shoulders and arms, before moving down to the legs. He shifted each leg a little and spread them slightly. As he did so, pieces of dried skin flaked away.
‘We should check this.’ He touched the girl’s inner thigh. The skin was almost transparent, the texture starchy and paperlike. However, there was an area where bumps of white bulged out, almost as if the surface had been embossed.
Savage approached and turned her head. ‘The letters?’
‘Yes, but how were they made?’ He took the magnifying glass and held it over the girl’s thigh.
‘Is it a tattoo?’
‘No. This is more like scar tissue. I’ve not seen this before, but I’m guessing the letters were hatched on using a scalpel or a razor blade. The marks became permanent when the wounds healed.’ Nesbit looked up. He passed Savage the magnifier. ‘I was mistaken back at the scene when I said branded because that’s the wrong terminology. This isn’t a burn, and it wasn’t self-inflicted or done by an amateur. Whoever carried out the work knew what they were doing and undoubtedly had some sort of artistic ability. The letters are even in a serif font.’
Savage peered closer. The lines were now visible as individual cuts, and she could see the curls of the serifs on the B and the C.
‘If not a tattoo, then perhaps it’s something a tattooist might know about?’
‘Not really the kind of world I inhabit, but yes, I’d say so.’
‘John?’
Layton lived in Totnes, where shops selling whole foods, crystals and self-help books filled the high street. Every third person you passed on the pavement had a tattoo or a nose ring.
‘Certainly looks professionally done.’ Layton tilted his head. ‘And some places do all manner of body modifications. Three letters would be relatively minor compared t
o genital piercing and ear modification.’
‘Ear modification?’
‘Yes. For fans of Lord of the Rings or Star Trek.’ Layton put his hands flat against his head, fingers pointing upwards. ‘Shaped to look like an elf or a Vulcan. Live long and prosper.’
‘I must lead a very sheltered life.’
‘Not my cup of tea either, but each to their own. Worth a check of local tattoo parlours.’ Layton considered the markings again. ‘But this isn’t a tattoo in the conventional sense. Even if it wasn’t burned on, it’s still reminiscent of a brand, and that has connotations of ownership.’
‘You seem to know what you’re talking about, John. Tell me more.’
‘There are people who consent to have a brand because they want to be owned. DS. Domination and submission. Master and slave. Perhaps more commonly, you might be surprised to learn, mistress and slave.’
‘You think a teenage girl would be into that?’
Layton spread his hands, palms up. ‘Just saying.’
Savage turned to Nesbit. ‘Can you give me a timeframe for when it was done?’
‘If she’d died recently, we might be able to tell,’ Nesbit said. ‘but given the state of the body, it’s impossible to ascertain precisely. I’d say the scar tissue would need at least a month to heal to the state it is in now.’
The discussion about the markings continued for a few minutes, and then Nesbit moved on to the cause of death.
‘At this stage, before I open her up, I’d say it was the head wound. It caused major trauma. Combined with the blow to the chest, which might have led to breathing difficulties, we don’t have to look much further for how she died. The material she was buried in was loose and friable, and I doubt it could have led to asphyxiation.’
‘Any idea as to the weapon that caused the head injury?’
‘None at this stage.’
‘We found nothing at the scene,’ Layton said. ‘Could it have been a rock?’
‘Yes, that would fit.’
Nesbit gave a shrug and then beckoned the mortuary assistant over. The young girl held an electric-powered bone saw, and once again, Savage thought this was a hell of a job. Nesbit selected a scalpel from an array of surgical instruments and moved in to make a Y-shaped incision on the chest. ‘Anyway, let’s get started, shall we?’
