Puppet: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  ‘So?’

  ‘To be honest, I was bored. I never realised there were so many places to buy toys. Not just dedicated toy shops but all those little retailers selling tat. There are dozens from Dartmouth to Tavistock to Falmouth. I must have phoned at least thirty. Several have hand puppets – parrots, monkeys, that sort of thing – but only a couple sell the traditional kind with strings, and not one has anything resembling our Dave.’

  ‘You’re saying you hit a dead end?’

  ‘Well, not the end. I’ve still loads to call and a dozen to ring back.’

  ‘So why the excitement?’

  ‘I was having a break when I got to thinking about your lecture to me about evidence and relevance, so I decided to do a search on the PNC to see if anything related came up.’

  ‘Smeeton’s in there,’ Riley said. ‘He’s connected to multiple crimes and dozens of criminals and suspects.’

  ‘Of course. I assumed you’d already got all the information on him, but I figured you probably hadn’t searched up on anything to do with puppets.’

  ‘No, I haven’t. So what did you find?’

  ‘You won’t believe this.’

  Enders bounced with enthusiasm until Riley waved at him to calm down. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘I typed in “puppet” and was disappointed that the first result concerned the theft of five thousand Marvel Superhero action figures from a wholesaler in Coventry. No idea why they were labelled as puppets, but there you go.’ Enders wafted the piece of paper in Riley’s general direction but kept hold of it, teasing. ‘The second result, however, was a lot more interesting.’

  ‘And?’ Riley raised an eyebrow, wondering if the wait was going to be worth it.

  Finally, Enders gave up the sheets of paper. Riley peered down. It was a typed document, or rather a scan of a typed document. Riley remembered that a few years back, a pair of DCs who’d got on the wrong side of Hardin had been sent down into the basement of Crownhill station where there were filing cabinets filled with old records. Over a couple of months, the two reprobates had scanned and digitised thousands of documents. Everything from crime reports to interviews to evidence logs.

  This particular document was a transcribed interview from twenty-five years ago. Riley recognised one of the names listed at the top as a detective who’d retired recently. He’d never heard of the other participants.

  ‘Thomas Raymond?’ Riley said, reading the suspect’s name. ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘Only if you’re a Janner. Come from more than a few miles away, and I doubt you would.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Thomas Raymond was convicted of killing a young girl, Lena Allen, back in the nineties. He went down for manslaughter and served fifteen years. The thing was, the girl was trussed up and hung by ropes. Raymond was trying to get her to dance for him as part of some kind of prank, only the joke went wrong, and the girl died. Hence the manslaughter charge.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like any kind of link to Dave Smeeton, especially considering the length of time that’s passed.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. Raymond’s family owned a place in the Barbican. A sort of antique shop selling all manner of things. When Raymond was released from prison, he went back to working in the shop. His father died shortly after, and Raymond inherited.’

  ‘I still don’t get it.’

  ‘I was told stories about Thomas Raymond when I was a child. Bogeyman stuff parents tell their kids to keep them in line. You see, there’s a room in the shop filled with puppets. There’s even, supposedly, a life-size one hanging from the ceiling in exactly the way the poor girl he killed was.’

  ‘A room of puppets?’

  ‘Yes,’ Enders said. ‘I’ve been wasting my time. If anywhere is likely to have something like Smeeton’s doll, it’s Raymond’s Oddities. Do you want to get your coat?’

  ***

  Savage and Calter took a pool car to God’s Haven, following the road up onto the moor through stone-walled fields. In fine weather, the view as they climbed would have been spectacular. Today, however, low cloud mizzled in from the west, blocking out everything but the drab brown moorland close at hand. The buildings, impressive on the first visit, were slick with rain and stood grey and uninviting. Savage’s perception had also changed. There was something wrong here. If Abigail Duffy had stayed, why hadn’t even a single member of the community said so?

  In the reception building, Charlene Golding appeared at the ringing of the crystal bell. She smiled, recognising them from the previous week.

  ‘I thought all the interviews had been completed?’ she said. ‘But if I can help with anything else, I’d be glad to.’

  ‘I’d like to speak with Marcus Clent,’ Savage said, producing her ID so the woman was under no illusion this was serious.

  ‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’ The woman answered all-too-quickly, immediately on the defensive. ‘He’s communing with God and can’t be disturbed.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When Marcus is talking to God, he insists on complete isolation. It would be dangerous to break into his prayer cycle.’

  ‘Look, our neighbourhood team interviewed you and all the other residents and were told that nobody had seen Abigail Duffy. We now have reason to believe she stayed here. Lying to the police is a serious business, and if I have to, I’ll have every one of you arrested. Letting me speak to Mr Clent would be preferable.’

  ‘Right.’ The woman tried another smile, but this time the expression failed to mask something beneath. ‘I’ll see if he’s available.’

  ‘Good start, ma’am.’ Calter gave a nod of her head in appreciation as the woman ducked through the door. ‘Don’t let a little thing like our suspect having a direct line of communication to the Lord God Almighty get in the way.’

  ‘You know me,’ Savage said. ‘I hate assumed privilege, and pretending you’re chosen is right up there with the worst kind.’

  A raised voice floated from behind the door the woman had gone through, but before Savage could think on it, the door opened again and a man came in.

  ‘Marcus Clent.’ He stuck out a hand to Savage. The handshake was as firm as the voice was confident. ‘Welcome to God’s Haven. A place of bounty and joy away from the clouds of acidic pestilence that rage out there.’

  The language was laughable, but Clent delivered the words with conviction. Having a photogenic face helped lend authority to what he said. He was in his mid-forties, square jawed and rugged, with blond hair, blue eyes and gleaming teeth. He wore casual clothing – jacket, open-necked shirt, stylish jeans – but made a smart impression. He was the sort of man you might see in an advertisement for a mid-range family car: Reliable, dependable, and with a tiny spark that promised excitement.

  ‘DI Charlotte Savage and DS Jane Calter.’ Savage showed her ID again. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions about one of your past residents.’

  ‘Of course. More than happy to help.’ Clent moved back to the door. His voice changed, the preacher’s confident boom replaced with a soothing tone of reassurance. ‘Why don’t you come through?’

  Snake oil, Savage thought. This man could sell it by the truckload.

  They followed Clent through to a larger room. The plainness of the outer lobby was gone. Two large sofas with a low table between. Soft fabrics and pastel colours. Large French windows that looked down from God’s Haven and across to the south. Lawns and formal gardens spread before them, the drab moor incongruous behind. To the right, a large vegetable plot and what looked like some kind of smallholding. Chickens in a run, pigs in a muddy field with little corrugated iron huts, a pasture with several cows.

  ‘We grow a lot of our own food here.’ Clent motioned that they should sit. ‘We’re not self-sufficient, but we’re grateful for the means to produce God’s bounty. You might not be aware, but this place was once a mental asylum. Where there was once madness and misery, there is now enlightenment and joy. We’re blessed. Very blessed
. The only thing we don’t have is a decent mobile signal.’ Clent winked. ‘But daily prayer, with God on the line, beats the latest iPhone every time.’

  Savage and Calter sat on the sofa facing the window while Clent dropped into the one opposite.

  ‘Look, Mr Clent, this is—’

  ‘Marcus, please,’ Clent said, simultaneously raising a hand and snapping his fingers. ‘Ah, refreshments.’

  A door on the other side of the room opened and a pretty young woman came in. She wore a sky blue dress, the hem cut short, the style tailored like a uniform. She carried a tray with cups, a coffee pot, a small jug of milk and a plate of fancy biscuits. Clent pointed at the table, and she placed the tray down and made a half bow before retreating.

  ‘Thanks,’ Savage said, trying not to let herself be deflected by the hospitality. ‘Last week, the detectives that visited were told Abigail Duffy had never been here. Now I find out she had. Can you explain?’

  ‘Ah, Abigail.’ Clent steepled his hands and bowed his head for a moment before looking up. ‘Tragic, absolutely tragic. A flower taken from the world before she got the chance to bloom. The whole community is united in grief and prayer.’

  ‘Can you tell me why they were also united in telling a lie? Was that your doing?’

  ‘Yes.’ Clent frowned. ‘I’m afraid it was. I felt we needed time to talk things through.’

  ‘To get your collective story straight, you mean?’

  ‘No, and I’m offended you’d think so. It’s just I knew there’d be questions, and I wanted to prepare everyone for the consequences.’

  ‘And why should there be consequences if you simply told the truth?’

  ‘You don’t understand, Charlotte. There’s a lot of hate out there, a lot of people who are prepared to do anything to see groups like us fail. Once it is known that Abigail was here, there’ll undoubtedly be speculation. Lurid, sinister, suggestive speculation.’

  ‘If you’ve done nothing wrong, then there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Tell that to Jesus. Tell that to all the minority groups persecuted over the years. We live in dangerous times and all I want to do is protect the community I love.’

  Savage wondered if Clent really believed his own spiel. Even if he didn’t, his followers presumably did, which explained why every one of them had lied to the police.

  ‘If you’re telling the truth, then you won’t mind helping now, right?’

  ‘Of course not. God’s Haven is at your disposal. All I wish is for the unfortunate individual who did this to face justice.’

  Savage glanced at Calter. Her facial expression showed she, like Savage, trusted nothing Clent was saying.

  ‘So, despite what everyone told the team, Abigail Duffy was a resident here, correct?’

  ‘Resident? Oh, I wouldn’t say that. She only stayed with us for a few weeks before moving on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why did she come or why did she leave?’ The smile again. Dismissive. ‘To be honest, the reasons people come and go are usually the same: they are looking for something.’

  ‘And Abigail? What was she looking for?’

  ‘Community, comfort, security, love. All of those I expect. She was a troubled young woman, unsure of herself. Like a lot of children, the transition to adulthood hadn’t been easy for her. She’d lost her way somewhat and was searching for the correct path.’

  ‘Which was God?’

  ‘Yes, initially. She threw herself into the classes and services for the first few weeks, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. In my experience, people need to have a small slice of belief to start with. Enlightenment can’t grow on stony ground.’

  ‘Did you try to persuade her to stay?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Others did too.’ Clent held up his hands. ‘Nothing pushy. This isn’t a cult. Everyone here is free to come and go as they please. But, in the end, she decided to leave and we respected her decision.’

  ‘When exactly was that?’ Calter. A pencil poised over her notebook. ‘A date if possible.’

  ‘May or June last year? I’m not sure of the precise date.’

  ‘Would anyone else have a better idea? Perhaps you have records we could look at?’

  ‘This is not an institution. We have records of our permanent residents, but visitors come and go.’

  ‘Abigail was murdered, Mr Clent.’ Savage again. ‘Brutally murdered. We need every assistance in finding her killer.’

  ‘Of course.’ Clent flinched. He clasped his hands together, wringing one over the other. ‘A terrible business.’

  ‘Is there anything you can think of which might have led somebody to kill her? Anything to do with God’s Haven?’

  ‘God’s Haven?’ Clent leaned back, his mouth dropping open. ‘It’s absolutely out of the question anyone from here would be involved in something like this.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do, Charlotte. I know everything that happens at God’s Haven, and I can assure you nobody wished Abigail any ill intent. Quite the opposite. For the short time she was with us, she was one of the most-loved individuals here.’

  Savage studied Clent’s expression, looking for some kind of tell, but the man wasn’t so much poker-faced as possessed of a saint’s aura. If there was anything amiss, the absolute certainty of his belief eclipsed it.

  ‘I’d like to question any of the residents who were in close contact with Abigail. Could you get a list together so we can draw up a fresh interview schedule?’ Savage paused. ‘Please tell your people they made a serious mistake in not telling the truth last week, but that this is a chance to make amends.’

  ‘Of course.’ Clent cocked his head to one side. ‘But the interviews will have to wait until tomorrow because we have an important prayer meeting this afternoon.’

  ‘Did you not hear what I said? We’re investigating a murder. Your prayer meeting does not take precedent.’

  ‘Really? I assume the police take Christian sensibilities into account in the same way they bend over backwards for other religions I might mention.’

  ‘And what religions are those, Mr Clent?’

  ‘You know…’ Clent looked round, almost as if he was fearful of being overheard. ‘Muslims. Jews.’

  ‘We treat everybody the same whether they are Christian, Muslim, Jew, agnostic or atheist.’

  ‘That’s good because I heard your very own Chief Constable on the radio the other day. She stressed the need for the force to be even-handed in dealing with all religions and to take all beliefs and points of view into account.’

  ‘Ma’am?’ Calter leaned over. She whispered quiet enough so Clent couldn’t hear. ‘He’s right. Maria Heldon has launched a minorities awareness month. You know, the Guilty as Charged initiative? Might be wise to leave it until tomorrow.’

  Savage remembered Guilty As Charged was Heldon’s attempt to hold up her hands and admit policing mistakes had been made in the past. A five-point plan outlined the steps the force would take to ensure the future would be one where they acted without prejudice. Minorities were to be, in management-speak jargon, centred in all police actions.

  ‘Please email me the list.’ Realising Clent had the upper hand, Savage stood. She pointed to the business card she’d left on the table. ‘I want to speak to some of the residents in the morning.’

  Clent stood too, but Savage was already heading to the door, Calter behind.

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up, Jane,’ Savage said as they walked to the car. ‘The last thing I need is the Chief Constable on my back.’

  ‘What a dickhead.’ Calter shook her head. ‘The prayer meeting is obviously another chance for Clent to make sure everyone has their stories right. He’s lying through his perfect teeth.’

  ‘Definitely. He claims Abigail left God’s Haven in May or June, but she was at Toby Barrows’ shop having a religious acronym carved into her thigh in October. He’s hiding something for sure.’

  Uncovering what it
was wouldn’t be easy, Savage thought. The final exchange with Marcus Clent showed he was going to try to obfuscate their enquiries. She clicked open the door to the car, aware as she did of a piece of paper fluttering down from the doorsill. She bent and picked it up. A handful of words had been written in pencil.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Calter said as Savage got in the car. ‘Divine intervention?’

  Savage read the note: I KNEW ABI. MEET ME LATER. NEAR HARFORD CHURCH. TOP OF THE LANE AT THE RESERVOIR. MIDNIGHT.

  ‘Something like that,’ she said.

  Chapter 15

  Interview with Thomas Raymond, 27th July 1995. Present: Detective Inspector Fred Moles, Detective Sergeant Tim Wright, Harvey Taylor (solicitor), Thomas Raymond.

  Moles: Tell us what happened after Lena Allen ran off into the shop.

  Raymond: I went looking for her.

  [silence until prompt by Moles]

  Moles: And?

  Raymond: I couldn’t find her. I looked in every room but she’d disappeared.

  Moles: She hadn’t left the shop?

  Raymond: No.

  Moles: How could you be so sure?

  Raymond: Because before I went after her I locked the front door and put the key in my pocket.

  Moles: What about the back door?

  Raymond: There is no back door. Everything comes in or goes out via the alley and through the front door.

  Moles: So you were positive she was somewhere in the shop?

  Raymond: Yes. There are bars on all the windows to deter thieves. The front door is the only exit.

  Moles: OK. [pause] You say you “went after her”, what exactly—

  Taylor: I object to your tone, officer. My client simply used an alternative phrase to his earlier admission that he went looking for the girl.

  Moles: Fine. [pause] When you went looking for Lena, what was your intention?

  Raymond: To find her, obviously. She’d stolen the Encyclopaedia of Tropical Birds and although the lithograph was ruined I wanted to make sure she didn’t leave the premises with the book.

  Moles: You didn’t think of phoning us? The police?