by Mark Sennen
‘This is great, huh?’ Phillips had a nose like a rat, eyes like an eagle, sharp teeth like a ferret. Supposedly he was fair and balanced, but if he had to take sides, he inevitably came down on the opposite one from the police. ‘Just last week, the Chief Constable issues a statement saying the police need to protect religious minorities from oppression and abuse. She was trying to focus minds after the attack on those Muslim kids in Exeter, but this will do nicely, don’t you think?’
‘Dan, you don’t have the full story and as usual you’ve got it wrong. We’re conducting a murder investigation and questioning witnesses is a necessary part of the process.’
‘It’s the hypocrisy I love. Always gets you in the end.’
‘There’s no police intimidation and you know it.’
‘Really?’ Phillips cocked his head at the crowd. ‘From what I hear, you intruded on an important religious occasion with no regard for the sensibilities of those taking part. Do I have it correct?’
‘No, you fucking don’t.’
‘Can I quote you on that?’
‘No.’
‘Come on, Charlotte, give me a break. If I’ve got this mixed up, then give me your side of the story.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘The news is that Maria Heldon is on her way over.’ Phillips retreated a couple of steps. Gave Savage a wink. ‘I’m sure she’ll be more cooperative. Your Chief Constable is never shy of coming forward with a juicy quote.’
As Phillips returned to the car park and mingled with the protesters, Savage felt a large presence push in beside her.
‘What sort of piss crap is this?’ Hardin huffed out several more expletives and reeled on the top step. ‘Thompson, Lane, Smith! Clear these lunatics from the car park. Use your batons if necessary. If they want to protest, they can do it somewhere other than on Devon and Cornwall Police property.’
‘Is that wise, sir?’ Savage leaned in closer to Hardin, covering her mouth with her hand. Phillips was rumoured to be able to lipread. ‘Only I understand the Chief Constable is on her way here.’
‘The Hatchet? You’re shitting me, Charlotte, right?’ Hardin wobbled again, and Savage worried he might tumble off the step. ‘When did you hear this?’
‘A minute ago from Dan Phillips.’ Savage gestured at the crowd where the reporter was taking statements from various protesters. ‘She’s on an anti-persecution drive.’
‘The minorities drivel? I’d forgotten about that. Christ!’
PCs Thompson, Lane and Smith were already launching themselves at the crowd with a keenness Savage hadn’t seen since the Force Support Group had laid into a group of neo-Nazis who’d congregated on Plymouth Hoe intending to disrupt a Pride event.
‘Christ indeed,’ Savage said to herself as Hardin barked out a contrary order to the three PCs and turned and disappeared inside the station.
***
Later, she went in search of the DSupt to brief him on the situation with Marcus Clent. She found him in his office, unusually subdued.
‘You were right,’ Hardin said. ‘Maria Heldon is coming. She feels an appearance by the CC is the only way to calm the situation.’
‘There is no situation.’
‘There is now because it appears Phillips was in contact with Clent before his arrest. God’s wrath is on its way via the grubby print of our local rag.’
‘What’s Phillips got?’
‘I’m not sure, but there’s an interview pending publication. Clent bared his soul and revealed how God’s Haven has been unjustifiably persecuted. Heldon isn’t best pleased since it doesn’t sit well with her recent pronouncements.’
‘You mean the Guilty as Charged thing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you telling me we can’t bring Clent in?’
‘Not as such.’ Hardin squirmed in his chair. ‘I’m just saying go easy on him.’
‘With respect, sir, that’s not how it works. Clent is a liar, he attempted to avoid arrest, and he has a previous conviction. Plus, he’s now the chief suspect in a murder case. Going easy is not on the cards.’
‘Heldon wants his minority rights respected.’
‘What about the victims’ rights? Do they get a mention in Heldon’s five-point plan?’
‘Charlotte, I’m on Abigail Duffy’s side in this. I’m not asking you to overlook evidence, merely to stick to procedure. I don’t want to get some writ from Amanda Bradley claiming police brutality.’
‘She’s not…?’ Amanda Bradley, the closest thing Plymouth had to a hotshot lawyer, was a constant thorn in Savage’s side. Whenever Savage had a prime suspect to interview, Bradley would be there, causing problems. There might have been a grudging respect between them had they not hated each other so much.
‘Yes. She’s already been in contact, wanting to know when Clent will arrive at the custody centre. I told her he won’t. I want the interview done here in more convivial surroundings.’
‘He’s not royalty, sir.’
‘Unfortunately, today he is, and I don’t want photographs of him at the custody centre appearing in the media.’ Hardin grimaced. He dismissed her with a flick of his hands, and as she got up and moved to the door, he shouted after her. ‘Kid gloves, Charlotte, understand?’
Kid gloves? Boxing gloves more like. Knuckle dusters, preferably. She was damned if she would let Heldon or Bradley dictate the way the interview would be run. Clent wasn’t some oppressed minority subject to institutionalised bias; in Savage’s eyes, he was a predatory paedophile and quite possibly a murderer.
Chapter 20
Dear Charlotte
I know your name now since I have seen you on the television news talking about Abigail Duffy. I do not have a television but I was in town and you were in the shop window (not you of course but you on a TV and there were subtitles at the bottom of the screen in case you wonder how I can hear through glass). I think you have solved lots of crimes which is good for you but I do not believe it will help.
I done another one but you know that. I remember what happened this time and she did not like it much. I did not either but my friend said we needed to do it properly. I think he is right but I do not know. I felt bad about the girl but I guess I will get used to it which I must because there will be more to do in the future (I do not know how many more so please do not worry as there could be just one or two). I will try to enjoy it next time because I like to enjoy my work and this seems to be my job for a while at least.
You will also now know about the man called Dave. There will not be many people crying over him. He did not like it when we cut off his toes (I remember the frogs not liking it much when I cut off their legs). He made a lot of noise so we gave him some of his drugs to make him happy which he was and then he died.
By the way you might be wondering why I am calling myself THE PUPPET. It is because my arms and legs feel like they are being tugged at from above and all the stuff about not having choices and me not being to blame for anything at all (it is why I left them near the bodies I hope you realise that but it was obvious I think).
OK that is all I have to say to you at the moment but I am sure I will be writing again to tell you more news.
Your friend
THE PUPPET
PS I think you are very pretty (for your age).
Chapter 21
Hardin’s insistence on a softer approach meant that briefing room A had to double as an impromptu interview room. Calter had set up audio recording equipment at one end of the large conference table and positioned a video camera in a corner. Marcus Clent and Amanda Bradley were already inside, but as Savage was about to enter, Collier came jogging down the corridor.
‘We’ve got another letter from the Puppet,’ he said, waving a clear plastic document sleeve. ‘He claims he killed Faye and Dave Smeeton, and this time he’s addressing you directly.’
Collier handed over the letter and Savage read through.
‘When did this arrive?’ she said.
<
br /> ‘Just now.’ Collier reached up and rubbed his hand over his close-cropped hair. ‘It was left on the steps amid all the confusion with the protest. The content makes it hard to see it as a hoax.’
Savage reread the letter. Collier was right. Impossible this was a hoax.
‘He mentions Smeeton’s missing toes and the drug overdose.’ Savage pointed at the page. ‘He could only know that if he’d been involved. He also claims he has an accomplice.’
‘The accomplice could be misdirection. Then again, it’s hard to imagine one person being able to subdue Dave Smeeton and carry out the amputations.’
‘Or this “friend” could be in his imagination.’
‘Sure.’ Collier frowned. ‘What isn’t in his imagination is the postscript. He seems to like you.’
‘That’s not comforting.’
‘No. Perhaps you should look at taking some extra precautions, especially when you’re alone.’
‘Seriously?’ Savage read the final line in the letter again. ‘He could come after me?’
‘Possibly.’ Collier shrugged. ‘He killed Dave Smeeton for purely practical reasons, whereas Abigail and Faye provided him with some kind of perverse pleasure. He might think he can combine the two motives with you. Do I need to spell it out?’
‘No, Gareth, you don’t.’ Savage imagined Faye hanging from the beams as if she was some plaything. Subject to God-knows-what before she died. She shuddered and tried to put the image from her mind.
‘How are we going to handle this?’ Collier turned to the door to the briefing room. ‘The puppet at the solar farm and the letter suggests a link between Abigail Duffy and the Faye and Smeeton murders. Plus, the way Faye was killed sounds like something from the Zac Francis playbook. On the other hand, the fact Smeeton was targeted means Barry Schultz is still very much in the frame.’
‘But Smeeton was small time. Schultz is, or rather was before he was sentenced, a major player. What could be his involvement?’
‘Operation Tarquin.’ Even as he suggested it, Collier didn’t sound convinced. ‘Smeeton had turned snitch and was about to dump Hartson and the others in our lap.’
‘But we’re back to the stupidity of killing Abigail, knowing it would cause major heat.’
‘True, but she was killed months ago, and her body was only discovered through chance.’ Another shrug. As if Collier had all but given up trying to work the angles. ‘For now, we should re-interview Francis since the MO at the solar farm is right up his street. I’m not so sure about Marcus Clent, though. Perhaps you should shelve the interview.’
‘No way, Gareth.’
‘Your call.’ Collier sounded dismissive.
‘Yes,’ Savage said. ‘It bloody well is.’
***
Clent sat on one side of the table with Amanda Bradley alongside. The lawyer wore an expensive black suit and a crisp, white shirt and had cut her hair short, the fringe spiked up like spines on a dangerous reptile. As Savage entered, Bradley leaned across to Clent and whispered something in his ear. He listened intently, one hand on the table clasping a small Bible. Calter sat opposite the pair, her face a picture of anger and discontent.
Savage took a seat next to Calter and peered at her interview notes. She’d worked up a series of questions with the interview advisor, but as usual, she’d wing it. The advisor’s idea of a probing interview strategy was so far from reality that she intended to skip nearly everything he’d suggested.
‘Ma’am?’ Calter’s hand hovered over the recording equipment. ‘Are you ready?’
Savage nodded and Calter started recording and stated the time, date, and who was present in the room. She then informed Clent of his rights once more.
‘Mr Clent,’ Savage began. ‘You’ve been arrested in connection with the murder of Abigail Duffy and the disappearance of Isobel Anderson and Fiona Jones. Do you—’
‘A formality.’ Bradley had a hand on Clent’s forearm. ‘Nothing to worry about, Marcus.’
Savage gave Bradley a stare and continued. ‘Do you have anything to say at the outset?’
‘God alone shall judge me and He knows the truth.’ Clent gripped the Bible even tighter, his knuckles whitening, the book bending under his hand. ‘I didn’t murder Abigail. It appals me to think I’m a suspect.’
‘OK.’ Savage took another look at her notes, more to allow a little space than to read anything. ‘Let’s start with God’s Haven. You started the community five years ago, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And within a couple of years you had a hundred residents?’ Savage waited until there was a nod from Clent. ‘You renovated dilapidated buildings and invited people to invest their money.’
‘Yes, but not in property. The investment was a down payment on the health of their souls.’
‘Sure.’ Savage tried to sound conciliatory rather than dismissive. She continued on with the details of God’s Haven’s growth and explored its philosophy. Bradley shifted in her seat, eyes burning across the table. Her look said I know what you’re up to. Savage disregarded the acid stare from the lawyer and continued. Eventually, she decided she’d laid enough groundwork. Now it was time to spring the trap. ‘Did you inform prospective members of God’s Haven you’d been convicted of fraud and served a sentence of three years?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Clent smiled, calling her bluff. ‘I explained the prayer scheme was God’s will, and the money was needed to spread His word amongst the heathens and unbelievers.’ Clent shifted his gaze from Savage to Calter and back again. ‘Of which there are many.’
‘OK. So members who sold property and put their life savings into God’s Haven knew who they were dealing with?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘Good.’ Savage looked down at her notes once more. The interview advisor had come up with one little gem, and now was the time to use it. ‘And did you tell the community about your arrest for sex with a minor?’
‘That was fifteen years ago and I wasn’t charged!’ Clent’s hand moved from the Bible. Bradley sat wide-eyed, her own hand once more reaching for her client’s arm. As she touched him, he whirled to face her. ‘Not guilty, Amanda, not guilty.’
‘The CPS didn’t prosecute because they decided you couldn’t have known the girl was underage. You didn’t deny having sex with her.’
‘What’s the point of this, DI Savage?’ Bradley had recovered her composure. ‘Mr Clent has told you there was no case to answer.’
Savage ignored Bradley and addressed Clent again. ‘When did you decide you needed young girls as companions?’
‘You’re making me out to be a creep,’ Clent said.
‘A creep?’ Savage gave a sneer. ‘It’s worse than that. You’re a sexual predator. You used a mock religious ceremony to gain access to Abigail Duffy, Isobel Anderson and Fiona Jones. The Bride of Christ rubbish is nothing but a sham dreamt up so you could have sex with young girls.’
‘You’ve completely misunderstood the terminology. To become a Bride of Christ is to wed oneself to God, not to me. It’s a privilege to be invited, and the girls are only too pleased to accept the position. There’s no compulsion involved.’
‘Compulsion? – perhaps not, but coercion? – undoubtedly.’
Clent turned to Bradley. ‘Are you going to let her speak to me like this?’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Clent. DI Savage is known for her exaggerated style of interviewing. It’s all hot air and she’ll blow herself out in a minute or two.’
‘As I said, coercion.’ Savage tapped the table twice. ‘First, the parents of the child must be under tremendous pressure to agree; after all, their money is tied up in God’s Haven. Second, the girls themselves must realise what will happen if they refuse. Not only will they suffer the approbation of the entire community, but they and their parents face the possibility of being cast out penniless onto the streets.’
‘I’d like to correct something for the record.’ Bradley leaned forwards. ‘These girls
were all above the age of consent. To call them children is incorrect and slanderous. Also, neither Abigail nor Fiona’s parents were at God’s Haven, so that part of your argument is moot.’
‘Isobel Anderson turned sixteen a couple of weeks before the wedding. She’d been groomed to be one of your companions for months.’
‘Stop using that language!’ Bradley jabbed a finger at Savage. ‘Or else I will suspend this interview.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds of mocking my client’s beliefs. Your Chief Constable has highlighted the importance of protecting minority groups. She’ll be more than interested when she hears about this.’
‘I don’t give a stuff about minority groups. I’m more interested in protecting vulnerable individuals, specifically young girls like Abigail, Fiona and Isobel.’ Savage looked down at her notes, giving herself space to breathe before continuing. ‘Abigail goes missing the day before her wedding, and according to the post-mortem, she was likely killed on that very day. At the same time, Fiona and Isobel, the other so-called Brides of Christ, also disappear. I’d like Mr Clent to give me an explanation.’
‘I can’t,’ Clent said. He stared down at his Bible. ‘Somebody must be out to frame me.’
‘That’s the standard line from every paedophile I’ve ever arrested.’
‘Stop it!’ Bradley again. ‘We’ve established that Mr Clent is not a paedophile.’
‘He’s forty-seven years old and has a preference for girls rather than women. What other term would you like me to use? Dirty old man? Pervert?’
