Puppet: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

‘Any ideas, Luke?’

  ‘It’s ironic, but I’d say they’ve probably got the best idea.’ Farrell swung round towards the mob. A group of them were kneeling in front of the line of police. Hands clasped together, heads turned skywards. ‘Pray.’

  ***

  At three o’clock, a squad car screeched up to the bridge. Marcus Clent sat squeezed in the back between Enders and a burly custody officer. Amanda Bradley sat in the front. Savage trotted across.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ she said as Bradley and Clent got out.

  ‘Your boss,’ Bradley said. ‘Highly irregular and no precedent, but there you go.’

  ‘The Chief Constable, ma’am.’ Enders clambered from the car and stood alongside a beaming Clent. ‘She sent Mr Clent down here to talk some sense into the couple.’

  Bradley smiled. ‘And in return for helping, you’ll stop harassing Marcus.’

  ‘That’s not how it works, Amanda. I’m running a murder investigation and Mr Clent is assisting us with our enquiries.’

  ‘So why should he come to the rescue now?’ Bradley looked across at the bridge. ‘You’ve dug yourself a hole, and I don’t see why Marcus should help you get out of it.’

  ‘The Christian thing, Amanda,’ Clent said, ‘would be to attempt to save those children.’ He stood still, a serene, almost beatific, expression on his face. ‘And that’s what I’m going to do.’

  Bradley placed an arm out in front of Clent. ‘If this goes wrong, they’ll blame you.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Clent made a sad face. ‘Such is the burden we are forced to carry, but it is nothing compared to the weight of the cross.’

  Bradley lowered her arm and Clent walked forwards. Savage glared at the solicitor and followed.

  ‘I’m warning you, Mr Clent,’ she said as she caught up with him. ‘Do anything to make the situation worse, and I’ll throw the book at you.’

  Clent ignored her and put on a serious expression for Dan Phillips and his cameraman. He waved at the God’s Haven protestors as he passed through the police line and strode onto the bridge. He halted at the break in the tarmac that marked the start of the bridge deck. It was nothing more than a metal expansion joint, but Clent dropped to the ground and adopted a kneeling position as if he was the Pope arriving in a new country. He clasped his hands together and raised his face to the sky. Eyes closed, his lips moved soundlessly.

  This, Savage realised, was precisely the sort of thing Clent was good at. It was a performance similar to one he probably used back at God’s Haven, but here hundreds of thousands of people – perhaps now millions – were watching his every move. Suddenly, she realised he’d use the situation not to save the Anderson family but for his own ends. As Clent rose, Savage put out a hand to pull him back, but he brushed her off.

  He walked out onto the main deck and headed for the police car. Savage followed, at the same time reaching for her phone and calling Hardin. As he answered, she interrupted.

  ‘I don’t like it, sir,’ she said. ‘Clent is playing games and there’s only going to be one winner. I want to stop him.’

  Hardin’s voice came through, gruff as ever. ‘I’m watching the feed, Charlotte, and given the Chief Constable’s intervention, stopping him is quite impossible. You’ll have to manage the situation as best you can.’

  Savage didn’t respond. She ended the call, stuffed the phone away and jogged to catch up with Clent as he neared the centre of the bridge. He stepped to the side and moved round the police car. He was only a few metres from the couple, but a barrier separated him from the cantilevered deck.

  ‘Matt. Ellie.’ Clent raised his arms. ‘Peace.’

  Matt Anderson bowed his head, not wanting to meet Clent’s gaze. Ellie Anderson turned away.

  ‘You do important work here.’ Clent lowered his arms and smiled. ‘God’s work.’

  Savage stopped by the police car. Luke Farrell stood at the bonnet.

  ‘What do you reckon, Luke?’ Savage whispered as Clent continued to talk. ‘Any chance he can help?’

  ‘He’s a father figure.’ Farrell shrugged. ‘So I guess it depends on what kind of father he is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, is he the loving, caring kind who looks after you and protects you?’ Farrell gazed across at Clent. ‘Or is he the mean, abusive type who is only concerned with his own selfish needs?’

  Savage followed Farrell’s gaze to Clent and beyond. Matt Anderson’s two children were by his side, Ellie Anderson with her arms around them, shepherding them. The two children, no, the two daughters, were crying. Savage remembered her appeal to the parents back at God’s Haven: Come to your senses and be here for Ava and Mia. It looked as if they’d either heeded her advice or their prayers had been answered.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Savage said. ‘We’ve got this all wrong. The parents aren’t here to help Clent. Their purpose is to protect the children from Clent.’

  Even as she spoke, Matt Anderson was embracing the youngest girl. She was twelve or thirteen, dark hair, tears running down her face. Her father bent and grabbed the girl under the arms. Lifted her.

  Savage was out from behind the car and running for Clent. As she closed, she saw Matt Anderson move back to the barrier and begin to climb over, his daughter still in his arms. Savage barged into Clent and pummelled his face with a fist. Clent tried to protect himself but to no avail. He fell back onto the roadway.

  As Savage tumbled down with him, she saw a puff of red spurt from Matt Anderson’s chest, a sharp crack coming a split second later. His arms flew up, releasing his daughter, and he collapsed back against the barrier. Three black figures swarmed up over the side of the bridge – Frey’s men who’d been hiding beneath the deck – and rushed Ellie Anderson, securing her and grabbing the two girls.

  Savage hit the ground with a thump, Clent beneath her. He squirmed for an instant before lying still. Two uniformed officers came over and Savage pushed herself up and told them to cuff Clent and take him back to the station.

  As Clent rose from the ground, he smiled.

  ‘Congratulations, DI Savage,’ he said. ‘You’ve just discovered what it’s like to play God.’

  ***

  Riley took Julie out for lunch and spent the rest of the afternoon shopping with her. Worn out, they headed home, exiting the shopping centre car park into gridlocked streets. It was nose-to-tail, horns blaring, tempers rising. Riley lowered the window as they crawled past a traffic officer, trying in vain to direct vehicles round a stricken van.

  ‘What’s up?’ Riley asked.

  ‘An incident has closed the Tamar Bridge,’ the officer said. ‘Everyone’s piling into town to take the ferries instead.’

  Back home, Riley unloaded the shopping and assembled the pushchair. It had cost more than his first car and looked like it would do nought to sixty in around four seconds. He made Julie a cup of coffee, but she only drank half of it before dozing on the sofa. In the kitchen, he checked what they were having for dinner and flicked the radio on. The news came on the hour. The Tamar Bridge. Marcus Clent. God’s Haven.

  He wrote a note to Julie, penning a little white lie about needing some fresh basil, and headed for Crownhill, taking a back route to avoid the traffic. At the station, he encountered Hardin in the corridor outside the crime suite.

  ‘Bloody nightmare, Darius,’ Hardin said, sweeping by without a pause. ‘It’s all going to rat shit in a bottle of piss.’

  ‘The bridge?’

  Hardin stopped a few strides away. ‘Of course.’

  ‘About that, sir. It looks as if the Dave Smeeton killing and the girl this morning are connected to Abigail Duffy. Farlight and Tarquin are telescoping into one. I wanted to speak to DI Savage about it, but she—’

  ‘Forget Savage,’ Hardin said. ‘We’re going to merge Farlight and the new cases. Tarquin to carry on separately if possible.’

  With that, he walked away, stopping again as Collier came out through the crime suite doors.


  ‘Sir?’ Collier sounded cautious, aware the DSupt in full-on mode needed careful handling.

  ‘Gareth.’ Hardin growled. ‘We need a new SIO for the Farlight case, understand?’

  Hardin barrelled on down the corridor, leaving Riley and Collier standing open-mouthed.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ Riley said.

  Collier stared at where Hardin had been standing. He shook his head and tutted.

  ‘Trouble,’ he said. ‘Big trouble.’

  ***

  The aftermath of the incident on the bridge took several hours to deal with. Any shooting by an armed police officer had to be referred to the IOPC, and Savage had to stay and make a statement. Luckily for her, Nigel Frey was the officer in charge, and he was the person who’d given the order to open fire. Savage thought it was the right decision: Matt Anderson had died at the scene, but his daughters were alive thanks to the marksman high on the bridge tower.

  ‘We tried for a non-fatal shot,’ Frey told Savage. ‘Trouble is, the margin is so small. We couldn’t risk a miss or a flesh wound, we had to incapacitate him.’

  Aside from the investigation, the gridlock on either side of the crossing as the bridge remained closed at rush hour was causing problems, and John Layton, called out to work the scene, could only get there by being given a ride on the back of a police motorcycle.

  Clent somehow ended up in the custody centre at Charles Cross – the station in the town centre – so when Savage turned up at Crownhill, he wasn’t there. As she made to head off to interview him, the desk sergeant said Hardin had other plans for her.

  ‘He wants to see you in his office,’ he said. ‘Five minutes ago.’

  As she knocked and entered, she could tell from Hardin’s red face that this wasn’t going to go well.

  ‘It’s all over the news, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘World-bloody-wide, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Savage said. ‘But Frey and his men are heroes. They saved the children’s lives.’

  ‘Are you joking me?’ Hardin’s face blossomed further into a deep shade of scarlet. ‘Those goons should never have been involved. Maria Heldon is spitting mad at what she sees as our heavy-handedness. She’s been in contact with the Met and asked them to send some experts down to do a full audit of our anti-discrimination policies. We’re seemingly nothing more than bigoted country folk who need educating on dealing with minority groups. She’s promising courses and examinations for every frontline officer in the force. It’s a bloody nightmare.’

  ‘Clent organised the mob both here at the station and at the bridge. He’s trying to pressure us to release him, but it won’t work. I’m very close to having enough to charge him. I suspect he’s involved in widespread abuse at God’s Haven.’

  Hardin sucked in air between clenched teeth. ‘It won’t wash with Heldon. She’s composed a written apology to him and the whole of the God’s Haven community. She intends to visit the place with the diversity officers from the Met to show her good intentions. Her specific instructions are that unless there is compelling evidence, we’re to release Marcus Clent immediately.’

  ‘But that’s crazy. The Andersons were on the bridge, not because they were defending Clent but because they were trying to highlight what he was up to. I need to speak to Ellie Anderson to discover the truth.’

  ‘That’s out of the question. She’s returned to God’s Haven with the rest of the residents and is, not surprisingly, in some distress.’

  ‘Because she’s fearful for the safety of her daughters, sir. We need a site-wide search warrant for God’s Haven obtained on the basis of charges relating to the modern slavery act. People are being held there against their will, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘There’s no evidence, Charlotte. Dan Phillips has been to God’s Haven and spoken with residents both publicly and off the record. He’d have found a story had one existed.’

  ‘Phillips couldn’t find a story if it shat on his foot. He simply wants to stir up trouble for us.’

  ‘You’ve done a bloody good job at doing that yourself. Tomorrow morning the newspapers are going to be full of the Tamar Bridge incident. People all over the country will be sneering at us over their cornflakes.’

  ‘I don’t care about that, sir. Girls are being abused in an ungodly cult. One has been murdered and others are missing. We can’t turn a blind eye because of political correctness.’

  ‘I repeat, Charlotte, evidence.’ Hardin tapped the table several times. ‘Witness statements, forensic analysis, documents and electronic communication. You don’t have any of that, certainly not enough to charge Clent.’

  ‘There’s Bathsheba’s account.’

  ‘Bath who?’

  ‘It’s the alias of the girl we met secretly near God’s Haven.’

  ‘You don’t even know her real name. She could be anyone.’

  ‘I think her name is Jess. She was living at a commune in Molesworth Road, which was where she met Abigail.’

  ‘Surname? Age? Description?’ Hardin picked up a pencil from the desk and made as if to write the details on a notepad. Then he glared at Savage. ‘Really, Charlotte, this is pathetic. You’ve taken a dislike to Marcus Clent and his community, and you’re playing a game of joining the dots. Well, it’s over now, understand? The investigation into what exactly happened to Abigail Duffy and – if related – the murder of Dave Smeeton and the new girl discovered this morning needs to move beyond God’s Haven. Marcus Clent has offered his full cooperation in finding the person involved. Likely, if the letters are anything to go by, a right nutcase.’ Hardin smiled, but it was a flat expression bereft of good humour. ‘I remember when tracking down those kinds of weirdos used to be your forte, but perhaps you’ve lost your touch.’

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Hardin brandished the pencil again and jabbed it at her. ‘Heldon’s on the warpath and I want you out of her sight. The various cases will be merged, and I’m assigning a new senior investigative officer to run the operation.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Stop now, DI Savage. You’ve obviously been away from frontline duty for too long. You need a period of reflection without the responsibility of command. Any complaints, then you can go back to PLOD, and if that’s not to your liking, then you know where the door is.’ Hardin pushed himself up. Dismissed her with a flick of one hand. ‘Understand?’

  Savage felt a wash of anger but realised protesting was futile. Still, she didn’t answer Hardin, merely stood, turned and walked to the door.

  Slammed it hard behind her.

  Chapter 23

  Monday. Another day and another headline in the Herald.

  Raymond munched on a slice of toast, sipped tea from his mug, and read the story about Marcus Clent and God’s Haven. ‘Persecution,’ Clent was saying. ‘No consideration for minorities.’ Raymond chuckled at the irony. He knew all about the way minorities were hassled and put down and spat on in the street.

  ‘I’m in a minority of one,’ Raymond said.

  He laughed at his own joke, flicked some crumbs from the newspaper and read on.

  The preacher was initially arrested because Abigail Duffy had been at God’s Haven for several months before her death. Now it appeared the police had got it wrong, and Clent had been freed after a protest by the residents.

  ‘Somebody up there knows more than they’re saying.’

  Isn’t that the truth of it?

  ‘Yes.’

  Raymond lowered the newspaper. Jakab had been silent since their argument. He hadn’t said a single word. Was he finally admitting culpability, or was this merely an attempt to confuse and confuddle?

  Misdirection. The art of not only the conjurer but also the puppeteer. The one who pulls the strings has the power of creation, for if the movement is realistic, the strings become invisible, and the wood and the cloth and the hair become alive.

  ‘That line is straight from your book.’

  And why n
ot when it’s so relevant?

  Relevant, yes. Raymond folded the paper. Events up at God’s Haven were both relevant and worrying. The police obviously didn’t know the full Mézáros story, but once they did, it wouldn’t be long before the Black Detective and his sidekick returned for another snoop round. Raymond didn’t like people poking into his affairs, and the Black Detective, like the Black Farmer he’d seen on the TV adverts, was a smart fellow. He looked like the type of police officer who might be able to add two and two together and come up with twenty-five years.

  You’d be getting on a bit after that long. Nearing the end.

  ‘Quiet, Jakab, I’m trying to think.’

  He looked around the little room that was his kitchen come living area come office. The place was a complete mess. He imagined the police rummaging through everything in the shop. Pulling books from shelves, opening cabinets, handling all the precious items he’d so lovingly catalogued and arranged over the years.

  And what about upstairs? The attic?

  Raymond shivered. It wasn’t just the ropes and the other equipment. His bedroom was up there. Boxes of personal possessions. Things he didn’t want anyone to discover.

  ‘They can’t,’ he said. ‘They mustn’t. I won’t let them.’

  You won’t be able to stop them. They’ll be back with one of those bits of paper that allows them to look everywhere. They’ll find all those magazines. Your drawings. Your diary. And once they do, they’ll know everything about you. Every. Dirty. Little. Secret.

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  Quite possibly.

  Raymond recoiled with a shiver. He stood and carried his mug and plate over to the drainer and began to wash up. ‘The issue, Jakab,’ he said, ‘is that I didn’t do anything. Not this time.’

  Are you sure about that? You tried to blame me, but perhaps the problem is closer to home than you realise.

  It was true, Raymond conceded, that recently he’d been fuzzy-headed, possibly from taking too few pills or too many. He couldn’t tell Monday morning from baked beans on toast.

  The bird in the medal case?