CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  ‘Those candles, ma’am, why eleven? Not, as Rachel suspected, the eleven weeks that they’d been together, obviously.’

  ‘Fifteen, seven, nineteen and now eleven. I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I heard this guy on the radio the other day, ma’am.’ As Calter started the car and pulled out she nodded towards the zoo. ‘He was talking about monkeys and typewriters. Enough of them working away one-fingered and you’d get a Shakespeare play. We get enough candles we’ll be seeing patterns left, right and centre.’

  Savage looked at Calter, thinking she had the wrong metaphor but the right idea. The numbers didn’t mean anything together, the number of candles somehow related only to each individual woman. But the previous investigation had gone over everything: birth date, age, height, weight, address, telephone numbers and combinations of those and other numbers.

  ‘Something is missing,’ she said. ‘Forget your monkeys and Shakespeare, we simply need more information.’

  ‘Good,’ Calter said. ‘Myself? All that flouncing around and stupid language, always thought it was total crap.’

  The week seemed interminable. Maybe it was coming back after the break, Paula thought, maybe it was the fact the rain and grey clouds of the half-term holiday had turned into beautiful blue skies. Nothing could make the school day drag like beach weather, the idea she could be somewhere else rather than stuck in a classroom with a bunch of rowdy teenagers.

  At least she’d had the chance to sample some of the fine weather. After school on Thursday she and two other teachers made a beeline for the nearest pub with a garden and the single bottle of chilled white they ordered quickly became two. They stayed to eat and then Paula had the sense to move on to soft drinks because the evening didn’t show any sign of ending.

  By ten they began to say their goodbyes and by ten-thirty Paula was walking back across Central Park towards her house in Peverell. The sky above was still pale with the remnants of the day and a lazy moon slipped above the horizon in the east. A couple of late-evening runners padded by, one puffing hard, not much more than shuffling along. Call that good for you? Paula thought, putting the wine, the plate full of nachos draped with cheese and the fact it wasn’t even the weekend out of her mind.

  She paused to chat to an older man with a dog who lived around the corner from her and then she was onto the final stretch where the trees crowded in on the right before the path exited onto Trelawney Road near her place, just a few houses down from the end.

  Until this evening she’d forgotten about the incident earlier in the week. Seeing the tow truck twice was probably a coincidence, her anxiety heightened by the gossip in the staffroom. But now, walking across the park, her mind began to wander. Somewhere out there the killer was waiting to claim another victim. She’d seen the papers in the corner shop, the salacious headlines, the countdown to the weekend, the lurid speculation as to what he might be thinking, what he might be planning.

  Silly, Paula said to herself. You’ve nothing to worry about. Just a couple of minutes to home.

  The lamps along the path edge glowed, but the light they cast only served to emphasise the shadows beneath the trees. She quickened her pace, aware of a rustle in the undergrowth. And then, in amongst the trunks and low shrubs, Paula saw someone – something – move. Possibly it was a dog, a large one, bounding along for a second in a wash from one of the lights before it disappeared, a shout from the owner calling the animal away.

  Paula walked on, half-trotting, feeling the sensation of eyes upon her. As she reached the end of the path, near now to the road and safety, she looked over her shoulder. Fifty metres or so away, masked by the gloom, there was someone. A man stepped out of the shadows onto the path and stared at her. Then the figure turned and walked away, clicking his fingers as he did so. Paula backed up, but kept looking, seeing a shape come from the trees and bound across to the figure. Not a dog, but a human, half-running, half-scampering until it reached the man and the pair of them moved away along the path, two shadows, one tall and thin, the other stooped and shambling.

  Back home, front door locked and the bolts drawn across top and bottom, Paula made herself a cup of coffee. Sipping the drink with her legs curled up under her on the sofa, she wondered what she had seen. Some sex game? Two gays cruising? A couple out dogging? The word drew a smile until she remembered the shape, the man or woman on all fours, moving like a cross between a baboon and a huge hound.

  The coffee tasted bitter now and she got up, went into the kitchen and poured it away, staring at her reflection in the glass of the window behind the sink. A mirror image, part of her. For a moment the wine clouded in, fuzzing her head. Memories bubbled up. The woman in front of her became a girl. Another part of her. How old would she be now? Fourteen?

  Paula shook her head. Alcohol. Fun to start with but in the end a depressant. In the last couple of years she’d had enough of being down. She’d tried to deal with the issues through therapy and talking things through, unburdening herself of the guilt, had helped. Now she had a good relationship with her parents and at last a boyfriend who cared about her.

  She ran water into the sink to flush away the coffee. She took some in her hand and splashed her face. Sobered up. Thought again of what she’d seen in the park. She looked at the window once more, this time trying to see beyond her reflection and into the small area she called a garden. If there was someone or something out there she’d never know. The Candle Cake Killer could be watching her every move, dribbling spittle from a demented and twisted face, putting a hand down his trousers …

  She pulled open the cutlery drawer, selected the biggest knife she could find and went and got ready for bed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  You’ve been watching her again and that’s excited you. Shouldn’t really, because it’s not about sexual gratification. You can get that any time with a yard of kitchen roll and your right hand. Back home now, and you need something to take your mind off the girl. A little preparation might do it.

  Schlaaack, schlaaack, schlaaack.

  The Big Knife slides across the whetstone, glinting with approval as each pass shaves a few microns from the steel and hones the blade to a razor edge.

  The knife has to be sharp. Sharp means the skin parts as the knife glides across the body, cutting as you move your hand back and forth. No effort needed, just the weight of the blade. Like a razor cut, there’s no pain, only the sensation of warmth spreading across flesh, the poison oozing from within. You’ve seen the look on their faces as they realise what is happening. They begin to think then, think with absolute clarity. In the remaining minutes and hours of their existence, they come to understand the truth.

  Schlaaack, schlaaack, schlaaack.

  Mikey comes into the room. Stops when he sees what you are doing. Grins.

  The boy’s only got two modes: happy or sad. Nothing between. You guess that’s because his limited IQ allows for only the basest of emotions. He’s never been officially diagnosed but he’s got learning difficulties, other sorts of difficulties too. It wouldn’t be PC to say so, but he is basically a dimwit. For your purposes, that’s perfect, because Mikey believes anything you say and will do just about anything you want him to.

  Handy.

  Mikey always does the girls with you. Loves it. Lends a hand. More than a hand if you are honest. Mikey likes his fun. He takes a long time and sometimes you wonder where he gets the energy from.

  ‘Got it?’ you say to him. Mikey nods and holds up a new roll of gaffer tape. He’s been helping you prepare things in the dining room. Spreading out the big plastic sheet. It covers the carpet completely and goes all the way to the walls where you fold the edges up and stick them with the tape. Then there’s a piece for the table. Again, taped into place. You move to the wall near the window and point down to a section which still needs fixing. ‘Over there, Mikey. Make sure it goes up to at least waist height.’

  The plastic comes from a big roll you keep in the barn. One thousand
gauge. Or 0.254 millimetres thick. When you’ve finished you can bundle the sheet up and burn the whole thing.

  The plastic makes a crinkly sound as you walk back and forth, reminding you of the time when Mummy and Daddy decorated the house. Of course, that’s where you got the idea for the plastic from.

  ‘We don’t want any mess, do we?’ Mummy said. ‘Otherwise Daddy might get angry.’

  That’s right. No mess.

  If only Daddy had thought of that then he might not have ended his days in prison with a piece of electrical cord knotted round his neck.

  You don’t intend to make the same mistake.

  Schlaaack, schlaaack, schlaaack.

  Back to the sharpening. Five more minutes and then you stop and scrape the blade across the back of your hand where the edge removes hairs as well as your Bic. Didn’t really need a sharpen, to be honest, but it’s part of the preparation, the ritual.

  For now the Big Knife needs to be put away, but not in the kitchen. Kitchens are for cooking and eating. The Big Knife doesn’t do cooking, not now, not since the cake. The cake was the last piece of food it cut. Not the last thing it cut, but the last piece of food.

  Now the knife does other things and lives somewhere else.

  You say ‘live’ because that’s what it does. Not like ‘lives in the drawer’ – that’s just bad English. Nothing can live in a drawer because it’s dark and there’s no food. Living things need light and sustenance and sometimes they need a little bit of love too.

  So you keep the knife in the dining room, where it sits in a wall-mounted glass display case. The knife looks a little out of place, almost like a surrealist piece of art. That’s because of the plastic plants, the rocks at the base and the blue background which simulates a flowing stream. The case once held a large stuffed trout, a fish your Daddy caught years ago. On the edge of your memory you remember the creature, all slimy, flapping on the bank of the river. Daddy taking the knife and sliding the point into the underside of the trout, the mouth still gasping for air as the guts slipped out.

  You always point out the knife to your guests. You tell them the story about the knife being used to gut the trout. You see them thinking then. It’s the way you describe the gutting of the fish. Perhaps you use too much detail when you explain the way the blade slips into the soft belly because you can sense their fear. They don’t know about your past or your family history and yet you can tell they’re scared. They don’t want to hear any more. They don’t really want to understand, to empathise. In short, they don’t care.

  Too bad. Once you’ve started the story you don’t like to stop, and if they were to ask you to that would be plain rude.

  You don’t like rude. Plain or otherwise.

  So you carry on. You tell them all about the cake and the birthday. You go over the bit about the trout again and then you tell them how your Daddy used the knife to gut your mother too.

  That’s when they usually start to scream.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Central Plymouth. Friday 20th June. 4.07 a.m.

  The call came before the light. Riley reached out for his mobile, knocking it to the floor. He rolled off the bed and scrabbled in the dark until he was able to grab the damn thing and silence it. His girlfriend, Julie, mumbled something as Riley left the room. He pressed the phone to his ear, Enders’ voice dragging the last remnants of sleep from him as he padded naked down the hall to the kitchen.

  The line was intermittent and Riley struggled to understand what Enders was saying between the slices of silence and the pounding from his headache.

  Red wine. Last night. Too much. Him and Julie giggling in the early hours as they’d gone to bed and tried to make love. Failing, but having hysterics doing so, they’d curled up together and fallen asleep, Riley as happy as he’d ever been.

  Now though, he was paying the price.

  ‘Say again, Patrick,’ he said. ‘Slowly.’

  Enders repeated the information and waited until Riley had repeated it back to him. Then he hung up.

  Shit.

  His day off gone. Just like that.

  Along with every other officer, he was on duty on the twenty-first, tomorrow. Today he’d been expecting a lie-in, spending the morning in bed with Julie, getting up at lunch time. Riley looked at the glow from the clock on the oven. Not at four a.m.

  He grabbed a glass, filled it from the tap, and gulped the liquid down. Again. Then he scribbled a note on a Post-it and stuck the message to the side of the kettle. Ten minutes later and he was driving through the empty streets of Plymouth, wondering if he’d pass a breathalyser test. Thirty and he’d reached a remote spot high on Dartmoor a few miles to the east of Burrator Reservoir. He couldn’t miss the rendezvous because several vehicles half blocked the road, Callum Campbell’s white Land Rover amongst them, Enders’ own Suzuki Jimny just behind.

  Torch light picked out a huddle of bright clothing standing a couple of hundred metres from the road next to a mound of rocks, the group silhouetted against a lightening sky. Riley could see Enders up there on the mound next to the Dartmoor Rescue Group members. The lad would be soaking up the atmosphere, loving it. Riley killed the engine, pulled his own windcheater from the rear seat and got out of the car. A hint of dawn showed as an orange radiance to the east, but sunrise was half an hour away at least. Down in the city, Riley had clambered from his bed into a pre-dawn still warm and humid from the day before. Up here on the moor the air was fresher and he shivered, regretting he hadn’t put on an extra layer.

  He walked up to the tor, the moorland grass and heather grey beneath his feet, hunks of bare granite a darker shade. When he reached the pile of rocks Riley could see they marked some sort of hole in the ground. More of a shaft really. A set of ropes disappeared down into a blackness pierced every now and then by white light moving back and forth.

  ‘Old mine working,’ Enders said as Riley came over. ‘Yesterday evening a couple of walkers reported a ewe circling the shaft and calling to her lamb. The animal had fallen in. The shepherd came out with a big torch and spotted Corran down there with the lamb. Called DRG.’

  ‘Bit of luck for us.’

  ‘Lucky for the lamb too.’

  ‘Yes.’ Riley leant forwards a little to see down the shaft. ‘How far down?’

  ‘Careful.’ Someone touched him on the shoulder. Riley turned to see Callum Campbell. ‘Don’t need another one going over the edge.’

  ‘Shit.’ Riley’s heart missed a beat and he stepped back. ‘And is that what happened? An accident?’

  ‘Not an accident, no.’ Campbell paused, gestured at the rocks and boulders. ‘His bike’s down there with him. Don’t think he was riding the thing at the time, not over this type of terrain. Besides, the bike’s totalled. Front wheel buckled and the frame bent.’

  ‘Hit and run then,’ Riley said, feeling a slight disappointment come over him. ‘A simple disposal of the evidence.’

  ‘Simple enough, yes. No less criminal.’

  No, Riley thought. Someone had killed Corran, probably through careless driving. They’d compounded the situation by attempting to conceal Corran’s body. His wife and daughter were owed an explanation. And they’d want to see justice done too.

  Riley and Enders moved away from the shaft as members of the rescue team began to set up an elaborate tripod over the hole. A rope and pulley system would be used to lower a stretcher down to retrieve the casualty. When the equipment was in place somebody shouted ‘below’ and the stretcher slipped down into the darkness.

  ‘Be more forensic, Darius,’ Enders said as the rope ran through the pulleys. ‘On the bike or the body. You run somebody off the road, it’s going to leave some evidence.’

  Layton had already found a paint fragment and had failed to match it, but maybe Enders was right and they’d find something else. As in the case with Savage’s daughter Clarissa, a match could lead to a list of car models and from there to a bunch of owners via the vehicle database. Find the
m, check their alibis, examine their cars for signs of damage or recent repair. Boring, painstaking work, but necessary. In the end they’d maybe have a couple of suspects they could bring in. If they got lucky, one might confess. If they didn’t, it was going to be tricky. Even if somebody did own up they could claim Corran swerved out in front of them, that they’d panicked when they found he was dead. Serious business; obstructing police, concealing a body, but they’d be out in a couple of years at the most. Riley didn’t think Corran’s wife and daughter would call that justice.

  ‘Steady!’

  Riley turned to see the stretcher swivelling just beneath the top of the tripod. Hands reached out and pulled the gurney to safety, the hard plastic underbelly scraping on rock.

  Corran.

  He lay on the stretcher, arms by his side, legs straight, secured by a number of straps. Grass stains and mud smeared his clothing and his mouth hung open. His cycle helmet sat at an odd angle but was still on his head. There were numerous scrapes on his face, his nose gone black and bent to one side. Farther down and his right leg was a mess of pulp, muscle and bone.

  Campbell took a big torch and played the beam across the body. The light made the surrounding moor disappear into a world of shadows, Corran’s features now white like a ghoul’s.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Campbell held the beam steady on the left side of Corran’s head.

  Riley moved alongside and knelt, one hand shielding his eyes from the beam. Just forwards of the ear a circular patch of black with a red, fleshy centre. Not much blood. Some bruising.