CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  When she got to the station the place was close to deserted. All leave had been cancelled, every extra officer drafted in to help, and yet apart from a handful of junior detectives there was no one to be seen.

  Calter lounged at a terminal in the crime suite, feet up on a desk.

  ‘On standby, ma’am,’ Calter said, nodding at the DCs on the far side of the room. ‘In case anything turns up and we need some quick info. Everyone else is out. Oh, and would you believe it? – Darius and Patrick have managed to find us a fresh body. As if we need anything else on our plates.’

  ‘A body?’ For a moment Savage was confused. Riley had been working on some fraud case with DI Maynard and DI Davies. Had they inadvertently stumbled upon one of the Candle Cake Killer’s victims? ‘Where?’

  ‘No need to worry, ma’am. It’s a misper ending in a hit and run incident on Dartmoor. We could have done without the hassle though.’

  A hit and run on Dartmoor. Clarissa.

  Savage shot Calter a glance, but the DC was already gathering her things.

  ‘Are we off, ma’am?’ Calter said, unaware of the effect the words had had on Savage. ‘Glastone, remember?’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Savage said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Fifty minutes later, having struggled through the traffic in Plymouth, they arrived in Salcombe. They relieved the on-duty surveillance team and parked a hundred metres down from Glastone’s place behind a large people carrier. Unless Glastone came strolling past he was unlikely to see them. Even if he did spot the car, he probably wouldn’t associate the MG with the police.

  The car had a black soft top, but although the roof attracted the heat they could hardly leave it down. There was no aircon either.

  ‘Dripping,’ Calter said, flapping the bottom of her shirt. ‘Like a waterfall.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Jane,’ Savage said, passing across the bottle of water, just dregs in the bottom. ‘Much more of this and they’ll have to peel me off the seat too.’

  An hour later and Savage took a stroll to the nearest corner shop. The place sold overpriced cans to tourists, but Savage bought half a dozen Cokes anyway. At least they were ice-cold.

  She arrived back at the car to see Calter waving at her.

  ‘He’s just opened the garage doors, ma’am. He’s off somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just getting some—’

  ‘No. There!’

  Sure enough Glastone’s Alfa was reversing out, the soft top retracting automatically. Glastone wore shades and a bright white shirt, buttons down the front undone as if he was God’s gift.

  ‘All dressed up,’ Savage said. ‘With somewhere to go.’

  She reached for the ignition and turned the key. Glastone was already out of sight as they pulled away but there was only one way out of Salcombe. Savage put her foot down and shot along Devon Road. She took the turn onto the main road without stopping, Calter grasping the sides of her seat.

  They caught up with the Alfa as they reached the open countryside. The road was windy and now Savage hung back, trying to keep a bend between them so Glastone wouldn’t see them in his mirrors.

  Glastone headed north and then west, following the A379 back towards Plymouth. This time of year there was plenty of tourist traffic and Glastone relished overtaking at every opportunity. His Alfa could accelerate far faster than Savage’s car and she had to take a risk every now and then to keep up. As they crested a hill Glastone passed a large motorhome. Savage pulled out too, but had to duck back in again as a stream of cars came the other way. It was half a mile before another opportunity presented itself.

  ‘Now, ma’am,’ Calter said, peering down the nearside of the motorhome. ‘Clear!’

  Savage pressed the accelerator to the floor and the MG lurched forwards. A dozen car lengths ahead the road swept down left and then right in a switchback, beyond a blind bend. The motorhome speeded up as they went down the hill and the MG seemed to inch past. Then a van appeared round the bend and Savage dived in front of the motorhome as the driver slammed on his brakes and leant on the horn.

  ‘Jesus, ma’am!’ Calter said. ‘I’ve always fancied Jenson Button as my next beau but I think I may have changed my mind.’

  As they wound into the village of Modbury they saw Glastone stuck behind a slow-moving lorry. So much for risking their lives, Savage thought. They went through Modbury and then the villages of Yealmpton and Brixton. At the outskirts of Plymouth they arrived at a roundabout; Glastone shot across in front of a bus. Savage had to wait as the bus lurched round and several other cars followed.

  ‘Lost him, ma’am,’ Calter said.

  Savage shook her head and put her foot down, undertaking the cars and the bus by using a cycle lane. Up ahead, Glastone slowed for a speed camera and again they closed to within a few car lengths. Now Savage held back, keeping her distance. Soon they were onto the Laira Bridge and into two lanes of slow-moving heavy traffic. They were several cars back when Glastone changed lanes. He looked over his shoulder, Savage unsure whether he’d spotted them. Then he shot forwards and jumped a set of traffic lights as they turned red. The MG was boxed in, no way through.

  ‘Shit!’ Savage said. ‘He’s gone.’

  Calter wrenched the door of the car open and leapt out. A horn blared and she held up her hand as she moved across the road to the pavement and began to run after Glastone. Some hope, Savage thought. It looked as though the traffic had cleared up ahead. Glastone would be long gone.

  Savage took her phone and called in, requesting all units to keep a lookout for the Alfa. As she hung up she spotted Calter jogging back. The DC crossed the road and jumped in the car. Savage reached onto the back seat, grabbed a can of Coke and handed it to Calter.

  ‘No chance,’ Calter said, pressing the can to her forehead. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Pray,’ Savage said.

  Saturday. Another week gone, the last couple of days Paula wondering if she was going a little crazy. Maybe like every other woman in the city. Never mind. Her boyfriend was coming over today. He lived in Exeter, occasionally stayed during the week, mostly at the weekend. He’d arrive late afternoon. Way before it got dark.

  Rather than mope around at home, Paula decided on a spot of retail therapy. Out amongst the crowds in the heart of the town she’d feel safer. Only when she got to the Drake Circus shopping centre she found the crowds much diminished. She wandered the cool of the mall and went into a few stores, trying on a few things, buying nothing.

  On the way home she detoured to the Morrisons on Outland Road. She filled a trolley with things for later. Swordfish steaks, charcoal and lighter fluid for the barbie, white wine to go in the fridge, strawberries and cream for a treat. She paid, loaded the car and headed back.

  As she turned into her road she passed a group of men on the corner. She recalled there’d been something on the radio in the morning about vigilantes taking to the streets. Fine by her. She drove down looking for a parking space, flicking a look in her mirror, still nervous about the other day. Silly really. In town there’d been nobody following her.

  She got out of the car, grabbed the carriers of shopping and strolled down the pavement to her gate. Up the path and the key was in the lock, door opening, Paula darting in and shutting the door behind her. She went through to the kitchen and put the shopping on the table. She opened the back door and took the bag of charcoal and the lighter fluid out the back and filled the barbecue. A squirt of fluid, Paula unable to suppress a giggle at the way the white cream looked on the black charcoal, and then a flick of a match. Good. Should be going well by the time her boyfriend arrived. She went back inside, this time an earthy scent hitting her as she stepped into the kitchen.

  The cat smell again. She obviously hadn’t cleaned up properly the other day. She’d have to have another go later. She clicked the door shut behind her and went to the table to begin unpacking.

  And saw the cake.

  It sat in the centre of the kitchen tabl
e on a plain white plate. A sponge cake, white icing sugar dusting the top and fourteen candles arranged in a circle.

  Fourteen.

  She knew, then, what the police didn’t. Everything clear. The reason for the abductions, the killings, the reason for the number of candles on the cake. But how on earth had …?

  ‘Guuurrrlll!’

  Paula whirled round to see a man appear from the hallway. A patch of hair sat above a round face, a mouth gaping, a bulbous tongue hanging out. She backed up and stumbled into the kitchen table. The man’s pudgy hands reached out and grabbed her around the waist, spinning her so she had her back to him. One hand moved to her mouth, stifling the scream. She bit hard, tasting salt, but felt the hand push harder, a finger forcing itself in and hooking her cheek like a gaff on a fish. She bit down again, feeling calluses against her tongue.

  ‘Quiet guuurrrlll!’ The arm round her waist tightened. ‘Got her!’

  ‘I’m here, Mikey. No need to shout.’

  Someone else came through from the hall and into the kitchen. The man wore a beard on a bony face with little eyes flitting back and forth, scraggly brown hair above, gangly limbs spidering out of ill-fitting clothing. The weirdo from the park.

  ‘Hello, Paula,’ the man said. ‘Did you know today is the Special Day? And right now we are going to sing a little song together, so when Mikey takes his finger from your mouth you won’t scream. Promise?’

  The man pulled something silver from a pocket. He flicked his thumb down and a flame appeared. Moving to the table he lit each candle on the cake and then stepped back.

  ‘Now then, you know the words so join in, OK?’

  Paula nodded, breathing hard as the man began to sing Happy Birthday.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Plymouth. Saturday 21st June. 12.51 p.m.

  After they’d reported Glastone missing, Savage continued into town. Before they reached the centre Calter took a call on her mobile from DC Enders. She listened for ten seconds, swore and hung up.

  ‘All units, ma’am. Tothill Avenue, opposite Beaumont Park. Two minutes away!’

  ‘Shit!’ Savage swung the car out into the oncoming traffic, the tyres protesting with a squeal. She shouted above the noise of the over-revving engine. ‘Tell me, Jane!’

  ‘Somebody spotted a birthday cake through a neighbour’s rear window. Heard some sort of bang like a gun and then screaming. She went out the front of her house and saw the neighbour’s door was ajar. Then she called us. Response are on their way.’

  Savage slowed and nosed the car forward. The little MG was narrow enough to pass right down the middle of the two lanes of traffic, but around them horns blared, drivers screaming at them. Up ahead a marked police car shot across a junction, blues and twos, vehicles moving to the side, pedestrians turning their heads. Savage floored the accelerator and followed, slipping into the moving space behind the patrol car.

  They raced onto Tothill Avenue almost as one and then the patrol car braked hard, turning to block the road. Savage and Calter were out before the uniformed officers, Calter beating Savage to the front gate.

  The neighbour had been right. The door stood open. And then there was a popping like a small-calibre weapon. Three bangs, followed by a scream.

  ‘Jesus, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘We’ve got to wait for an ARV.’

  The officers from the patrol car had joined them, and one of them shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Not us, ma’am, but armed response are on the way.’

  ‘Round the back you two,’ Savage said, gesturing to the officers. ‘We’ll go in the front.’

  ‘Ma’am!’ Calter said. ‘We’re unarmed. It’s suicide.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Savage moved through the front gate and up the little path to the door. She pushed the door open and a yellow balloon wafted out from the hallway, bouncing once on the step before swirling past Calter.

  ‘Anyone home?’ Savage called down the passage, dark after the bright sunlight outside, before stepping in. She heard Calter mutter something and then the DC was right behind her.

  ‘Careful, ma’am.’

  Savage moved forward, a floorboard creaking underfoot. To the left the door to a living room stood open. She glimpsed something strewn across the floor, pink ribbon, a piece of wrapping paper. On a table beside the television a card, a big pink ‘7’ on the front.

  Then there was a crashing sound from up ahead and a scream echoed down the corridor.

  Savage ran towards the door at the end and kicked it open to reveal a kitchen, glass scattered across the floor, one of the uniformed officers at the back door, hand reaching in through the shattered pane to open it. To one side the cake stood on the table, seven candles, an older woman next to the table with her arms wrapped around a young girl, the screams turning to sobs, the officer at the door stepping back to let Savage deal with the situation.

  Considering the circumstances the woman had been surprisingly calm. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ she’d said, adding, much to Hardin’s relief, that there would be ‘no solicitors’.

  The little girl – Lily – got some stickers from one of the uniforms and a ride round the block in the patrol car. ‘The best birthday present I’ve ever had,’ she said. It transpired the woman in the house was Lily’s aunt. She was looking after the girl because Lily’s mum was working a Saturday shift up at the hospital where she was a midwife. Lily and the aunt had blown up a dozen balloons, popped them, opened the aunt’s present and then blown up some more balloons and popped them too.

  The mother turned up after an hour, flustered at being late because of an emergency C-section, in a state when she saw the three patrol cars, camera crew and photographers, not to mention the crowd of people gawping.

  Right now Hardin and Savage stood with the girl and her mother and aunt, Hardin trying to turn his grimace into something resembling a smile for the photographer from the Herald. Once the pictures had been taken Dan Phillips walked forwards and held out his hand to Hardin.

  ‘Nice one, Conrad. Always a pleasure. You and your lads must be worth a couple of dozen column inches a week. Makes my job so much easier.’

  ‘Why don’t you just f—’ Savage nudged Hardin and stared at the little girl. Hardin coughed. ‘F … F … find a birthday present for young Lily here. She’s the one you need to thank. Without her there’s no story.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Phillips said, adding a wink and a smile. ‘And I’ll slip you a couple of fifties too. Like last time, hey?’

  ‘If you don’t—’ Hardin moved down the garden path and Phillips backed off, pulling the photographer after him, the two of them chuckling away.

  A couple of hours later and Savage was back at the station standing in the corridor outside the crime suite, Hardin trying to explain why he’d lost his temper.

  ‘Media management,’ the DSupt said. ‘You go on these courses, think it’s all about dealing with some terrorist alert or an innocent civilian shot by mistake. They don’t tell you what to do in this situation. That reporter …’

  ‘Dan’s alright,’ Savage said. ‘Much as he annoys me sometimes, he’s only doing his job.’

  ‘His so-called job appears to be trying to put the fear of God into people. He’s in training for a position on one of the tabloids and I for one won’t be sorry to see him go. Did you see the paper this morning? Sensationalist rubbish.’

  Hardin huffed a couple of times and then asked about Phil Glastone. Was there any sign of him?

  ‘No,’ Savage said. ‘I sent the Salcombe beat officer round to his house, but Glastone hasn’t returned.’

  ‘So he’s still on the prowl then.’

  ‘I think he knew we were following him. If he’s the killer he’d be stupid to do anything.’

  ‘But that’s what these maniacs are, Charlotte. Stupid. Keep at it, OK? Find the man.’

  With the order still hanging in the air Hardin turned and was off to his office. Savage pushed through the double doors into
the crime suite, finding most of the team inside. Legs were on desks, coffee cups scattered around, a smell of fish and chips drifting from one side where Enders was unpacking several portions from a carrier bag.

  ‘Plaice, chips, curry sauce and peas?’

  ‘Mine,’ Riley said.

  ‘Might have guessed,’ Enders said. ‘Fussy London-type that you are.’

  ‘It’s called having a sophisticated palate,’ Riley said, getting up and taking the carton from Enders. ‘Although, had there been one round the corner, I would have preferred a Lebanese.’

  ‘Sod off!’ Enders picked a can of Coke from a second carrier and lobbed the can across to Riley. ‘And this will have to do instead of a bottle of vintage Blue Nun.’

  ‘How did you know my favourite tipple?’

  ‘With your “sophisticated palate” it was either the frigid mother superior or Mateus Rosé.’

  Savage smiled at the banter and then moved across the room towards where Calter had just answered a trilling phone. The DC bent to the receiver, the pen in her hand moving at speed across a jotter pad.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Calter glanced up, the tone of her voice low but insistent. ‘This time it’s for real.’

  By the time Savage and Calter pulled up on Trelawney Road in Peverell, John Layton had managed to seal the front garden and fifty metres of pavement either side of the house. White-suited figures crawled in the gutter bagging every cigarette butt, crisp packet and sweet wrapper.

  ‘Ms Paula Rowland,’ Layton said, handing Savage a photograph. ‘Got this sent through from the school where she works.’

  Savage looked down at the picture which showed a young woman in her early thirties. Slim. Long brown hair tied back. A pretty face.

  ‘Witnesses?’ Savage said.

  ‘Some twitching curtains,’ Layton said, pointing to a property a couple of doors up. ‘A neighbour spotted a car moving off at speed around four o’clock. Paula had apparently only just returned.’

  ‘Any idea who was driving?’

  ‘No, but the neighbour says the vehicle was an old thing, a van or a tow truck of some kind.’