CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  ‘It’s bad enough.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. However, raping his wife doesn’t make him the Candle Cake Killer, does it?’

  ‘We’ll see. We’re gathering evidence right now.’

  ‘Looked to me as if Glastone was furnishing his own evidence and I don’t blame him one bit.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘The first time, you lot tried to fit him up. If the killer hadn’t struck again you’d have had Glastone locked away. An innocent man.’

  ‘We don’t—’

  ‘Yes we do!’ Wilson raised his voice, his face contorted for a second. ‘That man down there is not the killer. He’s not clever enough for a start. There’s no motive either. Nothing.’

  ‘He’s a programmer. Earns a packet, enough to buy a nice house in Salcombe and run an expensive motorboat anyway.’

  ‘Motive, Inspector, motive.’ Wilson paused and then nodded and lowered his voice. ‘Sorry for shouting. I just don’t want to see the wrong person banged up. Worse, I don’t want the killer to be the one on the outside running around and murdering at will.’

  ‘Well, we’re on the same side then.’

  There was a moment’s embarrassing silence and then a knock on the door broke the spell. Enders’ face peered round, his usual beaming expression absent.

  ‘Gaelforce, ma’am,’ he said, holding out a piece of paper. ‘They’re a commercial chandlers down on the dock at Sutton harbour. This receipt is dated twenty-one June. Yesterday. One thirty-seven p.m. Telling the truth about where he went after you lost him at least, isn’t he?’

  Wilson smiled as Savage shook her head.

  ‘Doesn’t prove a thing. He could have taken Paula afterwards. Get on to Hi-Tech Crimes, Patrick, and tell them to prioritise getting the data from Glastone’s mobile phone. When we’ve got the information we’ll know for sure.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wilson said, smiling again. ‘We will.’

  Joanne Black spent Sunday morning on the tractor de-heading thistles on the three big pastures she owned up Bere Alston way. The rotary cutter on the back of the tractor whined and hissed as she sped around the field seeking out clumps of the purple flowers, lazy sheep watching her activities with bemused faces. By lunch time she’d finished and for a moment, as she stood by the gate and surveyed her work, the events at the farm were almost forgotten. Normality would return, she thought. It might be weeks or months in coming, but life carried on whether you fretted about your troubles or not.

  Back home for lunch a police officer in the farmyard broke the news to her: the Candle Cake Killer had struck again. Joanne shook her head. The return of normality, it appeared, had been postponed. She turned on the radio as she made a couple of sandwiches. BBC Devon were trying their best to be sensationalist in a non-sensationalist way but failing miserably, the glee in the reporter’s voice evident as she interviewed people on the streets of Plymouth. The questions were as dumb as the answers. Small talent meeting big story. Joanne re-tuned to 5Live where inevitably the failure of the police to prevent the kidnapping of the latest victim was being turned into a debate about funding. It wasn’t until the top of the hour that she got the full story.

  Radio off, she pondered developments for a moment and then went across to the phone. On the wall behind was a pinboard where she’d stuck a business card given to her by one of the young detectives. She removed the card and held it in her hand for a moment. Jody was probably right about her fears. The girl, the bungalow and her uncle were history, nothing to do with the Candle Cake Killer. Still, if there was any kind of link the police would be in a better position to find it than she would. Joanne reached for the phone.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The sheet rustles as the girl moves and for a moment she looks confused.

  ‘Plastic,’ you say to her. ‘0.254 millimetres. We like to keep things nice and tidy, don’t we, Mikey? Saves a mess.’

  ‘Yuuuhhhh. Mess. Fucking mess. Awwwfuuul.’

  ‘Awful. That’s right, Mikey,’ you say. ‘Awful.’

  ‘Help!’ the girl yells at the top of her voice. ‘For God’s sake let me go!’

  Let her go? What is she on about? There can be no going back now. Not after the choices she’s made.

  ‘We can’t do that, can we? You’ve been so naughty, see? Done things which need … how can I say this … punishing?’

  ‘Pose her, Ronnie, pose her,’ Mikey says, tongue hanging out. ‘When we gunna pose her?’

  ‘Expose, Mikey,’ you say. ‘The word is expose. And we’ll be exposing her soon, don’t worry.’

  You move away from the table, reach for the Big Knife. You hold it out in front of you, the steel glinting in the light, the thing like some giant phallus. You return to the table and place the knife down near to the girl’s waist, slide it in under her blouse and slice upwards. The material rips, threads parting with hardly a sound.

  ‘This is my favourite toy, Paula,’ you say. ‘And its purpose is to explore, reveal and expose.’

  The blade flashes again and again, Mikey moving close and pulling away the blouse, then reaching for her bra, dirty fingers scrabbling at her breasts.

  ‘Leave her alone, Mikey,’ you say. ‘You’ll get your turn later.’

  ‘Aaawww!’ Mikey snorts and then jumps down towards the girl’s feet. You cut through her skirt, Mikey paws again and in seconds she’s lying there in nothing but her panties. You slip the point of the blade in at the side and flick it up, Mikey grabbing and pulling until away they come.

  ‘Lovely,’ you say. ‘Beautiful. As naked as the day you were born.’

  Mikey sniffs the air, wrinkles his nose. Looks the girl up and down. You pause for a moment, examine the point of the blade, test the sharpness on the back of a fingernail.

  And then you begin.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Sunday 22nd June. 2.21 p.m.

  After Corran’s post-mortem Riley and Davies returned to Crownhill. The station, usually quiet on a Sunday, was packed to overflowing. A press conference with the parents of the Candle Cake Killer’s latest victim was due to take place later and the Chief Constable was in attendance. His visit had brought on a bout of presenteeism not seen since a minor royal had toured the station a few years back. Riley and Davies snuck in under the radar, their case overlooked in all the excitement. As they tucked into a late lunch in the canteen Riley put his thoughts to Davies.

  ‘Despite initial appearances – the shot to the head – I don’t believe this was a professional hit.’

  ‘Been thinking along the same lines myself, Darius.’ Davies cut into his pie and shovelled a forkful into his mouth, chewing the bits of steak and onion while waving the knife at Riley. ‘Too messy, too risky, too bloody crazy.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Riley said. ‘Which tends to suggest Corran wasn’t blackmailing some big crimo. If he had, the hit would have been carried out by a pro.’

  ‘So it was someone else then. Who?’

  ‘I was wondering about white-collar. Plenty of them in HMP Dartmoor. Corran got wind of some scam or fraud and wanted in. It all works out to start with and then the victim gets shirty at Corran’s increasing demands. He cracks and goes after Corran. Whoever the blackmailer was Corran wasn’t expecting trouble. Otherwise he’d have taken more precautions.’

  ‘All well and good,’ Davies said, attacking his pie again. ‘But what about the gun?’

  ‘That’s where you come in. Once we know the calibre you’ll have to ask around and see what might have changed hands recently. Your casual killer doesn’t tend to have a weapon lying around at home and they may well have drawn attention to themselves when trying to buy one.’

  ‘Right.’ Davies brought his fork down on a piece of potato. ‘The business end of all this, the money. Still don’t know about that. How he picked the cash up.’

  ‘We’re waiting on Hi-Tech Crimes. Hopefully they can get something from the laptop. But I reckon Corran w
as working some kind of clever drop and pickup which on the final occasion went wrong.’ Riley stared at Davies’ plate where the DI had mashed the potato and mixed it with a whirl of tomato sauce. ‘Very wrong.’

  The second interview session with Glastone didn’t prove any more productive than the first. Again, the double act was Calter and Enders, the two of them trying to home in on the little slivers of information which Glastone provided. Again, nothing he said was of much use. He claimed that after he’d visited the chandlers he’d driven around a bit and was home by eight o’clock. Enders put it to him that Carol said he didn’t get back until the early hours of the next morning. Even if they took the eight p.m. time as gospel there were several hours to account for. Glastone shrugged, continued to deny he was the Candle Cake Killer and said he didn’t know who Paula Rowland was.

  ‘He’s hiding something, ma’am,’ Enders said to Savage when the interview was over. ‘What did Wilson think this time around?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Savage said. ‘He wasn’t listening in. Said there was no need, so he went home.’

  ‘He’s bloody confident Glastone isn’t the killer then?’

  ‘Too confident.’

  Which, Savage thought, wasn’t something they could afford to be. Paula Rowland was out there somewhere. She was probably dead, but they had to cling to the possibility she was still alive. Either way, they needed to find her. John Layton had put a team into Glastone’s house but with no news so far there was only one alternative: they needed to press Glastone harder in the third session.

  Savage began to go through the interview strategy with Calter and Enders when Doug Hamill from the Hi-Tech Crimes Unit called. The unit didn’t usually do Sundays but Hamill had come in as soon as he got word they’d arrested Glastone. He knew the man’s background and figured there’d be a lot of data crunching to do. A clue to the whereabouts of Paula Rowland might well be hidden on one of the four computers Glastone owned. Then there was the information on Glastone’s mobile phone to deal with too.

  ‘So do you have anything for me, Doug?’ Savage said.

  ‘Only where he’s been, Charlotte,’ Hamill said. ‘All day Saturday. Salcombe, Plymouth, Noss Mayo, Salcombe.’

  ‘Noss Mayo?’

  ‘Noss Mayo. We didn’t need the mobile data from the company. There’s location history on Glastone’s phone. Pretty little lines all over the map. Shows he went to Plymouth and then to the Ship Inn in the village of Noss. He must have switched his phone off for a while because we get a jump to a place about half a mile outside the village. After that the data show him returning to Salcombe.’

  ‘Any idea of times?’

  ‘Yup. He was only in the chandlers for around ten minutes. The time correlates with the receipt. Drove to the pub, got there some time before three and stayed until four-fifteen. Then we have the gap when his phone was off but the track resumes at around seven-thirty. He was back home at eight.’

  ‘Eight?’

  ‘Yes, ’fraid so.’ Hamill was silent for a moment. ‘Of course this only proves the location of Glastone’s phone, but I can’t see our good friends in the CPS wanting to build a case on Glastone’s phone doing walkabouts and then somehow miraculously reuniting itself with him. Then there’s the fact Glastone is a programmer. His phone is pretty high-end, but he’d surely know all about its capabilities. He’d turn off the location features if he was worried about being caught or at least clear the history.’

  ‘Wilson said the killer is arrogant. He wouldn’t believe he was going to get caught. Also, the phone was off for a while, wasn’t it?’

  ‘For around three hours, yes. When he was outside the village. On the map the place he went to looks like a cottage or small house.’

  ‘OK, so he could have gone there to prepare, then returned to kidnap Paula Rowland. He brings her back and then goes off home.’

  ‘Theoretically, yes.’ Hamill paused again. ‘It doesn’t leave much time to … you know, do the things these sort of nutters do.’

  ‘Which tends to suggest to me he hasn’t done those things yet.’

  ‘You mean …?’

  ‘Give me the address, Doug, I’m on my way.’

  The twin villages of Newton Ferrers and Noss Mayo sat on either side of a winding estuary. The estuary was a haven for visiting yachties and in summer every available mooring was taken and the Ship Inn packed with sailors from opening until closing. The data on Glastone’s phone showed he’d left the inn and driven about half a mile south of Noss, ending up at a twee cottage set back from a tiny lane. Savage took Enders, leaving Calter to put Layton and the others on standby, ready to move if she found anything.

  ‘The place is a semi, ma’am,’ Enders said as they drew up alongside. ‘Doesn’t look much like the lair of one of the most notorious serial killers this country has ever known.’

  Savage peered out of the car. The two cottages were mirror images of each other, right down to the white doors and honeysuckle curling over the porches. Both front gardens were laid to lawn, the grass grown a little long.

  ‘Holiday homes,’ Savage said. ‘It’s all too neat and sterile. Look at the curtains. They match.’

  ‘Which one did Glastone go to?’ Enders looked down at the printout he’d brought with him. ‘The location data isn’t accurate enough to show.’

  ‘You take the right and I’ll do the left,’ Savage said.

  They opened the identical iron gates set into the stone boundary wall and walked up the identical paths. Enders peered into the front window of his property.

  ‘Kids toys, ma’am. A whole load of them.’

  ‘No cars parked in the lane though. Whoever is staying has gone out for the day.’

  Savage moved across to a window and held her hands up to her eyes to cut out the reflection in the glass. Inside the contents of the room backed up her hunch that this was a holiday home: dated furniture, a small bookshelf with a limited selection of books, a spread of Devon Life magazines and the brochures of a number of nearby attractions on a coffee table, a print of Dartmouth hanging above the fireplace. Draped across the arm of the sofa was a red nightdress.

  ‘It’s this one,’ Savage said. ‘Got to be.’

  Enders clambered over the low wall which divided the gardens and squashed his face up against the glass.

  ‘Ma’am? You reckon he’s dressing her up to play with her? Like a doll?’

  ‘Did you get that rubbish from Wilson? Because it doesn’t fit the MOs of the others. Whatever, she’s in there.’

  ‘But what about Mr and Mrs Young Couple next door? Could Glastone get Paula in here in broad daylight while they were playing in the front room with the kiddie?’

  ‘Maybe he got lucky and they were out. Do the honours could you, Patrick?’ Savage pointed at the door. Enders hesitated for a moment. ‘She could be in there, still alive.’

  Enders shrugged, stepped back and then shouldered the door. The door shuddered, but didn’t budge. He tried again and this time there was a splintering, the door banging open as the Yale lock gave way.

  ‘Police!’ Savage shouted. She ran into the house and gestured for Enders to check the ground floor. She stomped up the stairs where there was a bathroom and two bedrooms off a tiny landing. Both were empty, although one showed signs of occupancy, the duvet on the double bed ruffled and a skimpy top folded on a chair. Savage spotted a suitcase pushed under the bed and a recent paperback on the side table.

  Enders came up the stairs.

  ‘Nothing down there, ma’am. There’s food and milk in the fridge and today’s Telegraph on the kitchen table. The dishwasher’s half open, dirty plates and cutlery inside.’ Enders looked around the bedroom. ‘I don’t get it. Where’s Paula?’

  ‘He must have gone somewhere else. Maybe he was being clever. Drove up here deliberately and then turned his phone off when he arrived. Went away and did the business and then came back here and turned the phone on again.’

  ‘We should’ve questioned h
im before we came.’

  ‘Maybe, but I wanted to wrong foot him. Anyway, I thought the girl might have been here.’ Savage turned and began to go down the stairs. ‘We’d better call John Layton out and see if he can come up with anything.’

  As they reached the front door a car pulled up in the lane. The door opened and an attractive woman got out. Mid-thirties, long dark hair, dressed in a tracksuit, a kit bag in her hand. The woman stared up at the front door and then pulled out a phone. As Savage came out the door and down the path the woman was making a call.

  ‘I’m warning you, I’m phoning the police!’

  ‘DI Savage,’ Savage said, taking out her warrant card.

  The woman looked puzzled, but lowered the phone.

  ‘Has there been a break-in or something? I’ve only been gone for an hour or so. Just went for a run along the coast.’

  The woman closed the door of the car and came up the path.

  ‘Kirsty Longworth,’ she said. ‘Did they take anything? Not that I’ve got much here.’

  ‘Do you know a Mr Glastone, Kirsty?’ Savage said.

  ‘Phil? Of course. He’s the owner of these cottages. We … I mean …’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’m on holiday here. Just for a couple of days. I live over in Exeter.’

  ‘Not far to come for a holiday, is it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But Phil and I … well, we had a few things to sort out.’

  ‘You know Phil personally? You’re not just renting the house off him?’

  ‘No, I’m not renting the house at all. Phil’s letting me stay here for free.’ The woman sighed. Shrugged her shoulders. Gave an embarrassed smile. ‘OK, we’re lovers. Or rather, were lovers. Cheating on our partners, if you want to put it in such sordid terms.’

  ‘Were?’

  ‘It’s over. I told him yesterday I didn’t want to see him anymore. The affair was getting too complicated and anyway, I’m moving away. My husband’s got a job up North so we have to relocate. I’m going to see if I can make it work with him.’