by Mark Sennen
‘Understood. When this session is finished I want you at Wilson’s house with Layton. Let’s pray you can find something.’
Thirty minutes later and Enders came out and met Savage in the corridor.
‘Did you hear the last bit, ma’am?’ Enders said. Savage shook her head. ‘Cool as a cucumber in a deep freeze. “You’re making a big mistake,” Dr Wilson says. “And you’ll find out when the killer strikes again. Which, my ignorant little plodder, will be very soon indeed.”’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ Savage said, even as she felt a lump of fear rise in her throat. ‘Not on my watch.’
Riley had to scamper to finish up at the station in time. The arrest of Wilson had curtailed the interview with Mrs Corran. The woman hadn’t shown much sign of being able to add anything to their knowledge, but there was still paperwork to be done. It was only because Davies knew what was going on that Riley was able to slip away, the senior detective covering for him.
Round Davies’ house the other evening Riley had posed his question about Clarissa Savage. How come, he’d said, nothing had ever been found? Sure, there’d been leads, but each one dead-ended. Brick wall stuff. No offence, mate, Riley said, but there was only one person he could think of who might be able to find a way through.
Davies had raised his eyebrows at Riley’s use of mate, but then he’d nodded. Dropped a name. Which was the cue for Riley in turn to raise his eyebrows. According to Davies, the guy he’d named was already on the case and had been looking into the circumstances surrounding Clarissa Savage’s death for months. He was, the DI assured Riley, close to getting a result. He reckoned the man would be only too happy to have a chat.
Riley chose Chandlers Bar at the Queen Anne’s Battery marina for the meeting, reasoning he was unlikely to bump into anyone he knew there. He tucked himself away in a corner with a view of the door. At the bar a trio of sailors jabbered on about some race while to his right a couple ate a meal. Whispers of the couple’s conversation drifted over and Riley got the gist of it: where were they going to charter this year? The Whitsundays again or Thailand?
The sailors at the bar turned to the entrance.
Two men entered; Kenny Fallon, Plymouth’s numero uno crime boss, with a beefed-up heavy beside him.
They approached the bar and Fallon turned to the corner and eyeballed Riley. He raised his hand in a cup motion and tipped it back and forth. Riley held up his bottle of Becks and pointed to the label.
Minutes later, drinks bought, and the heavy had installed himself at a table out in the sun, pulled on some shades like he was a special agent protecting a president. Fallon strolled over and held out a hand.
‘Kenny,’ he said. ‘But I expect you know my name already.’
‘Darius,’ Riley said. ‘Darius Riley.’
Kenny Fallon was pushing fifty, but lean and wiry. Long grey hair and a little goatee beard. He wore a neat jacket, but replace the jacket with a grimy leather, Riley thought, and the man would resemble an ageing biker.
They played verbal tennis for a few minutes, batting the events of a few months ago back and forward. Fallon had been the target of an operation which Riley had been involved with and the police had almost managed to nab him red-handed in possession of several million pounds worth of cocaine. It was only down to the involvement of another gangster, keen to pay back Fallon for shafting him years previously, that everything had gone tits up and Fallon had escaped.
‘In the end, Darius,’ Fallon said, ‘from what I heard, you would have been toast had it not been for me.’
‘I think I have DI Savage to thank for that. And from what I heard, you do too.’
‘Well, that’s what we’re here for. Savage.’
‘Charlotte.’
‘Yes. Charlotte.’
Fallon leant in over the table, but subterfuge was unnecessary; the raised voices at the nearby table suggested the couple were otherwise preoccupied. Holiday plans were up in the air, the woman now plumping for a holiday in the south of France, sans boat, hubby disagreeing.
‘This car,’ Riley said. ‘The Impreza.’
‘The one you lot couldn’t trace.’
‘The one you haven’t been able to trace.’ Riley paused as Fallon scowled and then he held up his hands. ‘Look, truce, OK? Otherwise we’re going to get nowhere.’
‘Sure.’ Fallon nodded.
‘Any ideas?’
‘You lot,’ Fallon said. ‘You got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s taken me a while too, I’ll admit, but I worked it out. Your guys were looking for a car with front-end damage. But that’s not the way it works. If it had been me I’d have either scrapped the car or, better, I’d have made sure I got a new panel sharpish. A rush job.’
‘And?’
‘Where do you go for one of them?’ Fallon smiled as Riley shook his head. ‘A breakers yard. Now, did you know I am in the scrap metal business? Got in a few years ago when commodity prices began to rise. Saw an opportunity. Bought into a little place out Torpoint way. Couple of lads with a truck collect stuff from farms and some of the smaller breakers yards.’
‘So?’
‘So I call up my boys and ask about Subarus. Where would I get a blue front wing panel for a pre-2007 Impreza? They tell me they can find out and off they go. Now cash is king at these places so there are no records of buyers, but Bill Hegg, who runs ReKlame Autos in Plympton, one-time mate of mine, has got a nifty computerised system for tracking his stock. He sends stuff all over the UK – he’s a bit of a Subaru specialist you see – but it turns out that a customer visited in person and picked up a nearside front wing panel for a blue Impreza on the Saturday of the August holiday weekend.’
‘One day after the accident.’
‘Yeah. One day after the accident. Of course it could be a coincidence.’ Fallon ran a hand over the smooth gloss of the table. ‘In the right light and from a distance you’d probably see the panel didn’t quite match, but in someone’s garage …’
‘Even if you thought to look, you’d never spot it.’
‘Correct. So you’re looking for somebody who owns or once owned an Impreza and stored it in a garage. Could well be one of the vehicles you already checked, especially if the viewing was conducted in poor-ish light.’
‘Dozens of them,’ Riley said.
‘Hey?’
‘Eighty-two local vehicles had no damage and thus their owners had no case to answer.’
‘Evidence,’ Fallon said. ‘Funny me, of all people, bringing that up, but that’s what you need, isn’t it?’
‘And?’
‘Hegg will see you clear. I’ll let him know you’re coming.’
‘DI Savage is to know nothing of this,’ Riley said. ‘When we’ve got the name we’ll decide how to proceed, until then schtum, OK?’
‘Fine.’ Fallon picked up the menu card from its holder. ‘Now, I’m going to plump for the classic New Yorker American burger. What’ll it be?’
As Devon village names went, Crapstone was not one of the more attractive. In local dialect ‘crap’ meant ‘crop’ but that didn’t help much if you were on the phone to someone sitting in a call centre halfway across the country.
‘Did you know, ma’am,’ Calter said as she and Savage drove past the sign indicating the village outskirts, ‘that Enders’ grandmother comes from Muff? It’s in County Donegal. He’s told me half a dozen times. Pathetic.’
‘Boys will be boys,’ Savage said.
‘That’s why I’ve always preferred men.’
‘Talking of which, there’s another fine specimen.’ Savage pulled the car over and pointed up the road. John Layton stood next to his Volvo picking trail mix from a bag. He’d discarded his white suit and stood in shorts and sandals, the Tilley hat on his head tilted to one side as usual. A thermos flask stood on the bonnet of the car, a cup steaming nearby. Savage guessed the drink would be some herbal concoction.
&nb
sp; ‘Hmm, you’re right there, ma’am. Quite a catch if you’re into muesli.’
‘If you’d seen his wife you wouldn’t be quite so mocking. She’s gorgeous. Even with a child on the hip and one at the breast.’
‘Earth mother?’
‘And domestic goddess. There’s an older child too. That makes three. Come on, let’s get inside.’
As they approached Layton he swallowed a final mouthful of drink and then swilled the dregs around in his cup and flicked them into the hedge.
‘Camomile?’ Savage asked.
‘Nettle,’ Layton said. ‘But one of my lads has a car kettle and some Gold Blend if you’d prefer.’
‘Anything in the house?’
‘No skulls on the sideboard, if that’s what you mean. Forensically there’s nothing out of the ordinary. We’ve collected a load of samples, but that doesn’t mean a thing. However, if he did the butchery here we’ll find something. No way you could carve someone up and chop their head off without making one hell of a mess.’
‘And non-forensically?’
‘There’s hundreds of books on serial killers, but then there would be, given what Wilson does. Loads of documents, an old computer, a gun, a—’
‘A gun?’
‘Yes.’ Layton moved to the rear door of the car and opened it. From a crate he retrieved a clear plastic bag. ‘Don’t get too excited, it’s a Walther GSP, a target handgun. Point two-two.’
Savage looked at the weapon. Dark metal and with a wooden handle. Strange and angular. Long enough to be difficult to conceal.
‘Could it be used to kill someone?’ she said.
‘Kill?’ Layton stared at Savage. ‘Of course it could kill. It might be a small-calibre weapon, but a head shot or a shot in a major organ and you’re gone.’
‘There were no bullet wounds on the victims.’
‘No heads either.’ Layton placed the gun back in the car. ‘However, before we get carried away, in Wilson’s favour I found some pictures of him when he was younger at various shooting competitions. He represented Devon. There’s one of the whole team. Against him is the fact that owning this type of gun has been illegal since 1997. Plus the weapon has been fired recently.’
‘You sure?’
‘You can smell it.’
‘Ammunition?’
‘Several thousand rounds. I guess he was hoarding the stuff, but it wasn’t exactly hidden away. Both the gun and the ammo boxes were in a cupboard in the living room. Amongst the pictures of Wilson there’s also a couple of him with a CZ 452 bolt-action rifle. Takes the same ammo as the pistol. Wilson had a licence for it up until he went to the US. No sign of the weapon though.’
Inside one of the CSIs pointed out the cupboard with the ammunition, the bottom part of a pair of built-in bookshelves either side of the fireplace. The bookshelves contained medical volumes as well as dozens of popular true crime accounts of various notorious murderers: Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy.
‘Bit of light reading, ma’am?’ Calter held a book in her hand and opened the pages at the centre where an array of pictures showed dead bodies in various stages of mutilation. ‘Tempting to take one or two of these as a morbid souvenir. Something to get out to show friends after dinner: “I got this from the house of the Candle Cake Killer.” To be honest though I can’t quite fathom why people want to sit down with a cup of tea and a choccy biscuit and read this stuff. I prefer a good Sophie Kinsella myself.’
‘Never!’
‘No, ma’am. Never.’ Calter put the book back. ‘Is there any evidence to show killers are interested in other killers?’
‘Not that I know of. They tend to be self-centred if anything. Anyway, this material is part of Wilson’s work. Even the sensationalist stuff. We need to find some more background information on him. Family, lovers, friends, that kind of thing.’
‘Lovers? From the way he approached you I doubt he’s had many.’
Savage moved to a pair of French windows, half open. Peered out. The back garden was huge, fifty metres to a hedge. Fields beyond. To the left she could see the next-door property, a lawn encircling a large pond. Voices.
‘The neighbours,’ Savage said. ‘Let’s try them.’
No answer came from several tries of the doorbell so Savage and Calter wandered round the back. The garden sloped away in a swathe of bright green down to a levelled area with a tennis court on which two teenage girls swatted a ball back and forth. On a terraced patio a couple sat lounging with papers, a large jug of a brown liquid which looked suspiciously like Pimms on a table.
‘Excuse me?’ The woman stood, the voice clear and authoritative. ‘Can I help you?’
Savage reached for her identification and introduced herself and Calter. Explained that Dr Wilson was helping police with enquiries.
‘Barry?’ the woman said. ‘These officers want to know about Dr Wilson. More your department, darling, don’t you think?’
‘What?’ The man snorted and then folded his newspaper and placed it on the table next to the jug of Pimms. ‘Don’t suppose …?’
‘No thank you.’ Savage waved the man’s offer away. ‘What did your wife mean “your department”?’
‘Nothing much. Just I was the one he talked to. Over the hedge. Once or twice I shared a beer with him down the local.’
‘And what did you talk about?’
‘This and that. Science mostly. I teach at Plymouth University. Geology. Dr Wilson is remarkably well-informed on the subject. But then, there’s not much he doesn’t know about.’
‘Dr Wilson talked about geology?’
‘Yes. Especially mining and quarrying. Local history. He is particularly interested in clay mining. Clay and tin mining have played a big part in the local area, forming the landscape and shaping the economy, clay in particular. Without—’
‘Barry!’ The woman waved an arm. ‘I don’t think the police want to hear all this.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ Savage said. ‘Do you know what Dr Wilson actually did?’
‘Serial killers,’ Barry said. ‘He told us when he arrived here. He’s worked with the FBI you know?’
‘Yes. Did he ever talk about his family?’
‘No, he—’ the woman said.
‘He did.’ Barry interrupted his wife. ‘Once. Down the pub. I asked him about his parents and he told me they were dead. Except he said it in a rather strange way. The exact phrase was “Yes, all of them.” I only remember because he was usually so precise with his words. I put it down to the drink.’
Savage nodded and went on to ask some more questions, finishing by asking how long Wilson had been in the area.
‘Well,’ the woman said. ‘He’s Devon born and bred, but in this house only a year or so. He was in America you know. For five years.’
Savage wrapped up the interview and they left.
‘Five years,’ Calter said as they returned to Wilson’s house. ‘The gap between the old killings and Kat Mallory’s disappearance.’
‘I’m interested in his parents,’ Savage said. ‘All of them. Whatever that means.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Thursday 26th June. 9.02 a.m.
First thing Thursday, and Savage was in a meeting with Hardin. He leant across his desk, eager for news on Wilson’s house. Wanted to get the full lowdown. The juicy morsels. Was there anything useful, had they unearthed information on Wilson’s past, about his family, his parents? Savage confessed the search teams had so far found nothing of substance aside from the target pistol. Hardin appeared bemused. Serial killers, he’d assumed, had cupboards full of trophies. Not silverware. Body parts.
‘The gun,’ Hardin said. ‘A possible for the murder weapon?’
‘Layton says it’s been fired recently, but to be honest in the grand scheme of things the gun’s existence is circumstantial. You were at Katherine Mallory’s PM. Nesbit concluded the cut marks were made when she was alive. Whether Dr Wils
on shot his victims at the end or not doesn’t much matter.’
‘It’s called building a case, Charlotte. The little details.’
‘But unless we can find a shell at the farm or even better, the victims’ heads, the gun has no evidential value.’
‘The heads …’ Hardin bit his lip and leant back. ‘I was at Paula Rowland’s PM yesterday and Nesbit reckons an axe was used again. And this time the knife marks were easy to see. The strange whirling patterns were still there but we might have been wrong about dozens of cuts. The woman had only fourteen.’
‘The number of candles on the cake.’
‘Yes,’ Hardin said. He drew a figure ‘S’ on the desk with a finger. ‘He cuts them once for each year, is that it?’
A knock at the door came before Savage had a chance to answer. Hardin growled out a ‘come in’ and DC Calter’s face peered round.
‘Sir. Ma’am. Sorry to be the bearer of possible bad news but there’s a problem.’
‘And?’ Hardin said. ‘Out with it.’
‘Someone down at the front desk claims to have an alibi for Dr Wilson. A Professor Keith Robson.’
‘What?’ Hardin glared at Calter, face askance, then turned to Savage. ‘Know anything about this?’
‘Nothing, sir. I’ll go and see.’
‘Yes, DI Savage. You do that.’
Down at reception a tall, grey man stood perusing the posters on the walls.
‘Professor Robson?’ Savage approached the man, who turned and smiled. ‘DI Charlotte Savage.’
‘Don’t you have nightmares?’ he said. ‘All this stuff is enough to give you them.’
‘A few sensible precautions can cut crime dramatically. These posters make people realise how vulnerable they and their property are.’
‘My point exactly. Fear of God, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘That’s not the intention. You told my colleague you had some information about Dr Wilson?’