CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Davies said. ‘That must be the McGanns’ daughter-in-law. She’s going to be getting all lonely when her hubby goes inside.’

  ‘Well, he won’t be going anywhere if we spend our time bird watching.’

  ‘There is that, Sergeant.’ Davies looked up and patted the scope. ‘But perhaps we can agree Maynard’s hobby is not such a bad one after all.’

  ‘Talking of which, can you see him?’

  Davies bent to the scope again and panned back and forth. ‘Got him! He’s down in the ditch. Just taken his foil-wrapped sarnies out. Sad fucker.’

  Riley pulled out a chair and sat down again, ignoring Davies’ chuntering. He leant back, closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun. Mrs Kimberly’s place was an odd sort of house, but there was no denying the location was superb. Julie had been suggesting they get a place together, hinting she’d like to live out in the countryside. Riley wasn’t sure. He was a city boy born and bred: five minutes to the corner shop and pub; ten minutes to the restaurants and clubs. Always hustle and bustle, noise and light. ‘Not good for kids’, Julie said. Perhaps she was right. There was space here. You could maybe put a pool in, certainly one of those tub things. A barbie in one corner, friends round, a couple of beers, he could almost forget city life. Riley smiled inwardly, aware that Davies was mumbling something else, letters and numbers.

  ‘Did you hear me, Sergeant?’ Davies said. ‘Check the reg!’

  ‘What?’ Riley sat up and opened his eyes. Davies pointed to a scrap of paper on the table.

  ‘Big tanker coming down the track to the McGann farm, no livery. Check it.’

  Riley took out his phone and dialled through to the station. ‘Index check,’ he said and gave the details. After a couple of minutes he got confirmation and hung up.

  ‘The Exeter mob?’ Davies said. Riley nodded. ‘Let’s go then.’

  It was Calter who came up with the goods. Mid-morning Thursday she knocked on the door to Savage’s office. Entered without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Lara Bailey,’ she said. ‘Took me a while, but I’ve tracked down her mother, Dr Wilson’s grandmother. She’d moved to Spain to retire. Came back to the UK a few years ago on the death of her husband. In some old people’s home now.’

  ‘Where?’ Savage said.

  ‘Here, ma’am. Plymouth. Right under our noses.’

  Now, with Calter still head down in a pile of documents seeking additional information, Savage and Enders drove to the care home.

  Clovelly House sat on the eastern side of North Prospect Road. On the other side rows of graves stretched across acres of grass. Weston Mill Cemetery.

  ‘Not what I’d call a great view,’ Enders said as they pulled into the driveway. ‘When you’ve finished dribbling into your tea and played yet another hand of whist all you can do is go for a stroll amongst your old friends.’

  ‘I’d keep those thoughts to yourself, Patrick,’ Savage said. ‘Otherwise we might have a geriatric riot on our hands.’

  Inside, a care assistant showed them into a large lounge.

  ‘She’s over there,’ the assistant said. ‘The one sitting on the chair. Rocking. I’ll take you across.’

  A high-backed armchair stood over by the window and Mrs Bailey sat perched on the edge of the seat. She was staring out through the glass across to the cemetery, her head nodding back and forwards.

  ‘Jesus, ma’am,’ Enders whispered. ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘Aline?’ the assistant said. ‘There’s a couple of police officers to see you, love. I’ll bring you all some tea and biscuits, OK?’

  Aline Bailey glanced up for a moment and then resumed her rhythmical rocking.

  The old woman was pushing ninety. Her frame had shrunk to almost nothing, the shawl she wore draped over her shoulders all angled by the bones beneath.

  ‘Mrs Bailey?’ Savage said. ‘DI Charlotte Savage and DC Patrick Enders. We wanted to ask you some questions about Tavy View Farm and about your daughter too.’

  ‘You’re too late,’ the woman said, still staring through the window. ‘Lara died in two thousand and … two thousand and …’

  ‘We know, Mrs Bailey, and I’m sorry for bringing the subject up again. It must be painful.’

  ‘Time heals they say.’ Mrs Bailey stopped rocking and turned her face towards Savage, a blue vein throbbing down the side her nose. ‘Rubbish. Time makes things worse. I think of my little Lara every day. What happened to her. The life she led. She was our eldest child, you know?’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘Dead.’ The woman’s eyes flicked back to the window. ‘A couple of years after he retired. Heart attack. I stayed in Spain for a while, but in the end I had to come back. Didn’t want to die out there. Not right. Too hot. Too many bloody foreigners.’

  ‘Lara, she had a child, didn’t she?’

  ‘Child? No, love. Not a child.’

  ‘We …’ Savage stopped. Had Calter got it wrong? ‘We thought she got pregnant when you lived out in Bere Ferrers. Had a baby.’

  ‘Yes, but not a baby.’

  ‘Not a baby?’ Savage said, not understanding. Was Aline about to tell her some horror story? Had the girl given birth to a dog, the devil, some kind of monster? ‘If not a baby, what then?’

  ‘Not a baby. Two children. Identical twins. Two bonny little boys.’

  ‘Twins?’

  ‘Yes. Gave them away she did. I said I’d look after them, but she didn’t want that. She wanted to be rid of them. She was only fifteen, not thinking right, but those social workers were only too keen to grab the little ones. Of course, Lara regretted it later. That’s why she went downhill. Broken-hearted, she was. Broken-hearted. Drink, drugs. Then selling herself. Prison. All sorts. Years later she was done in while working. Working, I ask you. Selling herself when she was in her fifties. She was murdered by some sicko. You lot, back then, didn’t care much. One less prossie on the streets.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bailey.’ Savage paused and then asked about Joanne’s uncle. Was he the father of the twins?

  ‘No. Gossip, all that. We moved into Plymouth to try and escape the tittle-tattle. The father was actually a young lad from the other side of Tavistock, no more than a boy really. Same age as Lara. No way the pair of them could keep the babies.’

  ‘Attitudes have changed,’ Savage said. ‘I think now people would have tried to ensure they could. It’s a tragic story.’

  ‘Tragic. That’s it. Now I’m just waiting here. Stuck with this lot.’ The woman gestured around the room. ‘Most of them don’t know where they are. And they’re the lucky ones.’

  The care assistant returned with a tray. Three cups of tea, milk, sugar and a plate of Jammie Dodgers. She placed the tray on a table and left.

  ‘Can I ask about the twins – do you know who adopted them? Did you ever have any contact?’

  ‘No. They were taken a few days after they were born. I was told it would be best if I didn’t know. At the time I could live with that, but many years later I wanted some contact. I tried to find out more but I was told I couldn’t. I went to the registrar’s to see if there was some information I could get from the amended birth certificate, but I couldn’t get access. Something about the children being wards of court. Their identities had to be protected. I didn’t understand, but couldn’t get any further. My other daughter and my son all had children during that time and I guess the longing to see Lara’s children passed. I gave up my quest.’ Mrs Bailey reached for a cup of tea and sipped the black liquid. ‘If you discover anything, I’d like to know.’ She stared out the window again. ‘Only next time you come I could well be out there, so you’ll have to shout.’

  They left Aline Bailey with her biscuits and her memories and walked out to the car.

  ‘Twins, ma’am,’ Enders said. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Forensics,’ Savage said. ‘Identical twins share the same DNA. Which explains how Wilson could be in Man
chester and yet the evidence pointed to him being at Paula Rowland’s place. But he wasn’t there. He didn’t abduct Paula or any of the other women, it was his brother.’

  ‘So now we know who we’re looking for.’ Enders stood by the car and gazed across the road at the cemetery. Rows of neat plots. Thousands of them. ‘Question is, where is he?’

  It was done and dusted by lunch time. A team over at Exeter entered a local hauliers and arrested the owner and the finance director. Down at the farm Maynard stood astride his Devon hedge and waved the troops on like he was going over the top from a trench in the Somme. A police van and a couple of car loads from Customs and Excise bumped down the track to the farm and officers piled out, blocking the road, securing buildings and rounding up the extended family. McGann and his two sons feigned innocence at first. Maynard went round the back and asked them what the complex arrangement of tanks, piping and delivery hoses was all about. The elder McGann came clean then, hoping for some sort of reward for good behaviour. ‘Nothing doing,’ Maynard said, a smile going from ear to ear as if he’d just taken down some arch-criminal.

  Back at the station it was too early for the bar so Maynard put fifty quid in the canteen till. He managed a cup of tea with them and then he was away to complete some paperwork, leaving the rest of them to laugh at Davies doing birdsong imitations.

  The whole exercise had, Riley thought as he sipped a cappuccino, been a total waste of resources. McGann would likely get a custodial sentence, as would the others. All would be out in a year or two. The operation would be dressed up as a success, saving the government millions in lost revenue. Would the police get any of that? No way.

  The celebrations didn’t last long and Riley returned to the crime suite to write up a report. Late in the afternoon, Riley still tapping away at his keyboard, Davies came over. He had a white look to his face, a carrier bag of tinnies dragging his right hand downward.

  ‘In the shits,’ he said. ‘I’ve only just gone and realised I’ve left Maynard’s spotting scope up at Mrs Kimberly’s place. She’s gone off on her mini-break and the bloody thing is sitting outside on the garden table.’

  ‘Are you going back up there?’

  ‘No.’ Davies patted Riley on the back. ‘Got a little meeting set up later. Can’t miss it without raising suspicions. Thought you might do me a favour.’

  ‘Boss! I was off home.’ Riley glanced around. ‘Can’t you get one of the other lads to fetch it?’

  ‘No can do. If that thing gets broken we’re for the high jump. In the words of the DSupt, this job needs a quality officer. I can think of no one better.’

  Riley began to protest again, but then gave up. Pointless. The scope was up at the bungalow and somebody had to get it. Riley pulled his jacket from the back of the chair.

  ‘You owe me, Phil,’ Riley said.

  ‘Not anymore.’ Davies grinned and raised the bag, eight cans of supermarket own-brand lager straining against the thin plastic. ‘Don’t drink them all at once.’

  Riley took the bag, muttered a ‘thanks’ and left the room. He was tempted to leave the cans down at reception for the late shift to quaff after they’d finished but then thought he might as well take them home. He’d be able to offload them at a party.

  Nearly an hour later, after having got lost twice, he arrived at the bungalow at Lee Moor. Davies had said Mrs Kimberly was away, but he tapped on the glass door, just to be sure. As expected there was no answer. He walked to the side of the bungalow and opened the low gate. The path wound round the edge through flowerbeds with not a weed in sight. The view hit him again, the countryside softer now the angle of the sun had lowered. With his naked eye he could see there was still a patrol car down at the farm. And there, on the table, was Maynard’s scope.

  Riley breathed a sigh of relief. He reached for the case, which sat on one of the chairs. Then he thought ‘what the hell’. He’d driven all the way back up here, he may as well have another look through the scope. But not at McGann’s farm, he’d had enough of that. He swivelled the scope away and to the left where the jumble of clay pits looked like they might provide something interesting to investigate. He knew nothing about clay mining and the pits resembled something from an alien landscape.

  Riley focused in on one of the lakes. The opaque pale blue-green surface appeared as if painted on glass. He panned right and followed a track from the main road down to a farm nestled deep within the old clay workings. The track was white, like snow, and ended in a yard. A tractor with a trailer behind sat in the middle of the yard. To one side, a huge pile of white gravel. He was about to move on when he spotted another vehicle. The battered recovery truck had been parked round the back of a barn, out of sight from anyone visiting the property. The thing was rust brown with great splodges of blue paint.

  Blue.

  John Layton had found blue paint on the road where Corran had been knocked off his bike. He’d been unable to match the sample to any make of car. A re-spray, he’d reckoned. The CSI had also said a tow truck had been used to move Lucy Hale’s car to Burrator Reservoir.

  Riley stood up and with his naked eye traced the road to where it ran down into Plympton, a suburb on the outskirts of the city. The farm was on the route Lucy Hale could have taken. Although set back from the road, it surely would have been visited by officers. It was nothing to get excited about. But then again, there was the pickup truck.

  Riley began to dismantle the scope and tripod. He placed them in their requisite bags and went back to his car. He had to get the scope back to Maynard, but first he’d call in.

  The phone in the crime suite rang for ages until a probationer DC answered.

  ‘Nobody here, sir,’ the lad said. ‘DI Savage is at Tavy View talking to Joanne Black. You could call her.’

  Riley hung up and dialled the number and when DI Savage answered he put the information to her. Worth a gander, wasn’t it?

  Savage said it was and told Riley to meet her there. Just time, Riley thought, to take the scope back into Crownhill, put it on Maynard’s desk and then return.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Nr Lee Moor, north of Plymouth. Thursday 3rd July. 7.21 p.m.

  Joanne Black hadn’t been able to add anything to Aline Bailey’s story, but she’d poured Savage a glass of wine and they’d sat outside, Joanne reminiscing about her childhood. Another glass of wine and the conversation had turned to Savage’s own children, family life, Pete and inevitably, Clarissa. A period of silence, Joanne’s hand reaching across the table and touching Savage’s, the moment interrupted by the trill of a mobile, DS Riley’s voice on the end of the line. Something about blue paint, a pickup truck parked round the back of some farm.

  Savage was up and away, thanking Joanne, and on a whim saying she must come over and meet Pete and the kids sometime.

  She headed towards the village of Lee Moor and the area of abandoned pits Riley had mentioned in his call. The enquiry teams searching for Lucy Hale had been pretty thorough in investigating the whole area, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a drive down to the junction of the farm track with the main road and have a look around. Just to be sure.

  Ten minutes later and she’d found the spot. A board on a fence post read ‘Lower Lee Farm’ and a track white with clay dust wound in amongst heaps of spoil. The entrance to the existing clay pits was a couple of miles farther on; this area had been worked out years ago. Savage remembered the clay which had been found in the mouths of the victims. An artist, Wilson had said. Now, of course, none of the psychologist’s theories could be taken at face value because he’d played his part in the murders.

  But only a part.

  There was another one out there. Wilson’s twin brother. He’d have some sort of connection to clay and had used a pickup truck to tow Lucy Hale’s car. He likely lived somewhere remote because the killings would, in Nesbit’s words, have involved ‘a lot of mess and screaming’. Savage thought for a moment. Was it worth taking a closer look before she called th
e troops out? Apart from the probationer on duty everyone else would have gone home. Pointless to pull them all in on a wild goose chase.

  Savage clunked the car back into gear and turned into the track. The rutted surface curled away to the right, spoil heaps rising on either side, sloping upwards at forty-five degrees. Savage wondered what sort of farm could exist in the sterile environment. As if in answer the land opened out, the track climbing through an almost lunar landscape to some sort of settlement. A large house sat to one side and a number of barns to the other. Arranged either side of the track were huge circular tanks, water splashing into each from pipes leading down from the hillside. There was a pond too, chicken wire round the edge, several ducks swimming amongst green weed.

  What was this place? A sewage works? Then she saw a splash in one of the tanks, a flash of silver as something darted away into the depths.

  A trout.

  The place was a fish farm.

  Now Savage could see water cascading down the moorland to the rear of the house, a stream leading to a collection tank from which pipes fed the water to various pools. The winding track ended at a gate, beyond a yard area, the ground coarse with silica residue. A tractor and trailer stood to one side of the yard, the trailer holding a large tank. The gate had a sign on with the words ‘Keep out. Fish disease’.

  Savage rolled the car up to the gate and stopped. She climbed out. She could see the shed which Riley had said hid the pickup from view, but there were no other vehicles aside from the tractor.

  She placed one hand on the gate latch and with the other reached into her pocket for her phone. She was surprised to see a signal. Comforted too. The gate swung open and she crossed the yard towards the house. Brown pebbledash peeled away from one side of the unimposing post-war structure, while to the right-hand side of the house an extension looked like an afterthought. Curtains framed the windows of the downstairs front rooms, both sets drawn half across. Savage stepped closer. The room on the left was filled with shadows and dark oak furniture. On the back wall a display case hung above a table, but the glass reflected the light from the window and she couldn’t make out what was within.