by Mark Sennen
Chapter Fifteen
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Friday 23rd October. 9.07 a.m.
First thing Friday morning found Savage sitting in her office surrounded by several cardboard boxes. While she’d been out on Thursday afternoon the boxes had been retrieved from the document store. Back in the eighties some of the material had been put on the nascent Police National Computer, but most had not. Sorting through this lot, she thought, would take half a lifetime. And what was she likely to find that others had missed?
She decided to start with a list of the primary witnesses and soon found a familiar name: Elijah Samuel. He turned out to have been a resident at Woodland Heights in the early eighties and then, bizarrely, considering the abuse he’d talked of, had been employed as the home’s caretaker. Fast forward to the present and he now owned the place. Back when the boys had gone missing he’d been interviewed three times and on each occasion he’d come out with the same story. The one about the boys going down to Soar Mill Cove and swimming out to sea. Savage flicked through the statements from the other boys. None of them mentioned the suicide pact which Samuel said Jason and Liam had made. Perhaps they’d only told Samuel. Or perhaps the pact was a fiction created so Samuel could rationalise the situation.
After an hour or so she took a break, grabbing some coffee from the canteen. Other officers she knew nodded at her in passing but appeared too busy to talk. Lacuna was being ramped up and additional resources deployed, the team now working flat out to ensure no stone was left unturned in the hunt for Liam Clough’s killer. Still, no one was holding out much hope of finding Jason Hobb alive.
Savage took her coffee to the crime suite. Over at the whiteboards, DCI Garrett was nodding sagely as Collier explained something. Garrett fiddled with a piece of grey hair which had settled on his lapel, concerned about the blemish on his immaculate suit. He was a detective from another era, Savage thought. Past it. She had nothing against his age, but his methods were stuck in a straitjacket every bit as constraining as the collar on his pristine shirt. In the last few months he’d been a time-server, counting down the days until he received his pension. Savage wondered if she’d be as disillusioned after thirty years’ service.
She drank her coffee and then crushed the paper cup and threw it in a nearby bin. She was pissed off. However much Hardin had stressed the importance of the Curlew case review, it was as nothing compared to the urgency of Lacuna. The link between the cases could at best be tenuous, at worst the fact the names were the same just a sick coincidence. If there was a serial killer out there she should be the one trying to catch him. Garrett didn’t have the feel for this type of case. He was as rule-bound as Hardin. Lacuna was all about getting into the mindset of a deranged beast and Garrett didn’t have a clue about how to do that.
She returned to her office and began to work through the witness statements once more. Woodland Heights had been run by Mr Frank Parker and his wife, Deborah. They had lived in and made use of a self-contained apartment within the house. The Parkers had a thirteen-year-old son who lived with them and there was Samuel – the caretaker – and two schoolmasters. There was also a housekeeper – Miss Edith Bickell – who came in to cook and clean. Both Samuel and the schoolmasters had lived in a shared house in a nearby village. If foul play had been involved in the disappearance of the two boys then one or more of these people knew about it.
Savage looked again at the report concerning the window in the storeroom. Samuel had claimed Frank Parker had asked him to come and repair the window, but in his own statement Parker had denied the fact. Additionally, the forensic analysis suggested the window had been broken from outside and not in. Samuel, it seemed, was lying.
Parker appeared, from the statements at least, to be somewhat of a tyrant. Investigating officers described discipline as akin to that of a nineteenth-century workhouse and his attitude to the police one of muted and reluctant cooperation. Even so, nothing had been found to incriminate anybody at the home and the investigation had soon come to a dead end. Within six months of the incident, Woodland Heights had been closed down after direct intervention from the Home Office.
She decided Parker would need to be first on her list of interviewees and was surprised to find he lived in the village of Hope Cove, not much more than a mile from the home. A phone call to arrange a meeting was answered by a brusque woman and lasted barely thirty seconds. Nevertheless, an interview was scheduled for late morning, Savage pleased DC Calter was free to accompany her.
It took Riley and Enders the best part of two hours to drive to a picturesque village which lay in the North Devon countryside close to the border with Cornwall. A local officer met them at the entrance to Tim Benedict’s house. PC Paul Sidwell was plainly out of his depth. He was mid-thirties, with a friendly manner, the archetypal village policeman, but he hadn’t considered Benedict’s disappearance as anything other than something which had been inflicted by the man himself.
‘His car’s gone,’ Sidwell said, indicating a garage to the side of the detached property. ‘And his wallet too. Although I’ve done a trace on his credit cards and none have been used.’
‘So you’re thinking he’s topped himself?’ Enders said. ‘Closer to God?’
‘I don’t know where he is,’ Sidwell said, casting a glance at Enders. ‘I’m hoping he’ll turn up.’
‘Sure.’ Riley nodded. On the phone he’d only told Sidwell they had a similar case. Nothing about the raft or Perry Sleet. ‘Can we go in?’
Sidwell pushed through the garden gate and up the concrete path. The house was modern but with white uPVC bay windows in a mock leaded style. Two steps led to the front door, which the PC opened without a key.
‘The cleaner’s here,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Didn’t seem much point in cancelling.’
Sidwell stepped in to the hallway and Riley and Enders followed. A laminate floor resembled oak, but nothing else seemed anything like Riley’s preconception of what a vicarage should be. A table stood next to a coat stand and stairs ran up one side of the hall. The interior was from a Barratt show home.
‘You boshed the place already then?’ Riley said. ‘Before the cleaner arrived?’
‘Boshed?’
‘Forensics. Fingerprints. Signs of a break-in.’
‘No.’ Sidwell shook his head. ‘But there was no break-in. The door was unlocked.’
‘And that didn’t strike you as strange?’
‘Well …’ Sidwell paused and bit his lip. ‘To be honest, at first it did, but then I’m from Bideford. Out here people often do leave their doors unlocked, open even, if the weather’s fine. Besides, this is a vicar’s house. People wouldn’t steal from him. Not in this part of the world.’
‘I see.’ Riley half smiled. ‘And we’re what … ten, fifteen miles from Bideford? I guess the internal combustion engine has reached these parts, so it’s not out of the question that somebody could have driven here, is it?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
Enders let out a silent whistle. ‘I might retire up here, sir. Sounds idyllic. Must be a better class of people than that lot of scrotes and skanks we’ve got down south.’
Sidwell led them into the living area. A table sat down one end, a sofa and two armchairs at the other, the room divided by a mock archway. A bureau against a wall was loaded with paperwork, a laptop to one side of the papers. Sidwell moved across.
‘I’ve been through this lot,’ he said. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. No work issues, no debts, no love letters from a secret admirer. Not much on the computer either. I’ve spoken to various parishioners and none of them could offer any explanation for his disappearance. Neither could the diocese. They’re worried, of course. I understand the bishop is going to ask congregants to pray for Benedict on Sunday.’
‘That’ll help,’ Riley said.
‘You think?’ Sidwell began to leaf through the documents on the bureau. ‘I can’t fathom it myself. As far as I can tell the man is a sa
int.’
‘Look, this is a bit of a long shot, but we’ve got a misper down in Plymouth. He …’ Riley paused. There was a hum from the hallway. A distant whooshing sound. Riley turned for a moment and then looked back at Sidwell.
‘The cleaner,’ Sidwell said. ‘I told you she’s in on a Friday. I know nobody’s been here in the past week but—’
‘She was here last Friday too?’ Riley said. Sidwell nodded. ‘Which means she cleaned after Benedict went missing?’
‘Yes, but I don’t see—’
‘Wait here.’ Riley rushed from the room. In the hall the sound of a vacuum echoed down from above. Riley climbed the stairs to find a middle-aged woman pushing an upright Dyson back and forth at one end of the landing. He coughed.
‘My God!’ The woman turned and, seeing Riley, she let go of the vacuum. ‘Please, don’t—’
‘Police, madam,’ Riley said. ‘Detective Sergeant Darius Riley. I’m with PC Sidwell.’
‘Oh.’ The woman laughed. ‘I thought you—’
‘Never mind that.’ Riley dismissed the casual racism. ‘I just want to ask you something about last Friday.’
‘But I’ve been over that with Paul. There was nothing amiss. Tim hadn’t put his breakfast things away, but apart from that there was no sign of anything wrong. Nobody realised he was missing until Saturday.’
‘Sure, but the cleaning?’ Riley pointed at the vacuum. ‘You cleaned last Friday morning?’
‘Yes. Top and bottom.’
‘And there wasn’t anything different?’
‘No, I told you.’
‘And the bag which is in the vacuum now, is that the same one?’
The woman shook her head. ‘There is no bag. It’s one of those cyclone ones. But I haven’t emptied the vacuum if that’s what you mean.’
‘Do you mind if we take a look?’
‘Of course not.’ The woman bent to the vacuum and clicked a catch. The cylinder came away and she passed it across to Riley.
‘The bathroom?’ Riley said. The woman indicated a door across the landing. Riley walked over and went in, the woman following. ‘Did you notice any mess anywhere? Specifically bits of paper?’
‘Now you come to mention it, I did.’ The woman peered down as Riley emptied the contents of the vacuum cylinder into the bath. ‘Tim had accidentally spilled the contents of his paper punch. There were pieces all over the living room.’
Riley smiled to himself, feeling his heart start to beat a little faster at the woman’s words. He stared down at the grey mass of hair and dust now lying in a pile on the white surface of the bath and probed the pile with a fingertip. In amongst the mess, he spotted what he was looking for: several pieces of confetti. Pink and yellow and covered in tiny numerals.
The village of Hope Cove faced due west, a concrete breakwater and the promontory of Bolt Tail providing the residents with some small protection from the sea. Savage and Calter drove through, passing a motley collection of houses clustered around the beach area and the inn. A coastal road skirted the beach and then climbed away from the sea, hairpinning up from the village to a number of imposing properties situated high on a hill. Frank Parker’s place sat in vast grounds and was reached by a rough track. Savage turned up the track and parked outside the entrance. A pair of large iron gates hung from brick pillars and a tall wooden fence surrounded the property.
‘Obviously doesn’t care for visitors, ma’am.’ Calter pointed at the ‘Private Keep Out’ sign. ‘Sure you don’t want me in there with you?’
‘No. Talk to the neighbours,’ Savage said. ‘But be discreet. Spin them a story. Something to tease out any juicy details about the Parkers.’
They got out of the car and Calter ambled up the track to the next house while Savage pushed through the gates. A drive led to a standalone garage while a set of steps climbed to the front door. Large trees stood either side of the house and cast deep shadows over the building, preventing the sun from reaching the dark, moss-covered rockeries. If some of the trees had been cut back, the house would have had a great view across the cove and beyond to Bigbury-on-Sea and Burgh Island. As it was, huge clumps of rhododendrons served both to block the view and, Savage thought, prying eyes.
The door was answered by Mrs Parker, a woman in her early sixties. Dark, sombre clothing was from another era and consisted of a long black skirt and a black jacket with a starched white shirt beneath. Severe, Savage thought, the woman’s grating voice as she spoke only reinforcing the fact.
‘You must be the policewoman,’ Mrs Parker said. ‘You’re not welcome and you’ll get no tea. Frank’s in the front room. See yourself in.’
Mrs Parker stood holding the door and made no effort to show Savage which way to go. Savage stepped in and onto bare floorboards. The boards creaked as she walked along the corridor. She stopped next to a door on the right and peered in. No, that was a dining room. On the other side was another door and Savage crossed over.
‘In here.’ A gruff command came from within, the voice similar to Mrs Parker’s but an octave lower. ‘You’ve got ten minutes and I started timing from when you came through the front door.’
Savage entered the room. Like the hallway, there were bare floorboards, just a tattered hearth rug in front of the fireplace. A mantelpiece sat above, a silver framed photograph of a young boy on one side. The big bay window had its curtains drawn across, a gap only a hand’s breadth wide allowing light in. The sun painted a strip on the floor which ran across to the fireplace, neatly bisecting the only furniture in the room: two high-backed armchairs. One was occupied by Frank Parker. Parker was older than his wife by a few years, his face lined and eyes sunken. He nodded at Savage and gestured at the other chair, a bony hand extending from his shirtsleeve. Like his wife, Parker wore a white shirt with black clothing, the trousers baggy around thin legs, a jacket buttoned tight on a similarly cadaverous frame.
‘Sit down,’ Parker said. ‘Let’s get on with it, you’ve used a minute of your time already.’
Parker had a strange way of speaking. He left his mouth hanging open after the end of a sentence, exposing his teeth. The mannerism had the effect of making it seem he was anticipating whatever Savage was going to say.
‘Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage,’ Savage said, bringing out her warrant card. ‘I’m here about Woodland Heights.’
‘I know who you are,’ Parker said. ‘And I can guess what you’re here about.’
‘You ran the home in the late eighties when Liam Hayskith and Jason Caldwell went missing. At the time, there were rumours, but most people believed they’d absconded. Only nearly thirty years later they’ve still not turned up. I’m here to find out what happened to those two boys.’
Parker’s mouth opened, his grey tongue resting on his lower teeth. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and then licked both lips in turn.
‘Ridiculous. What do you expect to accomplish? When Liam and Jason went missing you lot came swarming. Every inch of the home was searched and nothing was found.’
‘There were rumours of abuse at the home, Mr Parker, that much I do know.’
‘Rumours are all very well and they can ruin lives, even lead to lynch mobs, but in the end they’re just words. Hayskith and Caldwell ran away. Where they are now and what they are up to only God knows. If there are sinners in the story somewhere then I’m sure they will be judged.’
‘I’ve spoken to a man who was a resident. He told me the home was like hell.’
‘And did he tell you why he was there?’ Parker sat back in his chair, appearing relaxed, but his hands gripped the arms, translucent skin tightening over his knuckles. ‘They were delinquents, Inspector Savage. All of them. Liars, cheats, thieves, bullies, thugs. We even had a ten-year-old who’d stabbed his little brother to death.’
‘Are you telling me you never saw or heard anything suspicious going on, that there was never violence?’
‘Oh there was violence all right. Keeping order was nig
h on impossible. They were always fighting amongst themselves. The most violent had to be restrained to prevent them injuring themselves or others.’
‘Liam and Jason?’
‘No, to be fair, they were good lads. When they went missing I was devastated. As you can imagine, the incident was both a professional and a personal tragedy. I couldn’t understand why they’d run away. It was as if our love and care wasn’t good enough.’
Savage saw Parker’s eyes flick away from her for a moment. She turned and saw Mrs Parker standing in the doorway, arms folded, a scowl on her face.
‘Those boys were possessed by the devil.’ Mrs Parker unfolded her arms and let them hang down by her sides, rigid, her fists clenched. ‘By running away they rejected our affection, threw all our love back in our faces. I prayed they would be found so they could come back and be disciplined.’
‘Disciplined?’ Savage looked at Mrs Parker and then back at Mr Parker. ‘You mean beaten?’
‘The discipline always suited the offence,’ Parker said, unapologetically. ‘But not beaten. The word suggests something from the 1880s not the 1980s. I am not a tyrant.’
‘No?’
‘Not at all. I have lived simply, helped people when I can, forgiven my enemies. I will be judged, as all of us will be, when I have drawn my last breath.’
‘Our peers can judge us harshly.’
‘I’m talking about the Almighty, Inspector, not the tittle-tattle of the gossiping classes. Do you believe in God?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘God punishes. Both after death and in life too.’ Parker reached for a cane which leant against the side of the chair. He picked the cane up in one hand and tapped the palm of the other with it. ‘If those boys had turned to God for help most of their problems would have been solved.’