Puppet: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  Savage had read the details on the journey from Plymouth. The party had been in Torquay, a friend of a friend. Big country house, loads of people, drink and drugs. According to the two friends who’d accompanied her, Abi had hooked up with someone and left early, getting a lift in the guy’s van. There was a hazy description of a man with a beard, a name which might have been Paul, but enquiries came to nothing.

  ‘Initially, we suspected she’d run away,’ Duffy said. ‘But pretty soon we had to accept the possibility that foul play was involved.’

  ‘I understand her bank card was used?’

  ‘The same night. Two withdrawals outside a Sainsburys in Newton Abbot. Both for the maximum for her account, which was five hundred pounds. Her phone was turned off, and the sim removed or replaced.’

  ‘If she was running away, would she have had the foresight to do all that?’

  ‘She’s a policeman’s daughter.’ Duffy gave something approaching a wry smile. ‘She was brought up understanding how investigations work.’ The smile vanished. ‘But a criminal getting hold of her card and phone would do the very same things.’

  Savage let the couple take a breather before exploring a different line.

  ‘Do the letters BOC mean anything to you?’ she asked. ‘Did Abigail have any friends with those initials? Perhaps someone with a first name beginning with B?’

  Marjorie glanced at her husband, something unsaid passing between the couple. ‘There was Bethany. Bethany Smith. She was in Abi’s circle. A boy named Ben was in her A-level sociology class.’ A shrug. ‘There might be more.’

  ‘But not BOC?’

  ‘No.’ Marjorie gave Savage a blank look. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just something we’ve come across that could be important.’ Savage changed the subject. They’d have to be informed eventually, but now wasn’t the time to tell them their daughter had been branded like an animal. Another pause before Savage moved on to possible suspects. ‘There were two DSupt Hardin mentioned,’ she said. ‘Zac Francis and a drug dealer you sent down years ago.’

  ‘Barry Schultz.’ Duffy made a glance at his wife. ‘Some more coffee, perhaps?’

  At first, Marjorie didn’t respond, but then Duffy repeated the request and she got up and left the room.

  ‘Something you don’t want your wife to hear?’ Savage said.

  ‘Francis and Schultz are, in different ways, two of the most appalling examples of humanity’s cruelness I ever had the misfortune to meet. The details would be too much for Marjorie.’

  ‘Barry Schultz was a dealer, right?’ Savage remembered Schultz from a news story concerning attempts to sequestrate his assets through the Proceeds of Crime Act. He’d controlled a vast drugs empire, importing product through the docks at Southampton by bribing various workers and officials. In his turf battles with his competitors, he’d resorted to extreme methods, mimicking those used by Mexican drug barons.

  ‘He liked to call himself a businessman, but what businessman pours petrol over a rival’s girlfriend and sets her alight? Schultz is an out-and-out psychopath. He got twenty-five years with a recommendation he serve at least three-quarters of the sentence. The problem is he doesn’t need to be on the outside to go after his enemies.’

  ‘And you think he’d target Abigail because of you?’

  Duffy shrugged. ‘There’s nothing that man wouldn’t do.’

  ‘Is there evidence?’

  Silence for a moment before Duffy answered. ‘Only rumours. A few threats made when he was being sent down, but that was twelve years ago. It seems unlikely he’d decide to go after me now.’

  ‘And what about Francis?’

  ‘Zac Francis,’ Duffy said, turning his head as Marjorie came in with a cafetiere of fresh coffee, ‘is another matter entirely.’

  Chapter 8

  Mid-morning Friday and Thomas Raymond took a walk to the Post Office. He’d popped the medal from the house clearance in a small cardboard box well stuffed with cotton wool and wrapped the box with parcel tape. When the postmistress asked, he plonked the package on the scales and paid for the postage. He smiled to himself as he walked back through the Barbican. Seven hundred and fifty pounds. Not a bad morning’s work. All it had taken was a phone call to a contact in the trade, and the medal had found a willing buyer. He guessed he could have got a bit more, but he wanted it off his hands.

  When he got back to the shop, Jakab offered a few words of wisdom.

  What goes around comes around.

  ‘Exactly,’ Raymond said. ‘The sister must have done something bad, and that meant she didn’t deserve the medal.’

  I’m sure whatever she did, it wasn’t as bad as what you got up to.

  ‘I paid the price.’

  But was it worth it? All those years inside?

  ‘Shut up, Jakab.’ Raymond scowled. ‘I’m content enough. I’ve got the shop and my hobbies, and from time to time, I have a little fun.’

  Jakab didn’t answer.

  ‘Sour grapes,’ Raymond said. ‘Because you never get any fun yourself.’

  Fun didn’t come cheap though. A bunch of tenners for one of the Romanian girls who worked the streets over Stonehouse way. A couple of them were a bit skanky, true, probably did drugs and all sorts of muck as well, but they were OK. Anyway, they were the only ones willing to come back to Oddities.

  Is it any wonder? The local girls know you too well.

  ‘I thought you were sulking?’

  Once more, Jakab didn’t answer.

  When the girls came round, Raymond would show them in and take them up the stairs, past the Second World War memorabilia, past the stuffed animal room, past the room with the marionettes. They would climb all the way to the top where his little den nestled in under the eaves. You could bang your head if you weren’t careful. You could do other things up there if you weren’t careful too.

  Once they were in the playroom, they’d slip out of their slutty clothing in the pale light beneath the big Velux window. Then he liked to put the ropes on. Winding them round the wrists and ankles, tying them tight. Sometimes there’d be an objection, but he could persuade most of the girls with the promise of a little bonus.

  ‘You know me,’ he’d say. ‘Your friends have been with me. Good old Thomas Raymond. Wierdy weird but harmless.’ A smile. A nod of the head. A shrug of the shoulders. ‘Mostly harmless.’

  So exciting. Knotting the knots. Reeving the rope. Pulling the girls up. Oh my word, how beautiful they were hanging there. He’d move up close and run his fingers over their skin, feel the goosebumps, the softness at the waist and on the inside of their thighs. The firmness of their breasts. As he explored, his hands shook and his heart raced. They were so lovely he almost wanted to cry.

  When he’d touched them everywhere but there, he’d move over to the old armchair in the corner. His right hand would do the business, and in an instant, it would be over. He’d feel embarrassed, tired, dirty. The girls would hang there waiting until he rose from the chair and untied them.

  ‘You’re odd, Thomas Raymond. As odd as Oddities,’ they’d say. ‘But you’re OK, right?’

  He’d nod reassurance and return to the chair and slump down. Watch as they got dressed. Knickers gliding up thighs. Breasts into bra cups. A skimpy top hurriedly buttoned. A tight skirt pulled up and over a shapely bum. Feet into shiny shoes. He’d watch them sashay from the room. Then he’d think about his life. Many more years gone than remaining. Think about what he’d achieved and what he’d done. Wonder what sort of hell might be waiting for him when he died.

  ***

  An hour later, and Savage had more of an idea about Abigail Duffy, but something was missing. Jack and Marjorie had filled her in on the facts; however, what Abi was really like hadn’t come across.

  ‘Could I see her room?’ Savage said as Marjorie cleared away the coffee things.

  ‘Sure,’ Duffy said. ‘I’ll show you up.’

  ‘If it’s OK, I’d like to do this alone. It might
sound silly, but I want to let Abi get under my skin a little.’

  ‘I…’ Duffy appeared taken aback before regaining his composure. ‘I understand. Hardin said you differed from the average copper.’

  ‘I hope that isn’t a problem.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve been impressed so far. Up the stairs, turn right. Abi’s room is at the far end.’

  Savage rose and left. In the entrance hall, wide stairs curled up to the first floor. At the top, a corridor stretched the length of the house, a family bathroom off to one side. She peeked in. A stack of towels sat folded neatly on a low ottoman, the taps on the sink sparkled, the room was spotless. She moved down the hall to where a door stood open to the master bedroom. The same neatness was apparent within. A throw spread over the bed. His and hers tables to each side. An armchair with two cushions. It was as if the place had been prepared for a magazine shoot, and it had a feeling of sterility and emptiness. Was that because Abi had been wrenched away, a family’s life destroyed? Or perhaps the emptiness had always been there and that had led to Abigail’s problems.

  She shook her head, thinking of her own domestic arrangements, the house always needing cleaning, the kids’ clothing littered across their bedroom floors, Pete’s manuals and charts lying on almost every available surface, her own paperwork scattered around. Messy, yes, but homely too.

  Down at the end of the corridor, a nameplate on a door read Abigail’s Room, while stuck below was a black and yellow radiation symbol with Keep Out scrawled over it in felt tip. Savage pushed the handle down and entered.

  Unlike her own daughter’s room, Abigail’s was tidy. No piles of unwashed clothes, no bedding pushed back, no discarded sweet or crisp packets. But of course, there wouldn’t be. Abigail had been missing for nearly eighteen months, and her parents – most likely her mother – would have tidied away, washed her clothes, and put everything back where it belonged, ready for the day she would return. Except now she wasn’t returning. The room would most likely become a shrine with nothing touched and nothing moved, as if the essence of Abigail would persist if it remained unchanged. Savage had been there herself when her daughter Clarissa had died and knew the better option was to gut the place. Keep a few mementoes, sure, but for sanity’s sake, throw the rest away and move on.

  She didn’t bother to search the room. Duffy and his wife, not to mention detectives from Exeter, would have been through the place with a fine toothcomb. Instead, she spent several minutes running through the reasons Abi might have run away in the first place and then headed downstairs.

  She found Duffy in the living room, hunched over the documents as if he might find some inkling that a dozen of his finest officers had missed.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Savage said. ‘But it’s early days.’

  The next moment, Marjorie came through from the kitchen-diner and was offering lunch. Savage looked over the woman’s shoulder and into the next room. Bread and cheese on the table. Salad. Bottled water and dainty glasses. Knives and forks and plates arranged with minute precision. In an instant, Savage decided she had to escape. The atmosphere was claustrophobic, stifling. At some point the entire edifice had to shatter.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said. She eyed the pile of documents. ‘I need to get back and pass these to the team.’

  ‘Charlotte is the SIO, Marj.’ Duffy spoke to his wife as if he was speaking to a police cadet. ‘I told you she’d be too busy to stay for lunch. If she’s going to catch Abi’s murderer, she can’t dawdle here listening to us.’

  Marjorie held a tea towel, her hands clenching and twisting it. Nervous hands. Anxious.

  ‘And will you?’ she said. ‘Catch the person who took my Abi from me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Savage said. Because that’s all she could say.

  ***

  They waited for Smeeton in their car, parked a few doors down from his house. He turned up at a little after one, sauntering along the street without a care. As he passed the car, Riley and Davies got out. Smeeton slipped through the garden gate and walked to the front door, only turning at the last minute.

  ‘The fuck?’ Smeeton tensed. He was lean beneath a tight t-shirt. Messy blond hair framed an elongated face. His mouth formed a sneer above a tiny goatee beard.

  ‘Dave.’ Davies flashed his ID. ‘We just want a word. And inside would be best, right? Bit too public out here.’

  ‘Pigs.’ Smeeton wrinkled his nose. ‘Thought so.’

  ‘Your choice, mate.’ Davies raised a thumb and jerked it in the direction of the road. ‘Or we can go down the station.’

  Smeeton pulled out a key to open the front door. Davies stepped forwards and was at the door before Smeeton had a chance to run in and close it.

  ‘And don’t be embarrassed about the mess in your room.’ Davies pushed Smeeton in. ‘We’ve already had a look.’

  ‘You wankers. What happened to due process?’

  ‘You’ve been watching too many US cop shows, Dave. Different rules here.’

  Smeeton walked down the corridor to his room. Made a tutting sound when he saw it had been left on the latch. He pushed the door and stepped in. Davies followed with Riley close behind. Smeeton’s gaze roved the room for a moment before he walked over to the bed.

  ‘Lost something?’ Riley said. ‘Or is it a case of you’d rather we didn’t find something?’

  ‘Is this a double act?’ Smeeton said, switching his attention from Davies to Riley. ‘Ant and fucking Dec?’

  ‘Sure,’ Davies said. ‘Except there’s not much talent here.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Smeeton dropped onto the bed and lounged back as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  ‘What do you know about a party that took place in Plympton on Wednesday night? Loads of kids, copious alcohol, plenty of the white stuff, place trashed.’

  ‘Heard about it, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t talk crap. Dozens of witnesses saw you there.’

  ‘So what if I was? Seemed like half of Plymouth turned up. No law against going to parties, is there?’

  ‘No, not yet. What did you get up to?’

  ‘A bit of dancing, a lot of drinking. That was about it.’

  ‘No dealing?’

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’ Smeeton shook his head. ‘I’m going straight now. Got a job and all.’

  ‘A job? I don’t believe you.’

  ‘No, it’s true. Over at that self-store place near the Langage power station. I’m a security consultant.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Davies laughed. ‘Pity you weren’t doing the security at the party because a police officer got stabbed. The young lass is lucky to be alive.’

  ‘Don’t know nothing about that.’ Smeeton smiled. ‘Must’ve happened after I left.’

  ‘She was there at the same time as you.’

  ‘If she was, I never saw her.’

  ‘Really?’ Davies pulled a sad face. ‘Not what DI Riley heard, is it Darius?’

  ‘No,’ Riley said. ‘There’s a witness who saw you with the officer.’

  ‘They didn’t.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Riley gave Smeeton a blank look. Like he didn’t care either way. ‘But it’s their word against yours. A well-educated, middle-class kid or a lowlife like you who’s got a string of convictions for possession and dealing. I know who the jury’s going to believe.’

  ‘You ain’t fucking having me for no cop stabbing, ’cos I didn’t bloody do it.’

  ‘Alright, fair enough.’ Riley let Smeeton stew for a few seconds and then pointed at the poster of the topless woman. ‘There was a girl at the party. Faye, I think her name is. She’s a bit tasty, from what I’ve heard. You and her are going together, is that true?’

  Smeeton appeared to be considering a range of options, from another outright lie to something which might meander across the room and masquerade as the truth. Eventually, he spoke.

  ‘I’ve been hanging around with her a bit.’ Smeeton had puff
ed himself up. A cockerel strutting his stuff and unable to resist showing off. ‘She’s a nice bird.’

  ‘You were with her Wednesday night?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Smeeton was warming to the task now. A passable alibi was in the offing. ‘We left the party early before the trouble kicked off. We came back here, and I shagged her for most of the night.’ Smeeton looked at his bedside clock. ‘Guess it had to be about three in the morning before we crashed out.’

  ‘Lucky girl. I bet she was grateful to be taken by an Adonis like you.’

  ‘She enjoyed herself alright. She must have come four or five times.’ Smeeton was keen to expand the story and add a bit of detail. ‘She’s got a nice pair of tits and a great arse. Loves it doggy style. Bloody amazing.’

  ‘And that would be her shirt over there on the floor, would it?’ Riley moved across and prodded the pile of clothes with his foot. ‘All covered with blood?’

  Smeeton shrank visibly, his bluster gone. For a second, it looked as if he might spring from the bed and make a run for it, but then he chuckled to himself.

  ‘What the fuck do you clowns want?’ he said.

  ‘We’ve got a problem, Mr Smeeton,’ Riley said. ‘Something you can help us with. If you play your part, we can see about playing ours.’

  ‘So it’s your call, Dave.’ Davies gazed at the pile, a neutral expression on his face. Riley had pushed back a pair of black jeans, and the white blouse with the blood on was visible beneath. ‘What’s it to be? Stick or twist?’

  ***

  Outside, Savage found Calter dozing in the car with the seat tilted back. She tapped on the window before opening the passenger door and getting in. The DS jerked awake and adjusted the seat.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Just catching forty winks. Did you get anything useful from the ACC?’

  ‘Duffy thinks Zac Francis is a possible suspect, but I don’t see it. For one thing, how did he track down Abigail when we couldn’t?’

  ‘He’s a nasty piece of work, though, right?’