Puppet: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

by Mark Sennen

  Savage stepped back. Watched Nesbit slicing down across Abigail’s breasts. Heard the saw start up, the girl moving closer, the whine grow louder. She closed her eyes for a moment so as to try to focus on getting through the next couple of hours. Imagined Abigail running from her assailant, her screams echoing into the empty stillness of the woodland.

  ***

  The hour Riley and Davies spent with Dave Smeeton on Friday proved to be highly profitable. Much to Riley’s surprise, Smeeton had rolled over like a puppy desperate for a tummy rub. The prospect of a long stretch inside for aiding and abetting the attack on DC Hester hadn’t appealed, especially when Davies had emphasised how much prison officers hated cop-killers.

  ‘Every time you take the stairs, you’ll need to be careful you don’t trip,’ he’d said with a grin. ‘You’ll need to check your food for cum or spit or glass, and don’t even think about taking a shower.’

  Smeeton had tried to bluff it out, but in the end, he’d given in. He’d do a deal, he said, make a pact with the devil, anything to reduce the amount of time inside.

  ‘I didn’t kill no cop,’ he kept repeating over and over.

  ‘Not yet,’ Davies had said. ‘But it’s touch and go. You’d better keep your fingers crossed for the lass.’

  It was a blatant lie. From the moment Naomi Hester had arrived at the hospital, her life had never been in danger. She was making good progress, and the consultants expected her to be out in a couple of weeks.

  On Monday afternoon, DI Maynard assembled the Tarquin team for a briefing. They were, he explained, back in business.

  ‘All thanks to Phil and Darius,’ he said. ‘Good work getting us out of a tight spot.’

  Various members of the team wanted to know more. What exactly had Smeeton agreed to, and could he be trusted?

  ‘On the big day, he’ll be wired for sound,’ Riley said. ‘So we’ll be able to listen in to whatever goes down as long as he stays close to Hartson. We’ve also agreed he gets arrested with the others when we swoop, so it doesn’t appear to Hartson that Smeeton is the snitch.’

  ‘And who’s to say he isn’t spilling the beans right now?’ A young DC appeared sceptical. ‘After all, it’s not as if he’s the most trustworthy character.’

  ‘That’s a worry, sure.’ Riley spread his hands in acknowledgement.

  ‘It’s all we’ve got, lads,’ Davies said. ‘Do the tango with Smeeton or ditch the whole op.’

  ‘We’re going with it.’ Maynard pointed to the map spread across a nearby table. ‘D-Day is Saturday after next, but if that alters, Smeeton will tell us. The Haytor car park on Dartmoor is the preliminary meet point. It’s usually crowded up there. An ice-cream van, burger van, lots of cars, families, kids, dogs. Hartson and Smeeton will wait for the Bristol crew there and then drive off to the second, more secluded, rendezvous spot where they’ll do the business.’

  ‘Any idea where that is?’ someone asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Davies said. ‘But if Smeeton finds out, he’s going to let us know.’

  ‘Have you got him on a leash with a pretty pink collar?’

  Davies laughed. ‘Pretty much.’

  Maynard pointed at the map again. ‘We’ll have roadblocks here and here, and the Force Support Group led by Inspector Nigel Frey will be positioned here. If the Bristol lot come tooled up, there’ll be in for a big surprise.’

  There was a general murmur of approval and a hum of conversation as the team dispersed and got back to work.

  ‘Looks good,’ Riley said to Maynard.

  ‘It does.’ Maynard smiled. ‘Bring it on.’

  ‘Hope they buy a Mr Whippy each.’ Davies winked. ‘Because it’ll be a long time before they’ll be able to do that again.’

  Chapter 10

  Dear Police

  I’m writing again because you have been sniffing round all over the place. You have been asking many questions and you think the answers will lead to me but they will not. You do not have to be very clever to work it out but you lot are stupid which means you are never going to catch me.

  I try to go about my daily life as if there is nothing to worry about but it is difficult. I know things I should not know and have done things I should not have done.

  It is hard to keep quiet and not to boast because when you are special you want to tell everyone about your work and how important it is. The voice tells me not to though so I keep my lips sealed. When the voice talks I have to obey. I know that is going to sound crazy but there are no crazy people here anymore and that includes me.

  Anyway I was just keeping in touch to tell you that it is one-nil to me and it is only half time (by the way that is not a football reference so do not try to find me by checking out all football clubs because it will be a waste of police time and I do not want you to chuck away money when you should be catching burglars and people who drive fast through villages).

  I will be writing again soon I am sure so please look out for my next letter.

  Your friend

  The PUPPET

  Chapter 11

  By Tuesday, the story about the girl in the wood had all but gone from the local news. Raymond was pleased. Perhaps by the end of the week, it would disappear altogether.

  I doubt it. Murder is a serious business. A nasty business. But you know all about that.

  ‘Shut up, Jakab. I had nothing to do with it.’

  Are you sure? Because it was close to you know where and you used to nose around up there all the time, didn’t you?

  ‘Used to. Not for years now.’

  You had an unhealthy obsession with the place.

  ‘There was nothing unhealthy about it. I was just curious. Besides, you should be grateful I was interested in your plight. I’m the only person who was.’

  You were more interested in the secrets in my book.

  True, Raymond thought. He’d come across a copy of Jakab’s book while doing a house clearance with his father. He’d slipped the book to one side and kept it for himself. Late that night, he’d devoured it page by page, wanting to know more about the man and – yes – learn from somebody who was a master at what he did.

  But if the police find out you used to go there, they’ll be knock, knock, knocking at your door before too long. Considering what went on with the girl.

  ‘It’s nice of you to be concerned, Jakab, but I’m not worried. The incident with the girl happened more than twenty-five years ago.’

  The incident? That’s a strange way of putting it. Still, however you phrase it, if the police discover anything, you’ll go back inside.

  ‘I won’t, so shut up, right?’

  Silence.

  Jakab had been in an institution himself, and Raymond figured he was projecting his own fears of being locked up once more. And imprisonment wasn’t pleasant, no doubt about it. The routine and the mind-numbing boredom. The fact you were no longer in charge of your own destiny and forced to accept the various ministrations of an array of experts. You did what they said, or else they’d assume you hadn’t come to terms with your crime. In Raymond’s own case, his psychiatrist had argued that the death of his mother at nine years old had been the cause of all his problems.

  The shrink had sat at a desk in a pokey room at one end of C block. There was a poster on the wall warning of HIV. Another extolling the virtues of learning to read. Raymond didn’t care about either message because he wasn’t a faggot, and he’d been devouring books ever since he’d managed to toddle round Oddities.

  The desk was an old wooden thing with graffiti scribbled all over the legs on the side where the prisoners sat. Most of the doodles were unoriginal, although Raymond knew the psychiatrist would have appreciated one that read, you fucked your mother you twat. Especially the way he carried on. His theory was that the lack of a maternal figure in Raymond’s life had led to an imbalance in how he’d viewed the opposite sex.

  ‘You didn’t learn how to love women,’ Shrinkhead said. ‘You felt hatred toward
them because you were angry at your mother for dying and leaving you. Does that make sense?’

  Raymond had answered ‘yes’ because it was what was expected of him.

  ‘Your dependency on your mother meant you never made any strong friendships while growing up. Instead, you relied on your friend, Jakab. He became your constant companion, your playmate, your co-conspirator. Jakab gave you advice, provided solace, and justified some of the obscene things you got up to. In your mind, you could simply blame him. Is that right?’

  Another nod.

  ‘And you ended up wanting to control women so they would do your bidding. Once they were under your command, they wouldn’t be able to leave. You could be close to them like you’d wanted to be close to the woman who bore you from her loins. When she was gone, there was only your father, and he was all about control. The one person who’d been able to control him was your mother, and she did that through sex. She rationed her affections, and your father got most of them, including access to her body. You were jealous. Classic Oedipal. You wanted your mother, but you couldn’t have her because, in the first instance, she was owned by your father, and latterly because she was dead.’

  You fucked your mother you twat…

  Shrinkhead was more mixed up than he thought.

  Months later, Raymond heard Shrinkhead was writing a book on sexual deviancy. Some of the cons said Raymond was going to be in it. Said it would be required reading for every pervy male psychiatry student, one hand holding the book, the other slipped inside their trousers. There was some debate amongst the more astute prisoners about whether Raymond would be in line for a share of the royalties, but the general consensus was he wouldn’t because that would be profiting from a crime.

  If the book was ever published, it never made the bestsellers list, never – much to the disappointment of the cons – made it into the prison library.

  Raymond saw Shrinkhead on and off for ten years until one day, he entered the therapy room to find an attractive woman sitting at the desk. A cough from behind the door banished any thoughts he might have had about some sort of impropriety. He turned to see a prison officer sitting on a chair.

  ‘Thomas Raymond.’ The woman stared down at a sheaf of papers. Raymond recognised Shrinkhead’s green-ink writing. ‘This won’t take long.’

  And it didn’t. The new psychiatrist explained Shrinkhead had been suspended and faced disciplinary action by the General Medical Council and an investigation by the police. Furthermore, due to budget cuts, one-to-one sessions at the prison were ending. Group therapy was being considered, but it was unlikely to benefit Raymond. Therefore she was signing him off as no longer needing treatment. Did he have anything to say?

  ‘I’m cured?’ Raymond stared at the woman. She wore a silk shirt, and he noticed the outline of her bra through the translucent material, the curve of the frilly edging where it rose over the perfect hemispheres of her breasts. He wondered if she realised the foolishness of wearing such clothes in a male prison. ‘I no longer have problems?’

  The woman shifted in her chair and looked down again at Shrinkhead’s notes. ‘I didn’t say you were cured. Merely that we’ve done as much as we can reasonably be expected to do. The rest is up to you. You should use the rest of your sentence to prepare yourself for the outside world. After all these years, it’s going to be quite a shock.’

  ‘Yes.’ Raymond approached the desk. He held out his hand. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Easy, Thomas.’ Behind him, a chair scraped on the floor as the prison officer stood. There was the sound of a baton thwacking into a palm. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘That’s alright, officer,’ the woman said. She extended her own hand across the table. ‘Good luck.’

  Raymond touched the hand. Red nail varnish, soft skin, a tingle of electricity. He imagined what she’d look like dancing in the attic, ropes attached to her hands and legs, made to do exactly as he wanted.

  ‘Thomas…’ The baton again. Harder. The officer walking forwards.

  ‘Thank you,’ Raymond said, releasing the woman’s hand from his grip and turning and leaving the room.

  ***

  Back in the crime suite on Tuesday morning, Savage found an email from Doctor Nesbit detailing his preliminary findings. She summarised them to Collier.

  ‘He thinks she could have been killed by a rock?’ Collier made a puzzled expression. ‘Doesn’t give us much to go on.’

  ‘No, but it suggests the killing wasn’t premeditated.’ Savage pointed at the crime scene map on the board. ‘Whether Abigail was in the woods or somewhere else, the killer came across her accidentally. He tried to subdue her, and when he couldn’t do that, he picked up the nearest weapon. He hit her twice, which was enough to render her unconscious if not kill her.’

  ‘And then he raped her?’

  ‘Nesbit couldn’t say either way. There was no sign of sexual activity, but the body was in the byre for several months, so if there was any forensic evidence, it’s gone now.’

  ‘This all but rules out Barry Schultz,’ Collier said. ‘A professional hit sanctioned by him would have been more clinical.’

  ‘Unless by using a rock, it makes the attack look random.’

  ‘And putting the body in the byre where it would surely be found?’ Collier looked sceptical. He moved across to a desk and picked up a ziplock bag. ‘Probably not relevant, but there’s another letter from the Puppet.’

  Savage took the bag and read the letter. ‘There’s nothing specific in here, nothing to suggest this is written by anyone other than a crank.’

  ‘Yes, I agree. I’ll file it with the other one.’

  As Collier took the letter back, Savage’s mobile rang. She saw the caller was Jack Duffy and bent to her phone. ‘Sir?’

  ‘DI Savage. ACC Duffy.’ Duffy had reverted to the formality he’d dismissed when they’d met over in Topsham. ‘I’ve been following the investigation closely. Conrad is keeping me updated on the situation.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise, sir?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll go out of my mind if I sit on my hands and brood. I need to know what’s happening for the sake of my sanity.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Anyway, I wanted to give you my input, such as it is. You see, I’ve been thinking about what went on in the barn. About how Abi’s body was laid out.’

  ‘You’ve seen the pictures?’

  ‘I have. The initial PM report too. The pictures are…’ Duffy cleared his throat. ‘They’re interesting.’

  Savage cursed Hardin. He shouldn’t have presumed to send Duffy sensitive information without consulting her.

  ‘So it occurred to me there appears to be a certain reverence in the way Abi was placed in the grave, and that set up a train of thought. Do you want to hear more?’

  Savage was being addressed by the Assistant Chief Constable, and he wanted to discuss the circumstances around his daughter’s murder. Did she even have a choice?

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘I just wondered if you’d considered whether Abigail’s death could have been accidental. I don’t mean somebody isn’t to blame and didn’t try to cover it up, but the post-mortem says she didn’t appear to have been sexually assaulted – thank God – and the injuries don’t suggest the use of any type of weapon.’

  ‘Sir, where are you going with this? When we met, you put forward Francis and Schultz as suspects, now you’re telling me Abi was involved in some kind of accident? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘I don’t know, DI Savage. I simply want you to explore all the options.’

  ‘Sir, we’re doing that. At the PM, I specifically asked the pathologist if Abigail’s injuries could have resulted from a car or other type of accident. He said he couldn’t see how that was possible.’

  ‘Not possible. Right.’

  ‘According to Doctor Nesbit, Abigail had been restrained. There were signs of a tight grip on her wrists and possible strangulation marks o
n her neck. I really don’t think any of those could have come from an accident, do you?’

  There was nothing from Duffy for a moment or two until his voice came back quiet and soft. ‘No, I don’t suppose so.’ Another pause. ‘Thank you for listening.’

  With that, he was gone, Savage left holding the phone and trying to understand what Duffy had wanted to accomplish. Grief did strange things, though, and perhaps he was attempting to rationalise what had happened to his daughter. An accident was a statistical chance, a percentage risk you took each time you stepped outside or went for a car drive or took a flight. Random murder, on the other hand, was something that couldn’t be understood. Savage wasn’t sure if, either way, there was much comfort to be found. All she could do was try to find the killer. She doubted that would give Duffy and his wife peace, but then again, it was unlikely anything would.

  ‘Problems?’ Collier hovered close by.

  ‘Only ACC Duffy offering me his opinions on the case.’

  ‘I guess he’s entitled. What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing helpful.’

  ‘You want helpful?’ John Layton had come into the crime suite. He held a glossy print in his hands. ‘I cropped down one of the PM photos and touched it up so it doesn’t look like it’s from a dead body.’

  The picture showed the markings on Abigail’s thigh, the colouring enhanced so the skin was no longer pale and white.

  ‘Still horrible,’ Savage said. ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want something like this etched into their skin. Any idea where it could have been done?’

  ‘I might have, yes.’ Layton prodded the image. ‘A couple of friends told me this sort of thing is close to being unacceptable in the tattoo world. None of the establishments in Totnes would do it, but there’s a place in Dartmouth that might. The shop’s called Toby’s Tats and is owned by a Mr Barrows. Barrows has a conviction for selling weed, although it was a long time ago.’