by Mark Sennen
‘You didn’t learn that phrase at Naval College.’
‘More to me than meets the eye.’ Pete gave her a wink and smiled. He looked at his watch and pushed back his chair. ‘But right now, I’ve got to go and teach a new intake of would-be officers the difference between port and starboard. Some, would you credit it, still don’t know left from right.’
With Pete gone and Samantha and Jamie packed off to school, Savage stood in the kitchen peering out at the garden. A gate at the far end led to a little-used path that ran along the clifftops. At the best of times, the route was precarious; at night, it was almost suicidal. Why risk life and limb and the possibility of being spotted to leave the puppet in her garden? As a threat to back off or cease the investigation, it was never going to work, and no one could be stupid enough to believe it would have. Which left the more disturbing possibility that, as in the cases of Abigail Duffy, Dave Smeeton and Faye, the puppet was a prelude to another murder.
Hers.
***
When she entered the crime suite, the first thing she did was hand the puppet, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag to preserve any evidence, to Collier.
‘This was left for me last night,’ she said.
‘Makes sense,’ Collier said. ‘Because this was left for you this morning.’ He passed her a photocopy of another letter. ‘He mentions you once more and says he’s going to kill again. Claims he’ll stop after that though. Small mercies, hey?’
Savage read the letter. Shivered at the way the writer addressed her directly. ‘Not credible, right?’
‘The stopping? Probably not.’ Collier sighed. ‘Once these loons get a taste for killing, they can rarely control themselves.’
‘Anything from the other letters?’
‘The forensic report has come in, but it’s inconclusive. There were a couple of partial fingerprints, but there’s no match.’ Collier made a face. ‘Doesn’t rule out any of our suspects, though.’
DI Riley came over and Savage explained about the puppet. He picked up the package and turned it over in his hands.
‘Another pointer to Thomas Raymond,’ he said. ‘I’m heading to Oddities this morning to see if I can get a handwriting sample from him.’
‘But the letter mentions Marcus Clent by name.’ Savage reached out and touched the puppet through the plastic. ‘And the skirt is made with a piece of newspaper that has a headline about God’s Haven.’
‘It’s a smokescreen. Clent’s been in the news, and this is an opportunity to link the crimes to him. Someone’s trying to shift the blame.’
Alongside Riley, Collier nodded in agreement. Savage bit her lip. She wondered for a moment about telling them what she’d discovered about Jakab Mézáros and Penn Haven, that the Hungarian puppet maker had been incarcerated in the place back when it was a mental institution. Would the evidence convince them there was some connection? She doubted it.
She took the hint and went over to a workstation and logged in. She spent a few minutes dealing with some paperwork and then leant back and considered the most recent letter. She got up and crossed to the whiteboard. Reread the letter. One section stood out: I am going to have to do another girl. I promise I will not kill any more after that. The Puppet had admitted murdering Abigail, Faye, and said he was going to kill one more. Surely that had to refer to the three Brides of Christ? Except that Faye wasn’t one of them.
‘Everything OK?’ Collier had wandered over.
‘These images.’ Savage tapped the pictures of Isobel Anderson and Fiona Jones stuck to the board. ‘They came from a larger group photo, right?’
‘Yes. I scanned the panorama pic that showed all the residents at God’s Haven and cropped Isobel and Fiona from it.’
‘And do we have any more information on Fiona Jones’s background? Charlene Golding said she’d come here from London.’
‘Nothing as of yet. No matching mispers. I’ve got someone working on it, but I’m not hopeful.’ Collier looked at the image of Fiona Jones. Made a face. ‘The name’s too common.’
‘And who pointed the two girls out?’
‘Various members we interviewed.’ Collier cocked his head. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No.’ Savage turned to go. ‘Could you send through the original scan when you get a chance?’
‘DI Riley won’t like it. We’re supposed to be keeping well clear of anything to do with God’s Haven.’
‘He doesn’t have to know, right?’
Collier looked across to where Riley was talking to a couple of DCs. ‘I guess not.’
When Collier had gone, Savage brought up the PNC details for Marcus Clent and ran through them again. He was a local Devon lad, hailing from Tiverton. He’d gone to university in Bristol, spent a couple of years travelling the globe, and returned to the UK and started preaching. A variety of dead-end jobs had seen him through his twenties but obviously hadn’t provided enough capital for his plan to found a religious community. The cash-for-prayers scam had come when he was in his thirties and had made hundreds of thousands of pounds, most of which hadn’t been recovered. He’d been caught some years down the line and sentenced to seven years, of which he served only three. Most of his prison term had been spent at Channings Wood, over in Newton Abbott.
After taking another glance round the crime suite, Savage reached for her phone.
***
Riley and Enders slipped down the cut to Oddities at a little after ten. A sign on the glass door read Closed, but a light shone from within. There was no bell push, so Enders rapped on the glass, and a couple of minutes later, a shape lumbered into view and shuffled towards the door.
‘Here he comes, boss.’ Enders put a hand in front of his mouth. Whispered. ‘All cracker, no cheese.’
‘Whadayawant?’ The door opened a fraction and Raymond squeezed his head into the gap.
‘Police again, Mr Raymond,’ Riley said, showing his identification. ‘DI Darius Riley and DC Patrick Enders.’
‘I remember you, Mr Black Detective.’ Raymond let the door free and jabbed a finger at Enders. ‘And him.’
‘Can we come in for a word, Thomas? It’s about Jakab Mézáros and the puppets.’
‘Sure.’ Raymond turned sharply and walked away, leaving the door ajar.
‘Best be quick, sir,’ Enders said, pushing the door open and moving into the shop. ‘He’s nifty on his feet, remember?’
Riley followed Enders into the shop's reception area and through to a narrow corridor, chasing after the DC as fast as he could. Shelves of books lined the passage before it turned to the right. A set of stairs led up to a room where paintings hung on the walls. Huge oils of naval conflict, a couple of landscapes, one of a prize bull, legs and body all out of proportion as if painters in earlier times viewed everything through a distorted lens.
‘Where the hell is he going this time?’ Riley said as he caught up with Enders.
‘Fuck knows.’ Enders waited in a tiny room with oil lamps dangling from the ceiling. There were two exits, and he turned his head to listen for a moment before heading for the left portal. ‘It’s like Willy Wonka in the Chocolate Factory, only there’s no choccy bars and no golden ticket.’
‘Trust you to focus on food, Patrick.’
‘If he starts cooking up that muck he had last time, I swear I won’t eat for a week.’
Another corridor and another room. Sporting equipment. Cricket bats, tennis rackets, lacrosse and hockey sticks. Fly-fishing rods on the walls. A set of croquet mallets, hoops and balls displayed in a large wooden box.
Onwards, passing through another passage and two more rooms before a panelled hallway with fairy lights strung along the ceiling. Up ahead, a tune echoing for a second before being cut off.
I’ve got no strings…
‘We’ve been here before,’ Enders said. ‘He’s led us straight to the booty.’
Enders ducked beneath a low-hanging curtain and held it up. Riley slipped under and stood.
&n
bsp; It was the puppet room, and once again the sheer number struck Riley. They were hanging from the ceiling, displayed on the walls, propped up on shelves, and positioned in glass display cases. Raymond was next to the chest with the Aunt Sally, pushing the giant mannequin back down and slamming the lid.
‘Best shut her up,’ he said, turning and sitting on the chest. ‘We don’t want no more trouble.’
Riley took a moment to get his breath back while Raymond sat there grinning. You didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to diagnose Raymond as loopy. OK, so these days you couldn’t write that sort of thing in a report; you had to use all the correct terminology, adopt a sympathetic tone. However, even if Raymond was mentally ill, it didn’t mean he’d killed Abigail, Smeeton and Faye.
‘Puppets, Mr Raymond,’ Riley said. ‘You’re an expert, right?’
‘An expert in the dangle dangle, yes.’ Raymond said. ‘The jump and dance.’
‘What is the dangle dangle exactly?’
‘Making them do what you want. Left hand, right hand, a little jig with the legs.’ Raymond weaved patterns in the air, jerking his arms up and down. ‘Once the strings are attached, then they’re ready to do your bidding.’
Riley wasn’t sure if the shopkeeper’s words were doublespeak. ‘The puppets?’
‘Yes. What else?’
‘People, Mr Raymond. We found puppets like the one you showed us at three crime scenes. One victim was trussed up as if she was some kind of marionette. Would you know anything about that?’
‘No.’ Raymond gave a scowl. ‘Not me.’
‘What about Lena Allen?’
‘That was a long time ago.’ Raymond rolled his eyes at the ceiling. ‘And it wasn’t me.’
‘So who was to blame.’
‘Jakab did it. It was all his fault.’
‘And is Jakab around at the moment?’
‘Depends on who’s asking.’
‘I’m asking. Perhaps Jakab might be able to help us with our enquiries. Like you, Jakab knows all about the dangle dangle, right?’
Raymond’s mouth opened but he said nothing. He stared blankly.
‘I’m going to have a quick word with my colleague, Mr Raymond, OK?’
Riley beckoned Enders, and they pushed under the curtain and went down the corridor.
‘I’m making a judgement call, Patrick. ’ Riley said. ‘We don’t need to bother to get a sample of his handwriting. We’ll phone for a team to come and pick him up. We’ll need somebody to do a psychiatric assessment before questioning him further and an appropriate adult to sit in on the interview. You make the call while I go back and keep him chatting.’
Enders pulled his mobile out and Riley returned to the puppet room. Raymond was still sitting on the chest, his head turned to the glass cabinet, lips mouthing silent words.
‘Mr Raymond?’ Riley said. ‘Can you tell me more about Jakab Mézáros?’
Raymond gave a tiny twitch. ‘Huh?’
‘The puppet maker?’
‘Jakab’s dead. He passed in the sixties.’
‘But what about the Jakab who tied up Lena?’
‘He’s…’ Raymond hesitated for a moment and then stood and moved across the room to an open door. ‘Excuse me, I have to attend to things in the shop.’
‘Mr Raymond, I’m going to have to ask you to—’
Raymond leapt into the shadows and vanished. Riley dashed over. Through the doorway, a large opening gaped in the floor, and there was some kind of metal chute that twisted down below. Riley took a deep breath and wondered about following. Then the lights blinked off.
He froze, vertigo washing over him as he visualised the hole in the floor just a step away.
‘Patrick?’ he shouted. A muffled reply came from Enders, but when he called again, there was nothing.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone and flicked on the torch. At his feet, the light reflected off the shiny metal of the chute Raymond had jumped down. He turned back to the room. Dozens of puppets hung from their strings, the torch casting long shadows that flitted back and forth as he moved the phone. He stepped across to the glass cabinet Raymond had been staring at.
Inside, the case was split into three levels. The bottom level was empty, while the top had three glove puppets mounted on mannequin hands. The middle level held the Mézáros puppet Raymond had demonstrated on their first visit to Oddities. Riley reached out to open the case but realised there was a little chrome locking mechanism on the glass door. He turned away, moved across the room to the curtain, and lifted it.
A light flashed some way down the corridor, a shadow moving behind the light.
‘Patrick?’ Riley said.
‘Yes, sir.’ Enders lowered his phone. ‘You OK?’
‘Fine. Raymond did a runner and cut the power. We need to get down to the entrance and stop him getting away.’
Enders turned his head. ‘Can you smell that?’
‘Burning?’ Riley caught the hint of something in the air. For a second, he visualised fire rushing through the enclosed spaces of the shop. There was enough fuel in the form of books and furniture to create an inferno from which there’d be no escape.
‘No, cooking. Raymond must be in his office. Come on.’
Enders turned and darted along the corridor. Riley headed after him, and they dodged left and right until they reached the office area. A frying pan sat atop a camping stove on the desk, and there was an odour of searing meat.
‘Not here,’ Enders said, panning his phone torch round.
‘We’ve been had.’ Riley looked at the pan where a piece of raw liver bubbled in some oil. ‘It’s a diversion.’
He wheeled about and ran down the corridor, following the route back to the puppet room. He ducked under the curtain and swept the torch across the room. Several puppets were swinging on their strings. He aimed the torch at the display cabinet. The glass door stood open. Inside, the middle shelf was empty and the Mézáros puppet had gone.
Chapter 27
The entrance to Channings Wood Prison looked more like a secondary school than a place of incarceration. A series of modern low-rise buildings butted against a discreet wall, and only the warning signs suggested something more sobering.
Earlier, Savage had called the prison hoping to speak to somebody about Marcus Clent. She mentioned the events of the last two weeks and dropped in a few words about the Chief Constable’s Guilty as Charged initiative. The police, she explained, were keen to discover how the prison service had dealt with Clent and if there were any lessons to learn. To her surprise, she managed to get an appointment with the deputy governor, Linda Reynolds.
Reynolds turned out to be a smiley blonde with a sharp dress sense and a voice as smooth as syrup. She’d be popular with the prisoners, Savage reckoned. They met in the reception foyer, and Reynolds suggested they head outside to the green space in front of the prison.
‘I’m locked up all day as much as the prisoners,’ Reynolds said as they left the foyer and walked across the grass. ‘The only difference is I can go home at the end of a shift.’
‘And if that wasn’t an option?’ Savage turned back to the prison. ‘Could you hack it?’
‘In here, yes. In other prisons, I’m not so sure. This is a pleasant place to work. It’s open and airy inside with plenty of space. We have vegetable gardens and our recreational facilities are second to none.’
‘Sounds like you’re selling a holiday camp.’
‘Therapy, workshops, an excellent library?’ Reynolds laughed. ‘It does, rather.’
‘Therapy?’
‘The Vulnerable Offenders Unit offers therapy.’
‘By vulnerable offenders, you mean what most prisoners would refer to as being on the numbers or nonces?’
Reynolds flinched. ‘Staff certainly wouldn’t use such words.’
‘Of course not.’ They’d completed a circuit of the green area. Savage pointed to the prison walls. ‘Some years ago, Marcus Clent was here.
He was in for fraud. I was wondering if you could tell me something about him?’
Reynolds seemed pleased. ‘Your Chief Constable is to be congratulated. Others would have tried to sweep the problems under the carpet, but she thinks officers can be re-educated and understand the basis for their prejudice. That’s why you’re here, right?’
Savage clamped her mouth shut and nodded. Her prejudice was against predatory men like Clent, and nothing was going to remove it. ‘So, Marcus Clent?’
‘Yes, I remember Marcus well. He was a model prisoner. He worked in the library and helped fellow inmates with letter writing and such. He even held Bible study groups.’
‘And you were comfortable with that?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Some might say Clent is a charlatan, a con man. Religion, at least the way he sells it, is a ruse to get other things.’
‘I’ve seen the news, DI Savage, and I’m not sure you’re the best person to pronounce on faith matters. Your bias is showing and it’s not flattering.’
‘Well, that’s where you can help me,’ Savage said. ‘I’m trying to understand the man, understand his motives.’
‘Are you sure you’re not trying to dig for evidence?’
‘Not at all.’ Savage held her hands up and made a pretence of being apologetic. ‘You saw what happened on the bridge. I want to moderate my behaviour so I don’t make the same mistake again.’
‘OK.’ Reynolds appeared to relax a little. She looked at her watch. ‘But you’d better be quick; I have a meeting in ten minutes.’
Savage had prepared a list of questions and now she ran through them one by one. As she trotted them out, they seemed anodyne and ineffectual, especially when the replies came back. Were there any blemishes on Clent’s record? No. Did he seem genuine in his religious convictions? Yes. Were there any indications he had a domineering personality? No.
Reynolds answered the queries in full, filling Savage in on the facts and providing her own viewpoint to give a fuller picture of the man.