by Mark Sennen
Clent slid lower in his bed. He closed his eyes, hands on the Bible, lips moving.
‘Prayer is about all you’ve got left,’ Savage said, getting to her feet. ‘But I’m pretty sure it won’t be enough to stop you getting a very long prison sentence.’
‘There’s Maria Heldon.’ Clent opened his eyes, released the Bible. ‘She knows this is persecution.’
‘You’ve misread her. All the Chief Constable cares about is avoiding negative publicity. Now the evidence is against you, she’ll be on my side. When the residents of God’s Haven come out with their stories, she’ll support them rather than you. Have you not heard her latest slogan? It’s Victims First. One of the few missives from her I can totally agree with.’
‘God will protect me,’ Clent said. He took up the Bible again, fingers thumbing through in a desperate attempt to find a suitable passage. He lay back, a smile on his face. ‘Psalm twenty, verse six: The Lord saveth his anointed; he will hear him from his holy heaven with the saving strength of his right hand.’
Savage walked to the door, opened it and turned back to Clent.
‘Good luck with that,’ she said.
***
The news about the role Marcus Clent, Zac Francis and Ben Kelly played in the murder of Dave Smeeton and Faye Adams led to the reappearance of Joel Hartson. He rolled up at his house late Monday evening, watched by a couple of covert surveillance officers. Davies passed on the good news at the next morning’s briefing. Operation Tarquin was back in business. Riley was relieved because it meant he could move on from what had happened at God’s Haven. Losing the SIO role was humiliating, but Maria Heldon had shafted him because she was concerned about, as Hardin put it, ‘the minorities drivel.’ It was, all things considered, deeply, deeply ironic.
Tarquin went ahead as planned on the following Saturday. Blustery rain pushed in from the west, banishing all but the hardiest from the moor, and a burger van was doing only sporadic business as Hartson and his boys pulled up in two cars at the Haytor car park. Riley sat alongside Davies in the back of an unmarked control van and watched a feed from one of Sergeant Gould’s drones. Half an hour earlier, they’d got word the Bristol crew had left the dual carriageway and were heading up to the moor.
‘Won’t be long now,’ Davies said, tapping his watch. ‘This is going to be legendary.’
Riley hoped so. If it all went well, his error back at the party in Plympton that had caused the mess in the first place would be forgotten.
‘There they are,’ Riley said.
Gould’s drone had pulled back and swivelled to the left and now had a view down the valley to the east. Three cars cruised up the road, the leading vehicle a monster black pickup. They pulled off into the car park and rolled across to where Hartson stood by his car.
‘These knobheads aren’t exactly inconspicuous.’ Davies chuckled to himself. ‘It’s all too easy.’
It was, Riley thought. So far, everything was running like clockwork. Units were in position across the moor, ready to block every conceivable escape route. Inspector Nigel Frey and the Force Support Group had deployed in two squads and would tail Hartson to wherever the second rendezvous was. Davies, Riley and a host of other detectives would follow them in and be there for the bust.
‘They’re off.’ Riley pointed at the screen. Hartson was back in his car and leading the others out of the car park. ‘We’d best be going too.’
Ten minutes later, after a short drive, they parked up again. Hartson had taken a narrow lane up to a remote viewpoint, and the five-vehicle convoy had pulled off onto a broad grassy area. Frey, now positioned on a ridge only a hundred metres away, had a good view of what was happening. His voice came through on the loudspeaker.
‘Um, they’re, um…’ Frey sounded incredulous. ‘They’re having a picnic.’
‘Say again?’ Davies bent to the handset. ‘A picnic?’
‘Hartson’s unpacked a hamper and a pop-up table, and the rest of his lads are putting out chairs. The Bristol boys have got a few bottles out. Wine and champagne. Glasses.’
‘It’s bloody raining.’
‘Yes, but they don’t seem to mind. Hartson’s setting up a gas barbecue, and one of the Bristol cars has a sound system. I can hear it from here.
‘The fuck?’ Davies put the handset down and turned to Riley. ‘You got any ideas?’
Riley shook his head. He remembered back to the night of the party. He’d made a bad read. This felt very similar.
‘Any sign of the drugs?’ Davies was back on the radio.
‘Not yet… hang on.’ Frey was silent, dead air for a moment. ‘Yes. Two bloody big holdalls have appeared and Hartson’s got some sort of attaché case.’
‘Could it contain cash?’
‘Yes.’
Davies clicked off. ‘I don’t get it, Darius. The intel said it was going to be an online transfer. Bitcoin or something.’
‘We should move,’ Riley said. ‘Now.’
‘You’re right.’ Davies keyed the handset. ‘Go, Nigel. Go! Go! Go!’
As Frey gave the orders to his officers, other units sprang into action. Two ARVs blocked the lane to the viewpoint, and several more drones flittered up from a nearby tor, giving a bird’s-eye view of the action.
Riley watched the screen. Frey’s men emerged from behind rocks and gorse bushes. A police Land Rover bounced across rough moorland. All the while, Hartson and the others continued to act as if nothing was happening.
The control van was on the move again, heading for the roadblock. When it reached the ARVs, Riley and Davies got out. They walked up to the cluster of vehicles. Hartson and the other men had been subdued without a fight and now lay on the ground, hands cable-tied behind their backs, with Frey and his officers watching over them.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Hartson said, turning his head as Davies and Riley approached. ‘You charge in all heavy-handed because we’ve broken a byelaw by lighting a barbecue, is that it?’
‘Search the bags,’ Davies said to Riley. ‘I’ll check the money.’
Riley bent to one holdall and pulled the zipper open. Inside were several packs of sausages, a Tupperware box containing burgers, and a bumper bag of rolls. He cursed and opened the other holdall. More burgers, a couple of baguettes, a pot of olives, and several tubs of washed salad. Nothing else.
Davies had moved over to where the attaché case sat on a picnic table. The case had a little thumbwheel combination lock. Davies turned to where Hartson lay on the ground. ‘Number?’
‘Only one number it could be,’ Hartson said with a massive grin. ‘Nine, nine, nine.’
Davies dialled the number in and flicked the catches up. He opened the case and stared at the contents.
‘What’ve you got?’ Riley said.
‘Money.’ Davies reached into the case and pulled out a wad of notes. Pink and with 500 in large writing in the centre. Davies threw the pile into the air and it broke apart, notes fluttering away on the strong breeze. ‘Monopoly money.’
***
The fallout from the debacle was massive. In the crime suite, Maynard sulked in one corner, Davies kicked a chair and it flew across the room and destroyed a monitor, and Hardin showed up to add a tirade of four-letter words to the general pot of anger. Detectives from the Avon and Somerset force blamed Devon and Cornwall officers for blowing the bust, while the latter argued the Bristol side of the operation had leaked like a sieve. The most worrying thing was Hartson had likely shipped a million pounds’ worth of cocaine in under their noses by pulling a diversion that made the police look like a laughingstock. Davies and Maynard had been so desperate they’d even tried to get Hartson and the others on a drink-driving charge, only to discover both groups had designated drivers who’d stayed off the booze.
Riley suspected Kenny Fallon’s involvement somewhere along the line. Davies had fed him details of the op and Fallon had probably done a deal with Hartson. If true, Davies’s duplicity had cost them big time.
It was time to have it out with Davies. The DI had played fast and loose for too long. Riley waited until the wake had dwindled and then moved to corner him. He never got the chance because his mobile rang. He answered, and all of a sudden, whether Davies, Fallon or anyone else had compromised the op seemed completely and utterly irrelevant.
Julie had gone into labour.
***
After a quiet weekend at home, Savage returned to the station and found everyone in a buoyant mood, despite the failure of Operation Tarquin. The news was that Julie had given birth to a healthy girl and, in the time-honoured words, mother and baby were doing well. The focus moved to a likely name, and soon a sweepstake was running, one wag suggesting Charlotte had an outside chance of scooping the pot.
‘My money’s on Naomi,’ Calter said, showing Savage a slip of paper with the name on.
‘I’ve got Laurette,’ Enders said. ‘Supposedly, it’s Riley’s grandmother’s name. Think I’ve lost my fiver.’
The frivolity lasted until Savage went up to Hardin’s office. The DSupt looked as if he needed a break, the pressure clearly getting to him.
‘We’ve still got the bloody Met officers coming down to re-educate us,’ he said. ‘Two-day courses for every officer, including me. A test at the end. Policing by tick box. Crap.’
Savage muttered a few words of sympathy and then summed up where they were with Farlight. The significant development was that Charlene Golding, Clent’s personal assistant, had broken her silence.
‘She’s going to spill the beans?’ Hardin asked.
‘Yes.,’ Savage said. ‘Collier says she wants to do a deal. She knows everything that occurred at God’s Haven from the start. She was in a sexual relationship with Clent back until he pushed her aside in his pursuit of younger women. Misguidedly, she stayed loyal and was undoubtedly complicit in what went on but will plead she was under Clent’s spell. With her help, we should have enough evidence to charge Clent with murder under the joint enterprise argument.’
‘And Thomas Raymond?’ Hardin was leafing through various pieces of paper. ‘Any idea as to his whereabouts?’
‘Not a clue,’ Savage said. ‘He hasn’t been back to the shop and there’s no sign of him in Plymouth. He has a bank account, but it hasn’t been touched. DI Riley suspects he kept much of the shop’s takings in cash to hide the money from the Inland Revenue. He could have thousands with him. If he’s fled the country, then we might never see him again.’
‘Where would he have gone?’
‘My guess is Hungary.’
‘Why the hell would he go to Hungary?’
‘Just a hunch. It’s where Jakab Mészáros was from.’
Hardin gritted his teeth. ‘The puppet maker?’
‘Yes.’
Hardin’s forehead creased. He was having trouble understanding, so Savage gave him the backstory on Mészáros and Raymond.
‘I don’t think we can even begin to imagine what was going on in Raymond’s mind or why he decided to visit God’s Haven, but if he hadn’t turned up and stabbed Kelly, I’d almost certainly be dead.’
‘And what about Abigail Duffy?’ Hardin had slipped out another piece of paper, this with a photograph of Abigail top left. ‘That’s how you got involved and yet we still don’t have a definitive answer as to who actually killed her.’
‘We might never know,’ Savage said. ‘Or never get enough evidence to charge them.’
‘Who else could it be but Marcus Clent? Even without evidence, he’s still the prime suspect, right?’
‘Might be.’ Savage brushed off the question and her response was flat and noncommittal. She had an inkling who’d killed Abigail, but she needed more evidence, and she wasn’t going to tell Hardin her theory. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
‘Well, the lack of closure is tragic for Jack and Marjorie.’ Hardin looked up. ‘I’ll need to see him personally, but I’ll leave it up to you to brief Jack on a professional level, OK?’
Savage nodded. ‘It’s in the diary for tomorrow, sir.’
***
After lunch, she found a note on her desk from DC Enders. Important! Meet me in the basement, it said cryptically.
Savage found the DC sitting on the floor at the far end of the document store. Several boxes lay about him, sheets of paper scattered everywhere.
‘What are you up to, Patrick?’ Savage said. ‘You’re not in Hardin’s bad books, are you?’
‘No way.’ Enders looked up. ‘At least I hope not.’
‘So?’
‘Turns out, according to the logs, there were four interviews with Thomas Raymond back when he was charged with the Lena Allen killing. However, only the first three had been scanned and digitised.’ Enders held up a sheaf of paper. ‘The other one is here.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Not really. I just wanted to understand what was driving Raymond, both now and back then.’
‘And the final interview helps?’
‘Yes, I think it does.’ Enders passed the transcript across and scratched his head. ‘There’s something else though. A weird coincidence.’
‘OK. Go on.’
‘Take a look at who one of the detectives was back then.’ Enders pointed to the head of the transcript. ‘He was here in Plymouth for a while, and I guess it must have been near the start of his career. Nevertheless, it’s pretty spooky, right?’
***
Interview with Thomas Raymond, 29th July 1995. Present: Detective Inspector Fred Moles, Detective Constable Jack Duffy, Harvey Taylor (solicitor), Thomas Raymond.
Moles: I want to thank you for your cooperation, Thomas. Your written confession has spared the family much grief and there’s a chance the judge might take favourably to your admission of guilt.
[silence]
Taylor: I’m counting on it.
Moles: To end I’d like to clear up a few details. Yesterday, in light of your statement, DC Jack Duffy went on a trip to the moor. He took some photographs for you to look at. Jack?
[noise – display of photographs?]
Duffy: Do you recognise this place?
Raymond: Yes. It’s the ruins of the old mental asylum at Penn Haven.
Duffy: And what’s special about it?
Raymond: I wouldn’t know.
Moles: Come on, Thomas, we’re nearly finished. My missus has got the supper on and I don’t want to be late home. Stop prevaricating and tell us the truth.
Raymond: It’s where Jakab Mészáros was incarcerated. He’s buried in a communal grave up there.
Duffy: Your father told us you make a point of visiting frequently. Is that so?
Raymond: Yes.
Duffy: Can I ask why?
Raymond: I read his book about puppets and I wanted to see where he died.
Duffy: Was that all?
Raymond: Yes, but I got to liking it up there. The ruins were peaceful with nobody around.
Duffy: There was another reason, wasn’t there?
Raymond: It was because of what was in the book. Mészáros said his spirit inhabited the puppets he made. I thought his ghost might inhabit the old buildings in the same way.
Duffy: And did it?
[silence]
Moles: Let’s be having it, Thomas.
Raymond: Yes.
Duffy: How do you know?
Raymond: Jakab began to talk to me.
Duffy: Talk?
Raymond: Yes. A whisper on the wind or a word concealed in the rustle of the dead leaves that had piled up in the old tower.
Duffy: You mean this building? The hexagon?
[noise – photograph being passed across the desk?]
Raymond: That’s the one.
Duffy: But you knew Jakab was in your imagination, didn’t you? That you’d made him up?
Raymond: At first, yes, but…
Duffy: But what?
Raymond: One time I took a puppet up there to show Jakab. I put on a little performance for him.
&n
bsp; Duffy: And what happened?
Raymond: Jakab was very pleased. He praised my show and said he wanted to be my friend. He said he wanted to come and stay with me. He promised to teach me everything he knew about puppets. Other things too. All I had to do was agree to take him home and that would free him from his confinement.
Duffy: And did you agree?
Raymond: Yes. Yes I did.
Duffy: And after that he became more real?
Raymond: My mother was dead and I didn’t have any friends. My father was distant and didn’t care for me. Jakab was all I had. The words in his book took on a different meaning when I could talk to him. He gave me advice. Helped me with tough decisions and told me what to do.
Duffy: And it was Jakab who persuaded you to string up Lena like a puppet?
[silence]
Duffy: Thomas?
[silence]
Raymond: No. [pause] That was all down to me.
Moles: Thank you, Thomas. Interview concluded at fifteen twenty-one.
Epilogue
Topsham was busy in the sunshine. Tourists on the narrow pavements, cars easing down the main street. On the estuary, dinghies raced back and forth while larger boats bobbed at anchor. A little idyll, if you could afford it.
Savage pulled the MG into the driveway in front of Duffy’s place and killed the engine. She heard the shrill shouts of the sailors out on the water. Starboard! Ready about! Other words that were salty but not strictly nautical.
She got out of the car and hesitated for a few moments before walking to the front door. It was as if she wanted to put this moment off for as long as possible.
She pressed the doorbell and a buzz came from inside. Jack Duffy opened the door. Marjorie stood a little behind him, her face pale in the dark of the hallway.
‘Come in, Charlotte,’ Duffy said. ‘What news?’
‘You’ll have seen most of it on TV,’ Savage said as she stepped in and Duffy ushered her through the house and out to the back garden. A lawn ran down to the water’s edge, where there was a small patio with a white cast iron table and several chairs. She remembered Kenny Fallon’s place with its acre of grass bordering the Tamar. A top cop and a top villain both rewarded with luxury pads and fine views for, respectively, enforcing the law and bringing disorder. There was irony for you.