Cut Dead (21 page)

The man nodded and you continued.

‘Sometimes I think it would be better if I went back inside.’

The man nodded again, said something about you losing your parents. Difficult to come to terms with.

Difficult to come to terms with? Daddy slicing up Mummy with the Big Knife and then killing himself? You don’t know anything about the problems of the man’s other clients but if they are worse than yours you’d sure like to hear of them.

Fifteen minutes into the session and you get up and leave, the soles of your shoes clicking on the polished floor, the sound echoing through the room like a slow handclap.

Worth every penny, these fucking do-gooders.

Scrape, lift, sling. Scrape, lift, sling.

You tap on the window and make a sign of forking something into your mouth. Mikey turns and nods, holds his thumbs up and then returns to his job.

Scrape, lift, sling. Scrape, lift, sling.

You go to the kitchen and grab a couple of tins of beans from the pantry, open them, pour them into a dish and place them in the microwave.

The Zanussi nine hundred watt with the dodgy turntable. The one the dishwasher man didn’t know how to repair.

Why is it, you think, as you pop a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster, that nobody knows anything about stuff these days?

The thought makes you feel physically sick. The complexity of everything. It’s what did for Mummy. Not a microwave oven of course, but a conventional one. She dialled up one hundred and eighty degrees centigrade and set the timer for twenty-five minutes, as she must have done countless times before. Only she hadn’t reckoned on you and your brother. You watched her blow up balloons for the celebration in the dining room for a while, but then the pair of you returned to the kitchen and peered through the glass at the cake. Bored of the slow motion miracle taking place within you began to fiddle with the controls on the oven. You rotated the dials and pressed the buttons.

Beeeeeep.

‘Done already?’

In came Mummy. The cake
looked
perfect, but Mummy forgot to check inside. She should have used a knife, then Daddy wouldn’t have had to.

You shiver as you set the timer on the microwave for sixty seconds. Every time you use an electrical device it’s a pact with the devil himself.

Back at the dining room window while you wait for the beans to heat and the toast to pop things are simpler.

Scrape, lift, sling. Scrape, lift, sling.

You stare at the pile of gravel in the yard. Wonder if you might just get Mikey to move it all back again tomorrow.

But no, you think as you return to the kitchen. Tomorrow you’re going to be busy. Very busy. Tomorrow’s the Special Day.

Chapter Twenty-One

Bovisand, Plymouth. Saturday 21st June. 7.35 a.m.

The longest day dawned still, hot and humid. The sea beyond the cliffs at the bottom of Savage’s garden spread like a huge mirror, stretching all the way across Plymouth Sound to Cornwall. Boats glided through the still water, leaving ‘V’ trails behind them. Was it her imagination or were there more craft than usual for a Saturday in June? Were people heading out to sea in search of a better life? A life beyond the reach of the Candle Cake Killer?

Down in the kitchen Savage turned on the radio. BBC Devon was wall-to-wall. A phone-in filled with people panicking, berating the police, threatening to kill anybody who crossed their thresholds. The presenter was doing his best to raise the temperature to boiling point and beyond, while at the same time trying to display a BBC-style tone of reassurance. The leader of the council came on and issued a ‘keep calm and carry on’ message only to be followed by a contradictory statement from the deputy leader, her old enemy Alec Jackman.

‘Anybody comes through the door of my house today and they are as good as dead.’

‘You don’t mean that, Mr Jackman?’ the presenter said.

‘Yes I do. I’ve got a baseball bat and an old speargun ready and waiting and I urge every other citizen to similarly prepare themselves. Let’s reclaim the streets and make sure this city stays safe.’

‘That’s quite a—’

The phone rang and Savage turned the volume down and answered.

‘You listening, Charlotte? To the radio?’ Hardin. From the sound of him, like a bear who’d not slept a wink. ‘That man is a bloody disgrace. I’ve a good mind to send a couple of officers round to arrest him for incitement.’

‘Jackman?’

‘Idiot.’

‘You can’t blame anyone for wanting to defend themselves.’

‘Trouble we don’t need, Charlotte. Mark my words. You saw what happened when those thugs mistook Graham Bunce for the killer. The chap’s lucky to be alive. If the general public take Councillor Jackman’s advice the day will be taken up with us running from one 999 call to another. It’ll be war. Now, on another matter, Glastone. You’re over there today, right? Keeping an eye on him?’

Savage said she was. Two detectives from Dartmouth had done the early morning session and she’d be relieving them later.

‘Good,’ Hardin said. ‘Stick to him like a limpet. Wherever he goes you go, but give him space, OK? Enough rope to hang himself, if you get my drift.’

‘How am I—’ The line went dead and Savage shook her head. Limpet? Enough rope? The two tactics were incompatible.

She took the MG into work, thinking that once again it was definitely a hood-down, wind in the hair kind of day. As she drove the coast road she could see that out in the Sound there were more boats than ever, the anchorages at Mount Edgcumbe and Cawsand Bay rammed with yachts and motorboats. She hadn’t been imagining it earlier. And from the traffic she experienced on the way to Crownhill, the exodus wasn’t confined to the water either. The routes out of the city were nose-to-tail with cars and the danger of a road-rage incident, fuelled by the heat and the tension, was rising.

When she got to the station the place was close to deserted. All leave had been cancelled, every extra officer drafted in to help, and yet apart from a handful of junior detectives there was no one to be seen.

Calter lounged at a terminal in the crime suite, feet up on a desk.

‘On standby, ma’am,’ Calter said, nodding at the DCs on the far side of the room. ‘In case anything turns up and we need some quick info. Everyone else is out. Oh, and would you believe it? – Darius and Patrick have managed to find us a fresh body. As if we need anything else on our plates.’

‘A body?’ For a moment Savage was confused. Riley had been working on some fraud case with DI Maynard and DI Davies. Had they inadvertently stumbled upon one of the Candle Cake Killer’s victims? ‘Where?’

‘No need to worry, ma’am. It’s a misper ending in a hit and run incident on Dartmoor. We could have done without the hassle though.’

A hit and run on Dartmoor. Clarissa.

Savage shot Calter a glance, but the DC was already gathering her things.

‘Are we off, ma’am?’ Calter said, unaware of the effect the words had had on Savage. ‘Glastone, remember?’

‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Savage said. ‘Let’s go.’

Fifty minutes later, having struggled through the traffic in Plymouth, they arrived in Salcombe. They relieved the on-duty surveillance team and parked a hundred metres down from Glastone’s place behind a large people carrier. Unless Glastone came strolling past he was unlikely to see them. Even if he did spot the car, he probably wouldn’t associate the MG with the police.

The car had a black soft top, but although the roof attracted the heat they could hardly leave it down. There was no aircon either.

‘Dripping,’ Calter said, flapping the bottom of her shirt. ‘Like a waterfall.’

‘Thanks for that, Jane,’ Savage said, passing across the bottle of water, just dregs in the bottom. ‘Much more of this and they’ll have to peel me off the seat too.’

An hour later and Savage took a stroll to the nearest corner shop. The place sold overpriced cans to tourists, but Savage bought half a dozen Cokes anyway. At least they were ice-cold.

She arrived back at the car to see Calter waving at her.

‘He’s just opened the garage doors, ma’am. He’s off somewhere.’

‘Maybe he’s just getting some—’

‘No. There!’

Sure enough Glastone’s Alfa was reversing out, the soft top retracting automatically. Glastone wore shades and a bright white shirt, buttons down the front undone as if he was God’s gift.

‘All dressed up,’ Savage said. ‘With somewhere to go.’

She reached for the ignition and turned the key. Glastone was already out of sight as they pulled away but there was only one way out of Salcombe. Savage put her foot down and shot along Devon Road. She took the turn onto the main road without stopping, Calter grasping the sides of her seat.

They caught up with the Alfa as they reached the open countryside. The road was windy and now Savage hung back, trying to keep a bend between them so Glastone wouldn’t see them in his mirrors.

Glastone headed north and then west, following the A379 back towards Plymouth. This time of year there was plenty of tourist traffic and Glastone relished overtaking at every opportunity. His Alfa could accelerate far faster than Savage’s car and she had to take a risk every now and then to keep up. As they crested a hill Glastone passed a large motorhome. Savage pulled out too, but had to duck back in again as a stream of cars came the other way. It was half a mile before another opportunity presented itself.

‘Now, ma’am,’ Calter said, peering down the nearside of the motorhome. ‘Clear!’

Savage pressed the accelerator to the floor and the MG lurched forwards. A dozen car lengths ahead the road swept down left and then right in a switchback, beyond a blind bend. The motorhome speeded up as they went down the hill and the MG seemed to inch past. Then a van appeared round the bend and Savage dived in front of the motorhome as the driver slammed on his brakes and leant on the horn.

‘Jesus, ma’am!’ Calter said. ‘I’ve always fancied Jenson Button as my next beau but I think I may have changed my mind.’

As they wound into the village of Modbury they saw Glastone stuck behind a slow-moving lorry. So much for risking their lives, Savage thought. They went through Modbury and then the villages of Yealmpton and Brixton. At the outskirts of Plymouth they arrived at a roundabout; Glastone shot across in front of a bus. Savage had to wait as the bus lurched round and several other cars followed.

‘Lost him, ma’am,’ Calter said.

Savage shook her head and put her foot down, undertaking the cars and the bus by using a cycle lane. Up ahead, Glastone slowed for a speed camera and again they closed to within a few car lengths. Now Savage held back, keeping her distance. Soon they were onto the Laira Bridge and into two lanes of slow-moving heavy traffic. They were several cars back when Glastone changed lanes. He looked over his shoulder, Savage unsure whether he’d spotted them. Then he shot forwards and jumped a set of traffic lights as they turned red. The MG was boxed in, no way through.

‘Shit!’ Savage said. ‘He’s gone.’

Calter wrenched the door of the car open and leapt out. A horn blared and she held up her hand as she moved across the road to the pavement and began to run after Glastone. Some hope, Savage thought. It looked as though the traffic had cleared up ahead. Glastone would be long gone.

Savage took her phone and called in, requesting all units to keep a lookout for the Alfa. As she hung up she spotted Calter jogging back. The DC crossed the road and jumped in the car. Savage reached onto the back seat, grabbed a can of Coke and handed it to Calter.

‘No chance,’ Calter said, pressing the can to her forehead. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Pray,’ Savage said.

Saturday. Another week gone, the last couple of days Paula wondering if she was going a little crazy. Maybe like every other woman in the city. Never mind. Her boyfriend was coming over today. He lived in Exeter, occasionally stayed during the week, mostly at the weekend. He’d arrive late afternoon. Way before it got dark.

Rather than mope around at home, Paula decided on a spot of retail therapy. Out amongst the crowds in the heart of the town she’d feel safer. Only when she got to the Drake Circus shopping centre she found the crowds much diminished. She wandered the cool of the mall and went into a few stores, trying on a few things, buying nothing.

On the way home she detoured to the Morrisons on Outland Road. She filled a trolley with things for later. Swordfish steaks, charcoal and lighter fluid for the barbie, white wine to go in the fridge, strawberries and cream for a treat. She paid, loaded the car and headed back.

As she turned into her road she passed a group of men on the corner. She recalled there’d been something on the radio in the morning about vigilantes taking to the streets. Fine by her. She drove down looking for a parking space, flicking a look in her mirror, still nervous about the other day. Silly really. In town there’d been nobody following her.

She got out of the car, grabbed the carriers of shopping and strolled down the pavement to her gate. Up the path and the key was in the lock, door opening, Paula darting in and shutting the door behind her. She went through to the kitchen and put the shopping on the table. She opened the back door and took the bag of charcoal and the lighter fluid out the back and filled the barbecue. A squirt of fluid, Paula unable to suppress a giggle at the way the white cream looked on the black charcoal, and then a flick of a match. Good. Should be going well by the time her boyfriend arrived. She went back inside, this time an earthy scent hitting her as she stepped into the kitchen.

The cat smell again. She obviously hadn’t cleaned up properly the other day. She’d have to have another go later. She clicked the door shut behind her and went to the table to begin unpacking.

And saw the cake.

It sat in the centre of the kitchen table on a plain white plate. A sponge cake, white icing sugar dusting the top and fourteen candles arranged in a circle.