Touch (22 page)

‘No, I mean she’s one of them. I am sure she is.’

‘One of who?’

‘Wait a moment.’ Denton jumped up and dashed from the room.

‘Did I say something?’ Enders held out his arms, palms up.

A few minutes later Denton returned, brandishing a piece of paper, a victim sheet with a little picture of a pretty girl stuck in the top right corner.

‘Georgina Wilkinson. It’s bloody well her!’

Denton appeared stunned as well as pleased with himself, but nobody else seemed to know what the hell he was going on about.

‘Who the heck is Georgina Wilkinson?’ Enders said.

Savage sussed it.

‘Carl is from operation Leash, work it out!’

‘Georgina Wilkinson is one of the
Leash
victims? Bloody hell!’ Enders understood now and soon everyone else in the room did too.

Once the implications of the discovery sank in all hell broke loose. Some officers began crowding round the screen, others ran up and down the corridor and started to brag they had solved the
Leash
case. The atmosphere was one of fevered chaos and Savage tried to bring some order back to the situation. She dispatched Denton back to the
Leash
incident room to obtain pictures and info on all the girls involved. Then she called Garrett, telling him they now had hard evidence that the rapes the
Leash
 team were investigating were in some way connected with the murder of Kelly Donal. The next thing was to get everyone back at their screens and concentrate the team’s effort on looking at video files only, searching out those that depicted rape scenes. Finally, she decided Hardin needed to hear the good news.

By mid-afternoon they had reviewed seventy of Forester’s video files. Sixty four of those were sex scenes which, although graphic, did not seem to involve any coercion. The remaining six files involved rape and it didn’t appear to be simulated. In four of those they were able to identify victims already known to the
Leash
team.

Hardin came down to the incident room to congratulate the troops on their work and he was gushing in his praise.

‘Christmas has come early this year. First the success on Saturday night and now this. It’s good policing. Bloody good. Well done everybody.’

‘There’s more, sir,’ Savage said. ‘I saved the best until last.’

She motioned for Hardin to take a seat next to Enders and called for quiet.

‘Patrick?’

‘Right, ma’am.’ With a couple of clicks of the mouse Enders had cued up a movie. ‘This isn’t pleasant, sir, but don’t watch if you would rather not. Just listen to the audio track.’

The video started to play and Hardin flinched at the sight of a girl tied in the centre of a double bed. A black sash cut across her face covering her eyes and as she struggled her image was reflected in full-length mirrored wardrobes on one side of the room. A couple of masked figures passed in front of the camera, both men, both naked. One of the men moved to kneel on the bed near the girl’s head and said something to the girl, but the words were muffled and indistinct, however the look on her face changed and she fought against the ropes again. Then a strange rumbling came from the speakers followed by a sound like the wind on a stormy night and Enders paused the video, the naked images frozen in time.

Hardin crinkled his brow and puffed out his cheeks, mystified.

‘I couldn’t hear what he said to her.’

‘No, sir,’ Savage said, ‘neither could we. But that doesn’t matter, we are not interested in their speech.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The date stamp, sir. Note the date stamp on the bottom right of the screen.’

‘Twenty-fifth September, 4.27 PM.’

‘Yes, the girl is Mandy Stilson. If you remember she was the odd one out because she was picked up on a Sunday lunch time.’

‘I’m sorry, Charlotte, you have completely lost me,’ Hardin said, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Too many years away from the sharp end I expect.’

‘It’s the noise at the end we are interested in. Play the segment again please, Patrick.’

Enders clicked the mouse and played the last few seconds of the clip again. Hardin’s expression changed from one of puzzlement to a look of revelation.

‘A train!’

‘Yes, but not just any train. We are guessing it is the Sunday 4.16 departure from Plymouth to London Paddington. The house must be close to the railway.’

‘I don’t understand how you know which train it is, and even if you did there must be hundreds, if not thousands, of houses backing on to the line.’

‘You are right, sir. But we took a list of all train departures on the date from all stations within a twenty-five mile radius. We then worked out roughly where each train would be at 4.27 – the time on the date stamp. Also, according to several of the victims, we are looking for a large, luxury house with a gravel driveway.’

‘I don’t see how that helps us. There still must be hundreds of houses, we need something to narrow...’ Hardin paused and then looked astonished. ‘Bloody hell, the VODS data! You haven’t?’

‘We have, sir,’ Savage said, smiling. ‘I realised we could use the VODS data for the car spotted by the specials cross referenced over the geographical areas we came up with for the train times. The database gives us only two results. One of them is a terraced cottage on the outskirts of Saltash. We don’t think the property fits because two of the victims talked of a big house and garden. The other location is number nine Moor Vale, a large house on a select development surrounded by woodland and situated just outside Plympton. The development backs onto the main railway line.’

*

It was late Monday afternoon when three squad cars full of bodies raced across town to Moor Vale, screaming their way through the rush hour traffic. Savage sat in the rear of a vehicle, merely along for the ride as this was to be Garrett and Davies’s shout. That suited Savage fine. She’d already got her fair share of kudos for using the VODS data to find the address of the owner of the BMW, one Mr Richard Trent, a lecturer at the University of Plymouth.

Off the A38, skirting the eastern end of Plympton and onto an industrial estate. It seemed like they had taken a wrong turn as they drove between the bleak monoliths, but soon they were leaving the estate and on a country road which dived down the side of a wooded hillside. Their sirens sent a startled dog walker leaping for the verge and then the trees ended and they entered a parkland setting with perhaps a dozen large houses scattered around. Big gardens, double garages, the glimpse of a swimming pool behind one of the properties. The epitome of middle class desire.

Moor Vale was a misnomer. Woods and a hill blocked any glimpse of Dartmoor proper, which lay several miles away. Like the rest of the development number nine appeared to be only a few years old and was all glass, steel, wood and concrete; what one would call ‘architect designed’ as if normal houses came off a production line, which perhaps they did. The style did nothing for Savage but the place looked nice enough. A powder blue BMW was parked in front of the garage.

The cars halted at the brick driveway, one taking up a position to block the road. Davies and DC Denton jumped from their car and walked to the front door. Garrett and two officers from one of the other cars skirted round the back of the property. Savage and the others got out and stood waiting by the cars.

A pheasant called out a warning from somewhere in the woodland and then silence for a moment before Davies rapped on the door, the sound echoing around the estate.

There was a pause and Savage was aware of her heart beating fast. The door opened and a woman stood in the porch. She was short with dark hair. Her features were plain and her face was etched with a sadness and a faraway expression.

Motion. Davies pulling the woman out of the way so that she stumbled and fell down the step and then he was dashing into the house with Denton following.

‘Go! Go! Go!’ A crashing sound came from the rear of the property as the backdoor was smashed in. Savage and the other officers ran from the cars to the front door and into the house.

Large entrance hall, wide stairs twisting upwards to a sort of galleried landing where Davies stood shouting.

‘Bastard’s in the bathroom trying to top himself!’

There was another crash and a scuffle and a shout.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Davies disappeared from view and Savage directed two of the officers up the stairs.

‘Man down! Man down!’ Davies shouting again, hysterical this time.

Savage followed the officers up the stairs. A man lay in one corner of the landing, trying to protect himself by wrapping his arms around his head. Davies was kicking the shit out of him.

‘You fucking wanker. I’m going to throw you over the banisters when I have finished and no one here is going to say you didn’t jump.’

In the bathroom Denton sat on the floor slumped against the bath. A cutthroat razor lay beside him and he was using one hand to try and stem the flow of blood from a gruesome looking gash on his left cheek. A huge flap of skin hung loose and Savage could see the white of bone in amongst the red flesh. Denton smiled up at her from a pale grey face and spat blood into his free hand.

‘Ambulance!’ she shouted behind her and rushed in. A mirrored cabinet reflected the horror in the room and she ran over and threw the door open.

Aftershave, deodorant, packets of soap, bath scents, sanitary towels, everything came tumbling out as she ransacked the cupboard. Fuck! No first aid!

She grabbed the box of sanitary towels from where it had fallen into the sink and ripped the packet open. Out came a towel and she tore the packet apart.

Denton grinned from behind the blood.

‘I’ve always liked kinky, ma’am, but I don’t want to die with a Simon Cowell on my face.’

‘You aren’t going to die you daft bugger, I just don’t want you looking like the elephant man when you come back to work. Now shut up and keep still.’

She moved Denton’s hand away from his face and pressed the flap of skin back in place. Denton flinched but didn’t cry out. Then she took the sanitary towel and placed it over the wound.

One of the other officers had come into the bathroom and Savage told him to open some more packets. She applied a couple more towels to the wound and that seemed to staunch the blood. Denton was losing consciousness now though, eyes closing, head lolling.

‘Carl, stay with me, stay with me!’

Denton’s eyes flickered open and his head moved in acknowledgement. Then his eyes closed again.

It seemed like ages before she heard the wail of the ambulance, although it could only have been a couple of minutes. There was a commotion from the hallway down below, a clattering on the stairs and the paramedics arrived on the landing with a stretcher. One came in and knelt beside her and assessed the situation. He put his hand on Denton’s head, used his thumb to lift an eyelid and shone a penlight in Denton’s eyes.

‘Keep holding that, love,’ the man said to her. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood, suffering shock too, but I think he’s going to be alright.’

Back in early summer, some weeks before he had first met Trinny, it had been cold, the promise of a scorcher that a few warm spring weeks had hinted at long gone. Day after day of rain kept him cooped up inside the cottage, wallowing round the place, the gloom more to do with his mood than the fact he had the curtains drawn.

There had been a knock, knock, knock on the door. Rap, rap, rap at the entrance to his very soul.

‘Hello, Matthew. It has been a long time.’ Two figures stood outside in the drizzle sheltering beneath a large umbrella, each wearing cheap tourist-type translucent yellow waterproofs and thin smiles.

Harry stumbled back from the door, shocked at the apparitions. Ghosts weren’t supposed to appear in broad daylight.

‘You bastards!’

‘We need to talk.’

‘Too right we do. Get the fuck inside.’

Once inside they talked and Harry listened. Like always. They explained, reasoned, apologised, pleaded. Finally they grovelled and begged for the absolution which Harry knew they had come for. Selfish as ever.

Their words and moans and sobs blended into a cacophony that drilled down through his skull and into his brain. An egg whisk went to work in there, mixing and blending and churning until the only thing remaining was a uniform mush that meant nothing. Harry couldn’t take it any more so he left them in the house and went outside. The earlier rain had stopped and now the air was still, the smoke from the chimney rising in a vertical column. Up in the heavens a formless grey mess hung like a suffocating blanket; no cloud shapes, no sun, only bleak sky.

And that was how he felt. Empty and cold. But he also knew he could be full again. Like Mitchell said, you had to grasp the moment and then you could be free. Problems, problems, problems, he thought to himself.

He trudged round to the barn at the side of the cottage, went inside and knelt in the dirt. With his eyes screwed shut he prayed to God to do something, to show a sign, but he knew God would remain silent. God wasn’t merciful and the meek did not inherit the earth: they got fucked while tied to a little wooden bed in a cold attic room.

Harry opened his eyes and stood up, soggy knees the only sign God had sought fit to give him. Then he noticed a beam of light coming through a hole in the rear wall. The light danced across the space like some sort of primitive laser, illuminating motes of dust in the air on its way. Where the beam hit the far wall it shone on a rusty six inch nail struck in there at a weird angle. Hanging on the nail was a long piece of chain and a couple of padlocks.

Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Tuesday 2nd November. 9.41 am

Tuesday morning at the station and a feeling of anti-climax hung in the air. Richard Trent’s brief had made an allegation of police brutality and although Trent hadn’t been sprung from his cell, Savage reckoned it was only a matter of time. ‘He was resisting arrest’ Davies had told Hardin. Savage played back the incident in her mind and decided Davies’s account lacked one or two small details. If Trent’s guilt proved short-lived then maybe she would have to have words with Hardin about those missing details. For now she was content to keep quiet.