Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel (24 page)

‘So?’

‘Up here? You wouldn’t place a lobster pot this far up. Not if you want to catch anything.’

‘And the boat – what happened to it?’

‘Disappeared round the corner.’ Johnson turned his palms face up. ‘Might be nothing, but I thought you should know. The guy might well be a witness.’

Riley thanked Johnson again and then retrieved his wellies from the boot of his car. He put them on and then stood for a moment.

‘What are you thinking, sir?’ Enders said. ‘Something to do with that fisherman?’

‘Johnson said this guy might be a witness.’ Riley turned and looked through the trees towards the estuary. ‘I’m thinking it’s more likely he’s an accomplice.’

Come Monday, Savage found she was back on the
Lacuna
case. DCI Garrett had been struggling with a severe flu bug over the weekend, which gave Hardin the excuse he needed to make her deputy SIO and shift the DCI to something less taxing.

‘Can’t having Mike popping his clogs on his last month,’ Hardin said. ‘Besides, we now know these investigations are linked. You’ll bring your knowledge of the children’s home side of things into the hunt for Liam Clough’s killer and the search for Jason Hobb.’

Savage nodded. She’d become so wound up in the mystery surrounding Woodland Heights that she’d almost forgotten about the Clough boy. Now the memory of the body came back to her. The poor kid lying in the dark tunnel. Asphyxiated. Did the same fate await Jason Hobb? She gave an involuntary shiver, excited to be back on the case but nervous of the outcome.

She went to the crime suite to review the entire operation. Collier had done his best, but as she looked through the policy book with him, she was shocked at how little the investigation had proceeded over the past few days. As SIO, Hardin should have been pushing the investigation forward, but there was a distinct lack of leadership evident. She wondered if, due to his personal connection to the case, he was up to the job.

‘Crap, right?’ Collier said. ‘But you can’t really blame Hardin or Garrett. The only real forensic lead was the grease on Liam Clough’s body. Came back from the lab that it was a Castrol car grease. Could have come from a garage, but you can buy the stuff at Halfords. Dead end.’

‘Anyone have any suggestions as to why the killer smeared it over the boy?’

‘No, Charlotte.’ Collier looked at Savage as if she should know better than to ask. ‘He’s a fucking nutter, isn’t he? Nothing these loons do makes sense.’

‘Clough wasn’t sexually assaulted, otherwise I’d say it was some kind of sex game. Still, you don’t go to the trouble of preparing the body like that unless it means something.’

‘Well, it beats me. The other problem is we’ve found no connection between the disappearance of Hobb and the murder of Clough. To be honest, without that, we’re floundering.’

‘Try these.’ Savage pulled out photocopies of the letters Hardin had given her and put them on the desk. ‘I think they might help.’

As Collier examined the letters, Savage explained about Operation
Curlew
and what was going on over at the children’s home. She told him about the history of the place and her interviews with the Parkers and Elijah Samuel. For now, under orders from Hardin, she left out the exact details of the picture taken at the home.

‘It’s not surprising you found no link between the boys because there is none,’ she said. ‘They were chosen by chance. If Liam had been named Paul and Jason called John they’d still be alive.’

‘So this nutter’s only motive was to draw attention to the children’s home?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘But he’s something to do with the home, am I reading that right?’

‘He must be.’

‘Then we might be getting somewhere. You see, Ned Stone was a resident at the home for a short time.’

‘
What?
’

‘Yes. Only for a few months, and a year or so before the disappearance of Hayskith and Caldwell. He was eleven years old at the time and went to a foster family when he left.’

‘When did you discover this?’

‘It only came to light this morning when an indexer entered all the boys who’d been resident since the home opened in the seventies. The computer spat out the match.’

‘If he wasn’t before, he must now be the number one suspect. Any news on his whereabouts?’

‘No. We’ve got a list of his friends and associates and they’ve all had multiple visits. Not a dicky bird so far. Problem is his mates are not exactly amenable to cooperation.’

‘Well, finding him is a priority. This simply isn’t good enough, Gareth. We should be on top of everything by now. We need to trace and eliminate the rest of the boys and staff and then concentrate on Stone.’

‘In hand.’ Collier gestured over to one corner of the room where a couple of civilian researchers were working hard, heads down over their keyboards. ‘I’ve already got a full list of names from the council of everyone connected with the home and we’re going through them now.’

‘Good. Next, we need a plan for finding Stone.’

‘Right.’ Collier was silent. Something was bugging him. After a moment he jabbed a finger down at the copies of Hardin’s letters. ‘But do you think Ned Stone wrote these?’

Savage looked at the letters too. The spaghetti-like writing was beautiful while at the same time had a touch of madness about it. Huge letters curled back on themselves with unnecessary flourishes and unfathomable squiggles. In contrast, the plan and elevation showing the coffin-box had been done in pencil. Neat perpendicular lines spanned the page. Areas of shading had been painstakingly hatched in. Each element had been shown in fine detail and overall the drawings were a work of perfection. They’d been created by somebody with draughting skills. An architect or somebody who’d studied technical drawing at least.

‘What’s your point, Gareth?’ Savage said.

‘Neither letter seems like anything Stone could have produced.’ Collier paused and looked first at the letters and then at Savage. ‘And if Stone didn’t write these …’ He left the sentence hanging and shook his head.

‘Somebody else did,’ Savage said.

Riley left Enders with the officers and walked down the track, heading for a slash of beach visible through the trees. Layton had already run out several lengths of blue and white tape to ensure no one used the little path at the edge of the estuary, so Riley was forced to make his way through the undergrowth. Brambles snagged at the legs of his trousers and more than once a low branch caught him in the face. At the bankside he clambered down onto soft sand. The estuary was a couple of hundred metres wide and the water curled seaward in two distinct streams. Between the streams, the raft lay marooned on a sandbank and atop the raft, lying on its side, was a green wheelie bin.

‘Darius.’ John Layton, fully suited in a white coverall with blue bootlets and gloves, was on his hands and knees on the raft beside the bin. He shouted across. ‘We’ve got a right mess in here. Come and take a gander. To the left of the tape, please.’

Riley moved to the water’s edge, paused for a second, and then waded in.

‘Bloody hell!’ Cold water rushed up the sides of his wellies and several dollops found their way inside. ‘Give me a simple shooting in a nice dry London tenement any day of the week.’

‘Stinking of piss and with the local youth chucking stuff at you?’ Layton waved his hand at the surroundings. ‘Prefer this little paradise with the fresh sea air and utter tranquillity myself, but each to his own.’

Layton was correct about the tranquillity. The estuary ran between banks of woodland set on steep hillside, the sandy strip disappearing round a bend a few hundred metres away. Tranquil didn’t begin to describe the isolated nature of the place. There was nothing here. Aside from the raft, the only thing attributable to humans was an aircraft contrail drifting in the sky.

‘Footprints?’ Riley waded across the stream and stepped out onto the sandbank. A series of deep indentations ran from one side of the raft into the water.

‘Yes, but the outlines are blurred. Won’t get much from them, I’m afraid.’ Layton pointed at a pile of wood on the raft beside the wheelie bin. ‘Still, there’s more than enough here.’

‘He was trying to assemble that?’ Riley looked at the pieces of wood, something like a flat-pack wardrobe. ‘A box. Exactly like the coffin thing we found on the raft at Jennycliff. The raft looks identical too.’

‘Just so. He must have brought everything down here in his car – raft, barrels, the coffin and the wheelie bin. Getting the whole lot in place and putting it together would have taken a while. I reckon he started well before first light.’

‘But he didn’t finish the job.’

‘No. I don’t think he factored in the terrain. Moving all the stuff from the car to here would have been tricky. Luckily for our victim time ran out.’ Layton gestured into the bin. ‘Had the estate manager not come along when he did, I doubt very much he’d have been found alive.’

The bin was facing away from the bank so Riley had to edge round in the soft sand. He bent and peered into the bin. His first impression was of a mass of dark red smeared over the sides. Down the far end, a pool of blood spread towards him and had coagulated in a frozen waterfall at the edge. In amongst the blood, little pieces of pink poked above the liquid like atolls in a red sea.

‘I see what you mean.’ Riley swallowed. Stared at the inside of the bin. ‘I’m trying to get my head around what happened here.’

‘The bin was upright when Mr Johnson found it. As soon as he realised somebody was inside, he tipped the bin over. The blood which had collected in the bottom flowed out. The man inside was, quite literally, drowning in the stuff. Mr Johnson’s quick thinking saved his life.’

‘This is …’

‘Beyond belief?’ Layton nodded. ‘Yeah. Perhaps you’re right about that tenement job you mentioned earlier.’

‘Yes.’ Riley straightened and gazed at the scenery for a moment, thinking there was a terrible contrast between the beautiful estuary and the awful fate of Tim Benedict. He stared down at his feet where the river gurgled around his wellingtons. Noticed the blue floats. ‘The chemicals, John. The stuff in the barrels at the boatyard. These barrels look identical.’

Layton moved to the edge of the raft and peered over. ‘They do, don’t they?’ He shook his head. ‘But I haven’t got the results back yet. I’ll hurry the lab along.’

‘Do that, would you?’ Riley turned his attention back to the raft and the huge bloodstain. ‘Be nice not to have to witness anything like this ever again.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Tuesday 27th October. 8.25 a.m.

Riley was back in the station early Tuesday morning. The Benedict and Sleet case was no longer simply about a couple of mispers. The discovery of Tim Benedict in the wheelie bin had crystallised what they were dealing with and Hardin had summoned Riley to an emergency meeting. On his way to the DSupt’s office he bumped into DI Savage in the corridor. Riley nodded a greeting.

‘Alright, ma’am?’ He stopped as Savage moved to the side and leant against a noticeboard. ‘I hear your cold case has turned hot.’

‘Not as hot as yours, Darius.’ Savage shook her head. ‘Unbelievable. Who would do such a thing?’

‘At the moment we have no idea. Thing is, we’ve got another man missing and we could do with finding him before our nutter decides on a repeat performance.’

‘Sound like our case. One dead, one missing. Only there’s more than one dead now.’

‘Right.’ Riley wanted to stay and chat, if only because Savage looked as if she needed to unburden herself of something. There was Hardin though. Riley could imagine him pacing back and forth, glancing at his watch, and cursing. ‘Got to go. Catch up later, right?’

‘Sure, Darius,’ Savage said. ‘Good luck up there.’

Riley turned and ran down the corridor. He bounded up the stairs to the DSupt’s office and knocked on the door. Hardin opened the door himself, standing there with a phone pressed to his ear. He waved Riley in and pointed at a chair facing his desk. As Riley sat, Hardin continued with his call. The conversation was distinctly one-sided, with the DSupt uttering a succession of ‘Yes, ma’ams’ and trying to get a word in but failing. The call over, Hardin paced back behind his desk and crashed down into his chair.

‘Bloody woman.’ Hardin put his mobile on the table and stared at the phone as if the device actually held the source of all his troubles. Something like a bottle with a genie inside, the stopper temporarily back in place. ‘To say she’s becoming a pain in the backside is an understatement. She’s now decided to pay us a royal visit. At least Foxy knew when to give a man some space to think.’

Riley kept his mouth shut. Simon Fox had lost it. Become a criminal himself. As bad as Maria Heldon might be, she had nothing on the old Chief Constable.

‘The vicar chappie, what’s the latest?’ Hardin looked at Riley, expectant.

‘Tim Benedict?’ Riley thought it fitting the man should at least be given a name. ‘He’s still in a critical condition.’

‘Unconscious?’

‘Yes.’

‘Time frame?’

‘The consultant said it’s still touch-and-go. When and if Benedict regains consciousness he may well be brain damaged.’

‘Bugger.’ Hardin considered the phone again. He reached out and pushed the sliver of black to one side of the desk. ‘As you can imagine, the CC is not in a good place right now. We’ve got the missing boy and the murdered kid. That would be bad enough, but this attack on the vicar is another order of magnitude more serious.’

Hardin continued. The media, he said, would be all over this. The fact Benedict was a vicar provided a tasty angle, while the attack symbolised a complete breakdown of moral values. The casual placing of Benedict in the bin only added to the horror.

‘I don’t think it was casual,’ Riley said. ‘Quite the opposite. The raft is identical to the one we found at Jennycliff. The attacker planned this and he’d have needed some skill and foresight to carry out the kidnappings and to build the raft.’

‘Skill?’ Hardin said. ‘Whoever did this is a complete psychopath. A nutter. I’ve read the report on Benedict’s injuries. Simply horrendous.’