Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel (29 page)

‘But …’ Jason didn’t seem pleased to see me. Quite the opposite. Liam stood beside him and they shared the same scowl. ‘I came to warn you. Bentley’s here!’

‘Warn us? What good is that? You could have stopped him but you did nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘You were watching at the airbrick. All those times. Why didn’t you tell somebody?’

‘I tried to help. I told the policeman. I told others too.’ I put out my hand and grasped hold of Jason’s arm, but my hand slipped free. ‘What …?’

‘Grease,’ Jason said, matter-of-factly. ‘To keep us warm.’

‘You’re crazy!’ I stared past the raft. Out there, beyond the breakers, the sea was piling up. The wind was increasing. The flimsy structure the boys had built wouldn’t last long. Their attempt to emulate Channel swimmers, laughable. ‘Come back with me and we’ll go to the police.’

‘The police?’ In the dark I saw Liam shake his head. ‘I thought you said you tried that? They won’t do a thing.’

‘Please don’t go.’ I slid my hand into my pocket and touched my flick knife. I was going to give the weapon to Jason so he could protect himself from Bentley.

‘Leave us alone, traitor!’ Liam said. He stepped between Jason and me. ‘We’re getting out of here and you’re in our way.’

Liam flung out an arm and punched me in the chest. I stumbled backwards and fell to the ground as a wave swept up and washed over me. I flailed in the water and swallowed sea and sand. Then I pushed myself up.

The boys were manoeuvring the raft, guiding it seaward. Another wave rushed in and the raft rose to the crest and then slipped down the other side. Jason and Liam clambered onto the structure. They each had a paddle and they knelt and dipped them in the water as one.

‘No!’ I screamed.

I ran after them and the water quickly reached my waist. I launched myself at the raft and managed to grasp hold. I pulled myself up and stood on the platform, trying to balance in the swell. Liam turned and raised his paddle. He swung it and caught me in my midriff. I grabbed the paddle with one hand while the other pulled out the flick knife. The blade sprung open and flashed in the starlight.

‘Don’t leave me!’ I was staring at Liam but the words were meant for Jason. ‘I beg you! You’re my only friends!’

Liam still had hold of the paddle and he stood. I slashed at him, and as he raised the paddle to protect himself, the knife sliced him on the hand. He fell backwards, dropping the paddle overboard.

‘You idiot!’ Jason screamed, as he crawled across the raft towards me. ‘You’re ruining everything.’

‘But I … I …’

Jason pushed himself to his feet and came at me, hands outstretched. I tried to push him away, but my hand slipped on his greasy skin. Then he was at me, hands flailing and fists punching. I raised my knife to defend myself against the onslaught.

‘Give me that.’ Jason grabbed for the knife, the blade catching him first on one hand and then the other. He cried out, looking down at where blood oozed from his palms.

Then a wave destroyed itself on the front edge of the raft, the spray hissing backwards, the force heeling the makeshift craft at a crazy angle. Jason tumbled forward. I tried to catch him, but I overbalanced and we both plunged into the water.

For a moment the world was nothing but froth and roaring waves and screaming: Liam, Jason and myself. Then I was half swimming, half stumbling, trying to drag Jason to the shore. My hands clasped Jason’s arms, but the grease on his skin prevented me from getting a good grip. I gave up and wrapped my own arms round his midriff and pulled him until the water gave way to pebbles and wet sand.

In the distance I could see Liam kneeling on the raft, raging at me and at the world. His paddle was gone and his one arm hung down limply. He could do nothing as the raft was caught in a rip and moved slowly towards the horizon.

I collapsed on the beach and held Jason close. I think he must have knocked his head because he was barely conscious as he slumped back in my arms. I lowered him to the sand and examined him. The only visible wounds were to his hands where his palms were marked with deep cuts. I ripped my shirt off and tore it in two and then wrapped the material round the cuts.

‘I’m going to get help,’ I said, as I stood. ‘You’ll be OK?’

Jason nodded, the starlight overhead reflected in his pale eyes. I ran from the beach and didn’t turn back.

Now, as I lie under my covers in the small hours of Sunday morning, I wish I had.

The Shepherd is beginning to lose faith. Things are going wrong. Very wrong.

He is sitting in the little room at the barn, staring at the security monitors. He’s watching a recording of the altar taken as the machine worked on Benedict to see if he can understand what caused the malfunction. Perry Sleet is up next and this time everything must run smoothly.

He thinks about the debacle down at the estuary. Nearly getting caught. The raft failing to catch the tide. The mysterious appearance of the pot boat. Almost a disaster.

Perhaps, he thinks, the whole idea with the raft was foolish. A theatrical flourish he could have done without. But no, the symbolism is important to him. He is telling a story and the raft forms an integral part of the tale.

The boy who plays with the skull in the grubby soil …

Yes, him too. The Shepherd and the boy are two actors in a play. The raft is a prop which brings meaning to the Shepherd’s actions. Launching Benedict and Sleet onto the ocean, watching their bodies drift out to sea, would have been cathartic. Now that’s no longer going to be possible, but it doesn’t mean Sleet will go unpunished.

On the screen in front of him, Benedict is suffering again and again as the Shepherd repeatedly replays the recording. There’s nothing to indicate why the belt broke, but the Shepherd continues watching the drill bit drilling and the circular saw sawing. Each time the tools bite into Benedict’s skin, the Shepherd feels a little better. Benedict has truly paid for his cowardice, but there are three more to come.

The man with the skull …

Yes, of course. The man with the skull must be made to pay, but confronting him will be for later. His trial will be the last one and his act of penance must be truly voluntary. Unlike Benedict, he must walk to the altar and submit of his own accord. There isn’t much the Shepherd can do to force him.

The Shepherd stops the video playback. He’s seen enough. He shuts down the security system and turns off the computer. He rises from the chair.

It’s time to talk to Perry Sleet. Time to prepare him for what’s to come.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Wednesday 28th October. 8.45 a.m.

Riley came into the crime suite on Wednesday morning to find DC Enders poring over a spread of newspapers. As Hardin had predicted, the general tone was one of sheer horror with a subtext around the loss of all Christian values. If crimes such as this could happen in sleepy Devon, then what hope for the rest of the country?

‘They’ve gone to town on this one, sir,’ Enders said. ‘The
Daily Mail
cites the erosion of British values by immigrants, while the
Guardian
– would you believe it –
has an op piece on whether second-homers are to blame. Apparently villages are becoming ethnically cleansed as you rich Londoners buy up all the cute cottages.’

‘I’m not rich,’ Riley muttered as he took in the headlines. ‘And I’m not a Londoner. Not any more.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure, sir. The way things are going, you might be moving back there and I might be off to my mam’s folks in Derry.’

‘What?’ Riley looked up from the papers.

‘Word on the grapevine is that Hardin’s not happy.’ Enders prodded one of the papers, his finger coming down on a picture of Tim Benedict. ‘Yesterday’s visit from Heldon and now this. Apparently he wants a result pronto.’

‘Bloody hell,
Caldera
has only been going twenty-four hours. What does he expect? Miracles?’

‘Why not?’ Enders tapped the picture again. Benedict standing outside his church. ‘Considering our victim, you’d think we’d be due one, wouldn’t you?’

Riley nodded. Leads, so far, had been minimal, and the only piece of luck had come from the mobile number. He moved away and made a phone call. The facial composite officer needed a kick up her backside. She’d sat with Sarah Hannaford the previous evening and worked on an EvoFIT image of the man who’d asked questions about Sleet and Benedict, but as yet nothing had come through. When she answered, the officer was apologetic; there’d been a rape in the town centre and she’d been at the SARC with a victim until the early hours. She’d send the material through in the next few minutes.

She was as good as her word and within five minutes Riley had the image. He printed out a few copies and slipped one onto Enders’ desk.

‘A generic Plymouth thug,’ Riley said. ‘Could be any one of a hundred scrotes.’

‘Yes,’ Enders said. ‘But he looks familiar.’

‘Well I don’t think he’s someone we’ve come across on this case.’ Riley read through the notes accompanying the picture. ‘The man apparently has a load of tattoos, including “F.U.C.K.” on the knuckles of one hand. Sounds like a real charmer.’

‘Tats?’ Enders scanned the picture again. ‘Hang on, sir! I
do
know this man.’

‘You do?’

‘Only through passing. Spotted him on one of the round- robin morning bulletins.’ Enders held up the picture and turned to where DS Collier was sorting through a pile of paper on the other side of the crime suite. He shouted across to him. ‘Gareth, who’s this?’

Collier stared at the picture and then ambled across.

‘Well blow me.’ Collier pointed at the
Lacuna
whiteboard. ‘That’s the mother’s squeeze. Ned Stone.’

Collier had arranged for Savage and Calter to visit Brenden Parker – Frank Parker’s son – early Wednesday. The man, he said, was on a long-term sickie from his teaching job. He’d be at home all morning. Home turned out to be a modest semi on a 1980s development in the town of Ivybridge. The estate was already beginning to look tired and dated and Savage spotted more than one agent’s board on the road in. Still, the place was handy for the college where Parker taught.

A brick path led between two small patches of lawn to a dark oak door with an obscured glass panel. The bell brought a man to the door, a tentative smile showing on a face similar to his father’s: thin, puckered-in cheekbones, a Roman nose, and mousey hair. The hair had been thickened with wax in a vain attempt to provide much needed volume. Parker raised a hand and fluffed the hair on one side of his head, self-conscious of his appearance.

Savage introduced herself and Calter and Parker showed them in. The layout of the house was bog-standard. Stairs on one side of the hall and a living room on the other. At the back, a kitchen-diner. She stood at the threshold to the living room. The layout may have been standard but the furnishings were not. Parker had inherited his father’s taste for a sort of Puritan minimalism. There were three chairs in the room, all of them wooden with no cushioning. There was no sign of a television or any means of playing music. A newspaper lay on a small occasional table next to one of the chairs. The place seemed somewhat spartan, but from the records, they knew Parker was single. Men living alone, Savage thought, were diminished. They either compensated by purchasing all manner of gadgets and hi-tech equipment or, like Parker, they let things slide.

Savage and Calter sat and exchanged glances while Parker made some tea. The man seemed a sensitive soul and it didn’t take much of a leap to imagine him mentally battered and bruised by having such domineering parents.

Parker served the tea in a rather grand silver teapot, the milk, bizarrely, condensed from a can. When Savage showed interest, he explained the pot belonged to his mother. She nodded, wondering how to reconcile the stern Mrs Parker with such a beautiful item. She also wondered about Parker’s accent. His voice had a strange sing-song lilt to it that seemed familiar.

‘I hope this doesn’t come as a shock to you,’ Savage said. ‘But we’ve found human remains in the cellar at Woodland Heights. The original missing persons investigation has now become a murder enquiry.’

‘I see.’ If the news came as a surprise, Parker didn’t show any reaction. He nodded, the expression on his face more one of resignation than alarm. ‘Jason?’

‘Why do you say that?’ Savage cocked her head. ‘It could be either of the boys. It could even be someone else.’

‘You don’t believe that.’

‘Look, Mr Parker, I—’

‘Please call me Brenden. I prefer to be on first-name terms.’

‘OK, Brenden. You’re right, I don’t believe it. We’re sure the remains belong to Jason Caldwell. What I’m not sure about is what went on in the home. I’m hoping you might be able to help me.’

‘Help you?’ Parker stared at Savage, unblinking. His face was a picture of despair. As if what Savage had asked was utterly impossible. ‘I can’t. Nobody can help now. It’s all too late.’

‘It’s too late for Liam and Jason,’ Savage said, shaking her head. ‘But there’s more to this than them. If no one is prepared to open their mouth and tell me the truth about what went on, then whoever committed this crime is going to get away with it. And I can tell you, Brenden, I hate it when people get away with things.’

‘But that’s just the point. They do get away with it. Always.’

‘They won’t this time. Don’t you want justice for the boys?’

‘Justice?’ Parker cocked his head almost as if he didn’t believe such an outcome was possible. ‘Yes, I do. Very much. Jason and Liam were my friends. My very best friends.’

‘Well then.’ Savage paused. She let the silence build for a few moments. ‘Why don’t we go back to the night when Jason and Liam disappeared? Start from there?’