Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel (8 page)

‘Looks as if the lights are out,’ Savage said. When she’d been in the tunnel before, there’d been lights every fifty metres or so. The lights had been strong enough to dispel the slight sense of unease as she’d ridden through. Now there was nothing but inky black. Savage made a mental note to check whether the failure had been reported and then pushed on, the torchlight swathed in the darkness, picking out the rough walls. They’d gone a hundred metres when something glowed bright in the beam.

‘There,’ Savage said. ‘The reflective tape on the safety vest. You stay put.’

‘On my own?’ Dawson said.

‘Stop wittering. I’ll only be a few steps away.’

‘Yeah, but you’ve got the torch.’

Savage stayed in the centre of the tunnel and walked on, leaving Dawson trying to get some illumination from his phone. Beyond the flare of light from the fluorescent jacket something lay up against the wall, seemingly half buried in the stonework. As she got closer she could see whatever it was had been pulled into a small recess. A few more steps and she stood next to the safety vest. Now when she flashed the torch into the recess she could see the tumbled form of a body. A boy, naked apart from Y-fronts and a pair of wellington boots on his feet. The body lay face down, dark fluid glistening on the ballast beneath the boy’s right hand.

‘Shit,’ Savage whispered to herself. She’d seen many bodies, some in the most appalling of states and circumstances, but she’d never become immunised to the shock. Here was somebody who a day or so ago had been walking and talking, feeling happy or sad. They’d been laughing or crying. Taking in the world through their eyes, nose, ears and fingertips. For the short time this boy had lived he’d been different from the soil and the rocks and the inanimate objects which were no more than a collection of atoms. Now he was just that. A bunch of decaying cells. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. A life gone, the poor kid’s consciousness extinguished forever.

‘You found the body then?’ Dawson’s voice brought her back to the tunnel. His words echoed off the stonework for a moment before being choked to nothing by the mass of rock around them.

‘Yes.’ Savage remembered to breathe. She slowly exhaled. She tried to suppress her anger and emotion and instead focused on the scene around her.

‘Why here?’ Dawson said. ‘They must have known the body would have been discovered fairly quickly.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Other cyclists must have passed through the tunnel today. It was just fortuitous that ours decided to stop and relieve himself next to this hole.’

‘It’s a refuge for railway workers,’ Dawson said knowledgeably. ‘If a train came, they could shelter as it passed.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re a railway nut, PC Dawson.’

‘No, ma’am. There’s an information board on the cycle route. Tells you all about the old line. Did you know that—’

‘No, and I don’t want to know either.’ Savage stepped away from the body and then turned and walked back to the PC. ‘Get along to the far side of the tunnel and stop any more cyclists coming through.’

‘Hey? Must be a couple of hundred metres and it’s pitch black, ma’am. I’ll probably brain myself. That’s if the killer is not waiting for me. I’d rather not.’

‘Don’t be stupid. Here, take this.’ Savage handed Dawson the torch. ‘I’ll make my way out and secure this end. I don’t want to think about what our chief CSI is going to say when he arrives.’

Dawson huffed but reached out and took the torch. ‘You’ll be OK, ma’am?’

‘Yes, now go before anyone else comes through.’

The PC shuffled off, his shadow dancing away in a circle of light. Savage turned to where a faint glimmer marked the edge of the tunnel. She took tentative steps on the concrete surface as utter blackness folded in around her. As the sounds of Dawson walking off grew fainter, she heard the drip, drip, drip of water falling from the ceiling. She tried not to think about the killer nor about the hundreds of tonnes of rock balancing overhead. This was a strange place to bring the body. Did the killer come here merely to dump the corpse or was this where some sort of assault took place? Did the tunnel have a special meaning or was the place just convenient?

Lost in her thoughts for a moment, she stepped off the central concrete slab and onto the rough ballast at the side. She put her hands out to steady herself against the tunnel wall. The stones were rough, damp and slimy. She moved away from the wall, stumbling on something at her feet. She crouched and felt around in the darkness. There. A rustling. A plastic bag containing something soft.

Savage put her hand in her pocket and pulled out her phone. She pressed a button on the side and the screen flashed into life. She turned the phone so the screen pointed downward. The bag contained a bundle of fabric. She used the phone to prod the bag open. Clothing. Tracksuit bottoms, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. Too much of a coincidence to belong to anyone but the boy.

She stood and moved back to the concrete path. The whole tunnel would need to be fingertipped from end to end. They’d need arc lights, generators, dogs and God knows what else. Never mind, that would be down to Layton. It was just the sort of logistics problem he loved.

‘Maaaaaa’am! Are you in there?’ The echoing voice belonged to DC Calter.

‘I’m coming, Jane. Stay where you are.’ Savage moved forward again, aware of lights up ahead. Activity. The rest of the team. ‘What took you?’

‘The boss man.’ Calter stood at the entrance to the tunnel dressed in a high-vis jacket and wielding a large rubber torch in her right hand. She jerked a thumb behind her. ‘He insisted on coming but I had to wait for him to phone the Hatchet.’

Savage peered up the railway to where a large round figure barrelled down the path from the road and staggered onto the track. Detective Superintendent Conrad Hardin.

‘That you, Charlotte?’ The voice boomed across to Savage and then echoed down the tunnel. ‘Couldn’t have made it any more difficult, could you?’

Hardin brushed some debris from his trousers and marched towards them, shoulders hunched, as if he was still playing front row forward for the Devon Police First Fifteen. Sadly, Hardin’s glory days on the rugby pitch were well in the past and ‘First Fifteen’ was now used as office banter, referring to the DSupt’s penchant for finishing an entire pack of chocolate digestives single-handed and at one sitting.

‘Sir,’ Savage said. ‘You didn’t need to come. You could have coordinated things from the station.’

‘Of course I needed to bloody come,’ Hardin said, puffing from the exertion. ‘The CC is keeping tabs. Next thing you know she’ll have a security tag around my bollocks.’

When Maria Heldon had taken up her post, she’d instigated a full-scale, force-wide audit of operational procedures. The audit was yet to be completed, but Heldon had already decided there was a lack of leadership due to senior officers spending too much time in meetings and not enough time on the ground. Hence Hardin’s presence at the scene.

Savage shook her head. The last thing she wanted was the DSupt poking his nose in.

‘Well?’ Hardin gestured into the tunnel.

‘Bad news I’m afraid, sir. He’s in there. Jason Hobb. And we’re not talking accidental death.’

‘Bugger.’ Hardin stared into the blackness as if he had some kind of superhero night vision. He shook his head and there was silence for a moment. Then he stuck his tongue out over his bottom lip before speaking again. ‘Where the fuck is that John Layton?’

It was early evening before Riley managed to make his way over to Plymstock to interview Perry Sleet’s wife. Getting the CSIs organised and up onto the moor had seemed to take forever and by the time he’d returned to Plymouth and dropped Enders off at the station the streetlights were on and the rush hour over.

Sleet lived in a new-build just off the A379 to the west of the River Plym, the estate set in a huge quarry. A sign announced to Riley that he’d arrived in Saltram Meadow, although the estate had been built in the old quarry workings and was next door to what had once been the local tip. Still, Sleet’s property wasn’t bad, a three-storey townhouse with what looked like a pretty decent garden out the back.

Riley pulled up outside and stared at the house. These days property developers provided you with a ready-made dream, the garden with a front lawn and little flowerbeds, inside everything fully fitted. He wondered if that included the family. Except in this case, just a few months into their new life, it appeared as if things had gone very wrong for the Sleets. Would the developers be honouring their money-back guarantee if the dream soured?

The woman who opened the door introduced herself as Catherine and she was even better looking in real life than in the Facebook shot Riley had seen. She smiled at Riley and ushered him in and through to the living room, the furnishings within almost exactly as he’d expected, right down to the white leather sofa with double recliners. One of the recliners had been tilted back, a fleece blanket thrown to one side, the TV flickering on the far side of the room with the volume muted. On the arm of the recliner sat a box of tissues.

‘Any news?’ Catherine asked as she walked across to the sofa and touched a button on the side. The recliner moved into an upright position and the woman sat. She gestured at Riley to do the same. ‘He’s usually so reliable and nothing’s been bothering him. I can’t think why he would have left the car and set off onto the moor.’

Riley nodded. He hadn’t asked any questions yet, but Catherine Sleet seemed keen to give answers. He took one of the armchairs. This woman appeared at first sight so cool and in control that he wondered if the box of tissues was part of an act.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Catherine continued. Riley still hadn’t said anything more than his name and rank but he nodded. ‘You’re thinking why isn’t she blubbing her eyes out. Well, I’m trying to hold it together for the sake of the kids.’

‘I’m not here to judge you,’ Riley said. ‘Your husband is missing and it’s our job to find him. Besides, people have varying reactions to stress. We all cope in different ways.’

‘Well, I’m struggling, if you must know. It’s been over twenty-four hours without a word. That’s not like him.’ Catherine shook her head. ‘Shit, what am I saying? He’s never done anything like this before. Not been missing for a minute, understand?’

Riley nodded. ‘Perry was up Tavistock way on business, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he’s a rep. Animal health. Visits farms and the like?’

‘Uh-huh. He drives all over Devon and Cornwall selling drugs and supplements to farmers. Not that he carries the stuff around in his car, only samples. He gets the farmers to sign up to trials, that sort of thing.’

‘And you knew where he was going yesterday?’

‘Yes. I gave the schedule to one of your officers. Perry is very meticulous. If he makes an appointment for eleven o’clock then he’s there on the dot.’

Riley looked down at his notebook. ‘It seems he kept his meeting at Lydford Gorge before lunch, but not his next over at a farm near Mary Tavy. The appointment wasn’t until three and it appears as if Perry drove onto the moor to wait. Would you say that was unusual?’

‘No. Perry always insists the client is the most important person in the loop. If he had to kill a couple of hours then he’d do it.’

‘Yes.’ Riley tried not to wince at the unfortunate expression. ‘You said when I came in nothing was bothering Perry. Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’ Catherine swung her eyes to the sideboard where there was a sequence of family photographs in multicoloured frames. Kids on slides, in the sea, at a birthday party. ‘We mean everything to him.’

‘So there’s no reason he might have run off? Nothing at all which could be worrying him? Nothing he’s keeping from you?’

‘I told you …’ Catherine paused and then stared hard at Riley. ‘What are you implying?’

‘Could he have gone up to the moor to meet somebody?’

‘Who? You mean a client? I can’t see why he’d …’ Catherine shook her head and then froze. She spoke flatly. ‘You mean a woman.’

‘We have reason to believe someone else was up there on the moor with Perry. Does the name “Sarah” mean anything to you?’

‘Sarah?’ Catherine’s mouth dropped open for a second. ‘No it doesn’t. Perry loves me, loves the children. He wouldn’t do anything to threaten our family.’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t, but we need to explore all the possibilities. To your knowledge has Perry ever had an affair, Mrs Sleet?’

‘No he bloody well hasn’t!’ Catherine pushed herself up from the sofa. Her body language suggested the interview was over. ‘Why don’t you get out there and look for Perry instead of asking stupid questions?’

‘Thank you for your time.’ Riley stood too. He tried to sound conciliatory. He wanted to end the interview on a good note. ‘We’ll find him, don’t worry.’

He strode out into the hallway and opened the front door, aware of the woman’s eyes at his back. He turned on the step, about to say something else, but Catherine Sleet slammed the door shut in his face.

Chapter Eight

Near Shaugh Prior, Devon. Wednesday 21st October. 6.48 p.m.

‘That John Layton’, as it turned out, had been delayed by an RTC which had blocked the Tavistock Road.

‘Nightmare,’ Layton said as he supervised the unloading of equipment from a van up in the lane. ‘You lot go blazing off at one hundred miles an hour but by the time I head out there’s an accident involving a bus and a car. Coincidence? I think not.’

‘Get on with it,’ Hardin said. ‘That poor lad’s probably been lying in a tunnel for the best part of twenty-four hours.’

‘Right you are.’ Layton shrugged. ‘Still, can’t do much until the pathologist gets here.’

‘Give me strength. If this farce continues much longer, the CC will have tags for the lot of us.’

‘Hey?’

Layton didn’t get an answer because Hardin turned and walked away. The CSI looked at Savage for an explanation.

‘Let’s just say that since Maria Heldon took over, the DSupt has developed a castration complex. Now, shall we get down to the scene so we can at least be ready when Nesbit arrives?’