Bad Blood (38 page)

‘You sure?’

‘Yes!’ Warmth spread across Jackman’s stomach and the top of his thighs as his bladder lost control.

‘Good boy. You know what?’ Budgeon stared down at the trickle of urine which had accumulated in Jackman’s belly button. ‘I believe you, Alec, I really do.’

‘Then for God’s sake, please let me go!’ Jackman struggled against his bonds, but his movement only served to cut the cord deeper into his wrist and ankles.

‘No can do, Alec. Not after what happened back then. Took one in the head, didn’t I? Been killing me ever since. Doing you is the best form of pain relief I’ve got.’

‘Ricky, please, I—’

‘Now back to what I was saying about colours. It’s not only the box, is it? Look, they even made the product orange too.’ Budgeon plugged something into the roving socket and held up the item, all orange plastic and flashing metal. Next came a click, a deafening high-pitched whine and the blur of the spinning disc. ‘Works though, doesn’t it?’

Jackman screamed and then began to blubber and beg, his eyes unable to focus on anything but the words on the side of the tool. Budgeon followed his gaze and smiled.

‘Black and fucking Decker. Bloody awesome piece of kit, hey lad?’

Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Saturday 26th January. 11.25 a.m.

Savage spent most of Saturday morning trying to concoct a statement out of the story Vanessa Liston had spun her. The best she could come up with was something along the lines of what Vanessa had already told her: the girl had got confused and blamed Fallon – as the owner of Tamar Yachts – for her father’s death. After the earlier interview with Savage she’d mistakenly believed she was helping the police in an official capacity. When Fallon and Jackman asked her to come out on the boat she’d complied, thinking there was something dodgy going on. When she saw them returning to the boat she deliberately sank it, issuing the Mayday to alert the authorities.

Savage sat at her desk and stared at the words on the screen. God knows what Hardin was going to make of the account. She fired off an email summary and then decided to get off home before Hardin picked up the message. In the end she only got as far as the car park. She thought about ignoring the desk sergeant’s shout as she opened the door to her car, but then wheeled round to face the music.

‘Seymour Drive, Mannamead, ma’am,’ he shouted across. ‘The bloody deputy leader of the council’s been attacked. All hell apparently.’

Jackman.

Savage jumped in her car and headed into town, battling the Saturday traffic. It was thirty minutes before she reached the wide, tree-lined streets of Mannamead. As she turned into Seymour Drive she spotted Dan Phillips and his photographer, and beyond them were three patrol cars, two CSI vans and several other vehicles disgorging various officers. Phillips raised a fist at her as she drove past, but he wore a big smile and as the photographer swung his camera to take a shot of Savage getting out of her car the reporter put a hand out and pushed the lens down.

Savage suited up and went along the street to the front of Jackman’s house. A sweep of tarmac led in from a pair of wrought-iron gates and several of Layton’s CSIs, dressed in their coveralls, were inspecting the surrounding lawn and flowerbeds. The house itself was a grand Edwardian affair which sat on a good-sized plot. She hesitated for a moment at the gates as she spotted a ‘Beware of the Dog’ sign on one of the brick gateposts.

‘It’s alright,’ Layton said, emerging from the front door and shouting across. ‘The dog is inside and it is very much dead.’

‘How did it die?’

‘Piece of steak covered in what I guess might be rat poison. The meat was posted through the letterbox. Dog went for the steak, choked on the poison, killer gained entry and slit the dog’s throat and then …’ Layton pointed at the driveway. ‘We’ve done that so you can come in.’

Savage padded across the drive and approached the door.

‘Forced entry?’

‘Yes.’ Layton pointed to splintering around the Yale lock. ‘Sledgehammer. A single blow would have been enough if the deadlocks and bolts weren’t on. Which they weren’t. Jackman and his wife probably didn’t think they were necessary. The dog, see? Anyone trying to make it into the house would think twice when confronted.’

‘Big was it?’

‘Massive.’ Layton smiled. ‘Not like that thing you were scared of on Durnford Street. This thing was Baskerville territory.’

‘Thanks, John. I’m going to have nightmares now.’

‘Don’t worry, you won’t be thinking of the dog once you’ve seen inside.’

Layton was right.

The animal’s body lay at the foot of the stairs, a line of Layton’s stepping plates forging through a lake of red as if they were stones crossing the corner of a pond.

Up in the master bedroom the crimson spray across the wall wasn’t part of the interior design. The coloured stain was more blood. A line ran down the wall and over the padded headboard. On the king-sized divan a pool had soaked into the duvet and cascaded over the edge of the bed onto the carpet. A mini Niagara. More stepping plates led into the room and a CSI stood on a pair next to the bed. She dipped a pair of tweezers into the coagulated liquid and pulled out a piece of white, dropping it into a plastic container.

‘See what I mean?’ Layton stood behind Savage. ‘The blood would have hosed out for the first few seconds as Jackman flung his arm around. His blood pressure would have dropped fast though and since he was tied up he couldn’t do much to stem the flow. He had the sense to place his arm underneath his body and that helped.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Luckily the ambulance arrived within fifteen minutes.’

‘How the hell did he call it?’

‘Didn’t. A neighbour heard screaming, saw an unknown vehicle outside – some kind of sports car she reckoned – noted the busted door and called us. After making the call she came back. Two guys were coming out of the house and when they saw the neighbour they just got into the car and drove off. The neighbour went inside and made another triple nine for an ambulance from the bedside phone while Jackman was screaming. She put a tourniquet around Jackman’s arm. Probably saved his life. Cool lady.’

‘What happened to Jackman’s hand?’

‘Beats me. The paramedics searched for a couple of minutes but Jackman was in a serious way so they didn’t hang around.’ Layton reached up, tipped the top of his Tilley hat and smiled. ‘If I come across a stray limb I’ll let you know.’

‘And the weapon?’

‘Hard to say what it was.’ Layton nodded at the CSI. ‘There are some shards of bone in amongst the blood and some specks of bone dust so I reckon the weapon was a powered cutting device like with Owers. Let’s hope they took some pictures up at the hospital before they cleaned him up.’

‘OK, I’ve seen enough.’ More than enough, she thought. The scene was an abomination, the blood on the bed a visceral reminder of the terror Jackman had gone through. Layton had been right, she wouldn’t be thinking about the dog as she fell asleep tonight. Correction:
if
she fell asleep.

Savage left Jackman’s place by early afternoon. Door-to-door enquiries hadn’t produced much, other than a confirmation of the make of car which had sat on the drive for half-an-hour while Jackman had undergone some DIY surgery courtesy of Ricky Budgeon.

‘A Porsche?’ Calter said as the two of them drove westwards over the Tamar Bridge on their way to visit Fallon again. ‘Have we got an index?’

They hadn’t. While several witnesses had recalled the car, only one had remembered anything to do with the registration number.

‘A white rear plate,’ Savage said. ‘Which means a foreign vehicle. I’m thinking Spanish.’

‘Works for me, ma’am. Budgeon could have bought the car in Spain and come over on the Santander ferry. You think the ANPR cameras can deal with a foreign index?’

‘I guess, but since we don’t know what it is they’re not going to be much help. There’re enough foreign cars around that just looking for any non-UK reg is going to involve an awful lot of screen time. And time is what we don’t have.’

Calter nodded and turned to look out at the view from the span. Just to the south was Brunel’s innovative railway bridge, to the north the Tamar Valley where a line of trot moorings hugged the western bank of the river. Somewhere beyond them stood Fallon’s house, but in the drizzle and murk Savage couldn’t make out which one it was.

Five minutes later and they turned into Fallon’s place, Calter commenting on the statues at the side of the drive.

‘Money and power, but not much style or class,’ she said.

‘That’s Kenny Fallon for you, but when you possess the first two you don’t have to bother about the others do you?’

‘Wouldn’t know, ma’am. Never had much of any of them.’

The house lights were blazing and as they got out of the car Savage looked around. A grey mist seemed to be slithering up from the river, almost as if the mudflats of the estuary had become ethereal. A figure moved in the shadows at the top of the stairs to the accommodation over the garage: Kev the driver, keeping an eye on things. The other one would be around somewhere too and Savage reckoned they’d be tooled up. Not knuckle dusters or a billiard ball in a sock; they’d be armed. She raised an arm and Kev acknowledged her and then disappeared back into the flat.

Calter rang the bell and a minute later the door swung wide, Fallon standing silhouetted in the glare from within.

‘Cagney and Lacey this time, is it?’ Fallon uttered something like a laugh and then shook his head, his expression turning downcast in an instant. ‘You’d better come in. The wife’s in the living room with a couple of chums so we’ll use the kitchen again if you don’t mind.’

Fallon trudged to the back of the house. This time the dog didn’t even bother to open its eyes to acknowledge them.

‘Alec Jackman,’ Savage said once they were in the kitchen. ‘Your mate on the council. The guy you took on your little jaunt last night. I guess you already know what happened?’

‘Alec let me down.’ Fallon’s eyes flicked over to the door, to the sound of laughter which floated in from the hallway. ‘Couldn’t deal with the pressure.’

‘It wasn’t pressure he had to deal with. It was Ricky Budgeon and his mate, Stuart Chaffe, armed with a knife and an angle grinder. They broke in, killed the dog and then did a spot of redecorating in the bedroom. Jackman is fortunate to be alive.’

‘Jesus!’ Fallon thumped the top of the coffee machine and let out a sound almost like a growl. Then he reached up and retrieved a glass from a rack over the breakfast bar and a bottle of gin from a cupboard. ‘He’s going to pay. Big time.’

‘You’re the one who’s paying. Twenty years away and now he is back to claim what he believes is his. What you and Jackman took away from him when you set him up.’

‘It was fucking business!’ Fallon shouted and then shook his head, sighed and moved across to a large refrigerator, lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘You don’t take it personally.’

‘Maybe
you
don’t, but Budgeon has. What’s more this bloody nonsense has affected
me
personally
too. Budgeon’s got one of our officers. God knows what he is going to do to him.’

‘I told you I’d help.’ Fallon had opened the freezer compartment and was fiddling with a tray of ice, Savage surprised to see his hands shaking. ‘So far I’ve drawn a blank.’

‘Is that all you can say? Pathetic. No wonder Budgeon thought he could breeze in here and take over.’

‘What do you expect me to say? If I knew where to find Ricky I wouldn’t be chatting to you now. I’d have it sorted. I’ve got people out on the streets all over. Every little slimeball I can find has been offered a wad of cash or a good kicking. Nobody knows a bloody thing.’ Fallon put the tray of ice back into the freezer and took out a large bag which contained meat or bones for the dog. The dog opened its eyes, raised its head and got up from the bed and waddled over, sniffing the air. Fallon brought the bag over to the breakfast bar and tipped the contents onto the tiles. The bones fell out amid a cluster of ice flakes and the dog yapped several times and tried to jump up.

‘Oh fuck, ma’am.’ Calter. Hand to mouth, trying to control the retching.

The bag didn’t contain food for the dog at all. Savage stared at the frost-covered flesh, the white bones poking out, the curled fingers, the nails painted in an alternating pattern of black, white, black, white.

‘The hands, ma’am. The missing hands.’ Calter gulped air, groaned, and then moved to the sink, where she vomited.

‘They’ve been coming in the post,’ Fallon said, as if talking about utility bills, all the while using a bread knife to separate the chunks of flesh into three. ‘The latest one came by courier half an hour ago. Didn’t quite know what to do with them.’

Savage had been at a loss to know what to do with the hands as well. The situation didn’t appear in the manual. In the end she had called John Layton and he’d turned up with a cool box, a cylinder of dry ice and a smile that promised a joke or two. She told him not to even think about cracking any gags as he packed up the hands and headed off for the mortuary.

Calter cleaned herself up in one of Fallon’s plush bathrooms and then sat in the car, embarrassed at having been sick, door open in case she was again. After Layton had gone, Savage went over and stood by the car.

‘Sorry, I’m not usually like this, ma’am. Must have been the bang on the head. That and what happened to Lynn Towner. Her legs. Somehow all just got to me in there.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Savage said. ‘If there had been room alongside you at the sink I might easily have joined you.’

‘What on earth was he doing with them?’

‘While you were upstairs he told me he’d kept them as a reminder of what he was going to do to Budgeon when he caught up with him. World War Three, Davies said. It is beginning to look as if he was right.’

‘Darius, ma’am.’

‘Yes. Not looking good. I’m beginning to wonder …’ Savage didn’t want to finish the sentence and simply shook her head.

She was saved from thinking any more on the matter by a call from Hardin, the DSupt out of breath chasing the Chief Constable as he pressed the flesh in the city centre. Vanessa’s verbal evidence was a complete dog’s dinner and wasn’t going to cut it, he said. Fallon would be able to claim the girl was a lovesick child. Distraught from the death of her father, she was living in a fantasy world. Where were the drugs? The supply boat? Evidence of some sort of plan? Jackman becoming a victim put Fallon out of reach. Political expediency. Bad form to kick a man when he’s down.