Cut Dead (16 page)

‘Close by, yes, Dittisham.’

‘Nice.’

Savage could see from Hardin’s expression that the thought of Katherine Mallory living in Dittisham was far from nice. He was probably trying to resolve the girl’s sexuality with the picture-postcard image of the riverside village stuffed with million-pound houses.

‘The local connection is possible,’ Savage said, ‘although Glastone is nearly twice the girl’s age. Maybe he knew her through the parents. As to Bristol, well I wouldn’t be surprised if Glastone visits the city to do with his job.’

‘Remind me,’ Hardin said.

‘He’s a database programmer. Freelance. Well paid. He lives in an expensive house, drives a new Alfa, takes several holidays abroad each year.’

‘Right.’ Hardin’s face creased again. Well paid IT professionals didn’t appear to command any more respect than lesbians. ‘Well, get up there and find something. Anything.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And remember, Charlotte, we need results.’ Hardin turned to a calendar on the wall where June’s picture showed a Dartmoor brook, several children playing in the water, the whole thing bathed in warm light. He jabbed his finger at the twenty-first. ‘Within the next two days, got it?’

When Marion Mallory opened the front door and saw the two people on her step she knew something wasn’t quite right. The woman, late thirties, with red hair tied back, looked hesitant. The man, a good deal younger and with a pleasant, open face, wore a smile which wasn’t really a smile. Their expressions spoke volumes.

The pair were too neat to be selling anything, their suits – a grey knee-length skirt and a jacket for the woman, charcoal for the man – somehow too official for debt collectors, God-bods or political canvassers. It was as the woman reached into her jacket and extracted a card, the word ‘Savage’ jumping out, that Marion realised.

‘Oh, you’ve found something then?’ she heard herself say, the sentence phrased as if the pair were reporting the recovery of a stolen car.

Then she was stepping back into the house, a hand reaching out to the wall for support. Wishing her husband was home. And crying. The tears running down her face hot and angry and futile.

Savage had driven east in the early afternoon, accompanied by Calter and Luke Farrell, the family liaison officer she had brought with her as much for her own comfort and support as for Katherine Mallory’s mother. Farrell came in his own car so Savage and Calter could continue on to Bristol and a meeting with Katherine’s lover.

The village of Dittisham sat on a great curl of the river Dart a couple of miles above Dartmouth. Dittisham, pronounced ‘Ditsum’ by those in the know, wasn’t so much a playground for the rich as a retirement complex for those affluent enough to be able to afford to live there. A mixture of thatched cottages, bungalows and huge detached houses clung to the slopes above the river and the Mallorys lived in one of the latter, halfway down Riverside Road. Savage had to admit the view was close to priceless. With the tide in, the Dart was as picturesque as ever with boats frittering this way and that. A ferry was making the crossing from Dittisham to the quay at Greenway House and Savage pointed out the place to Farrell as the two of them walked up to the front gate, Calter remaining in the car. Three was definitely a crowd in this situation.

‘Know who used to live there, Luke?’ Savage said. Farrell shook his head. ‘Agatha Christie. We could probably do with her help now.’

‘I don’t think Miss Marple would help soften the blow, boss,’ Farrell said. ‘Stiff upper lip, cup of sweetened tea and all that crap.’

Farrell had been proved correct and Marion Mallory’s initial matter-of-fact manner had vanished into tears and sobbing. The anguish had increased when Farrell broke the news that Katherine had likely been a victim of the Candle Cake Killer. Over the year Katherine had been missing Marion had obviously prepared herself for the worst, but the worst turned out to be nothing compared to the truth. In the last few days she’d seen the news, the TV pictures of Tavy View Farm, the endless recounting of events; she’d never imagined her daughter caught up in it all.

The tears, though, had come and gone with the tea and now there was only a bleak recounting of the events, the little snippets of information which Marion would remember long after she’d forgotten her daughter’s smile.

They were in the living room which, size excepted, was no different from a million others. Television, sofa and armchairs, a coffee table with the morning’s papers still spread out alongside a pile of post and three teacups, now drained of their contents. A clock on the mantelpiece and next to it a photograph of a girl. Not a girl, a young woman, twenty-seven, maybe a little younger in the picture, but frozen at that age forever now.

Savage sat in one of the armchairs, while Farrell perched on the sofa next to Marion. Farrell’s unruly mess of hair and youthful demeanour contrasted with his sombre suit, the effect at once uplifting and reassuring. Whether intentional or not, Farrell’s presence always seemed to make both victims and other officers more relaxed.

The details told, Marion confessed she’d known her daughter was dead from day one.

‘You do, don’t you?’ she said. ‘And yet, however much you wish it wouldn’t, somehow the sliver of hope conspires to stick around. A cruel and unusual punishment is what I’d call it.’

Savage knew about that form of hell from when her daughter Clarissa had been in a coma after being knocked off her bike. Although at least in her own case, the hell hadn’t lasted much more than a day. Not the weeks and months which Marion Mallory had had to endure. Savage saw the anguish written in the lines on her face, could sense the emptiness sitting in the woman’s soul. That kind of void could eat you up little by little until nothing good remained. Savage had to prevent herself from clenching her fists in anger, instead making a silent promise that she’d get the bastard who had caused all this misery. She swallowed, aware of what she needed to say next.

‘I hope this doesn’t add to your distress, but the post-mortem has revealed that Katherine had given birth at some point. Did you know that?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t say anything at the time. There’s nothing on the missing person report we have from Avon and Somerset police.’

‘Isn’t there? I guess it never crossed our minds. She had a child at fifteen, Inspector. A girl. Sadly Katherine had anorexia and other issues. There was no way she could keep the baby. I don’t think she regretted her decision. It wasn’t something we tried to keep secret, more we just didn’t want to be reminded of it. The baby was adopted years ago. Do you think it could have a bearing on the case?’

‘I doubt it, but we just need to cover all the bases. The child would be, what, twelve now? Is it possible Katherine tried to make contact?’

‘I don’t see why she would. She left that part of her life behind after she recovered from her problems.’

‘And you never tried to get in touch with the child’s adopted parents or your grandchild yourself?’

‘Grand …’ Marion reached out into the air, grasping at something invisible, before Farrell took her hand.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

‘To tell you the truth I desperately wanted to contact her when Katherine went missing, but my husband argued we should hold back because it would only cause the child confusion, maybe upset her. Katherine’s own problems began as she became a teenager and … well, do you understand?’

‘Yes. It was a noble decision. Perhaps when the child turns eighteen?’

‘Ma’am?’ Farrell glanced across at Savage and then back to Marion. ‘It’s a good idea, but the child has the final say in this situation. There will need to be checks.’

‘Of course.’

‘You don’t think this could be something to do with that, do you?’ Marion’s hand tensed, gripping Farrell’s for a moment before she let go and placed her hands in her lap.

‘Unlikely. But let’s say she
had
tried to contact her, perhaps she crossed paths with someone. A taxi driver, a neighbour of the adoptive parents perhaps. The person could be in our system, along with hundreds of others. If we could find a link between the victims we may be able to find Katherine’s killer.’

‘The Candle …’ Marion couldn’t complete the sentence, the tears coming again, before she wiped her eyes and composed herself. ‘I don’t understand how Kat got mixed up with this. I mean, she was living in Bristol. I thought the victims were from Devon. Anyway, it was years ago, wasn’t it?’

Marion Mallory’s words stayed with Savage after they’d concluded the interview and said their goodbyes.

Years ago.

The time interval was significant. Serial killers usually increased their rate of killing and only death or capture ended a spree once started. Rarely did the gap between killings lengthen or the killings stop and restart.

As Calter drove, Savage called up Dr Wilson and put the question to him.

‘Gary Ridgeway,’ Wilson said. ‘Known as the Green River Killer. Killed dozens of women and then the murders almost completely stopped.’

‘This is the States, right?’ Savage said.

‘Oh yes. They don’t do things by halves over there.’

‘And why did he stop killing?’

‘He found the love of a good woman. Between 1982 and 1985 he killed over forty women. Then from ’85 onward until 2001 when he was apprehended he only killed four more.’

‘Only. Jesus.’

‘Yes. Like I said, that’s the US for you.’

‘This woman …’

‘Ridgeway met someone in 1985 and later married her. It was his third marriage but this time the relationship worked out. At least until he was arrested.’

‘I’ve been thinking about prison or the killer being abroad as the reason for the gap in the killings; do you think instead it could be something like you just described?’

Wilson didn’t answer and there was a long period of silence. Savage checked her phone to see she still had a signal.

‘Dr Wilson?’ she said. ‘Are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m thinking.’ There was a further pause before Wilson continued. ‘There are no women in the killer’s life; he hates them, remember?’

‘But if there was someone, could her presence explain the lull?’ Savage stopped for a moment herself. Thought about Glastone. ‘Or maybe even the reverse?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Could the presence of a woman in the killer’s life where before there was none cause him to kill?’

Again silence. Wilson computing the question. Savage imagined him in his consulting room staring at his beloved picture of the Deputy Director of the FBI for inspiration. Some seconds later Wilson’s voice came whispering through.

‘Yes. I believe it could.’

Then the line went dead.

Chapter Sixteen

Clifton, Bristol. Thursday 19th June. 3.55 p.m.

The details of Katherine Mallory’s ex had come from Avon and Somerset police, Calter managing to arrange an appointment to interview her for Thursday afternoon. The woman, Rachel Grenfield, lived in the Clifton area of Bristol on College Road. Savage let Calter drive, but even with the DC hitting the speed limit whenever she could the journey still took over two hours.

‘Lucky to find a space round here, ma’am,’ Calter said to Savage as they parked up right opposite the house. As they got out she gestured at the stone wall which ran along one side of the road. ‘You know what’s on the other side of this don’t you?’

Savage confessed she didn’t and Calter smiled. ‘The zoo. Her flat is on the top floor, right? Bet she has a great view of the gorillas.’

Savage glanced across the road at the imposing stone terrace. The houses were four- and five-storey and the top floors almost certainly would offer a vista which took in the zoo.

They crossed the road and went up some steps. A moment after Calter had pressed the doorbell they were buzzed into a lobby and a voice shouted down for them to ‘come on up’.

At the top of three flights of stairs the door to Rachel’s flat stood open. Savage knocked and entered, turning to the right into the living area where a woman stood gazing out of a window. The flat was smart, clean and uncluttered; Rachel the same. She wore a suit, her brown hair just brushing the padded shoulders of a dark jacket.

Mourning? Savage thought, but when the woman turned from the window the expression was one of bewilderment rather than sorrow.

‘Nice place,’ Calter said as she came through and indicated the room and the view.

‘I’m a solicitor,’ Rachel said, as if that explained everything.

It did explain the neat sheaves of paper on the glass coffee table, the law books too. Maybe it explained the woman’s manner as well. The officer at Bristol CID had mentioned Rachel did criminal defence work. She’d be used to dealing with the police. Used to putting them in their place.

‘We’re sorry about Katherine Mallory,’ Savage said.

‘Don’t be.’ Rachel dismissed the comment with a wave of a hand and then indicated they should sit.

Savage eased herself down into the low sofa while Calter opted for a steel and wooden contraption in a corner, pulling out her notebook as she tried to make herself comfortable.

‘When I heard yesterday I shed a tear but Kat was just a fling. Ten or eleven weeks, no more.’ Rachel moved across the room and through a doorway, the sound of running water coming a moment later and then the hiss of a kettle starting to heat. ‘We had loads of sex, but that was about the extent of the relationship. Kat was immature. It was hardly a meeting of minds.’

Cups rattled and Savage and Calter said yes to the offer of tea. The kettle rumbled to a boil and Rachel brought out three mugs and a fancy glass tea pot, the steam condensing on the inside.

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk, thank you,’ Savage said, thinking the woman herself was cold as the fridge. ‘When she went missing, you weren’t troubled?’

‘Kat was flighty. She stayed round my place most nights, but she’d disappeared once before after we’d argued. Didn’t turn up until two days later.’

‘Which is why you didn’t worry.’

‘I’d been busy, but the next day I found her bag behind the sofa. Her purse and mobile were inside. She never went anywhere without them so I called the police. Told them I was concerned. They came round here and sent someone over to her old digs, but said there was little they could do. Kat wasn’t a kid, she was mid-twenties, mind of her own.’