Cut Dead (26 page)

‘For around three hours, yes. When he was outside the village. On the map the place he went to looks like a cottage or small house.’

‘OK, so he could have gone there to prepare, then returned to kidnap Paula Rowland. He brings her back and then goes off home.’

‘Theoretically, yes.’ Hamill paused again. ‘It doesn’t leave much time to … you know, do the things these sort of nutters do.’

‘Which tends to suggest to me he hasn’t done those things yet.’

‘You mean …?’

‘Give me the address, Doug, I’m on my way.’

The twin villages of Newton Ferrers and Noss Mayo sat on either side of a winding estuary. The estuary was a haven for visiting yachties and in summer every available mooring was taken and the Ship Inn packed with sailors from opening until closing. The data on Glastone’s phone showed he’d left the inn and driven about half a mile south of Noss, ending up at a twee cottage set back from a tiny lane. Savage took Enders, leaving Calter to put Layton and the others on standby, ready to move if she found anything.

‘The place is a semi, ma’am,’ Enders said as they drew up alongside. ‘Doesn’t look much like the lair of one of the most notorious serial killers this country has ever known.’

Savage peered out of the car. The two cottages were mirror images of each other, right down to the white doors and honeysuckle curling over the porches. Both front gardens were laid to lawn, the grass grown a little long.

‘Holiday homes,’ Savage said. ‘It’s all too neat and sterile. Look at the curtains. They match.’

‘Which one did Glastone go to?’ Enders looked down at the printout he’d brought with him. ‘The location data isn’t accurate enough to show.’

‘You take the right and I’ll do the left,’ Savage said.

They opened the identical iron gates set into the stone boundary wall and walked up the identical paths. Enders peered into the front window of his property.

‘Kids toys, ma’am. A whole load of them.’

‘No cars parked in the lane though. Whoever is staying has gone out for the day.’

Savage moved across to a window and held her hands up to her eyes to cut out the reflection in the glass. Inside the contents of the room backed up her hunch that this was a holiday home: dated furniture, a small bookshelf with a limited selection of books, a spread of
Devon Life
magazines and the brochures of a number of nearby attractions on a coffee table, a print of Dartmouth hanging above the fireplace. Draped across the arm of the sofa was a red nightdress.

‘It’s this one,’ Savage said. ‘Got to be.’

Enders clambered over the low wall which divided the gardens and squashed his face up against the glass.

‘Ma’am? You reckon he’s dressing her up to play with her? Like a doll?’

‘Did you get that rubbish from Wilson? Because it doesn’t fit the MOs of the others. Whatever, she’s in there.’

‘But what about Mr and Mrs Young Couple next door? Could Glastone get Paula in here in broad daylight while they were playing in the front room with the kiddie?’

‘Maybe he got lucky and they were out. Do the honours could you, Patrick?’ Savage pointed at the door. Enders hesitated for a moment. ‘She could be in there, still alive.’

Enders shrugged, stepped back and then shouldered the door. The door shuddered, but didn’t budge. He tried again and this time there was a splintering, the door banging open as the Yale lock gave way.

‘Police!’ Savage shouted. She ran into the house and gestured for Enders to check the ground floor. She stomped up the stairs where there was a bathroom and two bedrooms off a tiny landing. Both were empty, although one showed signs of occupancy, the duvet on the double bed ruffled and a skimpy top folded on a chair. Savage spotted a suitcase pushed under the bed and a recent paperback on the side table.

Enders came up the stairs.

‘Nothing down there, ma’am. There’s food and milk in the fridge and today’s
Telegraph
on the kitchen table. The dishwasher’s half open, dirty plates and cutlery inside.’ Enders looked around the bedroom. ‘I don’t get it. Where’s Paula?’

‘He must have gone somewhere else. Maybe he
was
being clever. Drove up here deliberately and then turned his phone off when he arrived. Went away and did the business and then came back here and turned the phone on again.’

‘We should’ve questioned him before we came.’

‘Maybe, but I wanted to wrong foot him. Anyway, I thought the girl might have been here.’ Savage turned and began to go down the stairs. ‘We’d better call John Layton out and see if he can come up with anything.’

As they reached the front door a car pulled up in the lane. The door opened and an attractive woman got out. Mid-thirties, long dark hair, dressed in a tracksuit, a kit bag in her hand. The woman stared up at the front door and then pulled out a phone. As Savage came out the door and down the path the woman was making a call.

‘I’m warning you, I’m phoning the police!’

‘DI Savage,’ Savage said, taking out her warrant card.

The woman looked puzzled, but lowered the phone.

‘Has there been a break-in or something? I’ve only been gone for an hour or so. Just went for a run along the coast.’

The woman closed the door of the car and came up the path.

‘Kirsty Longworth,’ she said. ‘Did they take anything? Not that I’ve got much here.’

‘Do you know a Mr Glastone, Kirsty?’ Savage said.

‘Phil? Of course. He’s the owner of these cottages. We … I mean …’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m on holiday here. Just for a couple of days. I live over in Exeter.’

‘Not far to come for a holiday, is it?’

‘No, I suppose not. But Phil and I … well, we had a few things to sort out.’

‘You know Phil personally? You’re not just renting the house off him?’

‘No, I’m not renting the house at all. Phil’s letting me stay here for free.’ The woman sighed. Shrugged her shoulders. Gave an embarrassed smile. ‘OK, we’re lovers. Or rather,
were
lovers. Cheating on our partners, if you want to put it in such sordid terms.’

‘Were?’

‘It’s over. I told him yesterday I didn’t want to see him anymore. The affair was getting too complicated and anyway, I’m moving away. My husband’s got a job up North so we have to relocate. I’m going to see if I can make it work with him.’

‘And how did Phil feel about that?’

‘He wasn’t happy, but we parted on good terms. I think. He didn’t rant and rave, if that’s what you mean. In fact, we made love before he left.’ Kirsty paused and put her head on one side. She pointed up at the smashed lock. ‘Look, what’s this about? You broke that, didn’t you? Not burglars.’

‘How long was Phil with you yesterday?’

‘We had a very late lunch at the Ship and got back here about four-ish. We went to bed and I guess he went off at about seven. Maybe a little later.’

‘He’s out of the frame, ma’am,’ Enders said. ‘She was taken late afternoon.’

‘Who was taken?’ Kirsty said. She glanced at Enders and then back at Savage. ‘You’re talking about the girl on the news, aren’t you? You’re crazy, Phil can’t have had anything to do with that. He was here with me and then he went home to his wife.’

‘Yes, we know.’ Savage turned to Enders. ‘Patrick, get on the phone and call someone out to deal with the broken lock. Then we’ll get back and charge Mr Glastone with what we’ve got. Which from what we saw of Carol Glastone is quite enough.’

‘Charge Phil,’ Kirsty said. ‘What with for God’s sake?’

‘Assaulting his wife,’ Savage said. ‘If you could give Patrick your contact details because we might have a few more questions for you. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

Back at the station from her jaunt in the countryside, Savage found herself cornered by Hardin. She told him about Glastone being out of the picture. He wasn’t happy.

‘Good news would have been handy,’ Hardin said. ‘Because there’s a press conference in twenty minutes with the parents. The Chief Constable has deigned us with his presence and he wants a good showing of senior officers.’

Savage followed Hardin down to the media room, the place already packed with reporters. Paula Rowland’s parents sat alongside Simon Fox, the harsh lights from the TV crews probing every small facet of their faces. Not that there was much probing to do. Distraught was the only word to do justice to their expressions. Fox too wore a grimace as the hacks moved closer to get their pictures. They were hardened to this sort of thing, had seen it all before: the appeals for the missing person to come home, for whoever who was holding her to release their little baby. A family friend or relative would run through a short bio. She was a lovely girl, always laughing, many friends, caring. She was thoughtful, giving, looking out for others. Please come home.

Savage felt heartless and cynical for a moment as she wondered if there was any other type of victim. Were people involved in tragedies always angels at school, friends with everyone, the life and soul of the party with so much to look forward to?

Cameras flashed and the journalists started to ask questions. Fact was, they already knew the answers from covering similar cases whose victims had become immortalised in the public’s psyche. History was composed of events like this and you revealed your age by how far back you could remember. Was it the searches on the moors, the prostitutes who weren’t missed in Halifax and Leeds, the runaways who vanished into the hell which was Cromwell Street or two little girls missing in Soham?

The story each time differed, but the ending was always the same, predestined. While Mr and Mrs Rowland might be clinging to any little scrap of hope, looking for any chink of light in an otherwise black night, everyone else in the room knew the truth. Paula Rowland was dead. Brutally murdered. Probably raped first. Maybe tortured. The CC and the other police in the room would hope not. The journalists expected and hoped for the worst. The more gruesome the tale, the more column inches they could write and the bigger their expense accounts. In a few months one or two might bring out books. The Candle Cake Killer was a cash machine and every new victim meant a bunch of crispy notes spewing forth.

Savage was brought back to reality by the Chief Constable wrapping the conference. The Rowlands were being ushered to one side by their solicitor and a family liaison officer. Simon Fox came the other way and he approached Hardin and Savage.

‘Jesus, Conrad,’ he said, loosening the top button on his uniform. ‘This is a bloody nightmare. Do you know the Police and Crime Commissioner is beginning to make noises about leadership?’

‘Positioning, sir,’ Hardin said. ‘Elections later this year.’

‘All the effort we’ve made to keep everyone onside. Policing by consent. Public cooperation. The plan’s going down the pan. The Commissioner’s been talking to his chums up in London. The Home Secretary is apparently concerned. Looking to take a personal interest. Total meltdown.’

‘Sir?’ Savage said. ‘It’s the councillors on the Crime Panel. Alec Jackman, amongst others. They’re ramping things up and putting the Commissioner under pressure.’

‘Well he should be able to take it. Not wilt at the first piece of heat. Pathetic. Typical of a politician. To be honest the whole concept was flawed from the start.’

Fox wiped the back of his hand across his brow where perspiration glistened in the white light. Savage had always thought the man a cool cookie, but now she wondered what had got into him. The Rowlands? Over the other side of the room Mrs Rowland had broken down. She hadn’t been able to make it from the room and had collapsed on one of the plastic chairs which had been put out for the press. The situation was distressing, yes, but Savage thought Fox would have been able to deal with it. Perhaps it was the way things had run out of control. They had prepared for the worst before D-Day but had been unable to prevent the killer striking again. The impotence would hurt.

‘Where’s DS Riley?’ Fox said. Savage shook her head, not understanding. ‘I want a word with him. This prison officer death. I hear the man was murdered. As if we haven’t got enough on our plate.’

‘He’ll be in the crime suite,’ Savage said. ‘I’ll take you up there myself.’

‘No,’ Fox said. ‘Not necessary. I can find my own way.’

Fox moved off and headed for the door. Hardin shook his head.

‘When the skipper looks like he’s about to abandon ship then it’s time for the rats to get jumpy too, hey Charlotte?’

Savage nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Riley was about to leave for home so he could get back and make up to Julie for missing most of the weekend when Simon Fox strode into the crime suite. Heads went down over keyboards, hands went to pens and scribbled on pads. Fox ignored everyone and walked over to Riley’s corner. The CC wanted to know how the investigation into Corran’s murder was going. Terrible turn of events, he said. Riley stood and apologised for the absence of DI Davies.

‘He’s working on tracing the gun, sir. Contacts.’

‘Right.’ Fox nodded.

Davies’ contacts were notorious, stretching the gamut from small-time drug hustlers and street toms right to the very top of the Plymouth underworld. If the gun had been obtained in the city Davies would find out. Killing a prison officer was way out of line. Business would be affected. Unnecessary heat would rain down. Bad form.

‘The thing is,’ Fox said, ‘if you get a likely suspect then if at all possible I’d like to know before any arrest is made.’

‘Sir?’ Riley didn’t like the way the conversation was going so he played dumb. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Rumours, Sergeant, rumours.’ Fox glanced around and lowered his voice. ‘Corran dealt with sex offenders, I understand.’

‘Yes. I believe he did a couple of courses up at Full Sutton and has worked over at Channings Wood. Vulnerable offenders.’

‘Vulnerable offenders?’ Fox cracked a smile. ‘There’s a certain stupidity about the label wouldn’t you say? It’s a contradiction in terms lost on the leftie do-good brigade.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Riley held his tongue. He wasn’t about to get drawn into a political debate with the CC.

‘All I’m saying is should a person of interest come onto your radar and the person is also, how shall I say it … a VIP? Then I want, if possible, to know of it first. Understood?’