Authors: Mark Sennen
Cut Dead (31 page)
‘This is Devon, Dr Wilson,’ Hardin said, tapping the van window where streaks of rain ran down the glass. ‘This is not the country of Ted Bundy or the BTK Killer. This is not the country with the highest homicide rate in the developed world. For God’s sake leave your preconceptions Stateside and give us something relevant to work with.’
‘I—’ Wilson stuttered and then reached into his jacket and pulled out a pad and pencil. He stared down at the pad.
‘And?’ Hardin bent his head to one side and gave one of his disconcerting sneers.
‘I mentioned to DI Savage the other day that serial killer behaviour sometimes gives the impression the perpetrator wants to be caught. I said this is a mistaken viewpoint: the killer becomes convinced he is invincible, that they
can’t
be caught. They do incredibly risky things and are amazed they still evade capture. They are laughing at the police, mocking them almost. In this case even going so far as to let an officer see them in the act of dumping the body.’
‘Mocking us?’ Hardin’s face began to flush. ‘He won’t be mocking us when we get hold of him, he’ll—’
‘It’s no good getting angry, Superintendent. That’s just what he wants.’ Wilson put his pad down on his lap and leant forwards, smiling as he put his hands out and brought them together in a slow motion hand clap. ‘He’s this close, touching us almost. He’ll be watching, trying to get in amongst us, following our every move. This is the thrill the killer seeks, the sense he can move at will and we are powerless to stop him.’
‘Powerless to …? For God’s sake, keep that thought to yourself. Can you imagine what the media would make of such a comment? There’d be outright panic on the streets.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Wilson tapped the side of his nose. ‘Client confidentiality. Anyway you and the residents of Devon and Cornwall have nothing to worry about for the following twelve months. The cycle has ended. He’ll be dormant now until next June. You’ve just got to catch him before then.’
Savage noted Wilson had changed from an inclusive ‘we’ to an accusative ‘you’, excluding himself from the responsibility of solving the crime. Hardin hadn’t noticed. In fact the unexpected arrival of a twelve months’ grace period seemed to have cheered him.
‘Now then,’ Wilson said. ‘I need to get to bed. Tomorrow morning I’ve arranged to drive down to the Plymouth side of the railway bridge with your senior CSI. Apparently there’s been a fingertip search, but I’d like to walk across and see the route the killer took for myself. Afterwards I’ll work on the profile. Have something for you by the evening.’
Wilson stood and clambered out of the van. Hardin clucked to himself for a few seconds.
‘Twelve months hey, Charlotte?’
‘That’s the pattern, sir. We knew it before. Wilson saying so doesn’t change anything.’
‘You still don’t like him, do you?’
‘Too many words, sir. But I’ll eat them all with cold gravy and brussel sprouts if he manages to help us catch the killer.’
You’ve got the big Kilner jars out from the back of the cupboard. Sat on the table their contents brood, suspended in the fluid, floating like some kind of revolting amoebas or creatures from the depths of the deepest ocean. Just now Mikey came bounding in. When he saw the jars he squealed and scampered away. You understand his sentiment. The things inside revolt you.
They’ve gone all white and colourless in the formalin and without the pink tinge of blood you wonder if for a moment they’ve lost their potency, if, perhaps, they are not quite so dangerous. But of course you’d be mistaken. These things have caused untold misery in pursuit of selfish pleasures for their former owners. ‘Lock and key’, you say to yourself as you check the seals round the top of the jars. They’re quite intact, thank goodness.
You push them to one side of the table and fetch two clean jars from the back of the cupboard. One small, one enormous. You decant formalin from the big container in the shed into both the jars. Then you look at the plastic wrapped around something squidgy and nasty on the draining board. A casual glance would suggest the things inside were pieces of meat for dinner. But no, they’re not for eating. Quite revolting. A horrible sight which brings back memories. And that isn’t good.
You reach under the sink for the big rubber gloves. Pull them on. Take a deep breath. Begin to unwrap the parcel. You gag, not from the formalin, but from the sheer thought of the power of the flesh.
‘No!’ you say, picking the pieces of flesh up and holding them at arm’s length. ‘You won’t do that again. Not to me. Not to anyone.’
Plop.
Down they go into the clear liquid, spiralling towards the bottom of the jar. You flip the lid over, engaging the catch and flicking it down.
Thank God!
You push the jar across the table to join the others. Paula, Kat, Heidi, Sue, Mandy. The array of awfulness is almost too much for you.
But stop! Enough reminiscing. Paula. You’ve forgotten something. The big jar’s full of formalin, waiting. You look down at the bucket on the floor. Something round in there. Round with squidgy bits, hair, ears, bits of flesh hanging off where you severed the neck. You reach down and lift Paula’s head from the bucket. Heavier than you’d have thought. The eyes stare out. You wonder for a second if you should kiss her on the lips. Decide not. You lower the head into the formalin, Paula’s face sinking down as liquid rises out of the jar and spills onto the table. The Archimedes principle. Eureka. Pure fucking madness.
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Wednesday 25th June. 9.22 a.m.
Savage realised trouble was brewing when she arrived at the station and spotted the big car and its uniformed driver in the car park: Simon Fox, the Chief Constable, chauffeured over from Exeter first thing. He wanted the latest; wanted too, to give the team a roasting.
Briefing room A. Everybody in there, from Hardin down to the lowliest indexer. Fox stood at the top of the table in place of Hardin and he didn’t waste much time on formalities. No beating about the bush. He thumped a bundle of newspapers down in front of him and fanned them out.
‘This is appalling. Awful.’ Fox stood, head bowed, staring at the headlines, the same lead on every front page. The same photograph of Paula Rowland too. ‘Beforehand there was a glimmer, just a glimmer of hope. Gone now, isn’t it?’
Fox looked up and scanned the room, starting with the senior officers. Hardin, Garrett, Savage, the other DIs, Layton, Collier. Then the detectives with specialised roles on the inquiry: the receiver, the action manager, the document reader, the exhibits officer, the disclosure officer, the house-to-house coordinator. Next, the mass of junior detectives, followed by the police support staff: the indexers, the researchers, the PR team. Finally Fox’s gaze alighted on Dr Wilson, sitting snug right alongside Savage.
‘Failure is a bitter, bitter pill,’ Fox said, eyes remaining on Wilson before flitting off in Hardin’s direction. ‘But we have to swallow it. All of us.’
The eyes went round the room again, faster this time.
‘I was sitting with the parents of Paula Rowland on Sunday at the press conference. Now I have to go and meet with them again. This time with an apology in hand. What else can I tell them? Can I honestly say we tried our best? Even if we did our efforts fell woefully short of what the public – what Mr and Mrs Rowland – should expect.’
The lecture went on and on, the atmosphere in the room souring with every minute. By the end nobody could be under any illusion as to the message Fox intended: catch the killer soon or else. Responsibility lay with each and every operational officer.
Operational officer.
Savage thought the term was a neat way for Fox to exclude himself from the equation, the buck-passing already in full swing. The police commissioner would do the same thing, leaving the troops on the ground to wonder what exactly the guys at the top did for their pay packets.
Fox was leaving now, his PA alongside muttering something about a few words for a press release as they hurried into the corridor. Savage was curious to know what the CC would say to the media. That the team were a bunch of incompetents?
Hardin was hot on Fox’s tail, but he paused to speak to Savage and Wilson.
‘Charlotte,’ he said. ‘We need something by tonight, understand?’
Savage nodded and was about to ask when the post-mortem would be taking place when Hardin turned to Wilson.
‘And you.’ Hardin jabbed a finger at the psychologist. ‘Get me the bloody report by tomorrow or you’re fucking history, OK?’
With that Hardin was off, lumbering down the corridor after Fox. Wilson shook his head.
‘Charming,’ he said.
Riley regretted asking Enders if he knew what he was doing as soon as the words left his mouth.
‘Look, city boy,’ Enders said as he glanced down at the screen on the handheld GPS. ‘You’re the one who doesn’t know what you’re talking about. This is my new baby. She’s accurate down to a metre or so on a good day.’
‘Your girlfriend, does she have a name?’ Riley laughed and bent to turn over another rock. When he saw there was nothing underneath he let the rock down with a clatter. ‘Nothing doing, Patrick. We’ll keep trying for another ten minutes and call it a day.’
There’s a plastic container under a flat rock at 50.2847 North 03.8977 West. Put £5000 cash in it by Friday.
Riley shook his head and wondered if the coordinates in the document on Corran’s laptop were bogus. Perhaps some sort of misdirection. They’d been searching for half an hour already, working their way into a ravine on the west side of Burgh Island. The narrow cove had a little beach, the top end of which was littered with large stones. Riley reckoned he must have turned over almost all of them. Enders hadn’t done so many. Mostly he’d just stood holding his precious GPS and pointed.
When they’d arrived they’d parked the car at Bigbury-on-Sea and stood and looked across the strip of sand which joined the island to the mainland. Hundreds, probably thousands, of holidaymakers packed the beach and to the left of the island the water thronged with surfers. Every now and then one managed to stand on their board for a few seconds, but even Riley could tell the waves weren’t up to much today. The island itself was a few acres of rough grassland sat atop steep cliffs. On the east side the white of the art deco hotel glared in the sun, the place a popular venue for weddings. Riley couldn’t quite understand why, for a stream of tourists snaked their way past the hotel, gawping as they climbed to the top of the island. True, when the tide was high enough the island was cut off from the mainland with the only access on a weird sea-tractor, but even then the privacy lasted for an hour or two at most. To Riley’s eyes, a more inviting option was the Pilchard Inn sat right on the shoreline. Riley glanced at his watch. Not long until opening time.
‘Gold!’ Enders said, face all grin. ‘Told you this baby would find the goods.’
Riley shook his head and then clambered across the rocks and patted Enders on the back. At Enders’ feet lay a translucent Tupperware box with a green lid. As the DC reached for the box Riley caught his arm.
‘Prints,’ Riley said. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and stretched them onto each hand. He lifted the box and peered through the side. There didn’t seem to be much inside, certainly not five thousand pounds.
‘You going to open it?’
‘Tell me, Patrick,’ Riley said turning the box over and checking it. ‘When you go geocaching with the kids, what do you find inside?’
‘Trinkets, mostly. Key-rings, little plastic toys, similar things. That’s not the point though, it’s finding the hiding place which is the big thrill.’
‘Strange nobody found this then.’ Riley began to lever off the top, working his fingers around the edge. ‘All these people.’
‘Not really. They didn’t know where to look. We did and it still took us a while. Plus this cove is relatively inaccessible. Private land.’
‘True.’ Riley snapped off the lid. Inside was a single piece of paper, folded in half. Riley took the paper out, unfolded it and read the single word written in large bold sweeps of black marker pen.
‘What does it say, Darius?’
‘Not funny,’ Riley said as he held out the paper for Enders to see. ‘But the joke’s backfired. This is as good as a confession from the person Corran was blackmailing that they killed him.’
Riley found Davies in the crime suite hunched over a stack of Corran’s bank statements. He showed the DI the find from Burgh Island.
‘“Bang”?’ Davies said, staring down at the plastic evidence bag. ‘Is that all?’
‘All that was in the box. Just a single piece of paper.’ Riley pointed at the bag. ‘No prints on the paper. Some on the box, but they’re Corran’s.’
‘You sure there was nothing else in there?’ Davies turned his head and gave a little sneer. ‘Not five Ks you and Enders decided to divvy up? A new three-piece for his wife, a smart set of new rags for yourself? Bung me a monkey and nobody will be any the wiser.’
Riley wasn’t sure if Davies was joking or not but he didn’t deign to answer. He just picked up the bag and moved it over to another one containing the box the paper had come in.
‘I don’t understand,’ Davies said. ‘The note I mean. Why was it still there?’
‘Corran must have left it. The message probably unnerved him, we know he was a little withdrawn Saturday afternoon. Cassie Corran said he’d been off fishing. We can guess his trip to the sea didn’t revolve around piscatorial pursuits.’
‘Hey?’
‘He went to Burgh Island and found the note. He must have realised he was in trouble, but he probably didn’t think his cover had been blown.’
‘You think somebody was watching?’
‘As Doug Hamill told me, it’s hard to know how. Corran had posted the letter several weeks before.’ Riley thought about the hours he’d spent in various ditches on the diesel investigation. ‘Even with a full team we’d have a job keeping up a surveillance op like that. On your own you’d have to be some sort of obsessive. It would be mind-numbing.’