Cut Dead (36 page)

‘Blue Impreza.’ Hegg nodded, and reached for the ledger book. ‘Kenny gave me the details. I told him I’d look into it. Well, now I’ve looked into it.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing doing, nothing found. Even if I’d found something, my customers value their privacy.’

‘But Fallon said—’

‘I don’t care what Kenny said. In case you lot didn’t realise he’s not quite the big gun he used to be. We’re mates, sure, but I’m not a monkey doing tricks on his say-so. Now if you don’t mind I’ve got to get on with my accounts.’

‘I see.’ Riley turned away from the counter and made to leave. ‘How would your precious customers feel if they turned up to see a squad car parked outside your front gate? Extended lunch break. Every day. From now until whenever. Bet their presence would quieten things down a bit so you’d have time to do your accounts.’

‘Look,’ Hegg flipped his book shut and the waft of air lifted a couple of receipts and blew them from the desk. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

‘There’s not going to be any trouble if you just tell me who you sold the panel to.’

Hegg peered past Riley through the door to the warehouse and shook his head. He bent for the receipts and then stuffed them and the ledger book into a drawer beneath the counter.

‘Tim Hamilton. Runs a panel shop over Okehampton way.’ Hegg pulled a sliver of white card from the drawer and slid it shut. ‘He was nothing to do with your problem, he’s a mechanic. Just fixing up a car for someone.’

The card snapped down on the counter.

‘Thanks,’ Riley reached for the card. ‘I won’t forget you helped me.’

‘I’d prefer you did.’ Hegg flicked open his girlie magazine again. Two brunettes were getting friendly head-to-toe. ‘Now, as I said, I’ve got work to do, so I’d be grateful if you’d bugger off.’

Chapter Thirty-Four

Close. Very close. The police finding the hair. Need to think about that in the future. You don’t want any more silly mistakes, else you’ll end up back inside. And this time there’ll be no getting out, no rebirth. It’ll be a whole life term.

A slice of luck how things turned out though. The Manchester alibi. If only your good fortune extended to the state of your dishwasher. Right now you don’t want to be worrying about such things, but it’s gone wrong again and when you called up the repair man he refused to come out.

‘Tricky, driving all the way out there,’ the fuckhead said. ‘You living in the countryside, see? One of the downsides. Not worth my while.’

Really?

You’ll show him what is and isn’t worth his while. His job is repairing washing machines, not making philosophical judgements on the country–city dichotomy. His attitude makes your blood …

Steady.

You don’t need any more trouble. Which means you simply have to make a decision: Dixons, Currys or Amazon?

There’s enough wire and electricity and electrons and shit swirling around in a new machine to make you sick. Better not add to the sum by buying from Amazon. Besides, they’ll take cash in one of the stores and you might get to speak to a girl in a smart uniform. If you can avoid the slimy male sales assistants with their false bonhomie.

Alright, sir? How can I help you?

They could help by fucking off and leaving you alone for five minutes. You’re sure that was the problem the last time. You’d decided on a basic model – quite adequate for your needs – when spotty boy comes across and talks you into buying a much more expensive unit.

Which six years, three months and five days later went wrong.

Six years, three months and five days? Is that how long things are expected to last in the twenty-first century?

Call that progress?

No, you don’t.

You sigh and glance out the window.

The dog is going crazy. Barking, growling, straining at the limits of its chain, wanting to play with Mikey. The lad is out there with his football trying some step-overs. Only these are more like trip-overs, Mikey falling in the mud, face down. You shake your head, wondering not for the first time why you took him in. But the boy was alone on the streets. Homeless. He needed somebody. And after all these years you’ve grown rather fond of him.

Splat.

You’ve got to admire his perseverance because over he goes again. And again. And again.

Not much progress there either, Mikey about as close to emulating Cristiano Ronaldo as the police are to catching you.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Monday 30th June. 9.07 a.m.

Savage spent Saturday at home with Pete and the kids, Sunday afternoon out on their boat tootling around the Sound. Fish and chips collected on the way home, the kids in bed early, worn out from being on the water. There’d been little wind, their colourful spinnaker barely filling in the light air, the boat wallowing in the swell; a welcome change from the last trip. When they’d left the boat though, Pete had doubled up the ropes and added a few extra fenders.

‘Summer storm,’ he said. ‘Coming in tomorrow. Best be on the safe side.’

The safe side had been Hardin’s call too. Play it cautious. He’d stood down the majority of the team for the weekend. A few detectives worked over, but the DSupt had wanted to cool everyone down. The last thing they needed, he said, was a spot of red card rage, an over-zealous officer going hell for leather after a fresh suspect or someone trying to pin something on Wilson.

Monday morning, and Pete’s forecast was correct. The weather was brewing, trees beginning to bend and swirl in a strengthening breeze, the sun more often than not hidden behind clouds. Over the weekend the media had cooked up their own storm, keen to ratchet up the tension. There was fresh talk about whether the police could cope. In a Sunday morning TV interview a Home Office minister had expressed her ‘utmost confidence’ in Simon Fox and the Devon and Cornwall force; shorthand for ‘Get your fingers out, or else.’

At Crownhill Savage headed to the crime suite, almost bumping into Layton on a corner.

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Layton said. ‘Busy, busy, busy.’

The CSI held a small ziplock bag in one hand, in the other hand a gun. Grey metal and wood. The target pistol recovered from Dr Wilson’s house.

‘Where are you going with that?’ Savage said.

Layton didn’t answer. Instead he smiled and jerked his head to the side as if to hint she should follow. He set off at a trot, almost collided with an officer with a steaming cup of something, and barged into the crime suite. Savage caught the double doors before they could close and followed him in.

‘Well, well, well.’ Davies looked up from a desk. ‘If it isn’t the Fairy Godmother and Cinderella. Brought us an invite to the ball, have you? Only there’s a rumour going around that your magic’s all used up.’

Riley stood at Davies’ side and he shook his head and shrugged. ‘John. Ma’am.’

‘Well the rumour is wrong,’ Layton said. He walked into the room and placed the gun on a desk. ‘This is the gun I found in Dr Wilson’s house. Not concealed but it had been recently fired.’

‘Wonderful,’ Davies said.

‘And this is a bullet fired from the same gun.’ He placed the plastic bag alongside the pistol. ‘It came from a point two-two LR rimfire cartridge.’

‘Fantastic.’ Davies feigned disinterest and looked at his screen. ‘Do you mind telling me what this has to do with our operation?’

‘The bullet was extracted from the brain of Devlyn Corran. I believe you and DS Riley were there when Nesbit performed the PM?’

‘
What
?’ Davies snapped round and stared down at the bullet. ‘Bloody hell! You
are
joking me?’

‘Jokes are for comedians,’ Layton said, a smile showing he was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Conjecture for fools. This is fact. I’ve fired the gun and the test bullets match.’

‘So Wilson killed Corran?’ Savage said.

‘I’ve no idea who fired the gun, but it was used to murder Corran.’ Layton looked away from the desk and turned to Savage. ‘I gather you met him at his office on the Wednesday after the initial discovery of the bodies at the farm.’

‘Yes,’ Savage said. ‘But what’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Wilson couldn’t meet you earlier?’

‘No, he was … Shit! Wilson was up in London. Something to do with the Home Office.’

‘Another alibi,’ Layton said. ‘I dare say as unbreakable as the first.’

‘John, you’re taking us round in circles. You’ve brought us a new theory but now you say Wilson couldn’t have killed Corran in the same way as he couldn’t have abducted Paula Rowland.’

‘Evidence, ma’am.’ Layton pointed to the bags on the desk. ‘I’m like Dr Nesbit in that way. I provide the facts but it’s up to you guys to do the interpretation.’

‘Ma’am?’ Riley pointed to a sheet of paper on Davies’ little whiteboard:
I know who you are.
‘Corran sent this message to the person he was blackmailing. Now John tells us Corran’s been popped with a gun owned by Wilson, already a suspect for the Candle Cake killings. Whatever the veracity of Dr Wilson’s two alibis, the coincidence is too much.’

‘But how did Corran know about Wilson?’ Savage said.

‘Thinking on my feet, ma’am,’ Riley said. ‘Corran worked at HMP Full Sutton before transferring down to Dartmoor. I spoke to the Deputy Governor up there. Corran specialised in the care, management and security of dangerous prisoners. According to the Governor of HMP Dartmoor Corran did some similar sessions at Channings Wood. There’s a sex offender unit over there. I believe Wilson has been to the unit too. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility Corran and Wilson met.’

‘Yeah,’ Davies said. ‘But how does Corran meeting Wilson mean he gets the lowdown on the identity of the Candle Cake Killer? Unless Corran came across Wilson sitting in a cell with some pervert saying “Look here, mate, I know exactly where you’re coming from, I’m a bit of a serial killer myself.” I don’t want to rain on your parade, but that’s fucking … how did you put it, John …
conjecture
?’

‘Maybe,’ Savage said, waving her hands apart. ‘And the alibis need some serious work, but we go with what we know. Corran, bullet, gun. We can build the rest from there.’

‘You know, Savage?’ Davies stood and pulled his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said in a long time. I’ll bring Wilson in.’

‘Hang on,’ Savage said. ‘We don’t want a repeat of the other day. We need to be sure and we need to use this to see if we can’t work the Candle Cake Killer stuff too.’

‘OK, I’m hearing you. Let’s go and find the DSupt and see what he thinks.’

He surged from the room without waiting for a reply. Riley followed but he stopped at the door and offered another shrug by way of an apology.

‘Typical,’ Layton said. ‘Not a word of thanks. No “well done”, “good work” or anything.’

‘Well done, John. And good work,’ Savage said, moving to follow Davies and Riley. ‘Now if you could just get some more evidence which might break those alibis, that would be great.’

Dr Peter Wilson stood looking out on his garden. The green lawn was dotted with piles of soil where the police had dug holes in the expectation of finding more bodies. Wilson shook his head. Fools. What would be the point of burying the women here?

The sight of the lawn distressed him. It had taken time to get the grass looking so lush, to remove every last trace of moss, to even out all the bumps. He thought the lawn could do with a cut, but manoeuvring around the holes would be tricky and there probably wasn’t enough time to finish the job. Pity. He enjoyed the cutting, the way the lawn looked after he’d zipped up and down with the mower, the neat alternating stripes of green. Caring for the garden was an effort, but then caring for anything was an effort. You got what you put into something though and the garden’s appearance in the summer was reward enough for all the work.

The police had been working hard too. And not just in the garden. A few minutes earlier Wilson had taken a call from the woman detective, Charlotte. She was on her way out to see him. Things to discuss, she’d said.

Things to discuss.

For a moment when he’d heard her voice Wilson wondered if she’d changed her mind about him. Was she coming over to make amends, admit she fancied him? No, of course not. The bitch was like all the rest. Selfish. The real reason for her visit was because the game was up. She hadn’t said so but he knew all the same.

Wilson turned back to the living room and walked in through the French windows. The room was a mess. Boxes of books, the furniture stacked in a corner, cupboards open.

The gun …

He’d kept the weapon in one of the cupboards along with some ammunition. The police had found it all too easily. A silly, silly mistake. So far they’d been idiots, but the phone call suggested they’d finally put two and two together. They knew the prison officer had been shot and now they had the weapon which shot him.

For a moment Wilson considered fleeing, but really that wasn’t an option now. Running away would solve nothing. If he wanted to protect those he loved the most there was only one thing to do.

Wilson glanced at his watch. She’d be here soon. He needed to prepare. Get ready. It was time for the final act.

Hardin hadn’t thought much of the bullet evidence. Layton, he’d muttered, was getting sloppy. Not to be trusted. And when he’d said the word ‘trusted’ he’d looked at Savage, shaken his head. Nodded at Davies too. It was then Savage had come up with a suggestion. She’d call the psychologist and suggest a meeting. He knew nothing of the latest development so she could use the new evidence to trap him, possibly solving both cases at the same time.

Now, as Savage turned her car in off the lane and coasted into Wilson’s driveway, she was beginning to regret having opened her mouth.

‘Can you hear me?’ she said, trying not to move her lips.