Cut Dead (37 page)

‘Yes.’ Riley’s voice came through static into her earpiece.

Savage pulled up on the driveway and looked towards the front door. It stood ajar.

‘The door’s open, but no sign of Wilson,’ Savage said. ‘I’m going in.’

‘Oh so slowly, ma’am. And be careful. Any sign of anything amiss and you shout. We’re one minute away.’

One minute was round a corner at the end of the lane in a car with the engine running. Davies at the wheel, Riley and Enders with their fingers on the door handles.

‘Roger that.’

Savage climbed out of the car and moved over the drive. Grandmother’s footsteps, each step making a crunching noise sure to wake Granny up. She reached the door and pushed.

‘Dr Wilson? Peter?’

Her voice echoed in the bare hallway. A rug had been rolled up and leant against one wall. Several plastic boxes stood in a haphazard stack next to the stairs. A life packed away for investigation. Savage entered the house. Across the hall a door revealed the living room, inside the French windows stood open, a breeze wafting in and moving the curtains. She moved across the hallway, her steps clicking on the parquet floor. In the living room the sofa and armchairs had no covers on and had been moved to a corner. Another pile of plastic boxes contained all Wilson’s books and papers. What had Wilson been doing all weekend? It didn’t appear that he’d made any effort to unpack or tidy up. Savage shook her head and crossed the room to the patio doors.

Outside a number of holes dotted the lawn. ‘Exploratory’ Layton had called them, but his team had found nothing. Savage wondered what would happen to the property. Even if Wilson wasn’t the Candle Cake Killer the house had now acquired a notoriety, the horrors of the killings forever associated with the place.

She called Wilson’s name again and then came in from the garden and returned to the hall. Doors led to the kitchen, dining room, a study and of course there was the upstairs to check too. She moved towards the study. The small room had wall-to-ceiling bookcases on two walls and a large leather-topped desk with a matching armchair. In the centre of the green leather a white envelope had been propped against an upturned tumbler. Savage moved closer. A single line of writing spidered across the face of the envelope:

For the attention of DI Savage.

She reached out for the envelope and then stopped, aware of a noise behind her. She spun round, half-expecting Wilson to jump from behind the door, but there was no one.

‘No sign of him anywhere,’ she whispered, unsure if Riley could hear her, and then walked out into the hallway once again.

The first thing she noticed was that the front door had closed. Swung shut in the breeze or … No. The safety chain hung in a little loop. Then she saw Wilson. He stood atop the stack of crates, the pile creaking as he shifted his weight.

‘What are you …’ Savage had a moment to take in the rope which went from Wilson up to the chandelier and then made a sharp angle as it led across to the banister rail on the upstairs landing. For a second she thought Wilson was about to attempt some kind of Tarzan swing. But no, he wasn’t like Tarzan because he wasn’t holding on to the rope. It was tied round his neck.

‘Charlotte,’ Wilson said, trying to balance. ‘I’ve decided it’s better this way. Wraps things up. No more killing. No more tears. Lord knows there’s been enough of them down the years.’

‘Dr Wilson …’ Savage moved into the centre of the hall. The stack of crates was a metre and a half high, Wilson towering above her like some circus stilt-walker. ‘Peter. Calm down. We can work this out. Don’t do anything stupid.’

‘Anything stupid?’ Wilson laughed. Wobbled. Reached up and held the rope with one hand to steady himself. ‘I think it’s a little too late for that. All I ever wanted was to settle the scores. Retribution, if you like, for sins committed.’

‘Are you talking about adoption? Those women gave up their children because they had to. Because of the situation they found themselves in. Do you think anybody would willingly surrender a child they had carried inside them?’

‘No one has to do anything, Charlotte. They neglected their offspring, handed them over to strangers, not knowing what would happen. You should have heard them trying to justify their actions. They were so self-obsessed, so full of self-pity. They made me sick.’

‘But if anything the children were probably better off. They were placed with parents who were desperate for children, who loved and cared for them.’

‘Really? You believe that?’ Wilson pointed at Savage, at the envelope she held in her hand. ‘Open it. Read it.’

‘What’s this?’ Savage said, ripping open the letter and pulling out the pieces of paper inside. ‘A confession? Some sort of attempt at absolving yourself from blame?’

‘Read the fucking thing!’ Wilson’s legs juddered, the stack of crates shifting. ‘It’s all in there. The whole story. I wasn’t to blame, it was the tart who lived at Tavy View Farm – Lara Bailey – my “mother”.’

‘Lara Bailey was your mother?’

‘Yes, of course. But she gave me up as a baby. Better off was I? No. My new father beat me, he beat my new mother. Raped her. To me, of course she was my real mother. Mummy. The woman who loved me. I had no idea back then I was adopted. All I saw was her suffering, me too. Day after day, week after week. And then Daddy cracks, goes even further, slices Mummy open with a knife. And do you know what day he did that on? Have a guess?’

‘The solstice, the twenty-first of June,’ Savage said. ‘Which is why you abducted the victims on that day.’

‘Not the solstice, you daft bitch. The twenty-first of June is my
birthday
. The longest fucking day of the year. All that daylight stops you sleeping. Plenty of time for me to remember what happened. To work out who was to blame.’

‘For God’s sake, Lara Bailey wasn’t responsible, she was no more than a child when she had you.’

‘But look what she turned into: a whore.’

‘So you killed her.’

‘Yes. And the others. They were as guilty as Lara.’

‘Guilty?’ Savage shook her head. ‘It’s over, Peter. You need to get down from there. We can help you.’

‘Help me?’ Wilson laughed. ‘At one point I tried to stop the killing. I was scared by what I had done. I went away to the States, but when I returned the urges resumed. There was nothing I could do and last year I killed the Mallory girl. Then you found the bodies and with the twenty-first approaching I thought the only way would be to give you all the information you needed to catch me. I approached the Chief Constable and tried to help you find the killer, gave you clues, but you didn’t succeed in time. Paula Rowland … I had to.’

‘It’s OK, you’ve done the right thing now.’ Savage moved a step closer. ‘As you said, there’s no need for anyone to suffer anymore.’

‘Year after year. Lying awake. Frightened.’ Wilson sniffed, tears now flowing down his cheeks. Then he gulped. ‘But you’re right. No more suffering.’

Wilson held his arms out and then swallow-dived forwards, screaming. As he swung towards her, Savage made a grab for his legs, but he smashed into her as he pendulumed across the space and then bounced off the wall, swinging back into the centre of the hall. Savage’s fall was broken by a pillar at the bottom of the banisters and her head smashed against the hard oak. She tumbled onto her back and saw the rope snap taut. The chandelier shuddered and pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling. The wooden rail on the landing creaked as Wilson’s full weight came on it.

‘Heeelllppp!’ Wilson’s hands scrabbled to grasp the rope above his head and he tried to pull up to relieve the pressure on his neck.

Savage rolled over, moving her body out the way as his legs flailed in mid-air. She watched mesmerised as Wilson struggled, his face becoming redder, his eyes bulging.

‘Urrrgggghhheeelllppp!’

Wilson was a serial murderer, Savage thought as he swung back again. Now he’d tried to kill himself but had chickened out at the very last moment.

‘Ma’am!’ A voice from somewhere, buzzing like an angry wasp. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Puuurrrllleeeuuurrrgggheeelllppp!’

That was three times he’d swung back and forth. Savage touched her head, feeling blood on her scalp. She blinked, a woozy feeling, her head full of cotton wool. She tried to get up.

‘We’re on our way. Hang on!’ Savage swatted at the annoying thing in her ear, pulled the creature out. She shook her head, spat. Saw Wilson pass through her centre of vision once again.

Four.

Her hand slipped away from under her. She didn’t have the strength to get up.

‘Bllluuurrr …’

Five.

Or was it the will?

‘Uuurrr…’

Wilson’s neck had extended and his feet just brushed the floor, slowing the swing.

‘Ug-gug-gug … Gug. Gug. Gug.’

Six.

Outside a car’s engine roared and stopped. Doors opened and closed. Feet ran across gravel.

Seven.

The body hung straight down now, hardly moving at all. The door opened a fraction, coming up against the safety chain.

‘Ma’am!’ Riley crashed through the door, wood splintering as the chain wrenched free, Enders bounding in just behind. The two of them rushed across to Wilson, Riley trying to hoist the comatose form to take the strain off the rope. Enders took the stairs two at a time and then went to work on the knot on the banister rail.

‘Get a bloody move on, Patrick!’ Riley said as he struggled to balance with the full weight of Wilson’s body. ‘Ma’am, help me!’

Savage pushed herself into a sitting position, tried to get up, but then Riley was collapsing under the weight of Wilson’s body as Enders released the rope. The two of them came tumbling over, Riley doing his best to cushion Wilson’s fall as the rope hissed down around them.

Wilson lay on his side facing Savage, his eyes half-popped out of his skull, the pupils dilating and contracting in minute little jumps, the dark black appearing to focus on her.

‘You alright, ma’am?’ Enders. Sitting on the bottom step and putting both arms out to help her sit up. ‘You look like you got knocked out cold or something.’

‘I guess I did,’ Savage said, turning away from Wilson’s body and shaking her head. ‘But I’m fine now.’

‘First bit of good news we’ve had in days, hey, Charlotte?’ Hardin said as he climbed out of his car. He slammed the door, banged the roof with a fist and then looked over to Wilson’s house. ‘With the good doctor out the way the burden of proof just changed. We’ve solved the Corran murder and cleared up a notorious cold case in one.’

‘But Wilson didn’t kill Paula Rowland,’ Savage said. ‘Somebody else did.’

‘I know you keep saying that, but Wilson
did
kill those other girls. His suicide proves it. There’s something not right about the Manchester alibi. We need to come up with a theory which puts him in the frame.’

‘In the frame? You mean stitch him up?’ Savage shook her head. ‘I don’t see how.’

‘This suicide note, as good as a confession from what I hear?’

It wasn’t until after Wilson’s body had been taken away, the paramedics giving up after half an hour of CPR, that Savage had found the envelope stuffed in her jacket pocket. Three pages summing up Wilson’s life and his reason for carrying out the killings. He’d claimed he’d been adopted as a baby, his new father a wife-beater and in the end a murderer. Aged six when it happened, Wilson had then been placed with various foster families. It was only many years later that he discovered he’d been adopted in the first place and decided his birth mother was to blame for everything.

‘And he killed her?’ Hardin said. ‘Lara Bailey?’

‘So he said. At the time we thought she was just a tom getting on the wrong side of a client.’

‘And then the next year he kills Mandy Glastone?’

‘Yes. Wilson didn’t bury her at the farm. Either because he hadn’t thought of the idea or because Joanne Black was living in a caravan where the bungalow was. The following two years though he was able to do as he pleased.’

‘So why the change from personal retribution against his mother to some sort of sick social engineering?’

‘No idea. Maybe he got a taste for killing. The gap between the Heidi Luckmann and Katherine Mallory murders is easier to understand. Wilson was in the US. When he came back the killings resumed. But there’s a problem: Paula Rowland. Wilson’s confession doesn’t wipe out his alibi.’

‘Charlotte!’ Hardin wagged a finger. ‘We’ve got him. We just need to do the legwork to tie everything up.’

Hardin came round the car and approached the front door. A photographer was kneeling in one corner of the hall, trying to get the whole of the vertical fall of the rope in shot. The parquet flooring was a mess, the contents of the plastic boxes scattered across it. Hardin looked up at the rope, down at the rubbish and then across at Savage.

‘You do realise this is the second time someone has died when you were supposed to be taking them into custody?’

‘Sir, Wilson killed himself. I can hardly be blamed for his death.’

‘Before I left the station I received an email from Professional Standards. Your old friend Assistant Chief Commissioner Maria Heldon.
Hatchet
Heldon.’ Hardin paused. Let the words sink in. ‘She’s keen to get to the bottom of this. You’re to have a report on my desk first thing.’

Savage opened her mouth to say something but Hardin strode inside the house, waving her protest away.

‘First thing, Charlotte. And break the bloody Manchester alibi, OK?’

Savage turned and trudged back to her car, wondering if the DSupt would like her to end world hunger while she was at it.

‘Go home,’ DCI Garrett said to Savage, when he found her slumped over a pad trying to write up the events of the afternoon. ‘You look all-in.’

She was.

The rollercoaster ride of the last few days had taken it out of her; Wilson’s dramatic suicide the final downward swoop.

Back home, Pete and Stefan sat in front of the TV in the living room. Not football though. Not tonight. The screen showed the continuing coverage of the case and there, cut in amongst a montage of images, was a picture of Savage standing in the driveway of Wilson’s house as a body bag came out on a gurney.