Cut Dead (40 page)

‘Discretion,’ you said to Mikey, ‘is the better part of valour.’

Mikey had looked at you, not understanding what you were talking about but reading the expression on your face. You’d driven off thinking you would need to get another name from Peter’s little book.

‘G … g … guuurrrlll!’ Mikey pointed through the windscreen as you neared the turning to the farm.

For a second, your hand on the door handle, you wondered if you should just let the chance pass by. She was simply a woman by the side of the road. Probably done nothing wrong. Probably innocent.

Probably.

What the hell, you thought. Just this once.

She tried to run but there were two of you and the silly shoes she was wearing didn’t help her much. You wondered why women insist on wearing such things. Might as well wear leg irons. You plucked her from where she lay in a ditch and shoved her in the pickup next to Mikey.

Scream, scream, scream. But with the wipers swishing and Mikey singing and the rattle from the old exhaust roaring out it wasn’t too bad. Anyway you were home in five, the girl locked away in the little stone pumphouse in ten, the sausages sizzling in the pan in fifteen.

‘Mikey,’ you say, smiling at him as he fills in another square and looks up. ‘We did it!’

And all without a smidgen of help from Peter, you think. Oh-so-clever Peter who right now is stuck in a drawer at the morgue, getting all cold and wondering what good a Ph fucking D is.

‘Play, play, play!’ Mikey has put the magazine down now. ‘Play, play, play! Play with guuurrrlll!’

Outside the rain is teeming down, it’s close to midnight, and you’ve done none of the usual preparation. Really you want to wait until tomorrow to get started. Mikey’s got other ideas though.

‘Guuurrrlll!’

Shit, you think, seems like the bloody pills must be wearing off already. You should have given him more than two. You ease yourself out of the chair and move towards the kitchen, wondering whether there might be a tin of apricots and some instant custard in the back of the pantry.

‘Mikey?’ you say, reaching in your pocket for the packet of Molis. ‘Fancy a pudding?’

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Wednesday 2nd July. 8.55 a.m.

‘DI Savage?’ The voice came from behind as Savage got out of her car at Crownhill. A hint of familiarity about the accent. She turned round.

Dan Phillips. The
Herald
’s
crime reporter.

‘Dan. As always, a pleasure,’ Savage said.

‘How’s the investigation going?’

‘You were at the press conference, Dan. You know all there is. Dr Peter Wilson is dead and at this moment in time we’re not looking for anybody else concerning the murders.’

‘So you reckon you’ve nailed him, do you? Wrapped up the case?’

‘Enquiries are continuing. Tying up the threads will be a long process.’

‘No more missing persons then? Everyone’s safe now and we can go back to having our barbecues outside?’

‘I told you, enquiries are continuing. That’s all I can say. Now I’m sorry to be rude but—’

Phillips held up his hand and Savage thought he was apologising. Then she noticed the white envelope held between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Take a look,’ Phillips said. ‘Something for you to consider.’

‘You’re not trying to pull a fast one, are you?’ Savage said, looking over Phillips’s shoulder for one of the
Herald
’s lensmen. ‘Get a shot of me acting dodgy accepting suspicious packages?’

‘You know me better than that, Charlotte. Now, do you want to take a look or not?’

‘The problem is I
do
know you better than that.’ Savage paused for a moment and then closed the car door. ‘Show me then.’

Phillips lifted the flap on the envelope and pulled out a photograph of a young woman. Late twenties, blonde hair in a bob like DC Calter’s.

‘What’s this?’ Savage said, cocking her head on one side. ‘Some kind of prank?’

‘Not from me, Charlotte. The girl in the picture has been missing since last night. The parents reported it but apparently now the killer’s been caught mispers are back to their usual low priority. Nothing doing for twenty-four hours at least. Which was why the parents came to me.’ Phillips tapped the picture with his free hand. ‘Pretty, isn’t she? We’re putting her on the front page.’

‘And what makes you think this could possibly have anything to do with the Candle Cake Killer?’

‘Contacts.’ Phillips moved his finger from the picture and brought it up to his nose. Tapped again. ‘I hear there’s a problem with some alibis concerning Dr Wilson.’

‘If you print anything about—’

‘Look, I want to help. That stunt I pulled the other day with Graham Bunce was childish. I’m trying to make amends.’ Phillips smiled. ‘Got to keep in your good books, haven’t I?’

‘OK, Dan. Thanks.’ Savage took the photograph from Phillips. ‘What’s her name?’

‘And?’ Hardin said ten minutes later when Savage went to his office to brief him on the latest development.

Savage slid a printout across the desk to Hardin and then recited the details from memory.

‘Lucy Hale. Twenty-nine. She lives in Ivybridge. Yesterday afternoon she drove to a pub in Tavistock to have a meal with a friend. According to the friend she left some time after nine p.m. She had an early start the next day and didn’t want to be up late. She said she’d call in at her mum and dad’s when she got back to Ivybridge.’

‘So? She probably forgot.’

‘No. She was calling in to collect her younger sister who lives at home. The sister was going to stay over at Lucy’s place as the two of them were driving up to Bristol today to do some shopping. And then there’s her car. I’ve just had a report that it’s been discovered parked near Burrator Reservoir.’

‘Suicide?’ Hardin put his hands face up, expectant. ‘Events would be no less tragic but it would be better for us if she’d topped herself. Maybe she took a handful of pills and went for a midnight swim in the lake. Worth thinking about.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Savage said, wondering if it wasn’t Hardin who’d taken some pills. ‘I’m off up there now to see what Layton can come up with.’

She beat Layton to the scene. But only by seconds. As she pulled off the road and parked behind a patrol car at the south-east end of the reservoir, she saw the CSI’s Volvo looming in her rear-view mirror.

‘Had to happen sooner or later,’ he shouted across to her as he got out. ‘But think of it as the exception which proves the rule.’

The smart Golf lay off the road, parked in a mass of bracken. The offside front tyre had shredded, the alloy wheel all dented and split down the middle. Part of the bumper had been squished and the plastic had cracked.

‘Boy racers?’ Savage said as she stood back and let Layton get in close.

‘Well they didn’t race it here,’ Layton said, pointing first at the front wheel and then the back. ‘Look at the ground.’

Savage saw a deep rut caused by the rear wheel, but the front, which was more like the disc from a harrow, had made no impression.

‘How then?’

‘Towed.’ Layton pointed to some more ruts which ran from the front of the car and curved back onto the road. ‘The front of the vehicle must have been hoisted off the ground for the journey and then they dropped it off here.’

‘You mean towed as in a recovery vehicle?’

‘Yes, but not a pro job.’ Layton was on his hands and knees now. He examined the front bumper. ‘They simply attached a hook under the car and lifted it up. Didn’t bother about what happened to the bodywork. You wouldn’t do that if you were trying to recover the vehicle.’

‘So she had some kind of accident and whoever bumped her brought the car here. A sort of hit and tow?’

‘Nope.’ Layton smiled. ‘Where’s the damage to the car? As far as I can see the only problem is the tyre. The damage at the front was caused by the tow chain or rope.’

‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Unless all you want to do is get rid of the car.’

Layton stood and then moved to the side. He pressed his face close to the driver’s window and peered in. Then he moved to the rear of the car.

‘No parcel shelf, so nothing concealed in the boot. No handbag or clothing. No sign of any blood. All windows intact.’

‘So if she was attacked she either knew her attacker or she wasn’t in the car.’

‘That’s it, Charlotte,’ Layton said, moving back to the front wheel. ‘She wasn’t in the car because she got a puncture. She must have driven on with it deflated until the tyre destroyed itself and the wheel fractured. We’ll never be able to tell if that’s what actually happened though, not from the remains of the tyre.’

‘But they will.’ Savage pointed to an orange sticker in the front window. ‘RAC. If she rang them then there’ll be a record. Especially if when the recovery vehicle turned up she wasn’t where she said she’d be.’

Savage called through to the station to get someone to chase the RAC while Layton examined the rest of the car externally. He explained that by not opening the doors they’d have a better chance of preserving anything important inside. Then he got on his own phone and Savage could hear him summoning officers for a fingertip search.

By the time Layton had finished his call Savage had confirmation from the RAC.

‘They received a call at nine forty-seven last night from Lucy Hale,’ Savage said. ‘She’d got a puncture somewhere near Cadover Bridge. Whatever, from the state of the rim she didn’t stay put.’

‘So she was on the back road to Ivybridge then?’

‘Yup. The patrolman came from Yelverton way around half past ten, he passed Cadover Bridge and drove on all the way to Cornwood. Another five miles. Then he doubled back for a second look. Nothing doing, so he called in and said he couldn’t find the vehicle. Apparently that’s pretty common. People solve their problem and don’t bother to call back. The dispatcher tried to ring Lucy’s phone but it was switched off.’

‘I think we need to look at the RAC van,’ Layton said.

‘You don’t think the mechanic could be involved?’

‘Simply a matter of eliminating him. Anyway you’ll need to get the exact route he drove, times and things.’

‘And once he’s eliminated?’

‘Square one,’ Layton said. ‘Back to.’

By the time Hardin arrived at Burrator Reservoir a media scrum had assembled behind the cordon of blue and white tape. Savage ducked under the tape and went across to the DSupt intending to brief him on Layton’s findings.

‘Superintendent Hardin,’ a BBC reporter asked as Hardin got out of his car. ‘Do you believe the Candle Cake Killer is still at large?’

‘No comment,’ Hardin said as he began to stroll down the road alongside Savage.

‘Can you assure the women of Devon they are safe?’ ITN.

‘No comment.’

‘There’s a girl missing, isn’t there?’
The
Times
.

‘No comment.’

‘The Candle Cake Killer has her, doesn’t he?’ CNN.

‘No com—’ Hardin stopped. Resisted the tug on his arm from Savage. Turned around to face the pack. ‘No he bloody well doesn’t! We have a missing person. Usually it’s all we can do to get you lot even vaguely interested, but because you want the killings to continue you’re sniffing around like the gutter rats you are. If you’d only behave like human beings and show some compassion to the family then perhaps we can bring this to a satisfactory conclusion.’

‘Are you looking for a body?’ Sky News.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Hardin turned to pick out the voice. Moved towards the man and raised a fist.

‘Sir?’ Savage said, gesturing towards the cordon.

Hardin seemed in two minds for a moment, but then he lifted the tape, ducked under and strode across to John Layton. Layton was watching as Lucy Hale’s Golf was being winched onto the back of a flatbed truck. Nearby, CSIs continued to work on the soft verges, taking photographs and measuring impressions in the grass and mud.

‘This,’ Hardin said to Layton as he approached, ‘had better be nothing to do with the Candle Cake Killer.’

‘Promising nothing, sir,’ Layton said. ‘But I think the best we can hope for is a copycat.’

‘Copycat.’ Hardin looked at the car as it was secured to the bed of the truck. ‘Completely different MO. Not at all like the others. Yes. Good. Excellent.’

Savage was about to say something about not being premature when her mobile rang. Calter. Round at Lucy Hale’s flat in Ivybridge.

‘Don’t know what it’s like with you, ma’am,’ Calter said, ‘but there’s a bloody circus here. Reporters, TV crews, members of the public with nothing better to do than revel in someone else’s misery.’

‘And the flat?’

‘Been a team in there for half an hour. So far there’s no sign of anything amiss. They’ve not finished yet but one thing they are sure of is there’s no cake. Something else too.’

‘Go on.’

‘Luke Farrell, the FLO, well, he’s been with the parents for the past hour. I just spoke to him. No baby, ma’am. No way a pregnancy could have been concealed. They only live a few streets over from Lucy and see her at least once a week. Never mind the TV soaps, in real life you can’t hide the fact you’re pregnant.’

Savage ended the call.

No cake, no baby, not the longest day and Wilson dead and out of the picture. For a moment the scene around her seemed to fade. Colour leached from the trees and the sky and a grey fuzz blurred her vision. The hubbub from the reporters vanished in a hiss of white noise. Savage had the sensation of falling. Not just her, but the whole world, everything tumbling down in some entropic dance, everything coming to a slow but inevitable end.

She shivered, blinked a couple of times and then reality snapped back. Vision, sound, a gruff voice.

‘Well, Charlotte?’ Hardin said. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

‘Peter Wilson could not have abducted Paula Rowland,’ Savage said, pulling herself together. ‘Nor could he have abducted any of the other victims. However he was involved it wasn’t in the actual kidnappings. Wilson had an accomplice, someone who did the dirty work, and now he’s operating on his own. He’s gone rogue, if you like. Without Wilson there he’s killing at random. Lucy Hale was just unlucky. This is no copycat. It’s part of the sequence.’