Cut Dead (41 page)

‘Oh my God.’ Hardin breathed in hard. ‘Please tell me you’re joking?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Shit. Fuck.’ The DSupt moved across to the fence at the side of the road and grasped a post as if for support, as if he was experiencing the same physical reaction Savage just had. He grunted and then stood up straight. Spoke. ‘So where do we go from here?’

‘Wilson’s connections. Family, friends, acquaintances, people he’s worked with. Somewhere in that group is the killer, but unless we act quick Lucy Hale won’t be the last victim.’

‘Not good.’ Hardin shook his head, pulled his phone from its case, ran his fingers across the surface. Then he looked back at the camera crews for a moment. ‘The problem is, what the hell are we going to tell that lot?’

Collier had already been working on Wilson’s connections, but the material from the house search had produced no information about next-of-kin. No family photographs, nothing useful in his address book, no personal letters or emails.

Back in the crime suite Savage went through some of the other information they had. Outside of his work colleagues Wilson only had a couple of social contacts. Both were from the village of Crapstone, but according to the door-to-doors they were casual acquaintances. For all his talk of being best buddies with the Deputy Director of the FBI, it didn’t look like he’d made many friends. Savage thought about the picture on the wall in Wilson’s office at the surgery. Thought of the psychologist staring at it while somebody sat and poured out their innermost feelings.

You should have heard them trying to justify their actions. They were so self-obsessed, so full of self-pity. They made me sick.

‘Of course!’ Savage said to herself. ‘The bloody patients. That’s how he knew about the adoptions.’

She reached for the phone and in a few seconds was through to the exhibits officer on the case. Savage asked about Wilson’s office. They’d removed Wilson’s personal possessions from his office, yes? What about the Rolodex file, did they have it? A clatter of keys told her the officer was searching the computer and then he was telling her, yes, they had the Rolodex, did she want it?

Ten minutes later and Savage plonked the strange contraption down on a desk in the crime suite.

‘It’s like something from another age, ma’am,’ Calter said, coming over to look.

‘Wilson didn’t like computers,’ Savage said. ‘He boasted to me that he helped the FBI capture a serial killer without any recourse to one. I guess that’s why he used this to keep patient records.’

‘But the health centre must have records on their system?’

‘Sure, but Wilson wouldn’t have trusted that.’ Savage began to leaf through the file, stopping at ‘M’. ‘No Katherine Mallory, but here’s another Mallory, her mother, Marion. Riverside Road, Dittisham. She must have been a patient of Wilson’s. In therapy she would have told him all about her life. It’s inconceivable she didn’t mention her daughter’s pregnancy and the subsequent giving up of the baby for adoption.’

‘And the others?’

‘One mo …’ Savage flicked back and forth through the index cards. ‘They’re here too. Mandy Glastone, Sue Kendle, Heidi Luckmann and Paula Rowland. The first three were his patients before he left the UK. There was no breach of the database, no dodgy goings-on at the registrar’s office. Wilson just sat in his big leather chair while the names were served to him on a plate.’

‘You think people who gave up their babies were more likely to seek therapy?’

‘I don’t know, but it’s probably irrelevant. Over the years he had hundreds of patients. Statistically, a number of them would have matched.’

‘Why did nobody make the connection?’

‘Before he went to the States Wilson worked alone. He would have been in charge of record keeping. The names on the card index may be the only records he kept.’ Savage shook her head. ‘And if you’re in therapy it’s not necessarily something you shout about either, is it?’

‘Doesn’t help us with Wilson’s accomplice.’

‘No,’ Savage said, spinning the cards round once more. ‘It doesn’t.’

Chapter Forty

Central Plymouth. Thursday 3rd July. 7.00 a.m.

Riley was still in bed at seven when the doorbell rang. Once, twice and then continuously. He leapt out of bed and padded down the hallway to the entry phone. Davies’ face filled the screen. Riley buzzed him up.

‘Boss,’ Riley said as he opened the door. ‘This is too early.’

‘Tell me about it. Maynard’s called. Something’s happening on the diesel case and he wants us up at the farm.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Put something on or you’ll scare the neighbours. I’ll be outside.’

Five minutes later, having brushed his teeth and squirted on some deodorant, Riley joined Davies in the car. As Davies started up and pulled away, Riley asked what was up.

‘Intel.’ Davies cut in front of a taxi and a horn blared out. ‘You know all those fuel tanks round the back of McGann’s place? Well, it appears as if he’s started to dismantle them.’

‘But they’re full.’

‘Exactly. He’s going to have to shift a job lot of diesel and Maynard’s got wind it’s going to happen today.’

‘About time. At least we can wrap this up and go back to proper detective work.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it. Word is Maynard wants to form some sort of agricultural crime squad. He told me sheep rustling is the next project on the agenda. Seems like a load of swillyites have been going up on the moor and indulging in a bit of amateur butchery. In hard times, even your supermarket gristle brand isn’t cheap enough.’

‘You’re joking, right?’ Riley looked across at Davies. ‘You’re not, are you?’

Davies shook his head. Riley leant back in the seat. Nightmare. Fifteen minutes later and he woke with a start. They were outside Plymouth, Davies gunning the car off the main road and onto a lane to Bickleigh. Minutes later they passed the barracks and then the road wound round, climbing all the way to Wotter and Lee Moor. Either side of the road great heaps of white clay spoil transformed the countryside. When Riley had first moved from London he’d seen the pits from down on the coast. At the time he’d thought the white was snow. Seeing as it had been early September, Enders had never let him forget his mistake.

‘That girl broke down somewhere along here,’ Riley said.

‘Be nice,’ Davies said, chuckling, ‘if we could do McGann for her as well. Maybe he’s got her working the till in his DIY service station.’

To their right the countryside sloped down towards Plymouth and the sea sparkled in the distance. Lucy Hale had known she was somewhere on the road, but hadn’t been able to orientate herself. At night, despite the lights from the city, the task would have been impossible.

‘Here we go.’ Davies took a turn and they bumped down a track towards a little wooden bungalow. The garden surrounding it bloomed with flowers and neat little gravel paths ran this way and that. The place faced away from the road and out back a deck spread from the property as the garden fell away.

‘What’s this?’ Riley said. ‘I thought we were going to McGann’s place.’

‘What – and sit in a mucky ditch all day long?’ Davies stopped the car. ‘No bloody way. I’ve pulled us a cushy little number.’

Before Riley could enquire further Davies was out of the car and had bounded up to and through a little wicket gate. A dog barked inside in response to his knocks and then the door opened to reveal an elderly woman, her hair the same colour as the fur of the white Westie which yapped around her feet.

Once they’d been shown through to the deck where chairs surrounded a plastic table, the woman offered them some tea. While she bustled around inside Davies explained that Mrs Kimberly had allowed them to use her property for the next few days since she was off to Bournemouth for the weekend. Davies gave an expansive wave of his hand and Riley could understand why. McGann’s place lay around a mile and a half away somewhat to the right and below them. The track leading to his farm wound back up to the main road. Close obs and you were better down in the ditch, but up here you could see everything.

Mrs Kimberly served them tea and then Davies was away to the car, returning with a pair of binoculars and something in a padded bag.

‘Spotting scope,’ Davies said. ‘Maynard’s pride and joy. Says if anything happens to it we’ll both be back in uniform.’

Davies unpacked the scope and set the instrument up on a small tripod.

‘May I?’ Riley said.

‘Kid gloves, Sergeant. The thing is a Swarovski. Austrian apparently, and according to Maynard worth the best part of two and a half thousand. And that’s not including the carbon fibre tripod.’

‘Shit,’ Riley said, wiping his hands on his trousers before moving over to the scope. One hand went to the handle on the tripod and the other to the focusing knob. He bent to the eyepiece. ‘Wow!’

‘Good, eh?’ Davies said.

Good was an understatement. Riley swivelled the scope and pointed the lens down towards the farm. In the garden out the back a woman stood next to a washing line. Riley could make out the lace edge to the piece of clothing as she pegged a pair of knickers to the line.

‘What magnification is this?’

‘Up to seventy. What you looking at?’

‘There’s a girl down at the farm doing something with her underwear. I’m so close it feels like I could touch her. This must be a perv’s dream come true.’

Davies jostled in close and Riley moved aside. With his naked eye he could just about make out the farm. The woman was but a dot.

‘Gorgeous,’ Davies said. ‘That must be the McGanns’ daughter-in-law. She’s going to be getting all lonely when her hubby goes inside.’

‘Well, he won’t be going anywhere if we spend our time bird watching.’

‘There is that, Sergeant.’ Davies looked up and patted the scope. ‘But perhaps we can agree Maynard’s hobby is not such a bad one after all.’

‘Talking of which, can you see him?’

Davies bent to the scope again and panned back and forth. ‘Got him! He’s down in the ditch. Just taken his foil-wrapped sarnies out. Sad fucker.’

Riley pulled out a chair and sat down again, ignoring Davies’ chuntering. He leant back, closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun. Mrs Kimberly’s place was an odd sort of house, but there was no denying the location was superb. Julie had been suggesting they get a place together, hinting she’d like to live out in the countryside. Riley wasn’t sure. He was a city boy born and bred: five minutes to the corner shop and pub; ten minutes to the restaurants and clubs. Always hustle and bustle, noise and light. ‘Not good for kids’, Julie said. Perhaps she was right. There was space here. You could maybe put a pool in, certainly one of those tub things. A barbie in one corner, friends round, a couple of beers, he could almost forget city life. Riley smiled inwardly, aware that Davies was mumbling something else, letters and numbers.

‘Did you hear me, Sergeant?’ Davies said. ‘Check the reg!’

‘What?’ Riley sat up and opened his eyes. Davies pointed to a scrap of paper on the table.

‘Big tanker coming down the track to the McGann farm, no livery. Check it.’

Riley took out his phone and dialled through to the station. ‘Index check,’ he said and gave the details. After a couple of minutes he got confirmation and hung up.

‘The Exeter mob?’ Davies said. Riley nodded. ‘Let’s go then.’

It was Calter who came up with the goods. Mid-morning Thursday she knocked on the door to Savage’s office. Entered without waiting for an answer.

‘Lara Bailey,’ she said. ‘Took me a while, but I’ve tracked down her mother, Dr Wilson’s grandmother. She’d moved to Spain to retire. Came back to the UK a few years ago on the death of her husband. In some old people’s home now.’

‘Where?’ Savage said.

‘Here, ma’am. Plymouth. Right under our noses.’

Now, with Calter still head down in a pile of documents seeking additional information, Savage and Enders drove to the care home.

Clovelly House sat on the eastern side of North Prospect Road. On the other side rows of graves stretched across acres of grass. Weston Mill Cemetery.

‘Not what I’d call a great view,’ Enders said as they pulled into the driveway. ‘When you’ve finished dribbling into your tea and played yet another hand of whist all you can do is go for a stroll amongst your old friends.’

‘I’d keep those thoughts to yourself, Patrick,’ Savage said. ‘Otherwise we might have a geriatric riot on our hands.’

Inside, a care assistant showed them into a large lounge.

‘She’s over there,’ the assistant said. ‘The one sitting on the chair. Rocking. I’ll take you across.’

A high-backed armchair stood over by the window and Mrs Bailey sat perched on the edge of the seat. She was staring out through the glass across to the cemetery, her head nodding back and forwards.

‘Jesus, ma’am,’ Enders whispered. ‘See what I mean?’

‘Aline?’ the assistant said. ‘There’s a couple of police officers to see you, love. I’ll bring you all some tea and biscuits, OK?’

Aline Bailey glanced up for a moment and then resumed her rhythmical rocking.

The old woman was pushing ninety. Her frame had shrunk to almost nothing, the shawl she wore draped over her shoulders all angled by the bones beneath.

‘Mrs Bailey?’ Savage said. ‘DI Charlotte Savage and DC Patrick Enders. We wanted to ask you some questions about Tavy View Farm and about your daughter too.’

‘You’re too late,’ the woman said, still staring through the window. ‘Lara died in two thousand and … two thousand and …’

‘We know, Mrs Bailey, and I’m sorry for bringing the subject up again. It must be painful.’

‘Time heals they say.’ Mrs Bailey stopped rocking and turned her face towards Savage, a blue vein throbbing down the side her nose. ‘Rubbish. Time makes things worse. I think of my little Lara every day. What happened to her. The life she led. She was our eldest child, you know?’

‘And your husband?’

‘Dead.’ The woman’s eyes flicked back to the window. ‘A couple of years after he retired. Heart attack. I stayed in Spain for a while, but in the end I had to come back. Didn’t want to die out there. Not right. Too hot. Too many bloody foreigners.’