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Enders strolled off to his car leaving Savage with Riley. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment.
‘I don’t disagree with you, ma’am,’ Riley said. ‘About Kendwick. He’s a nasty piece of work and he may well have killed those women. However, the law says he’s innocent. As police officers we have to respect that or else we’re lost.’
‘Are we?’ Savage said. ‘What about my daughter? We only got to the truth behind Clarissa’s death by going outside the law.’
‘That was different.’
‘Really? Because it was personal?’ Savage stared at Riley for a few moments. ‘It was personal for Janey Horton too. If she hadn’t done what she’d done to Kendwick, those girls would have lain up in the woods undiscovered. Kendwick would have gone on killing, gone on causing more misery.’
‘I realise that but what she did was wrong.’
‘Was it?’ Savage turned to go to her car. ‘Goodnight, Sergeant.’
‘Charlotte?’ Riley shouted after her. Savage turned back. ‘Be careful, right?’
‘Always, Darius, always.’
With that she walked across to her own car, aware Riley was standing and watching her go.
Savage drove home thinking about Riley’s arguments. They didn’t add up. He’d been willing to cross the line when he’d tracked down the lad who’d killed her daughter in a hit-and-run accident. He’d teamed up with a local gangster by the name of Kenny Fallon. The pair of them had gone out of their way to bring the name of the driver of the car to her attention, Fallon even supplying her with a gun to exact her revenge. Now though, Riley appeared to be on the side of Kendwick, even though it was obvious to Savage the man was guilty. Was Riley holding up his liberal credentials as a measure of what a nice guy he was? He should have known her well enough to realise that wouldn’t wash. When it came to criminal justice, Savage didn’t do liberal values. Certainly not when they related to men like Malcolm Kendwick.
She pulled into her driveway at a little after five. Jamie, Pete explained when she came in, was already in bed.
‘I said you’d definitely be back before he went to sleep,’ Pete said. He scratched his head. ‘So, being logical, the little man decided to get in his jimjams straight after lunch to hasten your arrival. He’s been tucked up in bed for the past hour.’
Savage went upstairs and popped her head round her son’s bedroom door. Jamie was lying on the bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He turned his head towards Savage, an expression of delight spreading on his face.
‘Mummy!’ He leapt out of bed and scampered across to Savage, throwing his arms round her. She felt a rush of love as she knelt down and hugged her son, a feeling of guilt too; an empty void inside, as if missing a day and a half of his life was something which could never be filled. ‘Did you catch any bad guys in London?’
‘Not this time, darling,’ Savage said. Jamie looked disappointed that there was no story to be had, so she told him about going to the VIP lounge at Heathrow and meeting officers from the NCA. Then she gave him another hug. ‘Are you coming downstairs or are you going to stay up here for a bit?’
‘Stay up here.’ Jamie moved across the room to a low table where a host of Playmobil figures stood near a toy police car. An arrest was in progress, officers with guns drawn, two suspects already in handcuffs. ‘These baddies need locking up.’
‘OK, I’ll call you when tea’s ready.’
Downstairs she confessed her feelings of guilt to Pete. He was sanguine about the situation.
‘You missed him, he missed you. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘No, I guess not.’
‘Anyway, by tomorrow he’ll have forgotten you’ve been away.’ Pete gestured to the bar of chocolate and the copy of the Beano lying on the kitchen table. Savage had bought them on the journey up to London. ‘And when he sees those he’ll forgive you, no doubt. Not that he hasn’t had enough chocolate today already, what with his Easter eggs and all.’
‘They’re not supposed to be bribes or compensation. Simply a gift.’
‘And not the only gift you’ve brought us either, I see.’
‘Hey?’
‘The Herald have splashed news of your celebrity passenger all over their website. They’re running an exclusive in the paper tomorrow. Malcolm Kendwick, Devon’s most infamous son, returns. They’re hinting at all sorts of things he might have done in America. I assume they’ve got legal advice but the story looks awfully close to libel to me.’ Pete paused and then grinned. ‘Oh, and there’s even a photo of you and Kendwick at the airport and a small piece on your track record of catching serial killers.’
‘Christ.’
‘You didn’t expect this? I thought the police were supposed to be media savvy these days. Old Conrad Hardin has surely gone on more than one PR training day. He should have made preparations for the public outcry.’
Savage sighed and then shrugged, too tired to continue the conversation. She went upstairs and took a long shower. Sitting in the back of the car for several hours with Kendwick had made her feel soiled. An uncomfortable crawling sensation itched across her skin. She stood under the jets of water and foamed her body with soap until she was sure every trace of Kendwick had gone. She couldn’t cleanse her thoughts though and later, as she lay in bed beside Pete, Kendwick’s face kept creeping into her mind. The smile and his mint-fresh breath, those perfect teeth grinning at her. White like the bones of his victims which had lain scattered in the wilderness, bleaching under a hot Californian sun.
Chapter Four (#ulink_2c845185-4fa1-53b9-9a1e-9528c3693ee5)
He’s driven out onto the moor so he can be alone in the darkness. Experience the isolation of the wild country. Perhaps find a solution to his problem.
The problem is that things are wrong. He thought the return would change things, make him see the issues in a different light. Starting over didn’t mean having to go back to the way things were, did it? Surely it was possible to move on from the past?
He parks the car in the middle of nowhere and climbs out. He sets off along a stony track. The night excites him. He enjoys the coolness of the air, the peaty odour which emanates from the ancient bogs, the wind caressing his face. Nothing moving. Not another living human within miles.
Only the dead.
The dead, yes. They’re not far away. A short walk along the track. The coolness. The peaty odour. The wind. Nothing moving. Not a soul. Nobody but the dead.
But the dead are the problem!
They won’t keep quiet. They keep talking to him. Calling his name. He mutters to himself as he walks along, trying to drown out their voices.
The track is a grey thread curling into the distance as the route follows a contour line round the side of a hill and then forges across a flat plain. He pads along, noting the bogs either side of the track, the smell of the marsh gas like decomposing flesh, the pools of water like mirrors, reflecting a sombre sky where the moon plays hide and seek with the clouds.
In the distance a glow hugs the horizon almost as if the sun is about to rise. But the glow doesn’t belong to the sun, the light comes from the city where people bustle back and forth living their insignificant lives. He thinks about the thousands of morons sitting in their living rooms, their eyes glued to a rectangular screen with flickering pixels, absorbing the drivel pumped out for them to lap up. Others are clustered in pubs and bars, talking rubbish to friends, to colleagues, to any fucking idiot who will listen. And then there are those who interest him. Not the morons stuck in front of their televisions. Not the wasters out on the piss. The others. The quiet ones. Demure and lying still in their beds. Hands by their sides, legs together, eyes tightly shut. Almost as if they were dead.
He knows he’s not right in the head. Who walks the moorland after dark? Who stalks graveyards, delighting in the quietness of the stones, aroused by the presence of those who have passed beyond the physical? Nobody normal, that’s for sure.
Fuck it!
He clenches his fists in anger for a moment but then relaxes. He’s close now. Close to where he can get relief. Close to where they lie waiting for him. Where they’ve lain for all these years. He walks on and arrives at the gate. He pulls a key from his pocket and fits it into the padlock. Unlocks it and removes the heavy chain. He pushes the gate open and slips through. Shadows loom like welcoming friends. They’re here. All around him. He steps up to where a silver lake glistens in the moonlight. He begins to undress, stripping off his clothes until he stands naked. He bends to the water and takes a handful. He splashes the cool liquid on his chest, the chill shocking him, exciting him. And then he thinks of the girls. His girls. His heart beats faster and his breath rushes in and out. Yes, he cries in the dark. Yes! Yes! Yes!
He stands there, spent. His breathing slows, his heart calms and now he is disgusted with himself. Disgusted it took such a fetish to turn him on. He shakes his head. What’s done is done. He reaches for his clothes and dresses hurriedly. He tries to reconcile what has happened. What harm is there in it? None. Not this time. But tomorrow? Next week? Next month?
He plods down to the gate, goes through and refastens the chain. The harm is safely in his head, he thinks. His darkest thoughts nothing but swirls in his imagination. Soon, however, he knows the desire will build to a level where he can no longer be satiated by mere fantasy. He needs the exquisite feeling of flesh against his naked body. Flesh which is soft and cool and quite, quite dead.
Chapter Five (#ulink_cd8684f8-1c9b-5946-a9e6-b89e864932cb)
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Friday 21st April. 10.52 a.m.
Back at work, Savage tried to forget about Malcolm Kendwick. Hardin had arranged for a twenty-four-seven surveillance on the man, but she wasn’t involved. Other than that she was aware there’d been an incident in Chagford involving a reporter and a smashed camera and had seen a lurid headline in one of the tabloids. Thankfully, in the week that followed, more pressing matters arose to distract her, including a woman who’d fallen from the eighth floor of a block of flats in Devonport. Suspicion was pointing to her boyfriend, ‘a right scrote,’ according to DC Enders who’d had dealings with the guy. Savage was reminded of her conversation with Riley about men being arseholes. They certainly weren’t all arseholes but Plymouth seemed to have more than its fair share of them.
On Friday, five days after Kendwick had arrived in Devon, DSupt Hardin summoned Savage to his office. He told her he was axing the surveillance op, citing manpower and budgetary constraints.
‘Nothing I can do about it, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘Besides, we can’t keep watching him indefinitely. At least the bugger will have got an idea of how serious we are about keeping tabs.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Savage said. ‘But he’s done nothing and gone nowhere, right?’
‘Hmmm.’ Hardin stared down at a log sheet detailing Kendwick’s movements. ‘Yesterday he went to the local shop, then to the pub for lunch, took a short walk, went back home, visited the pub again in the evening, went to bed. Not much of a life. He’s got a rental car, but doesn’t appear to have gone anywhere in it aside from a couple of jaunts on the moor.’
‘If you ask me he’s playing a game with us. He knows we’re watching him.’
‘Which was my intention. From now on he’ll be looking over his shoulder, wondering if we’re there.’
No, Savage thought. Kendwick was too canny for that. He’d be well aware the surveillance had stopped. He’d only let himself be followed so closely because he had nothing to lose. Now they were no longer keeping an eye on him he could come and go as he pleased.
‘So that’s it then? We’re done with him?’
‘Not quite.’ Hardin picked up the log sheet and flicked the surface with a finger. ‘I want you to pay Mr Kendwick a visit. Give him a bit of a talking to. Perhaps you can warn him off, maybe even scare him away. If he upped sticks and moved to another area it would be a weight off our backs.’
‘And what am I supposed to say to him?’ Savage sighed, exasperated. She’d spent five hours stuck in a car with Kendwick and wasn’t sure what another hour’s conversation would accomplish. ‘Please bugger off?’
‘I don’t know, Charlotte. You’re the one with the interpersonal skills. Be his friend. Tell him Devon’s no place for him. If he doesn’t buy that then make it clear we’re going to catch up with him eventually. He’ll get the message, I’m sure he will.’
Savage took an early lunch and then drove north from Plymouth. At Yelverton she headed up onto the moor, following the twisting road to the town of Princetown. A strong sun beamed down, flattening the landscape and obliterating the shadows. The tors stood a uniform grey, almost formless in the harsh light, their dark foreboding temporarily banished.
She drove across the moor and arrived at Kendwick’s place in Chagford at a little after two o’clock. A knock on the front door of the cottage brought no response, so she moved to a window and peered in. She could see through the open plan living area to the kitchen where the back door stood open. She turned and walked along the street and went down a passage which led to the rear of the terrace. A path bisected the long, narrow gardens. Kendwick’s was the one at the end and she found him lying in a teak reclining chair next to a small table. He wore a pair of shorts and a light shirt and a jug of something resembling Pimm’s sat on the table beside a half-empty glass. He hadn’t tied his hair up and his black mane cascaded across the back of the chair. Kendwick held a book in his hands. He closed the book as Savage approached.
‘Charlotte!’ Kendwick pushed himself up from the chair and stuck out his hand. ‘How nice of you to visit!’
‘Hello, Mr Kendwick,’ Savage said. She shook hands, once again noticing how dry and cool the man’s palm was. ‘Just a courtesy visit.’
‘Courtesy? Well that makes a nice change from the cops in the US. Manners are something which don’t seem to have been invented over there. They’re likely to pull a gun and cuff you just to tell you your stop light isn’t working.’ Kendwick nodded at the jug on the table. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
Savage shook her head. ‘Cut the false bonhomie, Mr Kendwick. I’m here to warn you that although we’re stopping the surveillance you’re not off the hook. One false move, one foot over the line, and we’ll be onto you.’
‘Not so much a courtesy visit then, more of a threatening one?’
‘Stay on the straight and narrow and you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘I assume it’s the same for every citizen.’ Kendwick eased himself back down into his chair and gestured at another recliner. He pulled a hairband from his pocket and tied up his hair. ‘I’d hate to think I was being treated any differently.’
Savage moved over and sat down, perching on the edge of the seat. ‘You’ve got history, Mr Kendwick.’
‘Can we drop the “Mr Kendwick” tag please? We managed to be civil on the journey back from the airport. I’d like to think we can again.’
‘Sure, no problem.’
‘As to my history, that’s a matter of conjecture. History isn’t immutable, is it? Differing viewpoints tell differing stories. My story is I’m innocent of all the charges against me. I didn’t kill anyone in the US. I’m pretty sure the US justice system sees it that way too, otherwise I’d still be over there.’
‘So how do you explain your confession to Janey Horton?’
‘It wasn’t a confession.’ Kendwick scowled at Savage. ‘The bitch tortured me so I made stuff up to feed to her. If I hadn’t she’d have killed me. The confession was pure fiction. I just blurted out the names of the girls I’d read about in the papers or seen on the news.’
‘But your fiction happened to match fact. How come Horton was able to find a body from your directions?’
‘The irony was the body wasn’t her daughter.’
‘True, but once officers searched the area they discovered the remains of the other missing girls, including those of Sara Horton.’
‘It was luck. Just bad luck. If I’d mentioned a different river valley, a different forestry track, then she’d have found nothing.’ Kendwick half smiled. ‘Unless, of course, there are dozens of serial killers dumping bodies out in the wilderness.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’
‘I expect you to believe the results of the polygraph test I took.’ Kendwick pushed himself upright and sat leaning forward. ‘Look, there was nothing found to link me to the body dump. What is it, Locard’s Principle? The notion that every contact both takes and leaves traces behind? Well, there were no traces at the site, at my house, in my car or on me. I’m either made of Teflon or completely innocent.’
Savage stared at Kendwick, trying to keep a blank face. Body dump, Locard’s Principle? Kendwick seemed all too knowledgeable about police terminology.
‘What about the rape kit found in your car?’
‘Rape kit? Listen to you! I leave a few things in a rucksack and the cops immediately label them as the tools of the trade of a serial killer. It was just stuff anyone might have in their possession.’
‘Handcuffs?’
‘Really, Charlotte. I bet half the couples you know have played around with a bit of bondage. I like to imagine you have.’
Savage ignored Kendwick’s smirk. ‘And the hair scrunchy found at your house? The one which belonged to Sara Horton. Strikes me that was a trace.’
‘I picked it up while crossing the park. Have you never done that? I bet you have.’ Kendwick cocked his head on one side. ‘I bet your daughter has.’
‘My daughter?’ Savage felt a lurch in her stomach. How on earth did Kendwick know about her daughter? ‘Leave her out of it.’
‘Touchy.’ Kendwick tutted. ‘But I understand why. I’ve been doing some research on you on the internet. I thought if I knew you a little better I might be able to understand you a little more. So, I put your name into Google and all these news stories came up. A mother, wronged. A hit-and-run. A family tragedy. One of your twin daughters taken from you by a rogue driver. The irony that you, a cop, can’t make the law work for you, can’t get justice. Well, Charlotte, it happens the other way around too. Justice can easily become injustice. Which is why you should sympathise with my predicament.’
‘I don’t.’ Savage stood. The interview was over. She’d delivered the message from Hardin and now it was time to go before the odious creature riled her. ‘Remember what I said, we’re watching.’
‘Oh, I know you are. But I’m not going anywhere. No need.’ Kendwick smiled again. He shifted his head and then craned his neck to peer over into the next-door garden. ‘I’ve got everything I want right on my doorstep.’
Savage turned to look. The adjoining plot was neatly manicured. A large area of grass and, at the far end of the garden, a raised area of decking. Two expensive wicker loungers sat on the deck and lying on the loungers were two young women, sunning themselves in the unseasonal warmth. Twenties. Skimpy clothing. Blonde hair.
‘That’s why I’m out here. Mammary watch.’ Kendwick grinned. He reached for his glass and sat back in the recliner. ‘They’re down from London for a couple of days. Quite friendly really. I’d told them I’d go for a meal with them later, show them the sights of Chagford, act the friendly local. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be quite safe with them. They wouldn’t dare hurt me, not with a choir of guardian police angels watching on.’
‘Mr Kendwick, if anything—’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Kendwick spat the words out, his mood changing in an instant. ‘I’m innocent, so just fuck off and let me live my life. Now, get out of here before I call my solicitor and ask her to look into pursuing a harassment case against you and the force.’
‘I’m off, but there’s one thing.’ Savage moved over to Kendwick and stood next to his chair. ‘If you ever mention my daughter again, I’ll …’
‘You’ll what?’ Kendwick jerked his head. One of the girls from next door stood beside the hedge. She smiled at Kendwick, mouthed a ‘sorry, later’ and then walked off.
Savage waited until the young woman had disappeared inside the house and then she kicked the back of Kendwick’s chair, knocking the prop free. Kendwick fell backward in a heap, his drink sloshing over his chest.
‘I’ll fucking kill you, that’s what.’
With DI Savage gone, Kendwick went back inside the house to dry off and change his shirt. Savage’s warning and sudden burst of anger had unsettled him, and staring at the girls next door was no longer fun.
Inside, he cleaned himself up and then poured himself another Pimm’s. He went to the living room and lowered himself onto the sofa. He’d had a fair bit to drink and the alcohol was having a soporific effect. He sat back and tried to picture his neighbours, tried to imagine the pair of them sprawled naked in the garden. He sipped his drink, his free hand moving to his shorts, loosening the button. But then he shook his head. Nothing. He felt nothing.
