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‘Can’t see now but a few minutes ago you could. Long hair, tits, or what remains of them.’
Jackson tried to emulate Davies’s sneer and muttered something that caused them both to laugh. Savage guessed what he had said was offensive, but a gust of wind snatched the words into the air, no doubt hiding a multitude of sins.
‘Anyway they say she’s a woman,’ continued Davies, nodding at the divers. ‘And I don’t think she came down here for a picnic.’
One of the divers first swam and then walked to the shore where a CSI officer handed him some sort of tool resembling a giant pair of pliers. He waded back in and disappeared beneath the surface, bubbles of air rising round the pipe and the water boiling in response to unseen movement.
‘Huh?’ Savage turned to the guy who had produced the tool.
‘Bolt croppers,’ the man said. ‘She was wrapped in bin liners, bound with tape and then chained to the grating.’
‘Grating?’
‘There’s a metal grille back in the pipe. About a metre in. The body is well jammed in the pipe now the tide has turned.’
The diver surfaced and flung the tool back to the beach and he and his partner began to wrestle the body from the pipe entrance and towards the shore. Using each wave for assistance they half-swam and then half-waded, dragging the inert mass behind them.
‘Shit.’ Jackson swallowed hard and turned away for a moment. Davies just smirked.
Between the strips of black plastic and silver tape the body appeared to be in a considerable state of decay. Crabs or friction had torn away vast swathes of skin and only puffy and bloated patches remained. Where the skin should have been pieces of stringy flesh and muscle had gone white in the water the way a boil-in-the-bag fish changes colour when you cook it. Shrimps and lice crawled across limbs, and the rotten lips parted to reveal a manic smile.
The divers had the body in the shallows now and it lay face up, the belly swollen with gas making it look like a stranded whale. As each wave came in to the beach it moved in the water, the arms and legs rising and falling like a floundering swimmer captured in slow motion. Now Savage could tell the corpse belonged to a woman but it was difficult to know much else since the water-wrinkled skin gave no clue as to her age.
With some difficulty, the divers, along with the CSI officers, began to move the body out of the water and onto a waiting body bag. Savage stepped forward to make a closer inspection.
‘Jesus, look at the hole in her head!’ Jackson had moved closer too and Savage understood why he was regretting it. A lot of the hair on the scalp had gone and white bone was showing through. Just above the right temple was a neat, round hole about the size of a penny.
Savage noticed a flash of metal around the neck. A little cross on a silver chain. Blind faith had never appeared so pathetic, she thought.
‘Could you?’ she asked one of the white-suited CSIs, pointing at the cross.
He bent over and held the cross in his gloved hand, turning it over to reveal an inscription.
‘RSO,’ the CSI said.
‘Rosina Salgado Olivárez,’ Savage said. ‘Our missing student.’
‘Bugger. Hardin will be livid,’ Davies grunted. He said nothing else. Just pulled his jacket collar up against the driving rain and stomped away, Jackson scampering after him like a terrier after its lowlife master.
Chapter Two (#ulink_f5c1c110-52bf-5ac0-acab-8b396131dfc1)
Love. Harry didn’t understand why but he hadn’t ever got much of it. Not from his parents anyway. The pet cat had been shown more affection. He remembered his mother cooing and feeding the kitten titbits from the dinner table. It always got a stroke, even when naughty. Harry just got beaten. He loved the little tabby, but he felt angry when it competed with him for attention. So he strangled it. He buried the corpse in the garden, marking the grave with a brick. Many months later, lonely and needing a cuddle, he lifted the brick and started to dig. He was surprised to find only the white bones of the skeleton remained. The cat’s flesh had decomposed, the animal’s soul seeping into the ether, forever beyond his reach. The discovery made Harry wonder how you preserved things, how you stopped the flesh you loved from rotting away. There didn’t seem to be anything in his life other than decay.
Me, Harry. Me.
Trinny.
Her voice snapped him out of his half-slumber and he sat bolt upright, confused for a moment. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, grasping at consciousness, trying to pull the tangled threads into some sort of order. A wan light slipped past the curtains and painted the room with the awful chill of reality.
Naughty Harry.
Yes, but there was no going back, not after what he had done to Trinny.
I didn’t mind, Harry. I love you, just like all those years ago.
All those years ago back when he was a kid. There had always been a girl in the house to help out, a nanny or an au pair employed to do the chores his mother and father couldn’t be bothered with. Those girls had been the only ones who loved him. He was sure they guessed about his parents too. In the dead quiet of the night they must have heard the screams and wondered what was going on. And even though they never said anything, in the mornings they saw the bruises as they held him and rocked him and dried his tears. In some small way that helped. Believing somebody cared made him feel he was worth something after all.
I still care, Harry. I really do.
Maybe they did care all those years ago, but they never stayed long. A few months at most and his father and his wandering hands became too much for them.
He was disgusting, Harry. Dirty!
So they left. Went. Decayed.
I left, Harry. Yes. But decayed? No. Never. You never forgot me and I never forgot you. I’m still here, am I not?
Yes, Trinny was still here. Part of his collection. His growing collection.
Harry? I’m the one. You want me, not the others.
True. He did want her. And he’d had her too. Many times. Not good. Not right. Shameful.
Shameful? Harry, you are wrong. Sex is beautiful. I mean the stuff you did to me last night … I loved everything. Every minute. Every inch!
Trinny’s words ended with a dirty cackle. This was bad. She had become too much of a handful, not like he expected her to be. He needed to deal with her once and for all. Trinny seemed to read his mind because her voice became serious with a scolding tone that sliced into his heart.
Harry, do you still love me? I mean like before, like back then?
He didn’t know. He clenched his teeth and tried to hold back the saliva building in his mouth. But he should know, shouldn’t he? It was his business to know. If he didn’t know something he got a little edgy, panic set in and he began to breathe too fast and he didn’t like that. He really didn’t like that.
Harry?
He swallowed the spit and mucus and sucked in air. In, out, in, out, in, out. Last night he shut Trinny away. Downstairs. So he didn’t understand why she was still pestering him. She wasn’t the girl he was looking for because she was too dirty. She knew. He’d told her.
You did tell me. You called me a slut. And after you called me a slut you screwed me. How does that work?
He couldn’t explain. It was too complicated.
Complicated?
Yes. Complicated. Trinny wouldn’t be able to understand. Nobody understood. Nobody knew about being mad but him.
Yes Harry, you are mad. Not to mention bad and sad. You can’t go around—
Harry couldn’t stand the wittering any longer so he reached out and pressed the button on the clock radio next to his bed and Trinny’s voice vanished beneath the local station’s jingle. Top of the hour and the news. The usual regional mediocrity had been abandoned and the headline spewed out a tale of rape, violence and murder. The police had found a body of a woman down on Wembury beach.
He turned off the radio. Fast. Not good. Not good at all.
Carmel, Harry! Carmel is back! Yuk! I bet she doesn’t look so pretty now.
Trinny sounded excited. Hysterical. But could it really be Carmel? Nausea began to rise within him like dirty water overflowing from a blocked toilet. He fought back the urge to vomit.
Carmel. You didn’t get her, did you? She is lost forever now. Decayed.
He ignored Trinny and wondered if the story signified something. Carmel back from the dead. Telling him he was on the right track, but also reminding him that Trinny didn’t compare to her. Couldn’t be the one.
Harry, what do you mean?
He’d kept her because he hoped she would change. She had been fun at first. Cute, lovely, bubbly. But now she went on yapping and nagging. And she was dirty. Very dirty. He had slapped her a couple of times, but it hadn’t made any difference. The simplest thing would be a clean break. Splitting up would be for the best. For both of them.
Harry! You bastard! I am your girl. Me. Not Carmel. She is dead. Rotting. Mitchell killed her. Remember?
Mitchell.
Harry didn’t like to hear that name. Not after what Mitchell had done to Carmel.
Mitchell was your friend!
Mitchell had once been his friend, true, although Harry didn’t really know what a friend was supposed to be like and he didn’t want to ask Mitchell straight out in case he had got it all wrong. Still, Mitchell had been good to him. Kind. He had told him to stop taking the pills.
Bad idea, Harry. Those pills kept you normal, didn’t they? Stopped you from seeing things?
Trinny’s tone of voice was mocking, but she was right. The pills kept him cocooned in his own little world. Snug. The pills stopped the voices too. Like the doctor said they would. But the clever doctor smiled with too many teeth and had an arrogant manner along with a flash car and a pretty secretary who wore a skirt just short enough so when she bent over you could see the tops of her stockings. Harry liked the skirt even as he despised the man.
Who is the dirty one now, Harry?
It was always the same way with women. When they dressed like dolls with flesh poking out his eyes went wandering. Still, no harm done, he only took a little peek, a brief gaze at something forbidden.
There are things beyond looking, Harry. That is the problem.
Yes. A problem. One he blamed Mitchell for. Mitchell was out of control. Saturday nights. Drunk girls getting into trouble. Party time. Harry was disgusted with himself for playing Mitchell’s games, but then disgust was becoming a habit now.
No, Harry? Why is that?
Mitchell let him touch the girls. Harry didn’t want to at first. Later on he couldn’t stop.
And then?
And then Mitchell went and killed Carmel which meant Harry didn’t have any friends anymore.
Harry thought about Carmel. He hadn’t liked her dying, hadn’t liked it at all. Seeing the blood spoiling the girl’s pretty hair made him angry. Pretty things should not be spoilt. They should be kept. Forever.
Like me!
No. Not like Trinny at all. He wouldn’t keep Trinny forever. He needed to get shot of her and soon. Maybe even tonight. They would drive somewhere together and on the way he would tell her in the nicest possible manner. If he let her down gently perhaps she would forgive him. You had to be cruel to be kind, didn’t you? A sad way to end their time together, but Trinny wasn’t right. And anyway only yesterday he noticed she was no longer beautiful. Some of her skin had gone a bit saggy. That happened when you got older, but even so Harry didn’t think he could make allowances. Not now. Not when there were others waiting their turn.
Chapter Three (#ulink_4e0594de-9602-5a44-a92d-cfd261c3f292)
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Monday 25th October. 8.30 am
Davies had been right about Hardin’s reaction, and the shit hit the fan first thing Monday morning. Savage had just grabbed a cup of coffee and taken it to the Major Crimes suite when it all kicked off.
The double doors crashed open and Detective Superintendent Conrad Hardin entered the room as if leading a drugs raid. Although unarmed and lacking a battering ram, his entrance could not have been more dramatic. With the muscles and build of a heavyweight street-fighter he had the language and temper to match. His face burned bright red and he looked as if he would explode as he barrelled onwards, pushing past anybody foolish enough not to move out of his way.
‘Rosina Salgado Olivárez,’ his voice boomed out, the delivery of the words sounding official, like a vicar performing a wedding ceremony or a judge addressing a guilty prisoner. The noise level in the room dropped to zero and Hardin marched forward holding a large sheet of paper in his hands. Savage hoped he would save his anger for the briefing of senior officers, scheduled to take place later that morning. Her hope was misplaced.
‘What sort of fucking piss-taking amateur outfit are we running here?’ Hardin sneered and slammed the piece of paper against one of the whiteboards, holding it up for everyone to see.
‘A source emailed me the afternoon special the Herald are printing. An eight-page pull-out with the headline “Sex Crime City: Now It’s Murder”.’
Hardin looked around the room, his eyes picking out each individual, one by one. Savage drew breath, bracing herself for the next onslaught.
‘This morning I’ve had the ACC on to me. He in turn has had the mayor, both city MPs, the university Vice Chancellor, some worm from the Foreign Office and, of course, the Chief Constable on the phone. To say he’s not happy would be the bloody understatement of the year. Neither, you will not be surprised to learn, am I. Nor are the poor parents of Ms Olivárez or any of the other girls. We have a duty of care to the people who live in and visit this city, and in this case we have discharged that abysmally. How many of you have daughters at home?’ Hardin stared at Savage again. ‘Ask yourselves if you would be satisfied with our work. Go on askyourbloodyselves!’
Hardin turned and stomped out of the room.
‘Phew!’ Someone whistled. ‘Wouldn’t like to be here when he got out of bed on the wrong side.’
Savage didn’t spot who made the comment, but it brought smiles to a few people’s faces and a couple of the usual suspects began trading wisecracks. Savage could only think of her impending meeting, in her mind comparing it to a trip to a headmaster’s office to receive a beating. Still, Hardin had every right to be angry because operation Leash had become a joke, and with one of the victims dead, farce now slipped into tragedy.
Earlier Savage had pondered the latest development on her drive to the station. Thirty minutes of typical Monday morning traffic had given her plenty of time to think. A drain had blocked on the eastern side of the Laira Bridge and the dual carriageway was reduced to one lane, vehicles crawling along and surging through the almost knee-high water. People sat in their cars looking miserable, and with the Olivárez girl dead Savage couldn’t help feeling down too.
Twelve months ago operation Leash had been created after the police had linked a series of rapes together. Since then the rapes had continued, the victims always sharing the same characteristics of being under twenty-five and students, often foreign, picked up from clubs and bars in the heart of the city. A car ride took them from the centre to a large house where two or more men gang raped them. After being assaulted for several hours the women would be dumped somewhere in the suburbs and told if they kept quiet no further harm would come to them. The parting threat from the attackers made the Leash team suspect a number of victims remained too scared to report the crime. The girls were duped into leaving the safety of the clubs because their drinks had been spiked with gamma-hydroxybutyrate, otherwise known as GHB. The drug had a plethora of street names including the incident room’s current favourite, Easy Lay. Savage considered the tag politically incorrect, but apt. In a last ditch attempt to reduce the number of attacks uniformed patrols had taken to giving out free drug detection kits and assault alarms. With thousands of students in the city the task was hopeless. The rapists seemed to be able to carry out their plans with a boldness and impunity that was becoming a personal insult to all concerned.
The inquiry occupied a huge proportion of Major Crimes’s time, more time than desirable or necessary, as Hardin had pointed out to the team last week. His latest brainwave was an undercover operation with as many bodies as could be mustered. They would sprinkle the clubs with officers posing as students, not as honey traps, but as discreet observers who might spot something as it happened. The Big Night Out, a name coined by some of the younger officers, was planned for Saturday and already the talk at the station was of what everyone would be wearing. Savage thought it was a waste of time: anyone over their mid-twenties would stick out and the chances of seeing anything in a crowded, noisy club were minuscule. Still, as Hardin had said, they were down to clutching at straws now. And if the Big Night Out did not produce a result then the next Monday morning he would be in a worse mood than ever and looking for a scalp or two to serve up to the ACC. Savage didn’t think she would blame him for wanting to do that either.
With Hardin gone the noise in the room rose to full volume again with phones ringing, keyboards clattering and people bustling this way and that. At one of the whiteboards DC Enders scribbled some notes next to a new picture taped slap bang in the centre. Pride of place now rather than just one of the other nine victims. He looked up as Savage approached, his young face beaming out from beneath a dishevelled mop of brown hair. Enders always appeared to Savage more like a member of a boy band than a hard-working detective, but she couldn’t fault his passion and enthusiasm for the job.
‘Remind me of the unlucky girl’s details again, Patrick,’ Savage said.
‘Rosina Salgado Olivárez, twenty-one, Spanish national, student, lived in a shared flat in Mutley. Raped eight months ago on fifteenth February, a Saturday night. Someone dropped her outside the entrance to Saltram Park first light Sunday morning. Unbelievably, considering the state she was in, she managed to walk all the way from there back to her flat. When she got in she collapsed and slept for the whole day. Told her housemate about the assault in the evening and the flatmate phoned it in.’
‘What about the MO?’
‘Matches the others. Complained of dizziness after a couple of drinks so she informed her friends she was going home early. In a bit of a muddle she goes outside and someone offers her a lift. She gets in the car and collapses unconscious. Next thing she knows she’s tied to a bed and two men are raping her. After a few hours of hell she is untied, forced to take a shower and then she’s dumped. That and the fact that the men used condoms meant no DNA. Just like all the others.’
Savage shook her head and sighed. Enders continued.
‘Understandably, after we had interviewed her, she makes plans to return home to Spain. We accompanied her to the Santander ferry on the twenty-first February, she went through passport control and we heard nothing more until we were contacted by the Guardia Civil. It appeared as if she never returned to her home town of Zaragoza. Now we know why.’
‘So the first question is why was she killed?’
‘And the second is how on earth did she get back to Plymouth?’ Enders asked.
‘Exactly.’
Savage dragged herself up to Hardin’s office and found DCI Mike Garrett and DI Davies waiting. As a Superintendent Hardin had the luxury of his own space even if he hadn’t made much effort to personalise it. The obligatory picture of him in uniform at some event with his wife standing dutifully at his side sat on one side of a tidy desk. There was also a calendar of Greek islands on the wall – a year out of date – and a couple of P.D. James novels stuck in the bookcase alongside the law books and policing manuals. Hardly a home from home.
