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‘If I had seen anyone on my land they’d have known about it, so no, I didn’t see anyone.’
As Isaacs spoke Savage heard a tap, tap at the window and she turned to see Calter’s face beaming through. Calter motioned at Savage to come outside. Savage left Enders to continue the questioning and let herself out of the front door.
‘Over here, ma’am.’ Calter stood by the corner of one of the barns next to a bulging, blue fertiliser sack.
Savage went over to join her, squishing through mud and God-knows-what on her journey across the farmyard.
‘Something interesting?’
‘Oh yes!’ Calter held the sack open for Savage.
The sack bulged with various items of farm rubbish and at the top she could see a couple of syringes complete with needles along with an empty dispensing bottle. There were some wood offcuts, a few dirty rags, sheep daggings, bent nails, a length of rubber tubing, an old piece of rusty iron …
‘My eyesight must be going, Jane, I can’t see much of interest.’
Calter grinned and took a pen from her pocket. She poked one of the rags, looped it on the pen, retrieved it from the sack and held it out in front of Savage.
‘Oh no.’
The material had a bit of dirt on, but now it was free from the rest of the bundle Savage could see it was no rag, it was too clean for that. The pure white cotton wafted in the breeze as if drying on a washing line.
‘Girl’s panties, ma’am. Sainsbury’s own brand. The Isaacs don’t appear to have any young children and they are a wee bit small for the Mrs.’
Savage heard a noise and looked round to see the farmhouse door open. Mrs Isaacs’s shrill voice sang out across the mud.
‘Milk and sugar, Inspector?’
Chapter Six (#ulink_3c51c131-929d-50c4-a084-502177bb83a2)
Harry lay on the bed feeling the alcohol slither through his veins and watching the ceiling rotate above him. The plaster ceiling rose with the bulb hanging on the twisted wire went one way and the corners of the room went the other. After a while they each slowed down and almost synchronised before going in opposite directions again. Stagecoach wheels in cowboy films came to mind. He closed his eyes to remove the dizzying effect, but that only served to make him think about what he had done and what he had become.
Harry thought it was the blood that pushed him over the edge. The blood from Carmel had poured over his hands warm and sticky, the metallic taste still there days later when he’d absent-mindedly bitten a nail. He’d washed and washed but in the end figured memories took more than just soap to erase. He also blamed the pills. They had done evil things to him he was sure. When he stopped taking them he had flipped. And that was Mitchell’s fault.
He opened his eyes and watched the ceiling rose spin round again. Thought of roulette. Not Russian, the other type. Where you won stuff. He’d never won anything. That really didn’t seem fair. He remembered the woman he had seen on the TV. The lawyer. She’d talked about fairness. Maybe he should try and get her phone number. He could give her a call. Maybe she could help. Maybe she even wore stockings.
Poor Harry, do you expect me to feel sorry for you?
Jesus, it was Trinny! Harry pulled a pillow over his head and chewed his tongue. He thought he had dumped her and shut her up for good, but somehow she was back. What the hell?
There is no peace, Harry. Not for you and not for me.
No, he understood that. Sunday night hadn’t worked out as it should have and Trinny wasn’t at peace because he hadn’t been able to leave her where he wanted to. There had been too many people. Cars parked around the green, a huge pyre of burning pallets, hot drinks being served from the church and children running everywhere. A stupid bonfire night being held a few days early. In the end he found somewhere nearby. It was quiet and secluded, but at the time he thought it hadn’t been right leaving her in the dark little wood.
Right? The whole thing wasn’t right!
No, but his desire had been uncontrollable. Evil. Not his fault. Which was why he needed to find someone like the girls who had looked after him when he was a kid. The ones who held him close. He had never wanted them. Not like that.
Harry. Let me tell you about the birds and the bees. Something happens when you get older …
Harry ignored Trinny. When you got older you got wiser and when you got wiser you stopped taking the pills. It was then he started to see them. Everywhere. He would catch sight of Trinny at the bus stop. The lovely Carmel serving in Starbucks. Lucy crossing the road and running into college, the naughty girl late for a lecture no doubt. And it wasn’t only those three, it was the others as well: Deborah, Emma and Katya. It was a miracle how they had all appeared. The pills must have hidden them somehow, but they were there all along. Waiting.
Crazy Harry!
Crazy. Sure he was crazy, but he also knew what he was seeing. The trouble was that the girls on the street didn’t look right. Bits of flesh poked out everywhere and they wore make-up. Not good. Not clean. But there was one place he’d worked where the girls knew how to care, how to cuddle, and from the clothes they wore Harry didn’t think they were likely to be dirty either. He began to spot familiar faces there too. He’d go home and look at the old pictures and then he would begin his observations and tests. If the girls were really lucky he might take it one step farther.
Like you did with me?
Yes. He discovered Trinny some months back. She had been the first he had collected and he’d got it a bit wrong. There had been a misunderstanding.
And I was half naked. Was that a misunderstanding?
He wanted a few more pictures, wanted her dressed like he remembered.
Something else as well.
When her clothes slipped off he had seen the curves. He needed to touch them, feel them, stroke them.
Fuck me, more like.
No. That was the last thing he had wanted to do.
But you did.
Yes. Afterwards. When the girl had been quiet. When she had gone through the cleaning process and he knew she hadn’t been right.
And all that was Mitchell’s fault?
Mitchell had dragged him into his little circle of depravity and from then on in he had been slipping downhill. Actually it was like he was plummeting now. Freefall. Groundrush.
Drag, Harry? I don’t think the police would see it that way.
Of course they wouldn’t. Because they wouldn’t make allowances for his sensitivities. And the police didn’t know Mitchell and his way of twisting everything to his own advantage. That was how Harry had got involved with him in the first place. Mitchell had spotted Harry on the Hoe with his camera and guessed what he was doing. He followed Harry into the shopping centre and watched him take upskirt shots on the escalators. Mitchell had confronted him and sprung his trap.
At least his time with Mitchell made him realise about the other type of girls. The sluts. The ones struggling on Mitchell’s bed may not have been begging for it, but they knew the risks. They went out for the night with their flesh on display, just waiting to be touched.
Touched, Harry? They were raped.
Like he had been.
You expect sympathy? After what you have done?
Harry knew that it wasn’t his fault, that somehow, somewhere, everything had got all mixed up. Wrong. Broken.
So what are you going to do to fix things, Harry?
That was a good question. Harry pondered it for a few minutes. He had tried to fix things with Trinny. Only that hadn’t worked out and he’d had to get rid of her. There was also the little matter of Lucy.
Juicy Lucy! That slut! She makes me look like a nun.
Lucy had come back from the past the same way as Carmel and Trinny had so he had collected her too. He couldn’t risk losing her in the way he had lost Carmel. Now she was tucked away downstairs. Safe. The sad thing was that she was just about the same as Trinny. Dirty.
I told you, Harry. And the new girl will be no different.
Emma. Sleeping upstairs.
Thinking about her made him smile. The time with her on Monday had been such fun. They chatted and joked like old friends. He suggested a drink and they talked some more. She laughed and giggled and giggled and laughed and began to get a bit confused. After that she started to look a little tired and he had offered to take her home.
She accepted.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_8fb08dca-128b-5157-a68f-b821eebed2e5)
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Wednesday 27th October. 9.03 am
The vista from the operation Zebo incident room took in a line of white police vans and a few squad cars sitting on the car park. A crap view was no bad thing, Savage thought. At least all eyes would be on the job and not on the people walking past two floors below. Eight terminals, twice as many screens and a decent amount of spare desk space crammed into a few square metres. Cosy. DS Gareth Collier had been Hardin’s choice for office manager and Savage approved of the way the setup had progressed so far. Collier, always a stickler for procedure, liked things neat, well organised and locked down tight. He looked like he behaved, and with his greying hair trimmed in a parade ground cut he resembled a regimental sergeant major as he prowled the office searching for unfiled scraps of paper or terminals which had been left unattended but not logged out of. Luckily he also had a great sense of humour. The opposing facets were a perfect match and ensured smooth progress and a happy team. One without the other made work either dull or frustrating, and if both were missing an investigation didn’t stand a chance.
Gordon Isaacs was banged up in the custody suite at the station in the centre of town and according to DS Darius Riley he was looking pretty miserable after an uncomfortable night brooding. Riley sat at a desk fussing over a crease in his expensive jacket and then fingering his collar where his black skin contrasted with brilliant white cotton. Savage knew the shirt would most likely be from an outfitter on Jermyn Street in London – Hawes and Curtis or Thomas Pink – rather than from the local M&S, which was the brand the other male detectives favoured. When Riley had arrived in Plymouth a year or so ago those officers old enough to remember the US TV show Miami Vice had taken to calling him Tubbs after the show’s stylish detective. Riley had borne the practice with good humour until someone from Human Resources had got wind of it and panicked, detecting a lawsuit and headlines. Nicknames were now banned, the penalty a day on an attitude reorientation course.
Riley undid the button on his collar and made some comment about the central heating being way too high before explaining what they had on Isaacs.
‘He has confessed to removing the girl’s underwear and wan—, um, masturbating over the body, but swears blind he knows nothing else about her. For the moment we can do him under sexual offences section seventy. Turns out he’s got previous though, sex with a minor, however it was over thirty years ago. He was in his late twenties, the girl fifteen.’
‘The case was still on file?’ Savage asked.
‘No, he admitted it. There was no sexual offenders’ register or anything like it at the time, but I found the original records. He got off with a suspended sentence because according to the judge – and you’ll like this – there were extenuating circumstances. Different world back then but he’s pretty ashamed of himself now. I think he is so terrified of what the wife is going to do to him he just wanted to come clean.’
‘So to speak,’ Calter said.
Savage had selected Riley and Calter for the initial interview. She had figured the combination of Riley, tall, black and disarming, and Calter, who in her own words described herself as a ‘hard-nosed bitch’, would unsettle Isaacs. In fact, the interview plan had gone a little astray because Mr Isaacs claimed he had a history of mental illness and was on medication. A check with his GP had confirmed the fact and they had to get someone along from Social Services to sit in as an appropriate adult. Still, Savage was pleased with the results even though they’d had to adopt a softer approach than she would have liked.
‘What’s your hunch, Jane?’ Savage asked Calter.
‘I’m not sure, ma’am. Why would he call us and tell us about the girl? Why would he leave her on his land in the first place? On the other hand, he’s got previous and by assaulting the corpse he has put himself in the frame forensically.’
‘You don’t sound convinced though?’
‘Anything is possible, but all in all I don’t think he’s seriously up for it. Not at this early stage anyway.’
‘Really? If the sexual offence from thirty years ago had been committed today he’d be on the sex offenders list. That, and his mental condition, should make us look twice.’
‘He’s not right in the head, ma’am,’ Riley said. ‘One raisin short of a fruitcake, I’d say. When we asked him about the previous conviction he went off on some rant about how the whole world was becoming soft and filled with poofters and that we needed to get back to a time where men could be men and not ponce about like girls.’
‘We’ve got the underwear to consider too, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘I mean if the knickers and bra didn’t belong to the girl then where did they come from?’
When John Layton had arrived at the farm to collect the underwear he had shown Savage the clothing. Through the polythene of the evidence bag he folded the material, hunting for the label.
‘Sainsbury’s girls’ range, ma’am. Suitable for a twelve to thirteen year old. They wouldn’t be the right size for the victim.’
Now Savage thought about the underwear again. The knickers would fit her own daughter and although the young woman in the copse could have squeezed into them they didn’t belong to her.
‘But Isaacs has sworn he removed them from the girl,’ Riley said. ‘I can’t see any reason for him to lie.’
‘Unless he bought them to put on the girl,’ Savage said. ‘In that case he would want to remove the evidence after he’d had his fun.’
‘Some sort of fetish?’ Calter said, wrinkling her nose in mock disgust.
‘Whatever. The search team are going over the farm at the moment in the hope of finding the rest of the girl’s clothing. Come up trumps and we’ve got him. You two can have another go at him later this morning. Some extra pressure this time, please, I want him unsettled a little bit more. If that’s possible.’
She could imagine poor old Isaacs squirming at the sight of his interviewers returning for a second round. A man like that, whatever he had done, had pride, and he wouldn’t be comfortable with Riley and Calter squashing him underfoot.
‘Ma’am?’ Riley pointed to the terminal in front of him on which he’d pulled up a map of the area in a browser window. ‘The underwear was from Sainsbury’s, right?’
‘Yes. So?’
‘The closest supermarket to Isaacs’s place would be the Tesco Megastore at Lee Mill, near Ivybridge. Sainsbury’s is much farther away.’
‘You are right. And the more I think about it the more I can’t imagine Mr Isaacs trooping up and down the aisles searching for girls’ knickers. I bet he doesn’t even do any of the shopping, that would be Mrs Isaacs’s job and she’d use the local shops. He’d be lost in a supermarket.’
‘Well, if he didn’t buy the underwear then he’s out of the frame, isn’t he?’ Riley clicked the browser window shut as if that was the end of the matter and that further questioning of Isaacs would be pointless.
The immediate priority, apart from dealing with Isaacs, was to identify the girl. Often murder victims knew their killers, so establishing the victim’s network could be the key to finding the murderer. Isaacs had said he had never seen her before he came across her in the wood, but if he was lying he would be in deeper shit than the muck in his farmyard.
A steady trickle of calls were coming into the incident room hotline about the girl and two officers logged the details into the system. DC Susan Bridge, an older officer recently transferred out of uniform, was raising actions on those calls, arranging for follow-up interviews or passing information to Savage if she wasn’t sure further investigation was needed. She was spot on when she had asked if they weren’t up against two problems at once.
‘I mean, ma’am, that we have a sort of reverse missing person case as well as the murder,’ she said. ‘We need to find out who the girl is, but that is being coloured by the fact she is dead.’
She was right. Already there had been a fair number of reports from people who claimed to know the girl, where she had been and what she had done. All of them, so far as the team knew, were plain incorrect. Well-meaning but misguided members of the public often did that sort of thing. They wanted a resolution to the story and the gaps were like missing an episode of EastEnders. In this case you couldn’t catch up on iPlayer or ask your friends what had happened so your mind filled in the blanks for you.
‘Ma’am?’ Enders broke into her train of thought. ‘I’ve got the results on screen.’
Savage had asked Enders to come up with a list of mispers reported in the last few weeks and now she went over to where he was sitting in front of a terminal navigating through the missing person register on the COMPACT MISPER system. Riley and Calter came over too and the three of them peered over Enders’s shoulders at the screen.
‘Four on my shortlist, ma’am,’ Enders said as if announcing the winner of the Christmas raffle.
‘Number one, Alice Nash. She’s sixteen, from Ashburton, a town close to Malstead and just along the A38 from Buckfastleigh. There seems to be some real concern about her. She left her work place in Ivybridge and never boarded the bus to Ashburton. When her dad realised that she hadn’t got her usual bus or the following two he called us. Some report of her possibly accepting a lift from—’
‘Idiot!’ Calter said, flicking the top of Enders’s head with her hand. ‘Read the date, Sherlock. She went missing Monday evening. Isaacs had found the body by then. Worrying for the parents, sure, but no way she can be our victim.’
Enders looked sheepish before carrying on.
‘Lindsey Nation, nineteen, I can see it’s not her. She’s blonde, not dark-haired like the girl in the wood.’
Enders clicked through his list.
‘Um, Jenny Smith?’
‘No.’
‘Simone Ashton?’
