TOUCH: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

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‘No.’

‘That’s your lot from round here.’

‘We need to widen the area or the timeframe or both,’ Calter chipped in.

‘Evidently.’

Enders went back to the search page where he changed some of the parameters.

‘Still sticking to Devon and Cornwall, but extending the date range to six months.’

‘That’s long enough. The girl died in the last week or so.’

‘Right.’ Enders hit the return key and data filled the screen. ‘Bloody hell. Eighty-four names.’

‘I’ll get some coffees, ma’am,’ Calter said as Enders began to scroll through the results.

Savage nodded and examined the list. They had searched for females between the age of fifteen and twenty-five missing in Devon and Cornwall in the past six months and the results were staggering. The figures would be distorted by the fact that the area was a tourist destination: many on the list would have gone missing while on holiday and turned up later back on their own patch. The problem was nobody bothered to inform the police. Even so the number seemed high. Savage knew a couple of hundred thousand people went missing in the UK each year but she’d always mistrusted the figure. Most would turn up, but the official guidance set down in procedure was clear: if the investigator had any doubt then they were to think murder. Her thoughts were interrupted by Enders jabbing at the screen.

‘Don’t bother with the coffees, I’ve found her.’

It was too late as Calter had already gone, but Enders was right. Savage looked at the record and the dead girl’s face stared out at her. Kelly Donal, eighteen years old, enrolled on an Early Childhood Studies course at the university with a work placement at Little Angels nursery. Her address was listed as Beacon Park, Plymouth. She had been reported missing thirteen weeks ago.

Enders gave a quick précis of the notes.

‘We have a report of an incident at the flat in the city that Kelly shared with a friend – this was the day before Kelly went missing – but by the time officers arrived it was over. According to the friend it was something to do with Kelly’s glamour modelling. A guy had turned up demanding to see Kelly and she wouldn’t let him in. There was a row in the street and a neighbour called the police. When they arrived a man known to them as David Forester was hanging about outside. He was allowed to leave when Kelly insisted she was not making a formal complaint. Forester had already received a conviction for ABH at the start of the year. Managed to avoid a custodial, got a Community Service Order instead. Before that he had a caution for possession. Let’s see, yes, registered address is in North Prospect. A right swillyite by the sound of it.’

‘If he’s implicated there is going to be some serious press heat,’ Riley said.

‘Yes, but for once it won’t be on us. Should have been banged up.’

‘Go on,’ Savage said. ‘There’s more.’

Enders continued reading from the notes.

‘Seems like Kelly told the flatmate she was going to a friend’s house for the weekend, something she often did. The next day was a Friday and the flatmate came back to find Kelly gone.’

‘And she didn’t worry because she thought she had gone away?’

‘Precisely.’ Enders pointed at the screen again. ‘It wasn’t until Monday evening that she called Kelly’s parents to ask them if Kelly had been there. They said that they hadn’t seen her and in turn called us.’

‘Appears we did bugger all,’ Riley said.

‘They were told to call again at the end of the week and did so. Seems like then someone decided the girl had gone off to London modelling. She mentioned something about an agent to the flatmate and in the weeks before she had fallen out with her parents. Further investigation led to the incident being classified as low risk with a flag to review the case and reassess it at a later date. As of today it doesn’t seem as if that has happened.’

Savage could understand why. The amount of resources needing to be deployed was not inconsiderable. They would need to get search teams into Donal’s property, obtain the necessary permission to access landline and mobile telephone records and bank accounts, liaise with the Met to see if there was any evidence she had ever made it to London, check with the UK Border Agency as to whether she might have left the country … Now those resources would be forthcoming, but Savage wondered if the officers on Kelly’s case had been hesitant in taking the investigation to the next stage because of cost worries or if the error was down to negligence.

‘This is all news to me,’ Savage said. ‘I think I was on holiday at the time.’

‘You’d flown out to Brazil to meet your husband,’ Riley said. ‘I remember the sun, sea and sand on the postcard made us all depressed.’

‘You shouldn’t have transferred down here if you like the weather sunny and warm.’

‘It was a little too hot in London, I was in danger of getting burnt,’ Riley said, without further explanation. ‘Anyway, where does Forester fit into all this?’

‘I’m on the case, Darius,’ Enders said. He typed and clicked and the results of a new search for male mispers came up. He pointed to the screen. ‘David Forester, twenty-nine, of North Prospect. Reported missing by his parents on the eighth of August.’

‘Damn. Why didn’t that get linked in with Kelly’s case?’ Savage said. The date was two weeks after Kelly’s disappearance, but there should have been some sort of flag in the system to draw attention to the previous incident; a definite mistake on somebody’s part.

‘Someone missed the connection,’ Riley said. ‘For a mispers case it doesn’t seem much of an oversight, but now we’ve got a body …’

‘Exactly. Forester is now the prime suspect,’ Savage said. ‘Right, we need to generate some action points on this. One, get family liaison to inform Kelly’s parents and arrange for formal identification of the body. Two, let’s get the Beacon Park officers involved in the domestic and ABH incidents in, plus those on the Kelly mispers case, we need their input. Three, get a search team into Kelly’s and Forester’s properties. Four, re-interview Kelly’s parents and her flatmate. Five, interview Forester’s parents and employer.’

‘He was unemployed,’ Enders said, pointing to the screen again. ‘Used to work at Tamar Yacht Fitters, but was dismissed after the conviction for ABH.’

‘Still, might be worth a word. You and DS Riley will take that one and I’ll see what I can get out of his parents. I also think we need to make an appeal for David Forester to come forward. This isn’t a missing person inquiry anymore, it’s murder. Let’s ditch the interview with Isaacs and ask the CPS if they want to charge him with the sexual offence on the body. Then we can concentrate on Forester.’

‘But taking Kelly all the way over to Malstead Down? Forester? We don’t know much about him, but he doesn’t seem the type to go to all that trouble.’ Enders sounded sceptical, as if he didn’t agree with Savage.

‘Taking her over there might have seemed like a good way of misdirecting us. But first we find Forester and then let’s see where we are. It is my guess he’s our man.’

Chapter Eight (#ulink_4aace1d6-f8a9-5ece-9533-11ba2d574732)

St Ives, Cornwall. Wednesday 27th October. 10.30 pm

The damp shirt stuck to DS Kevin Tatershall’s skin as he shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. The heater had been going full-blast on the twenty-minute drive from Penzance but the fan hadn’t dried him much and he was still soaking. The downpour had started first thing in the morning and he’d got wet on the walk to work. He’d just about got dry when DI Peters came across with a piece of paper and a nasty smile, which Tatershall guessed meant an assignment outside of the station. The run from the building to the pool car left him at square one all over again.

In St Ives the rain continued to fall. Cats, dogs and pretty much everything else tumbled from the sky, and lashings of water filled the roads with runoff. Tatershall didn’t want to think about leaving the warm cocoon of the car and he pitied the tourists working their way up and down the streets with their odd shuffle, looking as if they were in harness rather than on holiday. They must be crazy to bother coming to Cornwall at this time of year.

‘I wish I was a tumble dryer, I’d run my program through.’ The soft, husky voice came from DC Kate Simbeck and she smiled as she continued her rhyme. ‘I wish I was a tumble dryer, I’d dry your clothes for you.’

Simbeck didn’t look too keen to get out of the car either, but apart from her long pony tail, which she wore on the outside of her over-sized Musto, at least she’d stayed dry. As they sat contemplating the rain the windows began to steam up and Tatershall drew a quick stick figure on the windscreen, completing the drawing with a hangman game gallows.

‘That DI Peters?’ Simbeck said.

‘Yuppee doodah. Can’t draw what I’d really like to do to him or we’d have the obscene publications law to deal with.’

Simbeck giggled and the noise and the way her cute little nose wrinkled caused butterflies in Tatershall’s stomach. He wished they had parked somewhere a little more remote and he wasn’t married with three kids. Maybe then she would say ‘yes’ if he asked her for a shag.

Driving somewhere remote wouldn’t be a problem. Within five minutes they could be out of town. Within fifteen Tatershall knew dozens of places quiet enough. The wife and kids were more of an issue though, and the chance of a pretty twenty-something girl saying ‘yes’ to an early fifties guy like him were in the arena of having a winning lottery ticket. Of course, if he’d won the lottery he wouldn’t be on some stupid mispers goose chase involving an elderly couple DI Peters had chosen to push his way. No, he’d be on a golden beach somewhere hot, rubbing suntan oil into Kate’s glorious—

‘Kevin?’ Simbeck pointed out through a patch of window where she had smeared a circular hole in the condensation. A well-filled uniform stood some way up the street looking wet, miserable and not a little angry.

‘Bugger.’ Tatershall sounded the horn, wound down the window and waved at the PC. ‘Over here mate.’

The PC jogged down the pavement, dodging umbrellas, baby buggies and a group of disgruntled tourists. The latter glowered at him as if the local police were responsible for the weather as well as crime. The officer arrived at the car puffing and leaned in, dripping rain and a palpable hostility.

‘You’re late. I was told half past.’

‘You got the keys?’ Tatershall ignored the jibe. ‘Only I’d hate to have made a wasted journey.’

He heard Simbeck stifle a laugh which the PC didn’t catch. The PC nodded and explained he had managed to track down a spare set held by a neighbour in case of emergency. The couple owned a gallery with a flat above, and it only became apparent they’d gone missing when the water company needed access to the rear of the property.

‘I’d noticed the gallery was closed in July,’ the PC said, ‘which I thought a bit odd considering we were at the height of the season. I forgot about it until yesterday when the neighbour called about the water people. I went in with the neighbour to check the flat just in case. Nobody. Fridge empty, place clean, nothing untoward. Well, they have been gone four months now so I thought—’

‘To call in the experts?’ Tatershall heard Simbeck snigger again. ‘You did right, lad. This sort of investigation can be incredibly complicated, but never fear, the Simbeck House Investigation Team Squad are here.’

The PC stared in the window, bemused, but Simbeck had abandoned any semblance of decorum and was laughing her head off.

Tatershall and Simbeck got out of the car and the three of them walked up the road to the gallery front. Tatershall glanced in, noting the usual watercolour rubbish typical of galleries all over the West Country.

‘Shall we?’ The PC opened a door next to the gallery entrance and went into a small lobby, beyond which stairs led up to the flat. A fan of mail lay spread on the doormat and Tatershall told Simbeck to grab the letters and bring them up.

With the posh gallery below Tatershall had been expecting the flat to be something one step up from the grotty spaces often found above shops, but he was surprised by the luxury as he broached the top of the stairs. The interior of the place had been gutted to make a huge open plan area like something out of one of those TV makeover programmes. A floor-to-ceiling window in the rear wall of the property looked out over the town to Porthmeor Bay and even on a miserable day like today the view was stunning. The furnishings were expensive and the style more swish London riverside flat than an old couple’s retirement home.

‘In their seventies?’ Tatershall said, shaking his head.

‘Yes. From London. With money.’ The words came out with resentment attached and Tatershall was tempted to stir the PC up some more, but Simbeck had arrived with the stack of letters.

‘Quiet couple by all accounts,’ the PC continued. ‘Moved here ten years ago, but not many friends and no one who knows where they might have gone to.’

‘Family?’ Tatershall asked.

‘None that we know of.’

‘OK. You can leave it to us now, Constable, I’ve got your notes. We’ll drop the keys back at the station when we’ve finished.’

The PC stared out of the window for a moment before grunting and making his way down the stairs, slamming the door as he left.

‘That was a bit harsh, Kev. He was itching to stay out of the rain.’

‘Yeah? Well, I’ve got to take my frustration out on someone haven’t I? We’ve got plenty of stuff to be getting on with back home without having to come over here.’

‘You wouldn’t be moaning if it was a nice summer’s day!’

‘No, but it isn’t a nice summer’s day. That’s the point and DI Peters knows it. I bet he is sitting back at the station with coffee, a plateful of doughnuts and a bloody big grin on his face.’

‘Well, we are here now so we might as well get on with the job.’

Simbeck began sorting the letters on a white oak sideboard while Tatershall slouched into one of the chairs and took in the impressive view.

‘Anything?’ he said after a while, more out of hope than expectation.

‘I’ve found a bank statement. Joint account.’ Simbeck was leafing through the pages. ‘Three months to the end of September. Regular stuff to start with, a supermarket, some other local shops. Then I’ve got a transaction at Tesco Lee Mill for forty quid exactly. Fifteenth July. Petrol.’

‘Where the hell is Lee Mill?’

‘No idea, but it’s not round here.’

‘Anything else?’ Tatershall asked.

‘A cashpoint withdrawal same day. Fifty pounds. Dartmouth.’

‘Dartmouth? Well that’s this one sussed. They’re on bloody holiday! Case solved, closed, finito. I’ll buy you lunch in the pub and then we can get back, and if you are a good girl I’ll let you do the paperwork.’ Tatershall struggled to push himself upright from the embrace of the soft leather sofa.

‘I don’t think so, sir. There are a couple more standing orders but no more EPS transactions. The cash withdrawal was over four months ago now. Since then nothing.’

‘They are using the cash.’

‘Fifty quid, boss? You’re joking, right? Think about how far fifty quid would go if you were on holiday here. Can’t see Dartmouth being much different.’

‘Could be they lost the card and are using another bank account or a credit card.’

‘Could be. But why, when you live here, would you go on holiday in Dartmouth? It’s a hundred miles away, but not much of a change. And for four months? What would they be doing over there all this time? You are forgetting the gallery too. They wouldn’t leave it unattended.’ Simbeck was looking through the rest of the mail. ‘I don’t buy that. Call it women’s intuition, superior detective ability or whatever you like, but I think something has happened to them. I don’t think this story has got a happy ending. Here, look at this.’