Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel (15 page)

‘We could grab a bacon butty while we’re here,’ Enders said as they got out. He pointed at the cafe which stood at the bottom of the grassy slope below the car park. ‘A cup of tea would be nice too.’

Riley shook his head. ‘Is there ever a time when you don’t think about food, Patrick?’

‘When I’m asleep,’ Enders said. Then he grinned. ‘No, scratch that. I dream of food too.’

‘Well, if you could spare a minute or two for this investigation I’d be very grateful, as I’m sure would the taxpayer.’

They strolled down past the cafe and Enders made to head for the path which led down the cliffs to the beach. Riley tapped him on the shoulder.

‘No.’ He gestured over to a concrete area with a couple of benches and a coin-operated telescope. ‘Let’s take a gander over there. We’ll get a better view of the Sound from up here.’

Riley walked across to where a large piece of polished granite stood at one end of the concrete. The stone was engraved with a representation of the horizon, interesting points shown with distances to each.

‘What are you thinking, sir?’ Enders said.

‘I’m trying to get a handle on where the hell the raft came from. Here.’ Riley pulled a little booklet from his pocket. ‘Tide tables. Layton told me the wind was from the south-west on Tuesday. His theory is that the raft was launched from somewhere around the Sound or upriver. The tide ebbed and the south-westerly blew the raft across to this side of the Sound. It was pushed up the beach on the incoming tide and stranded.’

‘From over there then?’ Enders said, pointing across the water to where a patch of green sat surrounded by sea. ‘Down the Tamar, past Drake’s Island and across to here. Seems an unlikely journey.’

‘Whatever.’ Riley ran his hand over the piece of granite, looking at the points of interest marked on the surface. ‘The question is, what is the purpose of the raft and, of course, where the hell do the finger bone and skin come from?’

‘I think the question,’ Enders said, nodding his head to where the path went down to the beach, ‘is what the hell is
he
doing here?’

Riley turned and followed Enders’ gaze to where a tall man in a beige raincoat stood gazing out across the Sound.

‘Dan bloody Phillips.’ Riley shook his head. Phillips was the
Plymouth Herald
’s crime reporter and he had an uncanny knack of sniffing out a story using his rat-like nose to detect even the tiniest thread of evidence. ‘You’re right, what the hell
is
he doing here?’

At that moment the reporter paused. His head moved from left to right as he scanned the seascape.

‘I swear I can see him sniffing,’ Riley said. ‘Uh-oh. He’s spotted us.’

Sure enough, Phillips turned around on the path and began to walk towards them, a huge grin on his face.

‘So, I
am
on to something,’ Phillips said as he reached them. ‘Good to see you, Darius.’

‘On to what?’ Riley said.

‘Well.’ Phillips smiled again and then gestured to the cafe. ‘You don’t appear to be here for lunch, there’s no sign of a pooch, and as for that other canine-inspired pastime – dogging – I think you’d be better off once darkness sets in. And I’d lose your sidekick, he just doesn’t hack it.’

‘Dan,’ Riley said as Enders glowered. ‘We’re just taking a break. About to get something to eat. So if you don’t mind …’

‘Bacon butties all round?’ Phillips began to walk away. ‘My shout. And if you’re good I’ll tell you why I’m here. You’re going to be interested, I promise. Very interested.’

‘Sir?’ Enders whispered. ‘We really shouldn’t.’

‘You’re probably right, but he’s on to something,’ Riley said. He turned to follow Phillips. ‘And I want to know what it is.’

They strode up the slope and sat at a picnic table outside the cafe. Phillips appeared a few minutes later with a tray, three bacon baps and three cups of tea.

He plonked himself down and they tucked into their food.

‘Right then, to business,’ Phillips said after a few mouthfuls. He reached for a tissue and wiped some tomato sauce from the side of his mouth. ‘You’re here about that raft, aren’t you?’

Chapter Thirteen

Near Bolberry, South Hams, Devon. Thursday 22nd October. 2.45 p.m.

Savage moved from the box room to the little square of landing and peered down the stairway. Somebody was moving around two floors below. A door banged shut and a crash reverberated through the house. Then she heard the man on the stairs coming up to the first floor.

‘Where are you then?’ The voice had a rough quality to it and was full of menace. ‘Think you can come in here and do your drugs and your dirty business, do you?’

‘Hello?’ Savage hollered down the stairs. Better her presence didn’t come as a complete surprise. ‘Police officer up here.’

Footsteps shuffled on the first floor below. ‘You won’t trick me like that, you little bitch.’

The man came into view at the bottom of the stairs. He glanced up, a sneer across his round, pudgy face.

‘Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage,’ Savage said, taking out her warrant card. ‘Here on police business.’

‘Right, love. Sure you are. Now hold on there, I’m coming up to sort you out.’

‘If you look closely you’ll see I really am a police officer. My colleagues know exactly where I am and if anything happens to me it won’t be long before they track you down.’

‘Hey?’ The man ascended several stairs and then stopped and stared at Savage’s outstretched hand. ‘OK, suppose you are a police officer, what the hell are you doing here? This is private property.’

‘The door was open. Anyway I’m investigating a crime.’

‘What crime is that then? I’ve reported the vandalism many times and no one’s ever bothered to come out here.’

‘This is an old crime. From years ago. The missing boys.’

‘Hayskith and Caldwell?’ The man shook his head. ‘You’re wasting your time. There’s nothing here, nothing I tell you.’

The way the man had said the names sounded odd to Savage, almost institutional.

‘And you are, Mr …?’

‘Samuel. Elijah Samuel.’

‘Well, Mr Samuel, I have to warn you that, vandals or no vandals, you can’t go around attacking people with iron bars.’

‘This is my property and you’re trespassing. You need a warrant to search this place.’

‘There’s nothing to search, is there? I just wanted to get a feel for what the home was like.’

‘A
feel
?’ Samuel’s hand tightened around the iron bar. ‘You can’t imagine the hell this place was, sweetheart. Those boys didn’t run away. They were too scared to do that. They knew they’d eventually be caught and brought back here. No, Hayskith and Caldwell got up in the middle of the night and walked down to Soar Mill Cove. Then they paddled into the water and swam. Straight out. Even in summer it wouldn’t have been long before their bodies would have been numb. An hour or so and they’d have got hypothermia. Do you know what that does to you?’ Savage shook her head. ‘Ex-forces, me, and I saw it on training once. In the Cairngorms. We were in deep snow, six of us, whiteout conditions. Two lads became hypo and refused to go on. They were gone, in a dream-like state; we had to leave them or succumb ourselves. A week later, when the weather cleared through, we sent a helicopter to pick up the corpses. So, you see? For Hayskith and Caldwell the pain ended there in the water. They went to sleep rocked by the waves and woke in a better place.’

‘You were here then, at Woodland Heights?’

‘I was no more here than Hayskith and Caldwell. We were ghosts, all of us. Look.’ Samuel held his free hand out to the side, palm facing Savage. ‘You can see right through me. I’m nothing, a shell of a man.’

‘What went on here, Mr Samuel? You need to tell me, tell someone. There’s a case review going on and if any crimes were committed here we need to find the people responsible and put them away.’

‘A review?’ Samuel shook his head, half laughed, and then sneered at Savage. ‘We had those sort of things in the army too and they’re bollocks, right? You tick a box, make a comment and then shelve the file for another ten years. As for crimes, the crime was nobody took any notice and we weren’t believed.’

‘“We”? So you were a resident here?’

‘Resident? Prisoner, more like. Only prisoners had more rights than us lot.’

‘Things are different now. Post-Operation
Yewtree
, every agency is much more sensitive to historical abuse. Your story will be believed and if at all possible charges will be brought.’

‘No, love. My story won’t be believed and there won’t be charges because you’ll get nothing more from me. You think I want the tabloid press round here dredging up the past? No, it’s history. I bought the place a few years ago, mistakenly thinking owning the home would somehow make things better, but it didn’t. Now I’m selling. I want shot. I’ve discovered there’s other ways of dealing with my personal issues.’ Samuel knocked the iron bar against the banisters. One of the uprights shattered. ‘Now if you don’t mind I’d like you to leave.’

Savage nodded. ‘OK, but remember what I said. If anything happened here, then people will be charged, got it?’

‘Out!’

Savage slipped past Samuel and moved down the stairs. Samuel didn’t follow. She carried on down to the ground floor; she could hear Samuel raging up in the attic as she pulled the front door open and went out onto the porch. She nipped down the front steps and one of the dormer windows smashed as she did so, the sound of Samuel destroying the bedroom echoing from inside.

Riley took a bite of his bacon roll. Chewed for a few moments to stall Phillips. How the journalist had found out about the raft or why he was interested, Riley had no idea.

‘You know, four letters. Huck Finn’s boat.’ Phillips half turned towards the sea. ‘And it was found down on the beach, wasn’t it?’

‘Might have been.’ Riley followed Phillips’ gaze. ‘To be honest though, there’s not much of a story for you.’

‘Really? I think you’re wrong there.’ Phillips took a gulp of his tea. ‘But put that aside for the moment. There’s something else.’

Riley waited, but the journalist said nothing. ‘Go on.’

‘A Mr Perry Sleet. That name ring a bell?’

‘A US chat-show host?’ Riley said nonchalantly. ‘Or perhaps a Republican party presidential candidate?’

‘You’re either stupid or you think I am. Perry Sleet lives in Plymstock and his car was discovered abandoned on the moor on Tuesday evening, since when you’ve had people out looking for him.’

Riley sighed. ‘OK, so a bloke’s gone missing. Do you know how many mispers we deal with on an annual basis?’

‘Hundreds, I expect, but that’s not the point.’

‘So what is, Dan? I really haven’t—’

‘Listen, DS Riley,’ Phillips interrupted, his voice tinged with an edge of excitement. ‘I’ve got something on Sleet. You might even say I’ve been doing your work for you.’

‘OK.’ Riley put down his bap purposefully, wondering if Phillips was playing some sort of game. Riley nodded at Enders. Enders pulled out a pad. ‘Tell me. But if this is some kind of wind-up you’re in a lot of trouble. Bacon roll or no bacon roll.’

‘No wind-up, promise.’ Phillips had abandoned his food and now he pulled out a tablet. His fingers slid across the surface and then he passed the tablet across to Riley. ‘Read this.’

Riley took the tablet and peered at the image which filled the screen. It was the front page of a local newspaper – the
North Devon Gazette
. The paper covered the area around Bideford and Barnstaple. Phillips prodded a finger at a headline in the side bar:
Concern for Local Vicar Missing for a Week
.

‘And?’ Riley said. ‘What’s this got to do with Sleet or the raft?’

‘At first sight, nothing.’ Phillips took back the tablet and his fingers brought up a fresh image. ‘My editor alerted me to the story and asked me to write a piece on the stresses of being a vicar in a rural parish. Wanted me to show things weren’t always so green and pleasant. When I started researching I found something far more interesting. The missing vicar is a man named Tim Benedict. He’s in his sixties. The local police up in Barnstaple are working on the theory that pressure of work has got to him.’

‘I still don’t understand—’

‘Here.’ Phillips passed back the tablet. ‘There’s a picture you need to see.’

The screen now showed the raft. The image wasn’t a good one. Light flared in from the side and the angles were all crooked.

‘So you know all about this,’ Riley said as he started to hand the tablet back to Phillips. ‘Big deal.’

‘Not so fast.’ Phillips put out his hand and pushed the tablet away. ‘A bystander took this photo before you lot turned up, so I apologise for the quality. Never mind though, the picture’s good enough. Zoom in at the head end of the box, where the arm is. Tell me what you see.’

Riley took the tablet back and then placed his thumb and forefinger on the screen. Separated them. The wooden box swelled and the picture became pixelated. Still, he could see the engraving on the forearm of the mannequin, the letters which he and Enders had struggled to understand.

TB/PS/CH/BP

‘So?’ Phillips sat up and folded his arms, a smug grin spreading across his face. ‘Am I on to something, or what?’

‘No, I …’ Riley shook his head. Wondered what sort of mind Phillips had which could lead him to spot the connection. ‘Shit, I don’t believe it. This must be a coincidence, surely?’

‘If you say so.’ Phillips sat back. ‘Methinks not.’

‘Sir?’ Enders had stopped munching on his bap and craned his neck sideways to see the screen. ‘TB/PS/CH/BP. I don’t understand.’

‘Work it out, Constable, it’s bloody obvious,’ Riley snapped, wondering how he was going to explain to Hardin that the crime reporter had found something they’d overlooked. ‘The first pairs of letters stand for Tim Benedict and
Perry Sleet.’

Thirty minutes later Savage was standing on the cliffs above Soar Mill Cove. She’d left Woodland Heights, driven to the nearby National Trust car park and walked along the coast path for half a mile. Now she was looking down on a rock-fringed sandy bay. Despite its inaccessibility, she imagined the little beach would be packed in the summer. This time of year there was no one to be seen. She took the path which zigzagged down to the cove, passing a rock outcrop and cutting through bracken and gorse. At the bottom she stumbled down a concrete ramp to where a mass of seaweed tangled with flotsam and jetsam had been deposited at the head of the beach. She stepped over the debris and onto the sand. The tide was low and at the mouth of the narrow bay white water frothed around rocks as the waves came crashing in.