Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel (28 page)

That was the only piece of good fortune. When the man had told him to put his arm up the tube he’d used his right hand because that was the hand you used to shake with. However, he was left-handed. Cack-handed, his grandfather had always said, before adding, ‘Just like I am.’ He’d then reel off a long list of famous people who were left-handed to show Jason that the affliction was nothing of the sort.

Jason sat and flexed his fingers. Sure, he had one hand which
was
working, but what good was that? He groped for the torch in the dark, and pressed the switch. He swung the torch around, illuminating the plywood box. He was now pretty sure he was buried underground, but even if he’d been above ground he couldn’t see a way of escaping. For one thing, he didn’t have any kind of tool. He moved the torch to the empty cans of Coke. For a moment he wondered whether he could fashion something from one of the cans, but no, the aluminium would be way too soft.

He sighed, absent-mindedly using his left hand to rub his right wrist. The man’s belt had cut into the flesh and the rawness was still bothering him.

The man’s belt …

Jason moved his hand to his own belt. The thing had a big metal buckle and the prong was thick and long with a sharp point.

Back in the crime suite after a canteen dinner, Riley found the Chief Constable had left a scene of psychological devastation behind her. The junior members of the
Caldera
team were particularly shaken, especially since their SIO had been absent.

‘Where is he?’ Riley asked one shell-shocked indexer. ‘DI Davies?’

‘Something about illegal Tasers, sir,’ the woman answered. ‘Said he had a contact who might know where to get one. Only …’ The woman appeared reticent.

‘Go on.’

‘It all came up rather sudden. No actions or anything. He left about a minute before the Hatchet arrived and, well … he took the stairs.’

Riley shook his head and patted the indexer on the shoulder. Davies was a crafty bugger. He’d obviously got wind Heldon was on the warpath and slipped out just in time.

He moved across to his desk and found a Post-it from Doug Hamill stuck to his monitor. Sarah Hannaford would be in at seven p.m.

At six fifty-nine a call came through. Hannaford was downstairs. A minute later, Riley was in reception, the sergeant pointing over to a woman in her early sixties sitting in a chair. Sarah Hannaford had black hair half gone grey, the hair framing an angular face with high cheekbones. The lean face was at odds with her figure, which was short and dumpy. As Riley came over, she looked up from the
Police
magazine she’d been reading and smiled.

‘Sergeant Darius Riley,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘I believe you might be able to help us with our enquiries concerning the Reverend Tim Benedict and Perry Sleet.’

‘Yes, I might.’

The woman took Riley’s hand, but rather than shaking it she allowed him to help her up from the chair. He thought the action rather quaint.

Riley showed Hannaford to an interview room while a junior officer procured some cups of tea and a plate of biscuits, by which time he’d discovered the woman lived in a village over near Salcombe. She explained she’d known both Tim Benedict and Perry Sleet when she was younger.

‘Perry lived next door to me when he was a lad. He used to play with my son. They’d be in and out of my house and Perry’s house, not really caring which was their real home.’

‘And the Reverend Benedict?’

‘The Reverend. It’s funny to hear him called that.’ Hannaford smiled for a moment. Then her expression changed to one of dismay. ‘I was so shocked to see his name on the news. How could such a thing happen?’

Riley had no answer for the woman. He shook his head. ‘You were telling me how you knew Tim?’

‘Yes.’ The smile was back again. ‘Tim was in the final stages of his curacy – this would be getting on for thirty years ago – and he officiated at the wedding of my sister. He was a family friend back then, see? He moved away when he got his first proper parish, but we still kept in touch occasionally. You know, Christmas and the like.’

Hannaford was staring at Riley but her mind was elsewhere, her face perplexed. Regrets? Something else? Riley wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t here to provide a counselling service. On the other hand, this woman appeared to be the link between the two men. Why was there the subterfuge to do with Perry Sleet though? Sleet was forty-one. Was it conceivable he was having an affair with a woman over twenty years his senior?

‘Sarah,’ Riley said. ‘Can you tell me some more about your relationship with Perry? Why, for instance, you called him last week?’

‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’ Hannaford moved her right hand on top of her left and touched a gold band on one finger. ‘I’m happily married.’

‘So the call …?’

‘A month or so ago this man came to my house. He wanted to know if I had contact details for Perry. Well, I didn’t – I hadn’t seen him since he went off to college – and even if I had, I wouldn’t have given them to this bloke. He was a ruffian. I know that’s an old-fashioned word, but it’s exactly what he was. A load of tattoos and nasty look about him. Not that the two go together, but you know what I mean?’

‘Yes.’ Riley felt a tingle of excitement begin to rise within. Here, at last, was a lead. ‘So you contacted Perry?’

‘No, not immediately. As I said, I didn’t have any idea where he was. It wasn’t until last weekend, when my son was visiting with his family, that I decided to get in touch with Perry. My son – Anthony – lives in London, and had been asking about old friends and people in the village he hadn’t seen for years. I told him about the rough chap. He said it would be a good excuse to get in touch and he’d love to hear what Perry was up to. Anyway, the village grapevine is such that it didn’t take long to find out about Perry and get his details.’

‘So you arranged to meet?’

‘Goodness no. I simply phoned and told him about this man. He couldn’t think of anyone the guy could be, but he thanked me. Afterwards we chatted a bit – pleasantries, you know – and I promised my son would look him up next time he visited.’

‘And this call was around lunchtime Tuesday last week?’

‘Uh-huh, I guess so.’

‘A couple more questions,’ Riley said. ‘One, why the secrecy? You called from a pay-as-you-go mobile and the thing has been turned off ever since.’

Hannaford looked askance. ‘There was no subterfuge, Mr Riley. My mobile is for emergencies only. I don’t generally use it, but on the Tuesday we had a builder in installing an extractor fan in the kitchen. The electricity was off and the builder was making an infernal racket drilling through the wall. I went for a walk and made the call while I was out. When I got home I turned the mobile off and it hasn’t been switched on since.’

Shit. Riley shook his head. By such slim margins were cases made or broken. ‘And you didn’t think to contact us when Perry first went missing?’

‘That’s just it. I didn’t know he
was
missing. It wasn’t until I heard the news this morning about Tim and that police were linking the crime with the disappearance of another man – Perry – that I realised.’ Hannaford raised one hand to her face and slid her forefinger across one eye and then the other. She moved the finger away and stared at the moisture on its tip. ‘If I’d contacted you a month ago, Tim might still be alive and Perry wouldn’t be missing.’

Unlikely, Riley thought. A call to the police about a man asking questions wouldn’t have merited much more than a note in the log. Resources were stretched to the point where sending out officers to interview every concerned and well-meaning member of the public was unrealistic.

‘You’re not responsible, Sarah,’ Riley said. ‘Let’s just concentrate on trying to find Perry, OK?’

‘Yes.’ Hannaford tried to smile, but the smile didn’t come.

Back home, Savage found the house empty and dark. In the kitchen a note in Jamie’s faltering handwriting informed her that he, Samantha and Pete had gone out to eat. ‘BURGERS! Mummy!’ Jamie had written, knowing Savage would be disapproving of the kids’ choice of restaurant.

She went into the living room, but left the lights off so she could gaze through the big French windows at the night vista. Plymouth glowed off to the right, while ahead lay the Sound. Several large ships lay at anchor, their deck lights making them appear like spacecraft floating in a black sky. Farther away, on the other side of the Sound, the twin villages of Kingsand and Cawsand twinkled as if they were from a twee Christmas card. To the left a white line of surf marked the breakwater. Beyond the breakwater the open sea.

She shivered and went across to touch a radiator. The radiator was hot, the cold psychological. It was those bones, she thought. Something terribly sad about seeing them lying in the soil. ‘At least he’ll get a proper funeral now,’ someone had said as officers had stood as Layton solemnly carried the crate of bones from the copse. Great. A funeral. A decent burial would make everything OK, would it?

She moved to the sofa and slumped down in the gloom, feeling exhausted. She kicked her shoes off and brought her legs up onto the chair, feeling the bruises from the attack. She touched her neck and then lay back against a pillow. The assault had unsettled her and hours later the shock was beginning to hit home. And then there was Maria Heldon’s visit to Crownhill. For all his shortcomings, Simon Fox had had a way with people. Heldon didn’t. But Savage’s mood went beyond Heldon’s grating manner and, to be blunt about it, the CC had been right about the lack of progress. The investigation was moving forward, but it wasn’t because Savage was in the driving seat. She had a real sense that somebody else had hold of the controls. They were pressing the accelerator; they were turning the wheel. All the police could do was hang on for the ride.

History was what this was all about. The mysterious letter writer blamed Hardin for what happened at the home years ago and somehow the DSupt was supposed to make amends. She sighed. She knew all about history and how one single moment could have consequences down the years. Was that the case here? Certainly, if abuse had taken place at Woodland Heights, then the victims had every right to be angry and demand justice, retribution even. But the murder and kidnapping of two kids was no way to go about it.

A clatter from the front door marked the entry of Pete and the children. All three of them piled into the hallway. Savage called out.

‘Mummy,’ Jamie said as he came into the living room. ‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’

‘Good question.’ Pete stood in the doorway. He reached for the light switch. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Yes, fine,’ Savage said, blinking against the sudden glare. ‘Tired. Hungry.’

‘Well, prepare for everything to be better than fine then.’ Pete held up two paper bags. ‘We’ve got burgers and fries and Coke and we bought an extra lot for the cat.’

‘We don’t have a cat, Daddy,’ Jamie said as he romped across the room to Savage and piled onto her lap. ‘Do you mean Mummy?’

Pete cocked his head on one side and looked at Savage. He’d noticed the marks on her neck. For a second his expression turned to one of concern, but then he censored himself and nodded. ‘I guess I must, Jamie.’

Savage put her arms round her son and hugged him. She closed her eyes and pushed her face into his soft hair. As she did so she saw the skull again. The white bones, the glint in the eye from a marble, the teeth formed in a chilling grin which wasn’t anything like a smile at all.

Chapter Twenty-Five

It’s Sunday and the most awful events have occurred this weekend. Nothing in my life has prepared me for this day. Nothing can ever be right again. No one can ever suffer enough for their sins and that includes me.

It started on Friday. By midnight I guessed that Bentley wouldn’t be coming, but when I crept from my room I encountered Mother dressed up like a turkey for Christmas. I was wrong, Bentley was coming! I cursed PC Hardin for the umpteenth time. It had been weeks since I slipped him the photograph and he seemed to have done nothing at all. Anyway, I snuck from my room and climbed to the attic to warn Jason.

‘Jason’s gone,’ one of the boys up there said. ‘Jason and Liam.’

‘No!’ I shouted, feeling sick to the stomach. ‘Where?’

‘The cove.’

Of course, the cove. Sometimes in the summer we play down there and hide out in the cave.

I raced down the stairs and climbed out the window. Down the drainpipe and onto the yard. I ran round to the front of the house as headlights swept up the track.

Bentley!

I made for the coast path as fast as I could. At that point I didn’t care if I should stumble and smash my head, all I wanted to do was find my friends. At the path, I turned left and made my way to where the land fell away down to the cove. I scampered past mounds of rock and skipped down the last part of the path. I staggered onto the beach and tripped and fell in the soft sand.

For a moment I lay there and listened to the beat of my heart and the surge of the waves way off down the beach. I raised my head and stared at the horizon where the stars slid from this world to the next. The sky was only slightly lighter than the inky black of the sea, but I could see something down there. Some sort of structure at the point where the beach and waves met. Then I heard voices.

Jason and Liam!

I pulled myself up from the sand and began to lope towards the sea.

‘Jason!’ I shouted. ‘Jason! Jason! Jason!’

I arrived at the sea breathless and splashed into the surf to where Jason and Liam were standing next to a raft. Plywood sheets sat atop cross-beams, beneath which sat a dozen plastic barrels. The whole lot was lashed together with rope. Both boys were naked aside from underpants and wellington boots and in the pale light their skin glistened.

‘What are you doing here?’ Jason said. ‘We don’t need your help!’