CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen

stuffed down her throat before the head had been removed. Clay. Could the killer be a potter or regularly work around potters, maybe in some communal studio somewhere?

      ‘What about the arts and crafts theory?’ Savage ventured. ‘Was that common sense?’

      ‘No,’ Walsh said. ‘Total lunacy. Where these guys get their ideas from I haven’t a clue. I was against committing resources to that particular angle, but as you know the Chief Constable disagreed. Personally I think Wilson was leading us a merry dance. Down the garden path to a potter’s shed.’

      ‘You think he was deliberately misdirecting you?’

      ‘Charlotte,’ Walsh grabbed Savage’s arm and stopped walking. ‘When you get to meet Wilson you’ll realise the guy is a charlatan. They all are, psychologists. Circus tricks to impress the common people. They make the stuff up as they go along and then couch it all in terms you and I can’t understand. The longer the report, the more obtuse and difficult to fathom the better.’

      ‘Leading to a bigger bill?’

      ‘And a bigger ego.’ Walsh stared to laugh and then carried on walking. ‘You know I reckon all the pseudo-scientific garbage these people come out with is just something to cover up their inadequacies.’

      They left the metal track and followed a row of scaffold boards which in turn led to some industrial-sized stepping plates which Layton had managed to procure to replace the pallets. Savage pointed out the railway line and told Walsh how she believed the killer had come across the bridge.

      ‘Now that does make sense,’ Walsh said. ‘But we still need to work out why here?’

      ‘“We”, sir?’

      ‘Ha! No, “you” and it’s not sir.’

      Walsh began to ponder the history of the farm. They’d need to find out about disgruntled farmworkers, neighbouring farmers, villagers who for some reason bore a grudge.

      Savage explained about Joanne Black and her uncle. The farm had been an inheritance, before that the uncle had in turn inherited it from his parents. There didn’t seem to be any other relations involved. If the killer had a connection to the farm it wasn’t through his family.

      ‘It’s not exactly convenient though, is it?’ Walsh said as they approached the tent. ‘There has to be a reason.’

      Savage gave a little cough to alert the two CSIs in the tent and then introduced Walsh. Both nodded a greeting and then went back to trowelling through the layers of silt. Despite the fresh breeze blowing through the open ends of the tent, the stench was still appalling. A sweet, sickly odour which cloyed at the throat.

      ‘Jesus!’ Walsh said.

      Walsh would have been to many crime scenes, so Savage guessed the reaction was to the size of the hole rather than the smell. Leaning forwards, Savage pointed out where the bodies had lain. The sides of the hole had been shored up with more scaffold boards and to the left a yardstick stood upright. Alongside, pinned to the boards at differing heights, little numbered labels marked the depths of various finds.

      Noting her interest, one of the CSIs pointed to the lowest label, which was some thirty centimetres from the bottom of the pit.

      ‘Reckon we’ve reached the limit now,’ the CSI said. ‘The last thing we found was a ring down the foot end of body number one. The Kendle woman apparently wore a ring on a toe. The thing has gone off for the poor next-of-kin verify.’

      ‘Poor next-of-kin’ wasn’t a term you could apply to Phil Glastone, the first victim’s husband. Glastone had been a suspect on account of his record of domestic abuse, he hardly deserved sympathy. Might he, Savage wondered aloud to Walsh, deserve a second look?

      ‘Tosser,’ Walsh said. ‘Arrogant beyond belief Mr Glastone was. We had him pegged until he came up with an alibi for the day Sue Kendle went missing. We tried to disprove it but couldn’t make headway.’

      ‘What about the third? Heidi Luckmann?’

      ‘No specific alibi for that day, but by then Wilson’s theory had gained credence. Glastone’s solicitor was canny and somehow the Chief Constable got to hear about the pressure I was applying. Since Glastone was a programmer and hadn’t been near a paintbrush since primary school, the Chief told me to steer clear.’ Walsh nodded towards the far end of the pit. ‘Glastone liked women. You know, really liked them. The type of guy who won’t take “no” for an answer. He’ll have found himself a new squeeze and if he’s knocking bells out of her then maybe she’d be keen to spill a few beans. Of course just because he likes to get a bit heavy-handed doesn’t make him a killer, but nevertheless it might be worth a word for this latest one.’

      Walsh began to tell her some more about Glastone, how he’d been clocked more than once picking up toms in cities across the UK. His car registration had been recorded kerb-crawling in Bristol and Nottingham and he’d received a caution for an incident involving an escort in a travel tavern in Birmingham.

      ‘This goes back, mind, but I doubt he’ll have found God in the intervening years.’

      ‘What about his alibi for the Kendle murder?’

      ‘Brick wall that, Charlotte. Unless he had an accomplice.’

      ‘Two of them?’

      ‘Many hands.’ Walsh turned away from the tent. ‘Could explain how he was able to kidnap them so easily.’

      ‘Did you think this before, back when you were SIO?’

      ‘Toyed with the idea.’ Walsh nodded down towards the railway line. ‘But the bridge has got me thinking. It’s a long way across and this hole is bloody deep. Having somebody to help makes a lot of sense.’

      ‘Shit,’ Savage said. ‘If this is a double act Hardin won’t want that to get out. We’ll have a full-scale panic on our hands.’

      ‘If the media reaction last time around is anything to go by, full-scale panic won’t be the half of it.’ Walsh began to walk away from the tent and up towards the farm. He stopped half a dozen stepping plates later and turned back to Savage with a smile on his face. ‘As I said, Phil Glastone probably hasn’t found God, but if you think praying might be a good idea then it’s not too late for you.’

      When Riley arrived at the crime suite on Tuesday morning he found Davies beaming from ear to ear.

      ‘Big fan of the Chief Constable, Darius,’ the DI shouted across the room. ‘We’re both off Maynard’s bloody bird-watching excursion, thank fuck. Missing screws are apparently more important than a couple of litres of illicit diesel.’

      When Riley came over Davies explained Hardin had no option but to pull them from Operation Cowbell. Simon Fox had requested a couple of experienced officers be permanently assigned to the Corran misper investigation as a personal favour to the Governor at HMP Dartmoor, and every other available detective seemed to be dealing with the Candle Cake Killer.

      Davies took Riley’s elbow and steered him to the corner of the room where the DI had set up a mini incident room. A small whiteboard rested against the wall. On it an aerial photograph showed Princetown and HMP Dartmoor, the buildings within the circular walls of the prison looking like spokes on a bicycle wheel. There was also a mugshot of Devlyn Corran in uniform and an array of Post-its, Davies’ handwriting scrawling across them. The DI had obviously been hard at work.

      ‘So,’ Davies said. ‘Fill me in. What did you discover yesterday?’

      Riley recounted the facts as he saw them. He explained about the search team, told Davies about the prison governor’s comments regarding Full Sutton and Channings Wood and outlined Layton’s theories concerning the bike.

      ‘He’s dead though, isn’t he?’ Davies said, jabbing a finger up at the snap of Corran. ‘This sort of thing is hard to fake so I don’t think Corran’s taken a dive. Stands to reason we’re looking for a body.’

      Riley