Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen

bait?

      ‘No, lad,’ the man said. ‘We’re sorted, ta.’

      Jason trudged away along the shoreline. Another hundred metres and he’d cut up into town and head home. Over at the old houseboat a light flickered in one of the windows. Looked as if Larry was in. The lobster man wouldn’t pay him anything, but perhaps Jason could swap the worms for a brace of crab. Despite his grandfather’s tales, Jason figured the man was worth a visit. It was the only way he might get a reward for his hard work. In another couple of minutes he was at the narrow gangplank which led from the shoreline to the boat. On one side of the gangplank a rope hung from a series of rickety posts. Jason stepped onto the wooden slats and walked out to the boat. Larry’s accommodation was a jumble of marine plywood nailed onto uprights and resembled a floating cowshed. Jason reached the end of the gangplank. He edged around the side deck of the boat until he found what he guessed must be the front door. He knocked. There was no reply. Either Larry was asleep or he wasn’t in. Jason shivered in the damp night air and turned away. He hurried across the gangplank and back to the shore, strangely grateful Larry hadn’t answered.

      ‘I’ve been looking for a boy like you, Jason.’ The voice hissed in the darkness as a shadow stepped from behind a concrete groyne. ‘Want to come along with me?’

      The shadow jumped forward and Jason felt a hand across his mouth. Then there was a grunt and something slid around his throat, a thin strip of leather tightening across his windpipe. Jason slipped to the ground, aware as he did so he’d let go of his bucket, the worms slithering free and disappearing into the soft mud.

       Chapter Three

       Near Bovisand, Devon. Tuesday 20th October. 6.47 a.m.

      Something woke Savage early. There’d been a bang from outside, a splintering noise. She reached out to prod Pete into consciousness. He stirred, mumbled something, but then turned over. He’d been out at an official Navy dinner the night before and the meal had turned into a serious drinking session. Disappointed Pete hadn’t been around to discuss the inquest, she’d opened a bottle of wine for herself. Half a glass had been enough to make her realise alcohol wasn’t going to help and, after she’d put Jamie to bed and checked on Samantha’s progress with a history project, she’d read for a while and then called it a day.

      Savage got out of bed, strode to the window and peeled the curtain back to reveal an ethereal predawn, a mass of dark clouds tinged on their undersides with a violent red. In the garden below, a fence panel had launched itself across the lawn and smashed into the corner of the house. The previous evening there’d been a strange calm with barely a breath of wind, but now a full gale blew.

      September had seen something of an Indian summer and the warm weather had lingered well into October. While most people had been glad the onset of autumn had been delayed, Savage had been eager for the first storm. She wanted a break in the seasons, something to mark the end of the events concerning Simon Fox. Today, she supposed, signalled that. Now it was time to move on.

      Once dressed, Savage headed outside. Their house stood in an isolated position on the east side of Plymouth Sound, clinging to a sloping garden at the far end of which cliffs tumbled to the sea. The place wasn’t much to look at. A succession of owners had added their mark, leaving a hotchpotch of building styles, the whole lot covered in white stucco and resembling a multi-tiered wedding cake. The location made up for any architectural failings though, and the view across the Sound and out to sea lifted Savage’s spirit, no matter the weather conditions.

      She stepped away from the house and into the full force of the gale. The wind howled across the lawn, buffeting her clothing and snagging her long red hair. At the end of the grass a hedge marked the boundary of the garden and on the other side lay an area of scrub. A rhythmic boom came from beyond the hedge every few seconds, accompanied by a wall of spray as waves smashed into the base of the cliffs. She stood for a moment and looked across the Sound, tasting the salt in the air. Then she got to work. She pulled the broken fence panel away from the house and weighed it down with several old bricks. Next she moved over and examined the rest of the fence. The remaining panels had adopted a forty-five-degree angle to the wind, but they wouldn’t remain standing for long. The storm had broken several of the posts which had held them up, the posts having rotted in the ground. The whole lot would need renewing.

      Savage returned to the house to fix breakfast. Being out in the wind had been exhilarating. Usually, something like the broken fence would have depressed her, the destruction a sign of decay, of change. Today she had a different feeling. That area of the garden had always been a bit of a mess. Having to replace the fence meant she could clear away some of the old shrubs and start afresh.

      ‘All right, love?’ Pete came into the kitchen. He tousled his hair and shook his head. ‘The kids won’t get out of bed and I’ve got one heck of a hangover.’

      ‘The fence is bust. We’ll need to replace the whole thing.’

      ‘Great.’ Pete opened a cupboard and fumbled inside for painkillers. ‘Any more bad news?’

      ‘No,’ Savage said. She moved across to Pete and reached past him into the cupboard. Extracted some ibuprofen tablets from the top shelf. Kissed him on the shoulder. ‘None at all.’

      Savage was snug in her tiny office at Crownhill Police Station by eight thirty, leaving Pete to do the school run. Since the frigate he’d commanded had been decommissioned, he’d had much more time to be a proper parent. She remembered when, a dozen years before, he’d been away for great chunks of the year. As a newly qualified detective constable she’d somehow managed to juggle the day-to-day family routines and the demands of the job. With toddler twins the task had involved running on little sleep and copious amounts of black coffee. These days she got more sleep, but hadn’t kicked the caffeine addiction and a full cup sat on the desk beside her keyboard. She reached for it and took a sip before getting down to work. This morning she had to prepare for a presentation. A management meeting had been scheduled for later and DSupt Hardin wanted her to come up with some pointers for, in his words, ‘adding value’ to their detection strategy. An hour into the task, the coffee long gone, she was starting to make real headway when there was a knock at the door.

      ‘Ma’am?’ The voice had a strong South-West accent and came from a young woman who’d peered into the room. Twenties. Blonde bob. Big smile. DC Jane Calter.

      Calter was a junior detective but enthusiastic. While DS Darius Riley was the closest thing Savage had to a confidante, it was Calter whom she often worked alongside. The DC’s quick thinking and have-a-go attitude had saved Savage’s bacon on more than one occasion.

      ‘Yes, Jane?’ Savage glanced up from her notes.

      ‘Misper,’ Calter said. ‘A kid from over Torpoint way.’

      ‘And?’ Savage wasn’t usually so curt, but she needed to finish her work for the meeting. A missing child surely wasn’t anything to do with Major Crimes. Uniformed officers and other agencies should be dealing with the issue. She said as much to Calter.

      ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Calter said, holding out a sheet of paper, a mugshot of the missing boy top right. ‘But the mother’s got a new squeeze. The guy has previous for assault. We informed the woman, but she went with the man anyway.’

      Calter went on to explain that the woman’s own mother – the kid’s grandmother – had contacted the police requesting information regarding the new boyfriend. When the police had alerted the woman, she’d taken the warning as interference from her mother and ignored the advice.

      ‘And this man, the boyfriend, where is he now?’

      ‘That’s just it, ma’am. He’s missing too.’

      Savage sighed. She turned from the screen and reached for a pad and pencil. ‘From the top then, Jane.’

      ‘Jason Hobb. He’s eleven. According to