TOUCH: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen

to where DC Jane Calter sat at a desk trying to piece together some intel on the girl’s movements in the days following the assault. Calter was young, mid-twenties, and like Enders her appearance didn’t shout ‘detective’. She wore her hair in a shoulder-length blonde bob and dressed right on the ‘casual’ limit of the recommended dress code. Today that was a black denim skirt and jacket and shiny black boots. With Calter though appearances were deceptive: she was hard as nails, ran marathons and some years back had won a national junior title at Taekwondo.

      Calter looked up at Savage and started to explain that her task was a waste of time: the girl had no contact with anyone but her flatmate and police officers before she left for Spain.

      ‘She spent some time at the Sexual Abuse Referral Centre, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘The doctor examined her and a sexual offence liaison officer did her bit too. Then she went back to her flat and the SOLO stayed with her until she departed. I interviewed her several times over the next few days as we tried to make sense of what had happened and get a coherent statement. She was never alone.’

      ‘And you accompanied her to the boat?’

      ‘I did, ma’am. With DC Enders. At least we took her through check-in and passport control. She had a single room on the boat and we know it was used. Her father is disabled and requires constant care so there was nobody to meet her at Santander and she was going to make her own way home to Zaragoza, but she seemed quite happy about that.’ Calter paused for a moment before continuing, a noticeable trace of emotion in her voice. ‘You know, I liked her. She was a strong girl, confident. The assault affected her badly but I sensed she would get over it. That she wouldn’t let what happened go on to destroy the rest of her life.’

      Calter didn’t say anything more. She didn’t need to, the inference was obvious: somebody else had destroyed Rosina Olivárez’s life.

       Chapter Four

       Malstead Down, nr Buckfastleigh. Monday 25th October. 4.41 pm

      Gordon Isaacs was fed up with people telling him he was lucky to be a farmer. Everyone said it must be great to have such a varied existence with all the changing seasons and different challenges. In reality, one day was very much like the next and in Isaacs’s mind that meant today had been bloody awful. People didn’t realise it was a hard life. Bloody hard work and no days off and no knocking off at five thirty and having a drink with some cute blonde in a posh wine bar.

      It just wasn’t fair.

      Isaacs whacked the starter motor with the hammer once more, squirted a burst of EasyStart into the air intake and used his screwdriver to bypass the ignition. The Landrover spluttered a couple of times, backfired, and then burst into life, coughing a plume of black smoke from the exhaust in the process.

      ‘About bloody time you useless heap of shit,’ he said, slamming the bonnet down and lumbering round to the door. He swung a leg to try to kick his collie as it went to grab the hammer. The dog jumped out of the way and leapt up through the driver’s door and across to the passenger seat.

      ‘Look what you bloody done now!’ Isaacs eyed the muddy prints all over the seats. He got in anyway and rammed the gearstick forward, flooring the accelerator. The Landrover slewed round in the mud and he pointed it out of the farmyard and down the rutted lane.

      ‘Lil’ acre, Fly. That’s where we’re off to.’

      The dog yapped and panted. Now they were moving Isaacs didn’t feel too bad either. He hated having to fix things because there were always two constants in any job he had to do: never enough time and never enough money. Earlier in the day the big Ford had got a puncture because the previous repair had been a bodge job rather than a new tyre. And now his neighbour, Peter Wright, had been on the phone to tell him he’d seen a couple of Isaacs’s heifers pushing their way through the fence at the bottom of Little Acre. Isaacs had spent a frustrating fifteen minutes trying to start the Landrover which meant that the heifers had plenty of time to frolic in the winter wheat, ruining the freshly sown crop and trampling pounds off his bottom line. Which in the grand circle of life meant the next puncture repair would be yet another bodge and he’d never be able to afford a new Landrover.

      His ongoing problems reminded him of an old song, ‘There’s a Hole in My Bucket’, and he began to hum the tune to himself as his Landrover bounced along the lane down towards Little Acre.

      ‘—dear Liza, dear Liza.’ Liza in his case was Sandra and she was always nagging at him to sell up and get out. They weren’t getting any younger were they, so what was the reason for carrying on? Since the house, barns and land must be worth well over a million there wasn’t a good one. If they sold up they could buy a little place somewhere and stick the majority of the money in the bank. They would be able to take holidays in the sun, treat their grandchildren with more than just love and reward themselves for years of hard work. They’d never have to worry again.

      ‘Bugger that, eh?’ Isaacs said to the dog.

      Stubbornness was one trait all farmers shared and Isaacs wasn’t going to give up just yet. His mum and dad had both worked the land until it had them beat. Now Mum tottered around some nursing home with only dribble and memories for company, and Dad lay six foot under in the local churchyard. He owed it to his parents to carry on while he could. If one of his sons had been interested things might have been different, but no, they were too clever for that. Off to university and no stopping them either. Still, they couldn’t be blamed. Who in their right minds would put up with what he had to endure?

      He stopped the Landrover at the gate to Little Acre and got out. Down past the water trough several of the heifers were pushing against the fence. A whole section had given up the ghost and left a bloody big hole. The buggers were walking back and forth between Little Acre and the wheat without a by-your-leave or a ‘Thank you Mr Isaacs for feeding us.’

      Isaacs undid the gate, swung it open, got back in and ripped into the field. Brakes, out, close gate, in, foot to floor, the vehicle skidding sideways for a moment before the chunky tyres got a grip and the Landrover shot across the grass. Several of the heifers had seen him coming and, thinking they were in for some extra feed, they began to trot towards him. He whacked on the anchors a few yards from them and the vehicle slid to a halt. Then he jumped out, grabbed a piece of black plastic pipe from behind the seat and rushed at the bemused animals.

      ‘Get the hell out of there!’ He thwacked the pipe against his wellies and it made a satisfying sound and the rest of the herd moved away from the gap. Isaacs could now see that a ten-yard section of the fence had been flattened. Three stakes had been knocked over and the netting and barbed wire had been pulled down too. The mess was a morning’s work to fix.

      He sighed and walked through the gap into the corn field to round up any of the heifers still in there. Then he spotted the tracks.

      Some bastard had driven into the field, the tyres crushing the green shoots and compacting the seedbed. Hang on. Some bastard had driven through the fence into the field. Then something about the gate to the lane struck him. The chain and padlock hadn’t been there. In his rush to get into the field he’d failed to spot they were missing. A few months ago he had taken the precaution of securing all the gates to his land after a spate of rustling saw a couple of neighbours losing some stock. Fat lot of good it had done by the looks of things.

      Two sets of tracks led into the field, curved to the left and ran down the edge. From the way the new green shoots were bent over it was obvious that one set marked the outward journey and one the same vehicle returning. Isaacs swore extreme vengeance on the perpetrators and stumbled into the field to look down the tramlines the tracks had made.

      Thwack.

      The pipe thudded into his welly again. A lone heifer who decided to see if Isaacs needed any help had second thoughts and skipped back into Little Acre. Isaacs stared at her for a moment to make sure she had got the message that he wasn’t standing for any trouble