CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen

couple of days, but if leads weren’t forthcoming then the pair of them would be back in the soggy ditch with Maynard. Murder, on the other hand, was an entirely different ball game.

      ‘So do you reckon it’s down to some nonce then?’ Davies said. ‘Corran pissed somebody off or maybe found out something and they or associates of said pervert top him.’

      ‘Difficult to say, boss. Needn’t be a sex offender at Channings Wood or Full Sutton. Could be a prisoner at HMP Dartmoor.’

      ‘Nah. Petty thieves, minor fraudsters, a few in for a bit of aggro. They’re hardly going to get angry enough to risk a life stretch because Corran spat in their food tray.’

      ‘I don’t know where you get your ideas of prison from, sir. These days Shawshank it isn’t. You know what they call the place dealing with sex offenders over at Channings Wood?’ Davies shook his head. ‘The Vulnerable Prisoners Unit.’

      ‘Vulnerable? Bollocks. They’d be bloody vulnerable if I ever got to work there I can tell you.’

      ‘What I’m saying, sir, is I think it’s highly unlikely Corran was bashing someone around at any of the prisons he worked at.’

      Riley sighed inwardly. Davies’ ideas about policing and criminal justice came from either underworld Plymouth or from whichever bedside trash he was reading at the time. To be fair to the DI, underworld Plymouth would have surprised a lot of people, but it didn’t translate to much else. Certainly not to the red diesel inquiry. Maynard had found the whole thing amusing. Every time Davies started on another story Maynard would mumble, ‘Quiet out here, isn’t it,’ and then point to some countryside feature which neither Riley nor Davies were the least bit interested in. The man drove Davies crazy.

      ‘Well,’ Davies said. ‘If prison is a dead end, then what else?’

      ‘Anything from a simple hit and run to gambling debts, marital problems, an affair, a family feud even. I’ve actioned getting hold of Corran’s financial information.’

      ‘Gambling debts, I could go with that one. Corran runs up a big debt, keeps on borrowing, gets to the point where he can’t or won’t pay and then—’

      ‘I don’t know, sir. How does knocking off Corran get them their money back? Better to threaten his wife and kid.’

      ‘And if that doesn’t work they have to whack him, right? Leave a message.’

      ‘But what’s the message? A few bits of broken bike lamp?’

      ‘Corran will turn up and mark my words, he won’t be looking pretty when he does.’

      ‘Right.’ Riley glanced down at the spread of printouts on the desk, grabbed a couple so as to look willing and then turned to leave. ‘Going to read through these and then do some research on Corran’s missus. The locals were in contact with her on Sunday and Monday, but I need to speak to her myself so when I’m done I’ll be off to Dousland for an interview. I’ll take DC Enders with me. Do you want to follow up your idea and go over to Channings Wood?’

      ‘What, you mean get up close and friendly with those sickos?’ Davies shook his head as if in distaste, but then grinned. ‘Be my pleasure.’

      As Riley reached the doors of the crime suite he remembered something. He shouted across to Davies.

      ‘What about DI Maynard, sir? He’s up on the moor again this morning. Shouldn’t we let him know we’re not going to be joining him?’

      ‘Maynard?’ Davies chuckled. ‘Leave him. He’s happy enough out there on his own getting a hard-on over some fucking chiffchaff. Be a shame to spoil his fun, wouldn’t it?’

      Savage returned to Crownhill and collected DC Calter at a little after eleven. They headed out of the city into the rolling countryside of the South Hams on their way to Salcombe and a meeting with Phil Glastone. Calter wasn’t buying Walsh’s theory about Glastone having an accomplice nor him being in the frame on account of his record of domestic violence.

      ‘Don’t get me wrong, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘I’d like to live in a world where we could legally take a pair of garden shears to his bollocks, but hitting his wife doesn’t make him a killer. Besides, even if he’d killed his wife, why would he go on to kill those other women and why the gap of all those years until this one? And I’m sorry, but Walsh’s idea of him having an accomplice sounds like sour grapes because Glastone’s alibi back then played out.’

      Savage slowed as they came up behind a tractor winding its way into the village of Modbury. Calter didn’t miss a trick and she was probably right. Walsh had had tunnel vision. Easy, Savage thought, to get fixated on one suspect and do everything to make the evidence fit. In the circumstances she could understand why that had happened. The pressure to get a result back then would have been enormous; the public outcry, the political pressure both locally and nationally, the feeling the inquiry was slipping away from them.

      ‘Let’s run with it for now,’ Savage said. ‘See what Mr Glastone has to say for himself.’

      Twenty minutes later and Savage was parking on double yellow lines opposite Phil Glastone’s place on Devon Road. No chance of finding a space nearby with the season beginning to take off.

      ‘Impressive place,’ Calter said, peering up at the property. ‘For a wanker.’

      The houses were on one side of the street only, sitting above triple garages. The door to Glastone’s garage was open, inside a Volvo SUV and an Alfa Spider, beside the cars a smart RIB on a trailer, a huge outboard attached to the back of the boat. With nothing opposite but a wooded area which fell away steeply, the house had uninterrupted views. On the estuary far below a yacht glided by, heading seaward past another on the way in. The harbour master’s boat was already on its way to intercept the newcomer, to collect fees and guide the boat to a buoy. On the far side of the estuary the beach at Millbay thronged with mums and pre-school children, busy on the golden sand. Salcombe itself was spread out below and to their left, a town of winding streets and overpriced boutiques, chock-full of tourists in the summer, but a ghost town of empty holiday properties in the winter.

      On the first-floor balcony of Glastone’s place a figure stirred from a sun-lounger, reached for a shirt and pulled it on over a bare torso. Then he waved down and disappeared inside French windows. Seconds later and the man came through the front door and pointed to a patio area to the left. His shirt was only buttoned halfway up, dark curls of hair on his broad chest matching the curls on his head. His biceps were pumped and there wasn’t a shred of fat round his waist. He glared down at Savage. Didn’t speak.

      Savage and Calter climbed the steps and joined Glastone on the patio.

      ‘Mr Glastone? DI Charlotte Savage and DC Jane Calter.’

      Glastone nodded. Indicated the chairs around a teak table. Sat. Still said nothing.

      ‘Just a few questions,’ Savage said, pulling out a chair and sitting.

      ‘Now you’ve found the bodies I guess an apology will be forthcoming,’ Glastone said. ‘Not that sorry is worth much after all this time. Mud sticks, and you clowns threw a lot of the stuff at me.’

      ‘Last year, twenty-first of June,’ Savage said, taking an instant dislike to the man. ‘Can you account for your whereabouts around that time?’

      ‘Account for my whereabouts?’ Glastone laughed, but the laugh vanished into a sneer. ‘What you mean is, did I fucking murder this latest one?’

      ‘There’s no need to get angry, Mr Glastone,’ Calter said, scraping a chair out for herself. She pulled out her notepad and waited with pencil poised. ‘Just tell us where you were.’

      ‘As it happens I was here. Like most other days. I work at home, see?’

      ‘You’re a web designer, aren’t you?’ Calter said, looking at her pad. ‘Bed and breakfasts, local shops, is that the sort of thing?’

      ‘No