The Boneyard: A gripping serial killer crime thriller
Mark Sennen
Malcolm Kendwick is charming, handsome – and a suspected serial killer.When the partially clothed body of a woman is discovered on Dartmoor, all eyes are on one man.There wasn’t enough evidence to convict Kendwick of his suspected crimes in America, but DI Charlotte Savage is determined to bring him to justice. She’s certain the woman’s murder, so soon after Kendwick’s return to Devon, is no coincidence. But Savage hadn’t anticipated one thing: Kendwick has a perfect alibi.When more human remains are discovered at an isolated dumping ground, a full-scale murder investigation is launched. Savage realises it’s up to her to uncover the truth before the killer strikes again.She knows Kendwick is hiding something.Is there a limit to how far she’ll go to find out what?A page-turning, terrifying crime thriller with a gripping twist, perfect for fans of Mark Billingham and Tim Weaver.
Copyright (#ulink_f06b110a-8439-5d8a-95b9-4ae98b75354d)
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017
Copyright © Mark Sennen 2017
Mark Sennen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007587902
Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780007587919
Version: 2018-06-21
Praise (#ulink_30b0e019-edbe-5f70-9944-8699bb76364a)
Dedication (#ulink_24290138-df79-515d-8512-4b7dbdb749c4)
To Niamh and Morgan
In a sky filled with stars, you are the brightest
Contents
Cover (#u10763525-27f0-52dc-be66-df1fa1bb488d)
Title Page (#u6061ed34-5e6b-594b-bb7a-a37f9ba7b869)
Copyright (#u23c8b247-0318-5023-a5dd-77373e754cb1)
Praise (#u4e1352e9-4f4f-50d8-92f6-7a1b4ff3f876)
Dedication (#ubbfcad7b-ee12-5f7c-bd68-eba926d4f78d)
Prologue (#uf6545adc-2c4d-53ba-b203-c2f2cf839a52)
Chapter One (#uf8259983-5394-5302-ab30-60b67e075e66)
Chapter Two (#udf42d78c-a12d-5d84-b97b-895c170022a0)
Chapter Three (#u6ef59eb7-18b2-56fb-834f-348cd828a1a2)
Chapter Four (#ua99d6a37-b24b-51bb-abb6-94c2d6fa8a08)
Chapter Five (#u92d8bca3-3e31-503e-aed4-53ac2c073952)
Chapter Six (#u7b17dffc-c080-50fc-b743-60af759b4199)
Chapter Seven (#u1a7ed56f-1b09-58c5-974f-1076bfb46ce2)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Missed the First Books in the DI Charlotte Savage Series? (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
DI Charlotte Savage Series (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_f1327979-7c7b-5f55-8e93-0302edb2b614)
She looks up at the trees. Huge, towering sequoias looming over her. Mist swirls in the canopy high above, a distant sky just visible through the dense tangle of leaves. Like ancient sentinels, the trees stand watching but taking no part in events. They’ve stood here for centuries, since long before the invaders with white skins came from the west and changed the continent forever. The oldest specimens were alive over two thousand years ago, when a man was nailed to two pieces of wood and left to die in order to save mere mortals. She reaches up, touches her neck and finds the slim silver chain. She runs her fingers down to the cross and then brings it to her mouth and kisses the figure of Jesus. He is her last hope.
She moves to one of the wider trunks, pushing herself up against the rough bark, sensing the patterns press through the thin material of her dress. She shivers, feeling vulnerable in the light summer frock because she’s nothing else on. He made her remove her panties and bra and her shoes too. Part of his perverted game.
She peeks round the side of the tree, hoping she’s lost him. For now, it looks as if she has. She shivers and then stares down at her feet where blood trickles from several gashes. There’d been rocks earlier and an area of scree leading down from the forestry track where he’d released her …
The trunk of the car had opened and she’d closed her eyes against the brightness.
‘Get out,’ he said. He held a pistol in his hand, the barrel pointing at her chest. ‘Get out and then I want you to take everything off but your dress. And when I say everything, I mean everything, your underwear included.’
She clambered over the lip of the trunk and stood in front of him. Pleaded. He shook his head and waved the gun.
‘Off or I’ll shoot you in the leg.’ For a moment he turned the gun away into the distance and then he fired, the retort echoing off a high bluff. ‘Your choice.’
She took her time to remove her bra from beneath the dress and then she slipped her underwear down. He gestured at her sandals.
‘Those too.’
She bent and removed her shoes and then stood before him.
‘Now, you’re going to run.’ Once again he waved the gun, this time in the direction of the treeline some thirty paces from the track. ‘I’ll give you a hundred seconds head start and then I’m coming to find you. And when I do, you’ll lie still and we’ll have some fun, right?’
‘You don’t have to do this. You don’t—’
‘Oh, but I do.’ The man smiled. ‘And I’m going to start counting now. If I was you, I wouldn’t waste a second. Not. A. Second. Of course, it’s your choice. One, two, three …’
Which was when she’d scrambled down the scree at the side of the track, cutting her feet on the sharp stones, before disappearing into the shadows beneath the tall trees. She’d half expected to hear a shot, feel a bullet implant itself between her shoulder blades. But she’d reached the treeline unharmed, stumbling into the quiet of the forest, the only sounds that of her breathing and her feet rustling in the dead wood and leaves as she scampered away from him as fast as she could.
Now she’s worn out, the huge tree not just something to hide behind, but something to cling to, to slump against as she tries to recover her breath. She doesn’t know how far she’s run, only that it’s all been downhill. Twice she’d fallen and sprawled in the soft loam, tumbling over and over. The hundred seconds are long gone and now he must be coming after her. She wonders about heading off to the right or left and following the contours. Perhaps that might confuse him. At least the change of direction would give her a fifty-fifty chance.
She pushes herself away from the tree and bears off to the right. She trots along a narrow animal trail which weaves among the sequoias. At each trunk she pauses for a moment to listen. There’s nothing. She moves on. She pauses again. Nothing.
Up ahead a gash of grey stone slices through the hillside. She walks forward to where a ravine blocks the trail. The sides are steep and the bare rock sharp. There’s no way across. She has to turn left and forge her way downhill once more.
She catches her foot on a bare root and trips again, rolling in the dirt before pushing herself up and following the edge of the ravine towards the valley bottom. Down, down, down through the lines of trees until all of a sudden the rocks spill out onto a flat plateau. The trees are fewer here, but taller. And they’re still watching. Watching over …
She shivers at the sight. Dozens of rusting automobiles lie scattered amongst the trees. Several trucks. A school bus with yellow paint peeling away from decaying panelling. An old sedan has a wide grille and empty holes where the headlamps have fallen out. Like the trees, the car is watching. Next to the sedan, a young sapling sprouts from the bed of a pickup. Where there are no vehicles, scrub creeps across the ground. Snaking through the scrub are pathways where the vegetation has been cut back. Someone comes here. Someone tends this place.
She steps forward, a glimmer of hope rising within. She reaches for the cross again. Perhaps her prayers have been answered. Perhaps this isn’t the wilderness after all, but a park somewhere on the edge of a town. As if in answer to her thoughts, a figure steps from behind one of the metal husks. In the shade of the trees she can’t make out his features, but he’s not as tall as the man who kidnapped her. He’s older, too. Her heart begins to pound, sensing a relief from her troubles.
‘Help me!’ she shouts out to her saviour. She begins to trot over towards the man, winding her way along one of the paths. The man nods, a smile forming on his lips. She realises she must be quite a sight. Her dress torn up the side and front, her body half smeared with mud and leaves. She crosses her arms, trying to cover herself. ‘I’ve been attacked. Help me!’
‘Sure, lass,’ the man says, his accent strange and unfamiliar. His smile grows and she feels his eyes feasting on her exposed flesh. ‘No problem.’
She slows as she reaches him. Hesitates now she’s just a few steps away. She turns to look over her shoulder, but there’s no sight of her pursuer. And when she turns back, the older man fades from view, stepping deep into the shade of a tree.
‘Hello?’ She slides forward on the grass. ‘Please help me!’
‘Found you!’ The man who abducted her dodges up from behind an old Volkswagen Bug, his hands outstretched. He grins at her and laughs as he claws at her dress. The material falls away as another seam rips. Then she’s screaming and hollering as he pushes her to the ground. He’s on top of her now and his strength is frightening. She kicks and she scratches but it’s no good. ‘Keep still!’ he shouts. ‘Now you’ve run, I want you still!’
For a second she wonders about complying. Perhaps he won’t harm her if she does what he says. Then, from the corner of her eye, she sees the older man again. He’s walking over, a large knife in his right hand. He kneels beside her, the knife poised. He reaches out with his left hand, the fingers brushing her face.
‘Lovely,’ he says. Then he grasps the chain round her neck and with a tug, wrenches it off and throws it away. ‘But we don’t need that getting in the way.’
She sees the cross spinning in the air, catching the light as it tumbles over and over and over, a glint from the silver figure on the cross mirrored by a flash from the knife as the man lowers the blade.
‘Now then, the boy told you to be still,’ he says as he slices at her neck, cutting deep into flesh and sinew. ‘So you best be still, right?’
Chapter One (#ulink_1a67cf19-7e0a-5ab7-a5e6-0cea6ebaa286)
Near Bovisand, Plymouth. Saturday 15th April. 7.43 a.m.
Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage woke to an aroma of hot croissant and fresh coffee. A blinding glare too, along with a swish as the curtains swept open and sunlight came streaming in through the window. She shielded her eyes against the rays, squinting through her fingers.
‘Surprise, Mummy!’ said a small figure on the far side of the room. ‘Breakfast in bed!’
A tray clicked down on the table beside her, the rattle of cutlery against crockery.
‘Jamie,’ Savage said, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘Darling, how sweet.’
‘It was his idea.’ A taller figure stood next to the bed. Pete, Savage’s husband. He removed a cup, plate and a cafetiére from the tray and then pressed down the handle on the coffee pot. ‘But all my work. That’s parenting, I guess.’
‘There’s a price to pay for everything.’ Savage sat up and Pete plonked a couple of pillows behind her back. She looked at Jamie as he climbed up onto the bed and slipped beneath the duvet to give her a cuddle. He was seven years old but still as needy as a toddler. Not that Savage minded. She ruffled his short, black hair and smiled at him. ‘I think it’s worth it, don’t you?’
‘That all depends on which one you’re talking about.’ Pete poured the coffee and handed Savage the cup. He nodded in the direction of the bedroom door. ‘Samantha’s in a right strop.’
Savage nodded. Samantha was her daughter. She’d just been dumped by her boyfriend and, being fifteen and full of hormones, the event had turned her world upside down. Pete and Savage were, unfathomably, largely to blame for all her woes.
‘She’ll get over him.’ Savage followed Pete’s gaze and then looked to the window. Outside, beyond their garden, she could see the waters of Plymouth Sound. A deep blue punctuated by the occasional snowflake of white sail, the early sun dancing on the gentle waves. ‘It’s a beautiful day, so why don’t we all go into town and grab something for lunch? If there’s any chance of a bit of shopping, especially with us paying, Sam will go for it. I’m sure that will cheer her up.’
An hour later, Savage regretted her suggestion. Detective Superintendent Conrad Hardin had phoned and lunch was most definitely off. She was wanted urgently at the station. She enquired as to what was pressing enough to require her presence on a Saturday. There hadn’t been a murder or any other serious crime, had there?
‘No, not yet,’ Hardin said cryptically. ‘And I can’t tell you what this is about on the phone. This is strictly a need-to-know situation. I don’t want anything getting out.’
Savage protested, exasperated at Hardin’s notion of phone taps, conspiracy theories and leaks to the media. He ignored her and refused to divulge any more information.
‘Oh,’ he added at the end of the call. ‘And pack for an overnight stay. You’re going on a little trip. You’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Sir, tomorrow’s Easter Day.’
‘Off to church, are you, DI Savage? Seen the light?’
‘No, but—’
‘As I said, you’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. If all goes well.’
‘If all goes—?’
The DSupt ended the call, leaving Savage to apologise to her children and pack a few things into a bag.
‘So?’ Pete said. ‘Going to fill me in?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’ Savage shrugged as she stuffed some underwear into a side pocket on the bag. ‘An essential training course, I shouldn’t wonder. Probably some other lucky bugger has cried off and Hardin needs me to fill their shoes. Assuming, of course, that he isn’t intent on taking me on a dirty weekend.’
‘That’s not even remotely funny.’ Pete eyed a matching pair of black knickers and bra. ‘Are those new?’
‘Yes. I bought them especially for the DSupt. I’m calling them my promotion set.’
‘Stop it.’
Savage continued to rib her husband until Samantha came into the room and started a raging argument about parents and broken promises and how life really couldn’t get any worse. Savage tried to console her daughter, but the more she tried the more heated the conversation became. Eventually, she zipped up the bag, slung it on her shoulder and left Pete to bribe his way out of the situation.
The journey to the station was stop-start, the Saturday shopping traffic into Plymouth backing up across the Laira Bridge. Savage didn’t mind. She’d taken her little MG, a classic car older than she was, and with the mid-April morning being bright and warm, she’d put the hood down. She sat in the queue, enjoying the sun and watching the waterskiers on the expanse of estuary north of the bridge. Eventually, she cleared the traffic and headed up the A38 with the wind in her hair, arriving at Crownhill at a little after twelve.
After poking her head into the deserted crime suite, she went up to the DSupt’s office. She knocked and entered, surprised to see Detective Sergeant Darius Riley seated on one side of the desk. Shocked, too, to find herself thinking about the black underwear. She immediately censored herself.
‘Ma’am,’ Riley said with a smile. Hardin was over the far side of the room pouring coffee into three grotty looking mugs. Riley made a silent theatrical sigh and shook his head. ‘Hope you packed your toothbrush.’
Savage glanced down at Riley’s feet where he’d parked a small rucksack. She unshouldered her own bag and dumped it on the floor, before taking a chair.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Although I’m itching to know the destination for our little magical mystery tour.’
Riley nodded but said nothing more. He shifted in his seat and ran a finger up to his shirt collar where the bright white material met his black skin. The DS was, as usual, immaculately turned out, with his hair neat and short, his attire spotless. Savage had always figured that Riley had to go the extra mile to prove himself in a force which was overwhelmingly white. And prove himself he had. He’d been instrumental in the success of several operations including the capture of a multiple murderer which had nearly cost him his life. He’d also helped Savage track down the person who’d been involved in the hit-and-run which had killed her daughter, Samantha’s twin sister, Clarissa. Riley had become more than just a work colleague, he was a confidant and, she liked to think, a friend.
‘Ah, Charlotte.’ Hardin spun round, coffee slopping from the three cups as he tried to hold them in two hands. He squeezed his considerable bulk behind his desk and set the coffees down, before sinking into his chair. ‘Ready for the off?’
‘If I knew what the “off” was, it would be helpful, sir.’
‘In good time. I was hoping DC Enders would be here by now, but we’ll proceed without him. He’s only your driver so it’s not as if he needs to hear this briefing. You can fill him in later.’
‘Our driver?’ Savage glanced at Riley, but the DS only shrugged. He appeared to know little more than she did.
‘Malcolm Kendwick,’ Hardin said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Savage and Riley sat there in silence for a minute while Hardin shuffled through a load of papers on his desk. He pulled a stack of documents from a large FedEx envelope. Several of the documents bore a header with the graphic of an eagle. Below the eagle, large text with the words US Department of Justice, marched officially across the envelope. ‘As I was saying, Malcolm Kendwick. Know who he is?’
Savage nodded. ‘Yes. Sort of.’
‘Sort of’ meant she’d read the headlines in the tabloids, the longer pieces in the quality press. Malcolm Kendwick was, if you believed the paper who’d bought the rights to his story, an innocent British citizen abroad. Framed for the murder of several young women in the US, he had surely faced the death penalty until he’d been let off on a technicality. Several other newspapers naturally took the opposing viewpoint. For them, Kendwick was a serial killer who, with his good looks and charm, was following in the footsteps of Ted Bundy. What’s more, he was going to be deported from the States, which meant he’d be returning to the United Kingdom where he would undoubtedly wreak havoc. No female within fifty miles of wherever he ended up would be safe.
Hardin snorted. He picked up a sheaf of papers and waved them at Savage.
‘Funny, isn’t it, how when one of our own is in a foreign country they’re innocent, and yet when a foreigner commits a crime over here they’re guilty as sin.’
‘Sir?’ Savage was keen to get to the bottom of what Hardin was on about, why she and Riley had been called in.
‘Well, Charlotte, according to this Kendwick is guilty.’ Hardin waved the papers once more to emphasise his point. ‘It’s a transcript of the confession Kendwick gave to the cop. You’ve read the story, what was her name …?’
‘Janey. Janey Horton.’ Savage hadn’t cared much about the Kendwick case, but she had kept up with the news on Officer Horton. ‘Tough cookie. Dedicated.’
‘Trust you to know her name,’ Hardin said. ‘Five thousand miles but peas in a pod, hey?’
Officer Horton had been with the Fresno Police Department in California. Her daughter, Sara, had vanished, and Horton had become convinced that Malcolm Kendwick was responsible. Evidence – hard evidence – had been in short supply, but that hadn’t stopped Horton. She’d kidnapped Kendwick and imprisoned him in the basement of her house. Over a period of several days she’d extracted a confession from him along with the location of her daughter’s body. Leaving Kendwick tied up, she went out into the wilderness of the Sierra National Forest to find her daughter.
‘She did what any parent would do, sir.’ As she spoke, Savage was aware of Riley casting a glance in her direction. ‘Horton simply wanted the truth about what happened and justice for the man responsible.’
‘Well, she didn’t get it, did she?’
No, Savage thought, but not for want of trying.
Horton had spent two days searching, eventually discovering the corpse of a woman a good while dead, but definitely not her daughter. She returned to her house to find Kendwick had escaped. She hurried round to his apartment, but he’d fled from there too. Using contacts in the police department, she traced his credit card to a motel on the outskirts of Sacramento. She drove to the place intending to recapture Kendrick, but the owner of the motel grew suspicious when he saw her dragging Kendwick screaming from his room.
Local officers, responding to a 911 call from the owner, arrived and Kendwick pleaded innocence, claiming Horton was carrying out a vendetta against him. The officers were all for arresting Horton until she showed them a video on her phone. The video was the confession from Kendwick and once they’d seen it they arrested Kendwick instead. And that should have been that, the whole thing done and dusted. On the video, Kendwick admitted killing Horton’s daughter and several other girls. A forensic team hurried out into the wilderness and quickly located the remains of five women, including those of Sara Horton. All that remained was a lengthy trial and, hopefully, a minimal number of years on death row before Kendwick crapped himself as he was strapped to a gurney and given a lethal injection.
It wasn’t to be.
The evidence on the phone was inadmissible. No room for doubt. This wasn’t some obscure technicality which Kendwick’s lawyer had come up with. It was obvious. Horton had tortured Kendwick and filmed herself doing so. She’d sliced him with a knife and poured battery acid on his feet. Held a gun to his head and threatened to kill him. Anything Kendwick had said in the video couldn’t be used as evidence, couldn’t even be used as a lead to point to other evidence. Kendwick was untouchable.
Still, Fresno detectives worked double shifts for no extra pay trying to sift through the material Horton had gathered in her initial search for her daughter. The material which had led her to Kendwick in the first place. The problem was much of the evidence was circumstantial: Kendwick had been spotted at a park where Sara Horton often hung out with friends. He’d been seen jogging past the clothing store where she worked. He had a membership at a gym where she once had a part-time job. None of which was particularly incriminating. It looked at first as if Officer Horton had followed a hunch, used a dollop of female intuition, perhaps consulted the grounds in her morning coffee. Then Horton told her fellow officers about a rucksack she’d found in Kendwick’s car. Inside were handcuffs, a full-face balaclava and a pair of gloves, a roll of gaffer tape, some rope, a hammer and several trash bags. Kendwick claimed the items were nothing special, but Horton told the detectives they comprised a rape kit. It didn’t matter. Horton’s search of the car was ruled illegal and the evidence couldn’t be used.
All hope of a conviction now rested on a scrunchy discovered in Kendwick’s apartment, a single strand of blonde hair entangled in the shiny red material. A blonde hair which DNA analysis proved belonged to Sara Horton.
Kendwick was questioned about the scrunchy, but, as advised by his lawyer, said nothing more than he’d picked up the hairband in the park one day. Since Kendwick had long hair himself, which he kept tied back, the explanation was all too believable. Short of water boarding, which several detectives were keen to try, Kendwick was on the home straight. There was just a matter of another four girls linked with Kendwick, but while he couldn’t provide specific alibis, nor was there any direct evidence to suggest he’d been involved in their disappearances. After a year in limbo, the case against Kendwick was finally dropped on the provision that he wouldn’t bring charges against Fresno Police or Janey Horton. His lawyers advised him to get out of the country pronto, before circumstances could change.
‘That’s why this is short notice, Charlotte.’ Hardin was waving another piece of paper at Savage and Riley. This time Savage could see the initials NCA at the top. The National Crime Agency. The closest thing the UK had to the FBI. ‘We’ve got to make arrangements. We don’t want a media circus and we certainly don’t want a lynch mob. On the other hand, Kendwick needs to know that we’re watching him, that if he puts one foot out of line we’ll have him.’
‘Arrangements?’ Savage didn’t know where this was going. What could Malcolm Kendwick’s affairs have to do with Devon and Cornwall Police?
‘Yes.’ Hardin had begun to gather the papers together again. He slipped them back into the FedEx envelope. ‘The arrangements at Heathrow. Security on the journey back. What to do once the man is here.’
‘I don’t get it, sir.’ Savage turned to Riley but he could only shrug his shoulders again. ‘What do you mean, here?’
‘There’s no mystery, DI Savage. Here means here. Malcolm Kendwick is returning to the county of his birth. The fucker’s coming to Devon.’
‘Devon?’
‘Yes.’ Hardin stuck his tongue out over his bottom lip in consternation. ‘And you, DS Riley and DC Enders are the lucky buggers who have to go and get him.’
As he looked down from the plane, he could see the mountains below. Grey peaks poking above green forest. There were a million acres down there. A million acres of woodland and rock and dirt. Hundreds of streams and rivers, thousands of miles of tracks and trails, untold numbers of gullies and ravines and caves. By any measure, the Sierra National Forest was a true wilderness. A wilderness you could get lost in, a wilderness you could hide things in, a wilderness where searching was pretty much a waste of time. But they didn’t do much of that in the US anyway. Searching. Not in a country with well over ten thousand homicides a year. What was another handful to them? Nothing, that’s what.
Malcolm Kendwick eased himself back in his seat and thought about the horrors which had happened down there. The girls who had been murdered. Their faces had been all over the media. TV, newspapers, websites. Pictures culled from their friends and family or from the internet. Their names and biographies were indelibly fixed in Kendwick’s memories.
All five of them.
One: Stephanie Capillo, a student from Santa Barbara. Blonde hair. Slim, leggy, and with small, pert breasts. She’d been twenty-one. An English major at UCSB. Liked dogs and children. Helped out at an animal refuge. Went to church. Wore a purity ring. A fucking do-gooder by any standards.
Two: Amber Sullivan. A year younger than Stephanie. Long hair. Also blonde. A little chubby. Not quite the perfect all-American girl since she worked in a cheap burger joint and had a citation for smoking grass. Still, her mother’s pride and joy.
Three: Chrissy Morales. About as far removed from Stephanie as you could get. The most used image was one of the girl in leather thigh-highs and a PVC miniskirt. Petite and very cute and, yes, blonde again. Chrissy usually worked the streets near Highway 99 in Bakersfield. A hooker – the fact even acknowledged by her parents – she was inevitably at the bottom of any list of victims the media chose to display.
Four: Jessie Turner. Seventeen. Her pictures showed a fair-haired cheerleader with pom-poms and a lovely smile or else the news outlets played a video where she sang in a school musical. She’d auditioned for America’s Got Talent and, to hear her family talk, she was but one step away from superstardom.
Five: Sara Horton. Nineteen. Footloose. Had spent a year in South America. Just about holding down a job in some fashion outlet. Like all the others, blonde and a real beauty. Everything to live for, according to her mother.
Her mother …
He cast a glance at the window once more. The mountains were falling away now, the green forests gone as the aircraft crossed the state line and entered Nevada airspace. He shook his head. He wouldn’t see the wilderness again except in his memories. His life from now on would be like the land below: dusty, arid and dull. He sighed and then leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and slept.
Malcolm Kendwick was thirty-two years old. He’d lived in the US for ten years, moving from the UK when the internet start-up he’d founded had been bought up by a company in California. That company had itself been subsumed into the workings of one of the software giants and he’d moved on to another tech firm. He’d grown bored of that after several years and, having plenty of money, he’d jacked in the job and pursued other interests. A new start-up, some time spent catching waves on the coast, several months just bumming around. Now though, he was heading back across the Atlantic, and not through choice.
Janey Horton.
Sara’s mother had been blonde but she hadn’t been young. In her late thirties, Kendwick considered Janey Horton flesh gone sour, a world away from the smooth-skinned beauties who’d died down there in the wilderness, five miles below. Horton was one of the ones who did bother to search. But then you would, wouldn’t you? If it was your daughter who’d gone missing.
Sara had vanished from the small town of Morro Bay some one hundred and fifty miles up the coast from LA. Kendwick had been amused to hear she came from a little hamlet called Harmony a few miles along the Cabrillo Highway. Not that there was anything harmonious about her mother.
When her daughter had disappeared, Janey Horton had looked far and wide, but instead of finding Sara, she’d found him. And he hadn’t had any answers for her. Not at first. Later, when she’d begun to torture him, he’d blurted out stuff. About her daughter, about the others. Anything he could think of really.
And once she heard what he’d had to say, she’d decided to kill him.
You fuckin’ piece of crap. I’m goin’ to cut your fuckin’ dick off and feed it to you, understand?
He could well understand. She’d already carved three slices across his chest using a box knife, the thin blade like a razor the way the cuts opened up. Bloodless at first and then a weep of red painting thick lines down to his abdomen. He’d struggled, but try as he might, the ropes she’d secured him to the chair with held him tight. He’d opened up to her then, just like the cuts. Poured out what had happened, made up some story about how he’d been abused as a kid. Begged for his life. She wasn’t interested. She left him while she went to search for her daughter’s body. He’d been in that chair for two days. Crapping, pissing, bleeding. Crying, even.
Kendwick awoke from a fitful sleep. The horrors of the long hours he’d spent in Horton’s basement still haunted his dreams. He shivered and then pressed his face to the plane’s window once more. The aircraft had met the night now and straight out there was nothing but a winking of a light on the wing tip, beyond the light, blackness. The interior illumination made it impossible to see the stars, but peering down beneath the wing, a glow marked a small town. Surrounding villages and hamlets spread out below as if somebody had flicked fluorescent paint across a black canvas.
Or made a cut and watched blood spatter on the concrete floor of a dingy basement.
The girls had bled too. All over a vein of pure white quartz high in the Sierra Nevada, miles from any highway. The dried blood had been scraped from the rock by men and women in white suits, taken back to the lab and analysed. The blood belonged to the five missing girls, the DNA results said. According to the coroner, the sheer quantity suggested they’d died there.
You killed her, didn’t you? You raped her and then you fuckin’ killed her. Admit it, Malcolm. Tell me the fuckin’ truth! Tell me where my daughter is!
He hadn’t wanted to tell her anything. Not at first. He pleaded with her, tried to convince her she had the wrong man.
‘I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. For God’s sake, you’ve got to believe me.’
‘I don’t believe you. You killed Sara, I know you did. Just like you killed Stephanie, Chrissy, Amber and Jessie.’
‘Honestly, I didn’t do it!’ Kendrick said again, in a vain attempt to convince Horton. ‘I never killed those girls!’
‘We’ll see about that …’
At which point she’d started to use the box knife on him. Not the chest to begin with, his right calf. Slicing the skin as if she was descaling a fish. Peeling back a layer and then digging the knife into the exposed muscle. Rotating the blade until—
‘Excuse me, sir?’
Kendwick flicked his eyes from the window. A hostess leaned in from the aisle. Gestured at the overhead locker. Reached across to open the locker and push back the strap of his bag which had jammed in the door.
He smelt the perfume and glanced up through the translucent material of her blouse at the magical swell of her breasts. Swallowed.
You fuckin’ piece of crap. I’m goin’ to cut your fuckin’ dick off and feed it to you, understand?
Kendwick managed a half smile at the girl and then looked away again. He stared into the dark sky beyond the wing tip and for a moment wished he was out there in the thin air. Falling, falling, falling to the ground below where the safety of death and oblivion waited.
Then he turned back and watched the hostess walk away down the aisle. Took in her nylon-encased legs, the wondrous shape of her hips beneath the navy-blue skirt, the way her long blonde hair lay curled in a bun beneath her cap. Wondered about letting the bun free so the golden strands could brush over her shoulders as she stood before him. Realised that oblivion wasn’t what he wanted at all.
The journey up had been easy. Saturday afternoon, light traffic, just a bit of a snarl-up at Cribbs Causeway in Bristol as those who had nothing better to do headed for the stores on a warm spring day. Nothing better to do such as driving to London to pick up a suspected serial killer.
They’d booked two rooms at the Premier Inn at Twin Bridges in Bracknell, Enders and Riley sharing, Savage on her own. The hotel was attached to a three-hundred-year-old coaching inn, now remodelled as a Beefeater. As they pulled into the car park and unloaded their overnight bags, Enders was keen to point out the name.
‘Twin Bridges, ma’am. Like Two Bridges back home on the moor.’ He stared out at the busy A322 where cars streamed past, their windscreens glinting in the late-afternoon sun. ‘Only not.’
‘Only not.’ Savage repeated Enders’ words as she wondered what travellers past would have made of modern-day developments.
Enders raised a hand and tousled his mop of black hair. He looked wistful for a moment. Unlike DS Riley, he’d come dressed casually and wore brown cords and a mustard-coloured pullover over a green T-shirt. Such sartorial blunders were common with Enders, but the DC was in his twenties and his youth, his cheeky boyish face and the Irish lilt to his voice allowed him to get away with the clothing mismatch.
‘Bet Darius feels at home though.’ Enders nodded across at Riley. ‘Don’t you, sir? Back to your roots?’
Savage laughed as Riley shook his head. ‘I’m not exactly sure where Darius’ roots are, but I’m pretty sure they’re not here.’
‘Battersea,’ Riley said, pulling his bag from the boot of the car.
‘Battersea?’ Savage raised her eyebrows.
‘My dad was a lawyer.’ Riley shrugged an apology. ‘Still is, actually.’
‘We’re obviously in the wrong end of the business, ma’am,’ Enders said. He gestured at the hotel. ‘The cheap-as-chips end.’
Later, that’s what they had: fish and chips in the Beefeater. Several pints of bitter for Enders. Then a discussion about the main event. Savage and Riley had been over the plan earlier when they’d been briefed by the DSupt, but after they’d finished their meal, Savage laid out the agenda for the next day.
‘Kendwick’s plane lands at nine-forty, so we’ll aim to be in the terminal by nine. That will give us time to meet the NCA officers. I’ll sit in on the interview and then Patrick will bring the car round and we’ll set off. I don’t reckon we’ll leave until twelve at the very earliest, meaning we won’t get back to Devon before four.’
‘And we’re dropping Kendwick off, right?’ Enders plainly didn’t like the idea and he’d not stopped moaning about it for most of the journey up. ‘A door-to-door limousine service paid for by the taxpayer. All while we’re having to lay off staff.’
‘We’re taking him to his new place in Chagford, yes.’
‘Chagford? How the bloody hell did he afford that?’
‘His grandmother had a cottage there. She’s now in a home and Kendwick’s sister has been letting the place out. Kendwick’s going to use the cottage while he finds his feet.’
‘Finds his …’ Enders shook his head. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, but he’s the one who should be in a home. You’ll be telling me we’re giving him a job next.’
‘I don’t think he needs one. There’s talk he’s going to sign with one of the tabloids and he’s already got a book deal. Probably be six figures in all.’
‘What’s the book called, Serial Killing for Dummies?’
‘I might remind you he’s innocent in the eyes of the law. We can’t touch him.’
‘Bloody lawyers.’ Enders smiled across the table at Riley. ‘Explains how your old man got rich.’
‘Business law,’ Riley said. ‘The City. Not defending the likes of Malcolm Kendwick.’
‘OK folks,’ Savage said. ‘That’s enough. Tomorrow you both need to be on your best behaviour so you might as well start practising now. The last thing we need is Kendwick bringing some kind of harassment charge against us. Our job is to ferry him home and, while we’re doing so, get a measure of the man. Make him realise that if he puts a foot out of line we’ll be onto him.’
‘Well, let’s hope he does put a foot out of line,’ Enders said. ‘Any excuse to clock him one and believe you me I’ll—’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. Anyway, guilty or not, he’s not going to want to cast suspicion on himself. Not now. He’ll want to lie low, write his book and enjoy his freedom. Remember, he’s been incarcerated for over a year and all that time he’s had the possibility of a capital trial ahead of him. I don’t think he’ll want to cause any more trouble for himself.’
‘So that’s where old serial killers end up, is it? Retire to the country and live happily ever after? Sounds like the punchline to a bad joke. Only it’s not funny. How did it fucking come to this?’
‘Well, there’s nothing we can do to change the situation. California is a little way out of our jurisdiction and they’ve washed their hands of him.’
Enders glowered and then reached for his pint. Riley tried to start a new topic of conversation, but the evening was done. A little while later Savage called it a night, reminding Riley and Enders not to stay up too late.
Back in her room, she made herself a hot drink using the miniature kettle and the instant coffee and UHT milk provided by the hotel. She sat on the bed sipping the coffee and reading the material Hardin had given her. The coffee was disgusting and she put the cup aside. Without the cup in her hand, she found herself nodding off. When she jerked awake she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall opposite the bed. She stared into her own eyes, thinking about what they had to do tomorrow and recalling DC Enders’ statement from earlier in the evening.
How did it fucking come to this?
She shook her head, put the notes away and got ready for bed. Five minutes later she was asleep.
Chapter Two (#ulink_def0b4ba-d13f-5108-bd84-d136ab8abe8a)
Seventy-five miles due west of the Isle of Barra, Scotland. Sunday 16th April. 6.02 a.m.
There was a rim of light beyond the wing when Kendwick awoke and slid the blind up. Dawn creeping from the east, the plane rushing to meet the new day with an eagerness which he didn’t much share.
Around him bodies stirred. An hour or so until they touched down. An hour until he walked away from the nightmare of the last twelve months.
We’ll be waiting for you, Mr Kendwick. Airside. We’ll take you through passport control and hand you over to officers from Devon and Cornwall Police. They’ll whisk you out of the airport without the press so much as getting an inkling of what’s going on. OK?
OK? No, it wasn’t OK. But the alternative to a little impromptu interrogation by National Crime Agency officers was a full-on assault by the British media. And they made the cops in the US look like kittens.
Kittens.
He turned his head, scanning the aisle for the blonde hostess. The one with the translucent shirt and the long hair in a bun. She was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she’d taken herself off to business class to give those who’d paid more for their ticket a breakfast treat.
He sighed and stared ahead not wanting another conversation with the person next to him. The man with the BO and the persistent chit-chat about his work, his family, his car, his fucking boring life which Kendwick wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing about.
‘Back home soon.’ Too late. The man had noticed Kendwick’s gaze move to the aisle in search of the hostess. ‘The Chilterns, me. Goring. Handy for the M4. Know it?’
Kendwick nodded even though he’d never heard of the bloody place. ‘Nice,’ he said.
‘You?’
‘Devon.’ Kendwick turned his head to the window, hoping the message that he wasn’t interested in talking would get through.
‘Lovely!’ BO seemed impressed and not at all put out by Kendwick’s failure to continue to make eye contact. ‘Long way though. Bit of a hike. But worth the journey. Me and the wife were down there a couple of years ago. The Rick Stein place. Padstow. Stayed in a little holiday cottage right on the harbour. Pretty as a postcard. Beautiful.’
Padstow was in Cornwall, not Devon, but Kendwick kept quiet. He wished he’d just named a random London borough. Then again, the man would have probably found something to say about that too.
‘Tell you what,’ BO continued. ‘My car’s in the long-term parking. I could give you a lift as far as Reading. I normally take junction twelve, but I could just as easily go off on ten and run you to the station. You could catch the Paddington train there. Save all that nonsense at the Heathrow end, wouldn’t it?’
Kendwick turned back. Tried hard not to tell the moron to fuck off. Said instead: ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m being met at the airport. I’ve got a lift all the way home. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to try and get another hour or so sleep, OK?’
BO hesitated for a moment. ‘Sure,’ he said, nodding and swivelling in his seat and then muttering. ‘Only trying to be friendly. Some people.’
Yeah, thought Kendwick. Some fucking people.
Savage was pissed off. They’d got up and breakfasted in good time so as to arrive at the airport by nine as planned. However, as they’d parked the car she’d phoned her contact in the NCA, DCI Kevin Rollins. He told her Kendwick had taken a different flight.
‘United 901,’ Rollins said. ‘Direct from San Francisco instead of via LAX. Landed a little after seven o’clock. We’re all done and dusted and your man’s just waiting to be picked up. We’ll bring him round to the VIP arrivals lounge.’
Rollins hung up before Savage could say anything.
‘Ma’am?’ Riley read the displeasure on her face. ‘Everything all right?’
‘No it bloody isn’t.’ Savage slipped the phone into her pocket. She explained to Riley what had happened. ‘The NCA are playing games with us. They knew we’d stayed over and must have known Kendwick was on an earlier flight. Rollins thinks we’re no better than a taxi service.’
Fifteen minutes later and they were striding across the near-empty VIP lounge. In one corner, two men in suits and a third in a Coldplay T-shirt sat at a low table. Savage recognised the man in the T-shirt as Kendwick. Early thirties, with a muscular, well-defined torso. Long black hair tied in a ponytail, the hair with a sheen like something from a men’s toiletries commercial. As he laughed at a joke one of the men had made, his lips parted to show perfect teeth. American teeth. He was good-looking, for sure. Quite a charmer.
As they approached, one of the men in suits turned and then stood.
‘DI Savage?’ he said. ‘DCI Kevin Rollins. Sorry about the mix-up with the flights. No harm done and all that, hey?’
Rollins was at least a decade or so older than Kendwick and a bit flabby round the edges. A bald patch poked from greying hair. By his swagger he plainly fancied himself, but alongside the younger man he was nothing.
Kendwick didn’t bother to get up. Savage could see he was well aware the handful of passengers in the lounge were looking their way and assuming he was some kind of star, the two men in the cheap suits his bodyguards.
‘Ah, my chauffeur,’ he said. ‘Or should I say, chaperone? Someone to stop me getting into trouble, right?’
‘Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage,’ Savage said. She held out her hand and Kendwick reached up and took it, his palm cold and dry. ‘If you’ve finished your business with DCI Rollins then we may as well get going. It’s a long journey.’
‘I like the way you said that, Charlotte,’ Kendwick said. He paused and held her gaze for several seconds before smiling. ‘My business with them, rather than the other way round. Gets us off on the right foot. Gets me off, anyway.’
‘Your bags?’ Savage withdrew her hand and pointed at a nearby trolley laden with several cases and a rucksack. Kendwick nodded. ‘Darius, would you?’
As Riley went across to the trolley, Savage thought about saying something to Rollins. Something about his behaviour being bang out of order. But she didn’t want a confrontation in front of Kendwick and it was better he thought they all sang from the same hymn sheet. Besides, Rollins was a rank above her.
‘Been nice meeting you, Mr Rollins, Sergeant.’ Kendwick grinned as he stood. ‘We must do it again sometime, but not too soon, hey?’
‘Remember what I said, Kendwick,’ Rollins said. He put his arm out, blocking Kendwick’s way. ‘A single piece of evidence from the States and you’ll be going back there. And when you do, they’ll kill you.’
‘Now, now, Kevin, that’s not very nice.’ Kendwick pushed the arm down. ‘Besides, they don’t kill people in California any more. The death penalty is out of fashion and they haven’t carried out an execution since 2006. Something to do with the Eighth Amendment. Cruel and unusual punishment. That’s irony for you, huh?’
‘One of the girls was snatched from over the border in Arizona. They do still carry out executions.’
‘Well, that might worry me if I was guilty, but we’ve just had a long conversation where I told you I’m innocent, so let’s leave it be, shall we? No hard feelings.’ Kendwick grinned again and then winked. ‘Mate.’
As they walked away, Riley following with the trolley, Kendwick cocked his head towards Savage. She could smell mint on his breath as he spoke.
‘He’s jealous, Charlotte,’ Kendwick whispered. ‘And I don’t blame him. On every count he’s a loser. Compare LA to London; the NCA to the FBI; me to him. His fat, frumpy wife to the sweet California girls I’ve been with. He’s a lot to be jealous about, don’t you think?’
Savage tried not to smile, but the man did have a certain charisma and the way he’d dissed Rollins amused her. Still, she wasn’t about to be taken in by Kendwick’s charm because that’s what made him dangerous. If he was dangerous.
Out front, Enders had pulled the car into the pickup area and Riley loaded the luggage into the boot, while Savage and Kendwick got in the rear. She wasn’t exactly keen to spend several hours sitting next to somebody suspected of having killed multiple times, but she was the senior officer and she didn’t expect Riley to do the dirty work for her.
‘Cosy,’ Kendwick said once they were all seated. ‘Just the four of us on a little trip to the countryside.’
Enders huffed from behind the wheel. He had already made it clear that in his opinion the best option would be to drive to a quiet lane somewhere and put a bullet in the back of Kendwick’s head. The DC flicked the indicator and pulled out into the traffic. Kendwick peered through the window.
‘Grim. After California, at least.’
‘Paradise over there was it, Mr Kendwick?’ Savage said.
‘Oh yes. Very much so.’ He swivelled round to face Savage. ‘Still, I’m very much looking forward to returning to Devon. My roots. Where the bones of my ancestors are buried. There’s something about feeling connected to a place, don’t you think? The US was exciting, vibrant, but I never felt truly at home there. It’s a dangerous place too. Not like where we’re heading. Cream teas. Watercolour pictures of little harbours. Dartmoor ponies. I bet you three don’t have to do much more than hand out speeding tickets for tractors, do you?’
‘I think you’re over-romanticising.’
‘Perhaps I am. But there’s nothing wrong with a touch of romance, is there, Charlotte?’
Kendwick smiled at her, his teeth shining. For a moment, Savage saw the attraction some women might feel for the perfect specimen before her. Fit and good-looking, intelligent, humorous, successful in his career. This was a man whose persona could well fool the gullible, the easily led, the young … and they’d been young, hadn’t they? The victims. Whether they’d been Kendwick’s victims or the prey of another man, she didn’t know.
Within minutes they’d escaped the confines of the airport and were heading west on the motorway. Kendwick turned back to the window and resumed his analysis of his long-lost homeland.
‘Sad,’ he said, gesturing out of the window. ‘All these people living with this around them. Hemmed in. There’s more space in America. At least where I was. More space to be yourself. I guess that’s why I chose to come back to Devon rather than get a job up here in London. At least there’s enough air to go around. A bit of wilderness to escape to. The sea. The moor. Doesn’t compare with the Sierra National Forest, of course. That was a real wilderness, a dangerous wilderness. Get lost out there and nobody is ever going to find you. Makes Dartmoor look like your back garden.’
‘I thought they did find them?’
‘The bodies? Yes.’ Kendwick nodded but continued to stare at the world rushing by. ‘But it was like finding a needle in a haystack. Sheer chance.’
‘I see.’
Now Kendwick did look back at Savage. ‘And when they did find them, most were so badly chewed up by wild animals or so decayed that they didn’t discover anything useful. No forensic evidence which could link the killer to the crime scenes.’
Savage took a deep breath. They had three hours or so but now was as good a time as any.
‘Mr Kendwick, let’s not play any more silly games. I don’t know whether you did or didn’t kill those girls. If you did then I’m with Rollins. I hope they find some evidence and extradite you. And not to California. Arizona would be my choice too, understand?’
‘I’m hurt.’ Kendwick made a sad face. Reached up with his hands and made his mouth droop like a clown’s. ‘We were getting along so nicely. Now you’ve ruined everything. Still, don’t worry about it. You see, even if I was guilty, there’s no way the nice legal system here would allow my extradition to the States. Not with execution on the cards. The European Convention on Human Rights wouldn’t allow it. They don’t bother with that sort of thing in America of course. Human rights. From the way you’re talking, you might be a wee bit happier living over there.’
‘I just want you to know where I’m coming from, Mr Kendwick. I can’t abide deliberate cruelty and what happened to those girls was beyond cruel.’
‘Like I told Rollins, I didn’t kill them. Janey Horton, she set me up. What she did to me was way out of order, beyond cruel, if you want to put it that way. I’m the person whose human rights were violated.’
‘Or not.’ Enders. From up front. His hands clenching the wheel as he stared at the road ahead. ‘If you did kill those girls, then kudos to the lady cop.’
Savage cursed. This wasn’t the way she wanted to play things. The whole point of the journey was so they could have a quiet word with Kendwick, not get into some sort of slanging match.
‘That’s enough, Patrick. Concentrate on your driving.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘If we could just start over, Mr Kendwick. Devon and—’
‘Malcolm.’ Kendwick smiled. Those teeth again. ‘I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be seeing quite a lot of one another so we might as well keep this friendly, don’t you think?’
‘OK, Malcolm,’ Savage said. ‘As I was saying, Devon and Cornwall Police are agnostic on whether you committed those crimes in the US. However, we have a duty to protect those we serve. That duty extends to considering all the possibilities and putting plans into place to contend with every eventuality. To put it another way, should you even drop a piece of litter or park your car on a double yellow line, we’ll be onto you.’
‘Well, Charlotte, it’s good of you to be honest with me. I like that. Honesty in a relationship. And I hope we’re going to have a relationship.’
‘Now, there’s a way round this.’ Savage ignored the way Kendwick was attempting to flirt with her. ‘My boss has a proposal. If you consent to wearing an electronic tagging device then the need to keep an eye on you would vanish. You’d be able to go about your day-to-day life without scrutiny, without even a suspicion the police were harassing you. How would you feel about that?’
Kendwick laughed but then shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t feel good about it at all. It would be, how can I put this, a fucking imposition. What’s more, by letting you tag me I’d be admitting there was something for you to be worried about. Highlighting my guilt. I don’t think my legal team in the US would be very keen for me to do that, do you?’
Kendwick’s mood had darkened. The laugh had been ironic and the smile which had followed quickly turned to a grimace. Now he glared at Savage, his pupils like pinheads, a tiny red vein in the sclera of his left eye pulsing fast in time with his heartbeat.
The jokes earlier about capital punishment, the joshing and word play over whether he’d killed the girls, hadn’t touched him. This, though, had caused him to anger and, she realised, it wasn’t to do with civil liberties or any legal niceties. It was because if Kendwick had to wear a tag the police would be able to track his every move. He’d be free to go about his daily life, but he wouldn’t be free to do what he really wanted to do.
She held Kendwick’s gaze for several seconds but then had to turn away and stare through the window at the traffic. His eyes had told her everything she needed to know. Malcolm Kendwick was one of the most dangerous men she’d ever had the misfortune of meeting.
Chapter Three (#ulink_45e0873f-ff62-52a6-a538-558d279e6928)
M4 Motorway, west of Reading. Sunday 16th April. 10.34 a.m.
From Reading onward, Kendwick dozed. At some point, he jerked awake, disorientated, muttering a string of obscenities. He apologised. Jet lag, he explained, before slumping over and resting his head against the window.
In the front, Riley and Enders chatted in low whispers, but Savage found it impossible to follow the conversation enough to be able to join in. Instead, she tried to rest herself. An hour or so later, Kendwick woke and wanted to stop.
‘A comfort break,’ he said. ‘I could do with something to drink too.’
A few miles farther along the motorway, just beyond Bristol, Enders took the slip road to Gordano services and parked up a little way from the main building.
‘I’d forgotten how grim these places were,’ Kendwick said, as he climbed out of the car. ‘Piss-and-shit stops, overpriced confectionery and crap coffee, right?’
‘The coffee’s got marginally better, but everything else is just how you left it.’
‘Let’s hope the same applies back in Devon.’ Kendwick smiled and then strolled off towards the building.
‘Do you want me to go after him, ma’am?’ Enders said. ‘Check he doesn’t get up to no good?’
‘No. He’s not under arrest. Let him go to the toilet in peace. If bodies start turning up in the next half-hour then we’ll know who did it.’
Savage walked across to several picnic tables which sat on a patch of grass to one side of the car park. Riley remained to talk to Enders and then, after a moment or two, joined her.
‘I’ve sent Patrick for some coffees,’ Riley said. ‘Reckon we could all do with a pick-me-up.’
‘Thanks.’ Savage moved to one of the tables and sat down. She nodded at Riley to sit too. It was the first time they’d been able to talk since they’d picked Kendwick up. ‘What do you think of our passenger?’
‘He’s a cool one, for sure.’ Riley gazed towards the main entrance of the service station. Kendwick had just pushed in through the doors and disappeared from view. ‘All the joking and the double entendres. Would he really act like that if he’d killed those women?’
‘I think his behaviour is very carefully calculated. It’s a double bluff. Or even a double double bluff. He knows that we know that he knows that we know.’ Savage paused. ‘What about Kendwick as a man, as a person?’
‘Tosser.’ Riley smiled. ‘But then us blokes are pretty shallow when judging each other.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s about the competition for a mate, isn’t it? Kendwick’s got all the attributes: good-looking, intelligent, talkative, well-off. Lesser mortals, such as myself and DC Enders, feel threatened.’
‘Don’t put yourself down, Darius.’ Savage smiled back at Riley. ‘Women would be better off with you than Kendwick.’
‘They would be, yes, but that’s not how the female mind works. Ask yourself why so many women end up with unsuitable characters? We see it every day at work, the scrotes with a cute girl in tow, ready to do the scum’s bidding. There are plenty of nice guys out there, but a lot of women seem to be programmed to go for the arseholes.’
‘Perhaps you’re wrong about the number of nice guys. Perhaps there aren’t enough to go round and the reality is that most blokes are arseholes.’
‘Thanks.’ Riley looked wounded. ‘But back to Kendwick. He believes his charm will win out and he doesn’t seem to care what we think.’
‘Because he’s home free.’ Savage turned her head to where a soft-top BMW Z3 had slipped into a parking bay. Two young women climbed out. ‘As long as he keeps his hands to himself, he’s in no danger. He’s already laughed in the face of the US justice system so they won’t extradite him now, not without new evidence.’
‘And can he keep his hands to himself?’ Riley pointed discreetly at the women as they walked away. ‘I mean, he’s been inside for the past twelve months and now he’s going to encounter temptation daily.’
‘Recidivism is pretty much hard coded into people like Kendwick. If he is guilty, if he is a serial killer, then he’s going to commit another murder. More than one if he gets the chance.’
‘So we’ve got to stop him, is that Hardin’s idea?’
‘Probably. I think he planned this trip around some nebulous idea that everything would come good in the journey from Heathrow to Devon. He thinks I’ve got a handle on how men like Kendwick work.’
‘You have, haven’t you, ma’am?’
‘Perhaps.’ Savage nodded but didn’t say anything more. Hardin’s trust in her was a last-ditch percentage play, the best card in a bad hand. The only option he had remaining. Picking Kendwick up and ferrying him back to Devon was more about Devon and Cornwall Police being seen to do something. Anything.
A few minutes later, Enders appeared with three cups of coffee stuck in a cardboard tray.
‘You didn’t get one for matey boy, then?’ Riley said.
‘No I fucking didn’t,’ Enders said. ‘Besides, he’s happy as Larry in there, playing the slot machines.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking their coffees. As Savage drained the last dregs from her paper cup, Kendwick emerged from the services, a small bottle of Coke in one hand. He paused at the entrance, glancing at an attractive woman as she walked past him, before strolling over.
‘Made any money?’ Riley said.
‘Not a cent – or should I say penny.’ Kendwick shrugged his shoulders. ‘But that wasn’t the point. I was watching other people play. Trying to understand the motivation behind their actions. I must say I don’t get it.’
‘What don’t you get?’
‘The attraction of gambling.’ Kendwick took a sip from his bottle and turned his head back towards the service station. ‘Why do something which has failure built in?’
Savage turned away as Kendwick began to expound his theory on human nature to Riley. People, he said, turned to fantasies rather than pursue reality. The lottery was a case in point. A one in God-knows-how-many-million chance but you hang your dreams on that. Kendwick said he didn’t understand.
‘It’s the only hope some people have,’ Riley said. ‘Better that than nothing, surely?’
‘Nonsense. Opium for the masses, isn’t it? Fantasise about winning the lottery or becoming a YouTube sensation or appearing on some reality TV programme. They should try taking control of their lives instead of being pushed around by others. Make it real. Go out and get what you want. That’s what I did.’
‘Let’s go,’ Savage said, moving back to the car and opening the rear door. She’d had enough of Kendwick’s fatuous moralising. ‘We’ve still got at least an hour and a half left and I’d really like to get home in time for dinner.’
‘Me too!’ Kendwick beamed across at Savage. ‘What’s on offer?’
Savage didn’t respond. Instead she ducked into the car. Moments later they were driving off and she settled back into her seat. Not too long now, she thought. They’d leave the motorway at Exeter and head up onto the moor. Chagford was a little town on the eastern edge. They’d see Kendwick into his house and then be done with him.
Stop-start traffic around Weston-super-Mare and an RTC which blocked the motorway just past Taunton saw them delayed by some ninety minutes, so it wasn’t until after three o’clock that they took a winding road out onto the moor. As the countryside became wilder, Kendwick’s interest was piqued. He stared out at the stone walls surrounding the little fields, at the distant tors standing guard over the landscape.
‘Quaint, this,’ he said.
‘As DC Enders can tell you, the moor can be far from quaint in the wrong weather. There are areas of pure wilderness up there, right, Patrick?’
‘Yes.’ Enders gripped the steering wheel and stared ahead, apparently unwilling to elaborate further.
‘I know the moor from my childhood and it’s hardly a wilderness.’ Kendwick tapped the window. ‘What is it, a hundred square miles, two? The Sierra National Forest is ten times the size and you’ve got Yosemite and Kings Canyon National Parks right next door. Real wild country, not this cream-tea countryside.’
‘And that’s where the killer took them, is it?’ Savage said. ‘Out in the wilds?’
‘The girls?’ Kendwick turned back from the window and met her gaze. He didn’t blink. ‘That’s what they say. But to be honest, I’ve no idea, Charlotte. They found the bodies, but who can tell how they died or who killed them?’
Savage looked away. Kendwick’s eyes were beguiling, but not in a good way. Serial killers were supposed to be sociopaths, unable to discern or empathise with other people, but Kendwick seemed to see right inside her. She sensed he might be able to unearth her vulnerabilities and use them against her. She couldn’t allow that to happen.
They continued the journey in silence, eventually descending a twisty road and then climbing out of a valley and into the small town of Chagford. The place wasn’t much more than a handful of roads meeting at a square. A few tourists shuffled along the streets, heading for the pubs and restaurants, but otherwise the place was quiet. Kendwick said something about stopping and having a late lunch or early dinner; his treat, he insisted.
‘No,’ Savage said. ‘Not today.’
Kendwick nodded. ‘Next time then?’
No one said anything until Enders spoke.
‘Here,’ he said, pulling into a parking space in front of a short terrace on the edge of town. ‘And about bloody time too.’
Kendwick’s house was the one on the end. A little two-up and two-down cottage with a long strip of back garden which bordered open fields. Beyond the fields, the moor rolled into the distance beneath a bank of dark cloud.
‘Well,’ Kendwick said. ‘Despite what I said earlier, the view is certainly better than the one from the Fresno County Jail.’
They piled out of the car and Riley and Enders sprang the boot and retrieved Kendwick’s luggage. Savage went to the front door with Kendwick. She pulled out a set of keys Hardin had given her and unlocked the door. Kendwick pushed it open and stepped in, crouching to avoid banging his head on the low beams. There was no hallway, the door opened straight into the living room. A narrow open staircase led up one side of the room, while to the back, an arch divided the living room from the kitchen area. Two rather tired armchairs and a sofa clustered round a fireplace. A pile of magazines sat on a low table in the centre of the room. Atop the magazines lay a chunky key fob, a local car rental company’s name emblazoned over some paperwork beneath.
‘Looks like your sister’s thought of everything,’ Savage said. ‘Transport and a place to stay. You’re lucky to have her to look out for you. She must be giving up a small fortune by letting you stay here.’
‘It might surprise you to know I’m quite popular in some circles.’ Kendwick strolled in. He stared down at the brown carpet. ‘But I’ll have to have words with sis about the state of the place.’
Behind her, Enders and Riley clumped the bags down just inside the front door. Riley went upstairs and a minute or so later came back down.
‘Everything’s fine,’ he said. ‘Two bedrooms and micro bathroom. Regular cosy.’
Kendwick wandered through to the kitchen and popped the fridge open.
‘Sweet,’ he said, reappearing with a bottle of white wine in one hand. ‘If I can just find a corkscrew we can have a moving-in drink. You guys take a seat while I fetch some glasses.’
‘I don’t think so, Malcolm.’ Savage tapped Riley on the shoulder and pointed outside. ‘We’ve got better things to do. I can just about stomach being a taxi service, but I draw the line at socialising.’
‘Shame.’ Kendwick frowned and then cocked his head on one side. ‘We’ll meet again though, won’t we? You and I?’
‘I’m sure we will.’ Savage followed Riley and Enders through the door. ‘Try to be good, Mr Kendwick.’
‘Oh, I intend to.’ Kendwick grinned. ‘Very good.’
He peered out of the tiny window and watched as they drove off. The black guy, the annoying Irish git and the woman. Yes, the woman. Kendwick considered her for a moment. She was … interesting. Too old though. Not really his type. Still, he wouldn’t say no if he got the chance.
He turned to where his luggage stood in a heap. A flight bag, two Samsonite cases and a rucksack. He had a few books and some other oddments coming by freight but, aside from them, this was the sum of his ten years in the United States. Almost everything he valued was here.
What a waste. And all down to that bitch cop, Janey Horton. Kendwick shook his head. No good going over everything again. What was done was done.
He reached for a carrier bag which contained a litre of duty free rum. He still had most of the bottle of Coke he’d bought at the services so he took that and the rum into the kitchen, found a glass, and mixed himself a large drink.
Back in the living room he slumped down in one of the armchairs and sipped from the glass. His eyes were drawn to a map of Devon which hung above the mantelpiece. He found himself shaking his head once more. Strange to be back here. Where he’d grown up. Where it had all started.
He’d been born in an anonymous suburb of Torquay to what, from a casual glance, must have seemed loving parents. In reality their relationship to him was always somewhat distant. Later in life, Kendwick put that down to him being an accident, a conclusion he drew from the fact that his siblings were over ten years older than him. He was an afterthought and the young Kendwick had got in the way of his parents’ lifestyle. As he grew up, he often found himself offloaded onto various relatives as they went about their lives or took long holidays. Inevitably, when he asked, he was fobbed off with excuses: ‘You can’t ski well enough, darling.’ ‘It would be much too hot for you, Malc. You know how you hate the heat.’ ‘We’ll be gone for four weeks and that would mean missing school. Best not, hey, love? Maybe next year.’
Kendwick compensated for his parents’ behaviour by acting with a nonchalance intended to show an exterior face vastly different to the turmoil he felt within. He craved love, but didn’t know how to ask for it. The various relatives he stayed with thought him grown-up for his age, but he was an emotional retard, the sociopathic tendencies misread for maturity. He never cried, never seemed to anger or throw tantrums like other children did.
Mostly, when his parents went off on their jaunts, he stayed with his uncle. His uncle lived on Dartmoor and Kendwick credited that fact as nurturing his love of wild spaces. Out on the moor you had to be self-reliant. Alone with nothing but the wind for company, your thoughts turned inward. He found when he was on the moor he became overly reflective, trying to find a reason for everything, trying to understand life and the cards he’d been dealt.
As Kendwick entered his teenage years, his parents began to realise their son wasn’t like other boys. While adolescence had made his classmates go crazy, their bodies overladen with hormones, their minds stuffed with nonsense, Kendwick had passed the time more interested in chasing grades than chasing skirt. He didn’t appear to care a thing for anyone. He went for long walks on his own, disappearing for hours at a time. Yet he never stayed out late, never went to parties, never got even slightly tipsy.
But then he began to adorn his bedroom with gothic imagery. Vampires and graveyards. Girls in black PVC dresses swooning in the moonlight, breasts full and white, tears of blood weeping from their eyes. Mist rising around some forsaken tor, another girl draped over the granite with her head arched back.
His parents shook their heads, but at least this new behaviour was nothing out of the ordinary. Secretly they were glad about the girls appearing on the walls of his bedroom. The girls showed he wasn’t … wasn’t … well, they showed he was normal.
However, even back then, Kendwick had known he was far, far from normal and had his parents bothered to pay a little attention, they might have been a good deal more concerned.
He took another sip of his drink and then contemplated the glass for a moment. He knocked back the rest in one gulp and then stood. Time to unpack his life from his bags. Time to think about what the future might hold.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ Enders said as he steered the car through the narrow streets of Chagford. ‘Another minute in the company of Malcolm slimeball Kendwick and I’d have been committing murder myself. It’s only a shame he managed to get out of the US.’
‘You’d have liked him to face execution?’ Riley said. ‘With all the problems capital punishment brings?’
‘Such as?’
‘Miscarriages of justice for one. The fear of living on death row for years and years for another.’
‘Fear?’ Enders took his eyes off the road for several seconds and stared across at Riley. ‘I don’t think Kendwick bothered much about the fear his victims felt. He took them up into the mountains and did God-knows-what to them before killing them. If you want my view, a lethal injection would be letting him off lightly. I’d shave Kendwick’s head, plug old Sparky in and send a good jolt of electricity through him.’
‘Ma’am?’ Riley half turned to look into the rear of the car. ‘What’s your opinion?’
‘You don’t want to know, Darius.’ Savage stared out at the moorland now flashing past. ‘My answer might offend your delicate London sensibilities. But I don’t think what you said about miscarriage of justice applies to Kendwick. He killed those girls, I know he did.’
‘You can’t convict somebody on a hunch, ma’am. You need evidence.’
‘And Janey Horton found that evidence.’
‘As I understand US law, it wasn’t admissible. First, part was extracted by torture, second, Horton didn’t have probable cause to search Kendwick’s car. The rape kit she found could never be introduced at a trial. The hairband discovered in his apartment was circumstantial, and again, problems with probable cause to search. Anyway, aside from those issues, I don’t believe the threat of the death penalty is a deterrent.’
Savage shook her head. She wasn’t going to get into an argument with Riley. She liked him, but his views on criminal justice were way too liberal for her. The law wasn’t something which should be inked down on a page leaving clauses which offered get-out-of-jail cards to the guilty. People had suffered at Kendwick’s hands. Real people. Young women and their families. Lives had been changed, people emotionally scarred for life. If executing Kendwick could make things better for them in some small way then she was all for it. Deterrent or not.
‘Passed a polygraph test too, didn’t he?’ Riley wasn’t giving up. ‘Too much doubt in my mind. There are no second chances with the death penalty.’
What Riley said about the lie detector test was factually true, but Savage wasn’t convinced. Kendwick, as they had seen in the few hours they’d spent with him, was a manipulator. She wouldn’t put it past him to have somehow managed to skew the results of the test.
The rest of the journey passed in near silence. When they arrived at the station Enders parked up and the three of them got out.
‘Thanks, Darius, Patrick,’ Savage said. ‘Good work.’
‘No problem, ma’am,’ Enders said. ‘Nice bit of overtime. See you tomorrow.’
Enders strolled off to his car leaving Savage with Riley. There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment.
‘I don’t disagree with you, ma’am,’ Riley said. ‘About Kendwick. He’s a nasty piece of work and he may well have killed those women. However, the law says he’s innocent. As police officers we have to respect that or else we’re lost.’
‘Are we?’ Savage said. ‘What about my daughter? We only got to the truth behind Clarissa’s death by going outside the law.’
‘That was different.’
‘Really? Because it was personal?’ Savage stared at Riley for a few moments. ‘It was personal for Janey Horton too. If she hadn’t done what she’d done to Kendwick, those girls would have lain up in the woods undiscovered. Kendwick would have gone on killing, gone on causing more misery.’
‘I realise that but what she did was wrong.’
‘Was it?’ Savage turned to go to her car. ‘Goodnight, Sergeant.’
‘Charlotte?’ Riley shouted after her. Savage turned back. ‘Be careful, right?’
‘Always, Darius, always.’
With that she walked across to her own car, aware Riley was standing and watching her go.
Savage drove home thinking about Riley’s arguments. They didn’t add up. He’d been willing to cross the line when he’d tracked down the lad who’d killed her daughter in a hit-and-run accident. He’d teamed up with a local gangster by the name of Kenny Fallon. The pair of them had gone out of their way to bring the name of the driver of the car to her attention, Fallon even supplying her with a gun to exact her revenge. Now though, Riley appeared to be on the side of Kendwick, even though it was obvious to Savage the man was guilty. Was Riley holding up his liberal credentials as a measure of what a nice guy he was? He should have known her well enough to realise that wouldn’t wash. When it came to criminal justice, Savage didn’t do liberal values. Certainly not when they related to men like Malcolm Kendwick.
She pulled into her driveway at a little after five. Jamie, Pete explained when she came in, was already in bed.
‘I said you’d definitely be back before he went to sleep,’ Pete said. He scratched his head. ‘So, being logical, the little man decided to get in his jimjams straight after lunch to hasten your arrival. He’s been tucked up in bed for the past hour.’
Savage went upstairs and popped her head round her son’s bedroom door. Jamie was lying on the bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He turned his head towards Savage, an expression of delight spreading on his face.
‘Mummy!’ He leapt out of bed and scampered across to Savage, throwing his arms round her. She felt a rush of love as she knelt down and hugged her son, a feeling of guilt too; an empty void inside, as if missing a day and a half of his life was something which could never be filled. ‘Did you catch any bad guys in London?’
‘Not this time, darling,’ Savage said. Jamie looked disappointed that there was no story to be had, so she told him about going to the VIP lounge at Heathrow and meeting officers from the NCA. Then she gave him another hug. ‘Are you coming downstairs or are you going to stay up here for a bit?’
‘Stay up here.’ Jamie moved across the room to a low table where a host of Playmobil figures stood near a toy police car. An arrest was in progress, officers with guns drawn, two suspects already in handcuffs. ‘These baddies need locking up.’
‘OK, I’ll call you when tea’s ready.’
Downstairs she confessed her feelings of guilt to Pete. He was sanguine about the situation.
‘You missed him, he missed you. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘No, I guess not.’
‘Anyway, by tomorrow he’ll have forgotten you’ve been away.’ Pete gestured to the bar of chocolate and the copy of the Beano lying on the kitchen table. Savage had bought them on the journey up to London. ‘And when he sees those he’ll forgive you, no doubt. Not that he hasn’t had enough chocolate today already, what with his Easter eggs and all.’
‘They’re not supposed to be bribes or compensation. Simply a gift.’
‘And not the only gift you’ve brought us either, I see.’
‘Hey?’
‘The Herald have splashed news of your celebrity passenger all over their website. They’re running an exclusive in the paper tomorrow. Malcolm Kendwick, Devon’s most infamous son, returns. They’re hinting at all sorts of things he might have done in America. I assume they’ve got legal advice but the story looks awfully close to libel to me.’ Pete paused and then grinned. ‘Oh, and there’s even a photo of you and Kendwick at the airport and a small piece on your track record of catching serial killers.’
‘Christ.’
‘You didn’t expect this? I thought the police were supposed to be media savvy these days. Old Conrad Hardin has surely gone on more than one PR training day. He should have made preparations for the public outcry.’
Savage sighed and then shrugged, too tired to continue the conversation. She went upstairs and took a long shower. Sitting in the back of the car for several hours with Kendwick had made her feel soiled. An uncomfortable crawling sensation itched across her skin. She stood under the jets of water and foamed her body with soap until she was sure every trace of Kendwick had gone. She couldn’t cleanse her thoughts though and later, as she lay in bed beside Pete, Kendwick’s face kept creeping into her mind. The smile and his mint-fresh breath, those perfect teeth grinning at her. White like the bones of his victims which had lain scattered in the wilderness, bleaching under a hot Californian sun.
Chapter Four (#ulink_2c845185-4fa1-53b9-9a1e-9528c3693ee5)
He’s driven out onto the moor so he can be alone in the darkness. Experience the isolation of the wild country. Perhaps find a solution to his problem.
The problem is that things are wrong. He thought the return would change things, make him see the issues in a different light. Starting over didn’t mean having to go back to the way things were, did it? Surely it was possible to move on from the past?
He parks the car in the middle of nowhere and climbs out. He sets off along a stony track. The night excites him. He enjoys the coolness of the air, the peaty odour which emanates from the ancient bogs, the wind caressing his face. Nothing moving. Not another living human within miles.
Only the dead.
The dead, yes. They’re not far away. A short walk along the track. The coolness. The peaty odour. The wind. Nothing moving. Not a soul. Nobody but the dead.
But the dead are the problem!
They won’t keep quiet. They keep talking to him. Calling his name. He mutters to himself as he walks along, trying to drown out their voices.
The track is a grey thread curling into the distance as the route follows a contour line round the side of a hill and then forges across a flat plain. He pads along, noting the bogs either side of the track, the smell of the marsh gas like decomposing flesh, the pools of water like mirrors, reflecting a sombre sky where the moon plays hide and seek with the clouds.
In the distance a glow hugs the horizon almost as if the sun is about to rise. But the glow doesn’t belong to the sun, the light comes from the city where people bustle back and forth living their insignificant lives. He thinks about the thousands of morons sitting in their living rooms, their eyes glued to a rectangular screen with flickering pixels, absorbing the drivel pumped out for them to lap up. Others are clustered in pubs and bars, talking rubbish to friends, to colleagues, to any fucking idiot who will listen. And then there are those who interest him. Not the morons stuck in front of their televisions. Not the wasters out on the piss. The others. The quiet ones. Demure and lying still in their beds. Hands by their sides, legs together, eyes tightly shut. Almost as if they were dead.
He knows he’s not right in the head. Who walks the moorland after dark? Who stalks graveyards, delighting in the quietness of the stones, aroused by the presence of those who have passed beyond the physical? Nobody normal, that’s for sure.
Fuck it!
He clenches his fists in anger for a moment but then relaxes. He’s close now. Close to where he can get relief. Close to where they lie waiting for him. Where they’ve lain for all these years. He walks on and arrives at the gate. He pulls a key from his pocket and fits it into the padlock. Unlocks it and removes the heavy chain. He pushes the gate open and slips through. Shadows loom like welcoming friends. They’re here. All around him. He steps up to where a silver lake glistens in the moonlight. He begins to undress, stripping off his clothes until he stands naked. He bends to the water and takes a handful. He splashes the cool liquid on his chest, the chill shocking him, exciting him. And then he thinks of the girls. His girls. His heart beats faster and his breath rushes in and out. Yes, he cries in the dark. Yes! Yes! Yes!
He stands there, spent. His breathing slows, his heart calms and now he is disgusted with himself. Disgusted it took such a fetish to turn him on. He shakes his head. What’s done is done. He reaches for his clothes and dresses hurriedly. He tries to reconcile what has happened. What harm is there in it? None. Not this time. But tomorrow? Next week? Next month?
He plods down to the gate, goes through and refastens the chain. The harm is safely in his head, he thinks. His darkest thoughts nothing but swirls in his imagination. Soon, however, he knows the desire will build to a level where he can no longer be satiated by mere fantasy. He needs the exquisite feeling of flesh against his naked body. Flesh which is soft and cool and quite, quite dead.
Chapter Five (#ulink_cd8684f8-1c9b-5946-a9e6-b89e864932cb)
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Friday 21st April. 10.52 a.m.
Back at work, Savage tried to forget about Malcolm Kendwick. Hardin had arranged for a twenty-four-seven surveillance on the man, but she wasn’t involved. Other than that she was aware there’d been an incident in Chagford involving a reporter and a smashed camera and had seen a lurid headline in one of the tabloids. Thankfully, in the week that followed, more pressing matters arose to distract her, including a woman who’d fallen from the eighth floor of a block of flats in Devonport. Suspicion was pointing to her boyfriend, ‘a right scrote,’ according to DC Enders who’d had dealings with the guy. Savage was reminded of her conversation with Riley about men being arseholes. They certainly weren’t all arseholes but Plymouth seemed to have more than its fair share of them.
On Friday, five days after Kendwick had arrived in Devon, DSupt Hardin summoned Savage to his office. He told her he was axing the surveillance op, citing manpower and budgetary constraints.
‘Nothing I can do about it, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘Besides, we can’t keep watching him indefinitely. At least the bugger will have got an idea of how serious we are about keeping tabs.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Savage said. ‘But he’s done nothing and gone nowhere, right?’
‘Hmmm.’ Hardin stared down at a log sheet detailing Kendwick’s movements. ‘Yesterday he went to the local shop, then to the pub for lunch, took a short walk, went back home, visited the pub again in the evening, went to bed. Not much of a life. He’s got a rental car, but doesn’t appear to have gone anywhere in it aside from a couple of jaunts on the moor.’
‘If you ask me he’s playing a game with us. He knows we’re watching him.’
‘Which was my intention. From now on he’ll be looking over his shoulder, wondering if we’re there.’
No, Savage thought. Kendwick was too canny for that. He’d be well aware the surveillance had stopped. He’d only let himself be followed so closely because he had nothing to lose. Now they were no longer keeping an eye on him he could come and go as he pleased.
‘So that’s it then? We’re done with him?’
‘Not quite.’ Hardin picked up the log sheet and flicked the surface with a finger. ‘I want you to pay Mr Kendwick a visit. Give him a bit of a talking to. Perhaps you can warn him off, maybe even scare him away. If he upped sticks and moved to another area it would be a weight off our backs.’
‘And what am I supposed to say to him?’ Savage sighed, exasperated. She’d spent five hours stuck in a car with Kendwick and wasn’t sure what another hour’s conversation would accomplish. ‘Please bugger off?’
‘I don’t know, Charlotte. You’re the one with the interpersonal skills. Be his friend. Tell him Devon’s no place for him. If he doesn’t buy that then make it clear we’re going to catch up with him eventually. He’ll get the message, I’m sure he will.’
Savage took an early lunch and then drove north from Plymouth. At Yelverton she headed up onto the moor, following the twisting road to the town of Princetown. A strong sun beamed down, flattening the landscape and obliterating the shadows. The tors stood a uniform grey, almost formless in the harsh light, their dark foreboding temporarily banished.
She drove across the moor and arrived at Kendwick’s place in Chagford at a little after two o’clock. A knock on the front door of the cottage brought no response, so she moved to a window and peered in. She could see through the open plan living area to the kitchen where the back door stood open. She turned and walked along the street and went down a passage which led to the rear of the terrace. A path bisected the long, narrow gardens. Kendwick’s was the one at the end and she found him lying in a teak reclining chair next to a small table. He wore a pair of shorts and a light shirt and a jug of something resembling Pimm’s sat on the table beside a half-empty glass. He hadn’t tied his hair up and his black mane cascaded across the back of the chair. Kendwick held a book in his hands. He closed the book as Savage approached.
‘Charlotte!’ Kendwick pushed himself up from the chair and stuck out his hand. ‘How nice of you to visit!’
‘Hello, Mr Kendwick,’ Savage said. She shook hands, once again noticing how dry and cool the man’s palm was. ‘Just a courtesy visit.’
‘Courtesy? Well that makes a nice change from the cops in the US. Manners are something which don’t seem to have been invented over there. They’re likely to pull a gun and cuff you just to tell you your stop light isn’t working.’ Kendwick nodded at the jug on the table. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
Savage shook her head. ‘Cut the false bonhomie, Mr Kendwick. I’m here to warn you that although we’re stopping the surveillance you’re not off the hook. One false move, one foot over the line, and we’ll be onto you.’
‘Not so much a courtesy visit then, more of a threatening one?’
‘Stay on the straight and narrow and you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘I assume it’s the same for every citizen.’ Kendwick eased himself back down into his chair and gestured at another recliner. He pulled a hairband from his pocket and tied up his hair. ‘I’d hate to think I was being treated any differently.’
Savage moved over and sat down, perching on the edge of the seat. ‘You’ve got history, Mr Kendwick.’
‘Can we drop the “Mr Kendwick” tag please? We managed to be civil on the journey back from the airport. I’d like to think we can again.’
‘Sure, no problem.’
‘As to my history, that’s a matter of conjecture. History isn’t immutable, is it? Differing viewpoints tell differing stories. My story is I’m innocent of all the charges against me. I didn’t kill anyone in the US. I’m pretty sure the US justice system sees it that way too, otherwise I’d still be over there.’
‘So how do you explain your confession to Janey Horton?’
‘It wasn’t a confession.’ Kendwick scowled at Savage. ‘The bitch tortured me so I made stuff up to feed to her. If I hadn’t she’d have killed me. The confession was pure fiction. I just blurted out the names of the girls I’d read about in the papers or seen on the news.’
‘But your fiction happened to match fact. How come Horton was able to find a body from your directions?’
‘The irony was the body wasn’t her daughter.’
‘True, but once officers searched the area they discovered the remains of the other missing girls, including those of Sara Horton.’
‘It was luck. Just bad luck. If I’d mentioned a different river valley, a different forestry track, then she’d have found nothing.’ Kendwick half smiled. ‘Unless, of course, there are dozens of serial killers dumping bodies out in the wilderness.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’
‘I expect you to believe the results of the polygraph test I took.’ Kendwick pushed himself upright and sat leaning forward. ‘Look, there was nothing found to link me to the body dump. What is it, Locard’s Principle? The notion that every contact both takes and leaves traces behind? Well, there were no traces at the site, at my house, in my car or on me. I’m either made of Teflon or completely innocent.’
Savage stared at Kendwick, trying to keep a blank face. Body dump, Locard’s Principle? Kendwick seemed all too knowledgeable about police terminology.
‘What about the rape kit found in your car?’
‘Rape kit? Listen to you! I leave a few things in a rucksack and the cops immediately label them as the tools of the trade of a serial killer. It was just stuff anyone might have in their possession.’
‘Handcuffs?’
‘Really, Charlotte. I bet half the couples you know have played around with a bit of bondage. I like to imagine you have.’
Savage ignored Kendwick’s smirk. ‘And the hair scrunchy found at your house? The one which belonged to Sara Horton. Strikes me that was a trace.’
‘I picked it up while crossing the park. Have you never done that? I bet you have.’ Kendwick cocked his head on one side. ‘I bet your daughter has.’
‘My daughter?’ Savage felt a lurch in her stomach. How on earth did Kendwick know about her daughter? ‘Leave her out of it.’
‘Touchy.’ Kendwick tutted. ‘But I understand why. I’ve been doing some research on you on the internet. I thought if I knew you a little better I might be able to understand you a little more. So, I put your name into Google and all these news stories came up. A mother, wronged. A hit-and-run. A family tragedy. One of your twin daughters taken from you by a rogue driver. The irony that you, a cop, can’t make the law work for you, can’t get justice. Well, Charlotte, it happens the other way around too. Justice can easily become injustice. Which is why you should sympathise with my predicament.’
‘I don’t.’ Savage stood. The interview was over. She’d delivered the message from Hardin and now it was time to go before the odious creature riled her. ‘Remember what I said, we’re watching.’
‘Oh, I know you are. But I’m not going anywhere. No need.’ Kendwick smiled again. He shifted his head and then craned his neck to peer over into the next-door garden. ‘I’ve got everything I want right on my doorstep.’
Savage turned to look. The adjoining plot was neatly manicured. A large area of grass and, at the far end of the garden, a raised area of decking. Two expensive wicker loungers sat on the deck and lying on the loungers were two young women, sunning themselves in the unseasonal warmth. Twenties. Skimpy clothing. Blonde hair.
‘That’s why I’m out here. Mammary watch.’ Kendwick grinned. He reached for his glass and sat back in the recliner. ‘They’re down from London for a couple of days. Quite friendly really. I’d told them I’d go for a meal with them later, show them the sights of Chagford, act the friendly local. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be quite safe with them. They wouldn’t dare hurt me, not with a choir of guardian police angels watching on.’
‘Mr Kendwick, if anything—’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Kendwick spat the words out, his mood changing in an instant. ‘I’m innocent, so just fuck off and let me live my life. Now, get out of here before I call my solicitor and ask her to look into pursuing a harassment case against you and the force.’
‘I’m off, but there’s one thing.’ Savage moved over to Kendwick and stood next to his chair. ‘If you ever mention my daughter again, I’ll …’
‘You’ll what?’ Kendwick jerked his head. One of the girls from next door stood beside the hedge. She smiled at Kendwick, mouthed a ‘sorry, later’ and then walked off.
Savage waited until the young woman had disappeared inside the house and then she kicked the back of Kendwick’s chair, knocking the prop free. Kendwick fell backward in a heap, his drink sloshing over his chest.
‘I’ll fucking kill you, that’s what.’
With DI Savage gone, Kendwick went back inside the house to dry off and change his shirt. Savage’s warning and sudden burst of anger had unsettled him, and staring at the girls next door was no longer fun.
Inside, he cleaned himself up and then poured himself another Pimm’s. He went to the living room and lowered himself onto the sofa. He’d had a fair bit to drink and the alcohol was having a soporific effect. He sat back and tried to picture his neighbours, tried to imagine the pair of them sprawled naked in the garden. He sipped his drink, his free hand moving to his shorts, loosening the button. But then he shook his head. Nothing. He felt nothing.
He put the drink on a side table and lay back and closed his eyes. Memories swirled in his head. A dream of another garden, another time, a time when he had felt something. Felt something for someone. What was she? Seventeen, eighteen? He’d been younger, having turned fifteen a few weeks before. They’d been in the back garden, his parents out somewhere, Kendwick left behind as usual. The girl had been from across the street. Lithe, leggy, confident of what she wanted. Still, he’d scoffed when she’d suggested a game of hide and seek. Wasn’t that for kids? ‘Depends what you’re seeking, doesn’t it?’ she’d replied with a coy smile. So he’d stood there, counting …
Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred! Ready or not, here I come!
He whirls round, scanning the garden. Beginning to search. Over by the rose bushes? No! Standing straight behind the big old oak? No!! Hiding beneath the tarpaulin which covers the wood pile? No!!! Where on earth is she? He shakes his head and turns round once more. He spies the shed. Of course! He creeps over the lawn and clicks open the door. There she is!
Found you!
She doesn’t move. Just lies there, her eyes closed but a smile gracing her lips, her pretty summer dress rucked up round her waist, her knickers round her ankles. He steps inside the shed and pulls the door shut. Darkness. A slant of golden light from the crack in the door running up her thigh. He breathes in. The air tastes dry and dusty, but there’s a hint of something else too, something sweet and intoxicating. He slips one foot across the wooden floor, then another. Now he’s standing over her. Marvelling at her stillness. He lowers himself to the floor of the shed and lies beside her. She doesn’t move. He reaches out with his finger and traces a line on her thigh, following the shaft of light. His heart is beating ten to the dozen, his breathing coming in tiny little gulps. She, on the other hand, only betrays the fact she is alive with an almost imperceptible heave of her chest, her breasts swelling with each intake of air. She is passive but so very powerful. So utterly bewitching.
He pushes himself up and lies on top of her, trying to support himself with one hand while the other fumbles with his trousers. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, only knows that this was meant to be.
The girl’s eyelids flutter for a second as he enters her and then she sighs, a long exhalation of air, the breath warm on his face. Then she is still again and he’s the only one moving, his gasps now matching his rhythm, her face frozen but serene.
‘Oh God!’ he cries, as mere seconds later his body convulses. Now he falls on her in utter bliss and amazement, moaning in her ear, telling her that he loves her more than anything and will do so forever and ever and ever.
She says nothing and her eyes stay shut as he continues to whisper to her, to promise her his heart and soul. And then she blinks at a sound from outside.
Voices.
She pushes him off and stands, hurriedly pulling up her knickers and tidying her dress.
‘Stay,’ he pleads. ‘Stay with me!’
She shakes her head, nothing in her eyes but contempt. She moves across the shed, flings the door open, and vanishes into the garden.
He turns to the door, pulls it shut and then slumps back down to the floor. The moment has gone and he wonders if anything can recapture the feeling he had as she lay there beneath him.
The next day he goes to the girl’s house. Knocks on the door. Her mother answers. No, he can’t come in. Her daughter doesn’t want to see him. The mother raises her hand as if to shoo him away like a bothersome fly. He stares past her into the hallway where huge cardboard boxes sit in stacks. He can see a roll of carpet sticking from the door of the front room. The windows in the bay are bare, the curtains lying in neat folded piles. He gets it then. The family are moving. The girl is leaving. She tricked him.
Kendwick shook his head, pulling himself into the present and his current predicament. He reached for his glass and took a sip of his drink. The girl in the shed had engendered a terrible feeling of rejection, a feeling he’d known since he was a baby and she had reinforced.
‘Bitch,’ Kendwick said, not entirely sure if he was referring to the girl in the shed, the woman who’d smiled over the garden fence a few minutes ago or DI Savage. It didn’t really matter. They were all the same. Sweetness and light and flashing a smile or a bare patch of skin so they could take control of his emotions. And then, when they’d got what they wanted, they simply walked away, leaving him lusting after something he couldn’t have.
He’d learned to get the better of them by turning on the charm himself, but deep inside he couldn’t kid himself. He always felt weak when he saw a woman he desired, weak because of the power she held over him, weak at the thought of what he might be able to do to her. If, of course, she’d let him.
And if she wouldn’t let him?
Well, Malcolm Kendwick had ways of dealing with that.
Chapter Six (#ulink_d76eb13f-69f3-5f5f-814a-f5d291661e77)
Combestone Tor, Dartmoor. Saturday 22nd April. 4.43 p.m.
The Smith family liked to get out in the wilds on a weekend. It was part of the reason why Nathan and Jane Smith had decided to move to Devon. Weekend life before Devon, or BD, as Nathan put it, had involved a trip to the local park or, if they were lucky, an outing on the South Downs. Then, years ago now, Nathan had won a prize in a magazine competition. A Valentine’s weekend at the Gidleigh Park Hotel, on Dartmoor. The hotel was well out of their price range and the novelty of sleeping in a huge four-poster bed in a suite of rooms was wonderful. The place had a Michelin star and the food was, not surprisingly, out of this world. The break was only for two days, but the idea of a dirty weekend was fun and Nathan had imagined they would spend most of the time between the sheets. Jane had insisted on leaving the hotel, though. A stroll on the moor would burn off some of the calories and leave them re-energised and refreshed for the next bout of lovemaking.
Whatever, Nathan had thought. They’d been to Canada the previous year, South America the one before that. A walk on Dartmoor was hardly going to compare with Niagara Falls or Machu Picchu. And yet, when they’d ventured out into the cold February morning, the light had sparkled in an odd way. They’d driven up onto the moor where mist hung in the valleys as the sun brushed the tops of the tors. This wasn’t like the South Downs at all. There was nothing manicured about the countryside here. As they parked the car and got out and clambered up the heaving granite mass of Haytor, Nathan felt something stir deep inside. And when they stood on top of the rocks holding hands, he turned to his wife, and without really thinking, he said he’d like to live here. Me too, Jane had replied.
Neither of them had thought much more about the conversation until they’d driven to a nearby town and looked in an estate agent’s window. While for locals the prices might have seemed steep, for Nathan and Jane, who at the time lived in a nice Victorian semi-detached house in Guildford, nearly every property looked like an absolute steal.
After browsing the particulars for one idyllic place set in its own valley, Nathan’s hand strayed down to Jane’s stomach. He patted her.
‘Be better for him, wouldn’t it?’ Only the week before they’d come on the trip, Jane had announced she was pregnant. Nathan had been thrilled.
‘Or her,’ Jane said.
That had been over ten years ago. They made the move within six months of that February, shortly before their daughter Abigail had been born. Luka, their son, followed a year and a half later and now they were well settled, the South-East all but forgotten.
Today, the family were on an expedition to bag a couple of tors they hadn’t been to. The first, Combestone Tor, was slap bang up against a road, but Nathan had announced that driving to the tor was way too easy. They’d parked across the far side of the valley a good couple of miles away and walked over. Now, as they slogged up towards the tor, Luka was flagging.
‘Come on,’ Nathan said. ‘Iron rations when we get to the top.’
Ever the clever one in the family, Abi piped up. ‘I thought you said eat before you’re hungry?’
‘Stop before you’re tired, wrap up before you’re cold, eat before you’re hungry.’ Luka repeated the words like a mantra. ‘Abi’s right, Dad.’
‘OK then.’ Nathan stopped and reached into his pocket for a packet of glucose tablets. ‘Time for go-faster sweets.’
‘Yeah!’ Luka said.
‘And the first one to touch the rocks gets an extra biscuit.’ Nathan handed out the sweets and smiled at his wife. ‘On your marks, get set …’
Neither Abi nor Luka waited for the ‘go’. Instead, they sprinted away from their parents, attacking the hill with an energy born from youth rather than experience. Nathan and Jane laughed and began to plod up the slope, knowing they’d catch up with their children before long.
‘Great this,’ Jane said. ‘Precious moments, never to be repeated.’
‘Bloody good job.’ Nathan paused for a second and put his hands on his hips. ‘I’m all out of puff.’
‘There’s a solution for that. We need to get out more often, get you fit.’ Jane moved across to her husband and looped her arm round his waist. She pushed her fingers into the first sign of his middle-aged spread and then moved her hand down to Nathan’s crotch and gave a little squeeze. ‘There are other benefits to being fit too.’
‘Stuff sex.’ Nathan smiled. ‘Right now I’d settle for a cup of tea and a scone with plenty of cream and jam.’
‘Mum! Dad!’ Abi’s voice drifted down towards them. Nathan turned his head to where his daughter stood atop the tor. She waved her arms. ‘Hide and seek! Come and find us!’
With that she dropped out of sight, disappearing behind the huge hunk of granite.
‘Shit. That’s all we need.’
Nathan and Jane strolled the short distance to the rocks. Nathan suggested they should split up, Jane going to the right and him to the left. Once his wife had disappeared round the side of the tor, Nathan unhooked the rucksack from his back and dropped it to the floor. He opened the top flap, pulled out a bottle of squash and took several swigs of liquid. Then he packed the drink away, hoisted up the rucksack and set off again.
‘Ready or not, here I come!’
Instead of circling the rocks, he headed straight to the tor and began to clamber up. He pulled himself onto a large boulder and then edged round between two more until he could climb up the rock his daughter had been on a couple of minutes before. He stood for a moment and then slowly turned on the spot. He saw his wife on the far side of the tor but there was no sign of the children. He jumped down and began to navigate between the granite columns. He thought about putting on a monster voice, but then reasoned against it. Luka, in particular, might panic and slip and hurt himself. Instead he repeated his shout of ‘ready or not, here I come’.
He’d just squeezed into a narrow passage between two rocks when he heard something which made his blood curdle. A scream. Long, drawn-out and unmistakably belonging to his daughter.
‘Abi!’ Nathan yelled as he pushed through the gap and then, finding himself with more space, spun round trying to find the direction the scream had come from. ‘I’m coming, Abi. Stay where you are.’
Nathan scrambled up and over a couple of smaller boulders, at the same time thanking God he’d packed the first-aid kit in his rucksack that morning. He just hoped his daughter hadn’t hurt herself too badly.
The scream came again, this time accompanied by the voice of his son.
‘Dad! Come quickly.’
Nathan hauled himself up a final piece of granite and saw, as he did so, that his son and daughter stood together on a large plateau of rock. Relief flooded over him as he realised that neither appeared to be injured. The relief quickly turned to anger.
‘What are you doing?’ he said. ‘I’ve told you we don’t joke about being hurt when we’re on the moor. Fooling around’s OK at home but when—’
‘Dad!’ Luka shouted again and pointed into a large crack between two boulders. ‘Down there.’
For a moment Nathan felt a wash of horror as he wondered if it had been his wife who’d slipped and fallen. But then Jane appeared a few metres away. She moved across to the children and stared down at where Luka was pointing.
‘My God!’ Jane reached her arms out and turned Abi and Luka away.
‘What is it?’ Nathan took a couple of strides and jumped across to the plateau the three of them were standing on. He looked at his wife for an explanation. ‘A sheep or something?’
Jane shook her head as she began to push the children down from the rock. ‘We need to phone the police.’
‘The police?’ Nathan stepped forward to peer into the shadows. He squinted and tried to take in what he was seeing. A hand with bright red fingernails, an arm leading to a bare shoulder and the round curve of a partially exposed breast, the skin pale and white. The rest of the woman’s body was hidden from sight beneath an overhanging ledge and for a split second Nathan found himself craning his neck in an effort to see more. Then he changed his mind and hurriedly stepped away, following his wife and kids down off the rocks and at the same time pulling his phone from his pocket.
Early Saturday evening found Savage standing in the kitchen with a glass of white wine in one hand, a bottle in the other. Pete worked vegetables back and forth in a large wok on the cooker, steam billowing up into the extractor hood. For somebody who’d spent several years commanding a frigate and having all his meals prepared for him, he wasn’t a bad cook. He reached out for the bottle of wine and took it from Savage, pouring a generous measure into the wok.
‘Careful,’ Savage said. ‘You’ll get the kids tipsy.’
‘Good, might help Jamie sleep,’ Pete said. ‘He seems to spend most of the small hours in our bed these days.’
‘Nightmares. It’s common enough at his age.’ Savage took a sip of her wine, thinking she could do with some sort of sedative too. Malcolm Kendwick had wormed his way into her dreams, his grinning face miraculously appearing as soon as she shut her eyes at night. ‘He’ll get over it.’
‘Well, I hope—’ Pete stopped mid-sentence as Savage’s work mobile rang. He cocked his head and sighed. ‘There goes another evening.’
By no means every call to her phone required immediate action, but Pete had an uncanny knack of guessing which did. Ten to seven on a Saturday evening, and it was a pretty good bet he was right. Savage moved over and picked the phone up from the kitchen table.
‘DI Savage,’ she said.
‘It’s DC Calter, ma’am,’ the voice on the end of the line said. ‘We’ve got a suspicious death on the moor. A young woman. From the sound of things it wasn’t an accident.’
Savage blinked, seeing Kendwick’s face fashion itself in the steam from the wok, mocking her for a second before dispersing. She listened as Calter explained the details and then hung up.
‘A pound in the cop box then?’ Pete said, referring to a piggy bank Jamie had plonked on the kitchen table one evening when Savage had been out. The fund, added to whenever Savage was called away, provided Jamie with crisps and sweets, a consolation – albeit a poor one – for the absence of his mother.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Savage said, nodding at her husband before knocking back her glass of wine and walking from the room.
The girl had been found at Combestone Tor, a lone set of rocks standing high above the steep-sided River Dart valley. Savage drove at speed along the A38 to Buckfastleigh and then turned off and negotiated the narrow lanes up onto the moor. Forty minutes after leaving home she was driving across the dam of the Avon reservoir and following a winding road which climbed towards the tor. As she neared the top, the last rays of sunlight were caressing the tip of the tor as the day took its leave. It was as if rocks were being devoured by a great black shadow, the warmth and brilliance of life being slowly extinguished. She knew photographers called this time of day the golden hour, a time when the light was warmer and redder. For police officers the term had a quite different meaning. The golden hour referred to the period immediately following the discovery of a crime. During this time information was available to the police in high volume and every effort had to be made to secure that information. Decisions made now would have consequences for the investigation later. Savage wondered about her own role and whether she would make the right choices.
The odd jumble of rocks which comprised the tor lay just a short walk from a gravel car park, but she could see that John Layton, their senior Crime Scene Investigator, was taking no chances. The road had been blocked off some two hundred metres from the tor where a couple of laybys provided parking for police vehicles. Hundreds of metres of blue and white tape lay pegged to the ground, the tape extending in a rough circle around the tor. Savage stopped the car and got out. DC Jane Calter was standing next to one of Layton’s white vans flirting with a young-looking CSI. The CSI had pulled his mask away from his face, but was otherwise fully clad in a white protective suit. He laughed at something Calter said, the laugh curtailed as Savage walked across.
‘Evening, ma’am,’ DC Calter said, her strong South-West accent somehow at one with the rural surroundings. She nodded a greeting, her blonde bob curling round the edges of her face. Calter was late twenties but highly experienced. An old head on young shoulders. She gestured towards the tor where the rocks were now almost devoid of sunlight, the shadow line moving across the moor on the other side of the valley. ‘Just waiting to be allowed up there. They’re finger-tipping a route in and once they’ve done that we can go through.’
Savage nodded and then turned to the CSI. ‘Anything for me?’
‘A female,’ the CSI said. ‘Late teens or early twenties and she’s in a sparkly dress. Not the kind of thing you’d be wearing up here. No ID or anything like that. No obvious signs of trauma, but she’s wedged down in a deep crevice so we won’t know much about cause of death until we get her out.’ The CSI waved at a colleague a hundred metres away. ‘Look, you can go over there now. Keep between the strips of tape.’
Savage thanked the CSI and she and Calter went to get kitted up. Ten minutes later and they ambled up between the two lines of tape towards the distinct clusters of rock, the tallest twice the height of a man. Over by one, several white-suited figures worked in a line, circumnavigating the rocks like a giant clock hand. At the tor, an aluminium ladder leaned against a pillar of granite. Savage’s eyes followed the ladder upward to the top of the rock where another man stood surveying the view. Like the other CSIs he wore a white suit with bootlets and blue gloves. Unlike them he had a grubby Tilley hat perched on his head. As he turned his head he spotted Savage and raised a hand and tipped the hat.
‘Charlotte!’ John Layton’s voice boomed out across the hillside. ‘Come on over.’
Savage and Calter continued between the parallel tapes until they reached the ladder. Layton stood at the top looking down, his angular face silhouetted against the pale sky.
‘I’m pretty sure they didn’t come this way,’ he said. ‘So it’s safe for you to come up. But be careful, hey?’
Savage moved to the ladder and began climbing. At the top Layton offered a hand, but she scowled at him and stepped onto the rock.
‘I’m a woman, not a bloody invalid. What’s got into you?’
‘Sorry, I was only trying to help.’
‘Well don’t.’ Savage looked past Layton to a tripod arrangement with a pulley and a rope. The tripod straddled a crack in the rocks. ‘She’s down there?’
‘Self-evidently.’
Savage narrowed her gaze, trying to penetrate the gloom in the crack. Two metres or so down, a shelf of granite overhung a patch of bare earth. Sticking out from beneath the rock was a bare foot, mud and dirt on the sole, bright-red varnish on a toenail. Savage moved her head to try to see more. Sparkles came from a silver dress, another flash of light from something clutched in an outstretched fist.
‘A nail file,’ Layton said as Calter joined Savage at the crack. ‘Only I don’t think she was up here for a spot of manicuring.’
‘Self-defence, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘Which means this was no accident. And she’s not exactly dressed for a day on the hills, is she? Not dressed for anything much, to be honest.’
‘No.’ Savage glanced back to the car park, just a stone’s throw away. ‘What about a lovers’ tiff which got out of hand? They drove here for a smooch up on the rocks and something went wrong.’
‘A smooch?’ Calter smiled. ‘You’re showing your age, ma’am. I think people go in for more than smooching these days.’
Savage ignored Calter’s jibe. ‘This is surely too close to the road and too public a place to try and conceal a body.’
‘Might have looked different in the dark.’
‘True. But would anyone come here if they hadn’t already visited?’ Savage stood and turned to Layton. The crack was so narrow a full-grown man couldn’t fit down. ‘How are you going to get her out?’
‘Barbara.’ Layton pointed to where a petite woman in a white PPE suit was cresting the top of the ladder. ‘She’s small enough. The only question is, whether she’s brave enough?’
It took the best part of half an hour to extract the body. DC Barbara Hooper was lowered into the gap and managed to attach a harness round the girl which enabled the body to be winched out. The process was painstaking, Layton keen not to cause unnecessary damage to the corpse. He signalled to Savage as the girl was carried down to ground level and laid on a body bag.
‘She’s not been here long,’ Layton said as Savage came over. ‘Twenty-four hours max.’
‘Rigor mortis?’ Savage said as she stared down at the girl’s right hand where the nail file lay in a tight grip. A sparkly dress woven from silver thread had split down one side, the round of a breast partially exposed. Long blonde hair framed a face which wore bright red lipstick and heavy eyeshadow and eyeliner. The make-up looked odd on the now-sallow skin. The girl’s right thigh had a graze down one side, rivulets of dried blood visible on the pale surface.
‘Yes.’ Layton gestured at the car park. ‘But I was thinking more along the lines that this is a popular place, especially at the weekend. During the day, there’d have been witnesses. Which means she was dumped here when it was dark, most probably last night.’
‘There’s no sign of serious trauma,’ Savage said. ‘A few grazes on the arms and legs. That brown mark on her upper thigh.’
‘Interesting.’ Layton nodded as he knelt beside the girl. He pulled out a polygrip bag and a pair of tweezers and began to lift fragments of something from the skin. ‘Red paint and rust,’ he said, once he’d finished. ‘As if she’d brushed against an old piece of metal at some point. The metal caused the graze and left these specks.’
‘Where could they come from?’
‘No idea.’ Layton pushed himself up and turned to Savage. ‘One other thing I noticed when I was, er, down there. She’s not wearing any knickers. Do you think that’s suspicious?’
As one, Layton and Savage turned to Calter.
‘What are you looking at me like that for?’ The DC blushed. ‘I’m no expert.’
Savage rescued Calter. ‘She could have taken them off, and I guess the most likely reason for that would be to have sex.’ She peered down. Layton was correct about the lack of underwear; under the hem of the short dress, she could see the pubic area smooth and shaven, just a thin strip of hair above. ‘Perhaps this is a simple sexual encounter which went wrong.’
‘Dogging?’ Calter said.
Savage looked across to the rock. ‘An exciting place to do it. Up there. The dress suggests she’d been out somewhere, a club or a party. Could she have come here willingly with a lover?’
‘Too cold for me, ma’am, but I get your drift.’ Calter followed Savage’s gaze. ‘She climbed up onto the tor with her partner and then fell between the rocks. If the liaison was a risky one then whoever she was with may not have wanted to report the accident.’
‘Sounds unlikely,’ Layton said. ‘They could have at least made an anonymous phone call to alert someone. Plus an accident doesn’t explain why she’s holding the nail file.’
‘Ma’am?’ Calter touched Savage on the arm and gestured for her to step away. She lowered her voice. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking? The brief?’
‘What brief?’
‘The one from the FBI. Hardin circulated it amongst us junior detectives. More of an exercise than anything. Still, I remember reading that along with the human remains, the cops in the US found partially charred piles of clothing. Dresses, jeans, bras, shoes and socks. No knickers. The conclusion was the killer had taken the knickers away as some kind of trophy.’
Savage stopped a few metres from the body. She remembered scanning one of the FBI reports the night in the hotel. Tiredness had won over the reams of paper and hundreds of bullet points. She must have skipped over the section about the missing underwear. Now she turned back and looked at the girl and weighed the evidence. The victim had been dumped somewhere in the wilderness, had blonde hair just like the girls in the US, and was missing her underwear.
‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘Malcolm bloody Kendwick.’
Chapter Seven (#ulink_54dce6c7-8152-517b-8928-c545b312e639)
Combestone Tor, Dartmoor. Saturday 22nd April. 9.11 p.m.
In the gathering dusk, Savage walked away from the crime scene and over to one of the other sets of rocks. She clambered up to the top and checked her mobile. Yes, she had a decent signal. She called DSupt Hardin. He wasn’t amused to be disturbed.
‘I’m out, Charlotte,’ he blustered into the phone. ‘This had better be good.’
‘There’s a body on Dartmoor,’ Savage said. ‘Female, blonde and with missing knickers. Dumped.’
‘OK, but can’t you deal with this?’ Hardin’s voice came and went and Savage could hear the chink of glasses and the murmur of conversation in the background. ‘I’m at the theatre, just about to take my seat after the interval. I don’t want to miss the second half.’
Savage shook her head. Hardin plainly hadn’t understood the connection.
‘Malcolm Kendwick, sir. He’s a definite for this. I repeat: the victim is female, blonde, she’s not wearing knickers and she’s been dumped in the wilderness.’
‘Kendwick?’ Hardin appeared to have cottoned on. ‘Surely he wouldn’t be so arrogant to kill within a few days of arriving back in the UK? Besides, he dumped the bodies where he thought they’d never be found. This one sounds entirely different.’
‘Perhaps something’s changed inside him,’ Savage said. ‘Serial killers aren’t necessarily cold-blooded and rational. It could be the move from the US has triggered a need to do things differently. Or perhaps he simply craves the attention he’s been receiving recently and wants more of it.’
‘You mean we’re responsible?’
‘Us, the media, the police in the US. We’re not to blame, of course not, but Kendwick has an ego and maybe this is a way for him to flatter himself.’
‘Jesus, Charlotte, you want to arrest him? Tonight?’
‘I want to bring him in for questioning, yes. The sooner the better.’
There was a long pause and then she heard Hardin’s voice muffled and indistinct as if he had his hand over the phone. Eventually he spoke. ‘OK, but by the book. Any sense we’re harassing him and we’ll be in all sorts of trouble.’
‘I thought that’s what you wanted, sir? To harass him.’
‘I wanted to needle him. There’s a subtle difference in approach, do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll keep you informed.’
‘You do that, DI Savage.’
Hardin hung up, leaving her staring across the Dart valley. The light had all but gone and to the east the moor spread like a dark, heaving morass. Here and there a few lights glowed from isolated farmsteads, but mostly there was a near-black nothingness which reached to the horizon. Above the skyline, a lone star hung in the north-east, twinkling against the grey background. Somewhere in that direction lay the town of Chagford, where Malcolm Kendwick would be snug in his little cottage.
Not for long, she thought.
Before she set off for Chagford, Savage called Inspector Nigel Frey and asked about the possibility of sending the Force Support Group to assist with the arrest. There’d be a short wait before they turned up, but she reasoned it would be worth hanging on for their arrival. Frey’s officers would be armed and come equipped to cope with any eventuality. They’d be able to break down the front door and subdue Kendwick should that prove necessary.
‘You think Kendwick’s dangerous?’ Calter asked as they drove away from Combestone Tor, the car’s headlights piercing the darkness. ‘I mean, he won’t resist arrest, will he?’
‘That’s not the point. I don’t think we’ll have a problem but if we go in there with the FSG it will lay a marker down which tells him we’re serious and are, in effect, as bad-ass as the guys over the pond.’
‘I like your thinking.’ Calter smiled. ‘Rough him up a bit, hey?’
‘You said that, not me.’
By the time they got to Chagford, a starry sky hung above the town’s near-empty streets. They parked up a few doors from Kendwick’s place, Savage noting the front-room light was on. A few minutes later her phone rang.
‘We’ve got a possible on the girl, ma’am,’ DC Enders said down the line from the station, his voice squawking for a moment as the signal broke up. ‘Amy Glynn. Nineteen. She’s from Plymouth and was out in town last night. Her parents reported her missing first thing this morning after realising she hadn’t returned home. I’ll email you a picture, but I can tell you she was blonde and wearing a silver dress.’
Savage hung up and then checked her mail. Enders was as good as his word and after a few seconds she had his email. Savage opened the accompanying image and passed the phone to Calter.
‘That’s her, ma’am. Her or her doppelganger.’ Calter peered at the screen before handing the phone back. She shook her head. ‘Poor kid. A few years ago I could have been her.’
‘I can’t see anyone getting the better of you, Jane. What’s that sport you do? Jujitsu?’
‘That and Taekwondo. A bit of Judo too. Mixed martial arts, everyone does it now. But that’s beside the point. Why should women have to learn self-defence in order to feel safe? Still, if some fucker ever tried anything with me, I’d break their … well, you know, ma’am. Let’s say they wouldn’t be hurting anyone ever again.’
Their conversation was interrupted by lights sweeping the interior of their car. Savage turned to see the Force Support Group vehicle rolling up behind them, Inspector Nigel Frey in the front passenger seat. Savage got out of the car to meet him.
‘Nigel,’ Savage said, as Frey hopped down. ‘Thanks for this.’
‘Not a problem,’ Frey said. ‘Quite the opposite. I’ve been reading all about your Mr Kendwick in the papers. Be my pleasure.’
Savage could well imagine. Dressed in black fatigues and with a pistol holstered under his left arm, Frey resembled a life-size Action Man. His notion of policing wasn’t finding lost children or catching speeding motorists, he liked to bash heads. If he wasn’t bashing heads he preferred the waters of Plymouth Sound to the city’s streets. A big police RIB was his plaything and he was often to be found zipping back and forth, buzzing yachts and other pleasure craft. Still, Savage had nothing against Frey since he’d saved her life on two occasions.
Frey made a hand signal back to the van and the side door slid open, four black-clad figures jumping out. Two of them held a big metal battering ram. A patrol car pulled past the FSG vehicle and edged along the street until it was well beyond Kendwick’s place. Then the driver turned the car sideways in the road and both officers got out. A motorcyclist was coming towards them, but the officers waved at the rider to stop.
‘OK, let’s do this, Charlotte,’ Frey said, setting off down the street with Savage trotting along beside him, trying to keep up.
They reached Kendwick’s place and one of the FSG officers bent to the door and peered through the letterbox. He mouthed an ‘all clear’ and stepped aside as two more officers moved to the door with the battering ram. They took a practice swing and then brought the ram crashing down against the Yale lock. The door smashed open, bouncing back shut before another officer shouldered the door and moved inside.
‘Armed police!’ the officer shouted, his weapon raised. ‘Stay where you are and don’t move!’
The other officers ran into the house too, Savage behind them. Kendwick stood in the archway to the little kitchen, a tea towel in one hand and a mug in the other. The first officer braced himself, his finger caressing the trigger on the gun. A red laser dot flickered on Kendwick’s chest.
‘Face down on the floor! Now!’
Kendwick moved slowly but purposefully. He placed the tea towel and mug on a work surface and lowered himself to the floor. One of the other officers went over and yanked Kendwick’s arms behind his back. He clicked a pair of cuffs in place and then pulled the man up. Kendwick winced.
‘Charlotte,’ he said, talking past the huddle of officers and meeting Savage’s eyes. ‘I was just making a pot of tea. Fancy a cuppa?’
Savage pushed forward through the scrum. ‘Malcolm Kendwick, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You don’t have to say anything, but if you do it might be used in evidence.’
‘Say something? Of course I’m going to fucking say something! This is bang out of order. I’ve been back in my home country less than a week and already you’re picking on me. I tell you what, this will be front-page news tomorrow and you lot will be in all sorts of trouble.’
‘I don’t think so, Malcolm,’ Savage said. ‘Nobody knows about this and to be honest I doubt if anyone much cares. You’re yesterday’s news.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Kendwick smirked and his eyes flicked up to the low beams above his head. As he did so, a female voice called out from upstairs.
‘Hello? Can I come down?’
One of the officers wheeled round, his weapon trained on the stairs. ‘Slowly!’ he shouted. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’
A figure emerged into view. High heels, legs encased in sheer nylon, a business-like skirt and jacket. The woman descended the stairs. She had blonde hair in a bouffant style, bright-red lips and plenty of make-up. The hair bounced with every step she took.
‘Lower your weapon,’ Savage said as she moved forward and waved the armed officer away. ‘And you are?’
‘Melissa Stapleton,’ the woman said. The red lips parted in a smile. ‘The Daily Mail.’
‘The bloody Mail, Charlotte?’ Hardin said as he paced the corridor outside the interview room at the custody centre. ‘You don’t think you could have gone one better, do you? Arranged for a live TV broadcast as well, one of those webcam live-streaming things perhaps? YouTube, Facecrap or some other bollocks?’
‘I obviously didn’t realise she was in there,’ Savage said. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t have gone in like we did.’
‘Not “we”, you.’ Hardin jabbed a finger at her to emphasise his point. ‘I specifically told you to go by the book, but instead you called up Nigel Frey and his band of thugs and went in there gung-ho, as if you were taking down the Krays. A battering ram and weapons? Jesus, there was absolutely no need to go storming in like that. I dread to think what the headlines will be in the morning. She heard everything, right?’
Savage nodded. Melissa Stapleton, the Daily Mail’s star feature reporter, had been powdering her nose in the bathroom as Frey’s men had smashed open the door. Kendwick, it turned out, had signed a lucrative deal with the Mail to tell the story of his time in the US. Rough justice abroad. An innocent man facing the death penalty. The icing on the cake for Stapleton would be police harassment in the UK. A live TV crew or webcam wouldn’t be necessary, her lurid prose would paint the picture just as well.
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘Fuck!’ Hardin whirled on his heels, looking for something to take his anger out on. He slammed his fist against a noticeboard and the impact caused a poster on domestic violence to peel away and slide to the floor. The irony was lost on Hardin and he turned again towards the interview room. ‘And the only thing which could be worse than Stapleton’s presence at Kendwick’s house is that lawyer cow being in there with him now. There must be some kind of disease causing mass female delusion, no? How else to explain why two intelligent women would want to have anything to do with Malcolm Kendwick.’
Amanda Bradley was the ‘lawyer cow’ Hardin was talking about. Unfortunately, Stapleton knew how to pull the strings and as soon as Kendwick had been arrested the journalist had been on the phone to Bradley. She had, unsurprisingly, been only too keen to get involved. Savage had tangled many times with Bradley and knew she regarded her with contempt. The feeling was mutual.
‘Sir, we are where we are,’ Savage said. ‘Kendwick is under suspicion of murder, if he’s guilty it won’t matter if he’s got Wonder Woman in there with him.’
‘Huh? Oh, I see. Well then, get in there. Do your stuff.’
A few minutes later, Savage entered the interview room with DC Calter. Kendwick sat at a table with Amanda Bradley alongside. Bradley was, despite the time of night, immaculately turned out in her best suit, the jacket open and several buttons of the shirt undone so as to reveal her ample cleavage. Like Melissa Stapleton, Bradley wore bright-red lipstick. Savage wondered if the colour was a warning. Certainly, the solicitor always meant business and more often than not came out on top.
Savage and Calter pulled out chairs and sat. Bradley bared her teeth, showing what Savage had always assumed were artificially sharpened canines. Kendwick laughed, seemingly in good humour, despite his predicament.
‘I’m hurt, Charlotte,’ Kendwick said. ‘About this evening. You didn’t have to come in there like that. You could have just knocked. I’d have made you a cup of something or maybe poured you a glass of wine. We could have got friendly. Still, I like strong women.’ Kendwick turned to Bradley for a second and then glanced across at Calter and winked. ‘Looks like I’ve got my hands full tonight. I’d better be a good boy, right?’
Savage ignored Kendwick and gestured at Calter. The DC explained the interview procedure and set up the recording equipment.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Kendwick dismissed Calter with a wave. ‘I’ve been through this all before in the States. Mind you, the police can be a bit rough over there. Especially the females.’
‘Where were you yesterday evening, Malcolm?’ Savage said. ‘Specifically, from nine p.m. till three or four in the morning.’
‘You found a body,’ Kendwick said, ignoring the question. His right hand went behind his head and he began to twirl his ponytail round his forefinger. ‘I know because Amanda told me. Shocking. I was obviously wrong about Devon. It’s a dangerous world out there, even in sleepy cream-tea country. Better lock up your daughters.’ Kendwick nodded and gave a little smirk. ‘Especially your daughters, hey, Charlotte? Let them out of your sight for just one minute and they’re gone. Puff.’
Unlike at Kendwick’s place, this time Savage didn’t rise to the bait. The interview was on camera after all. Once more she wondered how the hell Kendwick knew so much about her personal circumstances, knew, it appeared, about the death of her daughter, Clarissa. But then Bradley had probably filled Kendwick in on the details he hadn’t been able to find on the web. She’d have delighted in telling him all about Savage’s problems.
‘Where were you yesterday evening, Malcolm?’ Savage repeated the question, this time speaking slowly and emphasising every word.
‘Look, I understand you’re worried there’s a serial killer on the loose, but you needn’t be concerned about me. The only young lass I’ve been near last night was the barmaid in the Globe Inn. She’s a lovely girl, top-heavy where it counts, know what I mean? Beautiful smile, too. Trouble is, she’s a brunette and, to coin a phrase, gentlemen prefer blondes.’ Kendwick smiled again and then opened his mouth in mock shock. ‘No! Don’t tell me, this new girl, she is blonde?’
‘Stop playing fucking games with us, Malcolm. It’s a bit of a coincidence that a few days after you arrive in Devon a girl is abducted, murdered, and left on the moor. This isn’t a joking matter, so just answer my question. Where were you?’
‘I told you. I was in the pub to start with and then I shifted to a restaurant down the street. I had a leisurely meal and I think I tumbled in to my place around eleven-thirty. I was tucked up in bed and sleeping like a baby by twelve.’
‘So you can’t prove where you were after that?’
Kendwick shrugged. ‘No, not unless a full transcript of my dreams might convince you. Then again, I think I might need to plead the Fifth Amendment before I let you into that little world. My dreams are, well, they’re a little sordid.’
‘Do you know the moor up near Combestone Tor?’
‘No, but it sounds like my kind of place. Is that where the girl was found?’
Savage ignored Kendwick’s question. ‘You’ve never been there then?’
‘Not that I can remember.’ Kendwick shook his head. ‘I guess I could have visited when I lived in Devon years ago.’
‘But not since you’ve been back here?’
‘No, definitely not.’ Kendwick grinned and moistened his top lip with his tongue. ‘Wild, is it? Remote? The sort of place you might hide something if you didn’t want anybody to find it?’
Savage paused. Kendwick was either very good at bluffing or he really knew nothing about Combestone Tor’s proximity to the road and popularity as a picnic spot. She turned to Calter.
‘Mr Kendwick,’ Calter said. ‘You’re aware we’re searching your house?’
‘Malcolm, please.’ Kendwick leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I do so like to be on first-name terms with gorgeous women.’
‘Ms Bradley?’ Calter said, turning to the solicitor. ‘You might like to inform your client that acting like a creepy little slug isn’t going to do his case any good.’
‘Cut the compliments, Malcolm,’ Bradley said. ‘They’re wasted on these two anyway.’
‘Suits me.’ Kendwick shrugged. ‘I’ll save the tongue-work for the barmaid at the pub.’
Savage stared across the table at Kendwick, trying to work out the man. Surely he didn’t believe in his own patter? Likely he was someone who got a thrill out of using his power to subjugate other people. The power could be simple physical force, or it could be psychological. Savage tapped Calter on the arm, encouraging her to go on.
‘As I was saying,’ Calter continued. ‘We’ve got a team going through your house at the moment.’
‘Well, they won’t find much. I only arrived with a couple of bags and haven’t had time to do much shopping yet. I need to get some pictures up, personalise the place, scatter a few little … knick … knick … knick … around the house. What’s the word? Oh yes, knick-knacks.’
‘You’re on dangerous ground, Malcolm,’ Savage said. ‘Are you aware the killer in America took the girls’ underwear as some kind of memento?’
‘He didn’t?’ Kendwick feigned surprise and then half turned to Bradley. ‘Can we get this over and done with, Amanda? These two are making it up as they go along.’
‘How long will the search take, DI Savage?’ Bradley said. ‘Because I assume that once you’ve finished and, provided you’ve found nothing, my client can go.’
‘Mr Kendwick will be released when I’ve satisfied myself he played no part in the killing of this girl. So far your client has been rude and obstructive and we’ve made little progress. I suggest we conclude this session and you try to convince him of the seriousness of the situation. A night in custody will help. We’ll resume in the morning.’
Savage pushed back her chair and stood as Calter officially suspended the interview. Once the recording equipment had been switched off Savage placed both her hands on the table and leaned across towards Kendwick.
‘Look, you little piece of shit,’ Savage said. ‘There’s a young girl lying dead in the morgue and a mother and father grieving for the loss of their daughter. Yet all you can do is make stupid jokes and fill every other sentence with mindless innuendo. We’re going to start again tomorrow and I expect you to be more cooperative. Otherwise—’
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