Authors: Mark Sennen
She parked behind the Sky van, went into the farmyard past a watchful PC, and headed for the field. The temporary aluminium tracks remained in place but the big yellow digger had gone, a huge water bowser in its place. Nearby, the crime scene tent stood in an area of devastation, three new exploratory trenches carving through a landscape of mud and spoil heaps. The pump unit stood idle and the trenches had backfilled with a thin layer of grey sludge. Two CSIs, their white suits plastered with mud, were washing debris through sieves and the resulting discharge trickled down across the field. Savage tracked the stream to where it reached the boundary fence and the railway embankment. Then she went to find John Layton.
When Savage explained her intentions he wasn’t happy.
‘Your call, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but the DSupt won’t like it.’
Layton shook his head and followed Savage down across the field. Two strands of slack barbed wire marked the edge, beyond a hedge in need of attention, the hawthorn trunks thick and ineffective as a barrier. She climbed over the barbed wire, slipped through a break in the hedge and pushed up through some scrub before stepping onto the railway line. The ballast was wide enough for two tracks but only one remained. To the right the track curved back towards the village and the station; to the left the lines of steel headed across the Tavy Bridge and seemed to converge in the distance, pointing almost, Savage thought.
‘That way,’ she said, ‘and I’ll take the rap for any Health and Safety issues.’
Savage knew DSupt Hardin would want things done by the book, in this case meaning getting permission from Network Rail before venturing onto the line. The result being half a dozen men in fluorescent vests tramping along the tracks with them, leaving her no room to think.
‘Over the bridge?’ Layton came through the scrub and then looked up the track away from the crossing. ‘Not back towards Bere Ferrers station?’
‘We’re on a peninsula. It’s a long way to get here from anywhere. Plus the village is tiny. A car parked in a lane would be noticed as being unusual. I reckon the killer came from the Plymouth side.’
‘He dragged the bodies across the bridge?’
‘There are no trains in the middle of the night and in darkness no chance of being spotted. The burial site is only a short way from the end of the bridge.’
Layton shrugged his shoulders and they started walking. The bridge began as a stone structure but after a couple of spans became steel, a series of seven columns forging their way through the rising water of the river Tavy. Halfway across, Layton paused and moved to one side. He peered down into the water at the swirling eddies caused by the incoming tide.
‘We need to dive the area to be sure, but I guess any evidence, such as clothing or a weapon, will be long gone.’
‘What about the heads?’
‘You mean plop, plop, plop?’ Layton looked down into the water again, bit his lip and then shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Charlotte. Whoever removed the heads has most likely kept them as trophies.’
‘Along with the genitals?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great. If we ever find this guy – assuming it is a guy – remind me to let you enter his property first.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure.’ Layton turned from the edge of the bridge and grinned. ‘But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
They walked on and the bridge ended with another stone section, the line arriving at the far bank where woodland came down to the edge of the estuary mud. To the left of the track a chain-link fence hung loose from a set of concrete posts. A light push and you’d be able to hold the fence down while you climbed over it. Even if you were carrying a body. Beyond the fence a rough path wriggled past a number of mature trees and crossed an area filled with saplings. On the other side of the young trees a swathe of mud and gravel ran away from them parallel to the railway line.
‘That track runs to Tamerton Lake,’ Layton said. ‘From there a lane goes to Tamerton Foliot where you’re right on the edge of the city. If your hunch is correct then the killer is away in minutes. Anything goes wrong and he gets spotted burying a body on the peninsula we’d be setting up roadblocks and checking vehicles in totally the wrong place while he hotfoots it over here.’
‘Clever,’ Savage said, ‘but I wonder if there’s more to it than that.’
‘Some connection to the village, you mean?’
‘If he just wanted to dispose of a body there are many places more remote. We’re going to need to trawl through all the Candle Cake Killer stuff.’
‘I don’t recall any of the physical evidence linking to this particular area, but I’ll check.’
‘John?’ Savage stood at the fence and pointed to the top wire where several pieces of thread had snagged.
‘Trying to do me out of a job?’ Layton smiled and then came over, bent and examined the material. ‘Looks like denim. I wouldn’t mind betting this is a shortcut home for kids from the peninsula who’ve missed the last train or bus.’
‘There.’ Savage pointed at something half-hidden behind a tree. She clambered over the fence and stumbled through the undergrowth to a nearby medium-sized oak. A chain encompassed the trunk and then wrapped itself several times around the top tube of a bicycle. A padlock secured the two ends of the chain. Oldish but well-oiled, the bike a little rusty but the tyres inflated and in good condition. ‘I think you’re right, but it’s not just kids. Someone is using the route regularly, maybe as a commute to work.’
‘Crafty bugger.’
‘Well, it would save them miles by going this way. A quick walk down to the bridge, across and then take the bike along that.’ Savage looked through the trees to where the track snaked away from them. ‘It’s only a mile or so to the edge of the city.’
‘Unlikely they would have seen anything.’
‘Unlikely, but possible. They could have been doing the journey for years.’
Layton joined her at the tree for a moment before moving off towards the track.
‘Get a four-by-four down here,’ he said as he peered up and down the rutted surface. ‘Not a car though, not without a risk of getting stuck. And an hour from here and you’re anywhere in Devon.’
‘So if my hypothesis is correct, the killer drives in from this end at night, takes the body over the bridge when it’s quiet and there are no trains, and buries it in the field. That part of the farm is well away from the farmhouse so they’ve got several hours of darkness to do their work. The area is covered with scrub and small trees so the dump site is shielded from the field. As Joanne Black said, she or her farmworker could pass within a few metres and not see anything.’
‘Jesus.’ Layton pulled his phone out. ‘We’re going to have to do a fingertip search of the railway line and the whole of this area. Been a year ago or more, but given it’s not a regular thoroughfare – Mr Shortcut excepted – we might get something.’
‘The rail company? I was hoping to avoid them.’
‘Not now, boss. Can’t have my guys and girls on the line with trains coming back and forth. We’re at least going to need some guidance on how to proceed. My guess is they’ll send a crew down. Be some jobsworth in charge as well. Sorry.’
Layton shrugged and began to punch in a number as Savage strolled up the muddy track. The direct link into Plymouth crystallised the problems they were up against, she thought. ‘Anywhere in Devon’ Layton had said. Which meant
anyone
in Devon. And the population of the county was well over one million people.
Back home after your trip to town and your mate Mikey holds up the
Sun
, grins an inane smirk and points to the headline.
‘Scream Teas.’
You like it. Trust the nation’s favourite rag to come up with something special for you. This isn’t what it’s about – the fame and glory – but you’re flattered nonetheless. However, you know you mustn’t believe your own press. You’re not some preening celebrity or a politician bending to every whim.
Mikey points to the date on the paper’s masthead and shrugs, making a mock, clown-like sad face. The poor mutt can’t say much, doesn’t really understand the Gregorian calendar, but he knows the Special Day is coming soon. He puts the paper down and slips one hand inside his trousers and you see him begin to move his hand rhythmically.
‘Outside!’ you say, pointing to the door and Mikey scampers from the room, his demeanour somewhere between a monkey and a stallion.
You shake your head. The boy is crazy, but he helps you run the place, provides the muscle power. His strength is frightening at times, but he’s as good a guard dog as your Rottweiler, his blank staring eyes and gaping mouth usually enough to put off casual visitors even before they’ve opened the gate to the yard.
Yesterday it was a rep selling solar panels. Some rip-off scheme no doubt. From the kitchen window you watched the man get out of his Audi and move to the gate. Mikey was chopping logs in the shed, but he must have heard the car because out he came, scampering across the yard with the dog alongside, a big smile on his face.
The bunch of colourful brochures under the rep’s arm slipped down and, caught by the breeze, they whisked themselves through the bars of the gate and landed in a large puddle. The man opened his mouth to say something as Mikey uttered one of his guttural wails and then thought better of it. He moved back to the car, jumped in and reversed along the track even as Mikey was picking up the soggy brochures and raising a thumb in appreciation of the glossy pictures.
Now, you shake your head as you watch Mikey cross the yard. The dog scampers out of its kennel and barks, wanting to play, but right now Mikey’s not interested. He shouts at the dog and enters his little shiplap shed. He keeps his puzzle magazines and God-knows-what-else in there. The rep’s brochures are probably in there too, although you doubt Mikey is going to look at them now.
Ten minutes later and he’s in the yard again. On his pogo stick. Boing, boing, boing. That great grin of his, the lopsided face, tongue hanging out, his mind concentrating on staying upright. But upright doesn’t last for long. He falls and smacks his head on the ground, the mark of the graze visible. The pogo stick gets flung to one side and Mikey scrabbles in a clump of dock. ‘That’s for nettles, you idiot,’ you feel like shouting out the window, but maybe you’re wrong and anyway, it will save on the cost of a plaster.
Mikey wipes a piece of dock leaf on his forehead and then looks over to the window. You tap the glass and point at the pile of white silica gravel sparkling at one side of the yard. ‘Get on with your job,’ you mouth. Mikey shrugs and goes back to moving the stones from one side of the yard to the other. He takes up his shovel and begins to load the wheelbarrow. You are not really sure why you asked him to move the stuff, but it gives him something to do.
Best not wear out your workhorse though, as you’re going to need his help and you don’t want him tired. Not with what’s coming.
Princetown, Dartmoor. Monday 16th June. 12.37 p.m.
As Enders drove out of the prison car park and back through Princetown, Riley opened the file the Governor had given them and began to leaf through the bundle of paper.
‘Not much more in here, Patrick. Nothing to suggest a reason for him going missing. Not on his kid’s fifth birthday. I mean, even if you are having an affair or something you don’t leave like that, do you?’
‘Darius?’ Enders jabbed a finger at the windscreen.
They had left Princetown and were heading westward across the moor. The road wound into the distance, climbing a low rise next to a stand of pines. A queue of cars snaked back towards them. At its head a patrol car was drawn across the road, blue light strobing. A Volvo estate had pulled onto the verge near the copse, the rear door up, a jumble of plastic containers and toolboxes in the back.
They approached the queue and overtook, coasting by on the right and ignoring the glares from inside the stationary cars. They stopped next to the patrol car and got out. There was no sign of Campbell and the rescue group, but it appeared as if they’d found something. The patrol officer inspected Riley’s ID and pointed down the road. A series of white lines had been spray-painted onto the tarmac and John Layton knelt next to one of them, tweezers in one hand, plastic container in the other. Riley walked down the road to the CSI officer. Layton glanced up as he neared, tipped his battered Tilley hat back with one finger and held up the tweezers.
‘Good of you to come out, John,’ Riley said. ‘From what I hear you’ve got a lot on your plate.’
‘Dog’s dinner, mate, but I didn’t have much choice. Got a call on my phone. Only the bloody CC. He was quite firm on the matter.’ Layton’s eagle-like eyes darted from Riley back to the tweezers as he held them over the container and dropped a glittering shard of plastic in. He screwed on a lid and shoved the container into one of the many deep pockets in his tan raincoat. ‘Red and silver plastic. From a reflector. Some metallic blue paint on there. Could have come from a collision with a car.’
‘Bit of a long shot, isn’t it?’ Riley said. ‘It might be from anywhere.’
‘There’s some blood on the road surface too. Plus the rescue bods found a bicycle pump away from the road, down in a clump of heather, as if it had been thrown there.’
‘Corran’s?’
‘A Bontrager Air Support pump. Distinctive, and according to his missus, Corran’s bike had one.’
‘No sign of the bike though?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So what do you think happened?’
‘Well …’ Layton spotted another piece of plastic on the road and bent and repeated his tweezer, container, pocket action of earlier before standing and pointing to a clump of heather encircled with blue and white tape. ‘That’s where the pump was found. Apart from the marks made by the person who found the pump, nobody has walked the ground nearby in the last few days. My guess is Corran was knocked off his bike and whoever hit him picked up the bike and took it with them. Corran as well. The pump probably came dislodged from the bike and they flung the pump out there thinking no one would ever find the thing.’