Kitabı oku: «BAD BLOOD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel», sayfa 6

Chapter Eight

The Hoe, Plymouth. Wednesday 16th January. 10.14 a.m.

Outside the toilet block, the pathway had been cordoned off for fifty metres in both directions and Hoe Road had been closed. A team of half a dozen white-suited officers were working their way along the path and the grassy bank adjoining the road. John Layton was standing by some steps which led down to the road, talking into his phone again. Whoever was on the other end this time was getting a right earful. Layton ended the call and came across to Savage and Denton.

‘Bloody jokers. The head honcho at the council in charge of toilets says he wants his crew to dismantle the cubicle. If we take the thing apart he says he’ll bill us for any damage. Tosser.’

‘So?’ Savage said. ‘Let them do the job.’

‘He won’t call the crew out here until late afternoon because he’ll miss his overtime targets if they abandon the job they started this morning. What are we supposed to do, twiddle our thumbs while fatso decomposes in there? Jobsworth.’

‘You and the mortuary recovery lads do it. If they send us a bill then we will bung one back for removing the body.’

‘Good idea,’ Layton nodded his assent and then began to fill Savage in on his team’s progress. ‘You’ve seen the victim, he’s bloody massive. To get him into the toilets must have been a horrendous task. I reckon you would need two or more people, unless someone could have driven a vehicle along this access path.’

‘And could they?’

‘Look, the route leads back to the Hoe.’ Layton pointed along the thread of black tarmac. The path curled to the right and joined the wide expanse of pavement which covered the top of the Hoe. ‘There are any number of access points, but they all have either locked barriers or bollards.’

‘I’ll get the local inquiry team to check if they are all secure.’

‘The other alternative is bringing the body up these steps. Two people might manage that. Two strong people.’

‘CCTV?’ Savage glanced up at the nearby lamp posts, hoping she would spot a white box with a lens pointing in their direction.

‘Nope. None near here.’

‘Too much to expect.’

‘Don’t worry, Charlotte. When Nesbit has finished I’ll get my lot inside. We’ll find something. We always do. Mind you, life would be easier if he was the killer.’ Layton pointed along the path to where DC Enders was returning from the café, two hands clamped around three cups of steaming coffee. At every step a sprinkle of liquid splashed over the rims, leaving a trail on the ground.

‘Hey, what are you lot laughing at?’ Enders said, holding the cups out for Savage to take one. Layton went to grab a cup, but Enders grunted that it was for Nesbit, nodding to where the pathologist was hopping on one foot as he tried to get out of his protective suit.

When Nesbit came over, Enders gave him the cup. Nesbit took a sip and Savage asked for his conclusions.

‘Coffee’s not bad, not bad at all,’ Nesbit said, winking at her. ‘As for our friend back in the toilets, I can tell you he didn’t expire in such an undignified position. However, he must have been moved soon after death otherwise he could never have been arranged in that pose.’

‘Because of rigor?’

‘Yes. The body would have become so stiff after a few hours it could never have been placed in the kneeling position.’

‘And wherever he was killed there would have been a lot of blood?’

‘I’d say the place would have resembled an abattoir after the task had been done. Unless he was dead before the hand was cut off, but we won’t know that until the post-mortem.’ Nesbit took a gulp of coffee and then poured the rest into the hedge. ‘Now, one of the CSIs told me they do a fine bacon roll at the café so if you’ll excuse me, I am going to ascertain if he was correct.’

‘I hope he’s washed his hands, ma’am,’ Denton shook his head as Nesbit strolled off. ‘I mean, you saw the state of the man’s arse.’

‘Thanks for reminding me of that delightful vision, Carl,’ Savage said. She nodded at Enders. ‘Patrick, Carl, you continue working with the local team here. I’m going back to the station to report to DSupt Hardin and DCI Garrett that we have found Mr Owers. Arse and all.’

The DSupt’s greeting as she entered his office was hardly welcoming.

‘Fuck it, Charlotte. This is the last thing we bloody need.’ He swivelled his chair away from the computer and leant forwards, hands clasped together. On the desk in front of him was an array of Post-it notes, lines of Hardin’s careful block writing across each.

Savage nodded and took a seat as Hardin continued. Trying to find Owers’ killer would be a nightmare, he explained. They’d be up against a wall of silence, nobody wanting to shop someone who in many people’s eyes would be a hero. Unearthing the story behind the girl in the crate would lead to misery all round, what with the grieving parents, disgruntled social workers, outraged local residents and the wrath of the press. No good could come of the investigation into either death. Hardin paused.

‘Where’s the bugger been?’ Hardin reached out and tapped the calendar on the wall. ‘You were round his place Monday and he was killed Tuesday night. Whoever made the connection made it pretty quickly.’

‘No, sir. I think it was the other way around. Owers was seen near his place with two men on Sunday night, one suspected of being Stuart Chaffe. The body of Simza wasn’t dug up until the following morning.’

‘Hey?’ Hardin glanced at the calendar again and then back to Savage. ‘Tell me.’

‘The builders weren’t supposed to be there. The whole thing was a set-up.’

‘So somebody already knew the girl was under the patio?’

‘That’s my guess. Peter Serling was contacted last week and he scheduled his men to do the job at Lester Close on Monday. It looks like Owers went missing Sunday night.’

‘So why now?’

‘Maybe some new information came to light, maybe Owers told somebody, maybe there was more than one person involved in the girl’s abduction.’

‘That is one possibility I don’t want to consider,’ Hardin said. He stared down at his desk at the Post-its and selected one, peeling the yellow paper off the surface and scrumpling it up. ‘Now, DCI Garrett will continue to handle the case of the little one. We will spin off the investigation into Franklin Owers’ death into a separate operation and you’ll be the SIO. You are to cooperate fully with Brougham at all times. The death of a child must take precedence over that of an adult, especially when the adult concerned is in all probability the murderer.’

‘Senior Investigating Officer,’ Savage said, thinking she should be grateful to be offered the lead role in the inquiry but casting her mind back to the toilets on the Hoe, the stench of piss and shit and Owers’ trousers round his ankles. She wondered if it was time for a career change to Traffic. ‘Yes. Thank you, sir.’

Hardin lobbed the little ball of paper across the room towards the wastepaper bin where it hit the rim and bounced out. He appeared not to have noticed as he turned back to his computer and began typing.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Job done.’

Budgeon sat next to Stuey in the white transit parked halfway along Maxwell Road, in the Cattedown area of the city. The place was basically a huge industrial estate, with the emphasis very much on the industrial, evidenced by the huge BOC gases plant just to their left. Its towering white storage containers and rows of bottled oxygen hinted at one almighty explosion should anyone ignore the numerous ‘No Smoking’ signs plastered on every surface.

Stuey flicked the remains of his fag out of the window and then grinned across at Budgeon, the skin on his gaunt face resembling tissue paper stretched over chicken wire.

‘Fucking hell, Stuey. You trying to get us killed?’ Budgeon pointed at a sign on the wire fence a couple of car lengths away.

‘Shit.’ Stuey peered out the window down at the road surface where the glowing end smouldered on the tarmac. ‘S’alright. Not going anywhere.’

‘At this rate, neither are we. You sure about this?’

‘Sure I’m sure.’ Stuey’s bony fingers grasped the steering wheel as he leant forwards to peer along Maxwell Road towards a small brownfield site where a Portakabin stood next to an open-sided corrugated shed. ‘Dowdney works mornings until one and then knocks off. Takes this route home for lunch every day. Clockwork.’

Dave Dowdney. In his fifties now. Running a crappy taxi company – when he wasn’t chucking away his profits down the bookies or pissing them away at his local. Once he’d been right up there as Big K’s muscle-boy. The same sort of relationship Budgeon had had with Stuey. Only Dowdney was a bit brighter than Stuey. Maybe a bit too bright for his own good.

When Frankie had been screaming, he’d blurted out something about Dowdney.

‘What?’ Budgeon had said, moving in close and sliding a hand around Frankie’s throat.

‘Way back, Ricky, way back!’ Frankie slobbered and slithered, wobbling like a pink blancmange on a butcher’s block. ‘I tell you, it was Dowdney!’

Dowdney? Budgeon had thought. Didn’t seem right. Dowdney was bright, but not that bright. Not that stupid either. Then again, maybe he had the information Budgeon wanted. The confirmation. Thinking about Dowdney had also given Budgeon an idea concerning the man’s taxi company. Good ol’ Davy could do him a little favour.

‘Here we go,’ Stuey said, tapping the windscreen as a hunched man came down the steps from the Portakabin and trudged across the waste-ground in front of it. ‘That’s Dowdney.’

Budgeon waited until Dowdney had crossed the road and was nearing them before clicking the door open and stepping down from the van. Dowdney looked wasted, a shell of the man who had boxed down the gym three decades ago. Sparred with a world champ, rumour had it. Now the only rounds would be those at the bar, supplemented with cheap take-out cider.

‘Dave,’ Budgeon said, as if it had been days rather than decades. ‘How’s things?’

‘Hey?’ Dowdney stopped trudging along and looked up. Diverted his gaze from Budgeon to Stuey and then back again. ‘Ricky? It can’t be, not old Ricky Budgeon.’

‘You’re the old one, Dave,’ Budgeon said. ‘Down on your luck too. If you get my drift.’

Dowdney shifted his stance and for a moment Budgeon thought he’d raise his fists too, but the arms stayed by his sides, drooping like the man’s expression.

‘Ricky … I didn’t, I mean she—’

‘Just a word, Dave. Somewhere quiet.’ Budgeon gestured to the rear of the van where Stuey was opening the doors. ‘I’ve come back to sort a few things out and I think you might be able to lend a hand.’

Budgeon swung a punch at Dowdney’s abdomen and Dowdney groaned and collapsed to the ground. Didn’t even change his stance or offer any resistance.

‘Pathetic,’ Budgeon said as Dowdney scrabbled at the pavement with one hand, trying to find purchase to push himself up.

Then Budgeon stamped on his fingers.

Savage went back downstairs in search of DS Gareth Collier. She found him outside in the car park, smoking.

‘Corulus,’ he said as she came over. ‘The name for the Franklin Owers investigation.’

The office manager was in shirtsleeves, as if the month was June, not January. Military discipline, thought Savage. Impervious to discomfort, opprobrium or pressure, Savage knew that he would ensure the inquiry would run as if on rails.

‘You’ve confirmed the initial ID then?’ Savage asked.

‘One of the DCs has forsaken Twitter for long enough to pull up some stuff and he’s found some better pictures. Mr Owers is not licking piss from a toilet rim, but you can tell it’s him alright. Turns out he’s got no close family, so I’m not sure who’s going to officially identify him.’

‘Has Hardin given you everything you want?’

‘We’ve got a fair few bodies up there. Considering.’ Collier waved a hand up at the grey concrete building, coughed and stubbed his cigarette out on the side of a bin. His sense of discipline didn’t extend to quitting smoking, something he’d been trying to do for years. ‘Although I wouldn’t exactly say they are raring to go.’

Collier was right; when Savage returned to Major Crimes she found that a Friday afternoon atmosphere had set in. And it was only Wednesday.

People had scattered themselves around the room in ones or twos, some holding steaming cups of tea or coffee, Enders back from the scene and munching on a jumbo-sized Mars Bar as he typed an email one-handed. Nobody looked in any way eager to get stuck into the case, apart from Calter who sat at a chair near the whiteboard taking notes.

Over in a corner, DS Riley was sorting his things. On his desk a number of paper clips had been arranged to spell out the words ‘bye bye’ and he was shuffling a pile of documents, sliding the sheets one by one into a nearby recycling bin. Unusually for him, several buttons on his shirt were undone and his jacket and tie hung over the back of his chair. Enders sat staring at his screen, but every now and then casting a glare at the DS.

‘Ma’am?’ Enders turned his head and called across the room. ‘I can well understand these cuts the Government are bringing in. From where I am sitting there is a hell of a lot of slack in the system.’

A paper dart flew past Enders’ head and Riley began to first hum and then sing a song in a language which sounded a little like French.

‘Darius,’ Savage said. ‘Can I infer from your behaviour that you don’t have a lot on at the moment?’

‘Everything done, ma’am. The Sternway final report filed, all my paperwork up to date and every last email answered. Just waiting for the little hand to move down to the five and then I am off. Spending tomorrow packing and then first thing Friday morning … whoosh!’ Riley held his hand out flat and then moved it diagonally upwards and began to sing again, this time in English but with a strong Caribbean accent. Savage recognised the song as ‘Jamaican Farewell’.

‘Have you summarised those notes from the PACT meeting we attended last week?’

‘No, ma’am. I thought they didn’t need to be done until the end of—’

‘Well?’

‘Sure, yes.’ Riley leant forwards to his keyboard as the dart skimmed back and landed on his desk, sliding into the paper clips and disturbing the neat pattern of letters.

‘Members of the Corulus team, listen up,’ Savage said. She strolled up to the whiteboard where a photo of Owers had star billing. In the picture Owers stood by the side of an outdoor swimming pool, bloated, pink and sneering at the camera. Behind him, three young girls played in the shallow end. Little bikinis, smiles and an innocence which came from not knowing about the predilections of the man standing a few paces away.

‘Franklin Owers was a paedophile,’ she continued. ‘He was convicted a good number of years ago for a vicious assault on a six-year-old girl, so let’s not pretend any of us are crying into our school milk over his death. Certainly not me.’

‘Too true,’ someone said from the back of the room.

‘But whoever killed him was prone to extreme and sadistic violence themselves. I doubt Mr Owers is the only person to have suffered at the hands of the perpetrator. Which means catching him, her, or them is top priority. Now, DC Enders has got more on our victim. Patrick?’

‘Aged forty-four,’ Enders said, picking a sheaf of papers up from his desk and moving across to the whiteboard. ‘An accountant by training, but after a minor, non-custodial conviction he was kicked out of the ACCA.’

‘Which is?’ asked Calter.

‘Um …’ Enders peered down at his papers and ran his finger across the page. ‘The Association of Chartered Certified Accountants. Apparently the offence was something to do with a dodgy submission of a tax return for a bogus travel agency. After that he seems to have been happy enough with straight bookkeeping, but it looks like he wasn’t able to get a proper job so he set up on his own. Convicted ten years ago for assaulting a six-year-old girl. He got twelve years, out in seven.’

‘That’s what passes for justice these days,’ Denton said. ‘Bloody disgrace.’

‘Anyway,’ Enders continued, pointing at a photocopy of the black business card stuck on the board. ‘After he was released he still couldn’t get a job so continued in self-employment. He called the new business Fastwerks. The office on Notte Street specified on his card proved to be phony. Nothing there but a little lobby area with a pigeonhole his mail was left in. We’ve found some paperwork which shows he did accounts for a number of small businesses in the Stonehouse area: the newsagent just round the corner from his flat, a small boatyard, a couple of the local pubs, several other firms too. I guess that’s why he decided to move over there.’

‘Could there be anything in that, ma’am?’ Calter said.

‘What?’ Enders said. ‘Someone gets mad because Owers gets a few decimal points in the wrong place? Not what I’d call a motive.’

‘Jane, you can follow up on that,’ Savage said. ‘Make sure actions are in place for all the people and businesses he was working for. Patrick will help you. Carl, I want you to try and find out about Owers’ social life. Who he mixed with, if he had any friends. As part of his licence terms he wasn’t allowed access to the internet, but he may have got round the restriction somehow so don’t leave the web out of your search. There’s a USB stick which Hi-Tech Crimes are looking at too and I am going to be speaking to a member of his MAPPA team tomorrow.’

Savage glanced around at the rest of the team. They still didn’t look enthused. To be fair, she still didn’t feel enthused either.

‘So, what do we think?’ she said.

‘A vigilante killing?’ Calter said, looking up from her note, taking.

‘You mean the parents of the little girl he assaulted?’ Denton said. ‘A traveller family. I reckon they might have connections.’

‘Here we go,’ Enders said, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath. ‘Need a crimo? I’ve got loads. Paddies, gyppos, blacks, Pakis, long-haired hippies, anyone with a “funny” accent, anyone who doesn’t—’

‘Are you calling me prejudiced?’ Denton said, pushing his chair back as he began to get up. ‘Because if you are, then I’m going to—’

‘DC Enders, Denton. Enough!’ Savage said. ‘For God’s sake grow up the pair of you. This is a murder investigation, not a playground.’

Thirty minutes later, after designating actions to the other officers on the team, Savage wound the meeting up. Despite the earlier tension, nobody jumped out of their seats and ran from the room, nobody seemed excited or motivated. Calter came across as Savage was about to leave. She nodded over to where three DCs were chatting about last night’s telly.

‘Tough, ma’am. I don’t think you could get this lot moving even if you offered a ten thousand pound reward.’

‘I’m going to ask you again,’ Budgeon said, feeling the thumping pressure build in his forehead, trying to ignore it and stay calm. ‘Was she the one?’

‘No, Ricky. Never. I told you. Not Lynn.’

Dave Dowdney tippy-toed back and forth across the barn floor, on pointe like a prima ballerina. His hands were above him, reaching for the ceiling, pulled upwards by the rope around his wrists. Two of the fingers on his right hand pointed off in an impossible angle, the skin around the joints black and swollen from where Budgeon had stamped on his hand. The rope went from his wrists up to a beam and then down to a hook in the wall. Beside Budgeon, Stuey grinned like the Cheshire Cat on acid. Inflicting pain was what Stuey got off on and right now he bounced around, eager to get down to business.

‘I know you told me,’ Budgeon said, ‘but I don’t believe you, because you ain’t giving me any other names.’

‘I can’t, Ricky. I don’t know. Must’ve been some bloke. One of the lads who worked for you and Big K.’

‘But they did it on the orders of Big K himself. Him or Lexy. Does that sound right?’

‘Honestly, Ricky, I don’t know. It was way back.’

Budgeon stepped away from Dowdney, turned into the shadows. He spat on the back of his hand and rubbed the spit into his brow where it cooled, easing the tension. Not Lynn. Not the woman he’d once loved. That was good to hear. Anything else would have been too much to bear.

A couple of weeks ago he’d heard it from her own lips. They’d met up in one of the car parks at the Eden Project. The vast domes looked like they were from a science-fiction movie, sitting alien in the Cornish landscape. Lynn had wanted to go in, but Budgeon hadn’t. Not after he’d seen the way she looked. He needed a drink. ‘My place,’ he’d said, climbing back into his Porsche and giving her the address, remembering that the girl had gone out for the day, taking the kid with her. Back home, he’d asked Lynn the same questions he was asking Dowdney. Only, hearing her answers, he’d believed her. Or rather, he’d believed the woman she’d once been. The pathetic lump sitting in his living room, drinking his Scotch, didn’t resemble anyone he’d ever known. And yet in her eyes there was a glint of something, maybe just a memory. Everything else had gone, wiped out by Big K, a failed marriage, and a string of men ending with Dowdney. Nothing much left but regret and resentment.

Dowdney. If he was telling the truth about Lynn, then what about the rest of it? For a moment Budgeon wondered if he’d got the other stuff wrong too and perhaps the words Big K sent to him in prison all those years ago were true?

We don’t know who split on us, Ricky, but we’re going to find them, sort them. Pay them back.

Bollocks.

He hadn’t believed it back then and he didn’t now. ‘Some bloke’ was Dowdney’s attempt at self-preservation. There was no one else. He knew that. Stuey knew it. Fucking Dave Dowdney knew it too. The coolness had gone and the pulse in his head made him clench his teeth and then ball his fists so his nails could dig into his palms.

‘Bloody liar!’ Budgeon whirled round and rushed at Dowdney. He raised his hands and grabbed Dowdney’s ears, then jerked the man’s head at the same time as he pushed his own forward and smashed the top of it into Dowdney’s nose. There was a crunch like a walnut cracking and Dowdney screamed.

‘Oh God!’ Dowdney snorted and then a fine spray of blood spurted out. Budgeon dodged to one side.

‘Nice one, Ricky,’ Stuey said, bouncing on his feet, hands held up in a southpaw stance. ‘Can I have at him, can I?’

‘You and Lynn,’ Budgeon said, waving Stuey away. ‘I hear you’re an item. That right?’

‘’S’pose so,’ Dowdney sobbed. ‘’S’only recent. Never knew you was coming back.’

‘Told you, Ricky,’ Stuey said. ‘He’s been porking her. Every night in that office.’

‘Leave it, Stuey.’ Budgeon moved across to the workbench. ‘Get his trousers off, keks too.’

‘No!’ Dowdney wailed and then snivelled. Blood ran down from his nose and dribbled off the end of his chin. ‘Ricky, please, listen. The police got lucky, heard a rumour, nobody snitched on you.’

Budgeon retrieved something which resembled a pair of pliers from the bench and returned to Dowdney. He moved up close, spittle oozing from his mouth.

‘You fucking loser, Dave. You think you can fool me? Stupid Ricky. The dumb one. The ugly fucking duckling. You think you can screw my girl and get away with it?’

‘No, Ricky. It wasn’t like that. You’ve been gone for years. I never knew you were coming back.’ Dowdney swung to the left as Stuey pulled his jeans down, bunched them at his ankles and then grinned as he reached for the off-white boxers.

Budgeon shook his head. Felt something like a cigarette burning behind his right eye. Dowdney’s face blurred and then distorted into a mass of white dots. Budgeon closed his eyes. His usual defence mechanism. The grey descended. Calm. Focus. Lynn was as old as Dowdney. Her body sagged in the same way and her sparkle had faded. The allure of the beautiful woman from back then had gone. She worked for Dowdney now as a taxi driver and gave her fares blowjobs for an extra twenty. Ten if that was all they had. Budgeon reminded himself that this wasn’t supposed to be about her. Not any more. This was about the others.

‘Forget about Lynn,’ Budgeon said, opening his eyes. ‘Just tell me whose fucking idea it was? Big K’s, Lexy’s, or are you telling me it was a coincidence? Five thousand cars up that motorway every bloody hour and they decide to stop me an’ Stuey? Rotten luck, Ricky old boy, mustn’t have liked the colour of your motor.’

‘You ask him, Ricky,’ Stuey said. ‘Ask him which fucker decided to shaft us.’

‘This is an elastrator.’ Budgeon said, ignoring Stuey and instead holding up the tool he’d retrieved from the workbench. He slipped a tiny but thick rubber ring over the end. ‘As the name suggests it’s a tool used for castration. Lambs, calves, kids. There’s no blood or anything because it uses an elastic band. You snap the band on and in a couple of days the bollocks just shrivel up and drop off. Only you wouldn’t really call this thing an elastic band. It’s a bit too powerful for that.’

Budgeon gripped the handles and the rubber ring flexed open. He let go and the band snapped shut, the internal diameter of the ring no bigger than a pencil.

‘Jesus, Ricky! I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you! For God’s sake there’s no need to go any further.’

‘Too late for that, Dave. This is going on. Whether we take you to hospital afterwards depends on whether you can give me any names. Whether for once in your pathetic little life you can tell the truth. Whether you promise to help me sort things out.’

‘Yes! Anything!’

‘Can I do it, Ricky?’ Stuey said, eyes like a dog wanting a treat.

‘Go on then.’ Budgeon handed Stuey the Elastrator and stepped back. Watched Stuey kneel in front of Dowdney. Dowdney swirled and pirouetted again, swinging back and forth as he tried to escape the inevitable. Stuey’s thin fingers reached out and clutched at Dowdney’s testicles, cupping them as he brought the tool up to meet them. Stuey muttered in frustration as he struggled to slip the tool on. Budgeon looked away for a moment. Wondered if the pain was going to be as bad as the one boiling over inside his head.

Then Dowdney screamed long and loud, and Budgeon reckoned it might just be.