The Boneyard: A gripping serial killer crime thriller. Mark Sennen
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.
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.