CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen
hadn’t come through the farmyard then the only other way in was to carry the bodies along the railway line. It would have been hard work, but flat.
Savage nodded over at the track. Explained her thinking about the railway line to Enders.
‘What, risk getting electrocuted, ma’am?’ Enders said, the wrapper from his Mars Bar slipping from his hand. He bent to pick it up. ‘Or run over by a train?’
‘There are only a few a day,’ Joanne said. ‘None at night. And they’re diesels.’
‘So,’ Savage said, ‘someone could walk across the bridge or down from the village with no worries. They could have parked somewhere adjacent to the line and then climbed over the fence. After dark it would be unlikely they’d be spotted.’
‘But why me? Why my farm?’
‘There could be a reason, but maybe this just seemed like a good place.’
‘Fantastic.’ Joanne moved away from the tent and gazed across the field. ‘How long are you going to be here? I’ve got people in the holiday cottages from the middle of the week.’
‘You’ll have to put them off, I’m afraid. Sorry.’
‘Bugger.’ Joanne shook her head. ‘You must think me heartless, thinking about my own financial worries after what’s happened to those people.’
‘Not at all. After all, none of this is your fault and it must be hard—’
‘Being a woman? Would you say that if I was a man?’
‘No,’ Savage smiled, ‘but then your life wouldn’t be so hard, would it?’
‘It’s the attitude which gets me. I am not sure why a woman shouldn’t be able to drive a tractor or worm a cow. I’ll admit I leave banging in fence posts to Jody, but other than that I’m as good as the next.’ Joanne turned to Enders. ‘Dear Lord, listen to me, I sound like some ball-breaker from the last century.’
‘Don’t mind me.’ Enders raised his hands. ‘I’m only against feminists when they come armed with scissors.’
‘I’m not that type. Although I might make an exception for blokes who drop litter …’
‘Never again,’ Enders said as he fumbled in his pocket to check he still had the wrapper. ‘Promise.’
Chapter Three
Today the Big Knife is safe at home. You never take it with you on your reconnaissance missions. That would be much too dangerous. The knife has a mind of its own and can only be allowed to come out on one day a year. The Special Day. Not far off now. Not long to wait. There’s just the small matter of selecting your victim. Truth be told though, this one, like the others, selected herself. Free will. A wonderful thing. But people should use it wisely, make their choices with care. And accept the consequences of their decisions.
You watch as she steps out of her house. A lovely young woman. Slim, slight even. Long brown hair tied back. A white blouse hiding small breasts. A grey skirt hiding dirty secrets. The blue gloss door swinging shut, closing on the life she led before. She turns to lock the deadlock. Click. Can’t be too careful these days. Not that it makes any difference. She’s yours – and nothing anyone can do or say will make any difference. She made the only decision which matters years ago. No going back now.
At the kerb she looks up the street and waves at a neighbour. Exchanges a greeting. An au revoir, she’d call it, being a French teacher. You’d call it a goodbye.
The little blue Toyota she gets into matches the colour of the front door. It’s a Yaris. 1.2 sixteen valve. The colour match is a nice touch, intentional or not. It’s little things like that which catch your attention. Simple things. Serendipity. Chance. These days so much else is too complicated to understand.
Like your dishwasher.
The thought comes to your mind even as you know you should be concentrating on the girl. Only you can’t now. Not when you are considering the dishwasher problem.
This morning you came down to breakfast to find the machine had gone wrong. You took a screwdriver to the rear and pulled the cover off, expecting to find a few tubes and a motor, something easy to fix.
No.
Microchips. And wire. Little incy-wincy threads of blue and gold and red and black and green and yellow and purple weaving amongst plastic actuator switches and shut-off valves. Pumps and control units, fuses and God-knows-what.
Except God doesn’t know. Not anymore. That’s the problem.
Once he knew everything. Then man came along and took over God’s throne, claimed to know everything. Now nobody knows everything.
You called the dishwasher repair guy out to take a look. He knows dishwashers. What about TVs?
You asked him as he worked on the machine and he said ‘No, not TVs.’
His words worried you, but then you remembered you don’t have a TV. You never liked the way the bits of the picture fly through the air into the set. That means pieces of people’s bodies are passing through you. Not just their teeth and hair – the nice bits you see on the screen – but their shit and piss, their stomach contents. All of it has to come from the studio to your house and the thought of the stuff floating around your living room makes you gag.
‘Fridges?’ you said, swallowing a mouthful of spit.
‘Yes, fridges. Can find my way around a fridge. At least to grab a tinny or two.’
The way he smiled and then laughed you weren’t sure if he was joking or not. Hope not. You don’t like jokes. At least, not ones like that.
‘Microwave ovens? Specifically a Zanussi nine hundred watt with browning control. The turntable doesn’t work.’
‘Not really, no.’
‘What about chainsaws? I’ve got a Stihl MS241. Eighteen-inch blade. Runs but there is a lack of power when cutting through anything thicker than your arm. Having to use my axe. And that’s not half as much fun.’
The dishwasher man didn’t answer, just gave you an odd look and put his tools away. Drew up an invoice which you paid in cash.
You looked at the invoice and noted the man’s address in case the machine went wrong again. The man left the house and got in a white Citroën Berlingo van with the registration WL63 DMR. Drove off. As the van pulled away, the wheels slipping on the white gravel, you saw it was a 1.6 HDi. 90 hp. Nice. Useful to have a van like that if you need to move something heavy around.
The girl!
She’s driving off too, the blue Toyota disappearing round the corner.
That’s OK. Cars run on roads the way the electricity flows in wires inside the dishwasher. Each wire goes to the correct place and each road does too. The road you are interested in goes left at the end, then straight on through three sets of traffic lights. Third exit on the roundabout. First right, second left and pull up in the car park. Usually she takes the first bay next to the big metal bin, unless it’s taken. Then she’ll have a dilemma and might park in any one of the other fifty-seven spaces. But you really don’t need to worry about that now.
No, you’ll see her again in a few days. Up close. And personal. Very personal.
Chapter Four