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