Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen
Savage raised her eyebrows. ‘Lunch? But it was Monday. Shouldn’t the lad have been in school?’
‘Yes.’ Calter looked down at her notes. ‘According to one of the local PCSOs, he’s a well-known truant.’
‘Right. Go on.’
‘When it began to get dark and Jason hadn’t returned home, the mother began to get worried.’
‘And she called us?’
Calter sighed. ‘No. She rang round a few of Jason’s friends but she didn’t report him missing until this morning.’
‘Jesus.’ Savage shook her head. In any investigation, but especially one involving the disappearance of a vulnerable individual, time was of the essence. ‘Other agencies?’
‘Mobilised first thing, as soon as we got word. PCs on the ground plus the lifeboat, coastguard and the MoD Police launch. So far the only sign of him is a blue bait bucket found at the high tideline next to Marine Drive.’
‘OK.’ Savage pushed back her chair and reached for her jacket. ‘Let’s organise a door-to-door and get over there. What’s the name of the boyfriend?’
‘Ned Stone. Thirty-nine. Originally from down near St Austell but living here now. Beat up his wife a dozen years ago. Ex-wife now, of course. Got three years inside for his troubles.’
‘Other offences?’
‘A couple more assaults.’
‘Right. So he’s a bit of a bad boy, but I’ve known worse.’
‘Yes, ma’am, but I’ve got a theory. This kid’s in the way, right? He’s a gooseberry in Stone’s tasty new pie. Say the kid does something to annoy Stone. He loses his rag with the kid, lashes out and accidentally kills him. Then he panics and takes the body somewhere.’
Savage cocked her head. She had to admire Calter’s keen-as-mustard attitude, but in this case the DC was wide of the mark. ‘Hang on, Jane, we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. First, let’s get some officers doing the door-to-doors. Second, we find Stone.’ Savage paused. Computed what Calter had told her. Made a judgement. ‘Single mum with new boyfriend trying to muscle in and be the boy’s new dad? I reckon the lad’s probably just run away.’
As mornings off went, Tuesday, Detective Sergeant Darius Riley thought, was turning out to be pretty decent. Some time after eleven in the morning and here he was doing what he liked doing the best. A little R and R. In bed. With his girlfriend, Julie. Decadent, she’d said. The luxury of several hours between the sheets while the rest of the world was out earning an honest crust.
Decadent, maybe, Riley thought as he poured Julie another cup of coffee from the pot and then went back to massaging her feet. But what was wrong with enjoying yourself?
‘I could get used to this,’ Julie said, as she sipped her coffee and then lay back, her dark hair spreading across the fluffed-up pillows. ‘The goddess treatment.’
‘Fine by me,’ Riley said. ‘As long as the goddess dishes out a few favours now and then.’
‘Well, there’s no time like the present, is there?’ Julie smiled and placed her cup on the bedside table. She kicked her feet free from Riley’s grasp. ‘And, unless you’ve developed an overriding foot fetish, I’m sure there’s other parts of me which might interest you.’
Riley grinned, but before he had a chance to move up the bed his mobile rang. He stared across at the phone, willing the bloody thing to stop.
‘I thought you had the morning off?’ Julie said.
‘The morning, yeah, but I’m on call from twelve.’ Riley looked over to the bedside clock. Eleven twenty-seven. By rights he was off duty for the next thirty-three minutes, but as a sergeant on the Major Crimes Investigation Team he couldn’t simply ignore the call. He tumbled off the bed and padded across to where his phone sat on the windowsill. ‘Darius Riley,’ he said.
‘Sounds like one of my bad jokes, sir.’ The voice came with an Irish lilt and a couple of laughs. ‘There’s a coffin with a body in it on a beach. Oh, and an ice cream. A ninety-nine has a big part to play in all of this, I kid you not.’
‘Patrick,’ Riley said, recognising the caller as DC Patrick Enders. He stared out of the big floor-to-ceiling window. His flat had a good view of Plymouth Sound and the grey sea bristled with whitecaps. The October day didn’t look hot enough for ice creams. ‘Where’s this?’
‘Jennycliff. You know, the place over on the—’
‘I know where it is, Patrick.’ Riley shook his head. Enders was one for over-explaining. If something could be said in ten words where one would do, Enders would oblige. Riley looked to his left across the water. Lying on the east side of the Sound, Jennycliff was a small open area with sloping grassland and a path which led down a cliff face to a stony beach. ‘In fact I can see the cafe from here.’
‘I’m waving, sir. Can you eyeball me?’
‘Don’t be stupid, I haven’t got binoculars. Get to the point, would you?’
‘I got a call that there was a body on the beach and that the circumstances were suspicious. I went over there and found the body down on the foreshore in some sort of coffin or box. The coffin’s on a raft. I reckon the whole thing must have floated in on the tide, pushed up by these strong winds.’
‘Male or female?’
‘Female, sir. But I only got a peek at the body for a second or two. There was a crowd of people and the PC with me slid the lid back on sharpish. Then we moved the lot of them back up the path and away from the beach. The PC is standing at the top of the path now, stopping anyone going down. I’ve—’
‘Fine.’ Riley turned away from the window. Julie shook her head and waved one finger in a playful manner. ‘I’ll be right there, Patrick. Thirty minutes, OK?’
‘Naughty boy,’ Julie said, as Riley hung up. ‘Just when things were getting interesting you’re off.’
‘Sorry,’ Riley said, as he watched Julie trace a line on her stomach. ‘But don’t do anything without me, OK?’
Savage and Calter boarded the car ferry for the journey over the Tamar to Torpoint. The trip only took five minutes or so, but every time she made the crossing Savage liked to get out of her car and climb the steps to one of the raised deck areas. Calter accompanied her. Half a mile away to the south, the wide expanse of the river turned east through the Narrows and ran into Plymouth Sound. Torpoint lay ahead, on the west bank of the river, cut off from Devon by the Tamar. To reach the town you had to use the ferry or take a twenty-mile detour via the Tamar Bridge.
‘Over there, is it?’ Savage pointed to the far shore. ‘Behind the ballast pound?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Marine Drive. Jason was out on the mud apparently, but the RNLI and the MoD boats haven’t found him.’
‘Christ, I can’t imagine what the mother’s going through. Let’s hope my theory’s correct and he’s just bunked off somewhere and ended up round a friend’s house.’
The rhythmic clanking of the chain slowed as the ferry neared the far side of the river and Savage indicated they should return to the car.
Ten minutes later and they’d parked up at the top of a slipway on Marine Drive. A row of houses stood on one side of the road, while on the other lay the estuary, a vista of Plymouth over the water. The tide was out, the beach a mixture of shingle, seaweed, rock and mud. A dozen officers – a mixture of detectives and uniforms – awaited Savage’s briefing. They’d been assigned a list of roads to work along and all Savage needed to do was gee them up a little. She gave her standard talk on the importance of procedure, on how seemingly tiny details could turn into major pieces of evidence, and sent them on their way.
After they’d