Puppet: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel Page 19

Savage stared at Golding. The woman didn’t seem to see the appalling contradiction in her statement. She’d fallen for Clent and his glib talk. Savage moved away to confer with Calter. ‘What do you think, Jane?’

  ‘Like you said, they ran away. They didn’t fancy being abused by a man three times their age, so they made some kind of pact and left. Or rather Fiona and Isobel did. Abigail Duffy wasn’t so lucky, and Marcus Clent caught up with her.’

  ‘Clent or somebody else doing what they believed was God’s will.’

  ‘Could be.’ Calter glared over at Golding. ‘I don’t know if the whole lot of them are nutters or if Clent has some kind of hold over them.’

  ‘A bit of both, I expect.’ Savage glanced at Golding. ‘We’ll need photos of Fiona and Isobel and as much information on them as possible.’ She turned and walked back to Golding. ‘You said Fiona and Isobel had left. But what about Isobel’s parents? Are they still here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why haven’t they been interviewed?’ Savage gestured across to where Collier stood making notes on his pad.

  ‘They’re not available, I’m afraid. They’re in repose and can’t be disturbed.’

  ‘Repose?’

  ‘Yes. Grace can only settle on a mind in a state of pure relaxation. God cannot help the angry, only the meek and mild. To receive salvation, one must accept his ministrations, and to do that, one needs to be pure of thought.’

  ‘We need to speak to them urgently, especially since we now know their daughter has been missing for months.’

  ‘Totally impossible, I’m afraid.’ Golding dismissed the request with a wave of her hand. ‘Marcus always says repose mustn’t be interrupted. To do so would be dangerous. You see, the Andersons are going through a process, and if they’re disturbed, it could destroy the whole edifice of their faith.’

  ‘Faith or no faith, we’re going to speak to them now. Unless you want me to charge you with obstruction?’

  ‘There are laws, I imagine, about respecting identity and religious belief, right?’ Golding stared at Savage, unblinking. ‘And if you insist on this, then I guess you’ve just broken them.’

  ‘I don’t give a flying fuck about your religious beliefs.’ Savage met the woman’s gaze and held it. ‘A girl’s been murdered and two more are missing. Their welfare takes priority over your feelings. If you don’t want to cooperate, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice but to arrest you.’

  ***

  The post-mortem started at twelve-thirty sharp, and Riley knew not to risk Nesbit’s well-known ire at latecomers. Enders wasn’t as conscientious, and he walked in as Nesbit had finished gowning up, compounding his error by munching on a half-eaten cereal bar.

  ‘Not in here, young man,’ Nesbit said. He pointed across to the corner. ‘Bin.’

  Riley was glad he’d eaten early and his stomach was well settled, because it wouldn’t be long before Dave Smeeton’s chest cavity would be sawn open and his innards scattered across half a dozen metal trays.

  Before Nesbit let the mortuary assistant go to work with the electric cutter, he carefully examined Smeeton from tip to toe. Riley waited patiently. The pathologist rarely missed anything, but he could hardly be called effusive. You just had to let him finish.

  ‘What’s this?’ Nesbit said, eventually. He stood at the end of the table and made a play of splaying his fingers over Smeeton’s feet. ‘Two short?’

  ‘Yes,’ Riley said. ‘And we don’t know where the missing ones are.’

  Nesbit straightened. ‘The skin is torn and ripped and the bone crushed. I suggest they were cut off with something like snippers or bolt croppers.’ Nesbit pointed to one of the feet. ‘The bruising on the ankle is indicative of restraint. Somebody held the leg tight while they or another person wielded the snippers.’

  ‘They wanted something from him, sir.’ Enders stood to one side, staring at Smeeton’s feet. ‘They cut off one toe, but he didn’t talk, so they cut off the second one too.’

  Riley nodded. It was a good theory because there were no other significant injuries that suggested sustained torture.

  ‘But what did they want to find out?’ Enders was looking to Riley for an answer.

  ‘His involvement with us, with Tarquin. Someone got wind of what was happening and suspected Smeeton was about to sell everyone down the river. They’d have been relieved if and when Smeeton told them the truth because he knew sweet FA.’

  ‘And they killed him anyway?’

  ‘Looks that way.’ Riley turned back to Nesbit.

  Nesbit had worked his way up the cadaver, meticulously checking each blemish, mark or bruise. Next, he made a detailed examination of the neck area.

  ‘The ligature was a belt, right?’ Nesbit didn’t look up for an answer.

  ‘Yes,’ Riley said. ‘His own.’

  ‘Well, that didn’t kill him.’ A blue-gloved finger traced a line on the neck. ‘There’s a mark here, a needle puncture direct into the vein.’

  ‘He dealt smack, amongst other drugs. Are you suggesting the killer gave him an overdose using his own gear?’

  ‘The toxicology results will tell us, but that would be my preliminary guess in the absence of any other factors.’ Nesbit straightened, hands moving as he explained. ‘Once administered, the opioids would have quickly overwhelmed the brain’s receptors. The effect on the heart and lungs would have led to brain hypoxia, and he’d have lost consciousness. Death, depending on the dosage, would have followed quickly.’

  Riley imagined how the scene in the shipping container had played out. The struggle, the violence, the pain, the screaming. Ultimately, Dave Smeeton, a nasty scum pusher, getting a taste of his own medicine. There was some justice in that, he thought.

  ***

  Savage’s outburst had the desired effect, and Charlene Golding agreed to take them to see the Andersons – Isobel’s parents.

  ‘I’ll let you speak to Matt and Ellie,’ Golding said. ‘But please consider their state of mind. Repose is a form of meditation that can take one far away from the reality of everyday life. Its purpose is to bring one closer to God.’

  She led them from the reception building along a winding tarmac path that threaded between low box hedges. Ahead, the distinctive hexagonal tower rose from the corner of another low building. Narrow slits for windows dotted the tall structure, and at the top, there was a balcony that ran all the way round. Golding opened a door at the base of the tower and they entered.

  Steps ran up to their right and down to their left.

  ‘Heart of the sky,’ Golding said, pointing upwards. Then she looked at the stairs that descended below ground to a subterranean level. ‘And root of the earth. When we arrived at God’s Haven, the basement of the tower was filled with rubble. We had to excavate it with our bare hands. Back then, there were only a few of us, but God gave us the fortitude to succeed.’

  ‘Where are Isobel’s parents?’ Savage said, unwilling to be distracted.

  ‘Centre of the soul.’ Golding moved to a heavy oak door straight ahead. There were bolts top and bottom and she reached and shot them back.

  ‘They were locked in?’

  ‘Only as a precaution. Those inside can ask to be let out at any time, but we don’t want repose to end simply because the participants are bored. If you’d just give me a minute or two alone with them.’

  Golding opened the door and slipped in, closing it behind her.

  ‘What was that crap?’ Calter said. ‘Root of the earth? It’s the sort of New Age babble that makes me want to vomit.’ She pointed at the bolts. ‘And this is unlawful imprisonment, right?’

  ‘I guess not if they went in willingly,’ Savage said. ‘Look, let’s take this slowly. We need to tease out what’s going on here, and we won’t do that by being confrontational, OK?’

  ‘Sure, ma’am. Whatever you say.’

  The door swung open and Golding beckoned them in. The hexagonal room mirrored the tower’s shape. Benches of rough wood ran
around the perimeter, while in the middle there were low chairs arranged in a circle, a double futon at the centre. The only light came from candles placed at intervals on the benches. In the flickering shadows, Savage could make out two people lying on their backs on the futon. Golding pointed to the centre of the room and then turned and left, leaving the door ajar.

  Savage waited a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the low light before moving to one of the chairs. The whole setup was bizarre, and she felt uncomfortable with the Andersons lying a few paces away.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage,’ she said. ‘And my colleague is Detective Sergeant Jane Calter. I apologise for disturbing you, but we have a number of urgent questions regarding the whereabouts of your daughter.’

  Nothing for a few seconds and then a female voice, almost disembodied, echoed through the chamber.

  ‘We are here,’ Ellie Anderson said. ‘Please go ahead.’

  Weird, thought Savage. Really weird.

  ‘I understand Isobel disappeared the day before she was due to take part in some sort of ceremony involving Marcus Clent. What did she feel about that?’

  ‘She was excited. She felt privileged to be one of the chosen brides.’

  ‘And how many brides were there?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘And these girls were to be Clent’s wives?’

  ‘The Brides of Christ are his companions.’

  ‘And you were happy for Isobel to fulfil this role?’

  ‘It was God’s will.’

  ‘And what about Isobel? Did she have any say?’

  ‘She was proud to serve God in any way she could.’

  ‘But she was a child. Was she old enough to make that decision for herself?’

  ‘She’d turned sixteen. An adult in the eyes of the law.’

  Savage knew that wasn’t true in many respects, but she let it go. ‘Perhaps she wasn’t ready to be an adult. Have you thought of that?’

  There was silence for a minute or so, and then Matt Anderson spoke for the first time.

  ‘We’ve thought of many things over the past few months. When Abigail’s body was discovered, we felt the need to enter repose to find an answer, but God hasn’t seen fit to reveal the truth to us yet.

  ‘The truth, Mr Anderson, is that one of the brides has been brutally murdered, while the other two are missing. It’s looking as if the girls tried to flee and somebody tried to stop them. In the case of Abigail Duffy, they succeeded. Now Marcus Clent has run away rather than face questioning.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do anything to harm the girls.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Marcus always has our best interests at heart. He looks after us as a family. Isobel, Ava and Mia included. So if he’s run off, it’s for a reason. Prophets often face persecution.’

  ‘Right.’ Savage resisted the temptation to swear by clenching her fists. ‘So where do you think your daughter might be?’

  ‘We don’t know. Marcus suggested we came in here when the news about Abigail Duffy broke. We are praying for an answer, praying for a miracle.’

  ‘Perhaps instead you should come to your senses and be here for your other children, for Ava and Mia, because the way things are going, it won’t be long before Social Services become concerned for their welfare.’

  ‘Are you threatening us?’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth. Who’s to say Ava and Mia don’t feel the same way as Isobel?’

  ‘We realise now that Isobel was possessed. The evil came to her through Abigail. We hope she’ll return when her heart has been cleansed of the sickness. We pray for her absolution, but every minute we spend speaking to you is one less minute we can pray. Please leave us in peace so we can continue to commune with God.’

  Whatever, Savage thought, realising further questioning was pointless. The Andersons believed a higher being was going to find their daughter and bring her home safely. Savage, on the other hand, had the experience of two decades of police work to draw on and the signs – heaven-sent or not – didn’t look promising.

  ‘Drawing blood from a stone, ma’am,’ Calter said when they stepped outside into the light. ‘They’re determined to keep schtum.’

  ‘I don’t think they know anything, but Clent obviously suggested they enter this repose thing to keep them hidden from the interviewing team.’ Savage stared across the fields she’d earlier run across. A couple of God’s Haven residents were repairing the pig fence. ‘The whole lot of them are under his spell. They’ll do exactly as he says.’

  ‘Even to the extent of giving up their daughters to a predatory sex pest?’

  ‘Even that.’ Savage turned and walked back to the main building and Calter followed.

  ***

  Back at the station, Riley filled Davies in on the details of the post-mortem.

  ‘Looks like it could have been Joel Hartson,’ he said. ‘Somehow, he gets wind that Smeeton has talked to us. He catches up with Smeeton and gets the truth by snip, snip, snipping at his toes. Then he pumps him full of H for good measure, and Smeeton takes a one-way trip to wonderland.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Davies said. ‘Hartson’s gone to ground. No sign of him anywhere.’

  ‘At home?’

  ‘No, but his wife and kids are kicking around as if nothing’s amiss. He’s probably told them he needs to be away for a while.’

  ‘Unless he thinks he’s next. If Smeeton was killed by a rival, then I guess that’s possible.’

  ‘A turf war?’ Davies frowned. ‘We’d have heard something on the grapevine.’

  Riley gave Davies a look. In Davies’s case, the grapevine wound itself through Plymouth’s criminal fraternity and inevitably ended at Kenny Fallon’s door. Fallon had been the top dog in the city for a decade or more, but these days he was trying to keep a low profile and was increasingly investing in legitimate business activities. He was more likely to be found on the golf course doing deals than involved in anything dodgy, but there was always a whiff of illegality whenever his name came up.

  ‘You going to call him?’ Riley said, deliberately not mentioning Fallon’s name. ‘See what he knows?’

  For a moment Davies didn’t answer, but then he ducked his head once and got up. He slipped out of the crime suite, phone in hand.

  While Riley waited, he examined the whiteboard Collier had set up for the Smeeton murder investigation. There was a surfeit of blank space, a few lines of Collier’s squiggly writing and half-a-dozen Post-it notes. A picture of Dave Smeeton. One of the puppet too.

  It made little sense for Hartson to have left the puppet at the scene. Hartson was a pro and wouldn’t have given the police any type of lead or evidence. If that put him out of the picture, then the turf war notion was a possibility. Was the puppet a gang marker or some kind of badge or symbol? Riley did a quick web search, but the only results referred to voodoo dolls used in a gruesome series of killings in Columbia. A drugs war, yes, but being five thousand miles away, it didn’t seem relevant, and the dolls were definitely dolls and not puppets.

  There were, of course, the letters to the Duffy investigation written by somebody calling themselves the Puppet, but Riley couldn’t see a connection to Dave Smeeton.

  Davies returned a few minutes later and gave a quick shake of the head.

  ‘He’s heard nothing,’ Davies said. ‘Doesn’t want to hear anything, either. Not about Smeeton.’

  ‘Tarquin?’ Riley lowered his voice. ‘You’ve filled him in, haven’t you? Given him the nod so he can keep his head down.’

  ‘Sure.’ Davies was unapologetic. ‘He’s been aware of the op for a while, but Fallon steers clear of the nasty stuff these days. I figure we’re better off with the devil we know.’

  ‘Suppose he’s got involved, though? That could explain a few things.’

  ‘He hasn’t. We’ve got an arrangement.’

  ‘Right.’ Riley didn’t know much about Davies’s arrangement with Fallon, but it
likely involved used notes in an envelope or perhaps cryptocurrencies deposited in an anonymous account. When asked, Davies looked the other way or provided tipoffs, and Fallon paid up. In return, Fallon supposedly provided intel on various unsavoury characters, but Riley was sceptical of the benefits. He stood, feeling somehow tainted. ‘I’m off home. I need a shower.’

  ‘To wash away the smell from the PM?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Riley said.

  Chapter 19

  Saturday morning and the dawn failed to arrive. Streaks of rain on the bedroom window, black outside. Savage stayed in bed, only emerging from under the duvet when Pete brought her a surprise cup of coffee.

  ‘Cancelled,’ he said, referring to the dinghy sailing class he ran at the weekends. ‘Strong winds, big swells and heavy rain. I’m sure most of the kids would be up for it, but you know parents, right? The sight of their sons and daughters rounding the breakwater into a near gale would produce several litters of kittens. I’d be sued for mental anguish.’

  Savage took the coffee and thought about the Andersons and their daughter. Isobel had disappeared months ago, but they’d done nothing, appearing to accept it was God’s will she’d gone missing, and it would be through divine intervention she’d return.

  She was still thinking about Marcus Clent and God’s Haven when her mobile rang. She reached for the phone and saw Calter’s name on the screen.

  ‘Jane?’ she said.

  ‘I’m in the middle of bloody nowhere, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘And it’s not pleasant.’

  ‘The weather?’ Savage wondered if the DS was out on a training run and, if so, why she was phoning.

  ‘No, the scene. It’s a right mess. Bloody horrific. John Layton wants your ETA because you’re holding things up.’

  ‘Slow down, Jane, you’re not making any sense.’

  ‘Layton doesn’t want to move the body until you get here. How much longer are you going to be?’

  ‘Body? What body?’

  ‘Didn’t you get the message I left on your phone? There’s another one.’

  Savage put the phone on speaker and saw she had a voice message and a text.