Puppet: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel Page 22

  ‘The Lord will judge me, not you.’ Clent held up the Bible. ‘I have done nothing wrong in His eyes.’

  ‘You sought to live in a relationship with three girls who were to provide sexual services at your beck and call. You dressed them in white and tried to marry them in a bizarre pseudo-religious ceremony. When they decided they didn’t want to comply and leave, one turns up dead, and the others vanish.’

  ‘Evidence.’ It was Bradley’s turn to tap the table. Her nails clicked down in sequence, calmly drumming out a pattern. She’d kept her composure even as Savage and Clent had lost theirs. ‘As in where is it?’

  ‘Abigail’s body was found a couple of miles from God’s Haven. Time of death is around the day she went missing. That was the day before the sham wedding.’

  ‘It’s conjecture.’ Bradley waved her hand in the air, implying something vapid and insubstantial. ‘As I understand it, several members at God’s Haven said Abigail was happy and looking forward to the wedding.’

  ‘Those statements are hardly reliable.’

  ‘Members of our community don’t lie,’ Clent said. ‘It’s against all our principles.’

  ‘Right,’ Savage snapped back. ‘Forgive me if I don’t put too much store by your principles. Unless you can come up with something better, you’ll be facing a murder charge.’

  ‘Someone is trying to destroy everything I’ve built up. That’s the only explanation I can think of.’

  ‘So who might that be? If you’ve got a credible list of people, then we can look into it.’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Clent spread his hands, his face a picture of innocence. ‘There are some who despise the good we are doing. For one reason or another, they want to discredit the church. Over the years, people come and go. I can’t give you any names.’

  ‘Well,’ Savage said, ‘I suggest you try.’

  ***

  Riley was hoping to take the weekend off. He was going shopping with Julie for a pushchair and carrier. He imagined himself perusing baby equipment, pretending he knew what to look for. He smiled at the ridiculousness of it all. Smiled at an immediate future full of nappies and wipes, fleece blankets and baby rattles, early nights and even earlier mornings. He had to admit he was a little apprehensive, but perhaps all prospective parents felt that way.

  When his mobile rang, the shopping trip looked in doubt as Gareth Collier’s name flashed up on the screen.

  ‘There’s been a development or two,’ the office manager said. ‘Can you come in?’

  Riley turned to where Julie was sitting on the sofa. He made an apologetic shrug, but she shook her head. She pointed to her bump and held up a spread of fingers. Three weeks to the due date.

  ‘I’ve got plans, Gareth,’ Riley said. ‘But I’ll pop by for ten minutes, OK?’

  Placating Julie took a kiss and a promise he’d buy her lunch, and then he set off for Crownhill. When he arrived, there was a demo taking place in the car park. Banners and chanting. Somebody with a megaphone. A couple of uniformed officers trying to pacify the crowd. He ignored the throng of people, pushed in through the front doors and headed upstairs.

  Collier was in the crime suite talking to a young probationer PC, the man looking about as downcast as it was possible to be. As Riley entered, Collier came across.

  ‘Like I said, developments,’ Collier said. His fingers flicked across a tablet and brought up an image. ‘A picture of Faye we culled from one of the party goer’s social media accounts.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen it. Are you telling me we’ve found her?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Collier swiped to another photograph. Harsh light, a white face against the shiny black material of a body bag. ‘Discovered this morning.’

  For a second there was nothing. Then the sucker punch hit Riley. ‘They got her. The same people who murdered Dave Smeeton.’

  ‘Looks that way.’ Collier brought up a second image. ‘There was a Mészáros creation at the scene.’

  ‘Another puppet?’

  ‘Yes, and that’s not all.’ Collier barked an order across the room. ‘Galloway! Here! Now!’

  The probationer came over, head hung low. ‘Sir?’

  ‘This is Police Constable Chris Galloway,’ Collier said. ‘At least for now. Considering what he’s just told me, I feel a new career might be in the offing because police work is a little above his intellect level.’

  ‘Sir,’ Galloway said, ducking his head to Riley. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Sorry about what?’ Riley said.

  ‘The crime scene near God’s Haven,’ Collier said. ‘PC Galloway should know the rules; after all, John Layton drums them into every search team he deploys. Only Chris here is short of anything between the ears apart from copious amounts of sawdust. Strike that, he hasn’t got any ears. Otherwise he’d have listened and we wouldn’t be where we are now.’

  ‘God’s Haven? That’s the Abigail Duffy case.’ Riley raised a hand to dismiss whatever it was Collier had to say. ‘DI Savage’s remit, surely?’

  ‘Yes, but you’ll see why I wanted you in when PC Galloway explains the situation. Go on, Chris.’

  Galloway shrunk a little more. ‘It was Thursday lunchtime on the day after Abigail was found. We’d been at it since first light, scouring the woodland according to the search plan. We’d fingertipped everywhere within fifty metres and then walked lines across the escarpment right back to the road.’

  ‘About a kilometre away from the scene,’ Collier said for Riley’s benefit. ‘You know Layton, he thinks that if we can’t afford to be thorough, then there’s no point bothering at all.’

  ‘Anyway, I heard the shout to call it a day. I was soaked through from all the wet undergrowth, my boots were clogged with mud, and we’d found nothing. I was at the extremity of the search grid, and to go back the way I’d come would have meant hiking up to the rocks and down again. So I headed away from the grid to the road, intending to return to the checkpoint that way. It was longer but once I was on the road, the going would be easy.’

  ‘Understood,’ Riley said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘All of which meant I was at least half a mile from the crime scene and well outside the grid when I found it. It’s why I didn’t believe it was important, why I took it home for my kids to play with.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Galloway,’ Collier said. He looked as if he might be about to give the lad a cuff round the head. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

  ‘I didn’t realise it could be connected, not until this morning when I was on duty at the solar farm and saw what they found there.’ Galloway held his hands out. ‘And I hadn’t heard anything about the Dave Smeeton case.’

  ‘What couldn’t be connected?’

  ‘This.’ Collier pointed to the desk behind Galloway. There was a large plastic bag, something wooden inside. Arms and legs and tangled hair. A face with a manic grin. ‘A third puppet, or rather what we now know is the first in a set of three.’

  Riley looked across, for a moment unable to comprehend the implications. ‘Three murders, three crime scenes, three puppets?’

  ‘Just so.’ Collier shot a glance over to the two sets of whiteboards and then across to where Maynard and Davies were huddled over their map of Dartmoor. ‘Tarquin and Farlight. Abigail Duffy, Dave Smeeton and the mystery girl, Faye. Then there is the latest letter from the Puppet. He claims to have killed Smeeton and Faye.’

  Riley moved to the desk and picked up the evidence bag with the puppet inside. The puppet was similar to those found before, similar to the one Thomas Raymond had shown them. He turned it over. There was a letter ‘A’ scratched into the back of the head.

  ‘What chance of getting anything from it?’

  Collier turned back to Galloway. ‘Matey boy’s kids have had their grubby hands on it for over a week, but I’ll give it a thorough check.’

  ‘Does Charlotte know about this?’

  ‘Not about Galloway’s puppet, no.’ Collier smiled. �
�Marcus Clent was arrested this morning, and she’s interviewing him at the moment. I tried to persuade her to put him on hold, but she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘But if this is drugs-related, then surely Abigail’s murder has nothing to do with Clent?’

  ‘Try telling her that.’

  Chapter 22

  They took a break for a late lunch. Savage left Clent and Bradley in the briefing room, arranged for some sandwiches to be brought down from the canteen, and then got herself something to eat. As she was paying, Gareth Collier waved from a table across the room. He got up and walked over, but before he had a chance to say anything, Calter came skidding in.

  ‘Ma’am?’ The DS had her phone in one hand, and she raised it to show Savage. ‘We’ve got a massive problem.’

  Savage mouthed an apology to Collier and turned her attention to Calter’s phone. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The Tamar Bridge.’ Calter’s finger jabbed at the screen. ‘There’s a couple from God’s Haven out in the middle, and they’re threatening to jump. Your favourite reporter is making sure everyone knows about it.’

  The screen displayed a live feed from the Herald’s website, with Dan Phillips standing face to camera, the soaring columns of the suspension bridge behind him. The electronic signs above each lane bore a red cross, and traffic was backed up on the approach to the bridge. The bridge itself was empty of vehicles aside from a patrol car parked diagonally across the lanes.

  ‘Turn it up,’ Savage said.

  ‘…arrived about ten minutes ago, but so far have stayed a good way back, presumably because they don’t want to alarm the couple. We can only guess this protest has something to do with the police intimidation the God’s Haven community has complained about. Our story in today’s edition highlights the appalling abuse this peace-loving group has suffered…’

  Savage didn’t wait to hear any more. She sprinted from the canteen and headed for the car park with Calter close behind. A patrol car was turning in from the main road, and she flagged down the driver. He lowered his window.

  ‘Tamar Bridge, now!’ Savage shouted, wrenching the back door open and jumping in. Calter got in the other side.

  ‘We were going on a break,’ the driver said. He turned to his passenger. ‘We haven’t had lunch, isn’t that right, Maisie?’ The other officer nodded.

  ‘Fuck your break, just get me to the bridge as fast as possible.’

  The driver hesitated for a moment before conceding, and a minute later, they were heading along the A38 with lights flashing and siren blaring.

  It took less than five minutes to reach the bridge, but the situation had changed significantly in that time. A crowd of God’s Haven supporters stood on the roundabout at the end of the bridge waving banners, and two police cars blocked the main road, uniformed officers frantically directing traffic away from the chaos. Several members of the Force Support Group clustered over by the bridge control office. Black boots and combat wear, holstered weapons, two members with Heckler and Koch machine guns, one with a sniper rifle. Inspector Frey stood talking to a man wearing a hi-vis jacket.

  Savage got out of the patrol car and walked across.

  ‘Nigel,’ Savage said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Charlotte.’ Frey turned to the man beside him. ‘Mr Felston is in charge of the bridge. I was asking him if we could get a guy up one of the towers. Perfect line of sight for a shot.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Take a look.’ Frey pointed to the bridge. ‘Twenty metres beyond the patrol car. Hubby, wifey and two children.’

  Savage turned to the bridge. The principal part of the structure comprised three traffic lanes. Immense cables curved up from each end to the towering pillars and ran in a loop between them, supporting the roadway. To the left and right of the main structure, cantilevered sections hung out in mid-air. The left side was a pedestrian walkway, while the right held a single traffic lane. Apart from the solitary patrol car in the middle of the bridge, the lanes were empty. Two officers stood next to the car, and beyond, on the cantilevered traffic lane, were a man and a woman and two children.

  ‘What are they doing out there?’ Savage said.

  ‘Protesting, I guess. That’s fine, but leave the youngsters out of it, right? That’s why I said we need to take the shot.’

  ‘But they’re unarmed.’

  ‘Unarmed, but dangerous.’ Frey winced at his own joke. ‘I won’t let the children become bargaining chips.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘Every time anyone approaches, the father begins to climb over the railings. The mother makes to pass him the younger child. I was thinking if it gets too hairy, a sniper on top of a tower could take down the father while we rush the mother. Job done.’

  Savage recoiled from Frey’s matter-of-fact language, but his logic was spot on. If the father threatened to jump with one of the children, shooting him might be the only option.

  ‘Taser?’

  ‘We can’t get close enough. Seven metres maximum range.’

  ‘What about talking him out?’

  ‘It’s possible, but we need a contingency plan. These things have a tendency to escalate.’ Frey shrugged and moved away to brief his officers.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Calter stood alongside. She pointed to the roundabout. ‘Dan Phillips.’

  Savage looked across to where the Herald’s reporter was encouraging the protestors to march on the bridge. His cameraman followed them as they crossed the road and made for a line of officers barring their way. Phillips grinned as Savage walked over.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Savage said.

  ‘Earning my keep and keeping the paper afloat.’ Phillips stood next to a green area to the side of the bridge where the council had planted an array of flowers. The blooms spelt out Tamar Bridge 1962. ‘We’re live streaming this to YouTube. Have you any idea how many people are watching worldwide? The ad revenue is substantial, the publicity for the paper priceless.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Dan, there are lives at risk. Don’t you have a conscience?’

  ‘Yes. One heightened to any form of harassment.’ Phillips flashed a look at the bridge. ‘The poor couple out there have been threatened. Their religious beliefs are being mocked by the police, and they’ve been told their children will be snatched from them by social services and taken into care. I’m simply standing up for them.’

  ‘That’s complete nonsense and you know it. If you hadn’t engaged in rabble-rousing, this would never have happened.’

  ‘If anyone dies today, it’ll be your fault, understand? You hounded and persecuted these people until they had no other choice.’

  ‘Dan?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Piss off.’ Savage pushed Phillips hard in the chest. He staggered back and fell over a low wall into the flowerbed, crushing a dozen purple geraniums.

  As she walked away, Calter intercepted her.

  ‘Not a good look, ma’am.’ She glanced back to where Phillips lay in the flowerbed, faking agony as his cameraman moved in for a closeup. ‘Police brutality live streamed. Exactly what he wanted.’

  ‘Don’t start, Jane.’ Savage marched forwards and slipped through the line of police officers. ‘Now do something useful and talk to some protestors and find out what this is all about.’

  She stepped onto the bridge. The deck was deserted. She’d crossed the river hundreds of times, the route into Cornwall saving a forty-mile diversion, but now the lack of traffic was unnerving. As she walked, the protesters’ chants disappeared and the only sound was a low rushing of the wind.

  The couple stood on the cantilevered section of roadway, the father leaning against the side barrier. It was a little over waist high, easy enough for someone to hoist themselves up and over, even if they had a child in their arms. That the cantilevered section of road was separated from the main bridge was part of the problem, and Savage realised why Frey had suggested such extreme measur
es.

  Savage approached the patrol car and ducked down alongside a uniformed officer.

  ‘Ma’am.’ The officer sounded grim. ‘Luke’s out there. I hope to God he can talk some sense into them.’

  The reference to God seemed misplaced, but the news that Luke Farrell was present cheered Savage. Farrell was a Family Liaison Officer and had a deft touch when it came to dealing with people. He’d recently been on a hostage negotiation course and had come back keen to put his new skills into practice. Now it looked as if he’d been thrown in at the deep end.

  Savage thanked the officer and moved to the front of the car. Farrell stood a few paces away at the side of the carriageway. Beyond him was a fence, then a short gap to the separate cantilevered section of road.

  Farrell turned and walked back to Savage. ‘Not good, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried to reassure them, but they’re not listening. Both the parents are standing there blankly. The kids are visibly distressed, though. They realise what could happen.’

  Savage squinted. The couple seemed familiar. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Matt and Ellie Anderson. The kids are Ava and Mia.’

  Savage felt a void open inside her stomach. Phillips was right. She was responsible for this. ‘What are their demands?’

  ‘Neither has answered any of my questions. Ellie keeps getting her phone out and making a call, but nobody seems to answer.’

  ‘What do you think? Friends, family?’

  ‘Probably. It’s often the case that somebody who is suicidal is looking for a reason not to take their own life. They want some kind of support, but in this case, Ellie’s just getting voicemail or something.’

  ‘So if she doesn’t get through soon?’

  Farrell didn’t answer. Instead, he looked to the side of the bridge where the tidal Tamar swept along thirty-five metres below, the tide ebbing, great swirls of current boiling. Frey had deployed a RIB downstream and out of sight of the family, but if anyone went over the rail, it was fifty-fifty whether it would be a rescue mission or a recovery operation.