Two Evils: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ time you failed them and you failed me too. Back then you obeyed your superiors and followed orders, but now we’re going to start afresh. We’re going to play a game, PC Hardin, and this time we’re going to play by my rules.

      Hardin shook his head and then refolded the letter and placed the piece of paper back in the envelope. Really he should report this, get John Layton and his CSIs up here to examine the thing. By the book was Hardin’s motto. He tapped the envelope with a fingertip and stared at his name, wondering how he could possibly explain the circumstances to Layton. He shook his head once more and sighed. Then he opened one of his desk drawers, popped the letter in, and slid the drawer closed.

      As a young kid, Jason Hobb had liked playing out on the mud next to the old hulk. His grandad had told him the wreck was a pirate vessel which, one dark night, had foundered in the shallows as the crew argued with the captain about the division of their loot. While they bickered, the falling tide left them stranded and by the time dawn broke the game was up. They were arrested by customs officers and, after a quick trial, five of the crew were hanged and the rest thrown into prison.

      Now, eleven and a half years old and somewhat wiser, Jason realised the story was entirely made up. After all, according to his grandad, the pirates had been hanged from the Tamar Bridge, their bodies dangling for days until the seagulls had picked the corpses down to the bone. By the time Jason had discovered the bridge had been built in the 1960s, his grandad had passed away, the little wink the old man gave whenever he told Jason something outlandish just about the only thing he could remember about his face.

      Right now, Jason leant on his spade near the wreck. He didn’t play so much nowadays, not since his dad had gone away. The area around the old ship was no longer a place of adventure. More often than not he came to the mud to dig for bait. He sold the ragworms to the local fishing shop in nearby Torpoint, the few quid he earned clattering down on the kitchen table and bringing a hint of a smile to his mother’s face.

      ‘You’re a good boy, Jason,’ she’d say, pocketing the coins and sometimes handing a couple back to him. ‘If only your old man had been as thoughtful.’

      While he was sad he no longer got to see his grandad, he couldn’t care less about his old man. His father, Jason had come to realise about the same time he began to doubt his grandad’s stories, was nothing more than a lazy, drunken fuckwit.

      Water began to slosh around Jason’s boots, the incoming tide sweeping over the mudflats. If he wasn’t careful he’d be getting wet. He pulled the spade from the mud and picked up his bait bucket. A dozen raggies wriggled in amongst the silt, no more. Hardly enough to make a journey round to the fishing shop worthwhile. Jason scanned the shoreline. Usually around this time there’d be a couple of fishermen setting up their gear in advance of the rising tide. Today there was no one. Jason sighed, wondered about tipping the bucket’s contents back into the sea. Then he caught sight of the old houseboat moored a couple of hundred metres along the shoreline. Larry the lobster fisherman lived there. As dusk fell, Larry liked to hunt for young boys. He’d capture them, keep them overnight in a huge crabbing pot, and then in the morning he’d slice them thinly and fry them in a pan with a few langoustines for his breakfast. At least that’s the story Jason’s grandad had spun him.

      Jason squelched towards the shoreline. In Torpoint the streetlights had begun to pop into life. This time of year, night fell quickly and in a few minutes it would be dark. As he reached the harder ground where the mud mixed with shingle, a car pulled up. Two men got out and sprung the boot of the hatchback. They began to unload fishing gear. Jason quickened his pace and arrived just as one of the men was lighting a cigarette. He nodded at the man and pointed at his bucket. Did they by any chance need some bait?

      ‘No, lad,’ the man said. ‘We’re sorted, ta.’

      Jason trudged away along the shoreline. Another hundred metres and he’d cut up into town and head home. Over at the old houseboat a light flickered in one of the windows. Looked as if Larry was in. The lobster man wouldn’t pay him anything, but perhaps Jason could swap the worms for a brace of crab. Despite his grandfather’s tales, Jason figured the man was worth a visit. It was the only way he might get a reward for his hard work. In another couple of minutes he was at the narrow gangplank which led from the shoreline to the boat. On one side of the gangplank a rope hung from a series of rickety posts. Jason stepped onto the wooden slats and walked out to the boat. Larry’s accommodation was a jumble of marine plywood nailed onto uprights and resembled a floating cowshed. Jason reached the end of the gangplank. He edged around the side deck of the boat until he found what he guessed must be the front door. He knocked. There was no reply. Either Larry was asleep or he wasn’t in. Jason shivered in the damp night air and turned away. He hurried across the gangplank and back to the shore, strangely grateful Larry hadn’t answered.

      ‘I’ve been looking for a boy like you, Jason.’ The voice hissed in the darkness as a shadow stepped from behind a concrete groyne. ‘Want to come along with me?’

      The shadow jumped forward and Jason felt a hand across his mouth. Then there was a grunt and something slid around his throat, a thin strip of leather tightening across his windpipe. Jason slipped to the ground, aware as he did so he’d let go of his bucket, the worms slithering free and disappearing into the soft mud.

       Chapter Three

       Near Bovisand, Devon. Tuesday 20th October. 6.47 a.m.

      Something woke Savage early. There’d been a bang from outside, a splintering noise. She reached out to prod Pete into consciousness. He stirred, mumbled something, but then turned over. He’d been out at an official Navy dinner the night before and the meal had turned into a serious drinking session. Disappointed Pete hadn’t been around to discuss the inquest, she’d opened a bottle of wine for herself. Half a glass had been enough to make her realise alcohol wasn’t going to help and, after she’d put Jamie to bed and checked on Samantha’s progress with a history project, she’d read for a while and then called it a day.

      Savage got out of bed, strode to the window and peeled the curtain back to reveal an ethereal predawn, a mass of dark clouds tinged on their undersides with a violent red. In the garden below, a fence panel had launched itself across the lawn and smashed into the corner of the house. The previous evening there’d been a strange calm with barely a breath of wind, but now a full gale blew.

      September had seen something of an Indian summer and the warm weather had lingered well into October. While most people had been glad the onset of autumn had been delayed, Savage had been eager for the first storm. She wanted a break in the seasons, something to mark the end of the events concerning Simon Fox. Today, she supposed, signalled that. Now it was time to move on.

      Once dressed, Savage headed outside. Their house stood in an isolated position on the east side of Plymouth Sound, clinging to a sloping garden at the far end of which cliffs tumbled to the sea. The place wasn’t much to look at. A succession of owners had added their mark, leaving a hotchpotch of building styles, the whole lot covered in white stucco and resembling a multi-tiered wedding cake. The location made up for any architectural failings though, and the view across the Sound and out to sea lifted Savage’s spirit, no matter the weather conditions.

      She stepped away from the house and into the full force of the gale. The wind howled across the lawn, buffeting her clothing and snagging her long red hair. At the end of the grass a hedge marked the boundary of the garden and on the other side lay an area of scrub. A rhythmic boom came from beyond the hedge every few seconds, accompanied by a wall of spray as waves smashed into the base of the cliffs. She stood for a moment and looked across the Sound, tasting the salt in СКАЧАТЬ