CUT DEAD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen

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СКАЧАТЬ moved on. Off to one side of the board he’d boxed out another area. Inside the box was the word ‘profiling’. As he pointed the word out a smirk slid across his face.

      ‘Dirty word, hey?’ he said. ‘Round here, anyway.’

      The trek back to the lane for the rendezvous with Enders took Riley forty minutes. The route had to be circuitous to avoid any possibility of being seen and at two points he had to crawl on his hands and knees. By the time he reached Enders’ car he was muddy, soaked and in a foul mood.

      ‘Did you bring my stuff?’ Riley said as the young DC’s smile emerged from behind the steamed-up glass as the window slipped down.

      Enders jerked a thumb towards a holdall sitting on the rear seat. Riley got in the back and as Enders started up he opened the holdall and began to change into the spare kit. The clothing was gym gear Riley used if he fancied running home from the station, but it was better than remaining wet.

      Before long they reached the main road and headed north. Within half an hour they drummed across a cattle grid and onto Dartmoor. They left the jumble of little fields behind and the rugged moorland terrain opened out before them, the road sweeping its way north-west, climbing towards Princetown.

      Riley had expected the weather on the moor to be dank and dreary, what with the earlier mist and rain. However, as they climbed upwards they emerged into sun and blue sky, leaving behind a bank of cloud hugging Plymouth and the lowlands. The rolling hills and granite tors appeared flat, washed of any contrast by the harsh light. Riley leant back in the warmth and wondered if Maynard and his foil-wrapped sandwiches had been just a bad dream.

      Enders interrupted his thoughts by filling him in on the misper. He told him the bare facts as he knew them from the brief he’d been given: the man, Devlyn Corran, was a prison officer at HMP Dartmoor and he’d disappeared yesterday morning after he’d finished his night shift and left to cycle home. He never arrived and there’d been no word from him since. No sign of his bike either.

      ‘Horrid place to work,’ Riley said. ‘On a good day it looks like Colditz Castle. Dread to think what the inmates are like.’

      ‘You’ve been watching too many movies,’ Enders said. ‘Dartmoor is only one step above an open prison. If you were hoping for a load of baying psychos you’re going to be disappointed.’

      ‘Actually I’m tired and wet so what I really fancy is to get my head down for a few hours in a segregation cell. Do you think the Governor can fix that for me?’

      Before Enders could answer they spotted a white Land Rover up ahead. The vehicle was crawling along on the wrong side of the road with its offside wheels bouncing on the rough verge. The words ‘Mountain Rescue Ambulance’ ran along the body of the Land Rover above a chequerboard of orange and white reflective squares.

      ‘Dartmoor Rescue Group,’ Enders said. ‘They must be searching for Corran.’

      To the front of the vehicle, about twenty metres away, a man and a woman were striding through the moorland heather parallel to the road. A Border Collie ran back and forth, sniffing the air as it covered the ground in great scampering bounds.

      ‘Callum Campbell,’ Enders said. ‘He’s one of the group’s leaders. Met him last year when I went on that moorland hunt with DI Savage.’

      Enders accelerated past the Land Rover, beeped the horn once, pulled over and they got out. Campbell raised an arm and walked across. He towered over them, a giant of a man with blond hair stuffed under a fleece hat, eyes the colour of the clear sky, a Scottish accent when he spoke.

      ‘Nicer weather than last time,’ Campbell said to Enders, before turning to Riley and shaking his hand.

      Riley introduced himself and recalled Enders’ trip across the moor had taken place during the night in appalling conditions. In sleet and snow the team had fought their way to a remote tor, only to discover a body which had lain there for weeks. Enders had told Riley the story at least half a dozen times.

      ‘Any sign of Corran?’ Riley asked.

      ‘No. We were out all yesterday afternoon and evening, but I wanted to conduct a more detailed search this morning. We started at Dousland, where he lives.’ Campbell looked back down the road the way they had come. ‘The village is about three miles yonder and we’ve done the right-hand side only. Figured if he got knocked off his bike he’d be on this side, since he was heading home. I am pretty sure we didn’t miss anything on the first pass, but I wanted to make sure.’

      ‘He was definitely on his bike though?’ Riley said.

      ‘Yes. Apparently he cycled to and from work most days. It’s about five miles from the prison to his house and mostly downhill, so he could have done the trip in fifteen minutes or so.’

      ‘Not much time for something bad to happen,’ Riley said. ‘Assuming, that is, something bad did happen.’

      ‘Well, if it didn’t then where the hell is he?’ Campbell spread his arms in an expansive fashion, sweeping them round to encompass the wide open panorama. Then he shrugged and plodded back onto the rough ground to continue the search.

       Chapter Five

       Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Monday 16th June. 10.21 a.m.

      Collier’s earlier allusion to issues with profiling took substance later in the morning as Savage overheard the beginnings of a call Hardin took on his mobile.

      ‘But, sir, do we really need to—’ the DSupt said before he stomped away, phone in hand, pushing through the doors of the crime suite and out into the corridor.

      Five minutes later he was back, the phone thrust into a pocket in his jacket.

      ‘This is total bollocks!’ Hardin thumped a desk, causing a young DC sitting nearby to nearly wet herself. ‘Mr Peter Wilson didn’t have much success the last time did he? In fact he should have been done for wasting police time in my view. If I recall the only profiling he put any effort into was that of a certain blonde indexer who went by her squad nickname of Big Marge. I can’t believe the Chief came up with this stupid idea.’

      ‘Do you mean Dr Wilson, sir?’ Savage said, trying to understand the gist of the conversation from having heard only a fragment of it. ‘The psychologist?’

      ‘Yes,’ Hardin said. ‘That was the Chief Constable. He wants us to consult Wilson. Apparently Wilson’s been in touch with the Police Commissioner. The Commissioner’s not supposed to dictate tactics, but he’s been all over the media this morning arguing the case should be the force’s number one priority and that we should explore all avenues. Including profiling. Local politicians are getting reports from hoteliers and B&B owners that cancellations are already beginning to come in. And as you know tourism is worth millions to the local economy. No tourists, no economy.’

      ‘And we’re approaching the busiest time of year.’

      ‘Exactly. Which is why the Chief wants to throw everything at this one.’

      The Chief was Simon Fox, known as Foxy to the rank and file. Like all leaders, he had a tendency to push down directives from on high. Any complaints would be met with a smile on his lamb-like face. Followed by a sting from his СКАЧАТЬ