an uncomfortable silence for a moment.
‘I don’t disagree with you, ma’am,’ Riley said. ‘About Kendwick. He’s a nasty piece of work and he may well have killed those women. However, the law says he’s innocent. As police officers we have to respect that or else we’re lost.’
‘Are we?’ Savage said. ‘What about my daughter? We only got to the truth behind Clarissa’s death by going outside the law.’
‘That was different.’
‘Really? Because it was personal?’ Savage stared at Riley for a few moments. ‘It was personal for Janey Horton too. If she hadn’t done what she’d done to Kendwick, those girls would have lain up in the woods undiscovered. Kendwick would have gone on killing, gone on causing more misery.’
‘I realise that but what she did was wrong.’
‘Was it?’ Savage turned to go to her car. ‘Goodnight, Sergeant.’
‘Charlotte?’ Riley shouted after her. Savage turned back. ‘Be careful, right?’
‘Always, Darius, always.’
With that she walked across to her own car, aware Riley was standing and watching her go.
Savage drove home thinking about Riley’s arguments. They didn’t add up. He’d been willing to cross the line when he’d tracked down the lad who’d killed her daughter in a hit-and-run accident. He’d teamed up with a local gangster by the name of Kenny Fallon. The pair of them had gone out of their way to bring the name of the driver of the car to her attention, Fallon even supplying her with a gun to exact her revenge. Now though, Riley appeared to be on the side of Kendwick, even though it was obvious to Savage the man was guilty. Was Riley holding up his liberal credentials as a measure of what a nice guy he was? He should have known her well enough to realise that wouldn’t wash. When it came to criminal justice, Savage didn’t do liberal values. Certainly not when they related to men like Malcolm Kendwick.
She pulled into her driveway at a little after five. Jamie, Pete explained when she came in, was already in bed.
‘I said you’d definitely be back before he went to sleep,’ Pete said. He scratched his head. ‘So, being logical, the little man decided to get in his jimjams straight after lunch to hasten your arrival. He’s been tucked up in bed for the past hour.’
Savage went upstairs and popped her head round her son’s bedroom door. Jamie was lying on the bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He turned his head towards Savage, an expression of delight spreading on his face.
‘Mummy!’ He leapt out of bed and scampered across to Savage, throwing his arms round her. She felt a rush of love as she knelt down and hugged her son, a feeling of guilt too; an empty void inside, as if missing a day and a half of his life was something which could never be filled. ‘Did you catch any bad guys in London?’
‘Not this time, darling,’ Savage said. Jamie looked disappointed that there was no story to be had, so she told him about going to the VIP lounge at Heathrow and meeting officers from the NCA. Then she gave him another hug. ‘Are you coming downstairs or are you going to stay up here for a bit?’
‘Stay up here.’ Jamie moved across the room to a low table where a host of Playmobil figures stood near a toy police car. An arrest was in progress, officers with guns drawn, two suspects already in handcuffs. ‘These baddies need locking up.’
‘OK, I’ll call you when tea’s ready.’
Downstairs she confessed her feelings of guilt to Pete. He was sanguine about the situation.
‘You missed him, he missed you. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘No, I guess not.’
‘Anyway, by tomorrow he’ll have forgotten you’ve been away.’ Pete gestured to the bar of chocolate and the copy of the Beano lying on the kitchen table. Savage had bought them on the journey up to London. ‘And when he sees those he’ll forgive you, no doubt. Not that he hasn’t had enough chocolate today already, what with his Easter eggs and all.’
‘They’re not supposed to be bribes or compensation. Simply a gift.’
‘And not the only gift you’ve brought us either, I see.’
‘Hey?’
‘The Herald have splashed news of your celebrity passenger all over their website. They’re running an exclusive in the paper tomorrow. Malcolm Kendwick, Devon’s most infamous son, returns. They’re hinting at all sorts of things he might have done in America. I assume they’ve got legal advice but the story looks awfully close to libel to me.’ Pete paused and then grinned. ‘Oh, and there’s even a photo of you and Kendwick at the airport and a small piece on your track record of catching serial killers.’
‘Christ.’
‘You didn’t expect this? I thought the police were supposed to be media savvy these days. Old Conrad Hardin has surely gone on more than one PR training day. He should have made preparations for the public outcry.’
Savage sighed and then shrugged, too tired to continue the conversation. She went upstairs and took a long shower. Sitting in the back of the car for several hours with Kendwick had made her feel soiled. An uncomfortable crawling sensation itched across her skin. She stood under the jets of water and foamed her body with soap until she was sure every trace of Kendwick had gone. She couldn’t cleanse her thoughts though and later, as she lay in bed beside Pete, Kendwick’s face kept creeping into her mind. The smile and his mint-fresh breath, those perfect teeth grinning at her. White like the bones of his victims which had lain scattered in the wilderness, bleaching under a hot Californian sun.
He’s driven out onto the moor so he can be alone in the darkness. Experience the isolation of the wild country. Perhaps find a solution to his problem.
The problem is that things are wrong. He thought the return would change things, make him see the issues in a different light. Starting over didn’t mean having to go back to the way things were, did it? Surely it was possible to move on from the past?
He parks the car in the middle of nowhere and climbs out. He sets off along a stony track. The night excites him. He enjoys the coolness of the air, the peaty odour which emanates from the ancient bogs, the wind caressing his face. Nothing moving. Not another living human within miles.
Only the dead.
The dead, yes. They’re not far away. A short walk along the track. The coolness. The peaty odour. The wind. Nothing moving. Not a soul. Nobody but the dead.
But the dead are the problem!
They won’t keep quiet. They keep talking to him. Calling his name. He mutters to himself as he walks along, trying to drown out their voices.
The track is a grey thread curling into the distance as the route follows a contour line round the
