The blood belonged to the five missing girls, the DNA results said. According to the coroner, the sheer quantity suggested they’d died there.
You killed her, didn’t you? You raped her and then you fuckin’ killed her. Admit it, Malcolm. Tell me the fuckin’ truth! Tell me where my daughter is!
He hadn’t wanted to tell her anything. Not at first. He pleaded with her, tried to convince her she had the wrong man.
‘I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. For God’s sake, you’ve got to believe me.’
‘I don’t believe you. You killed Sara, I know you did. Just like you killed Stephanie, Chrissy, Amber and Jessie.’
‘Honestly, I didn’t do it!’ Kendrick said again, in a vain attempt to convince Horton. ‘I never killed those girls!’
‘We’ll see about that …’
At which point she’d started to use the box knife on him. Not the chest to begin with, his right calf. Slicing the skin as if she was descaling a fish. Peeling back a layer and then digging the knife into the exposed muscle. Rotating the blade until—
‘Excuse me, sir?’
Kendwick flicked his eyes from the window. A hostess leaned in from the aisle. Gestured at the overhead locker. Reached across to open the locker and push back the strap of his bag which had jammed in the door.
He smelt the perfume and glanced up through the translucent material of her blouse at the magical swell of her breasts. Swallowed.
You fuckin’ piece of crap. I’m goin’ to cut your fuckin’ dick off and feed it to you, understand?
Kendwick managed a half smile at the girl and then looked away again. He stared into the dark sky beyond the wing tip and for a moment wished he was out there in the thin air. Falling, falling, falling to the ground below where the safety of death and oblivion waited.
Then he turned back and watched the hostess walk away down the aisle. Took in her nylon-encased legs, the wondrous shape of her hips beneath the navy-blue skirt, the way her long blonde hair lay curled in a bun beneath her cap. Wondered about letting the bun free so the golden strands could brush over her shoulders as she stood before him. Realised that oblivion wasn’t what he wanted at all.
The journey up had been easy. Saturday afternoon, light traffic, just a bit of a snarl-up at Cribbs Causeway in Bristol as those who had nothing better to do headed for the stores on a warm spring day. Nothing better to do such as driving to London to pick up a suspected serial killer.
They’d booked two rooms at the Premier Inn at Twin Bridges in Bracknell, Enders and Riley sharing, Savage on her own. The hotel was attached to a three-hundred-year-old coaching inn, now remodelled as a Beefeater. As they pulled into the car park and unloaded their overnight bags, Enders was keen to point out the name.
‘Twin Bridges, ma’am. Like Two Bridges back home on the moor.’ He stared out at the busy A322 where cars streamed past, their windscreens glinting in the late-afternoon sun. ‘Only not.’
‘Only not.’ Savage repeated Enders’ words as she wondered what travellers past would have made of modern-day developments.
Enders raised a hand and tousled his mop of black hair. He looked wistful for a moment. Unlike DS Riley, he’d come dressed casually and wore brown cords and a mustard-coloured pullover over a green T-shirt. Such sartorial blunders were common with Enders, but the DC was in his twenties and his youth, his cheeky boyish face and the Irish lilt to his voice allowed him to get away with the clothing mismatch.
‘Bet Darius feels at home though.’ Enders nodded across at Riley. ‘Don’t you, sir? Back to your roots?’
Savage laughed as Riley shook his head. ‘I’m not exactly sure where Darius’ roots are, but I’m pretty sure they’re not here.’
‘Battersea,’ Riley said, pulling his bag from the boot of the car.
‘Battersea?’ Savage raised her eyebrows.
‘My dad was a lawyer.’ Riley shrugged an apology. ‘Still is, actually.’
‘We’re obviously in the wrong end of the business, ma’am,’ Enders said. He gestured at the hotel. ‘The cheap-as-chips end.’
Later, that’s what they had: fish and chips in the Beefeater. Several pints of bitter for Enders. Then a discussion about the main event. Savage and Riley had been over the plan earlier when they’d been briefed by the DSupt, but after they’d finished their meal, Savage laid out the agenda for the next day.
‘Kendwick’s plane lands at nine-forty, so we’ll aim to be in the terminal by nine. That will give us time to meet the NCA officers. I’ll sit in on the interview and then Patrick will bring the car round and we’ll set off. I don’t reckon we’ll leave until twelve at the very earliest, meaning we won’t get back to Devon before four.’
‘And we’re dropping Kendwick off, right?’ Enders plainly didn’t like the idea and he’d not stopped moaning about it for most of the journey up. ‘A door-to-door limousine service paid for by the taxpayer. All while we’re having to lay off staff.’
‘We’re taking him to his new place in Chagford, yes.’
‘Chagford? How the bloody hell did he afford that?’
‘His grandmother had a cottage there. She’s now in a home and Kendwick’s sister has been letting the place out. Kendwick’s going to use the cottage while he finds his feet.’
‘Finds his …’ Enders shook his head. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, but he’s the one who should be in a home. You’ll be telling me we’re giving him a job next.’
‘I don’t think he needs one. There’s talk he’s going to sign with one of the tabloids and he’s already got a book deal. Probably be six figures in all.’
‘What’s the book called, Serial Killing for Dummies?’
‘I might remind you he’s innocent in the eyes of the law. We can’t touch him.’
‘Bloody lawyers.’ Enders smiled across the table at Riley. ‘Explains how your old man got rich.’
‘Business law,’ Riley said. ‘The City. Not defending the likes of Malcolm Kendwick.’
‘OK folks,’ Savage said. ‘That’s enough. Tomorrow you both need to be on your best behaviour so you might as well start practising now. The last thing we need is Kendwick bringing some kind of harassment charge against us. Our job is to ferry him home and, while we’re doing so, get a measure of the man. Make him realise that if he puts a foot out of line we’ll be onto him.’
‘Well, let’s hope he does put a foot out of line,’ Enders said. ‘Any excuse to clock him one and believe you me I’ll—’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. Anyway, guilty or not, he’s not going to want to cast suspicion on himself. Not now. He’ll want to lie low, write his book and enjoy his freedom. Remember, he’s been incarcerated for over a year and all that time he’s had the possibility of a capital trial ahead of him. I don’t think he’ll want
