panties, nothing else. Legs long and not too thin, round hips, curvy waist, pert breasts. In his younger days Isaacs and his mates had a word for girls like this. The word was ripe.
There was still no reaction from the girl and she lay still, an object of perfection frozen in time. He poked her again. Nothing. A slow chill began to creep across his shoulders and down through his chest. He stuck out his foot and pushed it against the girl’s arm. It moved in response and fell back.
Isaacs chucked the pipe away into the bushes and knelt beside the girl. He put the back of his hand over the girl’s face. No breath. He looked down at her chest. No rise and fall. He moved his hand down there and placed it over her left breast. No heartbeat. He slipped it inside her bra, cupping the breast in his hand. Still nothing.
The breast was cold, but the round fullness hit him like a sudden white heat. He pulled his hand back. The sensation shocked him, set off a troubled train of thought in his head, the pleasing beginnings of an erection in his trousers. He glanced around the clearing, and beyond into the depths of the copse. There was nobody. Nobody to tell. He reached out and touched the girl again. She was like ice. Cold, but pure. Then, without knowing quite why, Isaacs bent over and kissed the girl on the lips.
Barbican Leisure Park, Plymouth. Tuesday 26th October. 10.47 am
The glitter balls sent light spinning round the room, the patterns morphing as they swept over the floor and walls. Calter and Enders bopped in the centre of the empty dance floor to an old Police number, the club manager’s idea of a joke, while Savage skirted the edge making notes.
It was Tuesday morning and the three of them were checking out clubs in preparation for Hardin’s Big Night Out operation and so far they’d done the White Rabbit on Breton Side and Annabel’s next to the marina. Now their focus had turned to Oceana, a huge club situated on the Barbican Leisure Complex along with a multiplex and a Pizza Hut. The club had several different themed rooms and right now they were in an area that mimicked a seventies New York disco, complete with flashing multi-coloured floor panels and a mirrored ceiling. Savage had pages of notes covering exits, vantage points, possible numbers of clubbers and anything else she thought might be of use for the undercover officers who would be on the ground come Saturday night. Even so the venue would be a nightmare to cover, what with the separate dance floors, booths and private rooms.
At this time of the morning with the venues empty, they all had the same sterile atmosphere. Savage had to remind herself it was the clubbers who made a venue, the ‘in crowd’ who gave a place its unique vibe. She thought, rather wistfully, that she hadn’t been part of any sort of vibe for a good number of years. With that in mind she beckoned Calter over.
‘What sort of people come here then?’ she asked.
‘Kids, ma’am. Fifteen-year-old girls trying to pass for eighteen. Eighteen-year-old boys trying to look older than their mates so they can snare one of those girls. A few older guys ogling the goods. It’s that sort of place.’
‘You’ve been here?’
‘Once or twice when everywhere else has been full or when I have been too drunk to be sensible.’
‘Well, snared is a good word, Jane. Both Sally Becker and Tayla Patterson were enticed from this club. Looking around though I’m wondering how.’
‘It’s like the other venues, ma’am. You wouldn’t believe the place when full. The club is heaving. Anything could happen.’
‘Yes, but someone couldn’t be dragged out could they? The door staff would notice at least.’
‘They are more concerned with stopping people coming in than worrying about who is leaving, and if someone looks drunk or ill and about to throw up then I would imagine they would be only too pleased to see them go.’
The CCTV from the camera at the entrance had shown Sally Becker looking ill. She had left alone, staggering down the pavement, pissed out of her brain, whereas Tayla Patterson had been with a man wearing a hoodie who had almost had to carry her away. The bouncers hadn’t remembered the couple, but then why should they? They would shepherd a thousand drunken people in and out of the club every weekend. A half-comatose girl being helped, or even coaxed, to the exit by a guy was nothing out of the ordinary. It went with the territory. Most of the girls would wake up the next morning with a bad head and some would have regrets, maybe even require a visit to the doctor for a pill. The victims in operation Leash came home with rope burns on their wrists and the rest of their lives to try to work out ‘why me?’
‘Ma’am?’ Enders. He had glided over the dance floor to Savage and Calter in a pale imitation of John Travolta. ‘You coming out clubbing with us Saturday?’
‘Don’t be daft. Those days are over. At least in this sort of place. I’ll be attending tea dances before too long. Us oldies, and by that I mean anyone over thirty, will be walking the streets while you’re busy enjoying yourselves.’
‘Well, what about a quick one now, right here, you and me?’
‘Message in a Bottle’, the Police number, had ended and ‘I Shot the Sheriff’ echoed from the speakers. Savage smiled, another joke from the manager.
‘A quick what, Constable?’
Savage never got an answer because her mobile rang. Hardin. He wanted her to return to the station. No explanation. Just get back. Fast.
Savage left Calter and Enders to scout the rest of the clubs on their list and returned to Crownhill. Hardin was waiting in his office, impatient but wearing a mood of quiet seriousness instead of anger. The frown creasing his forehead and narrowing his eyes made her suspect the worst and she was right.
The body of another girl had been found at Malstead Down, a village on the edge of Dartmoor, some twenty-five miles east of Plymouth. She was naked and had been left in a small wood and the corpse showed signs of sexual interference. Hardin had recounted the facts as if he was telling her about a stolen vehicle.
‘Malstead Down. Not right in the village, but nearby. Close enough to make me worried.’
‘Worried?’
‘The Chief Constable’s mother-in-law lives in the area.’
‘Not Jean Sotherwell, the dog mess woman?’
‘Yes.’
Hardin’s mouth drooped, but Savage couldn’t stifle a half-smile. The Dog Shit Bitch, as she had become known, had provided the lower ranks with much amusement a couple of years ago. She had managed to manipulate the local papers and TV stations and mobilise what, at times, seemed like half the force on a crackdown on dog fouling in Devon beauty spots. Simon Fox – the CC – and his immediate subordinates had jumped on command. It had been quite a sight. This was altogether more serious, but Hardin was taking no chances.
‘I don’t want the media stirred up on this one if it turns out to be a murder. Lord knows where it may lead. They are going to link the killing with the Plymouth rapes and that will cause us all sorts of problems.’ Hardin gnawed on his liquorice stick. ‘I want you out at the scene pronto. My eyes and ears. You’ve got sensitivity. Some of the others think the word means a
