pans clattered again and Budgeon closed his eyes. This time the noise caused white light to crackle across a grey background, and he balled his fists as needles of agony pierced his temples. He clenched his teeth and swallowed. He wanted to go into the kitchen and hit the woman. Slap her for being so clumsy. Instead he opened his eyes and lashed out with his arm, sweeping a vase of daffodils from a nearby table. The flowers fell in slow motion and then the vase exploded on the slate floor.
A second later and the girl was at the door with the child on her hips. A hand went to her mouth, lips quivering, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. The kid smiled across, for a split second his expression reminding Budgeon of someone from his past. He creased his forehead, willed the kid to repeat the smile, tried to recall the face again but the moment was gone. Then the boy sensed the tension and began to cry.
Budgeon nodded at the girl. Remembered to breathe. Said it was OK and then waved her away. He stepped from the window, crunched over the remains of the vase and eased himself down into the creaking leather of the big sofa. Tucked down behind a cushion he found his bottle of Scotch. He pulled the bottle out and fumbled with the screw top, necked a draught straight from the bottle. A burning sensation caressed the back of his throat and he felt the tension fall away. He cradled the bottle in his lap like a newborn and closed his eyes again.
Big K’s face floated in the grey mist, mouthing the words from all those years ago: fuck or be fucked. Well, what goes around comes around, Budgeon thought. Payback time; the stuff with Frankie only the start, an illustration that he was serious and a prelude to something much grander. Something to take away his final worry and which would bring his old pals a whole symphony of pain and misery and suffering.
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Monday 14th January. 2.10 p.m.
Early afternoon, and Savage headed back to Crownhill. Inside the Major Crimes suite Operation Brougham was in full swing, the information discovered earlier in the day entered into the system by the indexers, actions already mounting up as each incoming lead generated numerous tasks for the inquiry teams. Three pairs of DCs had begun working the area around Lester Close. So far they had nothing but gossip. The story coming out of the neighbourhood was that Franklin Owers was a loner, frequented local playgrounds and by common consent, deserved castration. People were glad he’d moved away. The tale was similar over Stonehouse way, in the maze of streets surrounding his flat. Owers had only moved in a couple of months back, but already someone had noticed him hanging around outside the local primary school. Nobody questioned in either area had any idea where he might be and his MAPPA team were equally clueless. So much for monitoring sex offenders, Savage thought.
‘Naughty, Charlotte, naughty,’ Garrett said, entering the Crime Suite a few minutes later. ‘I should slap your wrist. More, according to John Layton.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Owers’ flat. Scene of crime. Layton has gone ballistic.’
‘Shit.’
‘Kept on talking about first dibs for him and his team. Muttered something about cross-contamination too. I told him to calm down but he stormed off.’
‘So John’s gone over there now?’
‘Going to “rip the fucker apart” were his exact words. I hope Owers is our man or else we are going to face one hell of a repair bill.’
‘And Lester Close?’
‘Clean. Nothing else there, he reckons. At least nothing we can find without bringing in the bulldozers, and I’m not ready to do that. Not until we’ve got something more on Mr Owers.’
‘It’s beyond reasonable doubt though, sir. The fact he’s offended before, the stuff we found at the flat, local people saying he acted suspiciously.’
‘Depends whose reasonable doubt we’re talking about.’ Garrett raised a finger and tapped his nose. ‘Everything so far is circumstantial.’
Savage disagreed, thinking a body beneath a patio was way more than circumstantial. She said nothing, guessing the real reason for Layton’s anger was the lack of anything incriminating from Lester Close. Now he’d be hoping to find something in Owers’ current residence, hoping Savage hadn’t mucked things up. She was sorry she had pissed him off. They were on the same side, after all.
Garrett was still talking, moving around the room and raising his voice to include everyone in the conversation. There were three main questions, he said. Who was the little girl in the box, who was the man that Peter Serling, the builder, had met at Lester Close, and where was Mr Franklin Owers? Answer any one of those and they’d be well on their way to cracking the case.
Early days, but so far the inquiry teams had nothing on Owers. Where he was remained a mystery.
Peter Serling would be coming in to give a more detailed statement and to work with the team’s e-Fit specialist to compile a likeness of the man who had impersonated Mr Evershed. The mobile number the man had given him was being traced, but likely as not would turn out to be a pay as you go and worthless.
That left the girl.
Garrett was off to the post-mortem, saying he hoped to return with information which would aid the identification. They already knew she was aged around six, had brown curly hair and a gap in her front teeth where two milk teeth had fallen out. There were so few missing persons of that age that establishing the girl’s identity should have been easy. However, the missing persons’ list didn’t contain any young children.
It wasn’t until Garrett had been gone for half an hour that Savage remembered a news story from last summer.
‘Missing, presumed dead,’ she said to herself. ‘Not on the misper list.’
‘Huh?’ DC Enders looked up from his screen and ruffled his brown hair with one hand. ‘Not following you, ma’am.’
‘Last summer. Pete was away but I’d persuaded Stefan to accompany me for a week-long cruise with the kids. We went down in convoy with another family boat and ended up getting stuck down in Newlyn. A big depression had cleared through, but the sea state kept us in harbour for a couple of days.’
‘Sorry, ma’am. I don’t get it.’
‘I remember the local newspaper headlines. A young girl had gone missing a few miles to the east at the Lizard. The lifeboat, coastguard and an army of volunteers searched the sea, cliffs and coast path, but she was never found. The conclusion was that she must have slipped over the cliff edge while her parents were having a picnic. There was something else too which I can’t quite—’
‘It’s here, ma’am,’ Enders said, pointing to his screen where he had brought up the local police file on the incident. ‘Simza Ellis was her name. Her parents were travellers, down in Cornwall for seasonal work. Ditto everything you said, but apparently the parents claimed there was somebody taking photographs of children, a “weirdo” in their words. There was also the fact that her sun hat was found in a car park set back from the coast. It says here investigating officers concluded the hat had been dropped by a dog or a gull or maybe had been carried there by an updraught from the cliffs, the hat coming off as the girl fell. The facts were considered at the inquest, but
