have been a lot of blood?’
‘I’d say the place would have resembled an abattoir after the task had been done. Unless he was dead before the hand was cut off, but we won’t know that until the post-mortem.’ Nesbit took a gulp of coffee and then poured the rest into the hedge. ‘Now, one of the CSIs told me they do a fine bacon roll at the café so if you’ll excuse me, I am going to ascertain if he was correct.’
‘I hope he’s washed his hands, ma’am,’ Denton shook his head as Nesbit strolled off. ‘I mean, you saw the state of the man’s arse.’
‘Thanks for reminding me of that delightful vision, Carl,’ Savage said. She nodded at Enders. ‘Patrick, Carl, you continue working with the local team here. I’m going back to the station to report to DSupt Hardin and DCI Garrett that we have found Mr Owers. Arse and all.’
The DSupt’s greeting as she entered his office was hardly welcoming.
‘Fuck it, Charlotte. This is the last thing we bloody need.’ He swivelled his chair away from the computer and leant forwards, hands clasped together. On the desk in front of him was an array of Post-it notes, lines of Hardin’s careful block writing across each.
Savage nodded and took a seat as Hardin continued. Trying to find Owers’ killer would be a nightmare, he explained. They’d be up against a wall of silence, nobody wanting to shop someone who in many people’s eyes would be a hero. Unearthing the story behind the girl in the crate would lead to misery all round, what with the grieving parents, disgruntled social workers, outraged local residents and the wrath of the press. No good could come of the investigation into either death. Hardin paused.
‘Where’s the bugger been?’ Hardin reached out and tapped the calendar on the wall. ‘You were round his place Monday and he was killed Tuesday night. Whoever made the connection made it pretty quickly.’
‘No, sir. I think it was the other way around. Owers was seen near his place with two men on Sunday night, one suspected of being Stuart Chaffe. The body of Simza wasn’t dug up until the following morning.’
‘Hey?’ Hardin glanced at the calendar again and then back to Savage. ‘Tell me.’
‘The builders weren’t supposed to be there. The whole thing was a set-up.’
‘So somebody already knew the girl was under the patio?’
‘That’s my guess. Peter Serling was contacted last week and he scheduled his men to do the job at Lester Close on Monday. It looks like Owers went missing Sunday night.’
‘So why now?’
‘Maybe some new information came to light, maybe Owers told somebody, maybe there was more than one person involved in the girl’s abduction.’
‘That is one possibility I don’t want to consider,’ Hardin said. He stared down at his desk at the Post-its and selected one, peeling the yellow paper off the surface and scrumpling it up. ‘Now, DCI Garrett will continue to handle the case of the little one. We will spin off the investigation into Franklin Owers’ death into a separate operation and you’ll be the SIO. You are to cooperate fully with Brougham at all times. The death of a child must take precedence over that of an adult, especially when the adult concerned is in all probability the murderer.’
‘Senior Investigating Officer,’ Savage said, thinking she should be grateful to be offered the lead role in the inquiry but casting her mind back to the toilets on the Hoe, the stench of piss and shit and Owers’ trousers round his ankles. She wondered if it was time for a career change to Traffic. ‘Yes. Thank you, sir.’
Hardin lobbed the little ball of paper across the room towards the wastepaper bin where it hit the rim and bounced out. He appeared not to have noticed as he turned back to his computer and began typing.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Job done.’
Budgeon sat next to Stuey in the white transit parked halfway along Maxwell Road, in the Cattedown area of the city. The place was basically a huge industrial estate, with the emphasis very much on the industrial, evidenced by the huge BOC gases plant just to their left. Its towering white storage containers and rows of bottled oxygen hinted at one almighty explosion should anyone ignore the numerous ‘No Smoking’ signs plastered on every surface.
Stuey flicked the remains of his fag out of the window and then grinned across at Budgeon, the skin on his gaunt face resembling tissue paper stretched over chicken wire.
‘Fucking hell, Stuey. You trying to get us killed?’ Budgeon pointed at a sign on the wire fence a couple of car lengths away.
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