goes wrong and he gets spotted burying a body on the peninsula we’d be setting up roadblocks and checking vehicles in totally the wrong place while he hotfoots it over here.’
‘Clever,’ Savage said, ‘but I wonder if there’s more to it than that.’
‘Some connection to the village, you mean?’
‘If he just wanted to dispose of a body there are many places more remote. We’re going to need to trawl through all the Candle Cake Killer stuff.’
‘I don’t recall any of the physical evidence linking to this particular area, but I’ll check.’
‘John?’ Savage stood at the fence and pointed to the top wire where several pieces of thread had snagged.
‘Trying to do me out of a job?’ Layton smiled and then came over, bent and examined the material. ‘Looks like denim. I wouldn’t mind betting this is a shortcut home for kids from the peninsula who’ve missed the last train or bus.’
‘There.’ Savage pointed at something half-hidden behind a tree. She clambered over the fence and stumbled through the undergrowth to a nearby medium-sized oak. A chain encompassed the trunk and then wrapped itself several times around the top tube of a bicycle. A padlock secured the two ends of the chain. Oldish but well-oiled, the bike a little rusty but the tyres inflated and in good condition. ‘I think you’re right, but it’s not just kids. Someone is using the route regularly, maybe as a commute to work.’
‘Crafty bugger.’
‘Well, it would save them miles by going this way. A quick walk down to the bridge, across and then take the bike along that.’ Savage looked through the trees to where the track snaked away from them. ‘It’s only a mile or so to the edge of the city.’
‘Unlikely they would have seen anything.’
‘Unlikely, but possible. They could have been doing the journey for years.’
Layton joined her at the tree for a moment before moving off towards the track.
‘Get a four-by-four down here,’ he said as he peered up and down the rutted surface. ‘Not a car though, not without a risk of getting stuck. And an hour from here and you’re anywhere in Devon.’
‘So if my hypothesis is correct, the killer drives in from this end at night, takes the body over the bridge when it’s quiet and there are no trains, and buries it in the field. That part of the farm is well away from the farmhouse so they’ve got several hours of darkness to do their work. The area is covered with scrub and small trees so the dump site is shielded from the field. As Joanne Black said, she or her farmworker could pass within a few metres and not see anything.’
‘Jesus.’ Layton pulled his phone out. ‘We’re going to have to do a fingertip search of the railway line and the whole of this area. Been a year ago or more, but given it’s not a regular thoroughfare – Mr Shortcut excepted – we might get something.’
‘The rail company? I was hoping to avoid them.’
‘Not now, boss. Can’t have my guys and girls on the line with trains coming back and forth. We’re at least going to need some guidance on how to proceed. My guess is they’ll send a crew down. Be some jobsworth in charge as well. Sorry.’
Layton shrugged and began to punch in a number as Savage strolled up the muddy track. The direct link into Plymouth crystallised the problems they were up against, she thought. ‘Anywhere in Devon’ Layton had said. Which meant anyone in Devon. And the population of the county was well over one million people.
Chapter Six
Back home after your trip to town and your mate Mikey holds up the Sun, grins an inane smirk and points to the headline.
‘Scream Teas.’
You like it. Trust the nation’s favourite rag to come up with something special for you. This isn’t what it’s about – the fame and glory – but you’re flattered nonetheless. However, you know you mustn’t believe your own press. You’re not some preening celebrity or a politician bending to every whim.
Mikey points to the date on the paper’s masthead and shrugs, making a mock, clown-like sad face. The poor mutt can’t say much, doesn’t really understand the Gregorian calendar, but he knows the Special Day is coming soon. He puts the paper down and slips one hand inside his trousers and you see him begin to move his hand rhythmically.
‘Outside!’ you say, pointing to the door and Mikey scampers from the room, his demeanour somewhere between a monkey and a stallion.
You shake your head. The boy is crazy, but he helps you run the place, provides the muscle power. His strength is frightening at times, but he’s as good a guard dog as your Rottweiler, his blank staring eyes and gaping mouth usually enough to put off casual visitors even before they’ve opened the gate to the yard.
Yesterday it was a rep selling solar panels. Some rip-off scheme no doubt. From the kitchen window you watched the man get out of his Audi and move to the gate. Mikey was chopping logs in the shed, but he must have heard the car because out he came, scampering across the yard with the dog alongside, a big smile on his face.
The bunch of colourful brochures under the rep’s arm slipped down and, caught by the breeze, they whisked themselves through the bars of the gate and landed in a large puddle. The man opened his mouth to say something as Mikey uttered one of his guttural wails and then thought better of it. He moved back to the car, jumped in and reversed along the track even as Mikey was picking up the soggy brochures and raising a thumb in appreciation of the glossy pictures.
Now, you shake your head as you watch Mikey cross the yard. The dog scampers out of its kennel and barks, wanting to play, but right now Mikey’s not interested. He shouts at the dog and enters his little shiplap shed. He keeps his puzzle magazines and God-knows-what-else in there. The rep’s brochures are probably in there too, although you doubt Mikey is going to look at them now.
Ten minutes later and he’s in the yard again. On his pogo stick. Boing, boing, boing. That great grin of his, the lopsided face, tongue hanging out, his mind concentrating on staying upright. But upright doesn’t last for long. He falls and smacks his head on the ground, the mark of the graze visible. The pogo stick gets flung to one side and Mikey scrabbles in a clump of dock. ‘That’s for nettles, you idiot,’ you feel like shouting out the window, but maybe you’re wrong and anyway, it will save on the cost of a plaster.
Mikey wipes a piece of dock leaf on his forehead and then looks over to the window. You tap the glass and point at the pile of white silica gravel sparkling at one side of the yard. ‘Get on with your job,’ you mouth. Mikey shrugs and goes back to moving the stones from one side of the yard to the other. He takes up his shovel and begins to load the wheelbarrow. You are not really sure why you asked him to move the stuff, but it gives him something to do.
Best not wear out your workhorse though, as you’re going to need his help and you don’t want him tired. Not with what’s coming.
