she said as Walsh got out and retrieved a pair of wellies from the boot.
‘You don’t have to call me sir, remember?’ Walsh pulled on the boots, steadying himself on the car. He was only in his early sixties, but with his hair long gone grey, if anything, he looked older. Retirement could be cruel to some people, Savage thought. Shorn of the excitement of the job ex-officers searched around for something to replace the adrenaline rush, but nothing could. A sort of mental deflation often followed. It was sad to think of Walsh going that way.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, smiling to try and deflect her mood. ‘I mean, of course. It’s easy to forget.’
‘You know, Charlotte?’ Walsh made a half glance towards the edge of the farmyard where a white-suited figure struggled with a wheelbarrow, atop which sat two plastic boxes filled with mud. ‘Sometimes I wish it was.’
‘This time we’ll get him.’
‘We?’ Walsh chuckled. ‘Hands up, last time I failed, but this time catching the bastard isn’t down to me, is it?’
‘No.’ Savage shook her head and they began to walk out of the farmyard, following the aluminium track down across the field. Away in the distance, up close to the boundary hedge, the white tent stood in the centre of the muddy patch, like some sad remnant of a festival. Only nobody had partied here.
‘Odd,’ Walsh said. ‘The location, I mean. Far easier places to dispose of a body or three. Risky too. Does the farmer have dogs?’
‘Yes, she does, but they’re shut up at night. If they bark it’s usually at foxes or cars in the lane.’
‘She?’
‘Women have got the vote, sir. In case you haven’t noticed.’
‘Only joking, Charlotte.’ He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. ‘And does she have a gun?’
‘Yes, a shotgun. The farmworker too. He occasionally goes out at night to shoot a few rabbits. He’s seen nothing suspicious though.’
‘This guy wouldn’t want to take risks. You know his form. We believed, back then, that the victims had been targeted weeks in advance. He was careful not to be disturbed, not to leave fingerprints or anything else. The kidnappings had been planned to a T.’
‘Dr Wilson? I’ve been reading his reports. I’m supposed to meet with him.’
‘Fuck Wilson,’ Walsh raised a hand and tapped his forehead. ‘This was common sense, nothing you couldn’t work out with half a thimbleful of intelligence and a couple of true crime books as reference material.’
Common sense or not, Savage knew Wilson had identified the killer as a highly organised psychopath. Intelligent, educated, he was in control of the situation. Wilson had gone further: the lines on the body of Mandy Glastone were akin to the final brush strokes on a canvas, he’d said. Beforehand the artist had to prepare by deciding on the subject, gathering the materials, preparing the canvas, arranging the materials. Wilson stressed in this case his ideas were not metaphors; the killer actually was an artist of some type, he would view the killing as a project. The head and genitals of the victim he would keep as a trophy, part of the post-crime re-enactment cycle.
However, the actual evidence for the killer having any connection to the art world had been circumstantial: the cuts on Mandy Glastone could have been caused by a craft knife. Equally the PM report said they could have been made by any blade with a razor edge. The patterns themselves were interesting; whether one had to be an artist to create the swirling forms was a matter of conjecture. Finally there had been the material found in the victim’s oesophagus, stuffed down her throat before the head had been removed. Clay. Could the killer be a potter or regularly work around potters, maybe in some communal studio somewhere?
‘What about the arts and crafts theory?’ Savage ventured. ‘Was that common sense?’
‘No,’ Walsh said. ‘Total lunacy. Where these guys get their ideas from I haven’t a clue. I was against committing resources to that particular angle, but as you know the Chief Constable disagreed. Personally I think Wilson was leading us a merry dance. Down the garden path to a potter’s shed.’
‘You think he was deliberately misdirecting you?’
‘Charlotte,’ Walsh grabbed Savage’s arm and stopped walking. ‘When you get to meet Wilson you’ll realise the guy is a charlatan. They all are, psychologists. Circus tricks to impress the common people. They make the stuff up as they go along and then couch it all in terms you and I can’t understand. The longer the report, the more obtuse and difficult to fathom the better.’
‘Leading to a bigger bill?’
‘And a bigger ego.’ Walsh stared to laugh and then carried on walking. ‘You know I reckon all the pseudo-scientific garbage these people come out with is just something to cover up their inadequacies.’
They left the metal track and followed a row of scaffold boards which in turn led to some industrial-sized stepping plates which Layton had managed to procure to replace the pallets. Savage pointed out the railway line and told Walsh how she believed the killer had come across the bridge.
‘Now that does make sense,’ Walsh said. ‘But we still need to work out why here?’
‘“We”, sir?’
‘Ha! No, “you” and it’s not sir.’
Walsh began to ponder the history of the farm. They’d need to find out about disgruntled farmworkers, neighbouring farmers, villagers who for some reason bore a grudge.
Savage explained about Joanne Black and her uncle. The farm had been an inheritance, before that the uncle had in turn inherited it from his parents. There didn’t seem to be any other relations involved. If the killer had a connection to the farm it wasn’t through his family.
‘It’s not exactly convenient though, is it?’ Walsh said as they approached the tent. ‘There has to be a reason.’
Savage gave a little cough to alert the two CSIs in the tent and then introduced Walsh. Both nodded a greeting and then went back to trowelling through the layers of silt. Despite the fresh breeze blowing through the open ends of the tent, the stench was still appalling. A sweet, sickly odour which cloyed at the throat.
‘Jesus!’ Walsh said.
Walsh would have been to many crime scenes, so Savage guessed the reaction was to the size of the hole rather than the smell. Leaning forwards, Savage pointed out where the bodies had lain. The sides of the hole had been shored up with more scaffold boards and to the left a yardstick stood upright. Alongside, pinned to the boards at differing heights, little numbered labels marked the depths of various finds.
Noting her interest, one of the CSIs pointed to the lowest label, which was some thirty centimetres from the bottom of the pit.
‘Reckon we’ve reached the limit now,’ the CSI said. ‘The last thing we found was a ring down the foot end of body number one. The Kendle woman apparently wore a ring on a toe. The thing has gone off for the poor next-of-kin verify.’
‘Poor next-of-kin’ wasn’t a term you could apply to Phil Glastone, the first victim’s husband. Glastone had been a suspect on account of his record of domestic
