his head as if in distaste, but then grinned. ‘Be my pleasure.’
As Riley reached the doors of the crime suite he remembered something. He shouted across to Davies.
‘What about DI Maynard, sir? He’s up on the moor again this morning. Shouldn’t we let him know we’re not going to be joining him?’
‘Maynard?’ Davies chuckled. ‘Leave him. He’s happy enough out there on his own getting a hard-on over some fucking chiffchaff. Be a shame to spoil his fun, wouldn’t it?’
Savage returned to Crownhill and collected DC Calter at a little after eleven. They headed out of the city into the rolling countryside of the South Hams on their way to Salcombe and a meeting with Phil Glastone. Calter wasn’t buying Walsh’s theory about Glastone having an accomplice nor him being in the frame on account of his record of domestic violence.
‘Don’t get me wrong, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘I’d like to live in a world where we could legally take a pair of garden shears to his bollocks, but hitting his wife doesn’t make him a killer. Besides, even if he’d killed his wife, why would he go on to kill those other women and why the gap of all those years until this one? And I’m sorry, but Walsh’s idea of him having an accomplice sounds like sour grapes because Glastone’s alibi back then played out.’
Savage slowed as they came up behind a tractor winding its way into the village of Modbury. Calter didn’t miss a trick and she was probably right. Walsh had had tunnel vision. Easy, Savage thought, to get fixated on one suspect and do everything to make the evidence fit. In the circumstances she could understand why that had happened. The pressure to get a result back then would have been enormous; the public outcry, the political pressure both locally and nationally, the feeling the inquiry was slipping away from them.
‘Let’s run with it for now,’ Savage said. ‘See what Mr Glastone has to say for himself.’
Twenty minutes later and Savage was parking on double yellow lines opposite Phil Glastone’s place on Devon Road. No chance of finding a space nearby with the season beginning to take off.
‘Impressive place,’ Calter said, peering up at the property. ‘For a wanker.’
The houses were on one side of the street only, sitting above triple garages. The door to Glastone’s garage was open, inside a Volvo SUV and an Alfa Spider, beside the cars a smart RIB on a trailer, a huge outboard attached to the back of the boat. With nothing opposite but a wooded area which fell away steeply, the house had uninterrupted views. On the estuary far below a yacht glided by, heading seaward past another on the way in. The harbour master’s boat was already on its way to intercept the newcomer, to collect fees and guide the boat to a buoy. On the far side of the estuary the beach at Millbay thronged with mums and pre-school children, busy on the golden sand. Salcombe itself was spread out below and to their left, a town of winding streets and overpriced boutiques, chock-full of tourists in the summer, but a ghost town of empty holiday properties in the winter.
On the first-floor balcony of Glastone’s place a figure stirred from a sun-lounger, reached for a shirt and pulled it on over a bare torso. Then he waved down and disappeared inside French windows. Seconds later and the man came through the front door and pointed to a patio area to the left. His shirt was only buttoned halfway up, dark curls of hair on his broad chest matching the curls on his head. His biceps were pumped and there wasn’t a shred of fat round his waist. He glared down at Savage. Didn’t speak.
Savage and Calter climbed the steps and joined Glastone on the patio.
‘Mr Glastone? DI Charlotte Savage and DC Jane Calter.’
Glastone nodded. Indicated the chairs around a teak table. Sat. Still said nothing.
‘Just a few questions,’ Savage said, pulling out a chair and sitting.
‘Now you’ve found the bodies I guess an apology will be forthcoming,’ Glastone said. ‘Not that sorry is worth much after all this time. Mud sticks, and you clowns threw a lot of the stuff at me.’
‘Last year, twenty-first of June,’ Savage said, taking an instant dislike to the man. ‘Can you account for your whereabouts around that time?’
‘Account for my whereabouts?’ Glastone laughed, but the laugh vanished into a sneer. ‘What you mean is, did I fucking murder this latest one?’
‘There’s no need to get angry, Mr Glastone,’ Calter said, scraping a chair out for herself. She pulled out her notepad and waited with pencil poised. ‘Just tell us where you were.’
‘As it happens I was here. Like most other days. I work at home, see?’
‘You’re a web designer, aren’t you?’ Calter said, looking at her pad. ‘Bed and breakfasts, local shops, is that the sort of thing?’
‘No I’m not a bloody web designer. I’m a database developer.’
‘Databases?’ Calter turned her head to take in Salcombe. ‘Much call for that sort of thing around here?’
‘What sort of Stone Age rock have you crawled out from under? I work remotely for a Swiss company. Occasional meetings in London or Zurich, a lot of time on Skype, millions of emails.’
‘So no work colleagues to verify your story?’ Savage said. ‘A visitor to the house maybe?’
‘Without checking my diary I can’t tell you who I spoke to that day, but there’ll have been emails I’m sure.’
‘What about your wife, Mr Glastone?’ Savage turned her head to peer in through the open door. ‘Was she around back then?’
‘My wife?’ Glastone raised his hand to his mouth, a sure sign, Savage thought, of a lie or an indiscretion.
‘Your new wife. I believe you remarried after Mandy’s death?’
As if in answer there was a clatter of dishes from inside, something falling to the floor and breaking. Savage made to rise from the table and go and investigate but Glastone waved her to sit down.
‘Carol?’ Glastone raised his voice. ‘What the hell’s going on in there?’
A moment or two later and a figure ghosted out from the dark shadow and stood blinking at the door.
‘I …’ The woman paused at the sight of Savage and Calter. ‘I dropped a plate. Clumsy me.’
A smile broke on the thin features of the woman’s face but it lasted only a second. She moved forward and placed a hand on Glastone’s shoulder, as if for support. She had mouse-brown hair and wore a bright summer dress with short sleeves. A shawl half-covered her arms which were slim and goosebumped, despite the warmth. Above the right elbow, a black and purple bruise encircled the arm. The woman drew the shawl across the bruise and looked at Glastone.
‘Police, Carol,’ Glastone said. ‘They’re still trying to fit me up for Mandy’s death all this time later.’
‘We are not trying to fit you up,’ Savage said to Glastone before turning to Carol. ‘If you can remember what you were doing around the twenty-first of June last year it would be very helpful.’
‘Last year? The twenty-first?’ Carol looked to Glastone yet again, as if he should answer,
