TOUCH: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

MARK SENNEN

Touch

Copyright

Avon An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Mark Sennen 2012

Mark Sennen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007512096

Ebook Edition © January 2013 ISBN: 9780007512102

Version: 2018-10-25

Dedication

For Sue and Michael

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

When Harry was a child he lived at the top of the house. His little bedroom had been crammed under the eaves and had funny shaped walls, sloping ceilings and iron hooks in the beams to which you could tie things. Most of the year the temperature seemed glacial and when night fell he would go to bed fully-clothed and try to think himself warm. Then he would lie in the darkness listening to the noise of the water tank hidden behind one wall. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he was sure nobody would come, but as long as the room stayed dark he didn’t get afraid. The dark felt comforting. Safe. In the dark he became invisible. It was when the light came on he got scared.

Harry peered through the window into the gloom beyond the cracked glass. Nothing to see but black. Clouds hid the moon and stars and there were no streetlights, no cars or other signs of life. Not out here. Harry smiled to himself. He didn’t get scared. Not anymore. He turned from the window and gazed across at the girl. She slouched in the chair dressed in the white underwear he had bought for her. She didn’t say much, just sat unmoving, eyes wide. Her silence was understandable, after all they had been together for weeks and she didn’t have much left to say. Still, he could tell by her demeanour she wasn’t comfortable, that something wasn’t quite right. Harry tutted to himself and shook his head. This would never do. He went over to the girl and reached out and touched her skin. Cold. Ice cold. Poor girl, no wonder the smile on her face had gone. He bent down and fiddled with the fan heater, turning the knob up a couple of notches. The fan whirred in protest but the air seemed a little warmer. He moved the heater and angled the air flow upwards so the warmth reached the girl’s body. There, she looked almost happy.

Almost happy would do for him too, he thought. He didn’t think it was much to ask. Years back he’d seen a woman lawyer talking on TV. ‘There are human rights’, she said. Those rights meant you could get stuff you didn’t have. Stuff like happiness. It was the law. Written down. In books. You could go to court to get it. You could sue the council or the government and get damages. But now he knew there were easier ways.

Harry’s ways.

He moistened his lips and pushed his tongue into the corner of his cheek and chewed for a moment, letting his eyes wander over the girl’s body: pink toenails, delicate feet, shapely calves, not-too-thin thighs, rounded stomach, nice breasts, gorgeous long black hair … Nice. Very nice.

Her breasts were the best thing about her. Small and pert, the nipples pushing upwards through the white material of the bra. Towards God. As if thanking her creator for producing such a work of art. Harry considered the girl again. Overall she scored nine out of ten. Maybe nine point five. You would go a long way to find a better likeness.

Harry scratched the stubble on his chin. The nagging thought that had first come to him a few weeks ago returned. Things hadn’t worked out as they should have. Not with this one. She was like an apple that was ripe on the outside but rotten within. Full of worms and maggots, or perhaps hiding a wasp. Yes, a wasp. You would get stung if you bit into a piece of fruit with a wasp inside. He needed a girl who was clean and pure. Untouched.

A hint of a smile played on the girl’s face for a moment. Was she mocking him or just feeling a little happier now the room had warmed up? Really it didn’t matter. He could do whatever he wanted to her and she wouldn’t mind because she loved him. He supposed he had made the same mistake when he had been a kid. He had let his parents do as they wished because he loved them, but they hadn’t loved him. Ever.

Harry went back to the window and stared into the emptiness again. Nothing. For a minute or two his mood darkened, black, like the night. Thinking about the past did that because he had a whole bunch of memories he didn’t want to recall. They still kept coming back to haunt him though, like a bad smell that crept up unnoticed. One moment you got a slight whiff in your nostrils and the next you were gagging on puke.

Harry scolded himself. It was stupid to dwell on the past. Futile. He looked at the girl again. She might not be right but that didn’t mean they hadn’t had some good times together. He smiled. Rapture would have to wait until the next one. For now he would just have some fun. He licked his lips and began to remove his clothing.

Chapter One

Bovisand, Plymouth. Sunday 24th October. 9.05 am

Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage woke with a sense of loss and sadness. Numb. The way she always felt after the dream. The last nightmare had been months ago, but if anything that made the shock more acute. She rolled over to look at the bedside clock, groaned at the time, and then saw the message light on the phone blinking. She sighed as she sat up to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. She would play the message in a moment, but first she wanted to check on the children.

The morning light filtered into the house, the weak light of a stormy autumn day. Savage peered through the landing window into the garden where sheets of rain lashed down and saplings whipped back and forth in the wind. Beyond the garden the ground dropped to the sea where a mist of spray rose and fell with every wave that hit the shore. Farther away, out across Plymouth Sound, a couple of tankers and a navy supply vessel lay anchored behind the shelter of the mile-long breakwater that cut off the roadstead from the open sea. Huge rollers crashed over the breakwater rocks as the storm tried to batter the city into submission.

She climbed the stairs to the suite of rooms where the kids slept and paused at the door to Clarissa’s old room, now used as an office, and the familiar twinge down in the pit of her stomach returned. She closed her eyes for a moment and there, right on the edge of her consciousness, she heard the little ding-ding of a bicycle bell. When she opened her eyes she was almost tempted to go to the window and look out, thinking she might see Clarissa riding in circles on the patio. Silly. Life went on, things got easier, but they never got put right. She shook her head and went to check on Samantha and Jamie. Of course they were fine. Samantha beginning to wake, a tangle of red hair painting the pillow, her limbs akimbo and the bedclothes half on the floor. No doubt she would soon be protesting about having to get up and dressed. The scattering of teen mags, the posters on the walls, glitzy clothing and the mess on the floor said the room belonged to a fifteen year old. Savage had to remind herself that Samantha was only thirteen, still her baby girl for a few more years yet.

In the adjoining room the mess belonged to Jamie. He’d come along only six years ago, time that seemed to be measured in a mere blink. Unexpected, unplanned, it had surprised Savage how much she loved him. Not a love she’d had to grow and nurture like she had with Samantha and Clarissa, but an instant, protective love as powerful as it was scary. Savage moved over to the bed where Jamie lay curled in a tight ball, knees pulled up to his face, almost as she had left him the previous night. He reminded Savage of a hedgehog hibernating for the winter, protected from anything outside its own little world.

It was Sunday, so she would let them sleep some more. She would go downstairs and defrost some bagels, make tea, grab some orange juice, jam and butter and carry the whole lot to her bedroom where they could cuddle up and watch the storm develop through the big window that looked out across the sea. When Pete was home they’d do the same, and Savage reckoned it was good to stick to the routine when he was away. Keeping the children sane and secure while he was on patrol was something they had both agreed was important. Groundwork, her own mother had called it. With strong enough roots a tree could stand any gale, she had once said.

Down in the kitchen the base station on the phone blinked. She pressed the button on the unit and the Irish lilt of DC Patrick Enders rang out. His upbeat tone wouldn’t have been out of place introducing a programme on a children’s television channel, but the grim contents of the message belied his cheerfulness: a woman’s body had been discovered over at Wembury beach. As the DC recounted the details, Savage wondered what kind of tragedy this might represent and for whom. Was somebody somewhere waiting for a knock on the door to tell them what had happened to their loved one? Or – more depressingly – was the woman unloved and not missed? Enders didn’t elaborate other than to say that a recovery operation was going to take place at the next low tide and Detective Superintendent Hardin had requested Savage attend.

She’d have to phone Stefan and ask if he would come round for a few hours to mind the kids. Sunday was supposed to be his day off, but looking out at the rough water in the Sound Savage didn’t think he would be racing.

Finding Stefan had been a godsend for the family. They had discovered him one August morning down at the marina moping about waiting for the Fastnet Race yachts to finish. He was meant to have been crewing on one of the boats but had broken his arm the week before. Chatting to Savage he had revealed he was from Sweden and a primary school teacher by trade. Really though, he lived for sailing. One thing led to another and two weeks later Stefan had been installed in the granny annexe as the family’s unofficial au pair. Now, with Pete away commanding his frigate on an Atlantic voyage and Savage working long hours, having him around to help out made all the difference.

Savage deleted the message on the phone and then glanced at the fridge where a printout of the week’s tides hung clamped in the jaws of a green and purple magnetic dinosaur. Low tide Devonport was eleven thirty-seven. She smiled to herself; still time enough for those bagels.

Rain continued to drive in from the southwest in bands and the low clouds threatened to roll back the daybreak. The drive from her house to Wembury, a village a few miles to the southeast of Plymouth, had been treacherous. Water lay everywhere and twice Savage had to brake sharply to avoid fallen branches that half-blocked the road. With some relief she pulled into the car park at the beach and stopped the engine. Now the sheer force of the wind became apparent and the car shuddered as a gust spilled up from the shoreline, the rain drumming the windows even harder. She remembered back to a spring day many years before when she and Pete had been to a friend’s wedding at the church on the cliffs high above the beach. The view had been spectacular, with the sea looking an impossible holiday-brochure blue, sparkling in the bright, early sun. With the joy and laughter of the occasion the place had seemed like something close to heaven. In late October, with yet another deep Atlantic low moving in, nirvana lay out of reach, redemption impossible. Unless you were already dead, that was.

On the other side of the car park a huddle of uniforms stood next to the shuttered café. They were there to prevent people from going down to the beach or along the coast path. Not that they had anything to do. The blue and white tape they had strung up oscillated in the wind, achieving nothing much other than to catch the attention of the occupants of an arriving car, the kids in the back seats pressing their camera phones to the windows in the hope of capturing a glimpse of something sordid or shocking. An ambulance was parked next to the café too, its light strobing in the gloom, the crew standing at the rear with their fluorescent coats drawn around them.

Savage got out of the car and retrieved her waterproofs from the boot, both jacket and trousers, since the rain was near horizontal. The jacket tried to become a kite before she managed to zip it up and pull up the hood, stuffing wayward strands of red hair in at the sides and pulling the cords tight around her face. She walked across the car park and ducked under the tape held up for her by one of the bobbies.

‘Morning, ma’am. You’ll find a grim business down there.’ The young officer’s face appeared pale and drained of colour. Savage wasn’t sure if that was because of the weather or what he had seen.

‘Thanks. Nice day, huh?’ Savage smiled at him. ‘Who’s attending?’

‘DI Davies.’ He spat the name as if he had dirt on his tongue. ‘TAG are here as well. D section. With their bloody big RIB.’

The Tactical Aid Group provided operational support, with D section responsible for the marine side of things. Inspector Nigel Frey led the team, and as an officer she rated him highly. Like Savage and her husband he was a keen sailor and they’d raced each other many times out on the Sound, the inevitable disagreements that close-quarter yacht racing brought always resolved later over a pint. Pity about Davies though.

Savage nodded and walked down the path leading to the beach. Only it wasn’t really a beach, just a strip of wet, grey sand surrounded by jagged rocks and half-covered by seaweed and a few plastic bottles, soggy chip wrappings and other debris. Popular with locals in the summer, and on fine winter days a good spot for walking the dog, today the place was deserted.

She continued across the sand, dodging windblown balls of foam that rolled along like tumbleweed swept down the street in an old Western movie. On the other side of the beach she had to clamber up onto a plateau of rock. The seaweed, slime and the spray in the air made progress across the rock difficult and twice she had to drop to her hands and knees. Eventually she reached a finger of sand threading its way into the plateau from the sea. She jumped down off the rock and approached the four men standing in a group: DI Philip Davies, DC Little John Jackson – one of Davies’s cronies, and two white-suited CSI officers. Davies kept his back to her as she neared, a dig suggesting that even though he held the same rank as her he thought he was by far and away the superior detective. His attitude didn’t bother Savage. Silly little boys played silly little games.

Davies turned in time so as not to appear too rude. He sneered at her from a rough, pocked face which had a nose that had been broken more than once.

‘Charlotte, dunno what you think you are doing here?’ He scratched at the two-day stubble on his chin, grey like his hair, and shook his head. ‘This is murder. Not a few girls getting their knickers all soiled because they had a bit too much to drink and went home with the wrong guy.’

‘Cut the crap, Phil.’ Savage pushed past and looked into the sea where a couple of divers bobbed at the outer edge of a huge, rough chunk of concrete wall, a remnant of wartime defences. The waves here were smaller than back at the beach because a lee was formed by the Mewstone, a small island lying half a mile out to sea. At low tide the rocky ledges leading to the shore became exposed, providing some protection from the open ocean, but even so a heavy swell rocked the divers up and down and threatened to pulverise them against the concrete. Twenty metres offshore the dive support RIB manoeuvred back and forth holding station like a concerned mother hen. At the helm Nigel Frey raised one hand to wave at her. She waved back; the howling wind made conversation over that distance impossible.

Some sort of pipe, perhaps a metre in diameter, lay half-sunken in the churning water. It emerged from the concrete and ran out into the sea and the divers concentrated their efforts around its end. The swell covered and uncovered a submerged object trapped in the pipe, an expanse of black plastic and something pale, white and waterlogged.

‘Low tide,’ Davies explained. ‘A fisherman spotted her late last night. What the fuck they were doing fishing out here at that time in this weather I don’t know.’

‘Her?’

‘Can’t see now but a few minutes ago you could. Long hair, tits, or what remains of them.’

Jackson tried to emulate Davies’s sneer and muttered something that caused them both to laugh. Savage guessed what he had said was offensive, but a gust of wind snatched the words into the air, no doubt hiding a multitude of sins.

‘Anyway they say she’s a woman,’ continued Davies, nodding at the divers. ‘And I don’t think she came down here for a picnic.’

One of the divers first swam and then walked to the shore where a CSI officer handed him some sort of tool resembling a giant pair of pliers. He waded back in and disappeared beneath the surface, bubbles of air rising round the pipe and the water boiling in response to unseen movement.

‘Huh?’ Savage turned to the guy who had produced the tool.

‘Bolt croppers,’ the man said. ‘She was wrapped in bin liners, bound with tape and then chained to the grating.’

‘Grating?’

‘There’s a metal grille back in the pipe. About a metre in. The body is well jammed in the pipe now the tide has turned.’

The diver surfaced and flung the tool back to the beach and he and his partner began to wrestle the body from the pipe entrance and towards the shore. Using each wave for assistance they half-swam and then half-waded, dragging the inert mass behind them.

‘Shit.’ Jackson swallowed hard and turned away for a moment. Davies just smirked.

Between the strips of black plastic and silver tape the body appeared to be in a considerable state of decay. Crabs or friction had torn away vast swathes of skin and only puffy and bloated patches remained. Where the skin should have been pieces of stringy flesh and muscle had gone white in the water the way a boil-in-the-bag fish changes colour when you cook it. Shrimps and lice crawled across limbs, and the rotten lips parted to reveal a manic smile.

The divers had the body in the shallows now and it lay face up, the belly swollen with gas making it look like a stranded whale. As each wave came in to the beach it moved in the water, the arms and legs rising and falling like a floundering swimmer captured in slow motion. Now Savage could tell the corpse belonged to a woman but it was difficult to know much else since the water-wrinkled skin gave no clue as to her age.

With some difficulty, the divers, along with the CSI officers, began to move the body out of the water and onto a waiting body bag. Savage stepped forward to make a closer inspection.

‘Jesus, look at the hole in her head!’ Jackson had moved closer too and Savage understood why he was regretting it. A lot of the hair on the scalp had gone and white bone was showing through. Just above the right temple was a neat, round hole about the size of a penny.

Savage noticed a flash of metal around the neck. A little cross on a silver chain. Blind faith had never appeared so pathetic, she thought.

‘Could you?’ she asked one of the white-suited CSIs, pointing at the cross.

He bent over and held the cross in his gloved hand, turning it over to reveal an inscription.

‘RSO,’ the CSI said.

‘Rosina Salgado Olivárez,’ Savage said. ‘Our missing student.’

‘Bugger. Hardin will be livid,’ Davies grunted. He said nothing else. Just pulled his jacket collar up against the driving rain and stomped away, Jackson scampering after him like a terrier after its lowlife master.

Chapter Two

Love. Harry didn’t understand why but he hadn’t ever got much of it. Not from his parents anyway. The pet cat had been shown more affection. He remembered his mother cooing and feeding the kitten titbits from the dinner table. It always got a stroke, even when naughty. Harry just got beaten. He loved the little tabby, but he felt angry when it competed with him for attention. So he strangled it. He buried the corpse in the garden, marking the grave with a brick. Many months later, lonely and needing a cuddle, he lifted the brick and started to dig. He was surprised to find only the white bones of the skeleton remained. The cat’s flesh had decomposed, the animal’s soul seeping into the ether, forever beyond his reach. The discovery made Harry wonder how you preserved things, how you stopped the flesh you loved from rotting away. There didn’t seem to be anything in his life other than decay.

Me, Harry. Me.

Trinny.

Her voice snapped him out of his half-slumber and he sat bolt upright, confused for a moment. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, grasping at consciousness, trying to pull the tangled threads into some sort of order. A wan light slipped past the curtains and painted the room with the awful chill of reality.

Naughty Harry.

Yes, but there was no going back, not after what he had done to Trinny.

I didn’t mind, Harry. I love you, just like all those years ago.

All those years ago back when he was a kid. There had always been a girl in the house to help out, a nanny or an au pair employed to do the chores his mother and father couldn’t be bothered with. Those girls had been the only ones who loved him. He was sure they guessed about his parents too. In the dead quiet of the night they must have heard the screams and wondered what was going on. And even though they never said anything, in the mornings they saw the bruises as they held him and rocked him and dried his tears. In some small way that helped. Believing somebody cared made him feel he was worth something after all.