The Boneyard: A gripping serial killer crime thriller

All hope of a conviction now rested on a scrunchy discovered in Kendwick’s apartment, a single strand of blonde hair entangled in the shiny red material. A blonde hair which DNA analysis proved belonged to Sara Horton.

Kendwick was questioned about the scrunchy, but, as advised by his lawyer, said nothing more than he’d picked up the hairband in the park one day. Since Kendwick had long hair himself, which he kept tied back, the explanation was all too believable. Short of water boarding, which several detectives were keen to try, Kendwick was on the home straight. There was just a matter of another four girls linked with Kendwick, but while he couldn’t provide specific alibis, nor was there any direct evidence to suggest he’d been involved in their disappearances. After a year in limbo, the case against Kendwick was finally dropped on the provision that he wouldn’t bring charges against Fresno Police or Janey Horton. His lawyers advised him to get out of the country pronto, before circumstances could change.

‘That’s why this is short notice, Charlotte.’ Hardin was waving another piece of paper at Savage and Riley. This time Savage could see the initials NCA at the top. The National Crime Agency. The closest thing the UK had to the FBI. ‘We’ve got to make arrangements. We don’t want a media circus and we certainly don’t want a lynch mob. On the other hand, Kendwick needs to know that we’re watching him, that if he puts one foot out of line we’ll have him.’

‘Arrangements?’ Savage didn’t know where this was going. What could Malcolm Kendwick’s affairs have to do with Devon and Cornwall Police?

‘Yes.’ Hardin had begun to gather the papers together again. He slipped them back into the FedEx envelope. ‘The arrangements at Heathrow. Security on the journey back. What to do once the man is here.’

‘I don’t get it, sir.’ Savage turned to Riley but he could only shrug his shoulders again. ‘What do you mean, here?’

‘There’s no mystery, DI Savage. Here means here. Malcolm Kendwick is returning to the county of his birth. The fucker’s coming to Devon.’

‘Devon?’

‘Yes.’ Hardin stuck his tongue out over his bottom lip in consternation. ‘And you, DS Riley and DC Enders are the lucky buggers who have to go and get him.’

As he looked down from the plane, he could see the mountains below. Grey peaks poking above green forest. There were a million acres down there. A million acres of woodland and rock and dirt. Hundreds of streams and rivers, thousands of miles of tracks and trails, untold numbers of gullies and ravines and caves. By any measure, the Sierra National Forest was a true wilderness. A wilderness you could get lost in, a wilderness you could hide things in, a wilderness where searching was pretty much a waste of time. But they didn’t do much of that in the US anyway. Searching. Not in a country with well over ten thousand homicides a year. What was another handful to them? Nothing, that’s what.

Malcolm Kendwick eased himself back in his seat and thought about the horrors which had happened down there. The girls who had been murdered. Their faces had been all over the media. TV, newspapers, websites. Pictures culled from their friends and family or from the internet. Their names and biographies were indelibly fixed in Kendwick’s memories.

All five of them.

One: Stephanie Capillo, a student from Santa Barbara. Blonde hair. Slim, leggy, and with small, pert breasts. She’d been twenty-one. An English major at UCSB. Liked dogs and children. Helped out at an animal refuge. Went to church. Wore a purity ring. A fucking do-gooder by any standards.

Two: Amber Sullivan. A year younger than Stephanie. Long hair. Also blonde. A little chubby. Not quite the perfect all-American girl since she worked in a cheap burger joint and had a citation for smoking grass. Still, her mother’s pride and joy.

Three: Chrissy Morales. About as far removed from Stephanie as you could get. The most used image was one of the girl in leather thigh-highs and a PVC miniskirt. Petite and very cute and, yes, blonde again. Chrissy usually worked the streets near Highway 99 in Bakersfield. A hooker – the fact even acknowledged by her parents – she was inevitably at the bottom of any list of victims the media chose to display.

Four: Jessie Turner. Seventeen. Her pictures showed a fair-haired cheerleader with pom-poms and a lovely smile or else the news outlets played a video where she sang in a school musical. She’d auditioned for America’s Got Talent and, to hear her family talk, she was but one step away from superstardom.

Five: Sara Horton. Nineteen. Footloose. Had spent a year in South America. Just about holding down a job in some fashion outlet. Like all the others, blonde and a real beauty. Everything to live for, according to her mother.

Her mother …

He cast a glance at the window once more. The mountains were falling away now, the green forests gone as the aircraft crossed the state line and entered Nevada airspace. He shook his head. He wouldn’t see the wilderness again except in his memories. His life from now on would be like the land below: dusty, arid and dull. He sighed and then leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and slept.

Malcolm Kendwick was thirty-two years old. He’d lived in the US for ten years, moving from the UK when the internet start-up he’d founded had been bought up by a company in California. That company had itself been subsumed into the workings of one of the software giants and he’d moved on to another tech firm. He’d grown bored of that after several years and, having plenty of money, he’d jacked in the job and pursued other interests. A new start-up, some time spent catching waves on the coast, several months just bumming around. Now though, he was heading back across the Atlantic, and not through choice.

Janey Horton.

Sara’s mother had been blonde but she hadn’t been young. In her late thirties, Kendwick considered Janey Horton flesh gone sour, a world away from the smooth-skinned beauties who’d died down there in the wilderness, five miles below. Horton was one of the ones who did bother to search. But then you would, wouldn’t you? If it was your daughter who’d gone missing.

Sara had vanished from the small town of Morro Bay some one hundred and fifty miles up the coast from LA. Kendwick had been amused to hear she came from a little hamlet called Harmony a few miles along the Cabrillo Highway. Not that there was anything harmonious about her mother.

When her daughter had disappeared, Janey Horton had looked far and wide, but instead of finding Sara, she’d found him. And he hadn’t had any answers for her. Not at first. Later, when she’d begun to torture him, he’d blurted out stuff. About her daughter, about the others. Anything he could think of really.

And once she heard what he’d had to say, she’d decided to kill him.

You fuckin’ piece of crap. I’m goin’ to cut your fuckin’ dick off and feed it to you, understand?

He could well understand. She’d already carved three slices across his chest using a box knife, the thin blade like a razor the way the cuts opened up. Bloodless at first and then a weep of red painting thick lines down to his abdomen. He’d struggled, but try as he might, the ropes she’d secured him to the chair with held him tight. He’d opened up to her then, just like the cuts. Poured out what had happened, made up some story about how he’d been abused as a kid. Begged for his life. She wasn’t interested. She left him while she went to search for her daughter’s body. He’d been in that chair for two days. Crapping, pissing, bleeding. Crying, even.

Kendwick awoke from a fitful sleep. The horrors of the long hours he’d spent in Horton’s basement still haunted his dreams. He shivered and then pressed his face to the plane’s window once more. The aircraft had met the night now and straight out there was nothing but a winking of a light on the wing tip, beyond the light, blackness. The interior illumination made it impossible to see the stars, but peering down beneath the wing, a glow marked a small town. Surrounding villages and hamlets spread out below as if somebody had flicked fluorescent paint across a black canvas.

Or made a cut and watched blood spatter on the concrete floor of a dingy basement.

The girls had bled too. All over a vein of pure white quartz high in the Sierra Nevada, miles from any highway. The dried blood had been scraped from the rock by men and women in white suits, taken back to the lab and analysed. The blood belonged to the five missing girls, the DNA results said. According to the coroner, the sheer quantity suggested they’d died there.

You killed her, didn’t you? You raped her and then you fuckin’ killed her. Admit it, Malcolm. Tell me the fuckin’ truth! Tell me where my daughter is!

He hadn’t wanted to tell her anything. Not at first. He pleaded with her, tried to convince her she had the wrong man.

‘I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. For God’s sake, you’ve got to believe me.’

‘I don’t believe you. You killed Sara, I know you did. Just like you killed Stephanie, Chrissy, Amber and Jessie.’

‘Honestly, I didn’t do it!’ Kendrick said again, in a vain attempt to convince Horton. ‘I never killed those girls!’

‘We’ll see about that …’

At which point she’d started to use the box knife on him. Not the chest to begin with, his right calf. Slicing the skin as if she was descaling a fish. Peeling back a layer and then digging the knife into the exposed muscle. Rotating the blade until—

‘Excuse me, sir?’

Kendwick flicked his eyes from the window. A hostess leaned in from the aisle. Gestured at the overhead locker. Reached across to open the locker and push back the strap of his bag which had jammed in the door.

He smelt the perfume and glanced up through the translucent material of her blouse at the magical swell of her breasts. Swallowed.

You fuckin’ piece of crap. I’m goin’ to cut your fuckin’ dick off and feed it to you, understand?

Kendwick managed a half smile at the girl and then looked away again. He stared into the dark sky beyond the wing tip and for a moment wished he was out there in the thin air. Falling, falling, falling to the ground below where the safety of death and oblivion waited.

Then he turned back and watched the hostess walk away down the aisle. Took in her nylon-encased legs, the wondrous shape of her hips beneath the navy-blue skirt, the way her long blonde hair lay curled in a bun beneath her cap. Wondered about letting the bun free so the golden strands could brush over her shoulders as she stood before him. Realised that oblivion wasn’t what he wanted at all.

The journey up had been easy. Saturday afternoon, light traffic, just a bit of a snarl-up at Cribbs Causeway in Bristol as those who had nothing better to do headed for the stores on a warm spring day. Nothing better to do such as driving to London to pick up a suspected serial killer.

They’d booked two rooms at the Premier Inn at Twin Bridges in Bracknell, Enders and Riley sharing, Savage on her own. The hotel was attached to a three-hundred-year-old coaching inn, now remodelled as a Beefeater. As they pulled into the car park and unloaded their overnight bags, Enders was keen to point out the name.

‘Twin Bridges, ma’am. Like Two Bridges back home on the moor.’ He stared out at the busy A322 where cars streamed past, their windscreens glinting in the late-afternoon sun. ‘Only not.’

‘Only not.’ Savage repeated Enders’ words as she wondered what travellers past would have made of modern-day developments.

Enders raised a hand and tousled his mop of black hair. He looked wistful for a moment. Unlike DS Riley, he’d come dressed casually and wore brown cords and a mustard-coloured pullover over a green T-shirt. Such sartorial blunders were common with Enders, but the DC was in his twenties and his youth, his cheeky boyish face and the Irish lilt to his voice allowed him to get away with the clothing mismatch.

‘Bet Darius feels at home though.’ Enders nodded across at Riley. ‘Don’t you, sir? Back to your roots?’

Savage laughed as Riley shook his head. ‘I’m not exactly sure where Darius’ roots are, but I’m pretty sure they’re not here.’

‘Battersea,’ Riley said, pulling his bag from the boot of the car.

‘Battersea?’ Savage raised her eyebrows.

‘My dad was a lawyer.’ Riley shrugged an apology. ‘Still is, actually.’

‘We’re obviously in the wrong end of the business, ma’am,’ Enders said. He gestured at the hotel. ‘The cheap-as-chips end.’

Later, that’s what they had: fish and chips in the Beefeater. Several pints of bitter for Enders. Then a discussion about the main event. Savage and Riley had been over the plan earlier when they’d been briefed by the DSupt, but after they’d finished their meal, Savage laid out the agenda for the next day.

‘Kendwick’s plane lands at nine-forty, so we’ll aim to be in the terminal by nine. That will give us time to meet the NCA officers. I’ll sit in on the interview and then Patrick will bring the car round and we’ll set off. I don’t reckon we’ll leave until twelve at the very earliest, meaning we won’t get back to Devon before four.’

‘And we’re dropping Kendwick off, right?’ Enders plainly didn’t like the idea and he’d not stopped moaning about it for most of the journey up. ‘A door-to-door limousine service paid for by the taxpayer. All while we’re having to lay off staff.’

‘We’re taking him to his new place in Chagford, yes.’

‘Chagford? How the bloody hell did he afford that?’

‘His grandmother had a cottage there. She’s now in a home and Kendwick’s sister has been letting the place out. Kendwick’s going to use the cottage while he finds his feet.’

‘Finds his …’ Enders shook his head. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, but he’s the one who should be in a home. You’ll be telling me we’re giving him a job next.’

‘I don’t think he needs one. There’s talk he’s going to sign with one of the tabloids and he’s already got a book deal. Probably be six figures in all.’

‘What’s the book called, Serial Killing for Dummies?’

‘I might remind you he’s innocent in the eyes of the law. We can’t touch him.’

‘Bloody lawyers.’ Enders smiled across the table at Riley. ‘Explains how your old man got rich.’

‘Business law,’ Riley said. ‘The City. Not defending the likes of Malcolm Kendwick.’

‘OK folks,’ Savage said. ‘That’s enough. Tomorrow you both need to be on your best behaviour so you might as well start practising now. The last thing we need is Kendwick bringing some kind of harassment charge against us. Our job is to ferry him home and, while we’re doing so, get a measure of the man. Make him realise that if he puts a foot out of line we’ll be onto him.’

‘Well, let’s hope he does put a foot out of line,’ Enders said. ‘Any excuse to clock him one and believe you me I’ll—’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. Anyway, guilty or not, he’s not going to want to cast suspicion on himself. Not now. He’ll want to lie low, write his book and enjoy his freedom. Remember, he’s been incarcerated for over a year and all that time he’s had the possibility of a capital trial ahead of him. I don’t think he’ll want to cause any more trouble for himself.’

‘So that’s where old serial killers end up, is it? Retire to the country and live happily ever after? Sounds like the punchline to a bad joke. Only it’s not funny. How did it fucking come to this?’

‘Well, there’s nothing we can do to change the situation. California is a little way out of our jurisdiction and they’ve washed their hands of him.’

Enders glowered and then reached for his pint. Riley tried to start a new topic of conversation, but the evening was done. A little while later Savage called it a night, reminding Riley and Enders not to stay up too late.

Back in her room, she made herself a hot drink using the miniature kettle and the instant coffee and UHT milk provided by the hotel. She sat on the bed sipping the coffee and reading the material Hardin had given her. The coffee was disgusting and she put the cup aside. Without the cup in her hand, she found herself nodding off. When she jerked awake she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall opposite the bed. She stared into her own eyes, thinking about what they had to do tomorrow and recalling DC Enders’ statement from earlier in the evening.

How did it fucking come to this?

She shook her head, put the notes away and got ready for bed. Five minutes later she was asleep.

Chapter Two

Seventy-five miles due west of the Isle of Barra, Scotland. Sunday 16th April. 6.02 a.m.

There was a rim of light beyond the wing when Kendwick awoke and slid the blind up. Dawn creeping from the east, the plane rushing to meet the new day with an eagerness which he didn’t much share.

Around him bodies stirred. An hour or so until they touched down. An hour until he walked away from the nightmare of the last twelve months.

We’ll be waiting for you, Mr Kendwick. Airside. We’ll take you through passport control and hand you over to officers from Devon and Cornwall Police. They’ll whisk you out of the airport without the press so much as getting an inkling of what’s going on. OK?

OK? No, it wasn’t OK. But the alternative to a little impromptu interrogation by National Crime Agency officers was a full-on assault by the British media. And they made the cops in the US look like kittens.

Kittens.

He turned his head, scanning the aisle for the blonde hostess. The one with the translucent shirt and the long hair in a bun. She was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she’d taken herself off to business class to give those who’d paid more for their ticket a breakfast treat.

He sighed and stared ahead not wanting another conversation with the person next to him. The man with the BO and the persistent chit-chat about his work, his family, his car, his fucking boring life which Kendwick wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing about.

‘Back home soon.’ Too late. The man had noticed Kendwick’s gaze move to the aisle in search of the hostess. ‘The Chilterns, me. Goring. Handy for the M4. Know it?’

Kendwick nodded even though he’d never heard of the bloody place. ‘Nice,’ he said.

‘You?’

‘Devon.’ Kendwick turned his head to the window, hoping the message that he wasn’t interested in talking would get through.

‘Lovely!’ BO seemed impressed and not at all put out by Kendwick’s failure to continue to make eye contact. ‘Long way though. Bit of a hike. But worth the journey. Me and the wife were down there a couple of years ago. The Rick Stein place. Padstow. Stayed in a little holiday cottage right on the harbour. Pretty as a postcard. Beautiful.’

Padstow was in Cornwall, not Devon, but Kendwick kept quiet. He wished he’d just named a random London borough. Then again, the man would have probably found something to say about that too.

‘Tell you what,’ BO continued. ‘My car’s in the long-term parking. I could give you a lift as far as Reading. I normally take junction twelve, but I could just as easily go off on ten and run you to the station. You could catch the Paddington train there. Save all that nonsense at the Heathrow end, wouldn’t it?’

Kendwick turned back. Tried hard not to tell the moron to fuck off. Said instead: ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m being met at the airport. I’ve got a lift all the way home. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to try and get another hour or so sleep, OK?’

BO hesitated for a moment. ‘Sure,’ he said, nodding and swivelling in his seat and then muttering. ‘Only trying to be friendly. Some people.’

Yeah, thought Kendwick. Some fucking people.

Savage was pissed off. They’d got up and breakfasted in good time so as to arrive at the airport by nine as planned. However, as they’d parked the car she’d phoned her contact in the NCA, DCI Kevin Rollins. He told her Kendwick had taken a different flight.

‘United 901,’ Rollins said. ‘Direct from San Francisco instead of via LAX. Landed a little after seven o’clock. We’re all done and dusted and your man’s just waiting to be picked up. We’ll bring him round to the VIP arrivals lounge.’

Rollins hung up before Savage could say anything.

‘Ma’am?’ Riley read the displeasure on her face. ‘Everything all right?’

‘No it bloody isn’t.’ Savage slipped the phone into her pocket. She explained to Riley what had happened. ‘The NCA are playing games with us. They knew we’d stayed over and must have known Kendwick was on an earlier flight. Rollins thinks we’re no better than a taxi service.’

Fifteen minutes later and they were striding across the near-empty VIP lounge. In one corner, two men in suits and a third in a Coldplay T-shirt sat at a low table. Savage recognised the man in the T-shirt as Kendwick. Early thirties, with a muscular, well-defined torso. Long black hair tied in a ponytail, the hair with a sheen like something from a men’s toiletries commercial. As he laughed at a joke one of the men had made, his lips parted to show perfect teeth. American teeth. He was good-looking, for sure. Quite a charmer.

As they approached, one of the men in suits turned and then stood.

‘DI Savage?’ he said. ‘DCI Kevin Rollins. Sorry about the mix-up with the flights. No harm done and all that, hey?’

Rollins was at least a decade or so older than Kendwick and a bit flabby round the edges. A bald patch poked from greying hair. By his swagger he plainly fancied himself, but alongside the younger man he was nothing.

Kendwick didn’t bother to get up. Savage could see he was well aware the handful of passengers in the lounge were looking their way and assuming he was some kind of star, the two men in the cheap suits his bodyguards.

‘Ah, my chauffeur,’ he said. ‘Or should I say, chaperone? Someone to stop me getting into trouble, right?’

‘Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage,’ Savage said. She held out her hand and Kendwick reached up and took it, his palm cold and dry. ‘If you’ve finished your business with DCI Rollins then we may as well get going. It’s a long journey.’

‘I like the way you said that, Charlotte,’ Kendwick said. He paused and held her gaze for several seconds before smiling. ‘My business with them, rather than the other way round. Gets us off on the right foot. Gets me off, anyway.’

‘Your bags?’ Savage withdrew her hand and pointed at a nearby trolley laden with several cases and a rucksack. Kendwick nodded. ‘Darius, would you?’

As Riley went across to the trolley, Savage thought about saying something to Rollins. Something about his behaviour being bang out of order. But she didn’t want a confrontation in front of Kendwick and it was better he thought they all sang from the same hymn sheet. Besides, Rollins was a rank above her.

‘Been nice meeting you, Mr Rollins, Sergeant.’ Kendwick grinned as he stood. ‘We must do it again sometime, but not too soon, hey?’

‘Remember what I said, Kendwick,’ Rollins said. He put his arm out, blocking Kendwick’s way. ‘A single piece of evidence from the States and you’ll be going back there. And when you do, they’ll kill you.’

‘Now, now, Kevin, that’s not very nice.’ Kendwick pushed the arm down. ‘Besides, they don’t kill people in California any more. The death penalty is out of fashion and they haven’t carried out an execution since 2006. Something to do with the Eighth Amendment. Cruel and unusual punishment. That’s irony for you, huh?’

‘One of the girls was snatched from over the border in Arizona. They do still carry out executions.’

‘Well, that might worry me if I was guilty, but we’ve just had a long conversation where I told you I’m innocent, so let’s leave it be, shall we? No hard feelings.’ Kendwick grinned again and then winked. ‘Mate.’

As they walked away, Riley following with the trolley, Kendwick cocked his head towards Savage. She could smell mint on his breath as he spoke.