‘There. Just to the right of the stump of the tree. The fisherman says he found the bag by the stump. You’d not see it unless you were wading or you’d pushed through the vegetation to get to the water’s edge.’
‘What the hell was she doing out here?’ Enders said. ‘We’re miles from her digs, in the middle of nowhere and she didn’t have any transport. Not even a bike. I suppose she could have hitched a lift, but why?’
‘Is all her clothing in the bag?’ Calter said to the officer.
‘Yes, everything.’ The officer blushed. ‘Even a pair of knickers and a bra.’
‘I don’t like it, Jane,’ Enders said. ‘I don’t like it one little bit.’
‘Neither do I,’ Calter said. ‘She either came here of her own free will, stripped off and went for a swim – possibly with the intention of killing herself, possibly she succumbed to cramp or the cold – or else …’
‘It’s that bit I don’t like. The “or else”.’
Five minutes later and they were back at the car park. Frey’s men were already in the water, the divers in the shallows, a man in the dinghy dropping weighted buoys to demarcate search areas.
‘I’d be surprised if she’s down there,’ Frey said, looking out across the lake. ‘If she’s been in the water any length of time she’d have been a floater. There’s a lot of people around here in the summer so somebody would have seen the body before it sunk again.’
‘And the water level’s lower than usual, isn’t it?’ Calter pointed to the strip of exposed lake bed around the edge. ‘So she couldn’t have been swept through the outflow.’
‘No. The underwater outlets will have grilles on too.’
‘But if this wasn’t an accident or a suicide then she could be on the bottom.’
‘Sorry, I don’t get you?’
‘If the body had been weighed down with rocks for instance, put in a sack. She could have been taken out in a boat and dumped in the deepest part of the reservoir.’
‘Possibly, but when? Middle of the night? We’re at the height of the tourist season, so any other time of day and there’d be witnesses. I suppose bad weather would keep the tourists away, but we haven’t had any recently.’ Frey paused. He glanced at the water and then back at the surrounding woodland. ‘It’s a big job, all this. Is Charlotte coming out?’
Calter felt put out for a moment. Frey plainly believed the situation merited the attendance of more than a couple of junior detectives.
‘No, sir,’ Calter said. ‘She isn’t. I’m sure she’s got better ways of spending her Sundays.’
Savage slipped out of the house unnoticed. She drove from Plymouth to the outskirts of Newton Abbot and a large park and ride, slotting her car into a bay, the vehicle anonymous amongst hundreds of others. Being spotted here, being seen with the man she’d arranged to meet, was a definite no-no. She got out of her car and looked around until she saw the Range Rover. She walked over and opened the door.
Kenny Fallon turned and looked at Savage as she got in. ‘Unfinished business, Charlotte. Is that what this is?’ He reached for the ignition and started the car. ‘Or are we just going over to have a recce?’
Unfinished business.
Yes, you could call it that, Savage thought. Only the business was personal.
The Range Rover glided out of the car park and onto the main road heading for Paignton. Fallon’s hand went up and rubbed his goatee beard.
‘Well, Charlotte?’ He glanced at her and the hand moved from the beard to stroke his huge mane of white hair. The hair tumbled down to well beyond his shoulders. Plymouth’s premier gangster might have resembled a sort of cuddly Hell’s Angel, but in Fallon’s case appearances were definitely deceptive. More than one or two rivals had misjudged the man’s intelligence and guile and not all had lived to regret their mistakes.
‘I just want to see him, that’s all,’ Savage said. ‘I’ll decide what to do afterwards.’
‘Right.’ Fallon chuckled. ‘Ask him if he’ll say sorry and then kiss and make up? After that maybe send each other Christmas cards every year.’
Savage didn’t respond. She stared at the traffic rushing towards them on the other side of the road. Headlong. That’s what it felt like sometimes. Her family had been wronged, Clarissa killed. Nobody punished. How could that be right?
‘Whatever.’ Fallon spoke again. Took one hand off the steering wheel and patted her on the knee. ‘Uncle Kenny will sort things for you. Mind you, considering who the killer is, we’ll need to go careful. You don’t go messing with the Chief Constable’s son.’
When Savage had discovered the truth, it had at first seemed unbelievable. But then, turning things over in her mind, it had made more sense. How, for instance, the driver of the car which had hit Clarissa had managed to avoid detection. The police had known the make and model – a Subaru Impreza – yet they hadn’t been able to track down the owner. That Simon Fox was behind this failure to find and implicate Owen, was in no doubt in Savage’s mind. The trail must’ve been covered up, records obfuscated, perhaps even officers told to keep quiet.
A few minutes later and they were on the outskirts of Torquay, the Range Rover purring through a recently built estate. Neat little lawns with brick-paved driveways stood in front of two- and three-bedroomed houses. This was the preserve of newly formed families, the first or second step on the housing ladder. Owen lived here with his wife and young children. Did he sleep easy at night in the serenity of his suburban idyll? Or did he toss and turn with worry, Clarissa Savage haunting his dreams?
‘There,’ Fallon said, his head turning to the left as they drove past a house with a red door, a car sitting on the driveway. Not an Impreza; a Ford. ‘Happy families, hey?’
Fallon drove on and pulled up a short way along the road. Savage craned her neck to look back. As she did so the front door of the house swung open and a young woman appeared holding a baby in her arms, an older kid of four or five by her side. She stepped out of the house, closed the door, and went over to the car. Savage turned away as the woman busied herself with strapping the baby into a car seat, while the other child climbed in.
This wasn’t what she had been expecting at all. She needed to hate Owen, to see him as some sort of demon. Instead Savage was wondering how on earth she was going to go through with what she’d planned.
‘Can’t stop long, Charlotte,’ Fallon said, nodding through the windscreen to where a woman had raised her head from a flower bed and was paying them rather too much attention. ‘My motor. A bit flash for round here. Time to move on.’
Move on.
Could she? There had to be some sort of resolution, some settling of the score. Or did it go further than that – maybe stretching to something approaching vengeance? She wasn’t sure what she wanted any more.
‘Go,’ Savage said. ‘Just fucking go.’
Fallon raised his eyebrows, then put the vehicle into gear and eased forward. The road was a close, at the end a turning circle. Fallon manoeuvred round and headed back past the house. Owen’s wife had by now reversed into the road and she drove off, with the Range Rover following.
‘We could tail them,’ Fallon said. ‘Her and the kiddies. Find out where they’re going. Might be useful if we need to come back and give them a bit of a scare.’
‘No!’ Savage thumped the dash. ‘My argument is with