Mark Sennen - Touch

‘I very much doubt if ninety-five per cent of the people in Yelverton know one end of a cow from another unless it is packaged up on the counter at Waitrose with a big label on top.’

‘Wot, no Lidl? On my salary anything above a Scummerfields is a complete non-starter.’

Savage looked at the dashboard clock. Time to go.

‘Come on,’ she said, and they got out of the car and walked across to the row of houses where the Donals lived.

Greenbank Terrace stood well back from the main road, the tall three storey Edwardian houses running down one side of an unmade up track. The front gardens overlooked the trim village green and several properties bore bed and breakfast signs, having taken advantage of the prime location. Dartmoor View, the Donals’ house, had a B amp;B sign outside too, only a board had been attached to the underneath which said ‘No Vacancies.’

‘A386 View would be a better name,’ quipped Calter as they approached.

Savage started to remark that you might be able to see something from the top floor when the front door opened and Luke Farrell, the FLO, came out. Farrell had a tangle of straw-blond hair sitting above the type of face people called open and his welcoming smile never failed to lift the spirits. Hardin had labelled him a genius at family liaison because he somehow became the elder brother you never had or the caring grandson always ready to help out. His skill was providing the right amount of support without laying the sympathy on treacle-thick.

‘Saw you coming, ma’am. I wanted a quick word before you went in.’

‘What sort of state are they in, Luke?’ As soon as Savage had asked the question she realised it was a stupid remark. Their eldest daughter had been missing for three months and had now turned up dead. They weren’t going to be overjoyed at meeting Savage and Calter, for sure.

‘Mrs Donal — Cathy — has been hysterical, blames everything on Kelly’s modelling. He is just brooding. Reactions typical of their gender. I have to warn you, though, Mr Donal is pretty disgusted with the police. He reckons if we had shown more interest when she first went missing then she might still be alive now.’

‘He could be right.’

‘With respect, ma’am, I wouldn’t tell him that.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t!’

‘I think the disgust with the police is a psychological projection. He is more disgusted with himself. Any anger he shows towards you is a coping strategy.’

‘To cope with what, Kelly’s death?’ Savage asked.

‘No, the guilt.’

‘Guilt?’

‘Yes. Beyond that which any parent might understandably feel. If Mr Donal hadn’t encouraged Kelly in her modelling she might never had met Forester.’

‘What? According to the DC who re-interviewed her flatmate, Kelly first met Forester at the Metropolis club in town. Are you saying Donal had something to do with this?’ Savage turned to Calter. ‘Why don’t we know this already?’

‘I am not sure, ma’am.’ Calter looked contrite and pulled out her notebook as if to double-check.

‘Someone hasn’t delved deep enough,’ Farrell said. ‘They did meet at the Metropolis but not at a club night. It was in the daytime. A camera club had hired the place for a meet and set it up as a mock pole dancing venue. Kelly was one of the models.’

‘What club was this?’

‘Plymouth Snappers.’ Farrell pointed at the rear of a Ford Galaxy parked in the road outside the house. A sticker in the rear window depicted a grinning cartoon shark holding a camera. ‘Legit club, but they had a glamour section into some pretty risque stuff.’

‘And her parents approved of this?’

‘Approved? Mr Donal suggested the shoot. He was at the club taking pictures.’

‘Fuck!’ It was Calter and she immediately put her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, but he was her father. I wouldn’t want my dad taking pictures of me half-naked with my boobs hanging out. And anyway I thought you said they didn’t think much of what she was up to?’

‘I said Mrs Donal didn’t.’ Farrell smiled as if he couldn’t help but imagine Calter doing a bit of pole dancing. ‘She didn’t realise half of what was going on. She thought Kelly was only doing the usual kind of modelling. By which I mean with clothes on.’

‘Thanks for the heads up, Luke.’ Savage said. ‘Good work and valuable information, it fits with what DS Riley found out at Forester’s workplace. Shall we?’ Savage indicated the door, and Farrell led the way over the threshold and into the neat hall with an imposing grandfather clock, polite little notices, a boot rack and a shelf of guidebooks.

Several photographs hung on the walls: an atmospheric shot of Dartmoor in the mist and rain, a stunning snowscape with a single set of footprints leading to the horizon, a beautiful beck with bluebells in the foreground. Each had neat little paper stickers in the bottom right corner with a price written on. The images weren’t of Savage’s favourite subject, but she imagined they would sell well to the guests.

Farrell led them down the hallway and stopped at a door which had a ‘Private’ sign on it. He knocked and entered. They went into a living room where Mr and Mrs Donal sat waiting. More photographs hung on the walls in here. Not landscapes though. Above the fireplace a huge print of a girl with big doe eyes stared into the room. She had sleek brown hair and the sort of figure many women would die for. And men might kill for. Savage averted her gaze and moved forward to greet the parents. Mrs Donal, a slight woman with brown hair like her daughter’s but gone part grey, was slumped on a Laura Ashley patterned sofa and registered their presence with a mere glance. In happier times Savage guessed she would have been the perfect B amp;B hostess, busying herself with rustling up some tea and homemade biscuits. Mr Donal, on the other hand, did not behave like the perfect host as he sneered and leapt to his feet. He was late middle-aged, perhaps older, big and heavy-set and with a face like a round tomato, all red and glowing and ready to burst. He reminded Savage a little of Hardin.

‘More police?’ Donal said, not hiding his disgust and not offering his hand either.

‘Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage. We just have a few more questions, Mr Donal.’

‘A lifetime of questions. That’s what I’ve got.’

‘It’s about Kelly.’

‘Oh? I didn’t think you’d come about neighbourhood watch, did I?’

‘I am sorry this is painful for you, Mr Donal, it is for all of us.’

‘Painful? Painful! I have never really been hurt before. Not really hurt. Have you experienced the type of hurt I am talking about, Inspector? The sort of pain that is nothing? Empty pain, agony at night when you put out the light and then worse when the sun streams in the windows the next morning.’ Donal stood rocking on his heels.

Savage had known pain like that when Clarissa had died, but she didn’t think telling Donal about it would do much good. Instead she started off with the usual stuff about how sorry the whole force was and offered their condolences and sympathies. The standard spiel sounded like crap and she found herself faltering halfway through. She felt Farrell’s hand on her arm.

‘They know all that, ma’am,’ he whispered. ‘They-’

‘We just want you to catch the bastard who did this to our Kelly,’ Mrs Donal blurted out, before the tears came and her head went down into her hands.

Farrell moved over and crouched by the chair and said something Savage didn’t catch. He then stood and helped Mrs Donal to her feet and led her from the room.

‘Sorry about that,’ Mr Donal said. ‘The wife has taken it bad. Kelly was our youngest, our little girl if you like, and well, the wife is… I mean she’s… well, I… she didn’t much like-’