Mark Sennen - Touch

‘Sir, I knew he wasn’t going to hurt anybody but Mitchell.’

‘And suppose Mr Mitchell is innocent?’

‘The pictures he showed Riley and Enders were taken in the spare room, I checked. Take a look at the master bedroom. Mirrored wardrobes, like in the video footage we got from Forester’s computer. The bed is the same too.’

As if to back up her words the air filled with the noise of an approaching train. Through the trees to the back of the property a long streak of colour flashed by, the sound increasing in intensity for a moment before leaving a diminishing whoosh. Hardin stared into the wood where a blizzard of autumn leaves spiralled in the train’s wake.

‘So what if Mitchell was guilty of rape and maybe murder? Last time I read up on sentencing policy we didn’t have the death penalty for homicide, for anything for that matter. He didn’t deserve to die.’

‘Nine girls we are aware of, probably countless others who have never come forward. I’d say Donal did us a favour.’

‘Charlotte, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you.’

Donal was being led out of the house now and put in a car. He appeared calm, his face having an almost serene appearance. He thought he had achieved closure, but Savage wasn’t so sure. Closure didn’t come so easy. It took years.

The car drove away, Donal in the back with Davies, the detective grinning and patting Donal on the shoulder. Meanwhile Hardin was mulling things over. Maybe Mitchell had killed Kelly. It would solve a lot of problems, he explained. His reasoning was that in the ring of depravity comprising Mitchell’s group of rapists, Mitchell had gone one step further.

‘Anyone capable of carrying out so many attacks is surely capable of carrying out murder as well. He probably killed the Olivarez girl. Why not Kelly too?’

‘I’ll see what we can find to eliminate him, sir.’

‘No! I want you to see what you can find to evidence him.’

‘He didn’t kill Kelly, sir.’

‘Fuck it, Charlotte! He didn’t do it or you want to believe he didn’t do it? What’s got into you?’

Hardin began a rant about Savage’s obsession with the Zebo case, how she was wallowing in her own self-pity, wanting the agony to be prolonged, enjoying the masochism. He wanted her to face the truth. Fact, Mitchell was linked to Forester. Fact, Mitchell was a serial rapist. Fact, he was sadistic. Fact, he had the opportunity and ability.

The words washed over Savage although she realised Hardin was right about the self-pity. The loss of her daughter and the loneliness she felt with Pete being away should have had no bearing on her police work, but emotionally the whole lot were bundled up together, threads of feeling intertwined and looping back and forth until they created one huge tangle. That didn’t change the evidence though. If Mitchell was the killer then where was Forester’s Shogun, and where was Alice Nash?

‘Harry,’ she said. ‘We are looking for a man named Harry.’

Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Thursday 4th November. 1.40 pm

Sorting out the chaos created by Donal killing Mitchell had taken up most of the rest of the day and a good part of the next so it was Thursday afternoon before Savage was able to return her attention to Zebo. Because Savage had been present at Mitchell’s murder an inquiry had been initiated and the PIP, or Post Incident Procedure, was in full swing. Whether the matter would be dealt with internally — by Standards — or whether the IPCC would need to get involved, Savage had no idea, nor did she really care. She had done her best in the circumstances and had slept easy, knowing Donal, at least, was alive. Thank God she had persuaded Hardin that immediate suspension would be an overreaction and he had agreed she should carry on working.

Hardin was now ensconced upstairs somewhere, getting all friendly with the incident manager no doubt and trying to charm away any trouble. Sometimes Hardin was a right pain, but Savage knew he would support her all the way.

Back on Zebo and Savage was getting the team to focus on finding someone called Harry.

‘Nothing in our records, ma’am,’ Enders said. ‘Nothing in the statements, no witnesses with the name. Checked the Henrys as well. Nowt.’

‘Everett Mitchell also said something about this Harry liking the caring sort, whatever the caring sort means.’

‘Alice Nash,’ Calter said. ‘She is the caring sort, I mean. She works part-time at Cotton Socks Nursery in Ivybridge.’

‘What?’ The realisation hit Savage like a psychological battering ram. ‘Kelly Donal was doing an Early Childhood Studies course at the university and she had a work placement at Little Angels nursery. How did we manage to miss the connection?’

‘Alice worked as a checkout girl as well as at the nursery. The supermarket job is down as her main employment. I only remembered now because the photograph her Dad provided for the appeal was of her in her nursery uniform.’

‘Ma’am?’ Enders said. ‘This gets worse. I’ve just run the misper search again. Remember the results included a number of girls who did not match Kelly’s description?’

‘Don’t tell me…’ Savage groaned.

‘Yes. Simone Ashton. Full time job at Robins in Plympton.’

‘Ma’am?’ Calter, sounding even more tentative than Enders had. ‘Rosina Olivarez.’

‘So?’

‘Just a hunch, ma’am. Bring her up, Patrick.’

Enders switched programs and brought up the Leash files. Click, click and Rosina’s details flashed up on the screen. Occupation: Student. Occupation Notes: Degree in Aquaculture. Part time job at Tina’s Teds Playgroup in Mannamead.

‘Bloody hell,’ Savage said. ‘There needs to be a major review of how the data is entered and analysed. The connection was right in front of us, but the system hid the link away. Whatever, this isn’t looking good.’

‘Coincidence?’ asked Enders.

‘Possibly. If not then I sure don’t know what to think. I mean, are these girls being targeted because they are child minders?’

‘Isn’t there a fetish where men dress up as babies, complete with nappies and dummies and stuff?’ Enders said, a look of disgust on his face.

Riley came into the room carrying a pile of documents. He dumped them on a desk and nodded at Enders.

‘Paraphilic infantilism is the correct term: the desire to be treated like a toddler again. But last time I looked your average toddler wasn’t killing teenage girls, or stripping them and having sex with them.’

‘Alright Mr Fast-Track, what’s your suggestion then?’ Enders said.

‘As you guys are always telling me, I am the ebony boy from the ivory tower. What do I know about the real world?’

Touche, thought Savage.

Calter moved over from her desk to join the boys and soon the three of them were talking about fetishes, Enders arguing that if sex wasn’t in bed and the light wasn’t out then it was not for him, Riley insisting that having some kind of fetish didn’t make you mad, Calter saying she would try anything once with the right person. The conversation wasn’t leading anywhere useful so Savage grabbed her cup of coffee, got up and moved away.

The main whiteboard had one victim photograph taped slap in the middle: Kelly Donal. How many more would they need to add? How many girls who never knew each other linked forever by death. How many more families destroyed?

DS Collier joined her.

‘Problems, ma’am?’ He nodded at the board.

‘I think we may have some more,’ Savage indicated the screen which Enders was sitting at, with the thumbnail pictures of the girls smiling out. ‘We need action points on those three. Their workplaces, Rosina Olivarez, Simone Ashton and Alice Nash. I want their pictures up here on the board as victims.’