Mark Sennen - TOUCH - A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

Hardin started to elaborate on the different approach the team would be taking now he had taken charge.

‘I just had a call from the officers attending the post-mortem. This is definitely a murder inquiry, and not a nice one.’

‘Is there ever a nice one?’ Garrett said.

‘No, but this is brutal and nasty. The pathologist believes the girl may have been killed with a, let me see …’ Hardin peered down at some notes. ‘Ah yes, a captive bolt stunner. Otherwise known as a humane killer, although I think we can agree that Olivárez’s death does not fall into a category one would call humane.’

‘A cow killer?’ Savage said.

‘Yes. Whether that is useful information or not remains to be seen. All depends on who might have access to one.’

‘A farmer or a vet?’ Davies said. ‘Seems the obvious line of enquiry.’

‘Or an antique dealer,’ Savage said. The others looked at her. ‘I came across an old one in a shop once. People collect this sort of stuff and I don’t think they require a firearms licence.’

‘OK, so the weapon may have come from anywhere,’ Hardin said. ‘Let’s get to the subject of catching these people. As you are all aware Big Night Out will be taking place on Saturday nights for the next four weeks. This will push us for bodies on other stuff, but until this is solved follow ups on some minor crimes are on standby. The overtime budget is going to go through the roof and there are going to be complaints, but I tell you something: if we don’t catch these brutes by Christmas then it’s not going to be a happy one. For any of us.’

Hardin ran through his ideas for the Big Night Out and the others chipped in with a few suggestions. Garrett thought they should include Friday nights as well since two of the girls had been picked up then. Hardin disagreed.

‘The problem is manpower. Not enough to go round, I’m afraid. Right bloody fools we’d appear when an attack happens at a club we weren’t covering because we were spread too thin. I can visualise the headlines on the Monday morning and my bollocks nailed to the ACC’s desk by the afternoon.’

Garrett also wanted to step up uniformed patrols, but again Hardin disagreed.

‘They’ll only end up going somewhere else where there are no patrols and we will miss them completely.’

In the end they compromised on some increased presence in the city centre around a couple of clubs. That would be good publicity and provide some pictures for the papers and mean the operation could take a risk in not putting officers into those particular venues, leaving more free for the others.

The meeting concluded and Savage and Davies left, leaving Garrett with Hardin.

‘Poor old fucker,’ Davies said, shaking his head. ‘Mike had high hopes of promotion next year. Been DCI for as long as I can remember.’

‘Hardin’s a wily devil,’ Savage said. ‘Because he’s built like the proverbial brick outhouse people assume there is nothing up top, but you don’t dare underestimate his cunning.’

Savage grabbed another cup of something resembling coffee from the canteen and went back to the Major Crimes suite where the talk had once again degenerated into who would be wearing what come Saturday night. Not much else was happening or was likely to, Savage thought. They would be very lucky if the body on the beach yielded any forensic evidence. The corpse had been lying in the water so long anything present would have degraded to beyond the point of being useful. What they needed was something distinctive about the girl’s life that separated her from the other victims. Something to indicate why she was tracked down and killed when the other girls had been let go.

Savage went over to where DC Jane Calter sat at a desk trying to piece together some intel on the girl’s movements in the days following the assault. Calter was young, mid-twenties, and like Enders her appearance didn’t shout ‘detective’. She wore her hair in a shoulder-length blonde bob and dressed right on the ‘casual’ limit of the recommended dress code. Today that was a black denim skirt and jacket and shiny black boots. With Calter though appearances were deceptive: she was hard as nails, ran marathons and some years back had won a national junior title at Taekwondo.

Calter looked up at Savage and started to explain that her task was a waste of time: the girl had no contact with anyone but her flatmate and police officers before she left for Spain.

‘She spent some time at the Sexual Abuse Referral Centre, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘The doctor examined her and a sexual offence liaison officer did her bit too. Then she went back to her flat and the SOLO stayed with her until she departed. I interviewed her several times over the next few days as we tried to make sense of what had happened and get a coherent statement. She was never alone.’

‘And you accompanied her to the boat?’

‘I did, ma’am. With DC Enders. At least we took her through check-in and passport control. She had a single room on the boat and we know it was used. Her father is disabled and requires constant care so there was nobody to meet her at Santander and she was going to make her own way home to Zaragoza, but she seemed quite happy about that.’ Calter paused for a moment before continuing, a noticeable trace of emotion in her voice. ‘You know, I liked her. She was a strong girl, confident. The assault affected her badly but I sensed she would get over it. That she wouldn’t let what happened go on to destroy the rest of her life.’

Calter didn’t say anything more. She didn’t need to, the inference was obvious: somebody else had destroyed Rosina Olivárez’s life.

Gordon Isaacs was fed up with people telling him he was lucky to be a farmer. Everyone said it must be great to have such a varied existence with all the changing seasons and different challenges. In reality, one day was very much like the next and in Isaacs’s mind that meant today had been bloody awful. People didn’t realise it was a hard life. Bloody hard work and no days off and no knocking off at five thirty and having a drink with some cute blonde in a posh wine bar.

It just wasn’t fair.

Isaacs whacked the starter motor with the hammer once more, squirted a burst of EasyStart into the air intake and used his screwdriver to bypass the ignition. The Landrover spluttered a couple of times, backfired, and then burst into life, coughing a plume of black smoke from the exhaust in the process.

‘About bloody time you useless heap of shit,’ he said, slamming the bonnet down and lumbering round to the door. He swung a leg to try to kick his collie as it went to grab the hammer. The dog jumped out of the way and leapt up through the driver’s door and across to the passenger seat.

‘Look what you bloody done now!’ Isaacs eyed the muddy prints all over the seats. He got in anyway and rammed the gearstick forward, flooring the accelerator. The Landrover slewed round in the mud and he pointed it out of the farmyard and down the rutted lane.

‘Lil’ acre, Fly. That’s where we’re off to.’

The dog yapped and panted. Now they were moving Isaacs didn’t feel too bad either. He hated having to fix things because there were always two constants in any job he had to do: never enough time and never enough money. Earlier in the day the big Ford had got a puncture because the previous repair had been a bodge job rather than a new tyre. And now his neighbour, Peter Wright, had been on the phone to tell him he’d seen a couple of Isaacs’s heifers pushing their way through the fence at the bottom of Little Acre. Isaacs had spent a frustrating fifteen minutes trying to start the Landrover which meant that the heifers had plenty of time to frolic in the winter wheat, ruining the freshly sown crop and trampling pounds off his bottom line. Which in the grand circle of life meant the next puncture repair would be yet another bodge and he’d never be able to afford a new Landrover.