Bad Blood (11 page)

The DSupt’s greeting as she entered his office was hardly welcoming.

‘Fuck it, Charlotte. This is the last thing we bloody need.’ He swivelled his chair away from the computer and leant forwards, hands clasped together. On the desk in front of him was an array of Post-it notes, lines of Hardin’s careful block writing across each.

Savage nodded and took a seat as Hardin continued. Trying to find Owers’ killer would be a nightmare, he explained. They’d be up against a wall of silence, nobody wanting to shop someone who in many people’s eyes would be a hero. Unearthing the story behind the girl in the crate would lead to misery all round, what with the grieving parents, disgruntled social workers, outraged local residents and the wrath of the press. No good could come of the investigation into either death. Hardin paused.

‘Where’s the bugger been?’ Hardin reached out and tapped the calendar on the wall. ‘You were round his place Monday and he was killed Tuesday night. Whoever made the connection made it pretty quickly.’

‘No, sir. I think it was the other way around. Owers was seen near his place with two men on Sunday night, one suspected of being Stuart Chaffe. The body of Simza wasn’t dug up until the following morning.’

‘Hey?’ Hardin glanced at the calendar again and then back to Savage. ‘Tell me.’

‘The builders weren’t supposed to be there. The whole thing was a set-up.’

‘So somebody already knew the girl was under the patio?’

‘That’s my guess. Peter Serling was contacted last week and he scheduled his men to do the job at Lester Close on Monday. It looks like Owers went missing Sunday night.’

‘So why now?’

‘Maybe some new information came to light, maybe Owers told somebody, maybe there was more than one person involved in the girl’s abduction.’

‘That is one possibility I don’t want to consider,’ Hardin said. He stared down at his desk at the Post-its and selected one, peeling the yellow paper off the surface and scrumpling it up. ‘Now, DCI Garrett will continue to handle the case of the little one. We will spin off the investigation into Franklin Owers’ death into a separate operation and you’ll be the SIO. You are to cooperate fully with
Brougham
at all times
.
The death of a child must take precedence over that of an adult, especially when the adult concerned is in all probability the murderer.’

‘Senior Investigating Officer,’ Savage said, thinking she should be grateful to be offered the lead role in the inquiry but casting her mind back to the toilets on the Hoe, the stench of piss and shit and Owers’ trousers round his ankles. She wondered if it was time for a career change to Traffic. ‘Yes. Thank you, sir.’

Hardin lobbed the little ball of paper across the room towards the wastepaper bin where it hit the rim and bounced out. He appeared not to have noticed as he turned back to his computer and began typing.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Job done.’

Budgeon sat next to Stuey in the white transit parked halfway along Maxwell Road, in the Cattedown area of the city. The place was basically a huge industrial estate, with the emphasis very much on the industrial, evidenced by the huge BOC gases plant just to their left. Its towering white storage containers and rows of bottled oxygen hinted at one almighty explosion should anyone ignore the numerous ‘No Smoking’ signs plastered on every surface.

Stuey flicked the remains of his fag out of the window and then grinned across at Budgeon, the skin on his gaunt face resembling tissue paper stretched over chicken wire.

‘Fucking hell, Stuey. You trying to get us killed?’ Budgeon pointed at a sign on the wire fence a couple of car lengths away.

‘Shit.’ Stuey peered out the window down at the road surface where the glowing end smouldered on the tarmac. ‘S’alright. Not going anywhere.’

‘At this rate, neither are we. You sure about this?’

‘Sure I’m sure.’ Stuey’s bony fingers grasped the steering wheel as he leant forwards to peer along Maxwell Road towards a small brownfield site where a Portakabin stood next to an open-sided corrugated shed. ‘Dowdney works mornings until one and then knocks off. Takes this route home for lunch every day. Clockwork.’

Dave Dowdney. In his fifties now. Running a crappy taxi company – when he wasn’t chucking away his profits down the bookies or pissing them away at his local. Once he’d been right up there as Big K’s muscle-boy. The same sort of relationship Budgeon had had with Stuey. Only Dowdney was a bit brighter than Stuey. Maybe a bit too bright for his own good.

When Frankie had been screaming, he’d blurted out something about Dowdney.

‘What?’ Budgeon had said, moving in close and sliding a hand around Frankie’s throat.

‘Way back, Ricky, way back!’ Frankie slobbered and slithered, wobbling like a pink blancmange on a butcher’s block. ‘I tell you, it was Dowdney!’

Dowdney? Budgeon had thought. Didn’t seem right. Dowdney was bright, but not that bright. Not that stupid either. Then again, maybe he had the information Budgeon wanted. The confirmation. Thinking about Dowdney had also given Budgeon an idea concerning the man’s taxi company. Good ol’ Davy could do him a little favour.

‘Here we go,’ Stuey said, tapping the windscreen as a hunched man came down the steps from the Portakabin and trudged across the waste-ground in front of it. ‘That’s Dowdney.’

Budgeon waited until Dowdney had crossed the road and was nearing them before clicking the door open and stepping down from the van. Dowdney looked wasted, a shell of the man who had boxed down the gym three decades ago. Sparred with a world champ, rumour had it. Now the only rounds would be those at the bar, supplemented with cheap take-out cider.

‘Dave,’ Budgeon said, as if it had been days rather than decades. ‘How’s things?’

‘Hey?’ Dowdney stopped trudging along and looked up. Diverted his gaze from Budgeon to Stuey and then back again. ‘Ricky? It can’t be, not old Ricky Budgeon.’

‘You’re the old one, Dave,’ Budgeon said. ‘Down on your luck too. If you get my drift.’

Dowdney shifted his stance and for a moment Budgeon thought he’d raise his fists too, but the arms stayed by his sides, drooping like the man’s expression.

‘Ricky … I didn’t, I mean she—’

‘Just a word, Dave. Somewhere quiet.’ Budgeon gestured to the rear of the van where Stuey was opening the doors. ‘I’ve come back to sort a few things out and I think you might be able to lend a hand.’

Budgeon swung a punch at Dowdney’s abdomen and Dowdney groaned and collapsed to the ground. Didn’t even change his stance or offer any resistance.

‘Pathetic,’ Budgeon said as Dowdney scrabbled at the pavement with one hand, trying to find purchase to push himself up.

Then Budgeon stamped on his fingers.

Savage went back downstairs in search of DS Gareth Collier. She found him outside in the car park, smoking.

‘
Corulus
,’ he said as she came over. ‘The name for the Franklin Owers investigation.’

The office manager was in shirtsleeves, as if the month was June, not January. Military discipline, thought Savage. Impervious to discomfort, opprobrium or pressure, Savage knew that he would ensure the inquiry would run as if on rails.

‘You’ve confirmed the initial ID then?’ Savage asked.

‘One of the DCs has forsaken Twitter for long enough to pull up some stuff and he’s found some better pictures. Mr Owers is not licking piss from a toilet rim, but you can tell it’s him alright. Turns out he’s got no close family, so I’m not sure who’s going to officially identify him.’

‘Has Hardin given you everything you want?’

‘We’ve got a fair few bodies up there. Considering.’ Collier waved a hand up at the grey concrete building, coughed and stubbed his cigarette out on the side of a bin. His sense of discipline didn’t extend to quitting smoking, something he’d been trying to do for years. ‘Although I wouldn’t exactly say they are raring to go.’

Collier was right; when Savage returned to Major Crimes she found that a Friday afternoon atmosphere had set in. And it was only Wednesday.

People had scattered themselves around the room in ones or twos, some holding steaming cups of tea or coffee, Enders back from the scene and munching on a jumbo-sized Mars Bar as he typed an email one-handed. Nobody looked in any way eager to get stuck into the case, apart from Calter who sat at a chair near the whiteboard taking notes.

Over in a corner, DS Riley was sorting his things. On his desk a number of paper clips had been arranged to spell out the words ‘bye bye’ and he was shuffling a pile of documents, sliding the sheets one by one into a nearby recycling bin. Unusually for him, several buttons on his shirt were undone and his jacket and tie hung over the back of his chair. Enders sat staring at his screen, but every now and then casting a glare at the DS.

‘Ma’am?’ Enders turned his head and called across the room. ‘I can well understand these cuts the Government are bringing in. From where I am sitting there is a hell of a lot of slack in the system.’

A paper dart flew past Enders’ head and Riley began to first hum and then sing a song in a language which sounded a little like French.

‘Darius,’ Savage said. ‘Can I infer from your behaviour that you don’t have a lot on at the moment?’

‘Everything done, ma’am. The
Sternway
final report filed, all my paperwork up to date and every last email answered. Just waiting for the little hand to move down to the five and then I am off. Spending tomorrow packing and then first thing Friday morning … whoosh!’ Riley held his hand out flat and then moved it diagonally upwards and began to sing again, this time in English but with a strong Caribbean accent. Savage recognised the song as ‘Jamaican Farewell’.

‘Have you summarised those notes from the PACT meeting we attended last week?’

‘No, ma’am. I thought they didn’t need to be done until the end of—’

‘Well?’

‘Sure, yes.’ Riley leant forwards to his keyboard as the dart skimmed back and landed on his desk, sliding into the paper clips and disturbing the neat pattern of letters.

‘Members of the
Corulus
team, listen up,’ Savage said. She strolled up to the whiteboard where a photo of Owers had star billing. In the picture Owers stood by the side of an outdoor swimming pool, bloated, pink and sneering at the camera. Behind him, three young girls played in the shallow end. Little bikinis, smiles and an innocence which came from not knowing about the predilections of the man standing a few paces away.

‘Franklin Owers was a paedophile,’ she continued. ‘He was convicted a good number of years ago for a vicious assault on a six-year-old girl, so let’s not pretend any of us are crying into our school milk over his death. Certainly not me.’

‘Too true,’ someone said from the back of the room.

‘But whoever killed him was prone to extreme and sadistic violence themselves. I doubt Mr Owers is the only person to have suffered at the hands of the perpetrator. Which means catching him, her, or them is top priority. Now, DC Enders has got more on our victim. Patrick?’

‘Aged forty-four,’ Enders said, picking a sheaf of papers up from his desk and moving across to the whiteboard. ‘An accountant by training, but after a minor, non-custodial conviction he was kicked out of the ACCA.’

‘Which is?’ asked Calter.

‘Um …’ Enders peered down at his papers and ran his finger across the page. ‘The Association of Chartered Certified Accountants. Apparently the offence was something to do with a dodgy submission of a tax return for a bogus travel agency. After that he seems to have been happy enough with straight bookkeeping, but it looks like he wasn’t able to get a proper job so he set up on his own. Convicted ten years ago for assaulting a six-year-old girl. He got twelve years, out in seven.’

‘That’s what passes for justice these days,’ Denton said. ‘Bloody disgrace.’

‘Anyway,’ Enders continued, pointing at a photocopy of the black business card stuck on the board. ‘After he was released he still couldn’t get a job so continued in self-employment. He called the new business Fastwerks. The office on Notte Street specified on his card proved to be phony. Nothing there but a little lobby area with a pigeonhole his mail was left in. We’ve found some paperwork which shows he did accounts for a number of small businesses in the Stonehouse area: the newsagent just round the corner from his flat, a small boatyard, a couple of the local pubs, several other firms too. I guess that’s why he decided to move over there.’

‘Could there be anything in that, ma’am?’ Calter said.

‘What?’ Enders said. ‘Someone gets mad because Owers gets a few decimal points in the wrong place? Not what I’d call a motive.’

‘Jane, you can follow up on that,’ Savage said. ‘Make sure actions are in place for all the people and businesses he was working for. Patrick will help you. Carl, I want you to try and find out about Owers’ social life. Who he mixed with, if he had any friends. As part of his licence terms he wasn’t allowed access to the internet, but he may have got round the restriction somehow so don’t leave the web out of your search. There’s a USB stick which Hi-Tech Crimes are looking at too and I am going to be speaking to a member of his MAPPA team tomorrow.’

Savage glanced around at the rest of the team. They still didn’t look enthused. To be fair, she still didn’t
feel
enthused either.

‘So, what do we think?’ she said.

‘A vigilante killing?’ Calter said, looking up from her note, taking.

‘You mean the parents of the little girl he assaulted?’ Denton said. ‘A traveller family. I reckon they might have connections.’

‘Here we go,’ Enders said, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath. ‘Need a crimo? I’ve got loads. Paddies, gyppos, blacks, Pakis, long-haired hippies, anyone with a “funny” accent, anyone who doesn’t—’

‘Are you calling me prejudiced?’ Denton said, pushing his chair back as he began to get up. ‘Because if you are, then I’m going to—’

‘DC Enders, Denton. Enough!’ Savage said. ‘For God’s sake grow up the pair of you. This is a murder investigation, not a playground.’

Thirty minutes later, after designating actions to the other officers on the team, Savage wound the meeting up. Despite the earlier tension, nobody jumped out of their seats and ran from the room, nobody seemed excited or motivated. Calter came across as Savage was about to leave. She nodded over to where three DCs were chatting about last night’s telly.