BAD BLOOD: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel - Mark Sennen

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Derriford,’ Nesbit said, standing and nodding to the two mortuary technicians who had come round the corner of the house. ‘It will save disturbing her. Better that way.’

      ‘Yes, better,’ Savage said, wondering how anything could be much worse.

      When Savage went back round to the front of the house, she found Calter doing her best to intervene in an argument between one of the builders and a young man in a smart suit.

      ‘Mr Evershed, ma’am,’ Calter said, and then nodded to a little way down the road, where a heavily-pregnant woman was leaning against a big BMW with a high-end paint job and a massive spoiler on the rear. ‘And his wife.’

      Evershed couldn’t have been more than early twenties. He had close-cropped dark hair and a brash suit with lapels which were too wide. His wrist bore a chunky watch, gold like his cufflinks. He gave little more than a flick of the head to acknowledge Savage as Calter introduced her.

      Calter explained that Mr and Mrs Evershed were the owners of number seventy-five. They had bought the property only a month ago with the intention of renovating, but hadn’t yet moved in.

      ‘Waiting until the sprog is born,’ Evershed said, turning to Savage now. ‘Once that’s out the way I’ll be free to deal with this. We’ll do the place up, add fifty K to the value, sell it on and move up. Easy money.’

      ‘So you were getting some work done before you moved in?’ Savage asked.

      ‘That’s just the point.’ Evershed raised an accusing finger at the builder. Bared his teeth like a dog. ‘I don’t know what the hell these cowboys are doing here. I never asked them to do any work. First thing I know about it is when I get a call from our new next-door neighbour saying there’s a police car parked out front. As far as I am concerned these idiots are bloody trespassing on private property and you should arrest them for criminal damage.’

      ‘And?’ Savage turned to the builder, a man in his fifties, weary, as if he’d seen it all.

      ‘Don’t blame me.’ The man held one hand up and then reached into the breast pocket of his donkey jacket, pulled out a little spiral-bound notepad and showed the booklet to Savage. ‘Job’s down on my worksheet. Number seventy-five Lester Close. Pull up old patio slabs and remove soil and rubble. Dig holes for footings and lay concrete in preparation for new conservatory. Boss fixed us up with it Friday. Short notice, like, but he said it was an urgent job. We had to be in and out by the end of today.’

      ‘Well you’ve got the wrong address, haven’t you?’ Evershed said, jabbing his finger again. ‘So I suggest you call your boss and tell him he’s cocked up. Then you can go round the back and clear up whatever mess you’ve made.’

      ‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid,’ Savage said. ‘Not for a day or two at least. The whole of this property is now a crime scene.’

      ‘What? You’re joking, right?’

      ‘Sorry, no.’ Savage closed her eyes for a second and wondered how to explain about the little girl. She decided something approaching the truth was best. ‘We’ve found the body of a child beneath the patio.’

      Evershed’s wife had walked up from the car and now she reached out for her husband, grasping for his arm with one hand, the other moving to her swollen belly.

      ‘Nightmare,’ Evershed said, shaking his head and wondering aloud about the resale value of the place.

      Ten minutes later he was still talking figures as he ducked into his car. His wife stood on the other side of the vehicle for a moment, looking first at the house, then Savage, and then staring far into the distance at something beyond the rooftops at the end of the street. She got in, the door clunking shut with a noise which had a finality about it, Savage thinking about endings in her own life too.

       Chapter Three

       Mount Edgcumbe, Plymouth. Monday 14th January. 11.30 a.m.

      ‘Ready to say goodbye to Martin Kemp then?’ DS Darius Riley said, leaning against the railings and gazing across the river Tamar. Drake’s Island and Plymouth Sound lay to the right, the Torpoint chain ferries and the dockyards to the left. Just behind the two men, a black flag with a white cross hung limply from a flagpole next to the Edgcumbe Arms. The flag was there to remind anyone, should they need reminding, that they were standing on Cornish soil, another county from that which lay across the water. For some, it was another country.

      For a moment Riley’s companion said nothing, his eyes focusing on a patch of water midstream where a buoy, stationary against the tidal flow, had created a downstream eddy. Small pieces of flotsam swirled into the centre of the eddy and disappeared beneath the surface.

      ‘Yes. Just a little joke that. Something to add a bit of flavour, a name to hang a conversation around, should I ever need to. But you can still call me Marty. If it helps.’

      The man pulled a packet of cigarettes from his leather jacket and offered Riley one.

      ‘No thanks … Marty.’ Riley shook his head and smiled as the man lit up. Since their last meeting just before Christmas, Kemp’s hair had changed somehow, losing the greasy blackness and taking on a cleaner sheen. The clothing was more subtle now as well; no longer the flashy suit, the bracelet on the wrist, the rings on his fingers, instead just a plain leather jacket worn over a sweatshirt and jeans. Riley had been there, done it himself, knew about the little details which made for a convincing act. And Kemp’s act was good. Very good. It had to be, because one slip and not only would the whole of Operation Sternway be jeopardised, but the man’s life would be in danger as well. Riley was all too aware of that aspect of undercover work, having been on the wrong side of a beating when he’d been in London.

      He had handled Kemp for the past couple of months, always meeting the man well away from Plymouth, usually at an anonymous pub or roadside café, but now Kemp’s time was over and the officer could let the mask slip a little before returning to his own force. Riley knew Kemp was based in the North West, but he didn’t know the name of the force, nor did he have any idea of the man’s real identity. ‘Better that way,’ Kemp had said when they first met, and Riley agreed. If he’d been half as cautious as Kemp then maybe he’d still have been on the Met, still ducking and diving in his old haunts, playing the game. Instead he’d been transferred away.

      ‘Best for you, Riley. We can’t be too careful,’ his boss had said, placing a little too much emphasis on the word ‘careful’. And ‘best for you’ meant best for the rest of them, the team he’d let down. It had been tough at first, moving to what his old friends would have described as the back of beyond. Now though, after more than a year down in Devon, he’d settled in. And getting the chance to put his old skills to use on a case like the one he was working on with Kemp was a real bonus.

      Riley watched as a light wind began to ruffle the ebbing tide, throwing up little wavelets as the water slipped out of the river and eased its way past the Mayflower Marina, the surface roughing up in the narrows between Royal William Yard and Mount Edgcumbe. He had come across on the Cremyll ferry, Kemp arriving in his car from the Cornish side. The ferry was mid stream now, heading back across the quarter-mile stretch of water to Devon, the steep landing ramp Riley had jumped down onto lengthening by the minute as the tide fell away, swathes of mud either side exposed to the attentions of numerous gulls.

      ‘There, it’s up the top of the creek.’ Riley pointed across the river to a sliver of water which snaked between the marina and the stone quays of Royal William Yard. ‘Beyond the Princess Yachts’ hangar. Tamar Yachts is the one with the green roof. Considering what they do the business couldn’t be better positioned.’

      ‘Nice to put a face to a name,’ Kemp said. ‘During my trips down here I stayed away from the place deliberately.’

      Riley had been over at Tamar Yachts back in the autumn

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