LITMIR.BIZ

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investigated, questioned again. He denied having anything to do with his wife’s disappearance.

      When some two weeks later a fisherman came across Mandy Glastone’s headless and mutilated body in a river high on Dartmoor, Mr Glastone was arrested on suspicion of murder. Glastone’s car was impounded and a forensic team went over every inch. Hairs from Mandy’s head were found in the boot, but that didn’t prove a thing.

      DCI Derek Walsh, the SIO at the time, hadn’t been entirely happy with the case, specifically the marks on the body. A criss-cross of cuts overlaid with spirals and other shapes. River creatures had been at the corpse, but the cuts hadn’t been made by them. As far as the pathologist could tell the woman hadn’t been beaten and cause of death couldn’t be determined. Were the marks a sign of some kind of ritual killing? Was the date significant, the murder something to do with pagans, the summer solstice, mumbo-jumbo and witchcraft? Then there was the clay, a lump found down in her throat below the point at which her head had been severed, the purpose of the material not clear.

      With no further evidence and the complications of the cake and the cuts, the CPS decided charging their suspect was a step too far. ‘No evidence, no motive’ they’d told the team and Phil Glastone had walked free.

      Twelve months later, June the twenty-first again, a twenty-five-year-old woman disappeared after having spent the evening in her local pub. Single, employed as a manager in a shoe shop and living in a rented flat in Paignton, Sue Kendle was never seen again. When friends called round the next day to collect her for a prearranged outing they became worried when she didn’t answer the door. Two police officers gained entry and found signs of a struggle: furniture tipped over, a picture frame smashed, the carpet in the hallway rucked up. And in the kitchen a Victoria sponge with seven candles on it, a slice missing, crumbs on the table.

      Glastone was brought in once more. Under intense questioning he broke down and admitted beating Mandy, but denied killing her. The interrogation team pushed hard but it turned out that this time he had been away on business in Switzerland; his alibi appeared to be cast-iron. He was released without charge.

      No body this time either and despite ongoing searches, Sue Kendle was never found. With no leads, the investigation went nowhere.

      Twenty-first June 2008. Thirty-nine-year-old Heidi Luckmann lucked out. She had risen early and driven her car to Burrator Reservoir from her home in Horrabridge, a village between Plymouth and Tavistock. A couple in the car park at the eastern end of the reservoir remembered the rather tatty red Vauxhall Corsa and the attractive woman with the Border Collie. As they geared up for their walk – stout boots for the moor and waterproofs against the summer drizzle – the dog had bounded across for a chat, Heidi coming over and apologising, the couple not minding one bit.

      When they returned four hours later they noticed the dog lying by the side of Heidi’s car, waiting for his mistress.

      The Dartmoor Rescue Group and a search helicopter scoured the surrounds of the reservoir and the nearby moor all that afternoon and well into the evening until the light faded from the sky sometime after ten p.m. They found nothing.

      Police forced their way into her cottage in Horrabridge and in the kitchen they found the cake. Nineteen candles. Missing slice. Crumbs. There was no sign of Heidi Luckmann and despite an exhaustive search over the following weeks she, like Sue Kendle, was never found.

      The story broke then, someone leaking details about the cakes which previously had been kept from the press. The media lapped it up and trust the good old Sun to come up with the name which would stick: The Candle Cake Killer. Not good English but fantastic copy nevertheless.

      For a while hell descended on Devon in the form of various TV companies from around the world and dozens of reporters, but with no more bodies, no leads, and never a word from whoever was responsible, the interest dried up.

      The next year the police were ready. Early June and they put out measured warnings, trying not to alarm the public but appealing for vigilance on and around the twenty-first of June. The media became fired up again, hoping for another misper, praying the cycle would continue.

      It didn’t. Nobody went missing. Nobody was murdered. There was a brawl outside a pub, a boy racer killed himself and his girlfriend when their car overturned on the A38, a house fire claimed the life of a much-loved family pet in Plymstock. All good stuff, but hardly justifying the presence of television crews from across the globe. The TV vans packed up, the reporters paid their hotel bills and the police scratched their heads. Had the warnings worked? Or had the killer got scared and decided to give this year a miss?

      A year later and again nothing happened. The media had lost all interest now, no TV crews and only an occasional feature appearing in the national press. There was nothing much more to say and for the police, nothing much more to go on. The case remained open, but in the absence of fresh leads it lay dormant. Waiting. Like Heidi Luckmann’s dog.

      Crownhill police station was on the north side of the city, situated in a tangle of arterial roads. The twin grey-brown concrete buildings at first sight resembled two upturned cardboard boxes. Rows of narrow slits had been cut in the side of the boxes to serve as windows, but Savage thought the place looked more like some sort of bunker than anywhere people might work. She slotted her car into one of only a few free spaces in the car park and went inside.

      Up in the crime suite excitement was writ large. A huge sheet of paper on one wall was adorned with a giant ‘5’, below, in smaller writing, ‘days left’. Savage thought about the caller to the radio show. Tension, amongst the general public as well as within the investigation team, could only rise as the days ticked by.

      A dozen officers and indexers sat at desks in the open plan room. Each person had a keyboard with two screens and a phone headset to hand. Steam rose from several cups of coffee, one officer passed around a bag of M&Ms, while another bit down on a bacon roll. Most focused on the screens in front of them, where a cascade of documents threatened to overwhelm the casual observer. Savage stood by the entrance for a moment. She felt a frisson of emotion. She knew most of these people well, they were her second family. Each had their good points as well as a whole host of foibles, but each understood that they would only succeed in their task if they worked together as a team. Savage respected all of them and liked most; for one or two she even had an affection approaching love.

      She went across the room to speak to Gareth Collier, the office manager. He’d abandoned a fishing trip but was sanguine about having to come in even though he’d booked a few days’ leave.

      ‘Was supposed to be out at Eddystone today,’ he said. ‘After a few pollack. To be honest I’m not bothered. Sea’s a bit lumpy and I had a couple too many last night.’

      Savage couldn’t imagine Collier having too many beers, nor could she see him being seasick. He was ex-military, with a severe haircut to match, discipline his middle name. She cocked her head on one side. Collier held his hands up.

      ‘Alright. It’s my brother-in-law. He’s down for the week and this is better than spending eight hours stuck on a small boat with him.’ Collier shook his head, embarrassed at the lie. ‘Anyway, Radial. The name.’

      ‘Radial?’ Savage said. ‘Where did you get that from?’

      ‘Don’t blame me. You know how it is. The computer spits out the name of the operation at random. Mind of its own.’

      ‘You put that up?’ Savage pointed to the countdown.

      ‘Yes. It’s called an incentive. Something to focus the mind.’

      DC Calter raised her head from a nearby desk and glanced over.

      ‘Something to scare us all shitless more like,’ she said.

      ‘That too.’ Collier allowed a hint of a smile to show on his face. ‘But knowing the date when the killer is likely to strike at least means we can organise our resources more effectively. We can also use the fact to lean on external agencies to pull their fingers out. If they don’t we can blame them when things go tits up.’

      ‘Let’s

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