minutes. There was a commotion from the hallway down below, a clattering on the stairs and the paramedics arrived on the landing with a stretcher. One came in and knelt beside her and assessed the situation. He put his hand on Denton’s head, used his thumb to lift an eyelid and shone a penlight in Denton’s eyes.
‘Keep holding that, love,’ the man said to her. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood, suffering shock too, but I think he’s going to be alright.’
Chapter 22
Back in early summer, some weeks before he had first met Trinny, it had been cold, the promise of a scorcher that a few warm spring weeks had hinted at long gone. Day after day of rain kept him cooped up inside the cottage, wallowing round the place, the gloom more to do with his mood than the fact he had the curtains drawn.
There had been a knock, knock, knock on the door. Rap, rap, rap at the entrance to his very soul.
‘Hello, Matthew. It has been a long time.’ Two figures stood outside in the drizzle sheltering beneath a large umbrella, each wearing cheap tourist-type translucent yellow waterproofs and thin smiles.
Harry stumbled back from the door, shocked at the apparitions. Ghosts weren’t supposed to appear in broad daylight.
‘You bastards!’
‘We need to talk.’
‘Too right we do. Get the fuck inside.’
Once inside they talked and Harry listened. Like always. They explained, reasoned, apologised, pleaded. Finally they grovelled and begged for the absolution which Harry knew they had come for. Selfish as ever.
Their words and moans and sobs blended into a cacophony that drilled down through his skull and into his brain. An egg whisk went to work in there, mixing and blending and churning until the only thing remaining was a uniform mush that meant nothing. Harry couldn’t take it any more so he left them in the house and went outside. The earlier rain had stopped and now the air was still, the smoke from the chimney rising in a vertical column. Up in the heavens a formless grey mess hung like a suffocating blanket; no cloud shapes, no sun, only bleak sky.
And that was how he felt. Empty and cold. But he also knew he could be full again. Like Mitchell said, you had to grasp the moment and then you could be free. Problems, problems, problems, he thought to himself.
He trudged round to the barn at the side of the cottage, went inside and knelt in the dirt. With his eyes screwed shut he prayed to God to do something, to show a sign, but he knew God would remain silent. God wasn’t merciful and the meek did not inherit the earth: they got fucked while tied to a little wooden bed in a cold attic room.
Harry opened his eyes and stood up, soggy knees the only sign God had sought fit to give him. Then he noticed a beam of light coming through a hole in the rear wall. The light danced across the space like some sort of primitive laser, illuminating motes of dust in the air on its way. Where the beam hit the far wall it shone on a rusty six inch nail struck in there at a weird angle. Hanging on the nail was a long piece of chain and a couple of padlocks.
Chapter 23
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Tuesday 2nd November. 9.41 am
Tuesday morning at the station and a feeling of anti-climax hung in the air. Richard Trent’s brief had made an allegation of police brutality and although Trent hadn’t been sprung from his cell, Savage reckoned it was only a matter of time. ‘He was resisting arrest’ Davies had told Hardin. Savage played back the incident in her mind and decided Davies’s account lacked one or two small details. If Trent’s guilt proved short-lived then maybe she would have to have words with Hardin about those missing details. For now she was content to keep quiet.
DC Carl Denton’s bed for the next few nights would be up at Derriford hospital, but he was doing OK. The surgeons had sorted out his face, although they spoke of a nasty scar being forever on show for his efforts. At the morning meeting Hardin was talking about recommending Denton for a bravery commendation.
‘Saved a man’s life and that’s no small thing.’
‘Saved a piece of shit if you don’t mind me saying, sir,’ Davies said. ‘World would be better off without the likes of Richard Trent.’
‘Ah, but if Mr Trent had succeeded in topping himself we would be in a spot of bother, wouldn’t we?’
‘We are in a spot of bother, sir, ‘Savage said. ‘The VODS data was useful intelligence, but the information has zero evidential value. None of the rooms at Trent’s place match the decor or layout of the rooms in the videos and the initial search didn’t find any ropes or bondage equipment. The team are going through the house room-by-room, but so far nothing. And according to a neighbour the BMW gets cleaned once a week, every week. On a Monday. When he heard that Layton headed down to the car valeting place and impounded every vacuum cleaner they own. But if he can’t get something from them or the car we are stuffed.’
‘And do you think he can?’
‘He reckons if any of the girls so much as glanced at the car he’ll find something.’
‘Good, I will keep my fingers crossed. Can we identify Trent in the videos?’
‘We are pretty sure in several cases, but the perpetrators are either wearing masks or facing away from the camera. In a couple of the scenes some special software has been used to pixellate the faces and anyway the lighting is not great. To ask a jury to convict without supporting evidence is going to be a no-no.’
‘And last night’s session produced nothing?’
Davies shook his head. ‘DC Jackson and me did a two hour stint and to be honest I expected him to come crying home to mummy, what with the weight of evidence I thought we had.’
‘So what happened?’
‘As soon as we got word the house was wrong I knew that we were in danger of losing the plot. And Mr clever clogs Ph bloody D knew as well. There was something else though: I reckon he was scared.’
‘As well he might be after the kicking you gave him. Mr Trent has some pretty impressive bruises.’
‘Yeah, well, Denton and all. Anyway I don’t mean he was scared of me. Every time I asked him a question his tactic was to say nothing, but I got the feeling he wasn’t only worried about implicating himself.’
‘Well, the others are still at large, aren’t they?’ Savage said. ‘Possibly a network, perhaps organised crime. He wouldn’t want to be the sneak in the latter case.’
‘Figures.’ Davies said. ‘Either way, Trent said zilch because his brief had told him to keep stum. The bitch realises that if the house and car search come up empty then we don’t have anything else.’
‘The assault on DC Denton?’ Hardin said.
‘He is claiming self-defence, sir,’ Savage said. ‘Nice middle class lecturer is at home having a shave in his bathroom when two men burst in and attack him. He has no idea what is going on and one of the men gets hurt in the struggle.’
‘But he was trying to kill himself. What does he say about that?’
‘Denies it, sir.’ Davies said. ‘Claims he was shaving and then seeing us he used the razor in self-defence. Doesn’t wash with me, if you’ll excuse the pun. It was late in the afternoon, a funny time for a dig in the grave.’
‘This is getting to be like groundhog day,’ Hardin said. ‘First the kinky husband in the car park and now Mr Trent. It would be good for my health if the next arrest you lot make was a bit more clear-cut.’
‘I was thinking about Forester,’ Savage said to Davies. ‘Did you mention him? The only information we released is that a body has been found on Dartmoor, no name, no cause of death, no details. The media went with the idea the corpse belonged to a walker who sprained his ankle, so it is possible Trent doesn’t even realise Forester is dead. We might be able to use that.’
‘Good idea, Charlotte,’ Hardin said. Then he got to his feet, went over to the window and stared out.
‘I’ve just had a call from somebody in the custody centre at Charles Cross. Apparently they have had to place a couple of uniforms down at the front door to prevent anyone getting to Trent. A shocking waste of resources.
