“There was a positive reading for accelerant at the site, so we know the fire was probably started deliberately.”
“Of course, it was started deliberately!” She was fuming. “Carpets don’t spontaneously catch fire.” She knew she was being unfair. “Sorry,” she said and Butterworth smiled.
“It’s okay, I know how it feels when all the evidence goes up in flames.”
It was, after all, his job.
“Was there anything left that could be tested for DNA?”
Butterworth shook his head.
“I very much doubt it.” He shrugged as he explained, “The heat, the accelerant−” He didn’t really need to say more. Callie knew that they would almost certainly have destroyed any DNA between them.
“CCTV?” she asked hopefully.
“Spray paint.” Again, Butterworth didn’t need to say more.
“Brilliant.” Callie looked as unhappy as the two men at this.
* * *
“I mean, it really makes me cross.”
Callie was still fuming as she spoke to Kate on the phone later.
“I’m getting that message.”
“All they needed to do was have someone outside the yard in a patrol car.”
“Policemen don’t grow on trees, Callie,” Kate replied. “Look, I know it’s frustrating, but look at it this way, it makes the case so much stronger against Savage. At least in the minds of the police and it will make the CPS more likely to listen, too. All Miller needs to do is concentrate on getting the evidence.”
“What evidence is left?” Callie asked. “I mean, if the murders were committed in the office, any forensics have long gone now.”
“The bodies would have to have been transported elsewhere. I am sure Miller will be applying for warrants on the Savages’ cars, and trying to find out if they have a boat and going for that, too.”
Callie knew she was right, but the CPS’s caution over the warrant for the discarded carpet left her concerned that they still wouldn’t listen and be equally cautious about giving Miller any kind of a warrant for the vehicles. If the Met didn’t find any connection between Savage and the two victims, what possible evidence did Miller have that could convince them? Nothing! He didn’t even know if Savage owned a boat.
Callie spent some time researching the politician online. It was amazing how much you could glean from old interviews, tweets and other social media sources, but to find it and put it all together would take more time and probably more skills than she had. She found an interview with him in his “Hastings home” and could see that there were sea views out of the window. She knew the house was in Pett Level because Miller had told her that, and it was a small enough village for her to feel fairly confident that she could wander round and maybe spot the most likely place, or the MP’s car on the drive.
She thought back to the visits she had made to the office and to the meeting at the leisure centre. There had definitely not been any big important cars, the sort of cars you might expect powerful men to drive. Nothing that she could say she would recognise. Just the immaculate red hatchback, possibly Mrs Savage’s car, she thought, or just the run-around they used when they were in Hastings. Perhaps she would see that.
She grabbed her own car keys and a jacket and headed out the door.
* * *
It was just beginning to get dark when she arrived in the small village where the Savage constituency home was located. She parked on the road, with a sad look at the pub carpark. It had barriers now that the pub was shut, and there were weeds growing through the tarmac, it wouldn’t be long before nature claimed it back completely if the pub remained empty. She knew there were plans for it to become a doctors’ surgery and café, a real community hub for the locals, and she hoped it went forward soon even if she was still sad that a pub she had frequented in her youth had gone. The Smugglers had been her meeting place of choice when she needed to be sure she wouldn’t bump into anyone her parents knew and who might let drop that she was underage to be drinking alcohol. She turned away from the derelict pub and looked along the road towards the row of coastguard cottages and the houses beyond. To her right was the way over the bank to the shingle beach and the slipway for launching the independent rescue boat, whose volunteers covered the area and helped when swimmers and small boats got into trouble off the beach. They had been the ones to find the migrant boat, upturned and empty apart from one poor man who had thought to keep safe by tying himself to the side of the boat. With a shudder she remembered how battered his body had been when she pronounced him dead.
Callie walked up the path to the top of the bank which separated the houses from the sea. It was about ten foot higher than the road and designed to protect the homes from storm tides. There was a path leading towards the cliffs and Fairlight Glen, the route she had taken when the bodies were washed up there. It was almost completely dark, but when she turned, the wide, concrete walkway along the top of the bank and behind the houses was brighter, illuminated by the light spilling from the homes. There was a gate to stop cars using the walkway except when they had a key. There were boats at the top of the shingle shelf and the path was presumably used to tow them to the slipway when needed.
Callie went around the gate, which was only designed to prevent vehicular access, not pedestrians. With the sea to her right, she walked along the back of the houses, which were
