Near Bovisand, Plymouth. Saturday 15th April. 7.43 a.m.
Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage woke to an aroma of hot croissant and fresh coffee. A blinding glare too, along with a swish as the curtains swept open and sunlight came streaming in through the window. She shielded her eyes against the rays, squinting through her fingers.
‘Surprise, Mummy!’ said a small figure on the far side of the room. ‘Breakfast in bed!’
A tray clicked down on the table beside her, the rattle of cutlery against crockery.
‘Jamie,’ Savage said, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘Darling, how sweet.’
‘It was his idea.’ A taller figure stood next to the bed. Pete, Savage’s husband. He removed a cup, plate and a cafetiére from the tray and then pressed down the handle on the coffee pot. ‘But all my work. That’s parenting, I guess.’
‘There’s a price to pay for everything.’ Savage sat up and Pete plonked a couple of pillows behind her back. She looked at Jamie as he climbed up onto the bed and slipped beneath the duvet to give her a cuddle. He was seven years old but still as needy as a toddler. Not that Savage minded. She ruffled his short, black hair and smiled at him. ‘I think it’s worth it, don’t you?’
‘That all depends on which one you’re talking about.’ Pete poured the coffee and handed Savage the cup. He nodded in the direction of the bedroom door. ‘Samantha’s in a right strop.’
Savage nodded. Samantha was her daughter. She’d just been dumped by her boyfriend and, being fifteen and full of hormones, the event had turned her world upside down. Pete and Savage were, unfathomably, largely to blame for all her woes.
‘She’ll get over him.’ Savage followed Pete’s gaze and then looked to the window. Outside, beyond their garden, she could see the waters of Plymouth Sound. A deep blue punctuated by the occasional snowflake of white sail, the early sun dancing on the gentle waves. ‘It’s a beautiful day, so why don’t we all go into town and grab something for lunch? If there’s any chance of a bit of shopping, especially with us paying, Sam will go for it. I’m sure that will cheer her up.’
An hour later, Savage regretted her suggestion. Detective Superintendent Conrad Hardin had phoned and lunch was most definitely off. She was wanted urgently at the station. She enquired as to what was pressing enough to require her presence on a Saturday. There hadn’t been a murder or any other serious crime, had there?
‘No, not yet,’ Hardin said cryptically. ‘And I can’t tell you what this is about on the phone. This is strictly a need-to-know situation. I don’t want anything getting out.’
Savage protested, exasperated at Hardin’s notion of phone taps, conspiracy theories and leaks to the media. He ignored her and refused to divulge any more information.
‘Oh,’ he added at the end of the call. ‘And pack for an overnight stay. You’re going on a little trip. You’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Sir, tomorrow’s Easter Day.’
‘Off to church, are you, DI Savage? Seen the light?’
‘No, but—’
‘As I said, you’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. If all goes well.’
‘If all goes—?’
The DSupt ended the call, leaving Savage to apologise to her children and pack a few things into a bag.
‘So?’ Pete said. ‘Going to fill me in?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’ Savage shrugged as she stuffed some underwear into a side pocket on the bag. ‘An essential training course, I shouldn’t wonder. Probably some other lucky bugger has cried off and Hardin needs me to fill their shoes. Assuming, of course, that he isn’t intent on taking me on a dirty weekend.’
‘That’s not even remotely funny.’ Pete eyed a matching pair of black knickers and bra. ‘Are those new?’
‘Yes. I bought them especially for the DSupt. I’m calling them my promotion set.’
‘Stop it.’
Savage continued to rib her husband until Samantha came into the room and started a raging argument about parents and broken promises and how life really couldn’t get any worse. Savage tried to console her daughter, but the more she tried the more heated the conversation became. Eventually, she zipped up the bag, slung it on her shoulder and left Pete to bribe his way out of the situation.
The journey to the station was stop-start, the Saturday shopping traffic into Plymouth backing up across the Laira Bridge. Savage didn’t mind. She’d taken her little MG, a classic car older than she was, and with the mid-April morning being bright and warm, she’d put the hood down. She sat in the queue, enjoying the sun and watching the waterskiers on the expanse of estuary north of the bridge. Eventually, she cleared the traffic and headed up the A38 with the wind in her hair, arriving at Crownhill at a little after twelve.
After poking her head into the deserted crime suite, she went up to the DSupt’s office. She knocked and entered, surprised to see Detective Sergeant Darius Riley seated on one side of the desk. Shocked, too, to find herself thinking about the black underwear. She immediately censored herself.
‘Ma’am,’ Riley said with a smile. Hardin was over the far side of the room pouring coffee into three grotty looking mugs. Riley made a silent theatrical sigh and shook his head. ‘Hope you packed your toothbrush.’
Savage glanced down at Riley’s feet where he’d parked a small rucksack. She unshouldered her own bag and dumped it on the floor, before taking a chair.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Although I’m itching to know the destination for our little magical mystery tour.’
Riley nodded but said nothing more. He shifted in his seat and ran a finger up to his shirt collar where the bright white material met his black skin. The DS was, as usual, immaculately turned out, with his hair neat and short, his attire spotless. Savage had always figured that Riley had to go the extra mile to prove himself in a force which was overwhelmingly white. And prove himself he had. He’d been instrumental in the success of several operations including the capture of a multiple murderer which had nearly cost him his life. He’d also helped Savage track down the person who’d been involved in the hit-and-run which had killed her daughter, Samantha’s twin sister, Clarissa. Riley had become more than just a work colleague, he was a confidant and, she liked to think, a friend.
‘Ah, Charlotte.’ Hardin spun round, coffee slopping from the three cups as he tried to hold them in two hands. He squeezed his considerable bulk behind his desk and set the coffees down, before sinking into his chair. ‘Ready for the off?’
‘If I knew what the “off” was, it would be helpful, sir.’
‘In good time. I was hoping DC Enders would be here by now, but we’ll proceed without him. He’s only your driver so it’s not as if he needs to hear this briefing. You can fill him in later.’
‘Our driver?’ Savage glanced at Riley, but the DS only shrugged. He appeared to know little more than she did.
‘Malcolm Kendwick,’ Hardin said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Savage and Riley sat there in silence for a minute while Hardin shuffled through a load of papers on his desk. He pulled a stack of documents from a large FedEx envelope. Several of the documents bore a header with the graphic of an eagle. Below the eagle, large text with the words US Department of Justice, marched officially across the envelope. ‘As I was saying, Malcolm Kendwick. Know who he is?’
Savage nodded. ‘Yes. Sort of.’
‘Sort of’ meant she’d read the headlines in the tabloids, the longer pieces in the quality press. Malcolm