the local economy. No tourists, no economy.’
‘And we’re approaching the busiest time of year.’
‘Exactly. Which is why the Chief wants to throw everything at this one.’
The Chief was Simon Fox, known as Foxy to the rank and file. Like all leaders, he had a tendency to push down directives from on high. Any complaints would be met with a smile on his lamb-like face. Followed by a sting from his scorpion tail.
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I no longer have to worry about budgetary constraints. I’m doubling the number of people assigned to Radial. We’ll have enough officers for comprehensive door-to-door enquiries, plenty of indexers and a team to staff the hotline number twenty-four-seven.’
‘But Wilson?’
‘That’s not so good. I’m surprised Dr Wilson has the nerve. Considering.’
Considering.
Back when the Candle Cake Killer first surfaced Dr Wilson had, from what Savage had heard, been a walking disaster. Fox, recently arrived in Devon as the new Chief Constable, had insisted on bringing a psychologist on board, despite the resistance of the SIO, DCI Walsh. They had to show willing, Fox said, had to show they were trying everything, because if the media saw they’d given up they’d be holed below the waterline. After the disappearance of Heidi Luckmann confirmed they were looking for a serial offender, Wilson came up with his first profile. He said the killer would strike again, that they would escalate. The clay which had been found in Mandy Glastone’s throat led Wilson to hypothesise that the killer worked in arts and crafts. He also said he drove some kind of van, had a history of mental illness and a severe problem in relating to women.
‘Don’t we all’ was – according to office legend – what the recently divorced Walsh had said as he’d torn up the pages Wilson had prepared and asked the psychologist to leave the building and not bother coming back.
Simon Fox had got wind of the event and although Wilson had resigned in a huff and couldn’t be persuaded to return, the Chief insisted on Walsh working the art angle. Every gallery, art shop, pottery and studio was marked down for a visit. Every artisan in Devon and Cornwall tracked down and interviewed. Lists were procured of people farther afield, their names ticked off against elements of Wilson’s profile, those who merited further investigation interviewed by detectives travelling from Devon or by local forces.
Nothing.
After the killer had missed his midsummer appointment a year later, Walsh informed the team the investigation was being scaled back. And he got a cheer when he mentioned Wilson was being investigated for professional misconduct with a female patient and that Devon and Cornwall Police were seeing if they could recover any of the fees they’d paid.
‘I would quite like to deliver a personal message to Wilson,’ Hardin said, interrupting Savage’s thoughts. ‘F-off. He’d like that, being a psychologist. Unfortunately it looks as if we’ve got to get all cuddly with the man instead. Fox is adamant. We’ve got to “move with the times” apparently. Wilson failed before because he wasn’t given enough assistance. I’m hearing words like “bygones”, “hatchet” and “bury”.’
‘You’re saying we’re being forced to use him?’
‘Not officially, not on the payroll, but yes. You might know that Wilson has worked with the FBI over in the States. According to the CC he’s got the experience we need to crack the case. Personally I think he doesn’t want to rock the boat. Profiling is good PR and Fox believes it would be better to have Wilson on board rather than having the man trying to capsize us with snide remarks in the media.’
‘I haven’t heard much good about Wilson,’ Savage said, ‘but it makes sense to at least talk to him, doesn’t it?’
‘No,’ Hardin said. ‘It bloody doesn’t. And seeing as how close you were to DCI Walsh I’d have thought you were the last person who’d want to do that, but if you want to consult with Wilson then be my guest. I’ll mark you down as his liaison officer. Apparently he’s up in London on Home Office business. Back Tuesday evening. I’ll pencil you in to meet with him Wednesday, shall I?’
Savage opened her mouth to say she hadn’t meant for her to consult with Wilson, but Hardin had already pulled out his phone and a couple of swipes later the task was.
The improving weather had brought out a trickle of walkers, but otherwise nothing disturbed the empty streets of Princetown. The little settlement at the heart of the moor was not much more than a bunch of houses hugging a T-junction, the buildings clinging to the throughways as if letting go would mean they would vanish into the wilderness. With the incredible scenery right on the doorstep, the town should have been the South West’s equivalent of Windermere. For some reason it wasn’t and the place was one of the most deprived in Devon. Without the prison as a source of employment it was doubtful if there would be a reason for anyone to remain.
Enders turned off the road and into the prison car park, pulling up in an empty bay alongside a minibus.
‘Grim,’ Riley said. ‘Can’t say I would enjoy being banged up here, the place is a ghost town.’
‘You wouldn’t be worrying about nightlife, sir, and think of the views from your cell window.’
‘Well, at least I would be looking out. From here the place looks like some northern mill.’
The grey granite buildings with their tall chimneys did resemble a factory from the nineteenth century. The sunshine washed the stone with a golden glow, but failed to warm the atmosphere. Riley could only imagine what kind of hell the place would be in bad weather, with mist and rain swirling round the satanic structures.
They got out of the car and walked to reception, where they introduced themselves to a prison officer who was all smiles. Riley wondered if he was as friendly to people who arrived in the back of a van.
‘You here about Devlyn?’ the officer said, taking a second glance at Riley’s tracksuit as he prepared visitor’s badges for them. ‘We’re all very worried. His wife is distraught. Nice man. Straight, honest, prisoners relate to him well.’ He shook his head. ‘Barry will take you up to see the Governor.’
A large man with a severe haircut appeared and he beckoned them along a corridor, unlocking the first of a number of gates which took them along more corridors to the Governor’s office. The anteroom resembled a doctor’s surgery with numerous health and wellbeing posters as well as information on prisoner rights. A secretary asked them if they would prefer coffee or tea and then the Governor emerged from his office.
‘Keith Rose.’ The man held out his hand and Riley introduced himself and Enders.
Rose was younger than Riley expected, maybe late thirties, with bushy uncontrollable blond hair which added to his youthful appearance. He wasn’t at all the stereotype of the older, caring governor Riley had been expecting, nor did he look like one of the evil and vicious characters he had seen portrayed in numerous prison films.
They went into Rose’s office. A formal area with a large desk and a computer monitor on it lay to one side, on the other a sofa and two armchairs clustered round a low table. Rose gestured to the sofa as the secretary came in with cups and a pot of coffee and put them on the table.
‘First time here?’ Rose said as he dismissed the secretary and poured the coffees himself. ‘I’m glad you’ve come on a good day. Too often the weather only serves to confirm people’s stereotypes of the moor and the prison.’
‘I had my preconceptions,’ Riley said, ‘but once inside there is far more space than I would have imagined.’
‘We try as hard as we can. Removal of liberty is the punishment, nothing beyond, despite the growing clamour from the public and some sections of the media. You know, we’ve got some good things going on here, people really trying to make a difference.’
‘Storybook Dads?’