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worksheet. Number seventy-five Lester Close. Pull up old patio slabs and remove soil and rubble. Dig holes for footings and lay concrete in preparation for new conservatory. Boss fixed us up with it Friday. Short notice, like, but he said it was an urgent job. We had to be in and out by the end of today.â
âWell youâve got the wrong address, havenât you?â Evershed said, jabbing his finger again. âSo I suggest you call your boss and tell him heâs cocked up. Then you can go round the back and clear up whatever mess youâve made.â
âThat wonât be possible, Iâm afraid,â Savage said. âNot for a day or two at least. The whole of this property is now a crime scene.â
â
What
?
Youâre joking, right?â
âSorry, no.â Savage closed her eyes for a second and wondered how to explain about the little girl. She decided something approaching the truth was best. âWeâve found the body of a child beneath the patio.â
Evershedâs wife had walked up from the car and now she reached out for her husband, grasping for his arm with one hand, the other moving to her swollen belly.
âNightmare,â Evershed said, shaking his head and wondering aloud about the resale value of the place.
Ten minutes later he was still talking figures as he ducked into his car. His wife stood on the other side of the vehicle for a moment, looking first at the house, then Savage, and then staring far into the distance at something beyond the rooftops at the end of the street. She got in, the door clunking shut with a noise which had a finality about it, Savage thinking about endings in her own life too.
Chapter Three
Mount Edgcumbe, Plymouth. Monday 14th January. 11.30 a.m.
âReady to say goodbye to Martin Kemp then?â DS Darius Riley said, leaning against the railings and gazing across the river Tamar. Drakeâs Island and Plymouth Sound lay to the right, the Torpoint chain ferries and the dockyards to the left. Just behind the two men, a black flag with a white cross hung limply from a flagpole next to the Edgcumbe Arms. The flag was there to remind anyone, should they need reminding, that they were standing on Cornish soil, another county from that which lay across the water. For some, it was another country.
For a moment Rileyâs companion said nothing, his eyes focusing on a patch of water midstream where a buoy, stationary against the tidal flow, had created a downstream eddy. Small pieces of flotsam swirled into the centre of the eddy and disappeared beneath the surface.
âYes. Just a little joke that. Something to add a bit of flavour, a name to hang a conversation around, should I ever need to. But you can still call me Marty. If it helps.â
The man pulled a packet of cigarettes from his leather jacket and offered Riley one.
âNo thanks ⦠Marty.â Riley shook his head and smiled as the man lit up. Since their last meeting just before Christmas, Kempâs hair had changed somehow, losing the greasy blackness and taking on a cleaner sheen. The clothing was more subtle now as well; no longer the flashy suit, the bracelet on the wrist, the rings on his fingers, instead just a plain leather jacket worn over a sweatshirt and jeans. Riley had been there, done it himself, knew about the little details which made for a convincing act. And Kempâs act was good. Very good. It had to be, because one slip and not only would the whole of Operation
Sternway
be jeopardised, but the manâs life would be in danger as well. Riley was all too aware of that aspect of undercover work, having been on the wrong side of a beating when heâd been in London.
He had handled Kemp for the past couple of months, always meeting the man well away from Plymouth, usually at an anonymous pub or roadside caf!é, but now Kempâs time was over and the officer could let the mask slip a little before returning to his own
âWell youâve got the wrong address, havenât you?â Evershed said, jabbing his finger again. âSo I suggest you call your boss and tell him heâs cocked up. Then you can go round the back and clear up whatever mess youâve made.â
âThat wonât be possible, Iâm afraid,â Savage said. âNot for a day or two at least. The whole of this property is now a crime scene.â
â
What
?
Youâre joking, right?â
âSorry, no.â Savage closed her eyes for a second and wondered how to explain about the little girl. She decided something approaching the truth was best. âWeâve found the body of a child beneath the patio.â
Evershedâs wife had walked up from the car and now she reached out for her husband, grasping for his arm with one hand, the other moving to her swollen belly.
âNightmare,â Evershed said, shaking his head and wondering aloud about the resale value of the place.
Ten minutes later he was still talking figures as he ducked into his car. His wife stood on the other side of the vehicle for a moment, looking first at the house, then Savage, and then staring far into the distance at something beyond the rooftops at the end of the street. She got in, the door clunking shut with a noise which had a finality about it, Savage thinking about endings in her own life too.
Chapter Three
Mount Edgcumbe, Plymouth. Monday 14th January. 11.30 a.m.
âReady to say goodbye to Martin Kemp then?â DS Darius Riley said, leaning against the railings and gazing across the river Tamar. Drakeâs Island and Plymouth Sound lay to the right, the Torpoint chain ferries and the dockyards to the left. Just behind the two men, a black flag with a white cross hung limply from a flagpole next to the Edgcumbe Arms. The flag was there to remind anyone, should they need reminding, that they were standing on Cornish soil, another county from that which lay across the water. For some, it was another country.
For a moment Rileyâs companion said nothing, his eyes focusing on a patch of water midstream where a buoy, stationary against the tidal flow, had created a downstream eddy. Small pieces of flotsam swirled into the centre of the eddy and disappeared beneath the surface.
âYes. Just a little joke that. Something to add a bit of flavour, a name to hang a conversation around, should I ever need to. But you can still call me Marty. If it helps.â
The man pulled a packet of cigarettes from his leather jacket and offered Riley one.
âNo thanks ⦠Marty.â Riley shook his head and smiled as the man lit up. Since their last meeting just before Christmas, Kempâs hair had changed somehow, losing the greasy blackness and taking on a cleaner sheen. The clothing was more subtle now as well; no longer the flashy suit, the bracelet on the wrist, the rings on his fingers, instead just a plain leather jacket worn over a sweatshirt and jeans. Riley had been there, done it himself, knew about the little details which made for a convincing act. And Kempâs act was good. Very good. It had to be, because one slip and not only would the whole of Operation
Sternway
be jeopardised, but the manâs life would be in danger as well. Riley was all too aware of that aspect of undercover work, having been on the wrong side of a beating when heâd been in London.
He had handled Kemp for the past couple of months, always meeting the man well away from Plymouth, usually at an anonymous pub or roadside caf!é, but now Kempâs time was over and the officer could let the mask slip a little before returning to his own
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