Bad Blood Read Free

he’d served with. The type of horror he’d thought belonged thousands of miles away, in another country.
    ‘Losing three-nil,’ Ryan said. ‘At home. You can hardly fucking believe it, can you?’
    No, Jed thought, you couldn’t.
    Savage drove into the car park at Crownhill Police Station a little after eight fifty-five to see DC Jane Calter jogging over, her breath steaming out in the cold air. She pulled the passenger door open and collapsed in the front seat.
    ‘Off to a property in Efford, ma’am. Right next to the cemetery. Handy, because there’s a body under the patio. And I’m not joking. Wish I was.’
    ‘Who’s in charge?’ Savage said.
    ‘DCI Garrett.’ Calter raised a hand and thumbed in the direction of the station. ‘He’s inside sorting things. We’re to get over to the scene right away.’
    ‘Right,’ Savage said. ‘You sure you’re OK? You don’t look so good.’
    ‘Bad weekend, ma’am.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘Brilliant, I mean.’ Calter pulled the sun visor down to shield her eyes from the glare as they headed back towards town, the sun still low in the south-east. ‘Too much booze, not enough sleep. I never learn.’
    The DC leant back in her seat and ran both hands through her blonde bob, pulling at a couple of tangles and squinting at the vanity mirror on the back of the visor.
    ‘I barely managed a shower this morning, let alone a hair wash, and these clothes are the first ones that fell out of the wardrobe.’ Calter indicated her rather crumpled grey skirt and jacket.
    ‘I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble.’
    ‘No,’ Calter grinned, ‘unfortunately not. But I am seeing him again next week.’
    As they drove to Efford Calter sat quietly, fumbling once in a pocket for some painkillers, dry-swallowing them and then closing her eyes. Only a dozen years or so difference in their respective ages, Savage thought, but Calter’s lifestyle was a world away from her own. Not that she was beyond getting drunk herself, having a good time, partying – Christmas being a case in point. But there was always the knowledge that the next morning any hangover would be punctuated by a seven o’clock visit from Jamie wanting to be up and at the world, Samantha needing a lift somewhere, and Pete feigning his own hangover as near life-threatening.
    Efford was an innocuous part of Plymouth sandwiched between the A38 and the Plym estuary. A mixture of older social housing, now mostly owner-occupied, and some newer but smaller properties, made the place out to be working class. Really though, Savage thought as they negotiated streets still busy with school-run traffic, you couldn’t tell any more.
    The web of crescents and avenues which made up the area was interspersed with plenty of green space, the largest being the twenty-acre cemetery which Lester Close backed on to. The close itself had been cordoned off, already a number of people hanging round the junction with the main road. Heads turned as Savage was waved through and drove into the close. The road rose in a gentle slope, the houses on each side post-war semi-detached, pebble-dashed, and featuring uPVC windows with net curtains. The front gardens, neat little patches of lawn, with a shrub or two for good measure.
    ‘Pleasant,’ Calter said, opening her eyes, ‘but I’m more of a penthouse flat type of girl myself.’
    ‘Rich, is he?’
    ‘Forces.’
    ‘Don’t go there,’ Savage said, smiling. ‘And as you know I speak from experience.’
    Calter laughed as they reached the far end of the narrow cul-de-sac, where a patrol car on the left hand side marked the property; a house in need of some TLC, the front garden full of clutter stripped from inside. Behind the patrol car a Volvo estate straddled the kerb, the rear door up, a jumble of plastic containers and toolboxes crammed in the back.
    ‘Layton,’ Savage said. ‘The sooner he gets to a scene the happier he is.’
    John Layton was their senior CSI and where crime