collect fees and guide the boat to a buoy. On the far side of the estuary the beach at Millbay thronged with mums and pre-school children, busy on the golden sand. Salcombe itself was spread out below and to their left, a town of winding streets and overpriced boutiques, chock-full of tourists in the summer, but a ghost town of empty holiday properties in the winter.
On the first-floor balcony of Glastone’s place a figure stirred from a sun-lounger, reached for a shirt and pulled it on over a bare torso. Then he waved down and disappeared inside French windows. Seconds later and the man came through the front door and pointed to a patio area to the left. His shirt was only buttoned halfway up, dark curls of hair on his broad chest matching the curls on his head. His biceps were pumped and there wasn’t a shred of fat round his waist. He glared down at Savage. Didn’t speak.
Savage and Calter climbed the steps and joined Glastone on the patio.
‘Mr Glastone? DI Charlotte Savage and DC Jane Calter.’
Glastone nodded. Indicated the chairs around a teak table. Sat. Still said nothing.
‘Just a few questions,’ Savage said, pulling out a chair and sitting.
‘Now you’ve found the bodies I guess an apology will be forthcoming,’ Glastone said. ‘Not that sorry is worth much after all this time. Mud sticks, and you clowns threw a lot of the stuff at me.’
‘Last year, twenty-first of June,’ Savage said, taking an instant dislike to the man. ‘Can you account for your whereabouts around that time?’
‘Account for my whereabouts?’ Glastone laughed, but the laugh vanished into a sneer. ‘What you mean is, did I fucking murder this latest one?’
‘There’s no need to get angry, Mr Glastone,’ Calter said, scraping a chair out for herself. She pulled out her notepad and waited with pencil poised. ‘Just tell us where you were.’
‘As it happens I was here. Like most other days. I work at home, see?’
‘You’re a web designer, aren’t you?’ Calter said, looking at her pad. ‘Bed and breakfasts, local shops, is that the sort of thing?’
‘No I’m not a bloody web designer. I’m a database developer.’
‘Databases?’ Calter turned her head to take in Salcombe. ‘Much call for that sort of thing around here?’
‘What sort of Stone Age rock have you crawled out from under? I work remotely for a Swiss company. Occasional meetings in London or Zurich, a lot of time on Skype, millions of emails.’
‘So no work colleagues to verify your story?’ Savage said. ‘A visitor to the house maybe?’
‘Without checking my diary I can’t tell you who I spoke to that day, but there’ll have been emails I’m sure.’
‘What about your wife, Mr Glastone?’ Savage turned her head to peer in through the open door. ‘Was she around back then?’
‘My wife?’ Glastone raised his hand to his mouth, a sure sign, Savage thought, of a lie or an indiscretion.
‘Your new wife. I believe you remarried after Mandy’s death?’
As if in answer there was a clatter of dishes from inside, something falling to the floor and breaking. Savage made to rise from the table and go and investigate but Glastone waved her to sit down.
‘Carol?’ Glastone raised his voice. ‘What the hell’s going on in there?’
A moment or two later and a figure ghosted out from the dark shadow and stood blinking at the door.
‘I …’ The woman paused at the sight of Savage and Calter. ‘I dropped a plate. Clumsy me.’
A smile broke on the thin features of the woman’s face but it lasted only a second. She moved forward and placed a hand on Glastone’s shoulder, as if for support. She had mouse-brown hair and wore a bright summer dress with short sleeves. A shawl half-covered her arms which were slim and goosebumped, despite the warmth. Above the right elbow, a black and purple bruise encircled the arm. The woman drew the shawl across the bruise and looked at Glastone.
‘Police, Carol,’ Glastone said.
On the first-floor balcony of Glastone’s place a figure stirred from a sun-lounger, reached for a shirt and pulled it on over a bare torso. Then he waved down and disappeared inside French windows. Seconds later and the man came through the front door and pointed to a patio area to the left. His shirt was only buttoned halfway up, dark curls of hair on his broad chest matching the curls on his head. His biceps were pumped and there wasn’t a shred of fat round his waist. He glared down at Savage. Didn’t speak.
Savage and Calter climbed the steps and joined Glastone on the patio.
‘Mr Glastone? DI Charlotte Savage and DC Jane Calter.’
Glastone nodded. Indicated the chairs around a teak table. Sat. Still said nothing.
‘Just a few questions,’ Savage said, pulling out a chair and sitting.
‘Now you’ve found the bodies I guess an apology will be forthcoming,’ Glastone said. ‘Not that sorry is worth much after all this time. Mud sticks, and you clowns threw a lot of the stuff at me.’
‘Last year, twenty-first of June,’ Savage said, taking an instant dislike to the man. ‘Can you account for your whereabouts around that time?’
‘Account for my whereabouts?’ Glastone laughed, but the laugh vanished into a sneer. ‘What you mean is, did I fucking murder this latest one?’
‘There’s no need to get angry, Mr Glastone,’ Calter said, scraping a chair out for herself. She pulled out her notepad and waited with pencil poised. ‘Just tell us where you were.’
‘As it happens I was here. Like most other days. I work at home, see?’
‘You’re a web designer, aren’t you?’ Calter said, looking at her pad. ‘Bed and breakfasts, local shops, is that the sort of thing?’
‘No I’m not a bloody web designer. I’m a database developer.’
‘Databases?’ Calter turned her head to take in Salcombe. ‘Much call for that sort of thing around here?’
‘What sort of Stone Age rock have you crawled out from under? I work remotely for a Swiss company. Occasional meetings in London or Zurich, a lot of time on Skype, millions of emails.’
‘So no work colleagues to verify your story?’ Savage said. ‘A visitor to the house maybe?’
‘Without checking my diary I can’t tell you who I spoke to that day, but there’ll have been emails I’m sure.’
‘What about your wife, Mr Glastone?’ Savage turned her head to peer in through the open door. ‘Was she around back then?’
‘My wife?’ Glastone raised his hand to his mouth, a sure sign, Savage thought, of a lie or an indiscretion.
‘Your new wife. I believe you remarried after Mandy’s death?’
As if in answer there was a clatter of dishes from inside, something falling to the floor and breaking. Savage made to rise from the table and go and investigate but Glastone waved her to sit down.
‘Carol?’ Glastone raised his voice. ‘What the hell’s going on in there?’
A moment or two later and a figure ghosted out from the dark shadow and stood blinking at the door.
‘I …’ The woman paused at the sight of Savage and Calter. ‘I dropped a plate. Clumsy me.’
A smile broke on the thin features of the woman’s face but it lasted only a second. She moved forward and placed a hand on Glastone’s shoulder, as if for support. She had mouse-brown hair and wore a bright summer dress with short sleeves. A shawl half-covered her arms which were slim and goosebumped, despite the warmth. Above the right elbow, a black and purple bruise encircled the arm. The woman drew the shawl across the bruise and looked at Glastone.
‘Police, Carol,’ Glastone said.
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