Tell Tale (10 page)

Irina placed another book in the cardboard box on her bed. She’d filled three boxes already and had just her clothes and a few personal possessions left to pack. This morning she had asked the student housing office to find her some new accommodation; they’d been reluctant at first until she told them about Foster. Irina argued that the university had supposedly inspected the place. Weren’t they partly responsible? After that, the housing officer couldn’t move fast enough. From tomorrow she’d be in a nice little bedsit in a purpose-built block, with the university paying the first three months’ rent.

‘Not that we’re liable, love,’ the man behind the desk said, giving her a glance up and down. ‘Anyway, you look like you can take care of yourself, right?’

Arsehole.

A man in a white paper coverall walked past the open door to her room, carrying a plastic crate down the corridor. Irina put a foot out and kicked the door shut. She was fed up with the police. She hadn’t thought much of them the first time they’d been around. They’d shown little interest in Ana’s disappearance, dismissing Irina’s concerns almost as if she was telling them about a lost pet rather than a human being who’d gone missing. Now, with Ana dead and officers swarming all over the house, she hadn’t seen anything to change her opinion of their competency.

Earlier, she’d been interviewed by a woman detective. Attractive, with red hair, she’d nevertheless had an edge to her which Irina found unsettling. She hadn’t believed Irina about the fat man in the coffee shop and seemed to be more concerned with Kevin Foster. Irina went over to the window. The terrain fell away from the house and she had a good view across the city. Somewhere out there the fat man was walking the streets with his dirty old coat and his plastic bag. He was the one the police should be questioning. He was the one the police should be following. They didn’t even know who he was or where he lived, so how could they be so sure he had nothing to do with Ana’s disappearance?

Back home in Russia the corruption amongst the police was endemic. Here in the UK they just seemed lazy. The public seemed to accept everything at face value. They were unquestioning, a blind faith in the authorities. At least in Russia if you wanted something doing you could grease someone’s palm and they’d do it. Irina remembered asking her father what you did if you didn’t have any money to pay.

‘You get off your backside and you do it yourself,’ he’d said. ‘That’s the only way to get on in life.’

Irina had taken his advice at face value. She’d got off her backside and tried her best to better herself. At school she’d worked hard and along with her studies she’d been a gymnast. Early morning training sessions, weekends away competing, the camaraderie of the club. She’d loved it and she’d been good at it too; good enough to win several national competitions at junior level. In the end though she’d had to choose between studying and sport, and she chose studying. Her father had told her he was proud of her choice. Not whether one option had been better than the other, but that she’d come to the decision herself. ‘Always remember to follow your own path, Irina,’ he’d said.

Do it yourself … follow a path.

Irina returned to the bed, placed a final book in the box and flipped shut the flaps. She’d made her mind up. If the police wouldn’t do anything about the fat man then it was down to her. She picked up her phone. Five minutes later and everything was arranged. She was working the first shift at the coffee shop tomorrow morning.

An hour later, they had confirmation from Hebden Bridge. At least three members of the coach party had made a positive ID of Ana.

Savage went across to tell Collier.

‘Corroborates Foster’s story,’ she said. ‘Looks like he did leave Ana at Widecombe. However, he could have met up with her again afterwards, so he’s not out of the frame yet.’

‘’fraid he is, ma’am,’ Collier said as he put a line through Foster’s name on the whiteboard. ‘The bugger’s no saint but I don’t think he killed Ana.’

‘Go on.’

‘Don’t know how we missed it,’ Collier said. He proffered a printout with a calendar for August on. ‘Kevin Foster reckons he took Ana up to Widecombe-in-the-Moor on Thursday. That was the fourteenth. The cafe where she works say she came in on the thirteenth and picked up her pay.’

‘So?’ Savage said as Collier showed her another bit of paper. ‘Maybe she had an inkling of what was going on with Foster and had already made plans.’

‘Possibly.’ Collier pointed at the statement where Savage could see the date marked with yellow highlighter. ‘But there’s been a mistake with the day. The owner’s statement says, I quote: “It was the thirteenth I last saw her. Yeah, late Thursday afternoon. I remember she’d come in to collect her pay packet.”’ Collier shook his head. ‘Thursday was the
fourteenth
, not the thirteenth. The date was extracted from the statement but nobody noticed the mix-up with the day of the week.’

‘Have you checked this?’

‘Yes. I’ve spoken with the cafe owner again. His payroll day
is
Thursday. He checked his books, Ana’s pay was made up to that day. Ana definitely returned to the cafe
after
her car ride with Foster.’

Savage slapped her hands to her head. ‘Jesus. And that makes sense, doesn’t it? She’s just discovered Foster has been spying on her. She’s had enough, so she decides to get out of the house, out of Plymouth. Late afternoon fits with her having to get back from the moor.’

‘But her things? She didn’t return to her place to collect anything.’

‘Understandable. Think about it, Gareth. She’s just had a rather nasty shock. Foster has told her he’s been watching her naked. He’s come on to her. Would you want to go back to the house? She probably thought he’d be waiting there for her.’

‘So where the hell did she go? None of her friends had any further contact with her. The cafe owner appears to be the last person we have on record who saw her.’ Collier shook his head and then ran his hand over the short stubble on top. The mannerism was the closest thing Collier got to a meltdown. ‘Unless …’

‘The man who’s been bugging the girls at the cafe.’

‘Shit,’ Collier said.

DC Carl Denton lay in deep shade, his body wedged beneath an overhanging slab of granite. He tried not to think of the hundreds of tonnes of solid rock above him. The tor had been standing here for thousands of years and it wasn’t about to come tumbling down any time soon. Dampness seeped in through his waterproof trousers and a mosquito zipped around his head. He swatted at it and adjusted his position. He’d been lying beneath the rock for a good two hours. The Cornish pasty he’d brought along for supper had long gone and the bottle of cola nestled by his side had only a dribble left inside. Maybe, Denton thought, he’d made a mistake. Maybe he’d got the location completely wrong.

He looked out of his tiny cave through several fronds of bracken. The landscape fell away, boulders scattered in a haphazard fashion down the steep side of the tor. A dry-stone wall stood where the ground levelled and beyond lay a clearer patch of ground. He could make out the stone circle, the rocks casting lengthening shadows as the sun moved closer to the horizon.

Denton glanced down at his map. He’d used a pencil to reproduce the lines John Layton had shown them. To the north of his position was St Michael’s Ley, the line running across the undulating contours, crossing Dartmoor from east to west. Parallel to that was a second line, which joined the two stone circles at Postbridge and Princetown. Denton rated Layton; the chief CSI was one of the good guys. However, Layton had missed the next step in the theory: extend the line from the Postbridge and Princetown sites and you got a line which ran straight to the Merrivale ceremonial complex with its stone rows, kistvaens and stone circle. To Denton it was obvious something was going to happen here next.

He shivered, partly from the cold now that the sun had dipped below the horizon, partly from the excitement. The first killing had taken place on Sunday, then there was one yesterday. Logic told him there’d be another one today. If he was lucky he’d catch the perpetrators red-handed.

Denton pulled the zip on his coat up. He yawned. This morning he’d been in early to complete bits and pieces of paperwork. Tonight he had no idea when he’d get to bed. He stared down the hillside. The landscape had greyed now the sun had gone. The night would be clear and cold. The forecast for the rest of the week was good. More sun than rain, temperatures pushing up into the mid-twenties. With the fine weather she’d be out on a run tomorrow, he thought, then later in the week out clubbing.

She
being DC Jane Calter.

Denton closed his eyes for a moment. There was rarely a moment when Calter was out of his thoughts these days. Everything she did mattered to him, every word she said had some kind of hidden meaning which he tried to decode. At the start of the year he had realised he was in so deep he was drowning, the water closing above his head as he sank down. The crunch had come a couple of months before when he’d overheard Calter talking to a female colleague. ‘He’s a sweet boy,’ she’d said, ‘but a total drip. I like someone with a bit more guts.’

Guts? He’d once tackled someone armed with a cutthroat razor and received a slash across his face for thanks. That fact seemed to have passed Calter by. After that comment and the depression that had followed the death of his grandma, Denton had tried to rescue himself by leaving CID and taking up a role as a Wildlife and Countryside officer. He still had contact with Crownhill but not on a day-to-day basis. He’d thought it would help but it hadn’t. Who was he kidding? He was still in love with Calter and she, as far as he could tell, didn’t even notice him.

Now, though, Denton had come up with a better plan to impress. Women, he knew, always had a soft spot for animals and he’d heard Calter talking about her gran’s dog and how she hated any type of cruelty. What better way to show not only his softer side but also his bravery than by tackling a load of devil worshippers intent on sacrificing Dartmoor ponies?

Denton blinked his eyes open. A pale glow faded in the west while to the east, stars began to emerge as darkness fell. In the distance a succession of headlights swept the moor, cars heading to and from Princetown. As each one passed he tried not to get excited. These would be people returning home from a night out. Whatever was going to happen here would happen much later.

The stone circle had by now all but vanished into the night. He yawned again. If nothing happened by three or four he’d pack it in, head back to his car, and then drive home and snatch a few hours of sleep. Still, it would be worth it in the end when Calter threw her arms around him and said he was so brave for saving the pony, told him she loved him.

Denton yawned again, then moved his day-sack into a position where he could use it as a pillow. He stared up at the stars for a moment and then closed his eyes. A nap was what he needed, just a short nap.

Simon Fox had taken Monday morning off to recover. He spent some quality time with his wife and then went over to see Owen. He said nothing of his fears to his son. By the afternoon he was at force HQ and during a visit to the PR department, he’d caught sight of a monitor showing the local news. A reporter stood outside Crownhill Police Station. Then the story cut away to Fernworthy Reservoir, long panning shots of the water and officers on the shoreline, DI Savage’s face springing out at one point. Fox’s mouth had dropped open and a question from a colleague went unheard and unanswered until the officer had repeated it. Fox had blinked and dismissed the incident as a rush of déjà vu. Later, in his office, he’d wondered if the appearance of Savage on the screen had been an omen, not something to brush off at all.

Monday evening had seen him at a social – a retirement party for a distinguished officer. Fox hadn’t managed to get away until after midnight so it wasn’t until the following evening – Tuesday – that he’d had a chance to act on his discussion with his wife.

He’d eaten dinner in near-silence as Jennifer looked on, concerned. The bottle of fine red had emptied by the time she asked him if he wanted some cheese and biscuits.

‘I’ll have it in my study please,’ he said. ‘I need to make a phone call.’

Five minutes later and Fox sat at his desk. Three digestives and a chunk of Stilton lay on a plate alongside a tumbler of whiskey. He heard the television go on in the living room and reached out to push the door shut. He cut a slice of cheese and laid the piece on one of the digestives, noticing as he did so that his hand was shaking. He considered the food for a moment and then slid the plate away, a bitter taste in his mouth. Then he picked up the phone.

The man on the end answered on the second ring. Like Fox, he often worked late. Even so, he sounded gruff.

‘It’s Simon,’ Fox said. ‘Simon Fox.’

‘Simon, of course.’ The man sounded cheered. ‘Sorry, other things on my mind. Want my advice? – don’t ever think about going for a job like mine. It’s a thankless task. You try to help people but they just don’t see it.’

The man, Fox thought, had never served anybody but himself, but he let that pass and leant back in his chair as the voice on the end of the line talked about the problems he was having balancing his various interests. Fox reflected that he had similar issues. The job of Chief Constable involved managing budgets and expectations. Bridging the gap between the two was a task for a juggler with Machiavellian instincts. You had to keep a number of balls in the air, while kicking at the faces of those who continually sniped from the sidelines. Provide the public with what they wanted and your colleagues might just hold off stabbing you in the back.

Bread and circuses
.

Perhaps a clown would have been better suited to the task.

Fox took a sip of whiskey as the man continued. Unlike him, with his old boys club, Fox had been educated at a comprehensive, risen from the ranks of a bobby on the beat to his present position through hard work alone. No dodgy handshakes, no nods or winks. Few could claim to have done likewise; certainly not the man on the other end of the line. Fox imagined him surrounded by paperwork, his loyal wife keeping him supplied with coffee and biscuits. Coffee and biscuits and sex – although that didn’t come solely from his wife. He was a large man, with large appetites. Appetites which had led to him living dangerously on a number of occasions. The incidents involved scandal rather than illegality and Fox had turned a blind eye for the sake of their friendship. Truth be told, he’d done more than turn a blind eye in one instance.