Tell Tale (15 page)

Savage rose early, once more out of the house before Pete and the children had woken. She was worn out and weak after her moorland exertions the previous day and Fallon’s offer of breakfast at a little greasy spoon on Union Street was too tempting to pass up. By seven-thirty she was sitting in the cafe, an anaemic slice of bacon sandwiched between two doorstep pieces of bread sitting on a plate in front of her.

‘Should have had the eggs, Charlotte,’ Fallon said, cutting into his omelette. He raised his voice. ‘Barry does good eggs, don’t you Barry?’

Fallon waved an arm at the proprietor who acknowledged him with a nod and a grin before returning to cleaning the grill.

‘Now you tell me.’ Savage pushed the plate away and reached for her coffee. ‘I wouldn’t have ordered the bacon butty if I’d known the meat was being rationed.’

‘You can understand Barry’s reasoning, Charlotte. He’s a veggie. The less bacon he uses, the fewer piggies have to die.’

‘Well, why doesn’t he start a vegetarian restaurant then?’

‘No money in it. Believe me, I’ve looked into running one myself.’ Fallon looked pained. ‘I thought I’d be able to get away with a few carrots and a lettuce or two. But no, the customers want couscous, mung beans, pine nuts and that sort of crap.’

Savage smiled and took a sip of her coffee. She’d not spoken to Fallon since the day in Brixham. He’d been pissed-off that she hadn’t confronted Owen, even though she’d explained about her mobile. Now though, he seemed to have cooled down.

‘Not to worry, I totally understand.’ Fallon held up his hands. ‘A mobile is both a crook’s best friend and worst enemy. Without a mobile I couldn’t do half my business, but you’ve got to be so careful. Pay as you go, multiple SIM cards, importing foreign phones to use … hey, I shouldn’t be telling you all this, should I?’

Savage smiled. ‘I don’t think you need to worry about me.’

‘No, love.’ Fallon returned the smile. ‘I guess I don’t.’

‘Now, why am I here?’

‘Owen, isn’t it?’ Fallon said. ‘We’re not done until I’ve helped you and so far I’ve done nothing.’

‘You helped me track him down. That’s enough.’

‘That’s not enough. He’s got to pay for what he did to your little one, hasn’t he?’ Fallon paused and then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘The thing is, I don’t think you’ve got the guts to do it alone, am I right?’

‘This week, Kenny,’ Savage said. ‘There’s a girl dead, another one missing. I’ve had other things on my mind.’

‘Bollocks, love. A girl dead and you’ve not thought of your own daughter?’ Fallon shook his head. ‘Well
I’ve
thought of her and I’ve thought of Owen. And I still owe you, don’t I? That business with Ricky Budgeon. I could well have been toast without you.’

Savage sighed. The debt, she thought, had been wiped out, the information that led her to Owen being the payment. So Fallon’s motive for helping further wasn’t entirely altruistic. He’d be all too pleased to have something else to hold over her. Still, he was right. In the last few days she’d tried to distract herself with police work, but Owen Fox had always been there.

‘OK,’ Savage said. ‘So what have you got in mind?’

‘I made a mistake the other day. I should have been there with you. To provide you with a bit of moral support. A bit of physical support too.’

‘Thanks, Kenny, but it’s down to me.’

‘Yeah, in the end. But having somebody alongside you might have made things easier, right?’

‘I guess.’

‘So, I’ve got a plan. You and me,’ Fallon chuckled, unable to contain his mirth. ‘We’re going to be married at the weekend. Man and wife.’

‘Sorry?’ Savage leant back and cocked her head. ‘Say that again?’

‘Don’t worry, not what you think. Just an act. You see I’ve made an appointment for me and the Mrs to view a pretty little countryside property near Kingswear. Quiet, secluded and very, very isolated. Sunday at eleven. A Mr Owen Fox is going to be showing us around.’

A shiver ran through Savage and she stared across at Fallon. ‘You’re joking?’

‘
No, love. It’s all set up, everything arranged.’ Fallon smiled. ‘Oh, and don’t forget to bring that present I gave you, OK?’

The news of Irina Kryukov’s disappearance had hit the broadcast networks first thing in the morning. Ordinarily a missing girl in her mid-twenties wouldn’t have merited a mention, but Irina had lived in the same house as Anasztáz Róka. The coincidence wasn’t lost on Dan Phillips from the
Herald
and he’d come up with a suitably lurid headline for the first edition:
Home Sweet Home
.

Savage strolled into the crime suite to see the front page of the newspaper stuck up on the central whiteboard, the headline above a picture of the house.

‘The only good thing about it,’ Enders said as Savage came over, ‘is the news might help bring property prices down. As you know, I’m looking to move to somewhere in Mannamead sometime around the end of the century.’

‘Irina’s disappearance is no joke,’ Savage said. ‘What the hell does Dan think he’s playing at?’

‘Being a London hack, I shouldn’t wonder. But he’s got a point, hasn’t he? His piece says we don’t have a clue, that we’ve already eliminated two suspects and don’t have any further leads. And according to the article, the remaining two tenants aren’t even under our protection. I checked and he’s right.’

‘Shit.’ Savage read the text of the article over Enders’ shoulder. ‘Get some sort of safe house organised for them, Patrick.’

‘And the sheep shagger from yesterday?’

‘Adam Creasey?’ Savage sighed. ‘He wasn’t in when a unit went to his place last night. I’m sending DC Denton from the Agricultural Crime Squad and DC Calter round there this morning. Denton will be covering the illegal slaughtering angle while Jane will ensure Creasey knows that passing erotic notes to young waitresses is a no-no.’

‘The way Carl is over Jane,’ Enders sniggered, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks Creasey for some advice as regards women. Creasey’s technique can’t be any worse than his, can it?’

Savage tried to stifle a laugh as a nearby DC passed her a phone.

‘Dr Andrew Nesbit, ma’am,’ the officer said. ‘Conclusions from Ana’s post-mortem.’

Savage took the phone and grabbed a pad and pen as Nesbit began to detail his findings. First came the usual dry, technical details about the girl’s age, height and weight. Next Nesbit went on to explain that the girl hadn’t been strangled or asphyxiated, nor were there any stab wounds.

‘Sexual assault?’

‘No.’

‘So how did she die?’ Savage said.

‘Severe concussion resulting in a cerebral haemorrhage.’

‘From a head wound?’

‘She banged her head, certainly, but this is the type of injury you would expect from a severe fall or a car accident.’

‘Are you saying she wasn’t murdered?’

‘I’m not saying anything other than her head hit an object, not the other way around.’

‘This might sound stupid,’ Savage said. ‘But could she have run into a tree?’

‘Unlikely. I found high levels of a barbiturate in the blood. Nembutal. That’s a strong sedative. I don’t think she would have been doing any running, she’d have been barely conscious.’

‘What about if she’d been in a car accident, perhaps not wearing a seatbelt?’

‘Yes. However, the scratches on the skin suggest she wasn’t in a car, rather she was in the wood.’

‘Unless she received the scratches in the wood, then had a car accident, and then was returned to the wood.’

‘A jumble of possibilities, Charlotte. There has to be a better explanation and I might have found it.’

‘Go on.’

‘I don’t want to disparage your reputation as a polymath, but I’m sure you don’t know much about dendrology.’

‘Polymath …?’ Savage laughed. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong person. And I haven’t a clue what dendrology means.’

‘It’s the study of trees. In this particular instance the tree we’re interested in is
Pinus Sylvestris
, better known as the Scots pine. Now, the Scots pine is a monoecious plant, meaning male and female flowers are found on the same tree. In the spring the male flowers release pollen and this is captured by the female flowers which go on to form the cones. I found a small, green cone entangled in Ana’s hair. I’m sure you are aware of what a Scots pine looks like.’

‘Tall.’

‘Yes and usually no branches near the ground. The cones form high up. Do you get my drift?’

‘She was up in a tree?’

‘Yes. It’s possible she fell and banged her head. The fall killed her. Judging from the head wound she must have been some way up, but whether this happened where the body was discovered or not I’ve no idea.’

‘But from what I know of Scots pines they’re the last kind of tree you’d be able to climb. How did she get up there?’

‘I’m not sure. As I mentioned before, she was drugged. Climbing a tree in the state she was in sounds unlikely, but you need to take another look at the scene.’

‘You don’t think this cone could have been on the ground and that’s how it ended up in her hair?’

‘Yes, possibly. However, there was a residue of sap across part of her arm, which suggests she was climbing. Of course a recently felled tree could be another explanation.’

Savage tried to visualise the area around where the body had been found. Scrub and pine trees. But climbing one of the firs would have been difficult. The branches were packed together and spindly. She thanked Nesbit and hung up.

‘Problems, ma’am?’ Enders stood beside her. ‘You look perplexed.’

‘Dr Nesbit,’ Savage said. ‘Usually I trust him to come up with the goods but this time his explanation just doesn’t fit.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ Savage paused. ‘You get that safe house organised, I’m going back to Fernworthy. Nesbit said I needed to look at the crime scene again and he’s right.’

Denton had been feeling pretty pleased with himself after the result up on the moor on Tuesday night. True, Hardin had bollocked him for not telling anybody what he’d been up to, but even Hardin was bathing in some of the reflected glory. ‘People will be starting to take the ACS seriously now,’ the DSupt had said as he’d handed Denton a celebratory custard cream. However, back in the crime suite a new printout had been stuck to one of the team’s whiteboards.

‘My Little Pony,’ Denton had said, reaching for the piece of paper and scrunching it up before DI Davies could see the way the picture had been digitally altered around the genital area. ‘Just a bit of fun.’

The picture had been a bad omen, Denton realised. Wednesday saw Davies and Riley fail to get much out of the North Prospect boys and on Thursday DI Savage and Jane Calter had inadvertently solved the sheep rustling case. Now a disgruntled Calter was accompanying him on a trip to interview the man responsible – a Mr Adam Creasey – with a view to pressing charges. She’d made it clear that she didn’t consider the visit proper police work. So much for trying to impress her.

Creasey lived on Glenmore Avenue, over Stoke way. The terrace had no front gardens, not even a couple of feet of concrete. The doors opened onto the street, nothing more than a front step, with the pavement slicing diagonally down across each, showing the steepness of the hill as the ground fell away. Number thirty-three had a wooden door stained dark brown. A little glass window with a distorted pane sat top centre.

Calter stood to one side as Denton pressed the bell.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Denton said.

‘No problem.’ Calter shook her head and stared at the front door. ‘Come on, what’s taking him so long?’

Something behind the door rattled. Keys in locks. Top and bottom. A bolt being drawn across. The door opened and a bald man stared at them through wire-framed glasses. A large wart on one side of a pudgy neck seemed to move in time with the man’s laboured breathing.

‘Yes?’ The man reached down with one hand and rubbed his belly which extended over the top of a pair of grey jogging bottoms. ‘Don’t need no broadband. Don’t want to change leccy supplier. Don’t care about no fucking Jehovah.’

‘Police, Mr Creasey,’ Denton said. ‘You are Mr Adam Creasey?’ Denton glanced at Calter and she nodded.

‘He is, Carl.’

‘I
might
be,’ the man said. ‘But Chubber needs to checker check check. See if
you’re
who you say
you
are.’

‘Chubber?’

‘Me. Chubber’s me. Mr Adam Creasey’s me. One and the same person. Mostly.’

Calter held out her ID. ‘DC Jane Calter and this is DC Carl Denton.’

‘Nice,’ Creasey said. ‘Picture, I mean. Pretty.’

‘May we?’ Denton stared past Creasey down a corridor littered with pizza boxes. A couple of black bin liners stood to one side, rubbish spilling from the top of one. ‘There’s a few questions we’d like to ask you.’

Creasey nodded and turned. The ribbed sweater he wore was several sizes too small and his arms bulged inside. Calter and Denton followed Creasey down the hallway, Calter shutting the door with a bang.

‘In here,’ Creasey said, opening a door to a living room. ‘Bit of a messy mess mess. Sorry.’

Several green plastic crates sat on an orange sofa and more fast-food packaging was strewn across the floor. There was no carpet, just layers of newspaper.

‘The crates, Mr Creasey,’ Denton said. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘Oh goodness. Sorry. Tesco. Only borrowed them. Meant to give them back. Take them, please, take them. I won’t do it again. Cross my heart and hope to … hope to …’

‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Calter said. ‘You’ve been taking sheep from farms on Dartmoor and illegally butchering them. We’ve found your little hideaway up on the moor, found some evidence. It would be best if you came down the station and made a full statement.’

‘She-she-sheep!’ Creasey’s jaw worked up and down. ‘Oh my, of course sheep! I thought you meant …’

‘The waitresses?’

‘Oh God!’

‘We know all about them too, Mr Creasey.’

‘You do?’ Creasey’s hand went to his jaw. He bit his knuckle. ‘I …’

‘This is a warning. Don’t ever write notes like that again. If you do you could find yourself being prosecuted for harassment. I’d stay away from cafes from now on if I was you.’