Tell Tale (21 page)

Totnes’ main shopping street was Fore Street. Traffic eased up the narrow road. On either side, miniature versions of national chains were sandwiched between independent retailers; butchers, designer clothes shops, places selling tat to tourists. Savage and Calter followed a white delivery van up the street to where it passed under a narrow arch. Through the arch and up on the right Calter pulled over and parked next to The Green cafe and they got out and walked a few metres back the way they had come. A tiny alley with a sign in the shape of a book led between the cafe and a jewellers.

‘Avalon Books,’ Calter said. ‘Camelot for the ageing middle-class hippies of Totnes.’

‘You mean John Layton?’ Savage said, laughing. ‘I’m not sure if he’d call himself either ageing, middle-class or a hippy.’

They walked down the alley, pausing to step aside and let an elderly man pass through. Savage noticed the book he was carrying, all glossy, the curves of a naked woman on the cover, ‘sex’ part of the title.

‘Must be in the water, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘Maybe I’ll move here when I retire.’

Avalon Books stood on the left as they exited the alley. Several small round tables had been placed in front of the shop window. At one a young man sat reading a heavy tome, while at a second table two women with babies chattered over coffee.

A little bell tinkled as Savage pushed the door open and her nostrils were assailed with a scent of dust, leather and paper. The shop appeared to be comprised of a maze of shelves, each of which reached the ceiling and was stuffed with books and periodicals. Meticulously handwritten labels were fixed everywhere and over by one wall a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Harry Potter pointed his wand deep into the recesses of the shop. A little sign dangled from the wand: Avalon.

Savage gestured at Calter and they ducked beneath a low lintel, leaving natural light behind and moving through a series of small ramshackle rooms. Again, white labels had been stuck to the shelves, although now they were in the realms of science fiction: space opera, hard SF, cyberpunk. Weighty hardback books had been replaced by paperbacks, pages yellowing. In the era of the eBook and the tablet Savage wondered if any of these books would ever be read again. Perhaps they’d be pulped or used as fuel.

After a room full of classic Penguins the space opened out and natural light flooded down from a huge roof lantern. They were in a kind of atrium, tables in the centre, shelves round the edges, a high-level balcony running the circumference of the room. From the ceiling multi-coloured silk scarves tumbled from pots hanging on chains and various ornaments such as dream catchers spun in the air.

‘We’re here,’ Calter whispered.

Avalon or not, they’d certainly reached a sort of New Age literary heaven. There were books on aromatherapy, acupuncture, self-sufficiency, conspiracy theories, tantra. The range seemed to cover anything alternative, anything a few steps from the mainstream.

At the far end of the room stood a desk with a till. Savage stared across. She could’ve sworn that a moment ago there was nobody there and yet now a rather distinguished-looking man with dark hair stood behind the desk. He met Savage’s eyes.

‘Can I help you, ladies?’ he said.

Savage negotiated the tables piled high with books and approached the till. ‘Have you got any books on Satanism?’

If the question surprised the man, he didn’t show it. ‘Over here.’ He gestured with an arm to one corner. ‘Just to the right of paganism. What are you interested in, LaVeyan Satanism or the theistic type? We have quite a range of books on both.’

‘Actually,’ Savage said, ‘I don’t have a clue what I’m talking about. I’m more interested in whether you do.’

‘Sorry?’ The man paused and then looked from Savage to Calter. ‘You’re not journalists, are you? If so, I’ve nothing to say. You don’t understand any of this. Why don’t you take yourselves back up to London?’

‘Detective Inspector Charlotte Savage,’ Savage said. ‘And DC Jane Calter.’

Savage pulled out her warrant card and showed it to the man. He nodded.

‘Not this horse killing stuff. Why do you think the perpetrators come from Totnes? It’s victimisation if you ask me.’

‘Nothing to do with horses, Mr …?’

‘Thor Wodan.’ A snigger floated across the room from Calter but the man ignored it. ‘Police. I see.’

‘Do you know this man?’ Savage said, pulling out a photograph of Hedford.

Wodan shuffled across and peered down at the picture as Savage held it out.

‘Why, of course, that’s Martin.’ Wodan looked up at Savage. ‘Martin Hedford.’

‘And he’s a customer here?’

‘More than a customer, he’s a friend. Although I haven’t heard from him in a while. I thought he was out of the country. What’s …?’ The expression on Wodan’s face changed from one of puzzlement to horror. ‘No, please don’t tell me anything has happened to him.’

‘Why would you think that, Mr Wodan?’

‘No reason.’ Wodan dodged past three stacks of books and sidled back behind the till. He fiddled with some sort of invoice book on the countertop, turning the pages back and forth as if trying to find the answer to something. ‘What do you want?’

‘How well did you know him, Thor? Was he just a friend, or was he something more?’

‘What are you inferring, Inspector?’

‘Martin Hedford is dead.’

Savage’s words had an immediate effect. Wodan’s mouth dropped open and his hands rose to his face. He slumped backwards into the bookcase behind him and Calter ran across and caught Wodan as he began to slip to the floor. She held him up as Savage found a nearby chair and brought it across.

‘No.’ Wodan slumped down in the chair. ‘No.’

Denial of the truth always came first and Savage reckoned she could often tell whether the denial was, in itself, truthful. In this case she was pretty sure Wodan had had no idea Hedford was dead, because he began to sob. Savage touched Calter on the shoulder and made a drinking motion with her hand. The DC nodded and went off to find a glass of water. A minute or two later she was back, Wodan accepting the glass and taking a couple of gulps. He looked up and smiled weakly.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It was the shock. I haven’t seen Martin for months, before then, only occasionally.’

‘But you’ve been sending him letters, haven’t you?’ Savage reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of photocopies. ‘Newspaper cuttings to do with missing people. Strange occurrences on the moor. Can you explain?’

‘Martin, how did he die? I mean … was it …?’

‘Martin was murdered. We believe in some sort of ritual, something to do with the occult or devil worship. He was found up on the moor at a stone circle. We’re not sure when he was killed but it was several months ago.’

‘Murdered.’ Wodan shook his head and bit his lip. He stifled a sob. Then he took a deep breath and visibly tried to calm himself. ‘When I didn’t hear from him I worried, but I never believed his fears would come to pass. It seems as if he was right all along.’

‘Right about what, Mr Wodan?’

Wodan stared down at the floor, his head now nodding back and forth. He appeared oblivious to Savage’s question.

‘I told him to leave it be, that he couldn’t do anything. The problem with Martin is he had a guilt complex, he felt he needed to do penance, to take these people down.’

‘What people?’

‘Hey?’ Wodan raised his head and looked at Savage, as if noticing her for the first time. Then he pushed himself up from the chair and walked shakily across the room to a corner. ‘Here. Paganism, the occult, Satanism. All these books, they’re theoretical, essentially harmless. Look,
The Satanic Bible
by Anton LaVey.’ Wodan pulled out a slim volume from the shelves. ‘This is atheistic Satanism. Its precepts are little different from a form of individualism. There is no animal sacrifice here, no evil. It’s about using one’s power, sure, crushing enemies, but it’s not about being bad. But these people … I told Martin not to get involved, but he was vulnerable, at the end of his tether.’

‘You mean his son?’

‘You know about Hughie then, what happened to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘After Hughie returned from the States and the treatment failed Martin became desperate. He was in here often, searching the shelves for answers. At first it was herbal remedies, acupuncture, homoeopathy. Before long, those avenues exhausted, he’d moved on to religion. I told him to make his peace, that none of this was good for Hughie, but he wouldn’t listen. He just said he had to keep trying.’

‘Understandable,’ Savage said.

‘Yes.’ Wodan shook his head and then reached for another tome. ‘In desperation, Martin became involved in theistic Satanism. Or, to use a more tabloid term, worshipping the devil.’

‘By picking a book up?’ Savage took the volume from Wodan. It was an anthropological study of various forms of devil worship. The author was one Professor Graham Falk, the academic Riley had mentioned.

‘No.’ Wodan gave a half-smile. ‘An old acquaintance from Cambridge contacted him. At university there’d been a group of them – SPS students mostly – who’d dabbled in Satanism. Back then the whole thing had been a joke, a student prank. Basically an excuse for dressing up, getting drunk and having lots of sex. Martin had left all that silliness behind when he graduated in 1989, but some of the group had carried on, believing their activities to be having a beneficial effect over their lives. Over the years they became more serious and committed, convinced they’d discovered some source of ancient power. At some point Martin was invited to re-join. Foolishly, he accepted.’

‘Foolishly?’

‘He became as delusional as the others. He thought by following their ceremonies and rituals he’d be able to save his son. Unfortunately the opposite happened and Hughie died. By that time Martin was in so deep he refused to listen to me. Hughie’s death had the opposite effect to what one might expect. For a time I lost him as a friend.’

‘For a time?’

‘The death of his wife pulled him from his madness. He came to me and apologised. He said he wanted to expose the group for what they were.’

‘Charlatans, you mean?’

‘No, Inspector.’ Wodan took the book back from Savage and slid it back onto the shelf. ‘Murderers.’

‘Murderers?’

‘Yes. According to Martin at least.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Not really. The story was so outlandish. After his wife’s death, Martin told me he was moving abroad for a while to try and escape from the group’s influence. He asked me to start sending him any reports of people going missing in the area. He told me he’d already gathered evidence going back years. With that and his testimony he said he’d be able to bring the group down.’

‘We found the press cuttings you sent him. Others too.’

‘I mailed him everything I could, even though I knew it was probably feeding his obsession. I didn’t know what else to do. He was so insistent. And then late last year he told me he was returning to the UK soon. He said he was coming back to see that justice was done. But until you told me I didn’t even know he was here in Devon.’

‘Why didn’t you or Hedford report this, come to the police?’

‘I thought Martin’s ideas were … slightly off the wall. Maybe the death of his son and wife had pushed him to flights of extreme fancy.’ Wodan shook his head. ‘He’d been sucked into a belief system but his faith had been rewarded with only tragedy. It was understandable he should try to blame the others. Now, of course …’

‘The names, Mr Wodan. We need the names of these people. Your friend was murdered and you can’t let them get away with that, can you?’

‘No, I can’t, but—’

‘Their names. Please, Thor.’

‘Look, my relationship with Martin was, how to say this? Dangerous?’ Wodan shook his head and turned to a photo frame propped against the side of the till. Wodan, two young children, and a woman. ‘If I tell you I’ll lose everything.’

‘You were lovers. You and Hedford.’ Calter. She pointed to the picture. ‘But you’re married.’

‘Very perceptive. We
were
lovers, yes, a long, long time ago.’ Wodan gestured around at the shelves. ‘Avalon. A mystical place. For me, a place where one can indulge one’s fantasies, try out new things, explore different ways of thinking. If there is only one life, then why not try all the fruits?’

Why not indeed, Savage thought. ‘You still need to tell us who these people are.’

‘Yes, I do. I owe that to Martin at least. It’s been a shock though. I need some—’ Wodan stopped mid-sentence. He looked across at the entrance to the room where a man and a woman had come in. The man strolled across to one side of the room to browse the Zen Buddhism section while the woman headed for a shelf labelled ‘NLP’. Wodan opened his mouth as if to continue but then closed it again.

‘Mr Wodan?’

‘I …’ Wodan clenched his fists together, his hands shaking. ‘I need some time. If we could leave it until tomorrow, Inspector, please.’ Wodan’s eyes flicked in the direction of the man. ‘We close early. I’ll come into Plymouth and make a full statement.’

‘Mr Wodan, I rather think—’

‘No!’ Wodan’s lips trembled and tears welled in his eyes. ‘I’m too distressed, OK? I promise I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.’

Savage nodded. Given his state, there didn’t seem much point in pressing the man further. She took out her business card and handed it to Wodan. ‘Anything you need to tell me before then, you just call.’

Wodan managed a tight smile. ‘I’ll do that, Inspector, I promise.’

Irina sat on the lumpy bed and stared at the poster fixed on the wall opposite. Smooth sea, a sandy beach, a yacht gliding through the blue water. ‘Visit Devon’, the caption read. ‘Escape the stresses and strains of daily life.’

Yeah, right, Irina thought.

At least now she was safe. For the moment.

After escaping from Creasey’s shed she’d walked for hours across the moor, eventually coming to a road, where she’d managed to hitch a lift from a German couple in a large motorhome. They’d seemed more enamoured of Devon than she was, but they had also realised she was in some kind of trouble. As they dropped her at a service station in Bovey Tracey the woman had pressed a hundred-euro note into Irina’s hand and told her to be careful.