Tell Tale (22 page)

Irina had bought a sandwich and a cup of coffee and then used a payphone to call directory enquiries. A little while later, armed with a number, she’d got through to one of Ana’s friends, Ben. The boy had been soft on her, a bit of a nerd, not good socially. Irina tried to sound sweet and a little bit vulnerable. She needed a favour, could he help?

Which was how she’d ended up in a little log cabin in the garden of a guest house in a village in the middle of nowhere. She’d been here for two days and still hadn’t decided what to do.

Irina sighed and then reached for the object on the bedside table.

Ana’s notebook.

Her friend had crammed a lot of detail into the tiny order pad, but the story was like a heavily abridged novel and Irina was having trouble following the plot. She’d flipped through the pages several times, trying to make sense of Ana’s pencil scrawl, but the names didn’t mean anything to her and the story was so outlandish she had trouble believing it could possibly be true. At least Ana had had the foresight to write in English, but Irina had wondered if some of the meaning had been lost in translation or in the way the text had been condensed to fit onto the small pages.

After several read-throughs Irina had more of a handle on what had happened, although she still wasn’t sure she had it right. As she understood it, Ana had come from Hungary looking for a man she referred to as ‘Tata’. Tata had disappeared and Ana had been convinced he’d been killed by the members of some kind of cult. The cult used a number of stone circles on Dartmoor as places of worship and the sites were on some kind of invisible line called a ley. Bizarrely, Ana had arranged for three ponies to be killed at the circles so the police and media would become involved and the group’s activities would be disrupted. It appeared as if Ana hoped the killing of the ponies would spark some sort of wider investigation which would lead to the cult members being exposed.

Stone circles and ley lines? Cults? Three ponies killed? At first Irina found it hard to believe. Was Ana living in some kind of a fantasy world? Had she gone crazy, her writing the result of fear, an injury or from drugs? Irina’s doubts were swept away when, on the second evening, she’d turned on the little TV sitting in the corner of the room to watch the local news. There’d been nothing about her, but there had been a piece about the discovery of the body of a hiker near to where a pony had been ritually slaughtered. Whether Ana’s account was entirely accurate or not, here was evidence that she’d been on to something.

Ana’s plan had failed though, Irina thought. She’d been captured by the cult members. If she’d been going to come forward and present the police with her evidence it was too late for that. The only evidence now was in the notebook and most damning of all was the final paragraph:

They take me in the aircraft tomorrow.
I know because I overheard him talking on the phone. This is the end. They are going to kill me and make it look like some kind of accident. As if I drowned in a lake. But I have an idea. I will try to crash the plane. My plan is desperate but it’s the only way I can escape. At least nobody else will have to suffer in the same way as Tata and the others.

Irina had read the final section over and over again, her heart pounding each time. Poor Ana must have been so scared in those final hours, so frightened. Irina felt tears flow down her cheeks at the thought of the suffering her friend had gone through. They couldn’t be allowed to get away with it. Somebody had to pay.

‘Hello?’

Irina looked up. Mrs Hannaford, Ben’s mother and the owner of the guest house, stood at the cabin door with a tray. Tea, some biscuits and a newspaper.

‘You OK, love?’ the woman said, stepping up into the cabin and placing the tray down on a table. ‘Only if there’s anything you want to talk about …?’

‘No, thank you,’ Irina shook her head and tried to smile. ‘I’m just a little homesick.’

Mrs Hannaford nodded. ‘Well, if you need me, you know where I am.’ She gave Irina a squeeze on the shoulder and then left.

Irina reached for the cup of tea and took a sip, her eyes wandering to the newspaper – the
Kingsbridge & Salcombe Gazette
. She stared down at the main picture, the face meaning nothing. But then she looked at the caption and a name jumped out from the page. A name she’d spotted only minutes before in Ana’s notebook. The cup went down heavily, tea slopping out onto the tray. She picked up the paper, her hands shaking. This was the man who’d abducted Ana and killed her. This was the man who needed to be made to pay. Irina nodded to herself. She’d take the notebook to the police. They’d have to act then, wouldn’t they?

Irina read on, realising as she did so that the police were unlikely to help. The man was one of the elite, one of the rich and powerful. In Russia, such men were virtually immune. It would, she thought, be little different here. For a second she was despondent, but then she remembered her father’s words again.

Do it yourself, Irina.

It was up to her to make the man pay – and as she read the rest of the story, she decided here was a perfect opportunity to make him do just that.

This time, Riley did meet Falk in his office at the university. The academic rose from his swivel chair and shook Riley’s hand.

‘So, are you ready to become a fully paid-up Satanist?’ Falk’s serious expression threw Riley for a moment, but then he smiled. ‘Gotcha! You should’ve seen your face.’

Riley didn’t laugh. He pulled back his hand and sat in a nearby chair. Falk’s humour had thrown him. It seemed misjudged.

‘Sorry, I’ve had some good news this morning,’ Falk said, as if in explanation. He sat and tapped some notes on his desk. ‘The budget for my television series has been approved.’

‘Congratulations,’ Riley said, grudgingly. He pulled out his notepad and pencil. ‘But I’m in a more sombre mood. They’ve gone further. It’s not just a case of animal cruelty now; it’s murder.’

‘The man you found on the moor.’ Falk nodded. ‘The TV news said he was a walker who’d got lost.’

‘That’s just a story we’re putting out there at the moment. In reality the man was murdered. Likely as not in some Satanic ritual.’

‘I think that’s far-fetched, Detective. The scenario you’re suggesting is the stuff of fiction. It’s a lot of fun and makes good headlines, but the reality is far more mundane.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Look.’ Falk turned his hands palm up. ‘I’m sorry if I seemed obstructive the other day. I want to help. But I also want to make sure you don’t go banging up the wrong people.’

‘What do you mean? Who are you protecting?’

‘There’s a group round here I’m involved with. I’m sure they are entirely innocent.’

‘
Involved with
? What does that mean?’

‘I’m studying them, but really it’s a more in-depth process than simply asking them a few questions. I watch, sometimes I take part.’

‘You mean participant observation?’

‘Yes.’ Falk put his head on one side. ‘To be honest, I’m surprised you’ve heard of it. You must be better educated than the average copper.’

Riley ignored the dig. ‘And when you take part, what do you get up to?’

‘No killing ponies, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ Falk stopped and thought for a moment. ‘I’m going to be publishing all this shortly, so I guess it’s no secret. I attend meetings, I go along with their rituals. Some of their activities might be unpalatable to God-fearing Christians, but I can assure you there’s nothing illegal, nothing like murder.’

‘You’ve been trying to steer me away from this group then?’

‘To be honest, yes. My study could be compromised. It’s taken me years to gain the trust of these people.’

‘I’m sorry about that, Professor Falk, but it can’t be helped. We’re talking about a murder investigation.’

‘The man was probably killed by a lone nutter.’

‘We think not.’ Riley glanced down at his notepad. ‘Do you know a man called Martin Hedford?’

‘Hedford?’ Falk began to laugh. ‘Now you are talking about a nutter. He
does
believe all this crap. More than that, he thinks there’s some kind of conspiracy. A cabal of influential people worshipping the devil in order to gain special powers. The problem here is that if the people who make up this cabal
are
influential then they are
already
powerful. He assumes they must have used some sort of magic, but it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.’

‘So you do know him?’

‘Yes. He came to me a few months ago and pestered me to investigate his crazy theories. To be honest the man was a nuisance, but I humoured him, tried to deal with each of his points in a rational way. He refused to listen, said I had my head in the sand.’

‘So did he tell you the names of these people?’

‘No, but he assured me they were the great and the good. I didn’t take much notice once I had him pegged as a lunatic.’

‘And you’re sure he wasn’t on to something?’

‘
On
something, more like. He’s got mental problems and wants to blame others for his own inadequacies.’ Falk cocked his head to one side and tapped the table with a finger, sudden realisation on his face. ‘Hang on, you’re not saying Hedford is the guy on the moor?’

‘Yes,’ Riley said.

‘Shit.’ Falk shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, isn’t what they say?’

‘Professor Falk, do you have any idea who could have killed Hedford?’

‘No. I can only assume he hooked in with the wrong kind of people. Druggies, bikers, undesirables. Perhaps somebody got fed up with him. He was an annoying little man, so persistent. I can well imagine he irritated somebody to the point where they would want to kill him.’

‘Did he irritate you?’

‘Yes.’ Falk held up both hands. ‘But if you’re suggesting I’m the one who killed him then you’re way off the mark.’

Riley reached into his pocket and pulled out a polythene bag containing the jewellery found at the stone circle. He showed the bag to Falk.

‘Do you recognise this?’

‘Of course.’ Falk moved his hand to his chest. ‘It’s a necklace with a Satanic cross pendant. Common enough, I would have thought.’

‘This one is a bespoke piece of jewellery. There were seven made and I believe the people who own them are members of this cabal of Hedford’s.’

‘Do you know who they are?’ Falk put his hands out again. ‘No, of course, you can’t tell me. However, if you did know you would have arrested them.’

‘They may or may not have something to do with a bookshop over in Totnes, Avalon Books. Do you know it?’

‘Avalon … why, yes, I do. Or rather I’m aware of its existence. Some of my students have purchased books there. I believe they stock my work. Why do you think it’s connected?’

‘I’m sorry, Professor Falk, I couldn’t say.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do you think this cross could belong to a member of the group you study?’

Falk paused and cocked his head on one side. ‘Oh no, I don’t think so.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I’ve studied them for years. I don’t remember ever seeing such a thing.’

‘I need their names, Professor Falk.’ Riley pressed the point. He pointed at Falk’s computer terminal. ‘I’m afraid if you don’t tell me I’m going to have to get a warrant to access your work.’

‘Do that.’ Falk stared Riley down. ‘I can see great interest from the
Guardian
, Liberty, the unions. “Academic freedom under threat”. It’ll make a great story. I fully expect picket lines of students, a sit-in, interest from the broadcast media.’

‘Your non-cooperation is noted,
Mr
Falk,’ Riley said, standing to leave. ‘Please don’t attempt to destroy any records or papers you have. To do so would be to commit a serious offence.’

‘Of course not.’

Riley moved to the door. The little glint he’d noticed at the previous interview was back. This time though, despite the man’s bluster, it was obvious something was bothering Falk. As Riley slipped from the room he saw Falk reach up and wipe his forehead, a sheen of moisture glistening in the light.

After returning from Totnes, Calter stayed at the station late, keen to act on the information provided by Wodan. She soon discovered that SPS when in connection with Cambridge, stood for Social and Political Sciences. She’d need to get a list of graduates in SPS for 1989, the year Hedford left. She busied herself with getting contact details for the appropriate department at the university.

A few minutes later, Collier came into the crime suite. He was surprised to see somebody still at work.

‘Not got a home to go to?’ he said. ‘Because that’s the only explanation I can think of.’

‘The boss left me to it,’ Calter said. ‘She said she needed to get a good night’s kip. I wanted to line a few things up for tomorrow.’

Calter explained about the visit to Avalon Books, the meeting with the owner and what he’d said about Cambridge.

‘Thor, eh?’ Collier chuckled. ‘We could do with a couple of deities on our side. Thunder and lightning beats having to stick to the PACE rules any day of the week.’

‘I’m going to get the graduation list for ’eighty-nine from the university and hopefully Mr Wodan will give us more details tomorrow, but I wouldn’t bank on it. He appeared worried.’

‘Can we bring him in and charge him with obstruction?’

‘I did ask the boss, but she said there didn’t seem much point. He was in a pretty distressed state after hearing of Hedford’s death. Maybe he’ll be more composed when he comes in tomorrow.’

Collier nodded and then filled Calter in on other developments. Hedford’s flat had been given a thorough going-over. The forensic team hadn’t found much, but they had turned up a couple of hairs trapped in the headboard of the bed in the tiny guest room. Long, fair hair, most likely a woman’s.

‘I’m thinking a casual fling,’ Collier said. ‘Somebody he brought back one night. Probably not relevant.’

‘In the spare room?’

‘Maybe the woman was too drunk to do anything and he put her in there to sleep off her hangover.’ Collier smiled. ‘Or maybe the bed was firmer. Maybe they just did it in every room. Nowt so strange as folk and sex.’

‘Anasztáz Róka.’

‘Sorry?’

‘She possessed a key to Hedford’s flat.’

‘What?’ Collier reached up and rubbed the short hairs on the back of his neck. ‘Why didn’t I know this?’

‘It was filed this morning.’

‘That’s no bloody good. A million and one things have been put into the system, but if nobody says anything how am I to know?’

‘Sorry, Gareth.’

‘So what the heck has Ana got to do with Hedford?’

‘We’ve no idea, but Thor Wodan might know. We’ll ask him tomorrow.’

‘Well, let’s hope he lives up to his supernatural billing, hey?’

‘We’ve got a problem, Simon.’

The words came in the darkness, Fox still half-asleep on the sofa in the living room as he answered the call on his mobile. He’d dozed off, events whirring in his mind until eventually the cacophony had become white noise. Now a whisper from afar slipped into his consciousness.

‘Simon. I said we’ve got a problem.’

The voice sent a shiver down Fox’s spine. The man on the phone didn’t do problems, or if he did, he simply bulldozed them out the way. Fox glanced down at his watch, the face glowing in the dark. 11:30 p.m.

‘OK.’ Fox pushed himself up and tried to blink away the tiredness. ‘Tell me.’

‘This stuff on the moor. The ponies. I need it to stop.’

‘The ponies?’ Fox blinked again, unsure if he was entirely awake. ‘I don’t think I understand what—’

‘It’s not just the ponies. There’s the girl too.’

‘The girl?’ Fox stared to the far end of the living room, where a rectangle glowed wanly. Through the window he could see the neat lawn bordered by roses, the whole garden painted pale by the light of a half moon. His wife looked after the roses, spending hours pruning the bushes. Nip them in the bud, she’d say, smiling. Fox had no idea what she was talking about.

‘The girl on the moor, you idiot.’

‘The girl …’ Fox’s head spun. He must be still dreaming. Could the man mean the young woman who’d been found at Fernworthy Reservoir? Fox had lost track of where the investigation was now. ‘What does she have to do with anything?’

‘It’s complicated, Simon, but remember what you promised me?’

Fox was awake now, the menace in the ghostly voice seeping down the line, Fox’s recollection of his promise only too clear.

Whatever the price …

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I need you to stop any future investigation, understand? Tell them it’s something to do with national security, whatever.’

‘National …?’ Fox felt his breathing accelerate. Surely
he
couldn’t be involved? ‘Jesus! I can’t do that. Not if it’s something you’ve … You can’t expect me to put my career—’

‘A promise made can’t be broken, Simon.’

‘But Savage, your friends in London, I thought …’

‘There won’t be any friends in London if you don’t stop your officers. You deal with this and then I’ll deal with Savage, OK?’

‘Yes, but …’ Fox stood and walked across the room to the mantelpiece. He reached out to touch a picture of his wife holding their granddaughter, his hand shaking as he did so. In the darkness the picture was indistinct, his wife ethereal, fading. His hand cast a shadow over the image, the black becoming deeper as he watched the shadow sweep across his wife’s face and spread through the room, overwhelming him. He tried to regain his composure. ‘You have to know I can’t do this. What you’re asking is impossible.’

‘You can do this,’ the voice said, the words hissing through the air. ‘And you will.’

The clock on the wall ticked up to twelve o’clock and then began to chime. The witching hour, Thor Wodan thought. All day he’d been thinking about Martin. Wodan had always dismissed his talk of the occult as the ramblings of a man who’d lost his mind, who’d been pushed to the height of despair by the death of his wife and child. Hedford had blamed those who’d let him down and embellished his stories to show them in a bad light. But now Wodan realised he’d been mistaken. Hedford hadn’t been mad. The proof lay in his own death. Irony was the cruellest thing.

He breathed a shaky sigh, all his tears already cried.

Wodan came from behind the till and moved around the room. He reached out and touched the spines of books as he passed by. Each book was a little parcel of magic, literally words of wisdom, but in all the millions of words contained in the room Wodan didn’t think there were any that could help him now. He had to choose his own path. Martin Hedford had been a friend and a lover and now came the true test of that friendship.

He stopped in the centre of the room and stared up at the roof lantern and the dark sky above. There was nothing up there, no God to appeal to, no answer in the myriad of stars. The truth lay within himself. Wodan knew he had to go to the police tomorrow and tell them the names of the Satanists. His friend hadn’t been deluded, he’d been right. But by keeping things to himself, by not involving the authorities, he’d paid with his life.

Ten minutes later Wodan made a final tour of the shop, re-shelving books and switching off lights as he went. He ended, as he always did, at Avalon. Behind the counter was the control panel for the alarm system. Once he flicked the switch to arm the system he had thirty seconds to leave the shop. It was something he had done so many times before that he could navigate the maze of little rooms in pitch-black. Wodan turned off the final lights in the room and reached for the glowing panel. He stepped out from behind the counter, into the pale rectangle of light washing down through the roof lantern, and then into the dark beyond.