Tell Tale (24 page)

Fox tried to steady himself, tried to ignore his trembling hand as it hovered over the switch. Events appeared to be overwhelming him. However fast he ran, the past came after him at twice the speed. A few days ago he’d been concerned about his own future. He’d been selfish. Owen’s call had changed all that. Savage was on the rampage and she needed to be stopped.

Fox dialled the number from memory.

‘It’s me,’ Fox said when the voice answered. ‘Simon Fox, the Chief Constable of Devon and Cornwall Police.’

‘Simon?’

Fox shook his head. He wasn’t sure why he’d used his full title. It was as if he needed to reassert his authority over the man on the other end of the line. Gain control. Make the first move.

‘I can do it,’ Fox said. ‘What you asked.’

‘Good,’ the voice said. ‘Things are hotting up and you’ll need to be proactive. Make sure there is no chance I’ll be investigated for anything.’

‘There’s a price.’

‘I know, Simon, and I’m working on it.’

‘She needs to be warned off. For good.’

There was a long pause and Fox wondered whether his words had been misunderstood. On the other hand, perhaps he’d gone too far. But then the voice came back on the line and Fox felt a terrible chill sweep through his body.

‘Don’t worry. I’m going to send her a message which will leave her in no doubt as to what she needs to do.’

Fox hung up and then reached across and turned the light off and then back on again.

Off. On. Off. On. Off. On.

Then he put his head in his hands and began to cry.

‘Car, Mummy,’ Jamie said. ‘Vroom, vroom.’

‘Yes. Let me have a go, darling.’

‘No, Mummy, car! Car!’ Jamie’s voice went up in pitch. ‘Car coming!’

Savage sat up, hearing the revving of an engine, seeing a flash of blue Impreza and her daughter on the bicycle in the middle of the road. The car moved in slow motion, getting closer and closer.

‘Clarissa!’ Savage shouted. ‘Get off the road!’

‘We’re playing ponies, Mummy. Clip, clop, clippity-clop.’

Savage pushed herself to her feet. The Impreza rolled forward another metre. Clarissa pushed the pedal on the bicycle round half a turn. The tyres on the car squealed on the tarmac. A bell rang out. And then time froze.

Savage found herself floating above the scene, the moorland spread out below as if she was up in Frey’s little aeroplane. She looked down. The Impreza was a car length from Clarissa, the driver trying in vain to swerve around the bike. From her vantage point, Savage could see the world in minute detail. She could see the strands of red hair spilling from underneath Clarissa’s helmet. She could see pieces of gravel on the road, the individual pieces of grit causing the car to slide. Through the windscreen of the car she could see Owen Fox sitting with a beer can in one hand, a roll-up cigarette in the other.

Then the clock ticked on. The Impreza smashed into the bicycle and Clarissa was catapulted over the bonnet. She hit the windscreen and slid to one side, bouncing off and rolling onto the road. The bicycle smashed down beside her. The Impreza steered out of its skid and roared away down the road, dirt flying from the wheels. Clarissa lay in a heap, broken, dying.

‘No!’ Savage shouted, sitting up and groping in the blackness. She flayed her arms in front of her, aware of somebody grasping her wrists and holding her. ‘Noooo!’

‘Charlotte!’ Pete. Beside her in the bed. ‘It’s just a dream, sweetheart. A nightmare. Shush.’

‘Yes,’ Savage muttered, waking fully. ‘A dream.’

She blew out a long breath and then lay down. Pete wrapped his arms around her and soon he was fast asleep again. Savage stared up at the shadows on the ceiling, unable to follow suit. A dream, was that all it was? Or were the images more akin to a flashback? She’d never seen it all that clearly before. She blinked and tried to recall exactly what she’d seen: Clarissa on the bicycle. The Impreza coming down the road. The car hitting Clarissa. Owen Fox with a beer and a spliff in his hands, sitting in the passenger seat of the car.

‘Fuck,’ she said to herself. ‘Fuck, fuck fuck.’

‘Anything I should know?’ Pete said when Savage came down to breakfast on Wednesday morning. ‘About a man called Owen?’

‘Owen?’ Savage gulped and then went across to the fridge, opened it, and hid behind the door looking for some orange juice. ‘Who’s Owen?’

‘No idea, but you were talking about him in your sleep. Right before you had that nightmare.’

Savage shook her head. ‘Don’t think we know an Owen, do we?’

‘Well
I
don’t. As for you …’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Not ridiculous, just careful. I don’t want to lose my wife to some Welshman.’

‘I prefer Irish men.’

‘I know.’ Pete came over to Savage and pushed the fridge door shut. He put his arms around her waist. ‘Patrick Enders.’

‘Now you’re being daft as well as ridiculous.’ Savage twisted in Pete’s grip. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get to work.’

‘Are you sure?’ Pete pressed himself against her. ‘I could pretend to be Welsh. Land of My Fathers and all that. Or Irish, if you prefer.’

‘When I get home tonight you can pretend to be whoever you want.’ Savage gave Pete a peck on the cheek and then extracted the orange juice from where he’d squashed the carton between their bodies. ‘Right now, I need to get going.’

Pete let her go and she moved away. He went to wake the children, leaving her alone. Savage took a glass from a cupboard and set it down on the worktop. As she poured the orange juice she realised her hands were shaking.

The crime suite at Crownhill was all but deserted when Savage arrived. DC Enders sat at a terminal and on the other side of the room, two indexers clattered away at their keyboards. Aside from Enders, there were no other detectives present.

‘Totnes, ma’am,’ Enders said. ‘The DSupt wants to blitz the area around the bookshop. House by house, street by street. He reckons somebody must’ve heard or seen something.’

‘So why are
you
still here?’ Savage said.

‘The overnights, ma’am.’ Enders picked up a printout and handed it to Savage. ‘Kingsbridge. There was an RTC on the quayside. An elderly woman was hit by a motorbike. Both escaped with cuts and bruises, but there was some confusion about whose fault the accident was.’

Savage frowned. ‘And is this a good use of your time? Trying to get to the bottom of a minor RTC?’

‘I was in early. Kids woke me and I wanted to get out of the house. Bedlam, the holidays, don’t you find?’

‘Still …’

‘Read the report, ma’am. It’s all there.’

Savage looked down at the piece of paper. The report detailed the accident exactly as Enders had described. A PCSO had attended, along with a passing ambulance, although neither casualty required hospital treatment. The PCSO had taken a couple of statements from passers-by.

‘I don’t see what this has to do with us?’

‘Two witnesses, ma’am. The first, a tourist, we’re not interested in, but the second …’

Savage scanned the report again, looking for the details of the witnesses. Towards the bottom of the sheet she found the statements. She read through until she saw a familiar name.

‘Irina?’

‘Yes. She’s given her full name and her old address. Obviously she’s not there now though.’

‘So it doesn’t look as if she’s been kidnapped. She simply ran away?’

‘She got scared. Probably went to stay with a friend.’

‘Over in Kingsbridge?’

‘Beat me too at first, ma’am,’ Enders said, smiling. ‘But as I said, I was in early. I checked the list of friends and acquaintances we have for Ana and Irina. There’s a local lad who does the same course as Irina and he lives over that way. His parents run something called the Creekside Guest House in Frogmore. Frogmore’s a little village to the—’

‘I know where Frogmore is, Patrick. What the hell’s Irina doing over there? If she is there, of course.’

‘She is. I rang the place and spoke to the lad’s mother. They’re fully booked-up this time of year but Irina’s staying in the lodge they have in the garden. Been there all week apparently.’

‘What are we waiting for then?’

‘You, ma’am.’ Enders grinned, pushed back his chair and stood. ‘I mean, I was waiting for you. That’s why I’m still here!’

Kingsbridge was a small town at the top of the winding estuary that had Salcombe at its entrance. The village of Frogmore lay some three miles to the east, at the head of a small muddy creek. The guest house sat away from the busy A379 and down by the waterside. While Enders knocked at the front door Savage put her head round the side of the building. A lawn stretched to the water, to one side a small log cabin.

‘Ma’am?’ Enders joined her, gesturing back over his shoulder. ‘Mrs Hannaford says Irina’s gone for the day. The show.’

‘What show?’

‘Kingsbridge Country Fair. The traffic, remember?’

A few miles before they’d reached Kingsbridge they’d been stuck in a jam and Enders had been going on about some agricultural show or other. Savage hadn’t taken much notice.

‘What on earth is she doing there?’

‘Mrs Hannaford says Irina’s gone with her son. A day out. They packed sandwiches and everything.’

‘Sandwiches?’ Savage shook her head. ‘Patrick, do you mind telling me just what the hell is going on?’

Enders shrugged. ‘No idea, but I guess we’d better get along to the show. I’ve got the lad’s mobile number so we can get in touch if we want.’

They drove back to Kingsbridge and found the show field a mile or so north, nestled in the rolling countryside of the South Hams. Traffic sat bumper to bumper, queueing to get into the fair. A couple of large fields had been designated as car parks and it took half an hour before they trundled off the main road and bumped across the freshly mown grass. Enders pulled up alongside a people carrier full of screaming kids.

‘And I thought three of the blighters was bad enough,’ Enders said. ‘That poor bugger’s got five of them.’

Savage looked across at the car where World War Three appeared to have broken out on the back seat.

‘They’d prefer to be at McDonald’s,’ she said. ‘Not at a glorified farmers’ market.’

They got out and strolled across the grass to the entrance gate where a couple of stewards – one young, one old – were checking passes. Savage pulled out her ID and flashed it at one of the stewards. Then Enders showed them a picture of Irina. Had they seen her?

The older steward shook his head and nodded at the river of people streaming through the gate. How the bloody hell was he expected to spot anyone in this crowd? It was more than enough hassle trying to ensure that the young’uns didn’t sneak in for free, he explained.

‘Wait, I remember her,’ the other steward chipped in, smiling.

‘Aye, lad,’ the old man said. ‘You would.’

Savage turned to the second steward. Early twenties. Muscles from shifting bales of straw or knocking in fence posts. If he had an ounce of testosterone in him then he’d have had an ogle at Irina, Savage thought. ‘Go on.’

‘She were with a guy with glasses. One of them nerd types. Right odd couple, him being all spotty and her an absolute beauty.’

‘That’s her,’ Enders said. ‘Did you see where they went?’

‘Now you are being daft.’ The young man turned and gestured to the show ground. A series of marquees lay dotted across the fields and between the tents several areas had been roped off as rings for various events. Thousands of people swarmed in all directions.

Savage took out her business card and handed it to the young steward. ‘Give us a call if you spot her, OK?’

The man nodded and Savage and Enders walked into the show ground. In a nearby ring a crowd watched children taking part in a Pony Club race. Screams from the sidelines urged on the riders as they hared back and forth across the field, bursting balloons with mini lances. Health and Safety would have had a fit.

‘We best take a look around,’ Savage said. Close by, a large floral display arched over the entrance to the produce tent. ‘Let’s go in here.’

Inside the produce tent, there was a calm befitting the serious business of showing fruit and vegetables. A ripple of applause came from the far end, where a group of people crowded round a small stage. Feedback squawked from the PA for a moment before a woman began to announce the prizes for the flower arranging.

Savage and Enders worked their way down the line of displays towards the opening. A rather large cucumber had won a special award. Enders pointed and sniggered.

‘W.I.,’ Enders said. ‘I can see why they liked that.’

Farther on there were onions approaching the size of footballs, while a set of leeks were thicker than a man’s arm. There was no sign of Irina.

It was the same story elsewhere. After an hour of traipsing in and out of numerous tents Enders had had enough.

‘Parched, ma’am,’ Enders said, nodding in the direction of an open-sided tent where people milled around with plastic glasses. ‘And as it happens, there’s the bar. We could take a gander over there, couldn’t we?’

‘Go on then, but shandies, OK?’

Enders shrugged his shoulders in disappointment and headed for the bar. Savage wandered over to the side of the tent, out of the way of the crowds. She sat on an upturned beer crate and, more in hope than in anticipation, looked around for Irina.

Behind the tent was a roped-off parking area for show members. Several men dressed in tweeds sat in picnic chairs next to a big 4×4. A bottle was being passed around, glasses filled, a hamper on the bonnet of the car open and displaying a selection of cheeses. Raucous laughter rang out. Savage caught part of the anecdote. Somebody, it appeared, had been at a pheasant shoot and had accidentally shot one of the beaters below the waist.

‘Lends a new meaning to the phrase “caught short”, hey?’ said one of the men.

‘Waste of a bloody cartridge,’ the shooter said, before quaffing the contents of his glass. ‘And you know what? I had to take him to hospital and the bugger bled all over the front seat of my Merc. Not a word of thanks.’

‘Never mind,’ the other man said. ‘At least you can say you bagged a nice brace.’

Savage turned, recognising one of the voices. She looked at the man in the middle. Bushy eyebrows, red face.

‘Charles Milner, the local MP,’ Enders muttered at her shoulder, passing her a plastic glass brimming with beer. ‘Recognise him from when he came for the visit the other day. I knew there was something to be said for socialism.’

‘Careful,’ Savage said. ‘One word from him and you’ll be out of a job.’

A slab of cheese appeared from the hamper and while Milner set to cutting slices, the others passed the bottle round again. A tin of cheese biscuits was opened and for a couple of minutes the men munched on their food. Milner proposed a toast to something, glasses were filled, and then chinked together. Then Milner hunched over the bonnet, his voice low and inaudible. The other men nodded, smiled. One reached across and patted Milner on the back.

‘Those lot live in a different world from the rest of us,’ Enders said. ‘Tossers.’

‘Envy won’t—’ Savage stopped, mid-sentence. ‘Shit. Irina!’

‘Hey?’

‘There!’ Savage bent and placed her beer on the floor and then took Enders by the shoulders and turned him. ‘Three cars over.’

A figure stood for a moment by the side of a horse trailer. A girl. Something glinting in her right hand. The girl slipped sideways, heading for the group next to the 4×4, her eyes trained on Milner, the knife now outstretched.

Savage spun and dived down towards her at the side of the tent. Spotting her, Irina hesitated for a second, and then changed direction, running away through the maze of cars.

Savage sprinted towards her, dashing past Milner and his colleagues.

‘What the …?’

Milner’s words were lost as Savage dodged left and then right between the horse trailer and a car. Irina headed down an avenue of vehicles, stumbling through a family picnic, the dad rising and hurling curses after the girl. Savage skirted the group and then ran hard to try to make up the distance. Behind, she could hear Enders puffing along, already out of breath. Irina changed direction, veering ninety degrees along the line of cars and heading back towards the main show ground.

Up ahead a river of people moved along one of the main thoroughfares. Irina glanced back and then one of her arms was jerking out to the side. The knife flashed in the sun as it soared upward and then tumbled down, clattering as the blade hit the top of a car.

‘Get that!’ Savage shouted back at Enders.

Irina reached the crowd and disappeared into the surging bodies. People were heading for the main ring, where the sharp staccato of a motorbike display rider was attracting attention.

Savage arrived at the path a couple of seconds after Irina. She pushed into the scrum of bodies, aware of shouts ahead as Irina tried to make progress. It seemed to Savage as if everybody was going in the opposite direction to her and nobody seemed in much of a hurry to move out of her way. Then the crowd thinned and Irina was running across a patch of ground, empty because it surrounded an overflowing cattle trough, the ground thick with mud. Savage darted right and then swerved left to avoid a mother pushing a baby buggy. She lost her footing and tumbled over, arms outstretched to break her fall. The ground came up fast and she face-planted, sliding along on her front like a footballer celebrating a goal on a slippery pitch.

‘Fuck!’ Even without her expletive, people were turning their heads to look. Savage pushed herself up from the mud, aware the stuff had got everywhere; on her clothes, in her hair, splattered across her face.

Up ahead, she could see Irina swinging left onto a bisecting avenue. Savage stood and began to run again. She followed left, the path running down between a row of tents. Irina turned to look back for a moment, and then collided with an elderly gentleman, the two of them falling to the ground. The girl pulled herself up and then, aware that Savage was almost on her, darted towards the nearest tent and disappeared inside.

Fifty metres away a flash of fluorescent yellow caught Savage’s attention. Two PCSOs stood at an ice cream stall, ninety-nine ice creams being passed down to them.