Tell Tale (27 page)

Chubber’s huffing and puffing all the way up to his little den in the big dark wood. He didn’t think he’d be coming here again. Not so soon, anyway. But Antler Man insisted. Chubber’s got a job to do and if he doesn’t do it he’s going down there.

Down where, Chubber?

Hell. That’s where Chubber’s going if he doesn’t do exactly as Antler Man said.

Better concentrate then, Chubber. Better make sure you carry out his instructions to the letter.

Yes. Chubber can do that. Easy peasy feet are cheesy. He walks on, still huffing and puffing but happier now. Before long, he’s at the pheasant pen. There’s the scaffold all rigged up and there’s the little corrugated iron shed. The police said everything would be dismantled, taken away. They haven’t done it yet though and that’s good. Chubber scans around. There’s nobody here. He plunges away from the sheep shed and up towards the feed store.

At the store the roof is still bent back and the girl is still gone and Chubber wonders how he can ever put things right.

Use your initiative. That’s what Antler Man said.

Yes, a bit of brain power. He goes to the shed and checks the padlocks. He unlocks them and checks inside. Nothing. That’s the problem. Never mind. Chubber’s got a box full of tools to do a real fine job and a clean pair of hands to work those tools.

Skilful hands?

Oh yes, very skilful. What was it with the last one? Slaughtered. Skinned. Gutted. Butchered. Twenty minutes, half an hour, max?

Not butchering sheep, Chubber. Not this time.

No, DIY. Shed repair. Making good the roof. Chubber looks up at the hole and wonders how he’ll stop a bird from flying free. Then he remembers the pheasant pen. The wire mesh. He could use that. As long as the police stay away he shouldn’t have a problem. What was it Antler Man said?

He said if the police turn up we’ll be in a mess nobody can clear up.

That’s wrong! Chubber’s good at clearing up mess. He knows how to dispose of things. For instance, all those guts wibbly wobbly in the plastic crate. Take them into the wood and tip them out. Slippy sloppy down on the ground for the rats and the foxes to eat.

Is that what Antler Man wants if the police should come looking? Their guts all piled up in the plastic crate?

Yes, Chubber’s pretty sure it is.

The trek in took a couple of hours. Denton parked his car in the next valley and hiked over two tors until he reached the wood. Approaching this way meant there was no chance of being spotted. In his boots and red waterproof, he was just another walker. Not that there was anybody to see him. The day had started with showers but now a more persistent rain had set in and the weather was keeping all but the hardened outdoor enthusiasts away.

He hit the track a few hundred metres from the turning circle where Creasey parked his van and headed up into the valley. He’d been going for a couple of minutes, daydreaming about Jane Calter, when a crunch of wheels on the gravel scalpings brought him back to reality. Denton turned to see a white van approaching up the track. He dived sideways into a clump of bracken and hid himself as best he could. The van drove up and went past.

Creasey!

Some way up the track the van stopped and Creasey got out. He dragged out a couple of tanalised planks and they clattered to the ground. Next came a holdall and a rusty old toolbox and a gleaming orange bucket. Brand new, Denton thought. B&Q were selling them for a quid a pop. Creasey continued to rummage in the back of the van and then hoisted the planks onto one shoulder, picked up the bucket, holdall and toolbox and kicked the doors of the van shut. He clambered up the bank at the side of the track and disappeared into the forest.

Denton pulled himself up and stood for a moment. He could hear Creasey stomping away up the path, the man’s panting getting fainter as he climbed deeper into the wood. Denton pushed through the bracken and walked up the track to the van. He peered in through the rear doors. There was an old tarp and a couple of blue plastic crates.

He moved to the path, his imagination beginning to run wild. They were up there. Girls. Not just one, but several. Creasey had, quite literally, pulled the wool over their eyes. Savage, Davies, Riley – even his beloved Jane – had been completely fooled. They’d completely overlooked the webbing strap on the A-frame. Exactly the same type of webbing which had been found in Fernworthy Reservoir by Frey’s divers. For a moment, Denton wondered about calling it in. Somehow the thought of entering the wood alone had taken away his earlier ideas about being a hero. On the other hand, a call would bring dozens of officers and his own contribution would be lost. And what if he was wrong? Then he’d look a bigger fool than ever.

He shook his head and followed Creasey up the path. Twenty minutes later and he came to a little turn-off. He could see Creasey disappearing to the right, trying to manage his load while ducking under low branches. Denton paused to let Creasey get a little farther ahead and then stepped off the path. Within a few minutes Creasey had reached an open area with the remains of an old pheasant pen and a corrugated iron shed. The shed must be where the girls were kept. Last time Savage and Calter had found only an old ewe. That, Denton thought, was a clever double-bluff. He edged forward, Creasey now at the shed. The planks clattered down and Creasey fumbled with the door. Seconds later the door was swinging open, Creasey disappearing inside.

Denton half-expected there to be a scream or something. Silence. He moved to the right and began to skirt the clearing, dropping to the ground when Creasey reappeared at the door. The man looked around and then plunged across the clearing, not heading back the way he’d come, but upwards, deeper into the wood. The door to the shed stood open. It could only mean there was nobody in there. Unless Creasey restrained his victims in some way …

What the heck was the man up to?

Denton hesitated for a moment and then ran over to the shed. He looked in, catching a waft of bad air. Sheep shit, urine, rotting straw. Denton stepped inside, his feet squelching in muck. A stack of crates leaning in one corner. Half a bale of hay. A bucket of water. No girls. He began to examine the shed. Although at first sight the building had appeared quite sound he could now see the structure was ramshackle, the wooden framing rotten. No way anyone could be kept here against their will.

Damn. His hunch had been wrong. Creasey was still up to his old tricks, but he wasn’t abducting young girls. And no girls meant no impressing DC Calter. The webbing strap was a red herring.

Unless …

Denton came out of the shed like a shot. In the distance, Creasey sounded like a herd of elephants as he crashed through the undergrowth. Denton went after him, trailing at a distance, all the time trying to figure out where Creasey was going. After a few minutes Denton saw the outline of a large building, Creasey at one end undoing a set of padlocks on a substantial door.

Denton dropped prone to the ground. This was it! The jackpot. No wonder the others had found nothing. They’d been looking in the wrong place. Creasey had fooled everyone. Everyone but clever old DC Denton.

For a few minutes he lay still. Creasey was in the building, talking to himself. Occasionally a banging floated out, followed by a stream of curses. Was there a girl in there? Was Creasey even now doing something abhorrent to her?

Before he had time to think about the implications Creasey emerged. He pulled the door shut and slid one of the bolts across, neglecting to secure any of the padlocks. Then he lumbered away down through the woodland. Denton rolled to one side and hid behind an old tree stump as Creasey stomped off. He looked at his watch. It had taken Creasey five minutes to get here from the sheep shed. If he’d gone back there for something then Denton had ten minutes to look around. He didn’t need that. Just a glance in the building would tell him everything.

As the sounds of Creasey moving away faded, Denton pulled himself up. He moved fast over the ground to the entrance. Three padlocks. That said everything. You didn’t use a set of heavy-duty locks for a couple of sheep. He stepped inside. The place was some kind of feed shed. Walls and floor lined with aluminium sheeting, a load of sacks scattered around. He slipped deeper into the room, having doubts, fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small torch. He flicked it on and swung the beam around. Plastic sacks, hessian sacks, paper sacks, corn, bird pellets. No sign of any girls. And then he saw them. Over in one corner. He darted across, bent over and picked them up. A pair of tights. Sheer black.

Denton stuffed the tights in his pocket, at the same time bringing out his phone. He moved to the doorway, aware there was no signal. Damn. Never mind, he’d try a text. Sometimes a text could get through when a call couldn’t. He composed a short message and was about to send it to DS Riley when he changed his mind. This wasn’t something for the Agri Squad. The girl’s murder was being investigated by DI Savage and she should hear the news directly from him, not from Riley or Davies. Denton altered the recipient and pressed send.

Outside, a gloom hung under the trees. Thick cloud had rolled across the sky above, and down at ground level every shadow had turned inky black. Denton pulled the door shut and fiddled with one of the bolts, using the torch to help him see. As he slid the bolt across he heard the crack of a stick behind him, hot breath caressing his ear as powerful fingers closed around his neck.

‘Chubber’s here, boy. Gotta clear things up. All that mess wibbly wobbly in the plastic crate. Tip it on the ground for the foxes, see?’

Denton flailed out with the torch, the beam flashing across the door and into the darkness beyond, the light dimming, the scene fading before his eyes as if the batteries on the torch had all of a sudden failed.

Savage had moped around the station for most of the day. The dressing-down she’d been given by Hardin, not to mention its sexist overtone, had infuriated her, and she hadn’t been able to think straight. It was only when Riley and Calter had returned with the new information about Helen Peacock that she’d pulled herself together.

‘Peacock, ma’am,’ Riley said as he stood in the entrance to Savage’s office. ‘She went to Uni with Hedford but when we showed her a snap she denied ever having met him. Then as soon as we leave she calls Falk.’

‘So what’s Falk up to with Peacock?’

‘Apart from shagging her, you mean?’ Riley grinned. ‘He had the cheek to call it “participant observation”.’

‘Nice work if you can get it.’

‘Been there.’ Riley shook his head, the grin gone. ‘Nearly got myself killed.’

‘But you’re saying Falk is studying the group in some way?’

‘He didn’t admit anything about this particular bunch, but that’s the gist I got from him. He likened it to spending time with a tribe in the Amazon jungle.’

‘I think you need to have another word with the Professor and point out the seriousness of the situation. If he’s got any information he needs to tell us or face a possible conspiracy charge. Meanwhile, we take the Peacock evidence to Hardin and see if he’s willing for us to bring her in.’

‘What about DSupt Hardin, ma’am?’ Riley reached over and pushed the door to the office shut. ‘This business with Fox.’

Savage smiled. ‘The way I see it, if Fox is using his influence to prevent an investigation into Charles Milner he’s digging himself into an even deeper hole than he’s already in.’

‘If he’s exposed, if the stuff about Owen comes out too, he’ll be ruined, likely go to prison also.’

‘Yes.’

‘Charlotte?’ Riley stepped across the office until he stood next to Savage. He touched her arm. ‘That would be enough, wouldn’t it?’

Savage heard a beep from her phone and, grateful not to have to answer, looked down at the screen.

‘It’s a message from DC Denton,’ she said, reading through the text. ‘He’s found some black tights at Creasey’s place in the woods. Says they could possibly be connected to our case.’

Riley drove while Savage tried to call Denton. By the time they’d reached the forest half a dozen calls had gone through to voicemail.

The barrier at the end of the track stood open and they drove up until they reached the turning circle at the end. Creasey’s van sat parked to one side. Savage tried to call Denton once more.

‘Still nothing,’ Savage said. She glanced down at her phone. ‘But then I’ve only got one bar. There’s probably next to no signal up there.’

She gestured up to the woodland where wisps of cloud filtered through the treetops. Above the trees a thicker layer hung blanket-like, sucking the light from the day. A light rain drizzled down.

Savage found the push up from the road easier the second time around. DS Riley wasn’t as fit as Calter and he seemed quite happy to take the climb at an easier pace.

‘Can you imagine Davies coming up here?’ Riley said. ‘I doubt he’d make it unless he was on a nicotine drip.’

They reached the turn off the main path and edged their way along the line of trees. Savage cursed as she slipped and her foot splashed into a leat. Riley put out his hand and caught her under the arm, holding her for a second longer than he needed to.

‘Thanks,’ Savage said. ‘Falling flat on my face wouldn’t have done my appearance any good.’

Savage glanced down at her feet. The water in the leat. Something floated on the surface, a red scum.

Riley followed her eyes. ‘Blood,’ he said.

Savage crouched to peer under the canopy of leaves. The leat, like all leats, followed the contours, weaving back and forth as it criss-crossed the line of trees. She moved forwards, aware of Riley muttering a ‘careful’ behind her. As they reached the broken-down fence the scene was reminiscent of the last time Savage had been there. Except this time something hung from the A-frame.

‘There,’ Savage said, dropping to her haunches. ‘Creasey.’

‘Yes,’ Riley crouched beside her. ‘And he’s up to his old tricks again.’

Creasey stood next to the A-frame, a small knife in his hand. He made repeated slices down the carcass, working at the skin towards the bottom, peeling it away from the meat. Savage noticed the hind legs of the animal, lengths of webbing wrapping several times around them. Much too long for a sheep. At ground level the front legs lay on the plywood board, sweeping back and forth as Creasey worked, the fingers making patterns in the blood.