Tell Tale (31 page)

Riley ambled down his hallway and picked up his copy of the
Guardian
from the doormat. Charles Milner had hit the headlines, the MP making a far bigger splash in death than he’d ever done when he was alive. His co-star, Helen Peacock, shared the billing and newspaper editors were rubbing their hands at the prospect of what had already been dubbed ‘the trial of the century’. The image of Milner depicted a red-faced country gent, the sort most readers of the paper would undoubtedly despise. Peacock, on the other hand, looked stunning. Riley shook his head. Why had she got involved? Was it Graham Falk’s charisma or something else? The woman had brains, beauty, sexual allure, power. She’d thrown it all away. Riley thought Davies was probably right. Famous people didn’t think like normal folk.

The other members of the group weren’t so famous. A surgeon, a solicitor and Rasmus Yarnic, the jeweller who’d made the Satanic cross found on Dartmoor. Yarnic, Riley figured, had been playing silly buggers. All that stuff about the Wiccan pentagram on his forearm, the pile of notebooks he’d hoped would obfuscate the details around the Satanic cross. The man, like Charles Milner, had fallen under the spell of his own arrogance.

Then there was Professor Falk. He was in Derriford Hospital recovering from the gunshot wound. Falk’s motive was still unclear. According to reports Riley had heard, the man was claiming he’d been on the moor purely as an observer. He was pleading academic detachment. By all accounts that seemed wide of the mark, but there was speculation that, with the right legal team, he’d be able to escape justice. Media interest in the man was huge and there was already talk of a book deal running well into six figures.

All five of the surviving members had been charged with the murders of Martin Hedford and Anasztáz Róka. Other charges were pending.

The University of Cambridge had confirmed that all the Satanists had graduated in 1989. It had refused to comment on speculation that a report from a college investigation into an apparent sacrificial killing of a lamb on Midsummer Common back in 1988 was hushed up so as to avoid negative publicity.

Trying to keep things quiet never worked, Riley thought as he folded the paper. Secrets never stayed secret for ever and lies were always exposed.

A week later, Calter attended the funeral for DC Carl Denton. What seemed like the entire force turned out, dozens of uniformed officers marching in the sunshine, their polished shoes rustling through the first fall of autumn leaves. Inside the church sunbeams streamed through the stained glass but failed to warm the cool air. Calter sat in a pew and shivered as Detective Superintendent Hardin made a speech. He started out in typical Hardin fashion – all bluster and awkwardness – but by the end a fair proportion of officers were in tears, Calter included. The service over, the congregation filed outside. Denton’s family were waiting at the entrance to the church, thanking the wellwishers, and as Calter approached his mother stared at her, anger in her gaze. Calter bowed her head, not wanting to meet the woman’s eyes. Her son had obviously shared his personal problems with his mother and Calter got the feeling the woman held her personally responsible for Denton’s death. Several officers paused to offer condolences to the mother and Calter slipped past behind them and into the graveyard where she wandered alone through the grey stones.

At the police wake afterwards there was talk of Denton receiving some sort of posthumous award, certainly that was what Acting Chief Constable Maria Heldon was recommending. As soon as she was confirmed in post she’d be putting Denton’s name forward, she said. Calter remembered Denton’s mother at the church, the tears streaming down the old woman’s face. A shiny medal on a silk ribbon, she thought, would be no bloody consolation at all.

The day after Denton’s funeral, Savage found herself sitting in a briefing room at police headquarters in Exeter with Detective Superintendent Hardin and Maria Heldon. It was looking likely that Heldon would soon be Devon and Cornwall Police’s first female Chief Constable. Savage had tangled with Heldon before and felt uncomfortable knowing the woman would be her boss. On the other hand, could she really be worse than Simon Fox?

‘Right.’ Heldon opened a manila file on the table in front of her. ‘Let’s get this over with. As you can imagine, I’m very busy, so if you could be concise.’

The meeting had been convened so Heldon could be brought up to speed on the latest developments. The Home Secretary was showing an unhealthy interest in events down in Devon and Heldon wanted to be one step ahead of the game. ‘Just in case’, as she put it.

Hardin summarised the case. In the past week the team had questioned the surviving members of the group and a cohesive story was beginning to emerge. Charles Milner had been the ringleader but he’d been egged on by Graham Falk who, according to other members of the group, had taken on a directorial role, encouraging them to commit ever greater crimes. According to Helen Peacock, it was Falk who’d suggested the first human sacrifice six years ago. Conversely, Falk was claiming that the surviving members of the group were ganging up on him to try to absolve themselves of responsibility for their crimes.

‘So there’s been six victims plus Ana Róka and Hedford?’ Heldon said. Hardin nodded. ‘Have we identified them?’

‘Not as yet.’

Hardin explained they hadn’t recovered all the remains but, given the willingness of the surviving group members to cooperate, they were hopeful they could establish the victims’ identities before long.

He went on. The seven friends had met at Cambridge and Peacock claimed the first incident had taken place just before Christmas in their final year. They’d all gone to a party and been very drunk and, realising their studies weren’t going well, they’d decided to try to invoke some black magic. It had been nothing more than a student prank, but when the following summer six of the seven had achieved first-class honours there’d been a tacit agreement to meet each year from then on. Martin Hedford had been the odd one out – he’d only managed a lower second – for that reason, he saw no benefit in taking any further part.

‘But what was a joke eventually became murder?’ Heldon asked.

‘Yes. There’d been goats, sheep, cattle, but one year the ritual went further. It’s not clear yet exactly what happened, but Peacock claims the first occasion was an accident. The victim was never supposed to die. When she did and the group covered it up they became beholden to each other. It went on from there.’

‘And Ana Róka and her father, Martin Hedford?’

‘Charlotte?’ Hardin turned to Savage. ‘Over to you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Savage said. She glanced at her notes. ‘Hedford went abroad after completing his degree. He married a Hungarian woman and they had a child, Ana. He later split from his wife, returned to the UK and remarried. He had a son with his new wife but when the boy was seven he became ill with a brain tumour. Various treatments were tried but the tumour got progressively worse. At this point his old friends got in touch. Hedford was so desperate he fell back in with them. Perversely it was the need to try and save the boy, along with the fact that several members were down on their heels financially, which prompted the group to use a human victim for the first time in their ritual that year. Even though his son eventually succumbed to the illness Hedford was convinced his participation had extended the child’s life.’

‘But at some point he turned against them?’

‘His wife was killed in an RTC. That pulled him to his senses and to assuage his guilt he began to plot the group’s downfall. Unfortunately at some point they caught up with him.’

‘What about the daughter?’

‘We’re still piecing together her story using her notebook and what we know. It appears Hedford visited Ana in Hungary last year and she knew a little of what was going on. When he went missing Ana came over here to investigate. She had a key to Hedford’s flat and found some of the material he’d been working on including a map of sites the Satanists used. She didn’t trust the police enough to come to us directly so she enlisted the help of the lads from North Prospect. She paid them to kill the ponies at various sites hoping to draw enough police and media attention to disrupt the Satanists’ activities. In the end her plan worked because we found Hedford in the kistvaen at Merrivale, although I don’t think Ana had any idea her father was buried up there. Before the pony killings commenced Charles Milner became aware Ana was on to the group and got Falk – in the guise of Antler Man – to set Creasey to watch her. Milner realised she was close to discovering the truth and decided he couldn’t allow her to remain free. Creasey and Milner abducted Ana and locked her in the shed in the woods where she was kept for several days. Then Milner and a couple of the others took her to Milner’s place and embarked on a night flight over Fernworthy. We believe, from Ana’s notebook, that she wanted to try to crash the plane. We don’t know exactly what happened up in the air, but my guess is Milner intended to drop her in the reservoir – she was drugged and naked after all – but Ana managed to put up some kind of fight. It was enough to ensure the drop went wrong and she landed in the trees.’

‘Jesus. To do something like that to a fellow human being.’ Heldon stared down at her notes, visibly shocked. For a moment, Savage saw the softer side of the woman. Then Heldon looked up, her hard façade back in place. She turned to Hardin. ‘Right, I think we’ve finished. But before we wrap up I want to know about Simon Fox. Where on earth is he?’

‘We’ve no idea,’ Hardin said. ‘No sign of the man or his car. Rumour is he’s in France. He speaks fluent French and his family own a château in the Loire Valley.’

Heldon nodded, plainly impressed. ‘But he’s not there?’

‘No.’

‘But it’s only a matter of time, right?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘The question is – what I’m going to be asked by the minister – is what was he doing on the moor seemingly gone AWOL and armed with an unlicensed weapon?’

‘We believe he was trying to rescue his son,’ Hardin said.

‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Heldon looked down at her notes again. ‘According to the reports I have from Inspector Frey, the CC was holding the gun to DI Savage’s head. He then shot Charles Milner, who incidentally was unarmed, before disappearing. DI Savage, can you shed any light on the matter?’

Savage swallowed. ‘The situation was very confused. I don’t think Fox knew what he was doing. I think he’d taken leave of his senses.’

Heldon snorted. ‘I find that a little hard to believe, don’t you? Phone records show a number of calls between Fox and Milner which were made in the days preceding the incident on the moor. The two had lunch together earlier that day too. There must be something else. After all, the Satanists had taken Owen Fox and intended to kill him. Why would they do that?’

‘Fox’s son is married to Milner’s daughter. We’re guessing Milner asked for the CC’s help. Perhaps Fox refused and so Milner kidnapped Owen.’

‘I don’t believe it was as simple as that.’ Heldon paused and the beginnings of a sneer appeared on her lips. ‘DI Savage, we’ve tangled before, haven’t we? On the previous occasion I found you obstreperous and obstructive. The former I don’t have a problem with – it’s probably an asset for us women officers – but I will not tolerate the latter, understand?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Savage nodded. ‘I was just—’

‘I believe the Chief Constable came to visit you at home before he ended up on the moor. What did you discuss?’

‘Not much.’ Savage swallowed. ‘He just wanted my opinion on the case as it stood.’

‘And that was it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And there was no inkling anything else was amiss?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘I don’t buy it, DI Savage. If you’re trying to protect Simon Fox because he’s your superior officer then I’m afraid your loyalty, while admirable, is misguided.’

‘Sorry, ma’am. That’s how it happened.’

‘I see.’ Heldon shrugged. She shuffled her papers and closed her folder. ‘It’s a shame the Chief Constable didn’t confide in you. If he had, then perhaps we could have got to the bottom of this mystery. Now we’ll have to wait until he turns up. Then hopefully we’ll get the truth, won’t we?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Savage said. ‘I’m sure we will.’

The wait for Simon Fox ended when Savage took a call one evening a few days later. Fox’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. Savage tried to talk to him but he cut across her words. He wanted to turn himself in, he said, but only to her. It would, he said, be apposite if she was the one. He suggested a location to meet and before she had time to protest he hung up.

For a moment Savage stood in her kitchen. It would be an easy matter to phone for back-up, to wash her hands of everything. Fox would simply arrive at the meeting place to find a dozen cars packed with officers while she remained at home.

She put the phone back in its cradle and went to her car.

The rendezvous at Wembury Beach was but a mile or so from her house. She wondered if Fox had been watching her, waiting for the right moment to call. The thought made her uneasy. And yet if he’d wanted to harm her, wouldn’t he have done so already?

Savage’s MG crawled down the narrow track to the car park. At the far end a lone car gleamed in the sunlight. The car was a Jaguar of deep, deep blue, the tone darker than the sea and with a glossy depth which suggested to Savage that Fox must have washed and waxed the car for hours. Typical of the man, she thought. Appearance counted – and Fox would want everything from the buttons on his uniform to the way the car looked to be perfect. Pity the man hadn’t worked on things beneath the surface.

Savage pulled her car over, almost without thinking placing the vehicle across the entrance to the car park. She didn’t want any funny stuff like Fox driving off or somebody else turning up unannounced. She clicked the door open and got out. Now she could see Fox sitting in the car, staring forward, out to sea. The sun hung low, light glinting off the surface of the water, several yachts cutting through a light chop, heading for the Sound; a pint or two and home. Something Fox wouldn’t be doing for a while. Maybe that was why he’d chosen this spot. A final look at what he’d thrown away.