Tell Tale (7 page)
Davies seemed to be thinking along similar lines, because when Riley plonked the sandwich down in front of the DI he contemplated the food for a moment, then smiled.
‘They eat horses in France, don’t they?’ He shook his head and began to unwrap the sandwich. ‘So quite what we’re getting so excited about, I don’t know. Still, at least the case is a little more interesting than trying to catch these sheep rustlers.’
Riley nodded and glanced up at one of the whiteboards where a map of South Devon was dotted with yellow stars. Each star represented a farm where sheep had been stolen from. Mostly it was single animals, leaving the farmer concerned unsure as to whether the sheep had simply escaped. By tracking all the reports of missing animals, Riley and Davies had ascertained there were too many for that to be the case. So far they’d identified over one hundred. At the top of the board a wag from MCIT had stuck a printed message:
Devon’s most prolific cereal killer. Have ewe seen him?
Riley had wanted to take the message down, but Davies had stopped him. ‘We take it down and they put up something else. We leave it and they’ll get bored.’ Davies was right. The banter they’d endured at the beginning had now all but ceased and they’d been left to get on with their work. Clear up the rustling case and figure out what was going on with the pony on the moor and they’d be done with Maynard for good.
‘Where to start?’ Davies said. ‘The internet?’
‘Not sure, sir,’ Riley said. ‘Type “devil worshippers” into Google and I reckon you’ll get all sorts of rubbish. I think we need some sort of expert, although where we’ll find one I have no idea. First I’m going to look on the PNC and see if there are any similar incidents in the area.’
‘Good idea.’ Davies unfolded his newspaper and began to eat his sandwich. He mumbled through his BLT. ‘Let me know if you find anything, OK?’
An hour later, showered, dressed and at least partially refreshed, Savage drove to Crownhill. On the way in she took a call from John Layton. The CSI was round at Anasztáz Róka’s digs in Mannamead, turning the room upside down. The team had nearly finished, so if she wanted to come across for a gander she was more than welcome.
The Mannamead area of the city was home to wealthy middle-class professionals. Solicitors, lecturers, junior consultants, maybe even middle-ranking police officers, jostled for the best double-fronted Victorian and Edwardian houses, pushing prices up and up. Ana’s place was on Fernleigh Road, and usual student fare it wasn’t. Savage parked behind John Layton’s crusty old Volvo and got out, wondering why the landlord would decide to rent to students and low-paid youngsters rather than tenants who might be able to afford more money.
A fence of iron railings sat atop a stone wall with a gate leading to a flagstone path. The path ran through a low-maintenance gravel garden to the front of the period property, which had bay windows and an imposing porch. Savage walked up the path to the front door, where a CSI stood trying a Yale key in the front lock.
‘Found this on her bedside table,’ the CSI said. ‘It doesn’t seem to fit this door though.’
‘It could be for her home in Hungary,’ Savage said.
‘Don’t think so, ma’am. Says Timpson on the key. Unless they’ve got branches in Europe, this is for a property in the UK.’
Savage nodded and went through the door. From behind her the CSI called out that Ana’s room was upstairs. Savage walked down the hallway and climbed the wide staircase, which had a decent carpet secured with polished brass stair rods. She once again wondered why the high-end property had been rented to Ana and her housemates. At the top of the stairs a door to the right stood open, a mess visible within. Layton stood next to the bed, arranging several evidence bags on the mattress.
‘Blitzed it, Charlotte,’ Layton said, indicating the upturned room where the doors to a wardrobe hung open, drawers had been removed from a chest, and the furniture moved away from the walls. ‘Take a look.’
On the bed several polythene packets held the girl’s clothing. A cardboard box contained some of her student work. Layton indicated the pillows at the head of the bed.
‘I’m pretty sure I’m going to get a match from the hair we found on the webbing at the reservoir. There are a number of blonde hairs on the pillow and a quick look with my big magnifier leads me to think they’re the same.’
‘Great,’ Savage said. She waved a hand around at the room and its furnishings. ‘This place is all a bit plush for a student.’
‘Prostitution, you mean?’ Layton smiled. ‘Well, since you’ve brought up the subject of sleaze, I’ve found something else of interest which might explain things.’
He moved across to the chest of drawers where a picture of Ana cuddling a small white dog sat to one side of an open jewellery box. The box contained trinkets, nothing of more than a few pounds value. Above the chest of drawers was a large mirror. Layton reached out and tapped the glass.
‘Sorry?’ Savage stared at the mirror and at her reflection. She needed a haircut.
‘Look.’ Layton moved alongside Savage and reached out. He lifted the mirror from the wall and put it to one side of the chest of drawers. ‘Smile, you’re on camera.’
On the wall, a little way below the hook the mirror had hung on was a hole the size of a penny. A flash of light came from a piece of glass set back in the hole.
‘The landlord?’
‘Got to be, hasn’t it?’ Layton smirked. ‘Dirty bastard’s been getting a peep show for free.’
‘How’s the camera connected up?’
‘Wireless I expect. He’ll have installed the camera when he redecorated the room. Hard-wired the power supply into the mains. Wouldn’t mind betting he’s got the other rooms covered too.’
‘That could explain a lot about the house. High-quality rooms, attracting high-quality girls. How many other tenants are there?’
‘Four. Girls only, and all of them are foreign.’
‘Do you think Ana knew?’
‘If she did then why hide the camera? I’ll need a warrant to search the other rooms properly, but I could take a quick peek now …’
‘How would you get in?’
‘These.’ Layton held up a bunch of keys and jangled them. ‘The landlord gave me his master set. What do you say?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Savage bit her lip, then nodded at the camera and winked at Layton. Then she went towards the door and stepped out onto the landing. Layton followed and Savage lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Thirty seconds in each room, wear gloves, and don’t touch any of the girls’ stuff. Oh, and it never happened, OK?’
‘Sure.’ Layton chuckled. ‘But the subterfuge isn’t necessary because I’ve unplugged the internet router and bagged it for evidence. The camera is dead.’
Layton was still laughing to himself five minutes later as he came down from the second floor.
‘Well?’ Savage said. ‘Any more?’
‘All four rooms. There’s a big full-length mirror in the shared bathroom too, but I can’t remove that without a major DIY job. We’ve got the router though, so we can call Hi-Tech Crimes out here. They can plug the router back in and see all the devices that are connected wirelessly. If we find more than Ana’s camera, which of course we will, then we can ask the other girls for permission to look inside their rooms and make the discovery official.’
‘How’s the landlord viewing the material?’
‘Remotely. He could log on from anywhere as long as he had a connection.’
‘Nice work if you can get it.’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment, Charlotte. Not without finding myself in front of the Professional Standards Department, keen to know about my attitude to women. But four nubile Eastern European girls? Well, that’s a lot of flesh to get excited about.’
‘And it went further than that, didn’t it? Voyeurism to violence. It’s not the first time and I doubt it will be the last.’
Savage thanked Layton and went downstairs and out onto the street, where she phoned through to the station to set up interviews with the other tenants and the landlord. There’d need to be considerable tact involved in speaking to Ana’s housemates, but from what she had seen inside tact was the last thing she’d be using when she interviewed the landlord.
Police. On the moor. In the wood. In the big dark wood.
Police, Chubber?
Yes, police. Poo lice. Chubber doesn’t much like poo, nor lice for that matter. He once had lice, down there. Caught them from some dirty whore. Itchy they were, the little buggers. He should’ve gone to the doctor, but the doctor would have asked too many questions. Difficult questions. So instead he squirted on neat bleach. The liquid burned and turned his pubic hair white. Killed the lice though.
Get to the point, Chubber.
The point is the police have found the missing girl. They’ve been down near the reservoir looking for secrets. Chubber’s got secrets, but luckily they’re not down near the reservoir. No, they’re in the wood, the big dark wood, and at home too.
Right now Chubber is sitting on his sofa in his living room watching TV. The police haven’t come visiting. Not yet. Chubber doesn’t think they know where he lives. They couldn’t. But he’s already decided he should be a bit more careful.
The blue of the lake flashes on the screen. A presenter explains about the girl. Asks how did she get there? Was this some crime of passion, something to do with the Eastern European mafia, or was she abducted, raped, killed and butchered by some mad chocolate-drinking psychopath?
Chubber! The presenter didn’t say that.
No.
Chubber shifts on the sofa and the springs protest beneath him. He can’t get comfortable because something isn’t right.
Not right, Chubber?
No.
The TV picture has moved on to another story. Still Dartmoor, still about butchery. There’s a pony at a stone circle and someone’s been at it with a knife. Slicing and dicing. Chopping off the poor animal’s knackers. Nasty. Painful. Chubber feels a loosening in his bowels, a queasy sensation of gas rising in his stomach.
Uncomfortable
.
Uncomfortable what, Chubber?
Uncomfortable truths. Things that happen in stone circles at night when Chubber’s been watching.
Chubber pushes himself up from the sofa, stumbles across the room, fast-food packaging rustling like autumn leaves as he wades through the detritus. All of a sudden he needs the toilet, needs to take a crap, thinks he’s going to be sick. The two actions are essentially incompatible. He rushes down the hallway, clumps up the narrow stairs, bile rising in his throat. He lurches into the bathroom, his face over the sink, vomit exploding from his mouth. He grasps and reaches for the tap, water splashes out as he retches again.
Chubber rubs water on his face, spits into the sink, and then releases the buttons on his trousers. They drop to the floor and he lowers his boxers and turns to sit on the toilet. His bowels open and a long heavy mass of shit drops out. He breathes out a huge sigh of relief, but while the sick and the shit and the stale air have been expelled from his body there’s still something remaining inside. As he reaches for the toilet paper he sees his hand shaking.
Yes, Chubber. Consequences. Haven’t you heard the word?
Of course he’s heard the word, it’s just up until now he’s never thought it would apply to him. Consequences happen to other people. People who piss him off. Kids who tease him on the street. Girls who wear push-up bras in cafes.
Chubber rips off a length of tissue paper, wipes himself, repeats the action, then gets up from the toilet. He washes his hands in cold water and thinks about the cold night up on the moor just before Christmas. The man with the antlers standing by the car. About the next day, when he went back in daylight.
‘Help me!’
The voice had come from the rock. The one in the centre of the circle.
Chubber moved forward, padding across the ground. He scanned the horizon. Nothing. The weather had turned from cold to wet and on this part of the moor there wasn’t a soul to be seen.
‘Is somebody there? Please! Help me!’
The voice was muffled. Like a rock would sound if it
could
talk.
Didn’t like that, did you Chubber?
No. Voices in head, OK. Voices from a rock, not good. But Chubber had to see, to check. He’d moved even closer. The rock was still talking, crying, sobbing. Screaming.
‘HELP ME!’
Chubber had stopped right next to the big flat stone and put his ear down on the cool granite.
‘HELP ME! FOR GOD’S SAKE HELP ME!’
Silly Chubber. Not the rock. Somebody
beneath
the rock. Chubber shook his head. Trouble. Not his business. Won’t get involved. Antler Man said he’d be watching Chubber and he’d know if Chubber told tales.
Best keep quiet then, Chubber.
Exactly.
Riley had hunkered down at the computer but he’d hardly got into his work before there was a scraping of chairs and a few coughs. All around the crime suite officers were sitting up straight and clearing their desks of detritus.
‘Hey?’ Riley tapped Davies on the shoulder. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Bloody hell,’ Davies said, sweeping his sandwich wrapping into a nearby bin. ‘It’s our tour party. Didn’t you read the memo this morning? Half a dozen councillors, the Crime Commissioner and a bloody MP who sits on the Home Office committee. Lively, Darius, or you’ll be on dog poo collection duty for the rest of your days.’
Riley straightened and smoothed his shirt as DSupt Hardin showed several men into the room. He recognised two of them as the Commissioner and the local MP. Davies pulled a tie from a drawer and hurriedly put it on.
A little while later Riley wondered why they had bothered to make any effort at all. The visiting party had kept to the other side of the room where the real action was taking place. Sheep rustling didn’t interest them.
The excitement over, Riley resumed his search. After another hour he wasn’t any wiser. He went over to Davies and fanned a sheet of printouts in front of the DI.
‘Stuff from the PNC and some bits and pieces from the internet,’ Riley said. ‘Neither of much use.’
‘No?’ Davies eyed the sheets with suspicion.
‘No.’ Riley waited for a moment. Davies didn’t look interested. ‘The PNC flagged up various incidents countrywide, which at first sight appeared to be connected to devil worship. In reality, nearly all turn out to be animals killed by natural causes or kids pranking around.’
‘Nearly all?’
‘There was a case over in Norfolk connected with child abuse. A load of chickens seem to have been slaughtered ritually in a house where three children had to be taken into care. A man and a woman were convicted. Not ponies, and the rituals seemed to be a sham designed to indoctrinate other adults. Nothing like our situation.’
‘So we’re done?’ Davies appeared disappointed.
‘Well, I’ve found someone at the university – a Professor Falk – he’s an expert in cults and that sort of thing. I’m going to set up a meeting with him to see if he can suggest any new avenues of investigation.’
‘We’re back to orgies then?’ Davies perked up again.
‘Yes.’
‘Well? What are you waiting for, Sergeant?’ Davies pointed across to a phone. ‘Get onto this Falk pronto. As in now, OK?’
Riley nodded and moved back to his desk. Ten minutes later, with the appointment made, he turned back to Davies. Before he had a chance to call across his phone trilled out. DC Denton.
‘There’s a second pony,’ Denton said. ‘A DPA ranger just called it in.’
‘DPA?’ Riley said.
‘Dartmoor Park Authority. He said it’s pretty bad.’ There was a pause. ‘Look, I can’t make it up there until later. I’m working on something to do with the first killing. I said you’d go, OK?’
Riley glanced over to the next desk where Davies had started on his post-breakfast snack; a cup of coffee and a custard doughnut. ‘Sure, mate. Be my pleasure.’
The landlord lived three streets away in a similar period property to his tenants’. It took Savage five minutes to walk there, and when she arrived DC Jane Calter was waiting for her.
‘Ma’am?’ Calter said. ‘The desk sergeant said you wanted me over here, right?’
‘Yes.’ Savage nodded up towards the house. ‘I think this guy might be just your type.’
The big brass knocker reverberated through the street and a minute or so later the door swung open to reveal a man in his thirties with close-cropped hair. Kevin Foster wore a diamond stud in his left ear and a Bluetooth microphone hung from his right. He was speaking to a caller as he opened the door.
‘Sorted, mate.’ Foster made a quizzical expression with his eyebrows and looked at Savage and Calter in turn. ‘No. Three-fifty at least. I won’t go lower and if they piss me around any more you can tell them it’s off the fucking market, understand?’
Savage produced her warrant card and held the identification out for Foster to read.
‘Right then. Be seeing you.’ Foster reached up and unhooked the headset from his ear. ‘’bout the girl, isn’t it? Worried myself, to be honest. Good-looking lass like that goes missing you can only think one thing, can’t you? So when one of your lads came round earlier and told me the bad news I was only too pleased to help. Do anything to find her killer, I would.’
‘May we, Mr Foster?’ Savage gestured inside and Foster nodded and indicated they should come in. He showed them through to the front room, which was some kind of office. To one side of the room several computers, each with multiple screens, sat atop an array of glass tables. On the other side a large leather sofa was angled towards a wall-mounted screen on which a twenty-four-hour news channel played in silence. Foster pulled out a swivel chair and sat down while Savage and Calter plonked themselves down on the sofa.
‘Anasztáz Róka was a tenant of yours, correct?’
‘Yes,’ Foster said. ‘Although she was behind with the rent. She hadn’t paid for three months.’
‘I see. But you let her stay anyway for free.’
‘Well, I’m not an ogre. Bloody nightmare now though, isn’t it?’
Ana, he explained, had come to him pleading poverty. Money she’d been expecting from Hungary hadn’t come through and she’d begged for a grace period. One month became two and then three. Foster tutted to himself.
‘I was too soft, but the lass was foreign and I felt sorry for her.’
‘And was that all you felt?’
‘Hey? I don’t get your drift?’
‘What about her, Mr Foster?’ Calter said. ‘Did
she
get your drift?’
‘I—’
‘“Good-looking lass like her goes missing you can only think one thing.” Wasn’t that what you just said to us, Mr Foster? Sounded a little bit like a confession to me.’
‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous. As soon as Ana went missing I was concerned about her.’
Savage pointed at the office set-up. ‘What is it you do, Mr Foster?’
‘This and that. A bit of trading, a few properties, some other stuff.’
‘This other stuff, wouldn’t happen to involve the internet, would it?’
‘Sure. What doesn’t these days? I used to work up in London, but now I do everything from here. Some people moan about progress, but I say bring it on.’
‘So you know a bit about technology then?’ Savage looked across at the computers again. ‘You know how to set up networks and that sort of thing?’
‘Of course.’ Foster swivelled his chair from side to side, something like a nervous twitch. ‘What’s this got to do with Ana’s disappearance?’
‘We’ve found a hidden webcam in her room,’ Savage said. ‘Was that part of the deal? Is that the reason you were quite happy for her to stay, despite her being in arrears? Or maybe there were other reasons. Maybe you had something else in mind too.’
‘Web—’ Foster coughed and then swivelled back to face his desk. He reached for a bottle of spring water and unscrewed the top. Three gulps, and he’d composed himself. ‘Don’t know nothing about no webcam. Those girls, well they get up to all sorts, you know. Little minxes, the lot of them.’
‘Minxes, really? So if we were to examine the camera for fingerprints we wouldn’t find any of yours on there? If we took a look at your computers or phone there’d be nothing to indicate you’ve ever accessed this webcam?’
‘There … I …’ Foster raised the bottle to his lips again.
‘Yes?’
‘Accidental. Might have just taken a look when my laptop connected without me knowing.’
‘You take your laptop to the property, do you?’
‘Yes, I mean no. Not usually. Now and again maybe if I need to sort out the internet connection in the house.’
‘And you used the laptop to view this webcam which you knew nothing about?’
‘Yes, that’s about the gist of it.’
‘You watched Ana stripping off and you got excited, didn’t you? I don’t blame you. From the pictures I’ve seen of her she was a very attractive young woman. You must have found it hard to resist going inside and telling her how much you enjoyed watching her. Maybe you didn’t resist. Maybe
she
was the one who resisted. Maybe you didn’t like the way she repaid your kindness.’
‘You’re crazy. I never touched the girl.’
‘The camera, Mr Foster.’ Calter had stood. Full height, she cut an imposing figure. ‘The explanation of how it got there would go some way to getting you out of the sticky situation you’re in.’
‘The camera …?’
‘Don’t mess around with us,’ Savage said. She crossed to one of the desks and jabbed at a screen. ‘Because I’m jumping to conclusions and there’s only two of them. One, you’re a dirty little pervert who got off on watching Ana. Two, ditto the first conclusion, only – to coin a phrase – watching wasn’t enough. It’s your call, Mr Foster, which is it to be?’
‘This is a fucking stitch-up.’ Foster was on his feet now as well, his chair rotating round and round as he pushed it away. ‘Hobson’s bloody choice. Either way I’m in a whole heap of trouble.’
‘You said it. Best you tell us the truth then, hey? We’re going to be examining these computers, looking at your business receipts, checking to see if anybody else could have placed that camera in Ana’s room.’
‘Shit.’ Foster put his arm out to stop the chair revolving. Shook his head and then reached out for a nearby phone.
‘Put that down please,’ Savage said. ‘You’re coming with us.’
