Tell Tale (8 page)

‘Sure. But I get to make a phone call first, right? My lawyer. I pay her enough – ’bout time she got off her fat arse and did some work.’

It was the best part of two hours later before they arrived at the scene. Davies had insisted on lunch. ‘Something warm inside us,’ he’d said. ‘Be cold up there.’

Riley had shaken his head, not much impressed. Now though, he was glad they’d eaten. He stood with his back to a strong breeze, his waterproof flapping wildly until he managed to zip up the front. The wind came from the east, scudding over a ridge and down a hill scattered with low bracken and gorse. Above them the sky was blue, nothing to obscure the sun’s rays, but Davies’ meteorological prediction was spot on. Unlike yesterday, the air temperature was struggling to get into the teens. In August.

Waterproof secured, Riley looked down at the pony again. The animal lay at the centre of a small stone circle, the circle on a plateau set into the hillside. A dozen jagged rocks poked above the heather and grass, the largest barely above knee height, the whole circle with a diameter of perhaps fifteen metres. Stonehenge, it wasn’t. This time though, Riley thought, there really wasn’t much doubt about the cause of death.

The animal lay on its back, a huge gash down the centre running from the base of the tail to the neck. The ribcage had been opened, all four legs forced back and down so the beast was spread-eagled. A mass of entrails lay on the ground to one side; heart, lungs, kidneys and other blobs of flesh Riley couldn’t identify. A little farther away some of the intestines had been laid in a rough circle, the remaining lengths criss-crossed in triangle shapes over the top. Another pentagram.

‘Fuck.’ That from Davies. The DI had lumbered over and now stood alongside Riley. ‘Enough to make you go veggie, isn’t it?’

Riley nodded. A horde of flies blackened the guts of the animal and despite the cool wind, a distinct smell hung in the air. He kept his breathing shallow and tried not to swallow. He usually had a pretty strong stomach for this kind of thing, but the sight of the animal had unsettled him. Violence done to humans was one thing, cruelty to animals quite another. Irrational, he knew, but true.

‘These places,’ Riley said, indicating the rocks. ‘They must have some significance.’

‘It’ll be fairies and pagans and all that stuff. Sacrifice to the Gods. Deflowering virgins. Sticking candles up your bottom for all I know.’

‘Candles?’

‘Old case.’ Davies winked. ‘You had to be there, but I’ll tell you over a pint someday.’

‘We need to see that professor, sir. We’re out of our depth.’

‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Davies turned towards the track where a blue Volvo bounced along, pulling up next to Riley’s car. ‘Mr Dippy Hippy from Totnes.’

‘He owed me so I called in a favour. I thought he might be able to help.’

The car stopped and the door opened. A figure got out, reached back in and pulled out a Tilley hat. Plonked the hat on his head. Scratched his Roman nose.

‘Layton?’ Davies said. ‘What does he know about this?’

‘He’s New Agey, isn’t he? Green, spiritual, Earth Mother wife. All that dancing he does. I figured he might know a thing or two.’

Riley ignored Davies’ chuckling and walked back to the car park. ‘John. Good of you to come out.’

‘For a horse?’ Layton nodded. ‘Yeah, wasn’t it? Don’t know what the DSupt’s going to say when he finds out I’ve joined the ranks of the RSPCA.’

‘I’ll take the rap. This is the second one and they seem to be getting nastier. Your expertise would be welcome and we could hardly get Nesbit to come.’

‘He’d probably welcome the change, but I get your point.’ Layton moved to the rear of the car and hefted the tailgate up. He pulled out a large toolbox. ‘Let’s go see then.’

As they strolled back to the circle Riley told Layton about the two ponies and then asked if he had any knowledge of the occult. Had he ever seen or heard of this sort of thing?

‘Hey?’ Layton paused as they reached the central stone. ‘You think living in Totnes qualifies me to speak on animal sacrifice? A bit of hummus in a canvas shopping bag from the wholefood shop and next you’re slicing ponies in half?’

‘No, John.’ Riley couldn’t help but glance down at Layton’s feet, bare in sandals. ‘But you know more about this than I do, right?’

Layton sighed. ‘Yes, I guess I do. But let me get a good look at what you’ve got first, OK?’

‘Sure. No problem.’ Riley held his hands up in apology, stepped back and then strolled over to where Davies was sitting on an isolated boulder some distance away.

A few minutes later and Layton finished up and came across.

‘Not much to say. Butchered by amateurs playing at rituals. Probably used a machete, along with some kitchen knives. The ground’s too hard for any footprints, but I got a butt from a roll-up spliff.’ Layton stared at Davies. ‘Assuming it’s not yours of course.’

‘No.’ Davies shook his head. ‘B&H, me.’

‘There’s also a can of Carlsberg with some dregs in the bottom over by one of the stones. Fresh, by the smell of it.’

‘Dope and lager?’ Riley said. ‘Doesn’t sound much like the sort of thing you’d be taking in the middle of some ritual.’

‘No.’ Layton turned back towards the circle. ‘I’m not sure this is the real deal.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think these people are playing. They’ve got an idea of what this sort of thing is
supposed
to be like, probably from the internet. And they got some things right. You saw the intestines arranged in a pentagram shape? But they don’t know what they’re doing, what they’re messing with.’

‘
Messing with
?’ Riley said. ‘You sound like a character from some horror film.’

‘Science doesn’t tell us everything. Whichever way you want to look at it there’s things we don’t know, that we can’t explain.’

‘Tell us then,’ Davies said, plainly impatient.

‘This circle is well off the beaten track, right? You might wonder why anybody would bother coming all the way across the moor to be here. Well, a little way to the north lies an important ley line – the St Michael’s line – which runs across the country all the way from Bury St Edmunds down to St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall. Leys are supposedly corridors for spiritual energy. Worshippers think that they can draw on that energy from this point. A bit like plugging into a power socket on the wall.’

‘You don’t believe this crap?’ Davies said. ‘You’ll be telling me little green men use this place to recharge their flying saucers next.’

‘Hang on.’ Layton held up his hand and turned and pointed at the pony. ‘It doesn’t matter if I believe it or not. Somebody believes it enough to murder that animal. Look.’ Layton reached into his bag and pulled out a map of Dartmoor. ‘So the ley line is somewhere here. It runs through St Michael’s at Brentor to the west and crosses the moor heading towards Crediton.’ Layton traced a finger across the map. ‘Now, the first pony was killed up near Postbridge. Here we’re some way north of Princetown. Join the two sites and you have a line
exactly
parallel to the ley line.’

‘Bloody coincidence,’ Davies said. ‘You may as well string together public houses. Make for an entertaining journey at least.’

‘No coincidence. The sacrifice of the ponies points to somebody being familiar with the alignment of ancient sites. So someone in this group is not such an amateur.’

‘Shit,’ Riley said. ‘You’re sure it’s not just kids messing around?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘What the hell do we tell Hardin?’

‘I suggest you tell him to start worrying.’ Layton pointed across to the remains of the pony. Pieces of flesh hung on the white bones and the viscera had darkened in the sun. ‘Do this to an animal, and it’s only one step further to doing the same to a human being.’

Kevin Foster was the type of person who lent credibility to the theory that physical attributes were a marker to deviancy. He was, as Calter had said, ‘a right specimen’. Now, sitting in a room at Charles Cross dressed in a paper jumpsuit, some of the effect was lost. Gone was the gold bracelet round his wrist, the bunch of keys on a long chain and the jeans without a belt. Still, his stocky frame with numerous tattoos, cropped hair and the way he kept nodding his little round head as it swivelled back and forth was good enough for Calter to utter another one of her classic lines.

‘Imagine
that
watching you as you got undressed in the evening, ma’am. Think I’d prefer to dance naked through the squad room.’

Foster muttered under his breath as they entered the interview room, expletives just audible until his lawyer provided a gentle rebuff by way of a hand on his arm. The lawyer turned to Savage, a row of brilliant white teeth glistening as she parted her lips in an approximation of a smile.

Amanda bloody Bradley. Savage cursed and stepped into the room as Bradley stood and held out her hand, red fingernails sharp and curved like an eagle’s talons.

‘Charlotte.’ The hand was proffered as if Bradley was a member of the royal family. ‘So
nice
to see you again. And you’re looking a little better than last time we met. I do hope it won’t be too long before you’re back to full health.’

Every time they met Bradley made some comment on Savage’s looks or dress sense. It was her way of trying to gain some kind of advantage before the sparring had even begun. Savage resisted the temptation to spit on Bradley’s hand. Instead, she ignored her and sat down opposite Foster. Getting Bradley to represent him was probably one of the more intelligent things Foster had done. The solicitor had a reputation for getting her clients off the hook using fair means or foul. An array of contacts usually meant she had somebody she could call on for help, and if that didn’t work she wasn’t afraid to use all her feminine wiles to get what she wanted.

Savage nodded at Calter and the DC guided Foster through the interview procedure and explained about his rights and the recording equipment. Foster glanced up at the camera in the corner and smiled, the irony obviously not lost on him.

‘Inspector,’ Bradley said when Calter had finished the preliminaries. ‘My client has decided to admit the cameras were his and that he filmed the girls in the house over several months. The material was for his own personal use and not for wider dissemination. However, any implication he was involved in the murder of the girl is way over the top.’

‘Is that right, Mr Foster?’ Calter said, ignoring Bradley’s attempt to bring Savage into the interview and control the situation. ‘You’re happy to make a statement to that effect?’

‘Yes. Seems best.’ Foster glanced at Bradley and then back at Calter. Smiled. ‘Get it all out in the open and bare my chest. So to speak.’

‘Very droll.’ Calter tapped the printout in front of her as Bradley grimaced across at her client. ‘I hope you manage to keep your sense of humour when you’re banged up.’

‘I …’ Foster held up both hands by way of apology. ‘Sorry. My bad.’

‘Where did you get the idea to install the cameras from?’

‘Saw some guy on the news. Up in Birmingham. Had a load of student accommodation and wired up some of it. Police found a room in his house where the live feeds were displayed on half a dozen screens. The fucker just sat there and brought up whatever property he fancied watching. Teens on tap. I thought “I’ll have some of that.” I know a bit about computers, so setting the thing up was easy.’ He saw the expression on Calter’s face and hurriedly went on. ‘I lost my wife a few years ago. The cameras were just a bit of harmless fun to keep me entertained.’

‘I’m sorry to hear about your wife’s death, Kevin, but it doesn’t excuse your actions.’

‘Well, when I say “lost”, I don’t mean she died. She walked out on me. She’s alive and kicking, more’s the pity.’ Foster glanced at Bradley as she coughed. ‘Not that I’d wish her any harm or anything, just she got a rather large divorce settlement. I had to sell three of my properties to pay her off.’

‘Right.’ Calter looked at Savage. A cue for her to take over.

‘Mr Foster,’ Savage said. ‘Anasztáz Róka vanished a little over a week ago. Yesterday we find her body. Today we discover you have a bit of a thing about voyeurism. Coincidence?’

‘Yes, of course. Look, she owed me money. When she disappeared I figured she’d probably gone back home or done a bunk to some other part of the UK.’

‘When you watched her on the webcam you were aroused, weren’t you?’

‘No.’

‘No? A nubile teen naked on screen just for you and you weren’t aroused? No wonder your wife left you if—’

‘Hey! OK, I was aroused.’

‘You masturbated over the images, didn’t you?’

‘Jesus! I’ve admitted filming, what more do you want?’

‘The police want the truth, Kevin,’ Bradley said. ‘Just tell them what you got up to and everything will be fine.’

‘OK, OK.’ Foster looked sideways down at the floor like a naughty schoolboy in a headmistress’s office. ‘I wanked off. That’s all. They were beautiful, right? I was only doing what was natural.’

‘And what would be more natural than wanting something more than your own hand? Maybe one of those lithe bodies under yours? Did you ever think of that?’

‘Of course I
thought
of it, but thinking was as far as it went.’

‘Really? I think you went further. Much, much further.’

‘No.’

‘After seeing Ana on the screen, you had to have her. You propositioned her but she rejected you. So you decided to force her. She struggled, maybe things got out of control, you didn’t realise your own strength. At the end of it she was dead.’

‘No!’ Kevin jumped up. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, it wasn’t like that! You fuckers are trying to twist the story around. I watched the girls, I wanked over them, I wanted them, but that was all.’

‘Are you sure? I reckon you came on to Ana. Made it clear you’d let her off the rent if she let you have sex with her.’

‘OK, so what if I did? I
said
the wrong thing, but I never fucking
did
anything.’

Savage let his admission hang in the air. Foster held her eyes for a moment and then slumped back in his chair.

‘Tell us what happened, Kevin.’ Calter. Leaning forward, soft words; Foster’s new best friend.

Foster shook his head and then looked across at his solicitor. Bradley nodded.

‘Ana came to me a week or so ago. She told me she was still unable to pay the rent and could see no way she could in the foreseeable future. I told her I had an idea. I said I’d buy her lunch and explain what I wanted. When I told her we’d go over to a pub in the countryside she got nervous, but still agreed to come. I’m pretty sure she expected me to want to stop off on the way and have sex. But she still said yes, OK?’

‘And is that what happened?’

‘No— I mean, at first I wanted it to.’ Foster held his hands up. ‘Like you said, she was young and attractive. What hope does a man like me have of getting to make out with a girl like her?’

‘Not much to be honest, Mr Foster,’ Calter said. ‘Go on.’

‘While we drove, another idea came to me. I enjoyed watching Ana and her housemates on screen, but really I never got to see very much. The cameras weren’t positioned in the right places and the girls got dressed and undressed far too quickly. The camera in the bathroom worked a treat until they took a shower. Then the bloody mirror steamed up. Plus none of the girls had boyfriends so I never got to see any sexual activity, apart from a couple of the lasses playing with themselves under the covers. So I thought I’d let Ana and her housemates off their rent for good and pay them some money if they would make sure to display a bit more flesh. If they could put on a couple of lezzie shows, get a lad or two in, so much the better. I’d seen sites on the web where you could watch the action in houses pretty much twenty-four-seven. Sounded like a money-making opportunity to me. Better than just a one-off fumble.’

‘So you put this to Ana?’

‘Yeah. We were driving along up near Widecombe-in-the-Moor, heading for a pub, and I told her about the camera in her room. She went mental. Started calling me all kinds of names and then demanded to be let out. I told her to shut up but she started screaming so I stopped the car and she jumped out. She told me to drive off or she’d start shouting “rape”, so I did. Honestly, that was the last time I saw her. I never killed her. I never even touched her.’

‘Were there any witnesses to see this, being as you were close to Widecombe?’

‘No, I’d stopped just outside. There was nobody else around. But she walked into the village, I’m sure of it.’

‘I’m sure you are, Kevin, but the ending to your story sounds a little too convenient.’ Calter turned to Savage. ‘Ma’am, what’s your opinion?’

‘I think it’s total bullshit,’ Savage said.

Riley was back at Crownhill mid-afternoon. He dropped Davies off and continued into town for his meeting with Professor Graham Falk, slightly surprised that the academic had suggested Starbucks as a rendezvous point. He sat outside the coffee shop, watching out for Falk. His first latte had been and gone when he glanced up to see a man standing beside his table.

‘DS Darius Riley?’

Riley was taken aback to see the voice belonged to a man some way the right side of fifty, the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. Well, perhaps he wasn’t tall, but the other two attributes certainly applied.

‘Yes.’ Riley made to get up, but Falk waved him down.

‘Please.’ He glanced down at Riley’s empty cup. ‘Can I get you another?’

Riley nodded and Falk walked off. Five minutes later he was back with a cappuccino for himself and a fresh latte for Riley.

‘Is this your usual place for a meeting?’ Riley asked. ‘I was expecting to find you in an office surrounded by musty old books.’

‘I’m a social anthropologist.’ Falk waved a finger around. ‘You could say this is as good as an office for me.’

‘I thought you were in the sociology department?’

‘
Was
being the operative word. In order to save money the department has been swallowed up by the new School of Government. Sociology has always been a dirty word. Politicians don’t like the subject because it raises too many questions, but doesn’t provide an equal number of answers. Anyway, I don’t have to worry. At the moment I’m attached to the Centre for Culture, Community and Society. I have a bursary and apart from a few light teaching duties I’m on sabbatical writing a book which I hope might become a TV series.’

‘On Satanism?’

‘Hell no!’ Falk smiled. ‘Excuse the pun. No, it’s on the changing nature of belief. How we got to the twenty-first century and left God behind.’

‘Controversial?’ Riley said, thinking the man was certainly the type of male eye candy TV executives would rush to sign up. Middle-aged women from middle England would swoon at his every word.

‘I hope so.’ Falk smiled again and leaned forward. He reached down into his bag and brought out a copy of the
Herald
. ‘Now, to your problems. I see the local paper isn’t helping much.’

‘No.’ Riley read the headline:
Satanic Ritual Pony Horror
. ‘I guess they’re in the business of selling papers, not helping the police.’

‘What annoys me is they make most of the stuff up. Their ideas come from watching Hammer horror movies. Would you believe they contacted me for an interview, but they wanted to conduct it in a churchyard at night? Of course I said “no”. They want buckets of blood, naked virgins and plenty of sex.’

‘What we discovered on the moor was certainly bloody. Are you going to tell me that’s not what it’s all about?’

‘Not really.’ Falk shook his head. He gazed across the plaza to where two Goths were pushing a baby in a buggy. ‘See those parents? Plonk them in a graveyard sans child and they’ll be viewed entirely differently. Everything comes down to context and one’s point of view.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Relativism, Mr Riley. One man’s meat is another man’s murder. There are no absolutes.’

‘Those ponies suffered. That’s an absolute. I can’t see why anybody would do such a thing.’

‘
You
can’t see.’ Falk smiled. ‘You have to understand that people believe in things for different reasons. Science has eliminated deities but people still feel the need for something spiritual. They want something to use as a tool to structure their lives. No different from Christianity. Over the twentieth century, God as a supernatural being has been swept aside by materialism. Your identity is no longer formed from what you believe, but rather from what you possess.’ Falk put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. ‘This is what people worship nowadays.’

‘Right.’ Riley stared at Falk. He considered himself something of an intellectual, but he had no idea what Falk was talking about. He lived in a different world. A world of ivory towers and grants which enabled you to write pure garbage for a living. He tried again.

‘Could I ask you to take a look at these?’ Riley pulled out a sheaf of photographs and passed them across to Falk. ‘Fact, not the fiction of the newspapers.’

Falk took the pictures and looked at them one by one. Then he put them down and pushed them across the table back to Riley.

‘Well?’ Riley said. He looked across to a nearby table where the Goth couple had sat down. The father held the baby, spooning some yogurt from a pot into the child’s mouth. ‘What do you think?’

‘I can tell you this stuff isn’t genuine. In my experience true believers don’t go cutting up ponies. In fact atheistic Satanists don’t believe in any form of human or animal sacrifice. The members of the groups I’ve studied are just like you and me. Ordinary people, not monsters.’

‘Professor Falk, what I need from you is help tracking down these nutters.’

‘Killing a couple of ponies does not make you a nutter, not clinically.’

‘Maybe not, but what if the next step is to go further?’