Tell Tale (11 page)
‘Sorry to butt in,’ Fox cut across a stream of words which had turned into a rant about the EU. ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem. Or should I say
we’ve
got a bit of a problem.’
Dead air came from the phone and for a moment Fox thought the connection had broken. Then the voice came through, low but clear.
‘What is it, Simon? You sound stressed.’
‘Yes. Somebody’s tracked down the Impreza. They know Owen was driving that day. It won’t be long before they work out that strings have been pulled and there’s been a cover-up.’
‘
What
?’ More dead air. ‘This is bad, Simon. Very bad.’
‘Yes,’ Fox said. ‘Everything will come out. The fact that your daughter – Lauren – was there with Owen. That they were both dealing drugs. Once the press get hold of the story they won’t let go. You and I, we’re the bubbles, the fizz. The story is flat without us. Just an everyday tale of drugs and a hit-and-run. With us it’s a very different cocktail. The journalists will lap it up right down to the very last dregs.’
‘Shit, Simon. I’ve got my own set of problems at the moment. You can’t even imagine the hell I’m going through. I don’t need this.’
‘Of course not, but back then I covered things up as much for Lauren’s benefit as Owen’s. As much for yours as mine. I did my bit. Now I need you to return the favour.’ Fox paused. The meat of it was coming next. ‘Your friends. The ones in high places. You’re going to have to pull some strings. We need to do something about Savage.’
‘Hell, has it come to that?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it has. It’s a shame, because I’ve always rated the woman. I guess I felt sorry for her, guilty, but that was before she became a threat.’
‘And you want her stopped, whatever it takes, whatever the price. Right?’
‘Yes.’ Fox waited, half-expecting a response, but he was unsurprised when the line went dead.
A few seconds later the door to the study swung open, to reveal his wife standing there. It was clear to Fox she’d been listening from the hallway.
‘Did you call him?’ she said.
‘Yes.’ He tried to make his voice sound firm, resolved.
‘And?’
‘And he’s going to do what’s necessary.’
Jennifer nodded and turned and walked away. Fox heard her fiddling in the kitchen, the sound of the kettle being filled and set to boil. He picked up the glass from the desk and considered the contents. The gold liquid rippled as his hand shook. Then he lifted the glass to his mouth and necked the remainder of the whiskey.
Den
ton lay on his back and gazed up at Calter. She sat astride him, moving her hips back and forward, one hand pressing down on his chest, the other touching herself. Her breasts were small but perfect and Denton reached up to cup them. Calter gasped once and then let out a whine of ecstasy as she came.
Then Denton woke up.
Above him, stars shone unblinking in a crystal clear sky. The whine came again. Not Calter. Denton blinked. The cry was more like a whinny. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. The stone circle was just about visible. In the centre some figures stood around something lying on the ground. Something about the size of a pony.
He scrabbled in his day-sack and pulled out a pair of binoculars. They had huge optics, designed to suck in all the available light. He raised them to his eyes. Men, three of them. Hoods cowled their faces in black as they moved around the pony. The animal wasn’t moving; likely, Denton thought, it was already dead. One of the figures bent to the rear of the animal and made a slashing motion.
Shit. So much for saving the pony.
Denton lowered the binoculars and scanned the moorland around the stone circle. There. About a hundred metres to the right of the circle, some sort of vehicle stood with its sidelights on. A small horse trailer was attached to the rear of the vehicle. Denton shoved the binoculars into the rucksack and swung it onto his back. He scrambled away from his hiding position and down the side of the tor, traversing the slope and heading for the vehicle. The figures at the circle were still doing something to the pony. They’d also lit several small fires. The gathering seemed a little chaotic, not like a ceremony at all. Maybe that was the point.
He worked his way down a small gully and approached the vehicle from a point directly opposite the circle. Denton went to the rear of what turned out to be a Nissan 4×4 and unhitched the trailer, resting the tow hitch on the rear bumper. Then he moved to one of the wheels on the 4×4, unscrewed the cap on the air valve, and pressed in the valve so the air began to hiss out. The men were larking around now and didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave. When the tyre had deflated, Denton moved on to the next one. When that too was flat he moved away, first crouching, then scuttling across the ground like a crab, then running flat out until he’d reached the dark shadow of the tor again. Then he reached for his phone.
‘Irina, I don’t know what to say,’ Dave, the proprietor of Bean There said as Irina came into the cafe. He put his arms around her. ‘The news about Ana is shocking. Truly shocking. Do the police have any leads? And are you sure you’re ready to come back to work?’
Dave was a nice guy, Irina thought, not like most of the British men she’d met. She told him about the police investigation and how they believed her landlord was involved in Ana’s disappearance and murder. She left out her hunch about the man who’d been coming to the cafe. Instead she assured Dave she wanted to get back to work, if only to take her mind off it all.
Time to act. It was nearing the end of the school holidays, and with the sun beaming down, the cafe was packed inside and out. There was only one other waitress and the two of them struggled to keep up with the orders.
‘Hustle, hustle, hustle,’ Dave shouted from the kitchen, where he was making up baguettes as fast as he could. ‘What we take today makes up for a soggy, sloppy Wednesday in mid-October.’
Irina smiled and half-laughed as she completed yet another cappuccino, finishing it off with a little flourish, a star drawn in the creamy foam. Rushed off her feet, she had forgotten all about Ana and the fat man. She loved this job when the weather was fine. The blue skies and hot sun brought out the best in the customers and they reciprocated her happy mood and big smile with generous tips. Irina danced between the outside tables, almost as if she was a gymnast again. She twirled away from a trio of businessmen she’d been flirting with and into the arms of the fat man.
‘Oh my,’ he said. ‘Careful careful, Chubber’s all fingers and thumbs. Catching little beauties is thirsty work, tiring work. Hot chocolate, please. And plenty of creamy cream on the top as well.’
The man’s hands grasped Irina’s bare arms for a moment and he stared down at her breasts, his mouth opening and closing as if he was chewing something.
‘Cle … cle … cle …’
What was the man trying to say? Cleavage? Irina stepped back, revolted. He let go.
‘Cle … clever, that,’ the man said and plonked himself on a chair, reaching for a paper napkin, a pencil appearing in his right hand. ‘Nice big t … t … tips.’
Irina headed for the counter. He was here! The person who’d killed Ana. Irina tried not to shake as she prepared the man’s drink. She frothed up the milk and mixed the chocolate. She squirted some instant cream onto the top and dusted the cream with sprinkles. Then she carried the cup of steaming liquid back to the man’s table.
When she reached the table she saw he was still writing on the napkin. He snatched the napkin away and looked up at her.
‘Chubber’s got secrets,’ he said. ‘Don’t want just
anybody
to see, do we? Only the special ones get to know my secrets.’
‘One chocolate with extra sprinkles,’ Irina said. ‘Just how you like it.’
‘Lovely jubbly.’
The man reached up to take the hot chocolate from Irina but as he did so she emptied the cup into his lap.
‘Owwweee!’ The man scraped the chair back and stood. ‘Hot! Hot! Hot!’
‘I’m so sorry!’ Irina raised a hand to her mouth, aware other customers were staring, Dave looking concerned from behind the counter. ‘How stupid of me.’
‘Aaahhheee!’ The man peered down at the mess of chocolate and cream at his crotch and attempted to pull the material of his trousers away from his body. ‘Oh my, oh my, oh my. What a mess! What a yucky mucky mess!’
‘Here, let me help you.’ Irina pulled out the little hand towel she had hanging at her waist and handed it to the man. She gestured towards the cafe and at the same time reached for the canvas bag down by the man’s feet. ‘The bathroom, quick. Don’t worry about your bag, I’ve got that.’
‘Chubber’s wet wet wet. Burning bits. I’ve got to get to the bathroom quick quick quick.’
The man shuffled away from the table and headed for the cafe entrance with Irina following, his bag clutched tightly in her left hand.
Chubber stood in the disabled toilet with his trousers and boxer shorts round his ankles. One hand held the little towel the girl had given him while the other rubbed his crotch.
Naughty Chubber.
No, Chubber thought, it was the girl who was naughty. Very naughty. Like the other one. The first waitress Chubber had watched. According to Antler Man she’d been very, very naughty. What was it with waitresses?
He rubbed the towel up and down his thighs and around his groin area. Scritchy scratchy. Nice. He closed his eyes and imagined the girl doing the rubbing. Perhaps doing more than just rubbing. Was that why she’d spilled the drink? Did she want to see him like this, half-naked?
Chubber opened his eyes and stared at the hairy pink form reflected in the mirror.
No, that wasn’t it. Couldn’t be. She’d poured the chocolate over him for some other reason. Maybe she hadn’t liked the little notes he’d been leaving. But she’d taken the tips, hadn’t she? Time after time he’d left a couple of pound coins, a fiver, more. She’d snatched the money up without question, given him a little smile, led him on.
Naughty girly girl. Chubber could see why Antler Man got so cross about waitresses. If they went around spilling hot drinks in people’s laps then they deserved punishing.
Now then, Chubber. Careful what you say. Careful what you wish for.
Oh yes, Chubber would be careful. He was always careful.
He dried himself off and pulled up his underwear and his trousers. A huge dark stain had spread from the crotch area and down one leg. There was a white patch on one side and a brown encrustment of chocolate on the other. It didn’t look good. People would be mumbling as he passed by. They’d be sniff sniff sniffing as if he was some kind of dirty old incontinent codger. But Chubber would show them, show the girl too. She needed to be taught a lesson. Knickers down around
her
ankles. A little spank on the bottom.
Chubber! Antler Man didn’t say anything about that.
But Antler Man couldn’t know everything. Chubber washed and dried his hands. Maybe the day wasn’t turning out to be so bad after all.
Riley had to attend a meeting with several Neighbourhood Watch representatives, three councillors and a local policing team first thing on Wednesday. There’d been a number of tractors stolen from farms over Yelverton way and the councillors wanted to know what the police were doing to prevent further thefts and catch the perpetrators. ‘Sod all,’ Riley could have said, but he stuck to the standard spiel. Several investigative avenues were being pursued but in the meantime the police and the local community had to work together. Neighbourhood Watch, he informed them, had a very important role to play.
Half-a-dozen self-important egos salved, Riley headed to Crownhill where he found Davies in a less-than-cheerful mood.
‘Those Satan-worshipping pony killers,’ Davies said. ‘They’re at Charles fucking Cross. DC Denton nabbed them in the early hours. He’s a bloody hero. Apparently.’
‘Right.’ Riley nodded. ‘Why aren’t you over there questioning them?’
‘Drunk. All of them. Mid-afternoon before they’re sober, the custody sergeant reckons.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Super Denton happened,’ Davies said. ‘He was watching a stone circle on the off-chance and these three guys turn up with a pony and horsebox. They kill the pony and Denton sabotages their van so they can’t get away. He calls it in and three cars on blues and twos arrive from Plymouth and arrest them. Full plaudits to Denton, except Hardin’s blown his top. This was our case, not his. He shouldn’t have been there, definitely shouldn’t have been single-crewed.’
‘Still, we’ve got them, right?’
‘Got some people who killed a pony, sure, but I’m not altogether convinced these guys are a bunch of Satanists. Here, look.’ Davies handed Riley a couple of sheets of paper. ‘These three hardly know how to read. The closest they’ve come to esoteric is a bit of thrash metal.’
‘Thanks.’ Riley peered down at the sheets. ‘Nigel Branson, Greg Randall, and Andy Howson. Do we know them?’
‘Know them? This lot have spent more time in the custody centre than they have in their own beds. Three of North Prospect’s finest. Howson’s twenty-five and he’s already got two girls up the duff and found time to spend eighteen months inside. Carjacking, burglary, assault. Randall’s done time for dealing and the baby of the three, Branson, is nothing like his more famous namesake other than he’s partial to virgins. Bugger all on the rap sheet about mutilating horses though. To be honest, I’d have thought Howson was more used to backing the three-thirty at Kempton than killing a nag on Dartmoor. According to Denton they were tanked-up, but there was no ceremony of any kind. Looks like they unloaded the pony from the horsebox, took the animal into the circle, and then butchered it. They also lit a number of fires.’
‘In a pentagram shape?’
‘Yes. But there was nothing in the van or the box associated with Satanism. No regalia, nothing.’
‘And the pony was assaulted as before?’
‘Yes, but it happened after the animal was killed. Not that it makes it any more palatable. I’m struggling to understand what the hell these lads were up to.’
‘What have they said so far?’
‘Sod all. They’ve been busted so many times they know the ropes. Keep schtum and wait it out.’ Davies grinned. ‘They reckoned without yours truly though, didn’t they? Come this afternoon I’ll be down there pressing them hard. They’ll be crying for their mummies by the time I’ve finished with them.’
Savage had tried to ring Irina’s mobile several times but on each occasion the call went through to voicemail. She spent Wednesday morning in the crime suite, but by lunchtime, still with no word from Irina, she resorted to going round to her place. She found Kevin Foster on the pavement outside talking to two men beside a large box van. Foster sneered as she got out of her car and moved away from the van towards her.
‘Bloody cheek,’ Foster said. ‘Showing your face round here. I’ve had reporters outside my place this morning, snapping away with their cameras and asking silly questions. My picture’s going to be all over the front page come tomorrow.’
‘Just deserts, Mr Foster,’ Savage said. ‘You might be off the hook as regards Ana’s murder but you’re guilty of plenty else.’
‘Yeah?’ Foster gave a sneer. ‘Well the whole thing wouldn’t be so bad except a number of my other tenants have banded together to take legal action against me. Psychological trauma or some other bollocks.’
‘Well, Amanda Bradley should relish the fight.’ Savage pointed up towards the front door of the property. ‘Is Irina inside?’
‘No, as it happens she’s not.’
‘Do you know her whereabouts?’
Foster explained he’d seen Irina that morning. She’d informed him she was moving out and wanted a refund on the last six months’ rent. If he gave her the money she wouldn’t press charges. Meantime she was headed for work.
‘Canny lass,’ Foster said as Savage turned to go back to her car. ‘Bloody canny.’
The Bean There cafe was one of a number on Armada Way. Groups of tables and chairs clustered together under an array of large parasols as seagulls and pigeons wheeled in the air above. The patrons consisted largely of tourists with the odd group of businessmen and women taking an early lunch or holding an impromptu meeting.
When Savage introduced herself to the proprietor – a guy called Dave – he was apologetic.
‘Gone,’ he said. ‘She’s a good girl, Irina, but she was a little absentminded this morning, asked to leave halfway through the day. Can’t say I blame her after what happened to Ana. Shocking.’
‘She’s not at home, so have you any idea where she went?’
‘No, sweetheart.’ Dave spread his arms wide. ‘And I could have done with her today. When the sun’s out all people want to do is drink coffee. Maybe I shouldn’t have let her leave but she was getting clumsy. Knocked a hot chocolate over one of my regulars. He wasn’t happy, I can tell you. Wrote down my name and number on a napkin and said he’d send me the laundry bill.’
‘Hot chocolate … napkin …’ Savage whispered to herself. Irina had mentioned something about a weirdo drinking hot chocolate and that he’d written messages to Ana and Irina on paper napkins. ‘Do you know this man’s name or where he lives?’
‘Sorry, love, no. He’s a regular but I’m not friendly with him. He is a bit of an odd one to be honest. Mind you, I couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him all covered in hot chocolate. It was all Irina could do to keep up with him as he rushed for the toilets. He shut himself in and she had to wait outside holding his bag. Then he came out, had words with me, and scuttled off. Irina said she wasn’t feeling well afterwards so I sent her home, only from what you told me she’s not there. I expect she’s gone round a friend’s place or something.’
‘Yes,’ Savage said, already moving from the counter towards the street, fumbling for her phone at the same time. ‘I expect she has.’