Tell Tale (17 page)
‘The stone was there,’ the woman said. She pointed to a depression a metre or so away. A thin covering of weeds grew from the black peat but no heather. ‘Those plants are recent, seeded this year. The stone was moved sometime over the winter.’
While the archaeologist began to explain to Riley about the history and use of the kistvaen, Campbell and his team brought over an assortment of ropes, various oak joists, crowbars and spades. Then Campbell and the ranger argued about how they should proceed. For a few minutes a heated discussion took place, during which there was much arm waving, but they eventually settled on lifting each end of the rock in turn onto strips of wood and then sliding the rock to the side with one of the vehicles providing the motive power. Riley shook his head. It was like a bloody grannies’ meeting.
Another half an hour saw everything set up, the wood joists in position beneath the rock and a wire cable stretching from a winch on the front of the DRG Land Rover to a complicated weave of ropes wrapped around the rock. Campbell operated the winch and the wire strained and began to hum in the wind. There was a creak and the rock began to scrape along the oak beams. Riley moved forward to peer into the hole but Campbell waved him away.
‘Stay back,’ Campbell shouted. ‘If the wire breaks it could slice you in half.’
Riley stepped back quickly. The stone inched along the twin rails of wood. Riley circled round and joined Campbell at the front of the Land Rover. The rock had moved a couple of metres when Campbell cut the power to the winch.
‘That’ll do it,’ he said.
Riley moved back towards the hole but Campbell’s long stride took him there first.
‘Well,’ he said, staring down. ‘Looks like dead ponies are the least of your worries.’
Riley reached the kistvaen. Four vertical slabs of rock had been sunk into the ground to form a small box. A contorted shape lay jumbled inside. A colourful waterproof jacket contrasted with a pale shrunken face and eye sockets gazed empty and unseeing from beneath a fleece hat. Skin peeled from the scalp where great chunks of hair had fallen out and some animal had gnawed away at one side of the cheek. Half the jawbone jutted out through the cheek, a line of teeth exposed in a grimace. The worst thing was the hands. Nothing but dried skin stretched tight over a skeletal frame, clasped together as if in prayer.
‘Fuck,’ Riley said.
Savage was following John Layton’s car along the narrow lane away from the reservoir when the CSI put his hazard lights on and pulled over onto the verge. Savage stopped her car behind Layton’s as he got out. He had his mobile in one hand and he waved the phone at Savage as if he was sprinkling holy water.
‘DS Riley.’ Layton turned and jerked the phone to the west where the rain clouds had given way to a sun glowing red and fierce as it settled on the horizon. ‘He’s found a body over at the stone circle. I’m heading there now. Being as you’re senior to Riley I think you’d better come too.’
Savage trailed the CSI across the moor until eventually Layton’s car crested a small rise. Several vehicles were clustered in a pull-off. DS Riley stood next to his own car and he waved as Savage and Layton parked up and came over.
‘Not a girl,’ Riley said. ‘A man. And he’s been there for some time.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Savage said. ‘Any ideas as to who he is?’
‘Identity unknown at the moment. But then we haven’t got him out of the kistvaen yet.’
‘The
what
?’
‘Ancient burial chamber. Hence the presence of an archaeologist from English Heritage.’ Riley pointed over to where a fair-haired young woman with a pale face sat in the back of a squad car. ‘You’d have thought she’d have been used to seeing dead bodies, but she couldn’t hang on to her lunch. To be fair to her, neither could the ranger and one of his workers.’
‘Not near the scene?’ Layton growled. ‘You know how fussy I—’
‘No, John, well away.’ Riley nodded to another car where Dr Andrew Nesbit stood making the final adjustments to his PPE suit. ‘Talking of fusspots, here comes Dr Death himself.’
‘Darius!’ Savage flicked Riley on the arm.
‘Fine evening for it, folks.’ Nesbit’s voice carried across the moor as he strode over, his tall, thin frame reminding Savage of a circus stilt walker. As he approached he winked, a bushy eyebrow wriggling like some huge caterpillar. ‘Sunshine. Most unusual.’
‘Like this poor fellow.’ Riley gestured towards the stone circle where a CSI was erecting a camera tripod.
‘Yes. Can’t recall coming across anything like it before. Any issues I should know about?’
Riley explained that the kistvaen had originally been in an opened state, had probably been that way for centuries, but that the stone had some time in the last year or so been moved back into place, entombing the man.
‘Alive?’ Nesbit’s right eyebrow wriggled again.
‘Why else do you think you’re here?’ Savage said. ‘A picnic?’
‘Never been my thing, Charlotte. Ants crawling all over the sandwiches, wasps drowning in the wine? No, alfresco to me means a table at my favourite restaurant in Sorrento overlooking the Gulf of Naples. Vesuvius to my right, the Med to my left, good food on the table and a beautiful woman sitting opposite.’ Nesbit winked again and Savage wondered if he was joking. ‘Shall we?’
As they approached the hole the CSI was focusing his attention on the junction between two of the inset stones.
‘Marks in the rock,’ the CSI said as he fired off a couple of pictures. ‘Pieces have been chipped away.’
‘Interesting you mentioned Vesuvius, Andrew,’ Savage said. ‘Buried alive.’
‘Yes.’ Nesbit leaned over the hole and peered at the contorted body. ‘But in the case of being covered in hot volcanic ash death would occur from asphyxiation within minutes. I would imagine that if this poor chap was indeed buried alive then he took considerably longer to die. Do we know the date when the stone was last seen in its old position?’
‘Not exactly,’ Riley said. ‘The general consensus seems to be some time last winter.’
‘From the state of the corpse I’d say it’s as good a guess as any. There’s substantial decay, but we’re talking six months, possibly a little longer.’
Nesbit took a walk around the kistvaen, pausing several times. Back where he started he put his bag down, opened it and pulled out a small padded object. Savage cocked her head on one side and gave Nesbit a quizzical stare, unable to work out what the piece of scientific equipment was.
‘At my age, Charlotte,’ Nesbit said as he placed the cushion on the ground and knelt on it, ‘one needs all manner of little aids to get through the day.’
The pathologist turned back to the corpse and his jokey manner vanished. He supported himself with one hand and reached down with the other, using a pair of forceps to remove the hat. The CSI stepped forward with a large plastic evidence bag, put the item inside and handed the bag back to Nesbit.
‘As I thought. A head wound.’ Nesbit fiddled with the hat through the polythene and turned it partially inside out. He held the bag up for Savage. ‘Look, the material is discoloured.’
Savage took the bag. The hat was a dark blue fleece mater-ial, but in one area the blue had turned black. ‘Blood,’ Savage said. ‘How did you know?’
‘He’s not tied up, is he? He was surprised and knocked unconscious and then put in the ground. He didn’t come round until the rock had been placed in position. Here.’ Nesbit leant forward and teased at the man’s pale hair with the forceps until a dark splodge could be seen. ‘More blood.’
‘But he did come round, right?’
‘Yes. The chipping away at the stone shows that.’ Nesbit adjusted the position of his cushion and moved backwards. He pointed at one of the vertical slabs. ‘There. More blood and pieces of skin. When he’d finished with whatever he used to do the chipping he tried his hands. I wouldn’t mind betting that on the underside of the main rock you’ll find more evidence of his futile attempts to escape.’
‘Bloody hell, Andrew,’ Savage said, feeling a rush of panic at the thought of being trapped in the small space. ‘Don’t you ever hanker after simple cases? You know, the “died peacefully in their sleep” kind of thing.’
‘Boring,’ Nesbit said. ‘But of course it’s the way I hope to go. Here, look at the ends of his fingers.’
Nesbit had reached down and lifted the skeletal hand. He indicated for the photographer to take some pictures.
‘And?’ Savage said.
‘Damage to the bone at the finger tips. He got so desperate he didn’t realise what he was doing to his hands. He clawed and clawed away until the tips were gone and he chipped the bone.’
Savage shook her head. Didn’t say anything as Nesbit swung his legs over the edge of the kistvaen in order to get closer. Who was this poor man? The way he was dressed – the waterproofs, hat, scarf and hiking boots – suggested somebody who had planned to be out on the moor. This wasn’t a gangland killing by inner-city criminals, nor a clever hiding place for a murder victim killed in premeditation or heat of the moment. On the other hand, who but a gang would be present in such numbers as to move the rock? This wasn’t a one-on-one killing then. Several people had been involved in concealing the body at least. That should, Savage thought, make things easier.
Should
.
‘Can’t see any other obvious signs of injury,’ Nesbit said. ‘But the post-mortem will tell us more. Getting him out in one piece is going to be tricky though. He’ll likely as not fall apart.’
‘So did the head wound eventually prove fatal or …?’
‘From the evidence so far I’d say not. He probably died of thirst, exposure or perhaps he had a heart attack. I’ll probably not be able to give you a definitive cause of death, but let’s hope the PM reveals some more information regarding the time of death. If we’re lucky there’ll be plant or animal material trapped in his clothing somewhere. That could narrow down the time period to a month or so.’
Savage nodded as Nesbit got up and began to explain about taking the utmost care with the retrieval of the corpse. Nothing must be left behind and contamination was to be avoided if at all possible.
With that the pathologist was away and the CSI was left muttering to Savage about Nesbit being an ‘absolute stickler’.
Two hours later and the body had gone, its removal supervised by John Layton. A plastic tarp had been manoeuvred beneath the man and then lifted, the whole caboodle being rolled up to ensure nothing dropped out. Then Layton did a methodical sweep of the kistvaen. He called Savage over when he’d finished.
‘Blood.’ Layton pointed down to one corner. ‘Not much, but just about visible.’
‘So? He cut himself while trying to escape. Nesbit already pointed that out.’
‘Yes, but this is different.’ Layton pointed to one of the vertical slabs. ‘He used his own blood to write something on the side wall. There’s no doubt about it really. Quite, quite unnerving.’
‘John?’
‘Take a look.’
Savage leaned over and stared. Several smears of red-black were visible, squiggles which might have been letters. The letters weren’t evenly spaced, nor were they on a line. She put her head first one way and then another to try and decipher them.
‘A. n. a. s. z. Oh fuck,’ she said, looking up at Layton. ‘Tell me this isn’t true?’
‘Unless we’re both hallucinating, it’s true.’
Savage turned back to the writing. The letters weren’t altogether clear, but the name they spelled out was so unusual there really could be no doubt about it.
‘Anasztáz,’ she said. ‘How—?’
L
ayton shook his head. Shrugged. For once as lost for words as she was.
Seven o’clock in the morning. Savage stood in her living room and peered through the binoculars across Plymouth Sound to the Cornish coast. She could just make out a line of boats anchored to the south-east of Cawsand. Nestled in under the lee of the headland, shelter from the strong south-westerly was pretty good. The crews on board the boats would have had a good night’s sleep, rocked by a rhythmic swell. Before long they’d wake and the smell of frying bacon would permeate the air. If only she could spare the time to get over there, she thought.
Time, unfortunately, was in short supply, thanks to the discovery of the body at the stone circle and the fact that the mystery hiker in the kist had something to do with Anasztáz Róka. Hardin wanted everybody in so they could blitz the two cases.
‘Serious this, Charlotte,’ he’d said on the phone Friday evening. ‘Two – possibly three – victims. We need to nip this one in the bud, understand? Don’t want to make that serial killer story come true.’ Hence Saturday’s meeting. Savage cursed and moved from the window to get her breakfast.
By eight she was at the station.
‘Operation
Piquet
,’ Collier said when Savage came into the crime suite. ‘Nice bit of serendipity, don’t you think?’
‘
Piquet
?’ Savage said. ‘Isn’t that some kind of card game?’
‘Exactly.’ Collier smiled. ‘Only our game is played up on the moor, a kind of puzzle.’
‘A puzzle?’
‘Look, the man in the kistvaen wrote down Ana’s name. To me it’s like one of those card tricks where a magician produces a sealed envelope – in plain view all along – which contains a prediction relating to a card you have just picked randomly from a pack. Ana’s name must have been written down before she even came to the UK.’
‘Gareth, you’re making my head spin.’
‘Spinning is good. The Super is keen to solve this as quickly as possible.’
Collier gestured across to where Hardin sat at a desk with an array of newspapers spread out before him, along with a packet of digestives and a cup of coffee.
‘Have you noticed,’ Savage said, ‘how the DSupt seems to have an endless supply of luxury biscuits in his office, but that whenever he comes down here he brings plain ones?’
‘Managing resources.’ Collier tapped his forehead. ‘I would imagine the skill is ingrained from birth. You either have the gift or not. And if not, then don’t bother trying for high rank.’
Savage nodded. ‘OK. The first task has got to be identification. There was nothing on our hiker. No wallet, no driver’s licence, no car keys, nothing.’
‘So I’ve been told.’ Collier began to move across the room towards where Enders sat at a terminal. ‘Usually that might cause us all kinds of difficulties but Patrick’s had a brain wave.’
As Savage approached it appeared as if Enders was taking a break. His screen showed an outdoor clothing manufacturer’s website. The DC was nuts about mountaineering.
‘Patrick,’ Savage said. ‘You’re not being paid to shop on police time.’
‘The coat, ma’am,’ Enders said, smiling and pointing at the screen. ‘Top of the range Berghaus. Last year’s model. Well over three hundred quid. I reckon if he bought the coat round here then we’ve a good chance of finding out who he is. Unless he paid cash, then we’re in.’
‘He may have purchased it online.’
‘Even so, there aren’t that many stockists. If we get no joy from a trawl of the local shops then it wouldn’t take too much legwork to trace.’
‘You sure about this?’
‘Yes.’ Enders nodded. ‘This piece of clothing is a seriously nice bit of kit. I had my eye on one for myself but the wife wouldn’t open her wallet. Said we already had enough gear to equip an expedition to Everest.’
‘So which shops would have this in?’
‘Blacks, Cotswold Outdoor and Go Outdoors in Plymouth, Trail in Ivybridge, Kountry Kit in Tavistock. Some other stores in Exeter.’
‘Apparently Patrick frequents them all,’ Collier said. ‘He’s offered to do the legwork.’
‘I have.’ Enders grinned. ‘Getting paid to visit a load of mountaineering shops is my kind of fun.’
Collier looked at Savage for confirmation. She nodded.
‘Away with you then,’ she said. Enders raised his thumbs and scampered off. Savage turned to the whiteboard and pointed at a map of Dartmoor. ‘Riley said something about ley lines. Can we get them drawn on here, see if they point to anything?’
‘Hey?’ Collier held a marker pen in his hand, but he didn’t look keen to deface his map. ‘You really think that’s a line of enquiry? Nonsense, if you ask me.’
The office manager, Savage knew, would want something concrete to work with. Not a load of mumbo-jumbo, airy-fairy, New Age mysticism.
‘As I understand it these ley lines go through various ancient sites. I think we should be looking to see if any local ones deserve further investigation. Make a checklist. If you’re struggling, see John Layton. Riley tells me he’s an expert.’
Savage turned away, Collier huffing as she did so. She walked across to where Hardin sat flicking through the pile of newspapers. With each headline she could see his mood darken.
‘The missing girl,’ Hardin said, looking up as she approached. ‘There’s no news, I take it?’
‘No,’ Savage said, wondering if the DSupt assumed she’d been up all night searching for Irina. ‘Still no confirmed sighting since she left the cafe on Thursday.’
‘And the sheep killer, he didn’t do it?’ Hardin raised his eyebrows, expectant, hoping for a miracle.
‘We don’t think so. There’s no evidence the girl was ever at his little hideout or in his van.’
‘She’s to go on the back burner then.’
‘You mean forget her?’
‘No, not at all. We work the murder cases and hope something turns up that leads us to her.’
‘But …’ Savage didn’t think hope was going to be much use to Irina if her disappearance was connected to Ana’s killing.
Hardin held up a hand. ‘This goes way beyond a missing person and a few ponies getting their bits chopped off. We’re talking two horrific murders. To which end I’m shifting Riley and Davies from the Agri Squad. Maynard won’t like it but this is serious.’
Savage knew what ‘serious’ meant in Hardin’s eyes and she wasn’t surprised when he began muttering about media coverage, pointing to the newspaper headlines in-between taking bites of his biscuit and slurps from his tea. The devil worship element was bringing out the worst excesses of the press, he said. There’d already been one false alarm when a group of tabloid journos had attempted to reconstruct a Black Mass, complete with flaming cross and sacrificial lamb. A farmer had spotted the flames and opened up on the group with a shotgun. Three of the journalists had had to go to casualty to have pellets removed while the police had no choice but to arrest the farmer, since the shooting took place on public land and the farmer’s shotgun licence had expired.
‘Bloody mess,’ Hardin continued. ‘It started out as a bit of a joke, didn’t it? A couple of dead horses with their bits mangled. This body’s taken all the fun out the case. I don’t suppose it could be entirely unconnected to the ponies and Ana Róka?’
‘No chance, sir. Ana Róka and our hiker are definitely connected. Although I guess the pony killings could have been carried out by a separate group. Layton mentioned something about it being the work of amateurs. Playing at being Satanists.’
‘Playing?’ Hardin shook his head. ‘I’d hardly call cutting off a horse’s knackers playing.’
‘No, sir, but it’s a step up from killing a horse to burying somebody alive.’
‘So you’re saying there
are
two distinct groups?’
Savage shook her head. ‘To be honest I don’t know. DI Davies and DS Riley have been working on this for a couple of days, they’re more up to speed than I am.’
‘Talking of which, those two are well ahead of the game. Up with the larks this morning, roaming the badlands of North Prospect looking for the Holy Trinity. As for you, you’d better bloody well get up to speed, hadn’t you?’
The Holy Trinity, as Davies had tagged them, were the three lads from North Prospect: Nigel Branson, Greg Randall and Andy Howson. Davies had collected Riley from his flat first thing and headed north up Alma Road, Central Park on their right. The park separated the student and middle- class areas of Peverell, Mutley and Mannamead, from the rougher parts of the city: Devonport and North Prospect. The latter had spawned some infamous criminals, but, according to Davies, Howson and his mates were pale imitations.
‘No hierarchy any more, see?’ Davies said as he swung the car onto North Prospect Road and headed into the maze of streets that comprised the sprawling estate. ‘I’ve heard it from the mouths of the old-timers. Nothing is earned nowadays, they say. The kids have no respect for their elders. One jumped-up tosser is no better than any other.’
‘A breakdown of rules amongst the criminal classes,’ Riley said. ‘There’s a delicious irony in that.’
‘There’s nothing delicious about Howson.’
Riley could only agree as they sat in the car up from Howson’s place and watched him come out. He wore a pair of grey baggies and a running vest that showed his heavily tattooed arms. The man was sub-human, Riley thought, some kind of throwback. Or, worse, maybe this was the future. The lowest common denominator. A cockroach that could survive even a nuclear winter.
Howson headed off along the street away from them without a glance in their direction. Davies wasn’t fooled.
‘Even at twenty-five, Howson’s a wise old fox,’ he said. ‘He’ll know the score. I bet he’s spotted us.’
Davies started the engine and they cruised after Howson, tailing him to the local Betfred.
When Howson came out of the bookmakers his expression was indeed one of mock surprise.
‘Well I never. Phil and his organ grinder,’ Howson said, grinning. ‘If you’re looking for a tip you won’t go far wrong with “Shove it up your arse” running in the two-thirty at Haydock. He’s a tight little number but you’ll slide right in armed with a good supply of—’
‘Shut it, Howson,’ Davies said. ‘We’d like you to come back down the station and answer some more questions.’
‘Can I say no?’
‘What do you think?’
Howson shook his head and put his hands out in front of him, pretending they were cuffed together.
‘Take me, but for God’s sake be gentle, it’s my first time.’
Davies raised his right hand and for a moment Riley thought he was going to clout Howson. Instead he gestured in the direction of their car and the three of them walked to the vehicle in silence.
It took an hour and a half to get Howson booked in and to await the appearance of his lawyer. Eventually Riley and Davies entered the interview room and found Howson sitting alongside a lad not much older than Howson himself.
‘Andy,’ Davies said. ‘I first busted you when you were fifteen. Intent to supply, if I recall.’
‘Course I remember,’ Howson said, shifting in his seat. ‘It were you and that Savage bird. Had a hard-on for weeks after meeting her.’
‘Well at least something good came of it then. If I remember the CPS dropped the charges in the end.’
‘I was a bit young. I had an innocent face and a mum who swore blind I was a little angel. Butter wouldn’t melt and all that crap.’
‘I guess your poor mother’s changed her opinion now. And if she hasn’t, she will when she hears about this one. You’re not going to be very popular around North Prospect when this gets out.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘A little bird at the CPS tells me there’ll soon be three extra names on the sex offenders register. You’ll be on the list alongside the rapists and paedophiles.’ Davies turned to Riley. ‘Wasn’t there a bit of fuss recently, Darius? Somebody’s house getting burned down?’
‘Yes, sir. Some old guy had been making a few too many bus journeys. He’d been ogling the teenage girls and taking pictures too. Made the mistake of letting his hands wander. Gives a whole new meaning to the words “bus pass”. Anyway, because of the man’s age he got off with a suspended sentence. Wasn’t enough for the people around where he lived. One night last month someone lobs a Molotov in through his back door. He runs out through the front only to find a bunch of local residents waiting for him. Luckily a patrol car was cruising by at the time and they were able to take him into protective custody.’
‘There you go, Andy.’ Davies balled a fist and slammed it into his other hand. ‘Restorative justice in action. Saves the taxpayer a fortune. Now, where were we?’
‘Inspector?’ The fresh-faced cherub with the spots spoke for the first time. ‘It sounds like you are threatening my client. I might remind you he’s had absolutely nothing to do with young girls.’
‘Maybe not, but he did cut off a horse’s testicles with a knife and shoved a broom handle up the poor creature’s arse.’
‘I didn’t,’ Howson said.
‘That’s not what you said last time. “No comment” was all you could manage. Anyway, a copper saw you do it. Who do you think a jury is going to believe, you, or him?’
‘A jury?’ The solicitor again. Eager to press home a point of law. ‘I don’t think it will come to that though, do you, Inspector?’
‘You’re thinking this will go to a magistrate’s court, are you? Usually you’d be right and usually I wouldn’t be getting involved in a case like this. But what Andy may not have told you is we’re not just talking about animal cruelty here. We’re talking about murder.’
‘Murder!’ Howson leaned forward and crashed his fist down into the table. ‘Where the bloody hell did you get that from?’
‘There’s another case involving Satanic rituals and sacrifices and as far as I can see this is directly linked.’
‘Woah, hold up there,’ the solicitor said. ‘You need to brief me on this before we go any further, otherwise I’m going to instruct my client to say nothing more.’
Davies turned to Riley. Riley nodded and reached over to turn off the recording equipment.
It
was late afternoon and Savage was about to call it a day when John Layton came into the crime suite, laptop in hand.
‘Charlotte,’ Layton said, plonking the laptop down on a desk and flipping up the lid. ‘Take a look at this.’