Читать книгу Tell Tale: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel - Mark Sennen, Mark Sennen - Страница 15

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.’

‘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.