Tell Tale: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

Savage felt the weight of the object on her legs. Knew what was inside the towel without looking. ‘Kenny?’

‘Untraceable. A full clip. More if you need them but one is all it takes.’

‘Shit. I don’t know if—’

‘Think on it.’ Fallon engaged first gear and eased the car back onto the road. ‘My old man always told me regrets are for losers. He was right. Winners don’t have doubts, do they?’

‘No,’ Savage said as she folded back the rag to reveal the automatic pistol. ‘I guess they don’t.’

Then she picked up the weapon and slipped the cold steel into her jacket pocket.

DS Darius Riley stood on a desolate stretch of moorland some five miles to the west of Fernworthy Reservoir. Apart from the track he’d driven down and the dark granite of a couple of nearby tors there was nothing but grass, low scrub and heather in all directions. Not for the first time since his arrival in Devon some two years ago, he reflected on the way his life had changed since then. South London seemed a very long way away, his Caribbean heritage even further.

For a moment Riley looked east where, far away, something hung in the air above the moor, hovering like a kestrel. But he knew the object wasn’t a bird. The smudge was a helicopter. Call sign NPAS-44. Air Operations. The helicopter was looking for the missing Hungarian girl, and there’d be people on the ground too. He shook his head. That’s where the action was. Officers hunting for clues, piecing the evidence together, coming up with theories. He gave a silent curse and turned back to the job in hand.

‘Crap.’ That from DI Phil Davies. Pissed-off too. He articulated Riley’s thoughts. ‘Call this police work? I don’t. We should be over at the reservoir or knocking on a few doors and unsettling some of the local nonces. Sort it, Darius, because I want to get back home in time for Sunday lunch.’

Davies turned and strolled away, hands reaching into his pocket for lighter and fags. Davies was something of an enigma. With his lack of respect for regulations, a well-worn face with a more-than-once broken nose, cheap shirts and aftershave and even cheaper jokes, the DI appeared to be a dinosaur from a previous age of policing. Davies was known to associate with various members of Plymouth’s criminal classes. ‘In the line of duty’ was his excuse. ‘Lining his pocket’ was how Riley saw it. But there was another side to Davies. He was the main carer for his wife, disabled after a riding accident. Riley rated her as one of the most attractive and graceful women he’d met. The contrast with Davies was unsettling.

Davies trudged away with a cigarette in his mouth, leaving Riley to continue.

‘Are you sure this wasn’t natural causes?’ Riley said to DC Carl Denton, walking in a circle around the body so he could view it from all angles. ‘Something getting at the corpse? A stray dog or a fox?’

‘Sorry, sir. The pony was slaughtered.’ Denton’s eyes moved to the rear of the animal. He reached up and scratched the pronounced scar on his cheek. ‘And worse.’

‘Tell me you’re joking?’ Riley said, wondering what his old friends on the Met would say if they could see him now. The sick jokes would be coming thick and fast.

‘No, sir. He’s been interfered with, something shoved up his rectum and the genitals cut off. No way a dog did that. Anyway, what about those burn marks on the ground?’

The burn marks were apparent in several places, piles of white ash surrounded by black earth and scorched grass. Boy racers up on the moor for a party, Riley had thought at first. But the positioning of the fires was too uniform. Five of them. Straight lines had been scratched in the earth from each fire to the ones opposite and a circle had been drawn through all the points too. The result was a pentagram with the dead animal in the centre.

‘Jesus,’ Riley said, shaking his head and then laughing at his use of the word. ‘Or not.’

‘Not, sir.’ Denton seemed unamused at Riley’s quip. The lad knelt at the head of the pony and peered at the neck, where the jugular vein had been severed. A pool of red-brown earth showed where the animal had bled out. Flies buzzed, flitting from the blood to the neck. There was already a whiff of something bad in the air. ‘Not Jesus by a long way.’

‘We’ve had this before though, yes? Animals being tortured?’

‘Sort of.’ Denton looked up at Riley and then stood. ‘But not like this. We had that deer with a crossbow bolt through the head in Plymbridge woods a while back. There was a horse shot with an air gun last year. Then there was a pony slashed in the genitals over on Bodmin Moor. The animal survived though. Not like this one.’

Denton stared past Riley, his eyes roaming the vista of moorland, farther away, a tor rising to pierce the blue sky. The poor lad looked shell-shocked, Riley thought. He knew Denton had been off sick for a couple of months. ‘Gone mental’ was the squad room gossip, but as one of the few people Denton confided in, Riley knew better. Denton had become infatuated with DC Calter but she’d been having none of it. A bunch of flowers bought as a Valentine’s present had been returned with a polite ‘no thank you’. An invitation to dinner had been rejected. Riley reckoned poor old Denton would have been OK, had a close relative not died soon after. Rejection followed by loss had pushed him over the edge and into full-blown clinical depression. On his return to duty he’d gone on various training courses and had come back to a new position working as a Wildlife and Countryside officer in DI Maynard’s newly formed Agricultural Crime Squad. The role was a largely solitary one and Riley wondered if Denton was coping with the isolation. At least Denton was his own boss. Riley and Davies came under the direct control of Maynard, and the DI never failed to let them know he was in charge. Thankfully Maynard was off on his annual birdwatching holiday, and for a couple of weeks at least Riley had a little more freedom.

‘So is this of interest to the ACS or not?’ Riley said. ‘Only we’ve got some sheep rustlers to catch.’

Denton turned back to Riley, not catching the irony. ‘Could be if we want it. Those other incidents were down to kids or bored city folk. “Having a laugh”, they’d call it. This is something different. I wouldn’t have thought the pentagram was the kind of thing some kids would think up. I reckon we’ve got something much more disturbing.’

‘You’re talking about the occult? Animal sacrifice? I thought that sort of stuff belonged in movies.’

‘That’s your job to find out, sir. If the ACS’s remit extends that far.’

‘Shit.’ Riley shook his head again. He and Davies had been stuck with Maynard for the best part of six months. The sheep rustling case the pair of them were working on was to be their last one, Detective Superintendent Conrad Hardin having belatedly decided Riley’s talents were wasted in the ACS. ‘I guess it does, although I’m not sure what Maynard’s going to make of all this. Especially if it means a bit of covert ops watching a bunch of gothic types frolicking naked under a full moon.’

Denton didn’t smile. ‘The animal’s been brutally slaughtered, sir. You’ve seen what they did to the rear end. It’s not a joke.’

‘Sorry, of course not,’ Riley said. ‘We’ll get on it. You’ll give me a written report and let me know if you find anything else, OK?’

Denton nodded, then Riley turned and walked away, leaving the lad staring down at the corpse. Davies stood over by their car. He dropped his fag and stubbed the butt out on the ground.

‘Any good? I know I was moaning earlier but if this case can get us away from those bloody sheep for the rest of the month I’ll bite.’

‘Carl reckons some kind of ritual took place. Not sure it’s our bag or one for the RSPCA. Depends on whether it goes any further than this I guess.’

‘Ritual?’ Davies grinned as he opened the door to the car. ‘You mean orgies and nude chicks on altars? Right up my street.’

‘Don’t mention that to Carl, sir.’ Riley went round to the driver’s side and got in. ‘He’s a wee bit sensitive on the issue.’

Half an hour later, Savage stood staring out across Brixham. A jumble of white houses tumbled down the hillside to the harbour while seagulls wheeled above fishing boats unloading their catch. Tourists thronged the harbour walls, many with ice creams or chips in hand, even though it was still only mid-morning; Brixham was a downmarket version of Dartmouth, not quite as picturesque and strictly for the kiss-me-quick brigade.

Savage turned from the view and eyed a row of shops on the quayside. At the far end of the row stood an estate agency, one belonging to a local firm with a sprinkling of offices in South Devon. There were branches in Exeter, Sidmouth, Teignmouth and here, in Brixham. Inside the tiny waterfront box a shape moved. Somebody fiddling with the window display.

Owen Fox.

Owen resembled his father, the Chief Constable, only in the fact that he had jet-black hair. His facial features were much softer, a cherub-like face reminding Savage that the lad was only in his early twenties. He already had a wife, two children, a mortgage to pay. He’d already killed someone.

Fallon had dropped her at the harbour a little while earlier, giving her directions and another pep talk.

‘Take a look, Charlotte. See what you think. The lad took away something you loved and in my book that makes what you’ve planned legit. I’ll park up and grab myself some breakfast. Call me when you’re done.’

Now, her eyes still on Owen, Savage let her hand go to her pocket. Her fingers closed around the grip. Killing Owen, or even just hurting him, wouldn’t bring Clarissa back, but only a fool would say it wouldn’t make things a whole lot better. Savage had never had a liberal view of punishment. Too often the bad guys served a few years while the victims and the families received a life sentence. If that was what justice was then the whole system needed ripping up.

Owen Fox, of course, had never even been caught. He’d escaped punishment entirely.

Savage blinked as the door to the estate agency opened. Owen strode out and wheeled to the left, a set of keys in his hand. Brixham was all steep hills and tiny streets and suffered from a lack of parking. Owen was walking to an appointment.

Her heart rate rose and she moved away from the quay wall and followed as Owen strolled along the edge of the marina and then turned left. He headed up a steep hill and turned left again. A couple of hundred yards later he swung right into the driveway of a large detached house. On the opposite side of the road there was only a stone wall. The house had an amazing view over the harbour, was right in the centre of the town and yet the location was secluded. Perfect, Savage thought, just perfect. Owen’s clients would arrive. He’d show them around and then they’d leave. He’d go back into the house to check it over. Savage could slip inside and confront him. No one would see her. No one would know.

She put her hand in her pocket and touched the gun. Fallon said one bullet was all it took and he was right. One bullet to end all her worries. She carried on walking and went past the house without looking up. At the end of the street a bench on the pavement faced the sea. She went over and sat down and stared across the harbour. Barely a minute went by before something vibrated in her pocket. Not the gun, her phone.

Shit. Her phone. All of a sudden she realised her mistake. The phone could be tracked, her location pinpointed. If anything happened to Owen Fox in Brixham today she’d be the first person his father suspected.

Savage pulled the phone out and glanced at the display. DC Calter. She answered, then rose from the bench and began to walk back down the hill towards the town.

Chapter Three (#u92aba4cf-3e3e-56fb-abd5-28da10bb822c)

Savage arrived at Fernworthy Reservoir shortly before midday. The drive up from Brixham had given her time to ponder. What would she have done if her phone hadn’t gone off? If she’d come face-to-face with Owen Fox today? As her car climbed onto the moor her mood darkened to match the black of the granite tors. Up here was where Clarissa was killed and where a sort of living hell had started for Savage. By the time the road wound up towards Fernworthy she knew she had to do something. One day soon she’d return to Brixham with Fallon and confront Owen. Hurt him over and over. Maybe, if he begged, she’d stop. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t.

The car thrummed across a cattle grid and a minute later she was turning into the car park at the reservoir. On the far side of the car park a young female DC sat behind the wheel of her car with the door wide open and the seat reclined. The woman’s eyes were shut, the officer enjoying forty winks in the sunshine. A blonde bob curled round her cheeks and the short-sleeved shirt revealed healthy biceps.

DC Calter.