Tell Tale (13 page)

Irina awoke to the sound of birdsong and a warm shaft of sunlight stroking her face. She reached up and touched the area under her chin where there was a throbbing. Sore.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, the ground beneath her hand smooth and cold. The sunlight came from high above, a crack in the ceiling letting in a beam that struck a wall and reflected off its mirror-like surface. Metal. The walls and floor. Irina looked around. The room was a few paces square and lined to well above head height with aluminium sheeting. The air smelt dry and dusty and husks of corn lay scattered across the floor. In one corner a pile of large paper sacks had been bound together with orange string. Irina crawled over and looked at the sacks. Bird food, a picture of a pheasant on the front of the sack.

In the centre of one wall a recess held a door. The door too had been covered with aluminium, but a handle protruded through where the metal had been cut away. Behind the metal was dark oak. Irina stood and went across to the door. She pressed the handle down and pushed. The door rattled but didn’t open.

The locked door broke the drowsy state she had been in. Until that moment she’d been in a dream, half-conscious, but not really aware of the situation. Now the truth came washing over her. Creasey had abducted her. Soon he would be back.

I love you and I want to fuck you and I want to eat you.

Irina felt a wave of panic rise in her chest. She thought of the butchery equipment she’d seen hanging on the walls of Creasey’s outhouse. Saws, knives, that huge meat cleaver. She tried the door again, now in a panic. It was no good. The door was secured on the outside. There was no escape. Irina’s breathing quickened and she tried to prevent herself from screaming. Screaming would only bring Creasey running to silence her. He was somewhere out there, prowling around, sharpening those knives, preparing. Soon, he’d be coming. Irina tried not to think about what he might do, but it was all too easy to imagine the door swinging open, Creasey’s grubby hands outstretched as he came towards her, his fingers clawing at her clothing, his dirty coat flapping open … No!

Irina shook her head. She was making the situation worse. Better to occupy her mind with something practical, to try and figure a way out of her predicament. She moved from the door over to the only other thing in the room worth investigating. The pile of paper sacks. There were dozens of them, the stack about a metre high. If nothing else, she could use the pile as a bed. She pulled the bundle out from the corner and as she did so something slipped from between the layers of sacks and fell to the floor. She knew what it was even before she picked it up. A little notebook with a piece of elastic on one side for holding a pencil. She’d used an identical one the day before when she’d been working at the cafe. She bent and picked up the order pad and flipped to the first page where pencil scrawl filled each line.

My name is Anasztáz Róka …

The first thing Savage did on Thursday morning when she arrived at the station was scan the overnight reports for any sign of Irina Kryukov. Nothing. All officers had been told to keep a lookout but the girl had vanished. Neither was there any sign of the man who’d tried to get friendly using a five-pound note and a paper napkin. It was Collier who drew Savage’s attention to Irina’s statement.

‘Comes in at eleven,’ Collier said. ‘Regular. Least that’s what the girl told you. Whether he turns up or not is another matter, but it’s worth a try.’

Now Savage and Calter sat at an outside table in front of Bean There, two cappuccinos ordered and on the way, Dave the cafe owner in on the act with a conspiratorial wink. Savage hoped he wouldn’t give them away.

‘Long shot, ma’am,’ Calter said. ‘Do you think he’d really return if he had anything to do with Irina’s disappearance?’

‘I don’t know,’ Savage said. ‘According to Irina he’s a creature of habit. He might not be able to stay away. Anyway, long shot or not, this is our only option.’

The drinks arrived and Savage leant back in her seat and scanned the cafe patrons. Several groups of tourists, some students, an elderly man with a large dog. No sign of anybody matching the descriptions given by Irina or Dave. The first set of cappuccinos went and were replaced by another. Savage took a glance at her watch: just before eleven.

An hour and a half later the second set of cappuccinos had long gone and a couple of tuna salad baguettes sat on two plates. A third plate held a salad. Savage played with a piece of shredded lettuce and then popped a cherry tomato in her mouth. Calter drummed her fingers on the table.

‘Eleven was a while back, ma’am,’ she said. ‘How long are we going to give this?’

‘We’ll eat these and then call it a day, yeah?’

Calter nodded. The DC bent to her baguette. Feeling full of coffee, Savage got up to use the toilet. A couple of minutes later she returned to find Calter making a face at her.

‘There, ma’am,’ Calter said as Savage sat back down. She removed the wooden stirrer from her drink, placed it on the table, and swivelled it to point diagonally away from Savage. ‘He matches the description Irina gave us to a T.’

Savage lifted her cup to her lips and at the same time turned a fraction to see. Close by, a man in a suit tapped his fingers on a tablet. Over his shoulder at the next table a figure sat hunched over, right leg jiggling up and down. He was mid-thirties, overweight, with a smooth hairless head. Round glasses sat on a sharp nose, the shape of the nose at odds with the pudgy face. In his right hand he held a stubby pencil which he was using to write in a wire-bound notebook. Despite the summer weather he wore a long overcoat, white, but grubby.

‘You’re right.’ Savage turned back to Calter, who was trying hard not to stare. ‘Exactly as Irina said. Now we wait.’

The man appeared agitated, not happy with the male member of staff who took his order. The waiter returned with a hot chocolate and the pair engaged in conversation, the waiter shaking his head several times, before moving away to take somebody else’s order. After just a couple of minutes the man scraped back his chair and barged his way through the maze of tables. A howl of protest went up as a coffee tumbled over, but the man ignored the shouting and went off along Armada Way, head down and oblivious.

‘Something’s not right,’ Savage said.

‘No time to ask the waiter,’ Calter said as she rose to her feet. ‘I’m away.’

The DC dashed after the man on foot while Savage went for their car. Five minutes later she was swinging onto Notte Street and stopping halfway up for Calter, who was waving her arms frantically.

‘Just got in a white van parked up the road,’ she said, breathless from having run back to Savage. ‘Hurry up and we’ll catch him.’

Calter leapt in and Savage moved off. The van pulled out in front of her as they rounded a corner. It headed off in the direction of the city centre and Savage followed, Calter carrying out an index check on the vehicle. The van circled Derrys Cross roundabout three times before taking the exit onto Union Street.

‘Owned by a Mr Adam Creasey,’ Calter said, listening as the dispatcher gave her the registration details. ‘He lives in the Stoke area. Glenmore Avenue. A couple of driving offences but no criminal record.’

Savage nodded and concentrated on driving. Creasey headed north, passing Central Park on the right and eventually pulling up outside a row of terraced houses. The man got out and left the engine running. He shuffled over to a front door which opened onto the street, unlocked it, and went inside. Three minutes later he was back with a couple of plastic crates and something resembling a tool wrap.

‘No idea, ma’am,’ Calter said when Savage looked across at her. ‘But he looks like he’s off somewhere.’

Calter was right. This time the route was direct. They followed the van out of the city and took the A38 heading east. Creasey zipped along the dual carriageway past Ashburton and Buckfastleigh and then turned off the main road and took a lane heading north.

‘The moor,’ Savage said. ‘Fernworthy.’

Riley’s enthusiasm for the job waned during Thursday morning. He’d expected to phone a couple of people and be up on Dartmoor by midday, ready to shift the stone from the kistvaen. No such luck. After speaking to John Layton it turned out this sort of thing needed paperwork. Reams of the stuff. An archaeologist from English Heritage would need to be present, representatives from the Dartmoor Park Authority too. There’d need to be a risk assessment conducted before any work could begin, because moving a rock that size could be dangerous. On top of that the archaeologist needed to come from Bristol and it just wasn’t possible at short notice. Riley wanted to scream, but he knew vocalising his anger wouldn’t do any good. Breathe deep, he thought, realise procedure means process leading to progress and take it one step at a time.

With any chance of getting up onto the moor before Friday vanishing fast, Riley decided to focus on the piece of jewellery they’d found. The lads from North Prospect had been released and informed that charges would follow. The more information Riley could get, the better, so he headed into town intent on visiting RazCaz Designs. He parked on Madeira Road and walked down to the Barbican. To his right the sea sparkled with light. A fishing boat was hovering near the entrance to the marina and Riley heard the klaxon sound as the gates to the swing bridge began to close.

Down in the Barbican, New Street was a narrow cobbled lane that wound between old buildings. It wasn’t hard to imagine the place centuries ago. Probably, Riley thought, the whole area was once the haunt of pirates and brigands. What they would have made of either the daytime tourist crowd or the night-time rabble of hens and stags, Riley had no idea.

RazCaz Designs was squeezed between something labelled as a sixteenth-century eating place – now home to a Nepalese restaurant – and a small museum known as the Elizabethan House. A narrow window displayed a couple of select pieces and to the right a step led down through a fly curtain comprising several silk scarves.

Riley pushed through the scarves, a line of tiny bells jangling as he disturbed them. Inside, wisps of smoke hung in the air, a scent of incense permeating the whole interior. A stand to one side showed a number of items of jewellery, but Riley was drawn to the rear of the shop, where a figure worked on something beneath a large magnifier. For a moment Riley couldn’t tell whether the person was male or female – long blond hair hung down over the head which was bent low. Then Riley saw the hands. A man’s hands, fingernails bitten to the quick, long fine hairs on the backs. A pentagram tattoo on the right wrist.

The man looked up. The blond hair framed a rough face with several days’ beard growth. He laid down the silver chain he was working on and scratched his chin. ‘Can I help you?’

‘DS Darius Riley.’ Riley showed his identification and then swept an arm around. ‘Are you the proprietor?’

‘Proprietor, janitor, cleaner, general dogsbody.’ The man held out a hand. ‘Rasmus Yarnic.’

‘Is that the “Ras” in RazCaz Designs?’ Riley asked, shaking the man’s hand.

‘Yes.’ The voice became hesitant as Yarnic withdrew his hand. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Did you make this?’ Riley pulled out the silver necklace still in its plastic evidence bag.

The man took the bag and turned it over in his hands. ‘I guess I did. Must have been a while ago because I don’t recall anything like this in the last couple of years. I think it was a commission. I’ll have a record somewhere out the back.’

‘Know what the symbol is?’

‘Yes.’ Yarnic rolled his sleeves down and covered the pentagram on his wrist. ‘A Satanic cross.’

‘Know anything more?’ Riley nodded down at the man’s arms.

‘This pentagram is Wiccan, mate. Nothing to do with Satan. It’s when the star is inverted it represents evil.’

‘And which way up is the one on your wrist?’

‘Depends on which way you look.’ Yarnic smiled. ‘From your side you’d probably say I’m a fully paid-up member of the devil-worshipping brigade; from over here I’m all good.’

‘But you made the cross?’

‘Of course. People have the right to believe what they like, don’t they?’

‘Would you have made somebody a swastika?’

‘Might have. To be honest though I can’t see a skinhead fascist coming in here, can you? Anyway the swastika predates anything to do with Nazism. It’s a Hindu symbol, amongst others.’

‘Fascinating.’ Riley reached out and took the bag back. Yarnic was beginning to annoy him. He had a self-assuredness about him that bordered on arrogance. ‘What I need to know is who commissioned the piece and when?’

‘Evidence is it? Only maybe I need to call my lawyer.’

‘Only if you’re guilty of something, Mr Yarnic.’

Yarnic met Riley’s eyes and held his gaze. Moved his head almost imperceptibly from side to side.

‘No,’ he said, before turning and walking to a small door which led to some sort of storage room. ‘Records, sketchbooks, accounts. They’re all out the back. Five minutes, OK?’

Riley nodded and then went to browse the displays. He could hear Yarnic moving boxes around, pulling things from shelves, cursing to himself as he searched the store room. Then the commotion stopped. After a while longer, Riley moved closer to the room. Now he could hear the man talking in a low whisper. Riley was unable to make out what was being said, but he was pretty sure Yarnic was on the phone.

It’s a long way there, Chubber, isn’t it?

Yes it is. Sixty minutes minimum. Fast to start with but then there’s a whole load of lanes. Chubber’s shack is in the back of beyond. In the big dark wood. Out of the way. Space to play. Chubber hums to himself as the car weaves and wends. Chubber likes humming. The road follows the contours, heads up a valley, deep into the moor. The blacktop becomes a track, a gate to unlock and then it’s carving between two tors, grey granite looming either side, like sentinels on guard duty. Chubber carries on humming. A wood slips and slides down the rolling hill, closes in and throttles the track. The van bounces up the track. Bounces and crashes.