Tell Tale: A DI Charlotte Savage Novel. Mark Sennen

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