Mark Sennen - Tell Tale - A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

‘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.

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