Mark Sennen - Tell Tale - A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

Irina Kryukov sat on a bench on the Hoe and cried. The sun shone down from a clear blue sky and out to sea the water sparkled. Yachts crawled back and forth, wallowing in the light airs. A rib loaded with divers carved a foamy white trail in the water as it sped towards the breakwater. Close at hand, on the huge grassy expanse of the Hoe, people lounged around with ice creams or a beer or two. A family had just unpacked a substantial picnic and a young kid of three or four was grasping for the bottle of Coke. Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of Irina, everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves. But they hadn’t had to find out what she just had.

The knock on the door had come first thing in the morning. A uniformed female police officer stood on the step outside, reluctance written all over her face.

‘It’s about your housemate, love,’ the officer said. ‘Anasztáz Róka? We’ve found some of her things on Dartmoor. Somebody will be round to take a statement later, OK?’

Job done, the woman had turned and walked away.

Irina sniffed and used a paper tissue to wipe away some of her tears. The little boy with the picnicking family looked up and pointed at Irina, but his mother grabbed his arm and wheeled him round. Irina felt completely alone, as if nobody cared.

It was a feeling she’d had when she’d first come to the UK from Russia a couple of years ago. She’d arrived in London pretty much penniless, planning to spend a few days there before heading off to start her course at Plymouth University. After seeing the sights of London, which – truth be told – were pretty poor fare compared to Moscow, she’d hitch-hiked west. A lorry driver had offered her a lift and then halfway down the M4 he’d pulled off at Membury services and asked for payment. ‘I’m going as far as Bristol. A blow job’ll get you there. Or you could let me fuck you and I’ll bung you twenty quid so you can get a train the rest of the way.’

Irina had wrenched the door of the cab open and tumbled out into the drizzle. The man had cursed and asked her what the problem was? After all, weren’t all Russian girls whores? Then he’d chucked her rucksack down, started the truck and roared off. Irina had lain on the wet tarmac, nursing a bruise and a bunch of shattered illusions. Maybe, after all, England wasn’t the Promised Land. Maybe people were pretty much the same wherever you went.

She remembered her father’s reaction on hearing the news she intended to leave Russia. ‘Different seas,’ he’d said. ‘Different salt in the water. You either like the taste or you don’t.’ Certainly her first taste had been sour, but after a nightmare few weeks things had improved, and over time some of her faith had been restored. She had a nice room in a shared house and a part-time job in a cafe. The winters were warmer, if wetter, than Moscow, and this year the British summer had been a scorcher. She’d had a brief fling with a lifeguard who’d taught her how to surf and although the relationship had ended she’d enjoyed herself while it lasted. The UK, all in all, wasn’t so bad.

Until now.

Although Ana Róka had only come to Devon half a year or so ago, the Hungarian girl had quickly become Irina’s best friend. She guessed it was because they shared a common experience in making the physical and psychological journey from East to West. When Ana had gone missing, Irina had been distraught. But the police had seemed uninterested. They had carried out a few checks and then told her they could do nothing more. People went missing all the time, they had said. Especially foreign immigrants. She’ll likely as not turn up. That story seemed to have changed now.

Irina screwed up the paper tissue and lobbed it into a nearby bin. She stood and weaved her way across the Hoe, dodging the picnickers. Perhaps in the UK people did go missing all the time, she thought. But in Russia, when somebody went missing you knew something very, very bad had happened to them.

Colours whirl on the huge outdoor screen, most people on the plaza paying little attention as the soundless pictures flash by. Chubber’s paying attention though. Chubber’s interested . The newsy news is always interesting, but today’s is especially so.

The screen shows a presenter talking to the camera. Behind him cars and vans. People in uniform. The blue of water. Trees and granite tors. Moorland.

Moorland, Chubber? We don’t like the moor, do we?

That’s not right, Chubber thinks. The moor is fine – as long as it’s not dark and you avoid stone circles and the man with the antlers on his head. That’s when things get scary. When the man starts talking and Chubber starts listening and the man tells Chubber things he doesn’t want to hear about demons and ghosts and the devil and people who get hurt if they open their mouths to tell stories to anyone who might listen only they won’t listen because the stories are just stories so it’s better to keep quiet and do what they say than be caught and suffer for ever in the fires of h … h … h …

Don’t think about it, Chubber, don’t!

Chubber opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. A rush of panic fills his chest. He checks the sky for the sun. The big ball of fire is up there, hot and yellow and high and a long, long way from the horizon. Chubber breathes deep. No need to worry. He’s done exactly as Antler Man asked. Everything is OK. He focuses once again on the huge screen and the subtitles that scroll along the bottom.

Breaking news: police searching Dartmoor reservoir after clothing of missing waitress found …

Chubber stares. Reads the words. Feels excitement tingle across the back of his hands. Feels a swelling down there .

Chubber! That’s naughty! Down there is very bad.

‘Hot chocolate?’

Black and white blocks Chubber’s view for a moment. The black of a dress, the white of an apron, more black flows like liquid down legs cosseted in sheer hosiery. He looks up, smiles, and meets the eyes of the girl as she places the drink in front of him.

‘Thank you,’ he says. Nice girl. Lovely girl. Beautiful girl. ‘Thank you very much.’

The girl half smiles back but there’s a sadness behind her expression. Chubber wonders if the girl has been crying. Wonders if she needs comforting. Maybe the smile is an invitation. Does she want him to reach out and touch her thigh? Her leg is so close, clad in shimmering nylon, the inner part not thin, but fleshy, soft, succulent.

Succulent, Chubber?

Yes. The word reminds him of ripe fruit, a plum or a nectarine perhaps. Sink your teeth into a plum and the goodness flows out. Forget touching, maybe he should bend his head and bite her down there. Where she’s juicy.

No Chubber! This place is much too public for that! Too many people.

Chubber stares around. Tables lie scattered outside the cafe. People are walking back and forth across the plaza. Yes, much too public; far too many people. Instead of bending and biting he lets his eyes follow the waitress as she moves away, glides and slides between the tables and heads back inside the cafe. The uniform suits her, he thinks. The way the material flares out from the waist, accentuating her shapeliness. Making the most of her curves, her hourglass figure.

Hourglass. Like an egg-timer, Chubber. Sand. Trickling downward. Marking time while the eggs boil dry.

Chubber shakes his head. He doesn’t like time. The way the seconds slip past. Clocks tick. Hours go by and Chubber finds things haven’t changed much. He needs to do something about that. He needs to act.

‘Oh well,’ Chubber says aloud. ‘Faint heart never won fair maiden.’