LITMIR.BIZ

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met his eyes. ‘What else can we do?’

      ‘We’re going to fight this. What about Owen, his wife and children? We can’t let this destroy everything. There must be friends who can help us.’

      Fox stared at Jennifer. All these years she’d stood at his side; doing the little wifely things he’d always dismissed as largely irrelevant. She cleaned the house, raised the kids – a life on the sidelines done well, but a life anonymous and largely meaningless. Now he realised just what she was made of. How hard she was willing to fight for them and their family. She was stronger than him, no doubt about that.

      ‘Yes,’ Fox said, thinking his wife was correct. On Sunday night he’d given in too easily to the feelings of self-pity and guilt. Now the effects of the alcohol had worn off, he could see that. He smiled at Jennifer. ‘You’re right as ever, darling. There are friends who can help us.’

      Savage was woken by Jamie at a little after nine on Monday morning.

      ‘Mummy?’ he said, bouncing on the bed. ‘Daddy says it’s time to get up.’

      Savage glanced at the clock and groaned. She hadn’t arrived back until four a.m. and it seemed mere seconds ago she’d collapsed on the bed. She reached out and pulled Jamie to her and gave him a hug.

      ‘No huggles, Mummy!’ Jamie wriggled free, slid off the bed and ran to the door. ‘Breakfast time!’

      A couple of minutes later Jamie returned with Pete, her son holding a glass of orange juice, Pete a tray with toast and tea.

      ‘What’s this?’ Savage said as Jamie plonked the glass down on the bedside table while Pete placed the tray on the bed. ‘Room service?’

      ‘You were working all day yesterday and had a late one last night,’ Pete said. ‘Thought you might need a lie-in and then a pick-me-up.’

      ‘Thanks. Both of you.’

      Jamie grinned and then scampered off.

      ‘It’s all over the news,’ Pete said. ‘Sounds horrible.’

      ‘They always are. Especially close up.’

      ‘Look …’ Pete sat on the edge of the bed. He said nothing for a few seconds and then touched Savage on the shoulder. ‘I’ve been thinking. This break I’ve been having since I’ve been ashore … well, it’s done me the world of good. Training the cadets, spending more time with you and the kids, getting out on our boat. Perhaps you—’

      ‘No.’ Savage shook her head and then, aware she had snapped, smiled. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

      ‘But seeing this sort of thing week in, week out. Can’t be good for you. And this latest one. Another girl. I mean …’

      Savage knew what Pete meant and there was an element of truth in what he’d said. ‘The girl isn’t the problem, is she?’

      ‘No, of course not.’

      ‘I’ll get over it. I am getting over it. It takes time.’

      ‘It’s been years, Charlotte. None of us find it easy, but lately I’ve been wondering if time’s moved on for you at all. You haven’t slept well for months. You’re tired, grumpy. The last few weeks—’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Savage said. ‘I’ve had things on my mind.’

      ‘You need to talk to me, love. Tell me what’s going on. I know I haven’t always been here, but now I am … I want to help.’

      ‘You are helping,’ Savage said. She indicated the toast and then reached for the cup of tea, wanting to bring the conversation to a close. ‘And everything will be OK, I promise.’

      Pete leant over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Sure?’

      ‘Yes.’ Savage blinked. Saw Clarissa tumbling over the bonnet and hitting the road. Imagined putting the gun Fallon had given her to Owen’s head. ‘I’m sure.’

      Despite the grand name, the Agricultural Crime Squad had been allotted but a small corner of the crime suite. The ‘pigsty’, as Davies called it. Three tables in a ‘U’ shape were home to several terminals and monitors and beneath the tables there was room for a few file boxes. DI Maynard had gone all proprietorial over the area and pulled a couple of freestanding whiteboards to act as a wall between the space and the rest of the room.

      ‘So we can’t see them sniggering,’ Davies had said, adding, ‘and they can’t see us crying.’

      There was, Riley thought, as he walked into the crime suite armed with breakfast for himself and Davies, an element of truth in the DI’s statement. Tracking down a missing tractor or arresting a bunch of sheep rustlers was never going to be as glamorous as working on the Major Crimes Investigation Team. Still, just a few more weeks and hopefully he’d be right back where he belonged on the MCIT, penance for his past sins well and truly served. Riley believed the punishment had been unfair; it was Davies and Savage who’d delved into the murky elements of Plymouth’s underworld and got a little too close to Kenny Fallon. He’d been guilty only by association.

      He paused halfway across the room. There’d been a vicious racially motivated killing in the city centre and several detectives were poring over a set of CCTV stills showing the last moments of the victim. This was real crime. Put the guys who did this away and you were removing scum from the streets, helping the family, proving a moral point. Lord knows what good tracking down a bunch of pony perverts would do.

      Davies seemed to be thinking along similar lines, because when Riley plonked the sandwich down in front of the DI he contemplated the food for a moment, then smiled.

      ‘They eat horses in France, don’t they?’ He shook his head and began to unwrap the sandwich. ‘So quite what we’re getting so excited about, I don’t know. Still, at least the case is a little more interesting than trying to catch these sheep rustlers.’

      Riley nodded and glanced up at one of the whiteboards where a map of South Devon was dotted with yellow stars. Each star represented a farm where sheep had been stolen from. Mostly it was single animals, leaving the farmer concerned unsure as to whether the sheep had simply escaped. By tracking all the reports of missing animals, Riley and Davies had ascertained there were too many for that to be the case. So far they’d identified over one hundred. At the top of the board a wag from MCIT had stuck a printed message: Devon’s most prolific cereal killer. Have ewe seen him?

      Riley had wanted to take the message down, but Davies had stopped him. ‘We take it down and they put up something else. We leave it and they’ll get bored.’ Davies was right. The banter they’d endured at the beginning had now all but ceased and they’d been left to get on with their work. Clear up the rustling case and figure out what was going on with the pony on the moor and they’d be done with Maynard for good.

      ‘Where to start?’ Davies said. ‘The internet?’

      ‘Not sure, sir,’ Riley said. ‘Type “devil worshippers” into Google and I reckon you’ll get all sorts of rubbish. I think we need some sort of expert, although where we’ll find one I have no idea. First I’m going to look on the PNC and see if there are any similar incidents in the area.’

      ‘Good idea.’ Davies unfolded his newspaper and began to eat his sandwich. He mumbled through his BLT. ‘Let me know if you find anything, OK?’

      An hour later, showered, dressed and at least partially refreshed, Savage drove to Crownhill. On the way in she took a call from John Layton. The CSI was round at Anasztáz Róka’s digs in Mannamead, turning the room upside down. The team had nearly finished, so if she wanted to come across for a gander she was more than welcome.

      The Mannamead area of the city was home to wealthy middle-class professionals. Solicitors, lecturers, junior consultants, maybe even middle-ranking police officers, jostled for the best double-fronted Victorian and Edwardian houses, pushing prices up and up. Ana’s place was on Fernleigh Road,

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