LITMIR.BIZ

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Conrad Hardin having belatedly decided Riley’s talents were wasted in the ACS. ‘I guess it does, although I’m not sure what Maynard’s going to make of all this. Especially if it means a bit of covert ops watching a bunch of gothic types frolicking naked under a full moon.’

      Denton didn’t smile. ‘The animal’s been brutally slaughtered, sir. You’ve seen what they did to the rear end. It’s not a joke.’

      ‘Sorry, of course not,’ Riley said. ‘We’ll get on it. You’ll give me a written report and let me know if you find anything else, OK?’

      Denton nodded, then Riley turned and walked away, leaving the lad staring down at the corpse. Davies stood over by their car. He dropped his fag and stubbed the butt out on the ground.

      ‘Any good? I know I was moaning earlier but if this case can get us away from those bloody sheep for the rest of the month I’ll bite.’

      ‘Carl reckons some kind of ritual took place. Not sure it’s our bag or one for the RSPCA. Depends on whether it goes any further than this I guess.’

      ‘Ritual?’ Davies grinned as he opened the door to the car. ‘You mean orgies and nude chicks on altars? Right up my street.’

      ‘Don’t mention that to Carl, sir.’ Riley went round to the driver’s side and got in. ‘He’s a wee bit sensitive on the issue.’

      Half an hour later, Savage stood staring out across Brixham. A jumble of white houses tumbled down the hillside to the harbour while seagulls wheeled above fishing boats unloading their catch. Tourists thronged the harbour walls, many with ice creams or chips in hand, even though it was still only mid-morning; Brixham was a downmarket version of Dartmouth, not quite as picturesque and strictly for the kiss-me-quick brigade.

      Savage turned from the view and eyed a row of shops on the quayside. At the far end of the row stood an estate agency, one belonging to a local firm with a sprinkling of offices in South Devon. There were branches in Exeter, Sidmouth, Teignmouth and here, in Brixham. Inside the tiny waterfront box a shape moved. Somebody fiddling with the window display.

      Owen Fox.

      Owen resembled his father, the Chief Constable, only in the fact that he had jet-black hair. His facial features were much softer, a cherub-like face reminding Savage that the lad was only in his early twenties. He already had a wife, two children, a mortgage to pay. He’d already killed someone.

      Fallon had dropped her at the harbour a little while earlier, giving her directions and another pep talk.

      ‘Take a look, Charlotte. See what you think. The lad took away something you loved and in my book that makes what you’ve planned legit. I’ll park up and grab myself some breakfast. Call me when you’re done.’

      Now, her eyes still on Owen, Savage let her hand go to her pocket. Her fingers closed around the grip. Killing Owen, or even just hurting him, wouldn’t bring Clarissa back, but only a fool would say it wouldn’t make things a whole lot better. Savage had never had a liberal view of punishment. Too often the bad guys served a few years while the victims and the families received a life sentence. If that was what justice was then the whole system needed ripping up.

      Owen Fox, of course, had never even been caught. He’d escaped punishment entirely.

      Savage blinked as the door to the estate agency opened. Owen strode out and wheeled to the left, a set of keys in his hand. Brixham was all steep hills and tiny streets and suffered from a lack of parking. Owen was walking to an appointment.

      Her heart rate rose and she moved away from the quay wall and followed as Owen strolled along the edge of the marina and then turned left. He headed up a steep hill and turned left again. A couple of hundred yards later he swung right into the driveway of a large detached house. On the opposite side of the road there was only a stone wall. The house had an amazing view over the harbour, was right in the centre of the town and yet the location was secluded. Perfect, Savage thought, just perfect. Owen’s clients would arrive. He’d show them around and then they’d leave. He’d go back into the house to check it over. Savage could slip inside and confront him. No one would see her. No one would know.

      She put her hand in her pocket and touched the gun. Fallon said one bullet was all it took and he was right. One bullet to end all her worries. She carried on walking and went past the house without looking up. At the end of the street a bench on the pavement faced the sea. She went over and sat down and stared across the harbour. Barely a minute went by before something vibrated in her pocket. Not the gun, her phone.

      Shit. Her phone. All of a sudden she realised her mistake. The phone could be tracked, her location pinpointed. If anything happened to Owen Fox in Brixham today she’d be the first person his father suspected.

      Savage pulled the phone out and glanced at the display. DC Calter. She answered, then rose from the bench and began to walk back down the hill towards the town.

       Chapter Three

      Savage arrived at Fernworthy Reservoir shortly before midday. The drive up from Brixham had given her time to ponder. What would she have done if her phone hadn’t gone off? If she’d come face-to-face with Owen Fox today? As her car climbed onto the moor her mood darkened to match the black of the granite tors. Up here was where Clarissa was killed and where a sort of living hell had started for Savage. By the time the road wound up towards Fernworthy she knew she had to do something. One day soon she’d return to Brixham with Fallon and confront Owen. Hurt him over and over. Maybe, if he begged, she’d stop. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t.

      The car thrummed across a cattle grid and a minute later she was turning into the car park at the reservoir. On the far side of the car park a young female DC sat behind the wheel of her car with the door wide open and the seat reclined. The woman’s eyes were shut, the officer enjoying forty winks in the sunshine. A blonde bob curled round her cheeks and the short-sleeved shirt revealed healthy biceps.

      DC Calter.

      Savage got out and strolled over. Her shadow fell across Calter’s body.

      ‘Don’t tell me, Patrick,’ Calter said, her eyes still closed. ‘You’ve just wet yourself because you’ve found some fucking geocache.’

      ‘Is that what he’s up to then?’ Savage said.

      ‘Ma’am!’ Calter opened her eyes and sat up. ‘Sorry, just taking a break.’

      ‘And DC Enders?’

      ‘He’s off somewhere with his precious GPS. Something about search parameters.’

      ‘That’s the PolSA’s job, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yeah, but the search adviser hasn’t turned up yet. Inspector Frey’s taken control of the lake but we’re at sixes and sevens about the rest.’ Calter climbed out of the car and Savage listened as Calter explained about the discovery of the bag of clothes. The PC who’d first attended the scene had found the driving licence and called the details in, flagging up Ana’s name on the missing person list.

      ‘Remember her passport was missing?’ Calter said. ‘We concluded she’d probably returned to Hungary. Seems unlikely now.’

      ‘Yes,’ Savage said. ‘The driving licence changes everything.’

      ‘She’s got to be here somewhere.’ Calter swung her arms wide to encompass the water, the forest, and the surrounding moorland. ‘But to be honest I don’t think she’ll be alive when we find her.’

      Savage followed Calter’s gesture. The lake was cold and deep, the forest a vast area criss-crossed with tracks and paths. And then there was the moorland, an upland wilderness of tors and bogs stretching for miles in three directions. Only to the east was there the comfort of civilisation. A few farms and hamlets and then the town of Chagford. Was it possible the girl had gone that way? Or maybe

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