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, and usual student fare it wasn’t. Savage parked behind John Layton’s crusty old Volvo and got out, wondering why the landlord would decide to rent to students and low-paid youngsters rather than tenants who might be able to afford more money.
A fence of iron railings sat atop a stone wall with a gate leading to a flagstone path. The path ran through a low-maintenance gravel garden to the front of the period property, which had bay windows and an imposing porch. Savage walked up the path to the front door, where a CSI stood trying a Yale key in the front lock.
‘Found this on her bedside table,’ the CSI said. ‘It doesn’t seem to fit this door though.’
‘It could be for her home in Hungary,’ Savage said.
‘Don’t think so, ma’am. Says Timpson on the key. Unless they’ve got branches in Europe, this is for a property in the UK.’
Savage nodded and went through the door. From behind her the CSI called out that Ana’s room was upstairs. Savage walked down the hallway and climbed the wide staircase, which had a decent carpet secured with polished brass stair rods. She once again wondered why the high-end property had been rented to Ana and her housemates. At the top of the stairs a door to the right stood open, a mess visible within. Layton stood next to the bed, arranging several evidence bags on the mattress.
‘Blitzed it, Charlotte,’ Layton said, indicating the upturned room where the doors to a wardrobe hung open, drawers had been removed from a chest, and the furniture moved away from the walls. ‘Take a look.’
On the bed several polythene packets held the girl’s clothing. A cardboard box contained some of her student work. Layton indicated the pillows at the head of the bed.
‘I’m pretty sure I’m going to get a match from the hair we found on the webbing at the reservoir. There are a number of blonde hairs on the pillow and a quick look with my big magnifier leads me to think they’re the same.’
‘Great,’ Savage said. She waved a hand around at the room and its furnishings. ‘This place is all a bit plush for a student.’
‘Prostitution, you mean?’ Layton smiled. ‘Well, since you’ve brought up the subject of sleaze, I’ve found something else of interest which might explain things.’
He moved across to the chest of drawers where a picture of Ana cuddling a small white dog sat to one side of an open jewellery box. The box contained trinkets, nothing of more than a few pounds value. Above the chest of drawers was a large mirror. Layton reached out and tapped the glass.
‘Sorry?’ Savage stared at the mirror and at her reflection. She needed a haircut.
‘Look.’ Layton moved alongside Savage and reached out. He lifted the mirror from the wall and put it to one side of the chest of drawers. ‘Smile, you’re on camera.’
On the wall, a little way below the hook the mirror had hung on was a hole the size of a penny. A flash of light came from a piece of glass set back in the hole.
‘The landlord?’
‘Got to be, hasn’t it?’ Layton smirked. ‘Dirty bastard’s been getting a peep show for free.’
‘How’s the camera connected up?’
‘Wireless I expect. He’ll have installed the camera when he redecorated the room. Hard-wired the power supply into the mains. Wouldn’t mind betting he’s got the other rooms covered too.’
‘That could explain a lot about the house. High-quality rooms, attracting high-quality girls. How many other tenants are there?’
‘Four. Girls only, and all of them are foreign.’
‘Do you think Ana knew?’
