material. One of yesterday’s picnickers had forgotten their blanket or waterproofs. Charlie grabbed the bag and carried it to the beach. He’d walk round to the car park and leave the bag on the wall. First though, he’d take a look inside. There might be some personal item to identify who the bag belonged to.
He delved into the bag, finding a pullover, a flimsy top, a short skirt. Then a black bra, and some black, lacy knickers. He opened his mouth. There was something about finding a pair of knickers in the middle of nowhere. It meant somebody was going around without a pair. He thought of his wife. Perhaps after he’d wooed her with the trout he could persuade her to climb the stairs to their bedroom, to remove her own knickers.
At the bottom of the bag was a lightweight windcheater and beneath that a slim leather wallet. Charlie flipped the wallet open. Forty quid. A driving licence with a picture of a pretty girl bottom left. Was she the owner of the knickers? He stared down at her. Long hair, high cheekbones, a real babe.
On the top left of the licence there was a familiar circle of yellow stars on a blue background. An EU flag. In the centre of the stars sat the letter ‘H’. On the top right, in capitals, the word ‘MAGYAR’. Charlie looked at the pile of clothing again. Finding a bunch of women’s clothing had for a moment provided a frisson of excitement. Certainly the girl in the picture was one he’d like to see naked. But, as his eyes returned to scan the surface of the water where dark blues and browns and blacks shimmered in the sun, he thought of what might be hidden in the depths of the reservoir. He reached for his tackle bag and pulled out his phone, knowing it was now unlikely he’d be eating the brace of trout for lunch.
For DI Charlotte Savage, Sunday morning came around all too soon. A pale glow seeped past the edges of the curtains, the daylight intruding on a dream about her daughter, Clarissa. It was getting on for five years now. Savage stared up at the ceiling, trying to discern an image of Clarissa in the soft shadows. Nothing. She had to turn to the bedside table and the little picture frame on it to see her daughter smiling out from a face fringed with red hair. Savage reached up and touched her own red hair. She twirled a long length with her fingers until one by one the strands slipped from her grasp.
Ever since Clarissa had died, Savage’s sleep had been plagued with bad dreams. She was used to spending half the night tossing and turning, often waking in a sweat and a tangle of duvet. Recently though, the dreams had become more vivid, with the same scene repeated over and over. Savage knew why. It was because she’d discovered who was responsible for the death of her daughter. The official report had the death down as a road traffic collision, or RTC. In old money, an RTA: road traffic accident. But Savage had never seen what had happened as an accident. The hit-and-run driver had been travelling way too fast for the moorland lane – but it was the ‘run’ bit of ‘hit-and-run’ which had compounded Savage’s anger. The driver hadn’t hung around to see the consequences of his actions, and, having never been caught in the following investigation, he’d escaped punishment.
‘He’ being a young lad by the name of Owen Fox.
Savage sat up, her husband, Pete, stirring for a moment before settling back to sleep. She hadn’t told Pete about Owen Fox. Pete was a Royal Navy officer, had been for all his adult life. He’d been commander of a frigate until recently, when the ship had been scrapped. Now he was shore-based, training naval cadets while waiting for another command. On-board the ship everything was governed by rules and regulations. You did the right thing. You served your country. Even when you gave the order to fire a cruise missile, you knew the destruction you were about to wreak was backed up in law. What Savage wanted to do to Owen Fox was far, far from legal.
She climbed from the bed and headed to the kitchen. The kids wouldn’t rise for another couple of hours, but Pete would be up soon. With Stefan, their unofficial Swedish au pair, away racing yachts for the summer, Pete had to juggle his new duties with looking after the children. Often he’d wake early and come downstairs to read some document or other. Savage needed to be out of the house by then. She’d leave a hastily scribbled note explaining that a call had come in. Not the first time she’d have lied to her husband, but she told herself the deception was necessary. Pete simply wouldn’t understand or accept the truth – and what she intended to do about it. It didn’t make her feel any less guilty.
Breakfast was a bowl of cereal, a piece of fruit and a cup of black coffee. She slid the patio doors open and took her food onto the deck. An area of lawn spread from the deck to a hedge, beyond which cliffs fell sheer to the sea. It was still early but a couple of yachts had slipped their moorings and were cruising down the Sound. They’d be catching the tide, intent on getting a free lift westward to Fowey and beyond. If they’d set off a couple of hours later then they’d end their journey pushing against a foul current, getting nowhere fast.
Savage sat at the garden table, watching the yachts. Timing was the issue. Owen Fox wasn’t just another boy racer. When she’d found out the name she’d been shocked for the first few seconds, but then everything had become clear. How the lad had managed to remain under the radar and escape detection. Dozens of officers had gone well beyond the call of duty trying to find Clarissa’s killer, and yet they had failed. Not surprising really – for Owen Fox was the son of Simon Fox, the Chief Constable of Devon and Cornwall Police.
She finished her breakfast as the yachts passed the breakwater and turned west. A puff of pink exploded from the lead yacht as the crew launched a colourful spinnaker, the huge sail filling and billowing as the breeze caught it. For a moment Savage felt an almost overwhelming sadness that she wasn’t aboard the boat. What joy it would be to have Plymouth at the stern, the bow forging through clear blue water, perhaps – if she was lucky – dolphins racing alongside.
Then she gathered her breakfast things and went back inside the house.
DC Jane Calter glanced at the clock on the dashboard and then out at the open moorland stretching away in all directions. Nothing moved in the bright summer sun, other than a heat haze rising from the undulating terrain. She thought for a moment of the man she’d left lying in her bed and wondered if he’d woken and seen the note she’d left on top of his clothes. Wondered if he’d be there when she got back.
Calter slumped sideways in the passenger seat, as next to her DC Patrick Enders swung the car round yet another sharp bend. Her stomach heaved and she hoped she’d be able to hold on to her breakfast – a slice of toast, plus half a Mars Bar, courtesy of Enders. Last night had been epic in more ways than one, but if she’d known she would be subject to an hour’s car journey with Enders at the wheel she’d have taken things a little easier. Enders was as chirpy as ever, prattling away as Calter tried to doze. The DC was the same age as her – mid-twenties – but already married with three kids. He was Irish and usually Calter found his accent soothing. Right now though she was so, so tired she wished he would shut the fuck up.
The call had come at eight, just a couple of hours after she’d fallen asleep.
‘That misper from last week,’ the voice had said. ‘Her clothes have turned up at Fernworthy Reservoir. Looks like she either topped herself or …’
It was the ‘or’, left hanging by the officer on the end of the line, that had pulled Calter from a state of half-slumber to wide awake. As the officer had given her the details she’d headed for the bathroom. In five minutes she was washed and dressed and in the kitchen, a slice of toast popping up as she gulped down a pint of water and tried to banish her hangover and focus on the task in hand.
The missing person was a twenty-two-year-old Hungarian by the name of Anasztáz Róka. She’d been in the UK for six months, working as a waitress in a coffee bar. A week ago a housemate had reported her missing. The report had been logged but other than a few preliminary enquiries, no action had yet been taken.
‘We’re here, Jane,’ Enders
