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.’
‘Pardon?’ An elderly woman sitting at the next table looks across. ‘Did you say something?’
‘Huh?’ Chubber says and then crunches his nose in a sneer. ‘My business. Not your business. You mind yours and I’ll mind mine, OK?’
He scrapes his chair around so he won’t have to look at the crone. Concentrates instead on the waitress. He can see her in the cafe, talking to a customer. Then she slips behind the counter. Uses a pair of tongs to retrieve a cream éclair from the cake cabinet. The tongs squeeze the cake, the cake lets out a long sigh and the cream oozes out.
‘Ah!’ Chubber says. ‘Lovely. What a lovely, lovely girly girl.’
A snuffle comes from behind him. Chubber hopes the old dear is choking on her dentures. He pauses. He really shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t even be here. If Antler Man knew, he’d be angry. Very angry. Still, he can’t know, can he? Chubber reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pencil. Licks the tip. Takes a napkin and flattens it. Bends to the table and writes a note to the waitress. She’ll read the note and maybe next time he comes into the coffee shop she’ll ask him out.
He slips a ten-pound note on top of the napkin and moves back his chair. The girl looks over from another table, mouths a ‘thank you’ and starts to move towards him.
‘Oh Chubber-Chub-Chubs,’ Chubber says as he hurries away. ‘Chubber’s been a bad boy. Naughty Chubber. Bad Chubber.’
He doesn’t look back as he pushes across the plaza. He kicks the side of a pushchair as a young mum comes by. Barges past an elderly man who is as slow as a snail on coarse-grit sandpaper.
Sand again, Chubber? It’s slip, slip, slipping away. Marking time. Hours rushing past.
‘Busy, busy, busy,’ Chubber says as he skitters away and turns off the plaza, heading down Royal Parade. ‘Got things to do today. At home. Best get back. Kettle on the boil. Things on the go. Deary, deary, deary me my Chubber-Chub-Chubs.’
Major Crimes operated out of Crownhill Police Station, located on the north side of the city, away from the centre. The building was a modernist brute of a structure in brown concrete, the colour choice not lost on the officers within or on a number of the more quick-witted of their clients. Savage arrived back from the moor mid-afternoon and went straight to the crime suite, where a DC informed her that DSupt Hardin wanted to see her.
‘Pronto, ma’am,’ the DC added. ‘As in, now.’
Savage about-turned, headed to Hardin’s office and rapped on the door. Hardin’s ‘enter’ came with a splutter and when Savage pushed the door open she found him attempting to pat himself on the back with one hand while wiping up a pool of coffee on the desk with a bunch of tissues held in the other. The DSupt’s bulk filled his chair and most of the space behind the desk. He was a big man, often mistaken for an ex-rugby player. However, Savage reckoned Hardin would never have had the dexterity for ball games; tug-of-war would have been much more his thing.
‘Just had a phone call, Charlotte,’ Hardin said, screwing up the tissue paper and chucking the soggy mess in the bin. ‘Dan-bloody-Phillips, the crime reporter on the