‘Why did you think that?’
‘Well, there weren’t any other possibilities which came to mind. I could see she wasn’t close by sunbathing. Anyway it was too early for that.’
‘How often do you go fishing, Charlie?’
‘This time of year it’d be a couple of times a week, sometimes three. I don’t catch something every trip, but when I do it’s nice to have a piece of fresh fish for lunch. Only today I didn’t feel hungry. I cut off their heads, gutted them, gave the scraps to the cat and put them in the freezer for another day.’
‘When you were last at Fernworthy did you fish the same spot?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Usually I’ll try to vary which swims I fish from, but this was only a short trip and I couldn’t be bothered to walk round the lake.’
‘And that was when?’
‘Day before yesterday. I had no luck but I spotted a couple of nice fish. That’s partly why I returned to the same place. And no, the bag definitely wasn’t there.’
‘And in your recent trips you haven’t noticed anybody acting suspiciously?’
‘I’m usually there too early to notice anyone. The tourists don’t start arriving until mid-morning. There’ll be some walkers, of course, but it’s rare I see anybody before eight. Once the kids start splashing in the shallows you can say goodbye to any chance of a bite so I usually try to do morning or evening sessions. This morning I didn’t see anyone and if I recall t’was the same the day before yesterday.’
‘You said you sometimes do evening sessions?’ Kinver nodded. ‘Do you ever get people at the reservoir then? Couples maybe?’
Kinver smiled. ‘Sometimes. They’ll turn up at dusk usually. They might take a walk but if they were thinking of a spot of alfresco the mossies usually put them off. All that bare flesh? – supper time for the little vampires, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve seen them though?’
‘Sure. Stood and watched a few times.’ Kinver held up his hands. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m no perv, but when I’m stalking fish round the edge of the lake I’m invisible, hardly make a sound. Once, late evening, I came across two guys and a woman. She were being spit-roasted, I think that’s what they call it. Me and the wife had a good laugh about it when I came home. Spit-roasted the brace of brownies I caught too.’
Savage shifted in her chair, aware that Kinver was leering. The man was a little free and easy with his descriptions for her liking. She was glad his wife was out in the back garden.
‘And apart from that one time, have you ever seen anything dodgy?’
‘The occasional couple in a car. With the lights on you can see everything. I’ve reported a vehicle that’s been broken into a couple of times. Once I rang the rangers to alert them to a bunch of teens who were camping and had lit a big fire. The camping was fine, but I reckoned the fire was a bad idea considering the dry weather we were having. I’d have had words myself but I didn’t want no trouble.’
‘And that’s the extent of it?’
‘As far as I know. I’ve never seen a guy in an old mac, hands down his trousers, leering after young girls.’ Kinver looked up from his tea-making duties and leered himself. ‘Young, pretty girls, know what I mean?’
‘I’m not sure I do, Mr Kinver,’ Savage said, thinking Kinver was again giving her way too much information. He seemed keen to show her the extent of his lasciviousness. Was it an act? – or maybe he was trying to flirt, even though his wife was but steps away. ‘Anyway, what makes you think this girl was young and pretty?’
‘Hey?’ Kinver cocked his head, nonplussed. Then he returned his attention to the kettle and poured water into two mugs, adding teabags to each afterwards. ‘Her picture, of course. On the driving licence. Cute little thing, I thought.’
Shit, Savage had forgotten about the licence. For a moment she’d thought Kinver had let slip something. Kinver was squeezing the teabags with a spoon while gazing out the window at his wife. He was mumbling about how he was very much in favour of the EU if the migrants were all like Ana.
‘Send ’em over, I say,’ he said as he turned and deposited the mugs on the table. ‘The more the merrier.’
‘But you’ve never seen her before?’
‘No.’ Kinver grimaced. ‘And I don’t reckon I’m likely to get the chance now, am I?’
‘You’re jumping to conclusions. Most missing persons turn up at some point. Fingers crossed this girl does too.’
‘Oh she’ll turn up all right.’ Kinver pulled out a chair and sat down. He raised a finger to his mouth, licked the tip and then lowered his hand and ran his finger along the smooth edge of the tabletop. ‘But she won’t be winning any beauty contests when she does, will she?’
Irina Kryukov sat on a bench on the Hoe and cried. The sun shone down from a clear blue sky and out to sea the water sparkled. Yachts crawled back and forth, wallowing in the light airs. A rib loaded with divers carved a foamy white trail in the water as it sped towards the breakwater. Close at hand, on the huge grassy expanse of the Hoe, people lounged around with ice creams or a beer or two. A family had just unpacked a substantial picnic and a young kid of three or four was grasping for the bottle of Coke. Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of Irina, everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves. But they hadn’t had to find out what she just had.
The knock on the door had come first thing in the morning. A uniformed female police officer stood on the step outside, reluctance written all over her face.
‘It’s about your housemate, love,’ the officer said. ‘Anasztáz Róka? We’ve found some of her things on Dartmoor. Somebody will be round to take a statement later, OK?’
Job done, the woman had turned and walked away.
Irina sniffed and used a paper tissue to wipe away some of her tears. The little boy with the picnicking family looked up and pointed at Irina, but his mother grabbed his arm and wheeled him round. Irina felt completely alone, as if nobody cared.
It was a feeling she’d had when she’d first come to the UK from Russia a couple of years ago. She’d arrived in London pretty much penniless, planning to spend a few days there before heading off to start her course at Plymouth University. After seeing the sights of London, which – truth be told – were pretty poor fare compared to Moscow, she’d hitch-hiked west. A lorry driver had offered her a lift and then halfway down the M4 he’d pulled off at Membury services and asked for payment. ‘I’m going as far as Bristol. A blow job’ll get you there. Or you could let me fuck you and I’ll bung you twenty quid so you can get a train the rest of the way.’
Irina had wrenched the door of the cab open and tumbled out into the drizzle. The man had cursed and asked her what the problem was? After all, weren’t all Russian girls whores? Then he’d chucked her rucksack down, started the truck and roared off. Irina had lain on the wet tarmac, nursing a bruise and a bunch of shattered illusions. Maybe, after all, England wasn’t the Promised Land. Maybe people were pretty much the same wherever you went.
She remembered her father’s reaction on hearing the news she intended to leave Russia. ‘Different seas,’ he’d said. ‘Different salt in the water. You either like the taste or you don’t.’ Certainly her first taste had been sour, but after a nightmare few weeks things had improved, and over time some of her faith had been restored. She had a nice room in a shared house and a part-time job in a cafe. The winters were warmer, if wetter, than Moscow, and this year the British summer had been a scorcher. She’d had a brief fling with a lifeguard who’d taught her how to surf and although the relationship had ended she’d enjoyed herself while it lasted. The