Read Tell Tale for Free Online

that “good reason” be?’
    ‘Say if it’s broken. Which this one isn’t. Or if the material has some sort of incriminating evidence on it.’ Frey knelt alongside Savage and pointed to the end of the tie-down with the hook. ‘There, take a look.’
    ‘There’s a stain.’ Savage could see a discoloration where some sort of liquid had worked its way into the webbing. ‘Blood?’
    ‘Could be.’ Frey stood. ‘But I think it looks more like oil. Examine the material near to the hook. What do you see?’
    ‘Not a lot.’ Savage leaned in closer and shielded her eyes from the sun. Now she could see some fraying on one side of the webbing. A wisp of material like fine fishing line. No, not fishing line. ‘A hair?’
    ‘Yes.’ Frey stared across the water. ‘If we can find a matching one amongst the girl’s clothing or maybe at her lodgings, then we’ve got our first major lead.’
    ‘So she’s tied up with the webbing and brought out here.’ Savage followed Frey’s gaze and then looked back to the bank to where the bag of clothes had been found. ‘He strips her, kills her and throws the webbing out into the lake.’
    ‘Which leads me to think she’s not out there.’ Frey turned from the water and looked towards the forest. ‘If she was then surely she would be with the webbing. But my diver says there’s nothing else down there.’
    ‘Unless the perp forgot about the webbing until the last minute and then had to dispose of it in a hurry. Either way we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves. I guess we’ll need to wait to see if the CSIs can get some sort of match on the hair.’
    ‘And then?’
    ‘Then I’ll get onto that idiot PolSA and get him to widen the search.’
    Charlie Kinver was the fisherman who’d found the bag of clothes and yet, apart from his initial statement to the PC, he’d not been questioned. Savage berated Calter and went off to do the job herself.
    The man’s place lay about three miles from Fernworthy. A narrow lane ducked into a tunnel of trees and emerged after a quarter of a mile into a tiny valley where a stone cottage sat beside a brook. Ducks muddied the shallows as they probed beds of watercress and as Savage slowed the car, a heron rose from the water and flapped away. The house was from a postcard, honeysuckle climbing over a wooden porch, flowers in bright window boxes, a vegetable garden with rows of produce bursting from the neatly tended beds. To one side a number of chickens scratched bare earth in a pen, while a cat watched from the shade of a nearby fruit tree.
    Savage got out of the car and went across to the front door. The door stood open and she knocked and called out a ‘hello’. Someone answered from the gloom inside and a figure stooped forward down the hall and held out a hand.
    ‘Charlie Kinver,’ the man said. The hand was dinner plate-sized and felt rough and calloused as Savage shook it. Kinver was in his forties but with a weathered face, short hair prematurely greying. ‘You must be the police, right?’
    Savage nodded and introduced herself as Kinver led her through to the back of the house. The kitchen had oak units and wooden worktops with a deep sink and an old Rayburn stove. Very rustic, Savage thought, wondering if rustic wasn’t exactly the right word to describe Kinver too.
    ‘Made them myself, I did,’ Kinver said, noting Savage’s interest. ‘Carpentry. About all I’m good for. At least that’s what the wife says.’
    ‘They’re beautiful,’ Savage said. Kinver’s eyes had wandered to the window and she followed his gaze. In the back garden a woman lay on a sun lounger positioned beneath the shade of a tree, a book in one hand. ‘Is that your wife?’
    ‘Yes. She’s had a hard morning baking bread and then singing in the choir. Not like me, off for a spot of fishing, catching our food.’
    Savage looked back into the room. On the kitchen table a hunk of bread smeared with butter and layered with cheese lay