by Adrian Wills
‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll be right there.’
The door clicked shut and Fletcher pulled himself out of his chair. ‘Why don’t you join us,’ he said. ‘I can answer any more questions you might have on the way.’
‘Thank you, but I have a few leads I need to follow up back in town.’
‘Have you not heard a word I said? Kyle’s body is somewhere up on the moor in a ditch or a stream, and the sooner we find him, the sooner Claire and the kids can start to grieve. Come on, we could do with an extra pair of hands. We’ll rustle you up some kit.’ Fletcher eyed up Blake’s jeans and lightweight jacket, totally inappropriate for the worst of the weather on the moor.
‘Aren’t you worried you’re just giving Claire Hopkins false hope?’
‘Of course not,’ said Fletcher, pulling on a jacket. ‘All I’m doing is trying to give her closure.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Blake rode with Fletcher in a mud-splattered Land Rover following four troop transporters belching out black diesel fumes. They rolled off the parade ground in convoy, slowed in unison as they passed the gatehouse and bullied their way through narrow, twisting lanes until the trees forming a canopy over the road thinned. In the back of the lorries, the heads of the soldiers lolloped with every jolt, the vehicles chugging slowly up the steepest gradients, dropping into low gears to top out on higher ground and over a clattering cattle grid where a thickening mist shrouded the open moor.
‘Visibility’s getting worse,’ said Fletcher, peering through the windscreen. ‘We may have to call it off until it clears a little.’
By now Blake could barely see the back of the truck ahead through a thick bank of impenetrable fog. ‘It looks set in to me,’ he said.
‘It’ll lift, maybe in an hour or so. We’ll see how it goes.’
The convoy slowed to an agonising crawl as the visibility continued to worsen.
‘Well, I can’t see a thing now,’ said Blake.
Fletcher glanced at him. ‘I’ve driven these roads for the best part of fourteen years. Trust me, we’ll be fine.’
‘That’s a long time for a soldier to be stationed in one place.’
‘We’re teaching staff. Different rules,’ said Fletcher, leaning forward over the steering wheel as he stared unblinking into the fog ahead.
‘I meant what I said earlier,’ said Blake. ‘Whatever you think might have happened to Kyle Hopkins, you should tighten security around the school until we know what’s happened for sure. And keep your men away from the town for a few days.’
‘This is Devon, not downtown Baghdad,’ said Fletcher. ‘Anyway, terrorists are the least of our worries.’
Blake folded his arms across his chest. Maybe Fletcher was right. Perhaps Hopkins was lying in a ditch somewhere, frozen to death. ‘A barman at the Tavistock Inn said someone had been asking around for Kyle in the weeks before he vanished. Any idea who that might have been?’
‘Knowing Kyle, it was probably someone looking to get his money back.’
‘Maybe,’ said Blake. ‘Or someone who’d identified him as an off-duty soldier, and an easy target.’
Fletcher shook his head. ‘Not down here.’
The convoy came to a temporary halt to allow a flock of sheep to cross the road, apparently in no hurry despite four noisy lorries bearing down on them. They dropped into a ditch and slipped away into the gloom.
‘How well do you know Kyle’s wife?’
‘Claire? Almost as long as I’ve known Kyle,’ said Fletcher.
‘Do you trust her?’
‘Of course. Why?’
‘The police know about their debts. They’re convinced Claire’s plotted Kyle’s disappearance with him.’
‘You see what I mean about the police? That’s insane.’
‘Except Kyle’s life assurance pay-out would cover what they owe and more.’
‘Then they don’t know Claire very well if they think she could be capable of something like that.’
The convoy crossed a narrow stone bridge over a thread of water cutting a meandering path between granite rocks and pulled off the main road into a large, gravel car park.
‘What about her relationship with Jamie Dobson?’ asked Blake, as Fletcher killed the engine.
‘Spider?’
‘I went to the house first thing. He’d beaten me to it.’
‘He’s just giving her a hand with the kids while she gets her head together. That’s what we do. We’re as close as family.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
Dutch jumped down from the cab of the lead transporter and approached the Land Rover. Fletcher wound down his window.
‘What do you reckon, Sir? The fog’s pretty dense. You want to go ahead?’
Fletcher craned his neck and looked up to the sky. ‘Yes, get the men formed up. We’ll call it off if it gets any worse.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Dutch adjusted his beret, saluted and returned to the lorries. He shouted a series of orders and the soldiers fell out of the trucks, boots thudding on the ground. Dobson and Stone corralled them into three rows and had them stand to attention.
You know, sometimes this can be the most beautiful place on earth,’ said Fletcher, sighing. ‘But most of the time it’s hell. The winter’s the worst. Too many long, dark days. And when it rains it always seems to fall in horizontal sheets. Christ, even the sheep look bloody miserable.’
Right on cue, an elderly ewe with a dirty, tangled coat limped past, stopping briefly to stare at the two men. It hobbled down a ridge with a plaintive bleat.
‘So what keeps you here?’ asked Blake.
Fletcher shrugged. ‘It’s what we do, and besides I’ve got nowhere else to go.’
The soldiers spread out shoulder-to-shoulder as Dutch issued a final briefing, full of expansive arm waving.
‘You’re certainly a well-kept secret. I’d never heard of the training school until this week.’
‘We only take the most promising students. A lot of them view it as a steppingstone towards Special Forces selection. The moor’s a great tester, especially on days like this. If you can survive here, you can survive anywhere.’
Blake nodded, remembering all the operational hellholes he’d been parachuted into; the dust bowls of the Iraqi deserts and the chilly mountains of Afghanistan, the sweaty slums of North Africa and the humid jungles of South America. He’d survived them all. Done his duty. Escaped. Returned to do it again, somewhere equally hellish.
‘So how did you end up here?’
Fletcher sniffed and ran a hand over his beard. ‘I was headhunted for the job when they decided to set up the school. They promised I could choose my own staff, which kind of clinched the deal for me.’
‘And all the men you chose were from your own regiment?’
‘It’s important to work with people you trust,’ Fletcher said, shifting in his seat.
‘I guess,’ said Blake, pondering the photograph of Kyle Hopkins he’d seen on the shelf at his home. ‘Do you think Kyle’s problems stemmed from his service in Iraq? Lots of guys came back and couldn’t cope.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Fletcher.
‘Post-traumatic stress. It can take a while to manifest itself.’
Fletcher shook his head slowly. ‘I think Claire’s confused. Kyle never served in Iraq.’
‘How could Claire have got something like that wrong?’
‘Maybe the stress of everything that’s going on? I mean she’s partly right, the rest of the regiment did complete a six-month tour, but we’d already been seconded down here to set up the school.’
‘Really?’
‘Do you think I’d lie about something like that?’
‘Of course not.’
Out of the fog, the shadow of a soldier emerged, running towards the Land Rover, arms and legs pumping.
Fletcher leaned forward, flicking the wipers to clear the damp sheen on the windscreen. J
amie Dobson slowed to a trot as he approached.
‘We’ve found something,’ Dobson said, breathing heavily. He produced a small leather package from his jacket pocket and handed it to Fletcher.
Fletcher studied it for a moment. ‘It’s Hopkins’ wallet.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The wallet was made of brown leather, frayed around the edges. Fletcher brushed off the worst of the caked-on mud, then flipped it open. Kyle Hopkins’ face, printed on a white identity card tucked behind a transparent plastic window, looked back at him. A deadpan expression for the camera. No hint of humour. Narrow, staring eyes. Thin lips. Freckled skin.
Fletcher snatched a breath. He flicked through a wad of crumpled receipts, pulled out a couple of credit cards, slipped them back into their slots and snapped the wallet shut.
‘It was just off the path,’ said Dobson, pointing through the fog.
‘Is anything missing?’ It opened a whole new possibility Blake hadn’t previously considered. ‘Maybe someone lured him up here to rob him.’
‘No,’ said Fletcher. ‘Nothing seems to have been taken.’
Blake glanced out of the window, past the line of trucks. ‘How far are we from where Kyle’s car was abandoned?’
‘About two hundred metres over that ridge,’ said Fletcher, pointing with his arm outstretched. ‘This path follows an old tram line. It’s long and straight and heads deep into the moor. Route one into the wilderness, I guess. Spider, show me exactly where you found it.’
Fletcher jumped out of the vehicle and waited for Blake to join him, then locked the doors and shoved the key in his trouser pocket. A blanket of moisture quickly formed over Blake’s borrowed military jacket and seeped into his hair as he followed Dobson and Fletcher along a well-trodden path, hard packed with flints and stones. They fast marched into the fog, eyes on their feet, until they stumbled on the soldiers standing in casual groups, chatting quietly, waiting with a well-trained military patience. If there was one thing that came naturally to soldiers it was waiting around. They were masters at killing time.
‘It was just here, by this rock,’ said Dobson, halting by a granite boulder sticking out from the lush green, mossy grass.
Fletcher knelt and examined the ground. Then looked up along the path, staring into the fog.
‘What do you want to do, Sir?’ said Dutch, stepping forward. Fletcher rose to his feet, his brow knitted. ‘Do you want the men to keep going?’
Blake looked up at where the sky should have been. The fog was so dense it was impossible to locate any trace of the sun.
‘No. Get them back to the barracks,’ Fletcher said. ‘I won’t risk losing another man. We’ll resume the moment it lifts.’
‘Very good, Sir,’ said Dutch, snapping a sharp salute. He rolled off his heel and barked an order for the soldiers to form up. They jumped at his command, organising themselves into two tight lines, and vanished in the direction of the car park.
Fletcher remained staring into the distance, lost in his thoughts.
‘I know it’s a tough call, but it’s the right decision,’ said Blake.
‘He’s out there. I know it,’ said Fletcher.
‘But you can hardly see your hand in front of your face. Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘I could find my way across this moor blindfolded. This is my backyard. I’m going to have a quick scoot around. No need for you to come. Go back to the car and wait for me.’
‘Not a good idea. Why don’t you give it an hour or so, like you said.’
‘It’s my fault Kyle’s out here in the first place.’
‘Of course it’s not. He knew what he was doing,’ said Blake. ‘And you know as well as I do he wouldn’t have survived this long in the open.’
‘He was vulnerable, and I let him down.’
‘At least let me come with you.’
But Fletcher was already disappearing out of sight, skipping into a sure-footed jog along the rocky path.
‘Wait!’ shouted Blake. He hesitated for a second, and Fletcher was gone.
He considered following, because no matter how well Fletcher knew the moor, it was so easy to lose your bearings, especially without any visual clues or points of reference. He was as likely to end up wandering around in circles for the rest of the day as he was to wind up with a busted ankle at the bottom of a ditch.
But what was Blake supposed to do? In that moment of indecision, Fletcher had vanished. Breaking the first rule of soldiering, Fletcher had let his heart rule his head. When logic dictated he should have waited it out he’d allowed his emotions to make a bad decision. And it would be suicide for Blake to follow him.
He turned and slouched back towards the car park with his hands buried in his pockets. If nothing else, it would be a good opportunity to call Patterson and update him on progress. And maybe if Fletcher did find Hopkins’ body, he could be on his way to the coast for a well-earned break by nightfall.
The sound of the trucks pulling away carried through the gloom, and when Blake finally made it back to the Land Rover, the car park was empty. He reached for the passenger door and tried the handle. Locked. Shit.
Blake thumped the bodywork with his fist.
The sensible thing would have been to stay with the vehicle and wait for Fletcher, but the cold was already penetrating his jacket and his boots. If he didn’t keep moving, he’d freeze. It wouldn’t take long for the blood to redirect from his hands and his feet to his vital organs, and then he’d already be over the danger line and on a perilous downward spiral towards hypothermia. The cold killer.
He pondered following the road and trying to remember his way back to the training school. It had to be no more than five or six miles. A distance he could easily cover, if he could recall the route. The alternative was to follow the track and catch up with Fletcher for the keys.
With frozen fingers, he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and held it up in front of his face, squinting at the screen as it lit up.
‘No signal.’
At least it ruled out the possibility of calling Parkes and admitting he needed help.
He glanced in the direction of the road, and back at the path. How far could Fletcher have realistically gone? He might even be on his way back. If Blake kept to the track, which Fletcher said carried on straight and true across the moor, surely he couldn’t go far wrong, even in the fog. And at least he’d be moving, generating body heat.
Blake tucked his hands under his armpits for warmth as he shivered with cold. ‘The path it is then,’ he said, as if trying to convince his brain that his instincts were right. He pulled his collar up around his throat and set off at a vigorous pace to get his heart pumping and his muscles producing some heat.
After ten minutes, he pulled up to catch his breath, surprising a herd of cattle hunkered down among the bracken, watching him with wide, doleful eyes.
‘Fletcher!’ he yelled.
He listened for a response, but heard only an eerie silence, as if the fog was acting like a giant wad of insulating cotton wool damping all sound.
Blake turned a slow circle, feeling isolated and alone. He’d worked up a sweat, but his fingers and toes remained painfully cold. He had no idea how far he’d come. He made a quick calculation in his head. At four miles per hour, he’d most likely covered around two thirds of a mile. But it was irrelevant. If he couldn’t find Fletcher, he was as good as lost.
He dismissed the idea of turning back, sticking to his rule that you should always move forward. He only hoped he hadn’t somehow passed Fletcher heading in the opposite direction, unseen and unheard in the fog.
He pushed the thought out of his head. Survival was ninety per cent in the mind. Right now Blake needed a positive attitude and some old-fashioned self-belief. He picked up speed, shifting gear into a gentle jog, calling out Fletcher’s name at regular intervals, but in return heard only the pounding of his boots on the hard ground.
The path, which had been a wide and
well-trodden track, now virtually vanished into no more than a narrow trail in the grass. Prickly gorse bushes with vicious looking spines flourished on either side, but footprints in the mud suggested someone had recently passed through.
‘Lieutenant Fletcher!’ Blake shouted, more in hope now than expectation of being heard.
He slowed as the path grew narrower still and then curved through a tight corner around a craggy tree covered in greying lichen. Scrawny branches scratched Blake’s face and his feet slid on the mud. In the distance, he heard the eerie lowing of cattle.
Eventually, he came to a fork in the path. One track veered left. The other bore to the right. Blake dropped to his knees and scoured the ground, but there were no footprints, only hoof marks. He shivered, his teeth rattling in his jaw, and on a whim chose the right-hand fork. He had to keep moving. It was the only choice he was sure of making.
Less than a quarter of a mile farther on, the path became indistinguishable as Blake stumbled across an open plain where scrubby moorland grasses competed for space with clumps of acid green ferns. Mossy earth squelched under his feet and brackish water rose over his toecaps. Then, where tall wiry grasses spiked through a ground cover of some kind of yellow flower, Blake’s boot sank deep into sucking mud.
A fear swelled in his chest. He was aware of Dartmoor’s notorious peat bogs, some deep enough to swallow a pony, sheep, or even an unsuspecting rambler, but hadn’t anticipated stumbling blindly into one.
He slowly dragged his foot free, looking for dry ground, but with his next step his other foot sank up to his calf. Cold, fetid mud poured into his boot and moulded around his lower leg.
He tried not to panic, casting his mind back to his own survival training on the bleak mountain passes in Wales. It had been a long time ago. He’d been a young man, full of vim and vigour, fearless and brave, desperate to prove his worth and join the men of the winged dagger. But while age had given him experience, it had robbed him of the fearlessness of death. Once he thought he was untouchable. Now, he sensed his own mortality.
