Dead on Dartmoor

by Stephanie Austin

  I had the map out and pointed in the direction I wanted Olly to fly it. ‘Over the road,’ I told him, ‘down towards the farm.’

  He sent it soaring into the blue until it hung above us no bigger than a sparrow, its tiny red lights winking. I crouched behind him, watching the screen over his shoulder as the drone flew over the road and across the fields opposite, the hedgerow appearing beneath it as a crooked line of dark green.

  ‘Look!’ Olly cried. ‘There’s that stinky old lorry we were following just now!’

  We were looking directly down on the lumbering beast, on its piles of black plastic bales.

  It had turned off down the track to Applecote Farm. ‘What’s it gone down there for?’

  He brought the drone down for a closer look. ‘I thought you said it wasn’t a farm no more.’

  ‘It’s not operating as a farm. No reason why it shouldn’t be used for storing silage, though.’

  He giggled. ‘Let’s buzz it!’ And before I could stop him the drone shot forward, dropped in front of the truck and hovered before the windscreen. The driver and his passenger, both thickset individuals, the driver wearing a green knitted hat, gaped, astonished.

  This was not what we’d come to see. ‘That’s not a good idea, Olly.’

  He sent the drone rocketing off at an angle, soaring higher, his fingers working the twin controls with practised ease. It whizzed away over the chimneys and slate roof of the old farmhouse. A motorbike was parked in the farmyard, a small knot of people gathered near the doors of a cowshed. Without any prompting from me, Olly sent the drone swooping down for a closer look.

  Three men were talking, one wearing a trilby and a sheepskin jacket, one in a flat cap, and the third, the owner of the motorbike, clad in leathers and black helmet. The truck jerked to a stop beside them, the driver leaning out of his cab, yelling, jabbing his arm skyward. They looked up, saw the drone, and began pointing. The driver shook his fist. Clearly, they were not pleased at being observed.

  ‘Time we weren’t here,’ I warned Olly.

  He sent the drone around in a curve. As we passed over the farmyard again, we saw the biker racing for his bike, sitting astride it. Olly pressed home on his controls and the drone came swooping back across the road like a returning falcon and landed neatly in the grass.

  He picked it up and we jogged smartly back to the safety of the trees and climbed, a little breathlessly, into White Van. I decided we’d better abandon our search for Moorworthy Mine and beat a hasty retreat. Olly struggled to fit the drone into the rucksack as I backed down the muddy track, and hid it beneath his seat. I turned the van and sped off down the road.

  ‘What if they catch us?’ he asked, eyes wide.

  I shrugged. ‘We’re just driving along. There’s no reason for them to think the drone is anything to do with us.’

  It turned out I was being just a smidgen overconfident. Suddenly the motorbike roared into sight in the rear-view mirror, a gleaming black predator racing up behind us, only slowing when it was close on our back bumper. Then it swung out into the road, riding alongside so that the biker was able to turn his helmeted head and get a good look at us. We couldn’t see his face at all, masked behind his mirrored visor.

  ‘It’s a Harley Davidson!’ Olly breathed, awestruck at the sleek, powerful machine riding beside us.

  I speeded up. The bike overtook, swerving in front of us, slowing and settling there, forcing us to slow again, hogging the centre of the road, making it impossible to overtake. The road ahead was narrow, hugged on either side by high green hedgerows. All we could do was carry on, stuck behind the bike for another half-mile.

  I heard the thundering of the truck before I saw it, looming up behind, filling up the rear-view mirror, massive and menacing. For a moment I glimpsed the driver, his beefy red face, green woolly hat pulled down over his head like a tea cosy; then all I could see was the chrome bulwark of his bumper, the teeth of his radiator grille blocking the entire back window as it closed up behind us, growling. We were trapped, the bike maintaining a slow and steady speed just in front of us, the green walls of the hedgerow rising on either side. The truck nudged us, gently, bumping us forward.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Olly cried in alarm.

  ‘They’re just trying to intimidate us, that’s all. Frighten us.’ Or very possibly kill us, I added silently. This was a lonely road, a good place to stage an accident. The truck bumped us again, harder this time, jolting us forward, making us rock in our seats like crash dummies. Olly stared at me, white-faced in fright. ‘Hold tight!’ I yelled. There was an unhealthy crunching sound from the rear of White Van as they bumped us again.

  ‘Bastards! I’ve only had this van five minutes!’ I tried to pull out around the bike, but the biker weaved across the road, preventing us from getting past, cutting off our escape.

  The truck dropped back in preparation for a more powerful, more violent shunt. ‘To hell with this!’ I gritted my teeth and put my foot down hard. We hit the rear wheel of the Harley Davidson and sent it slewing onto its side, sparks flying as the mudguard scraped along the tarmac, the driver skidding on his back before flailing to a halt in the hedgerow. The truck behind was forced to swerve to avoid hitting him, its giant tyres bouncing over the back wheel of the bike as it lay on the ground. As we sped away it jammed to a halt, blocking the road slantwise, the driver’s cab crashing into the bushes.

  Olly gave a yelp of delight and punched the air in triumph. I swung the van off the road at the next turning, a lane so narrow that the hedges brushed the van on either side. It would be impossible for the truck to follow. Judging by the bumps and ruts, and the grass growing up the middle, it was a track not much used and I had no idea where it was going to come out.

  ‘You don’t think we’ve killed him, do you?’ Olly asked, as a blackberry briar thwacked against the windscreen. ‘The biker, I mean?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. He wasn’t doing any speed for one thing.’ For another, when he came to rest, the bushes must have cushioned the impact. If he’d slammed against a drystone wall it might have been a different story. ‘But you know what?’ I asked him as poor White Van bumped and rattled down the rutted lane. ‘Right now, I really don’t give a shit.’

  Back in the safety of Olly’s kitchen we reviewed the film from the drone, watching the group of men talking in the farmyard. We couldn’t make out the face of the individual in the trilby hat but the tall, loose-limbed figure in the sagging tweeds and flat cap was definitely Moss. Besides, his was one of the names painted on the truck, which was unlikely to be coincidence. So what were Moss and friends up to? They disliked being spied upon by the drone so much they were prepared to play lethal games to warn us off. They could have killed us. They had to be up to something. And whatever they were up to, Applecote Farm was on Jamie Westershall’s land. Was he a part of it? Was he the masked rider on the bike?

  I didn’t like to think that might be true; but whoever that was, he’d got a good look at me and Olly.

  ‘Tell me something,’ I asked, as he placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate by my elbow and slid back into his seat at the kitchen table. ‘The first time you went out with the drone, with Gavin, did Moss – you know, the old guy with the shotgun – get close enough to get a good look at you? When he was chasing you, did he get close enough to Gavin to see his face?’

  Olly thought about it, silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps,’ he said eventually. ‘Gav kept turning around to see if he was still behind us. Why?’

  ‘I’m just wondering if Moss would have recognised Gavin if he’d seen him again at the Moorworthy fete.’ And if he had, would he have followed him into the woods and killed him?

  ‘Are we going back there again?’ he asked excitedly. Now that time and distance had recovered him from his fright, he was talking about the whole incident as if it was a great adventure.

  ‘We are not going anywhere.’ It was too dangerous. Even I wasn’t irresponsible enough to involve a
fourteen-year-old boy with thugs who were prepared to run us off the road. As it was, the bumper of White Van was buckled and the back doors dented. I didn’t want Olly getting buckled and dented too. ‘Look, I may have to call the police and you’ve got to stay out of trouble, remember?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, right.’ He looked disappointed but didn’t argue.

  ‘Look, we’ll take the drone out again,’ I added, trying to cheer him up, ‘somewhere safer next time.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t tomorrow. I’m working.’

  ‘But tomorrow’s Sunday,’ he objected.

  ‘Yeah, well, no rest for the wicked. So, what do you do with yourself on Sundays?’

  He shrugged. ‘Homework,’ he answered miserably. ‘But I’ve only got history and I don’t have to hand that in till Tuesday.’ He stared down at his finger and began picking at a cuticle. ‘I might weed the veg patch. I’m growing kale. It’s good for you. Nan always grew cabbage. She didn’t hold with kale.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘We used to have a laugh. I go down the end of the garden and talk to her sometimes. You know, just tell her what I’m doing, tell her what’s going on.’ He flicked a sheepish glance at me. ‘Stupid, aren’t I?’

  ‘Not at all. I think you should talk to her any time you feel like it. But don’t you get lonely, living on your own?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t like other people much … Oh, you’re all right,’ he added graciously.

  ‘Thanks.’ I tried not to feel overwhelmed by the compliment. ‘Tell you what, I’ll pick you up in the morning, take you to Honeysuckle Farm, to the animal sanctuary. They can always use a volunteer up there. You like animals, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah!’ His sharp little face brightened. ‘Are you hungry? I picked some blackberries out of the hedge yesterday, made a crumble. There’s loads of it left. Do you want some?’

  Silly question. He got a dish out of the fridge and put it in an oven in the Rayburn. ‘It’ll take a few minutes to warm up. I haven’t got a microwave.’

  ‘Let me guess. Your nan didn’t hold with microwaves?’

  He nodded, grinning.

  ‘Was it your nan who taught you to cook?’

  ‘We always used to cook meals together, right from when I was small. Then, for the last year, it was just me doing the cooking. But she didn’t like anything fancy. I couldn’t get her to eat anything foreign, not even pasta.’

  ‘A bit frustrating when you want to be a chef.’

  ‘Well, I think I do.’ He rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully. ‘I can’t make my mind up. I might play the bassoon. It’s hard, isn’t it, working out what you want to do with your life?’

  Certainly is. So far, I haven’t managed it.

  ‘Or I might just do science. I can do anything I want,’ he added, giving a smug little grin. ‘I’m a genius, me. I got the same birthday as Albert Einstein.’

  And just for a moment I understood what made other boys want to kick him.

  Albert Einstein, in case you’re wondering, was born on 14th March. This makes him a Pisces, like Olly. Like Sophie, like Morris, like Cordelia. I am always surrounded by them, these romantic, imaginative, sensitive, dreamy, muddled, vulnerable, hopeless, bloody irritating people: me, an organised, practical, down-to-earth, sane and sensible Capricorn.

  As a Capricorn, of course, I am not remotely interested in astrology. The only reason I know anything about it is because I absorbed it by some kind of weird osmosis as I was growing up. My cousin Cordelia, whose life was tragically cut short, was a real wise woman. She practised astrology in a little shop in Totnes, giving consultations on horoscopes.

  And in the wee small hours, when any sensible Capricorn should have been asleep, I lay awake thinking about Gavin. I bet he was a Pisces. I was still trying to work out what had happened to him that day. Suppose he’d gone to Pat’s car, intending to put the sword away, to get out the rucksack containing the drone and wire cutters so that he could get through the fence, then discovered the car was locked. What did he do? He didn’t come back to ask Pat for the keys so perhaps he decided to go for a walk in the woods, reconnoitre, find another way in? Or just mess about with the sword? And at some time during all this, did he and Moss encounter one another? Did Moss challenge him, chase him, cause him to fall on his sword, or did Gavin panic and run?

  Bill leapt onto my pillow suddenly and began to tread about in my hair, purring seductively. I don’t know how he got in because Adam had finally got around to fixing my bathroom window and it was shut. I put up with Bill’s rasping lullaby for a bit before yanking my hair out from underneath him so that I could turn over. I drifted off to sleep with no questions answered and dreamt of Dolly Knolly at peace in her bed of earth, beneath the borage and the honeywort, the field poppies and corn cockle, the meadowsweet and the butterflies.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On Sunday I promised to help with the fat fairies. Ricky and Morris had spotted me in the week doing errands when they were sunning themselves at a table outside The Old Library Cafe and had begun yelling embarrassing things like ‘yoo-hoo!’ and ‘cooee!’ to attract my attention. Attempting to ignore them was useless so I’d sat down and let them buy me a coffee and recruit me to help them on Sunday with a sudden demand for costumes.

  First of all, I dropped Olly off at Honeysuckle Farm. It’s not as pretty as it sounds. Years ago, some idiot thought it would be a good idea to demolish the seventeenth-century farmhouse and replace it with a concrete bungalow. A barn and other old farm buildings remain, but it’s hardly picturesque. Visitors arriving at the gate have been known to turn away in disappointment. Because, although the animals are fed and well-cared for, their pens and enclosures scrupulously clean, what visitors to an animal sanctuary expect is a cafe and a gift shop, easy parking and civilised loos. All that requires investment: money. And money is what Pat, her sister Sue and brother-in-law Ken, who devote their lives to caring for injured wildlife, unwanted pets and abandoned farm animals, do not have, and are never likely to have. So, although they were surprised, they didn’t question the arrival of an enthusiastic little helper who wasn’t looking for payment. My last sight of Olly, after I’d made the introductions and was driving away, was of him crossing the yard in a pair of oversized wellingtons, running to keep up with Ken. I’d promised to pick him up later, when I’d finished with the fairies.

  But first I made a slight detour. I backtracked, turning the van up over the hill to Buckland, past the lovely thatched cottages and church, on to Holne Chase and the Moorworthy estate. The early morning cloud had fled, leaving an open sky, the moon a chalk sketch against the clear blue.

  I’d packed my rucksack and put it in the van along with walking boots, maps, compass and binoculars. I wasn’t planning on any serious hiking, but I never went walking on the moor without the essentials. I drove past the impressive gates of Moorworthy House and pulled in half a mile further on, by the track that led to Applecote Farm.

  The gate was closed, a five-bar steel gate, rails twined with barbed wire, a heavy chain wound about its locking bar, finishing with a weighty padlock; and a sign, ‘Private. Keep Out’, just in case you didn’t get the message. The track was wide enough to take a tractor or a lorry, a simple earthen road that would have been muddy most of the year but had dried to dust after the long hot summer. It led straight down to the farm. I could see the stone chimneys of the farmhouse, its roof and upstairs windows. Strangely, for a farm that was abandoned, there was a whisper of grey smoke coming from the chimney.

  I could have climbed over the gate, with extreme caution, but anyone on the track could be seen from those upstairs windows and I didn’t want to risk being spotted. I contented myself with placing my hands carefully on the gate and rocking it with my weight, just to feel it move, just to hear the metal clang, a tiny act of rebellion. Then I got back into the van and drove on.

  I pulled in again a few miles f
urther on, on a small gravelled space by the verge. I put on thick socks and laced on my leather walking boots, enjoying their chunkiness, their weight, as I crunched gravel underfoot. A wooden signpost pointed across the moor to stone circles and distant tors, but I was heading back the way I’d come, towards Moorworthy.

  I left the road, heading across the short grass, picking my way between granite boulders scattered like dinosaur bones, following pony tracks between gorse bushes and twisted hawthorns, and jumped a tiny stream. I was heading for a steep rise, a tumble of rocks on its summit. The air was fresh and I was breathing harder than I should have been by the time I’d climbed to the top.

  But it was a great viewpoint, rising above the stunted rowan trees that grew all around it, their clusters of berries red as lipstick, and vicious blackthorns heavy with sloes, and showing me a far-reaching sweep of open moorland and rocky tors, of distant blue hills. I sat my bum down on a rock and looked through my field glasses. They were powerful, but small and neat, easy to slip in a pocket, an expensive gift from cousin Brian. I began sweeping from left to right until I found what I was looking for.

  You couldn’t spot it from the road, but from here it stood out as a dark irregular line crossing the landscape: a steep bank, topped with hedgerow, the border between the pastures of Applecote Farm and the open heath. It would have been built a hundred years ago or more, to prevent valuable dairy or beef cattle from wandering onto the moor.

  The hedge bank enclosed the farmland as solidly as a wall. But walls have weaknesses, points of entry. It might offer me a back way in, a chance to get into the Moorworthy estate unobserved, to take a proper look at Applecote Farm, and Moorworthy Mine, and what might be going on there.