Dead on Dartmoor

by Stephanie Austin

  ‘I don’t want to involve him.’

  ‘You had a witness to the attack,’ Ricky insisted, ‘the old bird with the cat.’

  ‘I don’t want to involve her.’

  ‘You didn’t bleedin’ want to involve us, did you?’ he asked, disgusted.

  Morris was silent but shot me a reproachful look over his specs.

  I had gone to their place to help them sort out the first of a rash of requests for pantomime costumes, the panto season fast approaching. But so far, we hadn’t done any work. My arrival had caused a stir. One look at my damaged face and they had accused me of not trusting them, infuriated by my feeble story of falling over, by my blatant lie. ‘D’you think we’re idiots?’ Ricky had demanded. ‘Who did this to you?’

  In the end, I had told them everything. Well, not quite everything. I left out Olly’s illegal burial of his great-grandmother; in fact, I didn’t mention that she was dead. But I told them everything else. I had crumpled under the accumulated weight of their hurt feelings. They had been too kind, too generous, too absurdly protective of me over the years for me to keep them out now. And they might gossip about everyone and everything, but when it really mattered, I knew I could trust in their silence.

  ‘Who is this old girl with a cat, anyway?’

  Morris shook his head. ‘You don’t really know anything about her, do you?’

  ‘Only what she’s told me,’ I admitted.

  ‘She could be a psychopath, for all you know,’ Ricky said.

  Did I detect a touch of jealousy? Personally, I thought Elizabeth was one of the sanest people I’d ever met, but perhaps it was a good thing I hadn’t mentioned her gun. I’d just said that Green Bastard Hat had run off when he’d heard her coming.

  ‘Don’t forget this yob in the green hat is still out there,’ Ricky reminded me. ‘He’s still a danger to you. He needs locking up.’

  ‘I think he’ll be lying low for a while. In any case, he’s working for the Westershalls. It’s Jamie who’s behind all this.’ In my opinion, he was the one who needed locking up, him and his lunatic sister, the dangerous crackhead.

  ‘But what’s going on?’ Morris asked. ‘What’s it all about, Juno?’

  I wish I knew. ‘All I know is that there’s something going on at the Moorworthy estate that the Westershalls − and that includes Sandy − don’t want anyone finding out about. And maybe it’s what got Ben Luscombe and Gavin killed.’

  ‘What about this Moss character?’ Ricky asked. ‘You said he knew what was going on.’

  ‘He does but he’s not going to talk about it, certainly not to the police.’

  ‘This lorry firm,’ Morris continued frowning, ‘Moss and Pike. Is the firm involved in what’s going on, or just the driver?’

  ‘You mean, is he using the firm’s vehicle without their knowledge?’ Ricky asked.

  ‘I’ve only seen him hauling bales of silage about,’ I admitted. ‘There’s nothing illegal in that. I’ve got to find out—’

  ‘Stop right there!’ Ricky pointed his fag at me like a smoking gun. ‘You are not finding out anything. You’re not to go near that place again, understand? It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be getting an invitation any time soon.’

  ‘Well, we have,’ Morris said suddenly. ‘Got an invitation,’ he added as Ricky and I stared at him. ‘Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘My God, our concert!’ Ricky suddenly swivelled around in his chair to look at the calendar on the wall. ‘Is that this Sunday coming?’

  ‘It is, the day after tomorrow,’ Morris responded primly. ‘It’s a good job one of us pays attention. Why do you think I made us rehearse everything last night?’

  ‘All right, Maurice,’ Ricky rolled his eyes, ‘don’t get a cob on!’

  ‘Listen, Juno, maybe we could find out something,’ Morris suggested, glancing sideways at Ricky, ‘ask some questions.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’ I asked, alarm bells ringing.

  Ricky was suddenly enthusiastic. ‘There will be drinks and a bunfight after the show. It’s going to be a big fundraiser. We’ll have a chance to mingle, chat with the guests. If we keep our eyes and ears open, you never know what we might pick up.’

  Morris tittered. ‘I’ve always fancied myself as a Poirot.’

  Ricky gave a shout of laughter. ‘And I could be Miss Marple.’

  My heart sank. ‘Listen, boys, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.’ I had a vision of disaster looming, of the two of them making pointed and unsubtle remarks that could only lead to trouble. I knew I shouldn’t have told them anything.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  On Saturday morning I rose early. I packed the map the librarian had copied, binoculars and all my usual hiking gear, plus a bottle of water, some nutrition bars, a waterproof poncho and spare socks. I was planning to be out most of the day, but home before it got dark. Elizabeth and Olly had invited me to tea. I’d phoned the night before to ask how the rest of Friday had worked out. Elizabeth had laughed. ‘I went shopping and shocked Olly because I bought a bottle of gin. He now thinks he’s living with an alcoholic. Apparently—’

  ‘Dolly didn’t hold with gin.’

  ‘Or spirituous liquors of any kind,’ she added.

  ‘Well, you can put me down for one, as soon as I arrive. See you later.’

  I drove up to Holne Chase, bumping the van over the gravel and onto the grass, parking so that, from the road, it was almost hidden by gorse. The day was dismal, still, a thin mist malingering above the ground. Trees, bent and twisted by prevailing winds, loomed out of it like skeletons, their boughs bare of leaves. The grass was green underfoot and damp, the rest of the world grey, the air chill on my cheek. Magpies chattered somewhere close, but I couldn’t see them. I stuck to pony tracks weaving through the gorse until the rising tumble of rocks where I had sat a couple of weeks ago became dimly visible on my right. There was no need for me to climb it again, but to keep heading on, in as straight a line as I could. If I could have seen more than a few yards ahead of me, this would have been simple, but it’s easy to become disorientated in the mist so I kept checking my bearings.

  Just a mile or two distant, high on the moor where no trees grew, was a place where the ground never dried out, where peat-black soil held the water like a sponge and what looked smooth and green as a croquet lawn was semi-liquid bog. Unless the sun shone and showed you a glimmer of water lurking amongst the mosses on the surface, you could be boots full of liquid black mud and up to your knees after one mistaken step. Not the place to be walking on your own, to get lost, not in the fog.

  Brown ponies, three who had escaped the autumn drift, cantered out of the mist, alarmed by my presence. Snorting, tails flying, they passed so close I could see droplets of mist like pearls on the hairs around their flaring nostrils. Forced to jump back I almost fell over and stood still, heart thumping, until the pounding of their hooves faded into silence.

  I came at last to a standing stone, a lump of granite tall as I was, phantom grey, blotched and speckled with lichen. I’d seen it marked on the map. It meant I was still heading in the right direction. I sensed that the mist was lifting, that I could see further ahead of me now; the day was warming up. As I walked, the sky gradually lightened from grey to gold, low sun filtering through thinning mist.

  When I came to the hedge bank I stopped, sat on a rock, drank water, munched a nutty bar and studied the obstacle before me. The foot of the bank was faced with stones, lumps of granite laid centuries ago, half-hidden by cushions of moss and bound together by roots of hawthorn and elder, which scrambled over the top of it and formed a sturdy hedge. Trees grew out of it: holly, blackthorn and mountain ash. The whole structure was roughly ten foot high. I walked beside it for perhaps half a mile before I came to a likely place for climbing up and scrambling through.

  A jutting stone gave a step for my boot and ivy stems thick as rope offered handholds to haul myself up the bank. So fa
r so good, but the gap in the hedge was narrow and defended on all sides by vicious spikes of blackthorn. I didn’t fancy dragging myself through it, and dropped back down to the ground to look for a bigger breach in the defences.

  I found it further on, a handy gap amongst straggling twigs of hazel. I could climb the bank easily enough, grabbing at roots and branches to haul myself up, but it was clear that my rucksack was going to be an encumbrance when it came to squeezing through the tangle. I’d better leave it behind.

  At the foot of the bank I inspected the contents. I reckoned I didn’t need the Ordnance Survey map any more; the smaller map from the library was more relevant now I’d reached the farm. It was a dry day and I wouldn’t need the waterproofs. I was wearing plenty of layers and my jacket was protection enough. I put my field glasses around my neck, zipping them up inside my jacket. I pocketed my phone, keys, penknife and the folded library map. I placed the rucksack carefully at the foot of the bank where I could retrieve it later, then pulled myself up.

  Wriggling through the hedge was an undignified procedure and I was glad there was no one there to see me squeezing my various body parts between twisted branches. As I emerged on the other side, struggling to keep my balance and simultaneously bend aside twigs that threatened to spring back and take my eye out, I noticed thin strips of something grey and white hanging from the twigs like tinsel. I reached out and pulled some off – thin strips of crinkled paper, like the contents of an office shredding machine. As I glanced along the hedge, I could see branches festooned with the stuff.

  I dropped down and found more at the foot of the bank, white strips tossed amongst the tide of autumn leaves. I scanned the green expanse of an empty field. There was no sign of any fly-tipping, no telltale trail of refuse littering the grass, but I could only think that this paper had been blown here from some dump site nearby.

  I set off, keeping to the concealment of the hedge, walking three sides of a rectangle rather than straight across the field to the gate. I had a few acres to cross before I reached Applecote farmhouse and I didn’t want to be spotted and chased off the land by an irate someone with a shotgun before I even got close.

  Half an hour later I lay on my front behind a scattering of rocks and looked through my binoculars. I had a clear view of the stone farmhouse, the yard and the sheds beyond, a clear view of the farmhouse door, of the wisp of smoke rising from the chimney. I could smell it, woodsmoke. Someone was burning logs.

  The door suddenly opened and Green Bastard Hat filled the doorway, a fag between his lips, a mug in the hand that wasn’t bandaged. He stood for a moment, squinting into the sun, before he took a last drag on his cigarette and lobbed the butt on the ground. Two dogs – rangy, lurcher types, one brown, one white – surged out on either side of him, tails wagging.

  Damn. I should have thought about dogs. The air was still, no wind to carry my scent to them, but I knew they were aware of me. They stopped, staring in my direction, bristling with alertness. One began to bark. GBH growled at it to stop its row. I didn’t dare move, even to duck down out of sight. I stayed so still that a blackbird, foraging amongst the leaf litter, turning leaves over with its beak, hopped close to my arm. The dog barked once, sending the blackbird into the air, chattering in alarm. Its tail wagged uncertainly, and then it was ordered inside and the door shut behind it. I breathed again.

  I sprinted across the grass to the corner of the cobbled yard. There was a long cowshed down one side, and I slipped through the open doorway. Inside, the building seemed vast. My footsteps echoed on the concrete floor so that I halted in my stride and tried to tread quietly.

  The shed was piled high with rows of silage bales, one black, plastic-coated roll on top of another, as sleek and fat as monstrous sausages. I trailed my hand along the surface of the nearest one. Silage bales are packed tight with chopped grass, the air extruded. They feel solid and smooth, firm to the touch. This one felt as if the material inside was loose. As I prodded with my fingers, I could detect something lumpy, crunchy inside and took out my penknife. The plastic was thick, heavy-duty, intended not to tear. I had to press hard on the point to make a small slit in the surface. Dust drizzled out, dry and grey and I rubbed it between my fingers. This wasn’t silage. I opened up the slit some more. Tiny chunks of stone drizzled to the floor. I picked one up. It was concrete or some kind of aggregate, the sort of material you might find on a building site. I moved on to the next bale and made another slit. More gritty dust trickled out, tiny particles glistening, as if within the mixture there were fragments of glass. Further along the row of bales I tried again, thrusting the knife in. When I drew out the blade it was white with a chalky powder. It had a chemical smell. It might have been fertiliser or insecticide; but whatever it was, it wasn’t silage.

  There was a crunch of wheels in the yard outside, a vehicle drawing up. I took a peek around the bales. Doors slammed. Through the open doorway I watched Jamie climb out of the jeep, followed by Moss, and cross to the farmhouse. Any sensible Capricorn would have beaten a hasty retreat at this point. I ran to the farmhouse, flattened myself against the wall by the window and listened.

  ‘I want that shed cleared.’ It was Jamie’s voice, loud and angry. ‘We’ve got more lorry loads arriving next week. I don’t want us falling behind schedule.’

  ‘I need more help,’ Green Bastard Hat whined. ‘It’s not easy working with one hand. It’s all the fault of that red-haired bitch—’

  ‘Yes, and you really fucked that up,’ Jamie declared bitterly, ‘scared off by some old granny with a gun—’

  ‘She shot me—’

  ‘I’ll shoot you if you mess up again. You were supposed to get rid of her!’

  I felt sick. I could only think of one red-haired bitch they might want to get rid of and I’m afraid it was me.

  ‘I’ll sort her out—’

  ‘Make sure you do. And get those bales dumped.’

  Time I made myself scarce. I dared not cross the yard again or walk the open track. I backed off, slipping around the blind side of the building and ran, heading for a thicket of sheltering bushes. I scrambled through a mass of hawthorn, fighting my way through thorns and twigs.

  Then suddenly I was rocking back on my heels. I teetered on the edge of a deep, ragged tear in the rock, my boots sending small stones skittering down, bouncing into oblivion. A rocky gorge dropped away beneath my toes: Applecote Pit. I was on the very edge. My senses reeled as if I was balancing on a heaving swell at sea. I stepped back, still clutching at stems I prayed wouldn’t break, as the shifting sea settled, the wave of nausea ebbed. I stopped looking down, raised my head to focus on a steady horizon, and across the mouth of the pit to the other edge.

  A lorry was parked there, idle, its flatbed raised at an angle, as if its driver’s last act before he had abandoned it there had been to tip its load, slide it over the edge into the depths below.

  I braved another look down. The pit was deep but I couldn’t see the bottom because of what was filling it up from below. Silage bags, burst open like ruptured intestines, spilled their guts into a mass of rubble, broken brick and shattered timber. Pointed metal thrust through in spikes. Oil drums were tossed about like drink cans. And the whole mass was sinking into a slick black fluid that oozed around the edges, only visible here and there, like moorland bog lurking beneath moss and grass. A dry, throat-catching dust hung in the air, but worse than that was the smell, not just of concrete dust, of effluent run-offs and chemicals, but of something putrefying, rotting, something that had once been alive.

  I backed away, threading my way out through the tangle of bushes and hit the ground beneath the weight of a charging bull, a ham-like hand smothering my scream.

  ‘Quiet! Quiet!’ a voice hissed urgently as I struggled. ‘If you scream, they’ll hear us and we’re both dead. Understand?’ I nodded slowly as I recognised the broad and homely features hanging over mine. ‘D’you understand, Juno?’ He relaxed his grip. ‘OK?’ he whispered,
and took his hand away from my mouth.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I breathed.

  ‘I’m the policeman,’ Detective Constable Dean Collins responded, grinning, ‘that’s my line.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Spirituous liquor was just what I needed. I handed DC Collins back his hip flask.

  ‘Better?’

  I nodded my thanks, wiping my hand across my mouth, feeling a glow of warmth in my throat sliding down into my stomach. We’d retired to a hiding place, an old blowing house abandoned after the collapse of the tin mine, its turf roof long ago disintegrated, its stone walls ruined, the blackened granite furnace the only remains of a place where tin had once been smelted. It was a good place from which to watch the comings and goings at the farmhouse. Dean had been tracking the arrival and departure of the trucks through binoculars but the only visitors to the farm that day had been Jamie Westershall and Moss in the jeep. Together, we watched them depart.

  ‘I thought you were on paternity leave.’

  Dean frowned at me, puzzled how I knew. ‘I am, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘So, what are you doing here?’

  ‘You first.’ He folded his brawny arms and stared at me. ‘You’d better start at the beginning.’

  So I did. When I got to the part about Moss and Pike’s lorry trying to run my van off the road, he began shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You should have called us, Juno.’

  It was too late for that. I told him about Sandy’s party and Nathan not turning up at the pub, and the conversation I had heard between Jamie and Moss as I hid by the roadside, how Jamie had threatened me next day and GBH had attacked me in the alley. I did not mention anything about boys burying their grandmothers or elderly ladies with guns.

  ‘When I realised that Nathan was dead,’ I said finally, ‘I wanted to see for myself what’s going on here.’ I repeated the conversation I’d just heard, lurking outside the farmhouse.