by Carola Dunn
“Thirty feet? Twenty-five? Unless the fog closes down.”
“Make it thirty. It’ll be guesswork anyway. We can always move closer. Let’s go.”
Megan’s knee hurt. She hoped she wouldn’t have to do much more crawling. It was a relief to stand up behind the cover of the van’s back door. She listened.
The silence was so profound, she ought to be able to hear field mice scampering through the bracken. She shivered, only partly from cold.
Cold and silent as death …
One hundred and twenty, said the automatic counter in her head. She managed not to groan as she sank to her knees again. Crawling away from the van, she felt her back exposed as a target. The Sandman was unlikely to carry a gun—villains tended to stick to their own tried-and-true methods. But his pal was an unknown quantity. That he was just a con man was a guess based unreliably on his looks.
Megan found Tariro, already seated cross-legged facing the van. His expression was unreadable. Reluctantly she sat beside him.
“Empty. I’m sorry we haven’t found your friends.”
Panic threatened. She must not panic. Police officers do not panic. “At least we haven’t found them dead. I must get back to my car to report.” Turning her back on the van, picturing how it had looked from the car, she set off in what she hoped was the right direction.
Tariro didn’t question her choice. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is why they abandoned it. Leaving the light on, which will run down the battery.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, but I’ve got plenty of other questions. For a start, why bring Nick and Freeth with them? No, to go back further, what was their connection with Mrs. Mason that led to her death? Because it’s obvious it wasn’t just a burglary gone wrong. But the only important question now is where are Nick and Freeth?”
“And,” Tariro said soberly, “wherever they are, are they still alive?”
TWENTY-TWO
Eleanor and PC Barnicot had watched Megan and Tariro disappear into the fog, Eleanor seething with impatience. She was sure she and Teazle knew this bit of Bodmin Moor better than Megan, let alone Tariro. Even though they didn’t come this way very often, she was familiar with the relative positions of the main landmarks: the village; the Hurlers stone circles; Stowe’s Hill, with the Cheesewring quarry and other, lesser diggings; and the engine houses.
In spite of the fog, now hiding, now revealing, her knowledge might help.
At least Megan realised that on the moors a straight line was rarely the shortest way between two points. If they managed to follow the van’s trail, they ought to be all right.
“I don’t like it.” Barnicot sounded both affronted and uneasy. “I don’t like the sergeant going off alone with that coloured laddie.”
“Tariro.”
“She oughter’ve taken me along. It’s my job. This Truro fellow’s not a copper. Leastways, he’s not from Scotland Yard, is he? I heard tell there’s a CID man came down to these parts.”
“That’s a rumour you should not pass on. If it’s true, you should assume he doesn’t want it generally known.” Rather neatly phrased, Eleanor congratulated herself. “Shouldn’t you report to Mr. Scumble? That’s what Megan left you here to do.”
A bit chilled from standing still, she got into the car, and Teazle hopped up on her lap. She closed the door carefully, with the tiniest click, wound up the window, then displaced the dog to reach back and close the rear window.
Barnicot didn’t immediately get in. He stood staring after Megan and Tariro, then turned to gaze in the direction of the van’s brief appearance. It was none of Eleanor’s business to tell him what to do, but she was on the point of doing just that when at last he tired of looking at fog and got in.
He turned down the volume on the radio and reluctantly picked up the thingamajig—microphone, was it? Transmitter?
“Launceston, this is L6. PC Barnicot reporting.”
In spite of the lowered volume, Eleanor could hear the voice at the other end. “Hold on, L6. DCI Scumble wants to talk to you.”
Half a minute later: “Barnicot? Where the hell is Pencarrow?”
“That’s what I called to tell you, sir.”
“Well, get on with it, Constable! Where is she?”
“Umm, I don’t know exactly, sir.”
The response was an inarticulate explosion at the other end.
Eleanor took the microphone from his hand. “Mr. Scumble,” she said severely, hoping she’d pressed the right button, “this is Eleanor Trewynn. Will you please let Mr. Barnicot explain? It’s not simple.”
“All right, all right. Why don’t you tell me, Mrs. Trewynn. Do you know where your niece is?”
“No, and I very much doubt whether she does. It’s easy enough to lose one’s bearings on the moor without fog. We saw what appeared to be the van we’ve been following, just momentarily before the fog hid it again. They—she went to investigate. She disappeared from our sight almost immediately. So we know roughly where she’s aiming at, but not, as Constable Barnicot said, exactly where she is.”
“They? Who’s ‘they’?”
Oh botheration, Eleanor thought. That had been a nasty slip of the tongue. Cravenly, she gave the mike back to Barnicot.
“The black bloke, sir, with the funny name. He went with Sergeant Pencarrow.”
During the ensuing silence, Eleanor was pretty sure she couldn’t actually hear heavy breathing over the radio, not with the volume turned down, but she was also pretty sure that was what was going on.
In a carefully controlled voice, the DCI said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that information to yourself, Constable. Not to be mentioned to a soul. Can you tell me what DS Pencarrow’s plans are when and if she finds and identifies the van?”
“To come back here, sir, and report.”
“She’s not thinking of attempting to collar the suspects, she and the … person you mentioned?”
“Oh no, sir. You told her not to.”
“And I would have told her to keep the young man out of it, had I thought for a moment that— But it’s no use crying over spilt milk. I suppose it’s no use asking how long she’ll be gone.”
“The van wasn’t too far away, sir. But the fog—some places it’s really thick.”
“Bugger the fog. Beg pardon, Mrs. Trewynn—you’re listening in, I presume? Last time we had trouble on the moor, I put in a request for compasses, but have we got ’em? We have not. Tell the sergeant to call in immediately when she gets back. I can’t pull any men off the road watch till I know what’s what. You’d better report every five minutes. Over.”
The constable hung up the transmitter and sat staring glumly out at the fog. There was nothing else to see.
Eleanor endured the silence as long as she could, then asked, “Do you live in Launceston, Mr. Barnicot?”
He gave her a suspicious frown. “Why?”
“I’m just trying to make conversation.”
“Oh. No, madam, in Egloskerry.”
“Are you their village policeman?”
“No, I’m stationed at Launceston HQ. I’ve got a motorbike.”
“Oh.” Eleanor didn’t know enough about motorbikes to ask any sensible questions. “How convenient.”
Unlike many young men with motorbikes, Barnicot did not elaborate on the glories of his machine. Eleanor decided that any more questions would begin to sound like interrogation or nosy-parkerism.
She gave up on conversation but ventured to say, “Don’t you think it might be a little warmer with all the windows up?”
“They’ll all fog up.”
Which wouldn’t make much difference to overall visibility. “I suppose so. I’m getting cold. I’m going to walk the dog a bit.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“You might get lost.”
“I won’t. The dog would always be able to find our way back here. But if you want, I’ll stic
k to the tracks. I’ll even stay within sight of the car and just go round and round it.”
“I still don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s my job to keep you safe.”
“No, it isn’t. Megan never said anything of the sort. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you. Besides, if she’d taken you with her, Tariro and I would have been alone here and could have done whatever we wanted.” She got out quickly before he realised that argument was a two-edged sword, since Megan had, in fact, left him behind.
She was about to let Teazle off the lead, knowing she would come when called, but realised just in time that shouting the dog’s name might well bring unwanted attention.
Had Megan taken into account that if the van was stranded, the villains would be looking for alternative transportation? A police car might not be their first choice, even an unmarked one, but needs must when the devil drives, and the devil was certainly driving those two. Megan hadn’t warned Barnicot of the possibility. Perhaps she had thought it too obvious to mention. Eleanor wasn’t sure the constable was capable of working it out for himself. His acuity with regard to tyre tracks didn’t mean he wasn’t as thick as two planks in other respects.
Should she draw it to his attention? He’d be justifiably annoyed if he was already aware of the danger. On the other hand, even if he wasn’t, he’d be annoyed to have a little old lady teaching him his business.
There must be a tactful way … Eleanor’s working life had been based on the premise that there was always a tactful way to present information the listener would prefer not to hear.
She returned to the car, approaching the driver’s side, where Barnicot was sitting. He had rolled down the windows she had closed, she noted.
He saw her in the side mirror and said gloomily, “Don’t blame me if you get sandbagged.”
“How likely is it, would you say, that Stone and Co. will try to steal this car?”
“Not very, but you’d be surprised at the stupid things crooks try on. That’s why I’m sitting here with an open radio channel to Launceston. Even if they was to try, see, they wouldn’t get far before they was picked up. Unless they bash you on the head and use you as a hostage.”
“They already have two hostages. Besides, they couldn’t get near me unnoticed. Teazle would bark at the first sign of anyone she doesn’t recognise. She can smell someone coming long before I can hear them, far less see them in these conditions.”
“That’s as may be. I still wish you’d come and sit in the car. Tell you what, I’ll check if there’s a rug in the boot. Patrol cars mostly keep one for accident victims. For shock and that. Dunno about unmarked cars, but I’ll take a look-see.”
He produced a hideous red-and-green tartan blanket. Eleanor gave in. Well wrapped, she sat beside him and of course found herself, like him, staring fruitlessly into the mist. She noticed that he regularly checked the rearview mirror and both wing mirrors. No one was going to creep up on him unseen.
After a few minutes, Barnicot radioed to report no change in the situation.
“The boss is getting impatient,” the operator told him.
“Nothing I can do about it. I’ll check back in five minutes, unless they turn up sooner.”
“Okay. I’m not going anywhere. Over.”
“How long since Megan and Tariro left?” Eleanor asked.
“Twenty minutes.”
“How long before Mr. Scumble decides they’re lost and sends reinforcements?”
The constable shrugged. “How much longer would you give them?”
“In normal circumstances, I’d probably wait to see if they turned up in the morning before I kicked up a fuss. Given a couple of murderers wandering out there with them, I’d have as many searchers as I could get hold of out there right now.”
“If my guv’nor knew for certain the murderers are here … But he doesn’t want to call off the road patrols when there’s still a chance the van we spotted may be the wrong ’un and the right one is still trying to escape with a couple of kidnap victims aboard. I’m glad it’s not up to me to choose.”
Eleanor admitted to herself that she had misjudged him based on his inability or unwillingness to indulge in small talk. “Any idea how long he’s going to wait?” she asked meekly.
“You heard Tina say he’s getting impatient.”
“So am I,” said Eleanor, wondering whether Teazle could be persuaded to hunt for Megan. She was very good at tracking rabbits, but what they really needed was a bloodhound. Or a police dog, as Tariro had suggested. “Jay!”
“Whassat?”
“Sergeant Ajay Nayak. The Indian policeman from Kenya who joined CaRaDoC. He took up dog handling.”
“Oh, him. Based in Bodmin, he is, being in the middle of the moor and most likely to be useful. I dessay they’ll send for him. I’ve heard the dog’s a proper wonder. Kelly, it’s called.”
“Kali.”
“Prob’ly a Carly Simon fan.” He flashed his shielded torch at the dashboard clock. “Time to call in. L6 reporting.”
“Still no sign of them, I take it.”
“Not a whisker.”
“Half a mo. Here’s Mr. Scumble.”
“Constable, I’m directing L13 to join you immediately. Describe exactly how to reach your position.”
“I … er … I’m not exactly sure, sir. I was in the backseat. I didn’t see which turning the sergeant took.”
DCI Scumble adopted his infuriating long-suffering tone: “Give me Mrs. Trewynn.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hello, Mr. Scumble. I can explain the first part, but about halfway here, Constable Barnicot started walking ahead to lead the way. Because of the fog. So he can best tell you that bit.”
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Trewynn.” His ultra-patient voice was even more infuriating. “Tina’s ready to take it all down. Or half of it, as the case may be. Go ahead. Please.”
Eleanor complied. When she reached the point where Megan had sent the constable to walk ahead, she said, “Mr. Barnicot can take over from here, but you know, it’s difficult to describe the way. It might be best if he walks down to meet them.” And while he was gone, she might as well take Teazle for a little walk, just in case Megan and Tariro were in the vicinity.
“No!” Scumble quashed her scheme instantly. She should have guessed he’d still be listening in. “I’m not letting any more people loose to wander about in the fog on Bodmin’s patch! Put Barnicot on.”
On Bodmin’s patch—Eleanor remembered Megan mentioning more than once that Scumble was at daggers drawn with the Bodmin superintendent. He’d hate having to ask for help, as protocol dictated, in hunting for not only a pair of villains and a pair of hostages but one or two of his own subordinates. And an Official Secret. How long would he wait?
If Megan and Tariro didn’t turn up soon—
Teazle yipped and stood up on her back feet, her paws on the window edge. Was it Eleanor’s imagination, or had the fog thinned a bit? Two dark figures came down the slope towards the car.
“Here they are!”
“Who?” demanded Barnicot, who appeared to have been unable to concentrate on keeping watch while recalling and describing their route. “Could be the—”
“Teazle would be barking her head off if they were strangers.”
“DS Pencarrow is back, Tina.”
“You heard that, sir?… Yes, sir. Finish the directions, please, Constable.”
“That’s about it. We’re just past the end of the ravine. For chrissake, tell the Speed Demon to take it carefully! Here’s the sergeant.” He scrambled out of the car and Megan sank into the driver’s seat.
“Tina?”
“Glad you’re safe, Megan. Here’s Mr. Scumble.”
“What took you so long, Pencarrow? Never mind, rhetorical question. What’s up?”
Eleanor listened with dismay to Megan’s brief report. She and Tariro had found the right van. That was hardly surprising; who else would be out here on a fo
ggy night? The van was empty, apparently abandoned, no sign of Stone or his partner, no sign of Nick or Freeth.
Nick was more than a mere neighbour to Eleanor, more like a favourite nephew. She was far fonder of him than of Megan’s brother, who had enthusiastically joined the rat race and was some kind of broker in the City of London, with a glossy wife whose picture often appeared in Tatler. Eleanor rarely bothered to notify them when she spent a few days in town.
She cherished a secret hope that someday Nick and Megan would realise how ideally suited to each other they were, despite the unlikely mix of an artist and a police officer. Recently the odds had seemed to be improving.…
And now Nick was somewhere out on the moor, injured or dead. Megan was holding up well so far, speaking in a clear, steady voice, but the search was going to test her stiff upper lip.
“All right, Pencarrow, Bodmin’s sending searchers from Liskeard. They’re on their way and should be with you in fifteen to twenty minutes. It’ll take nearly half an hour for the people from Bodmin to reach you. Our people will trickle in, depending on where they’re patrolling. I’ll be there soon as I can make it, but don’t wait for me. Till then, you’re in charge, and don’t let any jumped-up inspector from Bodmin tell you otherwise, so get busy planning your search. Questions?”
“No, sir.”
They signed off.
“I hear DC Dawson’s car, Sarge,” said Barnicot.
“Go and wave your torch at him so he doesn’t run into our bumper.”
One of many questions had risen to the top of Eleanor’s mind. “Megan, why Alan Freeth?”
“For the same reason as Nick,” Megan said impatiently. “They saw Mrs. Mason killed.”
“Not that. Why was he there? Why did she send for him and why did he stay so long?”
“Aunt Nell, I’ve got a search to organise. You know the terrain hereabouts. Can you describe the lie of the land?”
“In broad terms, it goes uphill from the village to the north and northwest, getting steeper and steeper. The top’s called Stowe’s Hill. The biggest quarry, the Cheesewring, is at the nearer end of the hill. From the west end of the village, it’s a more gradual slope. That’s where the Hurlers are, the three ancient standing-stone circles. To the east, it slopes down to a river valley. The Linney, I think, but I wouldn’t swear to it. Is that what you want?”
