Once under the canopy of the trees, the day lost its warmth and Michael complained about the cold while they trudged through the woods. Water oozed from his trainers, making a squelching sound and leaving a trail of wet footprints on the forest floor.
They walked for ten minutes before they came to their marker, a small piece of yellow plastic nailed to the sap laden trunk of a pine tree. The boys left the path and walked for a few minutes more until they came to another yellow marker, at which point they turned to their right and made their way through the bracken until they arrived at the site of their new camp.
While David and John had been working on the camp for the past few weekends, it was the first time that Michael had seen their new base. He'd been grounded by his parents for an incident involving fireworks, dog excrement, and the local vicar that had not ended well.
He looked up at the tree house and his mouth dropped open in awe. “Wow."
Tree house was too small a word to describe what stood before them. On one of the tall pine trees stood two platforms, one at fifteen feet from the forest floor and the other at thirty five feet. A makeshift ladder of wooden boards nailed to the tree trunk was the only way up.
The actual tree house was on an adjacent oak tree. The top of the trunk had been destroyed by a lightning strike years before, leaving a flat area. The branches then grew up around the flattened area like a cage. It was here the boys built a solid wooden floor, doorway and walls, using the natural growth as a framework. Only the roof remained incomplete.
Michael walked around the base of the tree, looking for a ladder. When he found no obvious means of getting into the tree house, he turned to the other two boys and frowned in confusion.
“How do you get in?”
David looked at John and then grinned at his little brother.
“That’s the best part.”
David and John each picked up a coil of rope and headed to the trees. John climbed the wooden ladder, while David wrapped the rope around himself, from his shoulders to his waist, and shimmied up the side of the oak. Michael stood on the ground and watched his best friend and brother ascend into the canopy, his wet clothes forgotten.
As John reached the highest platform, David scrambled onto the base of the tree house through a large gap in the wall.
David nodded to John. “OK. Do it.”
John threw the coil of rope across the gap between the trees. David stretched his arm out, but the rope caught on a branch and dangled just out of David’s reach.
John grabbed the rope and reeled it back. "Bollocks. Sorry, Dave. You ready?"
David nodded and John threw the rope again. This time, David caught it, and both boys tied the ends off on their respective trees.
John finished his knot and tested it, then yelled across to David. “Knew there was a reason I joined the Boy Scouts.”
David checked his knot. “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t to do Bob-a-Job. If Mitchell thinks I am going round, scrounging for his pocket this Easter, he can fuck right off.”
John climbed down to the lower platform, while David gathered up the second rope.
He tied his end off, next to the first and hurled the remainder across the gap to John. “Catch.”
John reached for the unravelling coils and almost slipped from the platform, but managed to grab the rope with one hand and use the other to steady himself. He tied the rope around the trunk of the tree at head height, and double checked his knot. Ropes now extended out from the tree house to the two platforms to form a triangle.
Michael shivered in his wet clothes. “I still don’t get it? What are you doing?"
David gave his brother a knowing smile. “Watch and learn.”
He reached into the bag and produced a strange piece of metal. The metal was bent into the shape of an omega symbol, to form two hand holds, with a large loop in between. The hand grips and the centre of the loop were wrapped with over an inch of heavy silver tape.
Michael realised what David and John were planning, and his mouth hung open in amazement. “No way. You're not fucking serious?”
David hooked the metal over the rope, leaned back and allowed his weight to be supported, then lifted his feet up.
The boy rocketed down the taut line, screaming as he went. "GET IN!" He traversed the distance between the two trees in seconds and came to rest on the lower platform, next to John.
"You get in the same way. You climb to the top platform and slide down into the tree house. We have a grip each, so even if those dickheads find the place, they won't be able to get in."
Michael was, for a change, silent. He looked up at his older brother in awe.
John grabbed the makeshift metal slide from David. "My go." He ran to the tree and climbed up to the higher level with the metal handle tucked into the back of his jeans.
Michael found his voice again. "This summer is going to be great."
His brother winked at him. "I told you it was worth the walk. This year is going to be the best year ever."
Neither of the other boys disagreed.
***
The sun sat low in the sky, its light casting an orange glow on the forest floor, when David hammered in the last nail.
He stood back and admired his work, then turned to John and Michael, who were carving their names into the walls with their knives. “Finished.”
The camp was, at this stage, nothing more than a wooden box with the two ropes suspended from the wide entrance, but that didn't matter. It was finished, and it was theirs.
John looked at his watch and groaned. “We better get going. It’s going to be dark soon, and me mam and dad will have a fit if I miss dinner.”
Michael and David exchanged worried glances.
“What time is dinner?” said Michael.
David frowned. “Six on the dot. What time is it now, John?”
“Quarter to.”
Michael grabbed his metal hoop and hooked it over the rope. "We are so dead. We're gonna have to leg it all the way back." Michael launched himself into space and shot along the zip line, with John and David close behind.
They ran through the darkening woodlands, towards the path.
John came alongside David and gasped. “How are we gonna get across the river? We don’t have a bridge anymore.”
“We’re going to have to take the long way around. We’ll nick some more wood from the building site tomorrow and make a permanent bridge.”
Michael looked worried. “That’s if we can still walk tomorrow. You know what Dad’s like about meal times.”
David frowned, but nodded his assent and picked up the pace as the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness spread across the forest like a cloak.
The boys burst from the woodlands, onto the open expanse of fields that lay between them and their homes. The fields were bathed in a cool monochrome from the full moon, a welcome respite from the looming shadows of the forest.
"What time is it John?" asked David, in between gasping lungfuls of cold air.
A long, shrieking howl broke the silence, drifting across the open countryside and echoing around the boys.
John stopped dead in his tracks. "What the hell was that?"
David and Michael looked at him, the fear on their faces visible in the moonlight.
"No idea, mate. Someone's dog?" said David. An edge crept into his voice.
Another howl rang out and reverberated through the trees behind them. The boys exchanged glances and sprinted across the fields to the safety of their homes.
They arrived, panting and sweaty from their run, at ten past six.
David scowled. “Better go and face the music. See you tomorrow, John?”
John nodded his understanding. “Sure. See you later. You too, Mike, and good luck with your dad. Maybe you will be OK, we're only ten minutes late, and you two don’t have watches.”
David looked at Michael, then back to John. “Yeah, maybe. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter 2
/> 25th February 1986. High Moor. 10.15.
Sergeant Steven Wilkinson fished in his pockets for cigarettes. “So, tell me what I'm looking at here, Constable Phillips?”
"It’s a sheep, boss.”
Steven sighed. Constable Phillips had an incredible talent for stating the fucking obvious, which was probably why he had been assigned to the Durham Constabulary Wildlife Liaison Office. If a bigger career dead-end existed, Steven was not aware of it.
He took a cigarette from the pack and stood with his back to the wind, swearing under his breath as a rogue gust extinguished his lighter. He cupped his hands around it and tried again. The flame sprang to life and the cigarette finally lit.
“I know that it’s a bloody sheep, Constable Phillips, the white wool like substance is a dead giveaway. What I want to know is what do you think happened to it?”
Both men cast their eyes down at the mangled carcass. The animal’s insides had been laid open, its innards spread around the immediate vicinity. One of its legs was missing, and the sheep’s head had been severed, lying five feet away from the rest of the corpse.
Around the field, another twenty-nine carcasses existed in similar conditions. Steven had worked in the Wildlife Liaison Office for ten years and had never seen anything like it.
Constable Phillips shrugged. “Someone’s dog got off the lead?”
“Maybe, but it would have to be a big bloody dog. And to do this? To this many animals? It would have to be a pack of them, and they'd have to be in here for quite a while.”
An unmarked, white Ford Escort pulled up at the entrance to the field. Two men got out and walked to the rear of the vehicle, opened the boot, and took out two pairs of white coveralls.
“Forensics is here, then?” said Constable Phillips.
Steven suppressed the sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue. He hated call outs on Sunday mornings. His hangover reverberated inside his skull, his stomach lurched when he looked at the slaughtered animals, and he was losing patience with his colleague. Sundays were his day off, but whenever an incident occurred that involved animals, as Wildlife Liaison Officer the call was sent to him.
He massaged his temples. “So, let’s step back from this and look at the evidence. We have thirty sheep torn apart by an unknown animal or animals. The gate to the field was closed so either they jumped the fence, or someone let them in.”
“You think someone did this deliberately?”
“It’s possible. We either have a pack of wild dogs roaming the area, we have a bloody lion on the loose, or someone that has access to a number of large dogs brought them here and let them loose in the field.”
“Gypos?”
A grin broke out on Steven's face, despite his best efforts. “We don't refer to them as Gypos, Constable. The official term is members of the travelling community. Still, I think it might be an idea to drop by and pay them a visit.”
This was the last thing he needed on a Sunday morning. His wife was snoring in bed, while he had to go to the local traveller’s camp and ask questions to a bunch of hostile gypsies. “Come on, let’s have another chat with the farmer to see if he's had any problems with travellers, then we can pop by the camp outside of High Moor for a friendly visit.”
He smoked the cigarette down to the butt, flicked it into the grass, and the two men headed back across the field to their squad car.
***
The roads were quiet as they headed into the town. The early morning rush of churchgoers had ended, the congregations settled in their pews awaiting the Sunday morning service. They passed occasional vehicles occupied by families on their way to visit relatives. The only people on the streets were old men on their way to the working men’s club, and a smattering of young men and women still dressed in their clothes from the night before.
Steven hated this town. In its history it had been home to a small steel works and a coal mine, but these had long since closed. Now, only a few factories on the outskirts provided any sort of large scale employment for its residents.
The town was dying. Over half the shops in the high street were boarded up, casualties of the new supermarket on the outskirts of town. Those that remained provided cheap, low-quality clothes to those on benefits, or were charity shops filled with the detritus of the town folks' lives.
The police car left the dual carriageway and headed into the town centre, past the towering grey concrete flats and prefabricated box-shaped houses of the council estates and into the older part of High Moor. The red bricks of the small, terraced houses were blackened with age and a century’s worth of soot and filth.
The car drove up the high street, over pavements strewn with litter and sporadic pools of vomit, past the old cinema, now boarded up, and a pub called The Railway on the site of the old train station. No trains had come to this town for over twenty years, the lines long since torn up to make way for new roads and housing estates.
Abandoned cardboard boxes tumbled across the empty town square as gusts of wind caught them. The market was the bustling hub of the town on Saturdays, but on Sunday mornings it was nothing more than a flat expanse of tarmac containing steel skeletons of the stalls and the rubbish from the previous day. he refuse would spread across the town until the bin men arrived on Monday morning to load the wet cardboard and rotting vegetables into the backs of their large white trucks.
Steven thought the town was like a monstrous parasite, sucking the life, hope, and ambition from everyone unfortunate enough to live here. High Moor had the largest number of violent crimes and incidents of drug abuse, teenage pregnancy and petty theft in a twenty mile radius. Only the more deprived suburbs of Newcastle and Middlesbrough were worse.
“What a shit hole.” said Constable Phillips.
“Could be worse. You could live here instead of just having to drive through it every once in a while.”
“I thought you lived in Neville’s Cross, Sarge?”
“I do now, but I was born and raised here. Back then it didn’t seem so bad. It wasn’t until the pit closed that things went downhill.”
The police car left the centre of the town, past rows of takeaways with graffiti-covered steel shutters masking their entrances, into rows of terraced houses. They headed south, out of the town, towards the moor that gave the town its name and the Traveller's camp that resided upon it.
Steven turned left, off the tarmac road, onto a rough gravel track that tested both the suspension of the police car and the stomach of its driver. They passed the closed mine surrounded by high chain fencing, its gates secured by a rusty padlock. Then the camp came into view.
The site was made up of a number of vehicles: expensive motor homes, heavily modified transit vans, and even some ornate, horse-drawn caravans, crowded together in a circular formation.
Steven pulled over and parked the car. The gravel crunched under the tires as he applied the brakes. The two police officers got out of the car and walked towards a gap in the trailers that formed the entrance.
The remains of a fire smouldered in the centre of the circle. Three people sitting around it got up and entered their vehicles, the door locks clicking behind them.
An old woman sat on the steps of a wooden horse-drawn caravan, its once extravagant paint work faded and cracked with age. The woman’s white hair was mostly hidden by a red-head scarf, and her shoulders were wrapped with a thick woollen shawl. She glared at the two men, and as they passed her she spat a wad of chewing tobacco onto the ground by Steven’s foot.
Several dogs barked at the men’s approach. A couple of Staffordshire Bull Terriers and an aging Alsatian, none capable of committing the sort of damage they had witnessed earlier.
The door of one of the expensive motor-homes opened and a man emerged. His moustache twitched as he suppressed a grin. "Can I help you, officers? Are you lost?"
Steven's headache worsened. Here we go.
***
25th February 1986. Aykley Head’s Police Headquarters. 15.25.
“..and there were no dogs in evidence at the site that, in your opinion, could have caused the damage to the livestock?”
Steven looked at his boss. Inspector Franks was responsible for most of the smaller departments that made up Durham Constabulary and made no secret of his intention to rise as far and as fast in the Force as he could. That translated into bad news for the people working under him.
“No sir, at the time we visited the site, there did not appear to be any animals capable of destroying that many livestock.”
Inspector Franks regarded Steven for a few seconds, his face impassive. “Do you have any other thoughts as to what might have been responsible, Sergeant?”
“No sir, not at this time.”
The Inspector took a deep breath and paused for a second. “What I am about to tell you does not leave this room. The press will have a field day if they get hold of it."
The Inspector pushed a large manila envelope across the desk.
“This was taken this morning by a rambler, scarcely five miles from the scene of the incident. When he reported the matter to us, we had the film processed here.”
Steven opened the envelope and took out an enlarged photograph. It took a few moments for him to realise exactly what he was looking at.
The photograph was grainy, a result of the enlargement, and had been taken from long range. A large, tawny-coloured animal was walking across a field with a river bank visible in the background. The animal held a rabbit it its mouth, giving the picture a sense of scale. It was the size of a large dog, sleek and muscular, with a long tail and small pointed ears.
“Do you know what that is, Sergeant Wilkinson?”
“It’s a big cat, sir. If I had to make a guess I would say probably a Puma or a Cougar. You say this was taken this morning?”
The Inspector frowned. “Yes, sergeant, this morning by the River Wear. Here is what’s responsible for attacking those sheep, and I want you to resolve the situation before the press find out about it, or before it does any more damage.”
Steven sighed. The day was just getting better and better.
High Moor Page 2
