The TV Detective

by Simon Hall

  ‘So, where exactly are we going?’ she asked, as they walked along a narrow road, towards a five-barred gate.

  ‘Good question. I hope to a place where the memorial might be. You remember I told you Ted Hughes asked for this block of granite inscribed with his name to be placed between the sources of four rivers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we’re going to that area. I’ve walked a lot of it already, looking for the thing. We’re going to try another part, right up by the source of the Taw. It’d be great to find the memorial, but if we don’t it’s a lovely walk anyway.’

  She almost managed to hide her qualm. ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Just a few miles.’

  ‘And what kind of ground?’

  ‘There’ll be a bit of scrambling over the odd boulder, a little climbing and some bog to look out for, but otherwise fairly straightforward.’

  To her credit, Kerry didn’t look deterred. She did take a glance at her fingernails, manicured and impeccable, and Dan wondered if this was really the kind of date she would choose. Her walking boots also looked suspiciously new. Her hair had been down, no doubt to make sure he wouldn’t miss the new style, as he duly had, but now as the breeze gathered strength she tied it up.

  Dan remembered his mental checklist and opened the gate for her, making sure to close it behindthem. They walked through some trees and emerged into a shock of view, a great natural amphitheatre, a mile or more of plain bounded by rising tors.

  ‘Wow,’ Kerry said.

  ‘I’d say wow about sums it up. This is Taw Marsh.’

  The wind puffed and ruffled, playing with their clothes as they stood and stared. The sun had risen into the southern sky, pouring its yellow winter light down onto the land and casting a silhouette of a distant hill. Dan pointed towards it. ‘That’s Steeperton Tor. The blocks on the top are military huts. It’s where we’re heading.’

  They walked on, Rutherford leaving them to sniff along the course of the river. A couple of sheep watched warily, but the dog showed no interest. The track started to fade into the moorland, a marker of where most Sunday walks ended. The ground was hard and cold underfoot.

  The Taw too began to thin, to become no more than a brook, its rushing waters cascading north towards the Bristol Channel.

  ‘I always find it remarkable,’ Dan said, ‘how it can be so tiny here, near its source, but only around 30 miles away at Barnstaple it’s such a mighty river.’

  A pack of Dartmoor ponies was grazing at the grass, a mix of greys, chestnuts and browns. One lifted its head, let out a low whinnyand tossed its mane. The ground was pitted with the crescent imprints of their hooves.

  The path started to unwind against them, the gradient growing. Soon, they were both panting with the effort. Rutherford ran circles around them, showing no signs of any breathlessness. They stopped for a rest, looking back on the Marsh, the thin ribbon of the mercury river winding through the green baize.

  Dan found Kerry’s hand in his. ‘It’s stunning,’ she whispered.

  ‘I think we might make a walker of you yet,’ he replied. ‘This is what it’s all about. The wonderful tranquility.’

  As if on cue, a plane droned overhead, cutting through the peace of the moor. They walked on, forded the river, hopping from rock to stone and followed a military track as it climbed up the side of a tor.

  ‘Where are we heading for?’ she panted.

  ‘The source of the Taw. We won’t get that far, but it’s about the only place left I haven’t looked. And from the odd hint I’ve been getting from Ted Hughes’ friends, I’m sure the memorial is in that area.’

  ‘They give you clues?’

  ‘Yes, and I think they enjoy it. They know I’m looking and I think they want the memorial found now. It’s been quite a few years since Ted died and it was placed here, and they want people to be able to visit it. Occasionally a letter, or sometimes a little note, will arrive at the studios with a clue in.’

  ‘You should write about it. It’s a lovely story.’

  ‘If I find the thing I just might do that.’

  Further down the track the inevitable happened. For Dan, it was only a surprise that it had taken so long. Rutherford plunged into the river, was paddling madly against the current, thrashing the water into a froth, but making no headway whatsoever. He turned and let it wash him downstream, his mouth hanging open in his smiling face.

  The dog swam with the flow for fifty yards, then spotted a gap in the bank, clambered out and sprinted towards them.

  ‘Run!’ Dan yelled, but Kerry, inexpert in the ways of mad hounds, was far too slow. Rutherford leapt up, then shook himself into a blur, a rainbow spray of riverwater covering her.

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ she gasped, trying to brush off some of the droplets. ‘Thanks dog.’

  Dan was choking, tried to hide his laughter. ‘Occupational hazard,’ he gasped, through the mirth.

  The banks of the river grew steeper, granite blocks clinging to the sheer slopes. They weaved and clambered their way through, Dan quickly checking around each boulder for any hidden inscriptions. There were none. He looked at his watch. It was just after one o’clock. He scanned around, found a rock with a flat top and stopped.

  ‘Time for some lunch,’ he said, producing a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of water from his pocket and placing them on the improvised picnic table. They shared the food, throwing the odd titbit to Rutherford, and following them with a couple of dog biscuits. A pair of crows swooped from the clear sky and were rewarded with a crust.

  Kerry bent down, tied up a shoelace. ‘How much further are we going?’

  ‘Not much. We want to get back well before it gets dark. Can you manage another half an hour or so?’

  Dan noticed he was still finding the combination of the blonde of her hair and the brown of her eyes enticing, particularly in the flattering sunlight. They tidied up the debris of their snack and walked on. There were fewer boulders now, but Dan still made a point of walking around each to check it. If the memorial was anywhere, it would most probably be here.

  ‘It could be any of them?’ Kerry asked.

  ‘It could be, but from the hints I’ve been getting it’s one boulder on its own, in a place which would have appealed to Ted.’

  ‘And where would that be?’

  Dan shrugged. ‘That is the question. He loved the moor, and he was a keen fisherman. So, I’d say anywhere with a good view, preferably close to a river or stream.’

  ‘So around here would be ideal?’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking. But I’ve got my hopes up before and not found it. Three years I’ve been looking for the thing. Three years! It’s about the longest running story I’ve ever tackled and I still haven’t put it to bed.’

  The river was little more than a trickle now, mostly hidden by the clumps and tumps of wiry moorgrass. The land opened up, the tors slipping away, and the ground grew boggy and uneven, filled with pits and holes. They trod carefully, the mud sucking at their shoes. There were few boulders here, just the occasional one rising from the green plain and mostly camouflaged with lichens and moss.

  ‘It won’t be one of those,’ Dan said. ‘The hints are that the memorial was brought here from another part of the moor after it had been inscribed. Those have been here far too long.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Call it a day, I suspect. We’re right up by the source of the Taw now. Another area hunted and no success. Ah well, it was a lovely walk, but I think it’s time to turn back.’

  Kerry’s face was flushed and she couldn’t hide the relief in her voice. ‘If you insist.’

  They stood together and slowly turned, taking in the entire panorama. A couple of layers of cloud had formed in the sky, softening the sunlight. Shadows were starting to form on the land, shading patches of the moor with grey and black.

  Rutherford wandered off towards the river, sniffed his way along it, then disappeared behind a small hillo
ck covered with grass. Dan squinted through the sunshine. On the top he thought he could just make out a block of stone.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Hey!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A little hill with great views, overlooking the source of the Taw. Come on!’

  He was away, moving as quickly as he could over the ridged ground, the excitement spurring him on. Sticky bog pulled at his feet, but he kept going.

  Dan tried to calm himself, prepare for the inevitable disappointment. This was by no means the first time he thought he’d found the memorial. And time and again he’d been wrong.

  Rutherford loped up, following his path, Kerry a little behind them. The boulder looked just the right size, around six feet or so in length.

  He felt his excitement growing. Dan was sure he could see writing on its face.

  Or perhaps it was just the projection of his hope.

  He half stumbled, righted himself, kept striding. Kerry was calling something about being careful, but he hardly heard.

  The sun was lower in the sky, casting its flames over the moor, making him screw up his eyes against the glare, but he was almost at the hillock. Dan began striding over its side, clambering at the grass, pulling himself up.

  His feet slipped and he tumbled back, found his grip and lunged forwards again, onto the top of the mound.

  He stopped, stared.

  It was only when he found the strength to take another couple of steps forwards, run his hand over the stone, feel the physical truth of its existence that Dan finally believed it.

  There, in front of him, was a grey granite boulder. On it was inscribed the name of Ted Hughes, OM– for the Order of Merit he was awarded – and 1930–1998, the dates that marked the sweep of his extraordinary life.

  The three-year quest was over.

  A day may develop its own momentum. A bad one can get worse, deteriorate markedly, and then proceed rapidly downhill, a good one can just keep on improving.

  Happily for Dan, Saturday December 19th fell into the category of the latter. And how.

  He hardly noticed the walk back to Belstone, the growing chill and the gathering darkness, nor did he have even a sense of Kerry and Rutherford’s weariness, still less his own. He drove them back to Plymouth in a daze.

  He had finally found the Ted Hughes memorial.

  When they got to Kerry’s little end-terrace house in Crownhill, it was only her question, ‘What are you doing now then?’ that prompted Dan to realise he had thought nothing of the evening, or how to end their date. He wasn’t even sure how it had gone. In truth, he could remember little apart from finally finding the stone. His inspired response of, ‘Don’t know,’ led her to reach across, turn off the car’s engine and lead him and Rutherford to her front door and usher them inside.

  In the kitchen, Dan sat and sipped at a mug of hot tea. Rutherford chomped hungrily at some biscuits, then lay down beside the radiator and closed his eyes.

  The dog was right. It had been quite a day.

  Kerry fussed around, occasionally stopping to softly slip a lingering kiss onto Dan’s neck. She made the odd comment about feeling chilly, being covered in mud, and how she could very much do with having a good long soak in a hot bath to warm up, added a couple more kisses, then emitted what sounded like a frustrated sigh and disappeared.

  Dan wondered what was wrong. Upstairs, he thought he heard the sound of a bath running.

  He sat down beside Rutherford, ran a hand over the dog’s head and was rewarded with an appreciative whine. Perhaps it was time to get off home. He’d probably said something stupid, or offended Kerry in some way. It wouldn’t be the first time a relationship had ended in such circumstances. Tact and diplomacy could be foreign lands to him.

  It was a shame. Dan suspected he was growing quite fond of her. Nice place too. He vaguely appreciated it was a cosy house, small and modern, but impeccably kept and comfortable. Outside was a little garden, also trim and neat. He could happily have spent some time here.

  Dan tried to distract himself by thinking about that piece of paper on the wall of the MIR. His initial idea was the string of numbers, 992 619, could be a grid reference. But to that suggestion Adam had rolled his eyes theatrically.

  ‘The thought had occurred to us,’ he said, heavily. ‘No go. It’s a quarry in the East Midlands, which of course got us all excited. We thought it would be the ideal place to dump some bodies. So we sent a mob of searchers up there. They spent days but didn’t find a thing, not a hint of anything at all.’

  Dan nodded. ‘Yeah, I thought a grid reference might be too literal. Bonham wasn’t daft, was he? And he liked to taunt you. It has to be something more subtle, more cryptic.’

  Adam had agreed, but then added, ‘Like what?’ And to that, Dan had no answer.

  He tried to think more about what the solution to the puzzle could be, but little was really registering with Dan, apart from one resonant point. He let his mind run back over the day and whispered it quietly to Rutherford, lest for fear he might scare the sacred fact away.

  Finally, after all that time and searching, he had found the Ted Hughes memorial.

  ‘Come on then dog,’ he said, standing up and heading for the door. ‘It’s time we were getting home. I’ll shout goodbye as we leave.’

  It was only when Kerry returned, dressed just in a towel, holding out her hand to lead him upstairs and talking about the bath being hot, ready, and filled with bubbles that The Great Romantic understood that yet again he had missed a whole barrage of hints.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IT WAS THE WEEK of Christmas, for some the start of the slow wind-down to the holiday; for many others the break had already begun. The roads were noticeably quieter, no bored children staring from bus windows, and fewer commuters, faces resigned in misty car windscreens. Even the weather was playing along with the seasonal upturn in spirits, a high- pressure system, beloved of the Wessex Tonight weatherman, lingering over the country and bringing its attendant blue skies and sunny, chilly, days.

  Christmas was on the Friday, meaning an extended run of time off for many. The expressions of the people Dan passed as he drove to Charles Cross seemed softer, perhaps with the anticipation of release from the routines of work, and the chance for some justified over-indulgence. This was no ordinary Monday morning, grimmest of the week’s grind.

  It was coming up to nine o’clock and Dan had parked at the back of the police station. His arrival prompted less mirth than before, just a couple of half hearted jibes. Perhaps even the Christmas spirit had infected the police, or maybe the novelty of the TV detective was wearing off.

  Dan checked his reflection, made sure his hair was orderly and tie straightand was about to head for the door when his mobile rang. It was Lizzie, and the festive feeling had clearly evaded her so easily it might have been travelling at speed on a custom built bypass.

  ‘Right, today I want a story. After that jolly awayday gadding about in Brighton last week I want a story, I want it exclusive, I want it good and I want it now. You got that? It’s quiet on the news front, with all these selfish people having time off for Christmas. No one’s even committing any crimes! So I want a story. Well, what are you hanging on the phone for then? Go find me one!’

  Dan sighed, made some reassuring noises and hung up. There was always the discovery of the Ted Hughes memorial to offer, but he’d decided to keep that quiet for now. The Bray case was too fascinating for any distractions. Plus, in the week before Christmas he wasn’t ready to hike back up onto the moor with Nigel, laden down with camera and tripod, to film the stone. They could broadcast the story in the new year, when the weather started to improve and people were looking for new walks to try.

  Just as Dan was about to put the phone away it warbled with a text. Kerry.

  “Morning! Hope you have a good week and those nasty people don’t work you too hard! It’s Christmas! I’m off all week!! If you want your little present, pop round anytime! xx”

/>   Even more exclamation marks than before, Dan noted, and also added kisses. No doubt to mark the development of their relationship. He’d made no attempt whatever to resist joining her in the bath on Saturday, and even less the short journey from the bathroom to her bed. But, come Sunday morning, Dan had felt the familiar fear building.

  Overnight, the two wardrobes in her bedroom had transformed into the pair of ogres so dreaded by the mainstay of the male species; expectation and commitment. Dan hurriedly got up, pleaded the need to look after Rutherford, and left.

  There had been no communications on Sunday. Despite Dan suffering a series of bouts of wrestling with his conscienceand his decency and gallantry, the fear of moving at speed towards the hazardous land of coupledom had triumphed, and he hadn’t sent her a message. He was planning to do so today – honestly, Dan told himself, he was – but she had got there first.

  Which meant he now had to come up with a reply. And a Christmas present. And some form of decision about whether he wanted to spend any part of the festive holidays with her.

  Not to mention finding a story for his insatiable editor.

  The sunshine of the morning’s mood dimmed.

  It was almost nine o’clock. Adam had said he wanted to start work on the Bray case again at nine, and that meant the hour itself, not a few minutes past. Dan headed for the police station doors.

  * * *

  Adam held up his arm and stared pointedly at his watch. ‘It’s ten past nine,’ he said.

  The clock on the wall concurred. Dan checked his new Rolex. There must be some mistake. It said the time was just on the hour. Surely such a superlative, stylish and elegant, not to mention expensive, timepiece could never be wrong. But, from the look on Adam’s face he sensed now wasn’t the moment to argue, so he sat on the edge of a table and muttered an apology.

  ‘Time isn’t money in this business,’ the detective added tetchily. ‘It’s more important than that. Time is justice. The longer a case runs the more difficult it gets to solve. So let’s get on with it.’