Death on Dartmoor

by Bernie Steadman

  10

  It was all over the TV news. “Bodies found in the bog by an old woman’s dog. Police are looking for clues. Foul play is suspected.” Annie Garrett put her mug of peppermint tea onto the little side table, fearing she might otherwise drop it. She covered her open mouth with shaking hands.

  Moss, her youngest son, shambled in and leaned his bulk over the back of her armchair. They watched a skinny woman in full uniform lay out what the police knew already about the bodies in the bog. A brief description said that the bodies had been found minus heads and hands. It was this aspect that seemed to fascinate the press. They discussed the possibility of a gangland murder on Dartmoor. Even the presenter was incredulous, but the policewoman said it was an open and full investigation into the murder of a man and a woman in suspicious circumstances, and they weren’t ruling anything out at this stage. Then she appealed to the public for help. They were looking for people who had gone missing in the last ten years or so. Please get in touch. No stone left unturned. Anonymity promised for anyone giving information leading to an arrest. Annie stared up at her son, her face white in the flickering firelight.

  Merlin Garrett, her elder son, breezed in. ‘Right, animals fed, bedded down, and I’m starving. What’s for dinner?’

  Annie dragged herself out of the chair. ‘Yeah, alright, I’m on it.’ She was shaky, light-headed. ‘I…’ she said, and fainted clean away onto the carpet.

  Merlin shoved his hands round her back and lifted her up. ‘Whoa. Steady, Ma. Grab her feet, Moss, we’ll put her on the sofa.’ Between them, they levered their mother onto the sagging sofa and covered her with a hand-crocheted blanket. Merlin knelt next to her and gently slapped her cheek. ‘Ma?’ he said. ‘Ma? You okay?’

  Annie came round but kept her eyes closed. ‘I’m alright. Just felt a bit faint, that’s all.’ A treacherous tear slipped through her eyelashes and trailed down her face.

  ‘You don’t look alright; you’re white as a sheet.’ He glanced up at his younger brother. ‘It wasn’t you, was it? Upsetting her? It usually is. What have you been doing now?’

  Moss balled his hands into fists. ‘Nothing. I’ve done nothing. You blame me for everything and I’m not having it. I’m sick of you.’ He stepped over his brother and slammed the living room door on his way out.

  ‘Put the kettle on, Moss,’ Merlin shouted after him, ‘make Ma a fresh drink.’ He listened, and smiled slightly as he heard the tap running and the sound of the kettle banging down on to the range.

  ‘I could do with a brandy, Merlin,’ whispered Annie.

  He smiled at her. ‘You’re feeling better, then,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ she replied. ‘I was watching the evening news, and I came over all peculiar.’ She sat up and swung her legs off the sofa, pulling the crocheted blanket round her shoulders.

  Merlin sat cross-legged on the floor. ‘So there’s nothing going on that I need to know about? Moss not up to his old tricks again?’

  ‘No, no, ‘course not.’ Annie ran her sleeve over her wet face. ‘I think I might have that brandy now.’

  Crossing to the old oak drinks cabinet in the corner, Merlin poured a large brandy. He poured himself a smaller one and sat back down next to her. This was unusual for his mother. She was tough as old boots. He passed her the brandy and noted the tremor in her hand. ‘You would tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn’t you?’

  Annie swigged down the alcohol, savouring the burn in her throat and chest. ‘Nothing to worry about, son. Probably just my age. Women’s stuff. I’ll finish this and get on with dinner.’

  Moss came back into the room with three mis-matched pottery mugs of tea on a wicker tray and plonked it down onto the coffee table. ‘Right, I see. On the booze, already, are we?’ he said. ‘Bit early, even for you, Merlin.’ He took his tea and sat in the armchair under the window. A draught from a badly-fitted window wafted the curtains behind his head.

  ‘You’re one to talk.’ Merlin eyed his brother’s pumped physique. ‘You know all that stuff you swallow rots your brain, don’t you? And shrinks your dick.’ He grinned into the bottom of his brandy glass.

  Moss reared up, threw the hot tea over his brother and lunged at him. The brandy glass bounced onto the carpet and Merlin got his hands up in front of his face wiping the tea off before it scalded him. ‘You bloody idiot!’ he said. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ He scrambled to his feet and made a lunge for Moss.

  Annie leapt up from the sagging sofa and forced herself between her sons. ‘Stop it! Stop it now, you two!’ She dragged Moss off Merlin. ‘For Christ’s sake, you’re grown men. Go somewhere else if you want to batter each other’s brains in.’ She held Moss at arm’s length. ‘Go on, outside. Take it out on the punch bag in the barn, not on Merlin.’

  ‘Sorry, bruv,’ said Merlin, hiding his smile. ‘I was out of order there. Alright?’

  Watching her younger son storm from the room, Annie turned on Merlin. ‘You leave him alone. He’s not as clever as you, so you don’t get any points for winding him up. And I can’t stand it anymore, this constant fighting in my home. D’you hear me, Merlin?’

  He rescued the brandy glass and the pottery mug. ‘I’ll clean up this mess and put the potatoes on, shall I?’

  ‘You’re as bad as each other, the pair of you,’ she muttered. ‘Dick for brains, just like your father.’

  Out in the kitchen, she pulled on boots and followed Moss to the barn. Now she was going to have to calm him down. What a mess this would be. Kids, who’d have ‘em?

  11

  Wednesday night couldn’t come soon enough for Dan. He sat back in his chair and peered through the tiny office window. The sky was darkening with pink and grey clouds bubbling up over each other. It was going to be a thunderstorm. He thought longingly of his bike, and haring off over the moor now it was summer, Claire trailing behind him, puffing at him to slow down. Soon, soon. He rapped himself on the head with his pen. ‘Back in the room, Hellier.’

  The excavation team had gone back out onto Dartmoor on the Tuesday morning as planned, and had brought back another barrel of soil samples. Laura Denning had extracted some small bones, several fibres, some insect carapaces, and what appeared to be straw. There had been no signs of skulls or hands. It was looking like they had been removed and taken away.

  The lab in Plymouth needed another week to process the pelvic samples from both bodies. Dan knew he was pinning too many hopes on what that might tell him about where the couple had lived.

  Endless phone calls had taken up most of the day before. Dan had even called Interpol to check out mispers in Europe, but all the effort had revealed nothing concrete. As far as he could tell, the bodies had not been reported missing by anyone. It was even harder without heads and hands, obviously. Everything pointed to a gangland hit, except his own niggling doubts. It just did not fit. Why would a mob killer bother about hiding a body? Those kinds of killings were deliberately public, sending a message, making a point. These two poor sods were buried so as not to be found. And it was too late to expect to find blood or any other useful physical evidence even if they found a possible suspect. He rubbed his face with his hands.

  Sally tapped at his door and he waved her in. ‘Tell me something positive, Sally. Please.’

  ‘Well, Neil Pargeter has been on the phone saying that they have taken forty-two samples of what they call “extraneous matter” from the grave site.’

  Dan looked at her. ‘That’s supposed to be good news? How long will they take to process?’

  She shrugged. ‘No idea. I think he just wanted you to know that they have found stuff. Oh, and since the press conference, we have had a hundred and sixty-one calls re people who have disappeared in the last ten years, in the local area.’

  Dan perked up. ‘Any of them matching our criteria?’

  ‘Not at first glance, but we’re following up each one. DCS Oliver has been as good as her word and sent us a Community
Support Officer from the front office to help with the calls.’

  ‘Okay. That’s the way of modern policing, I suppose. Well, we can certainly keep one busy. Keep at it. We haven’t got much else, have we?’

  Sally shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and leaned back against the door, shaking her head, ‘No, and I reckon you should go home, boss. There’s not much else you can do tonight. We’re all over it in there.’ She indicated the incident room with her thumb.

  He stood up and stretched. ‘You’re right, I’m doing no good here going over and over the same pitiful evidence. What about you and the rest of the team? It’s gone six.’

  ‘No, we’re good for a bit of overtime. I want to break the back of the latest calls and go over the shortlist with Sam and Lizzie. A lot of people are out at work during the day. Don’t worry,’ she said as he began to protest, ‘we can handle this without you, and we’re only talking another hour. Besides, it’s your night out with the lovely Claire, isn’t it?’

  Dan grinned, ‘Yes, it is. Right, well, I’ll be off then–’

  Sally staggered away from the door as DCS Oliver shoved it open. ‘Oh, sorry Sergeant Ellis,’ she said, ‘just need a word with your DI.’

  Sally straightened her jacket, muttered, ‘Ma’am,’ and shuffled round her senior officer.

  Oliver grimaced. ‘Oh, dear, I’ve put her nose out of joint, haven’t I? I couldn’t see her behind the door.’ She sat down opposite Dan and cocked her head to one side. ‘Not much to tell me again?’

  Dan shrugged, ‘I can’t make it up, ma’am. It’s slow work. We’re putting in a bit of overtime to try to break the back of the latest calls.’

  Oliver nodded briskly. ‘Right, I can see that. But, you need to start showing some sort of result soon, or I’ll have no alternative but to give you something else, and this will have to go on the cold case list.’

  Dan nodded. It was what he had been expecting. ‘Give us a bit longer. Two weeks and we should have all the evidence sorted. Then we can make a decision.’ He glanced at her. ‘Deal?’

  Oliver stood and straightened her skirt. ‘Two weeks, as long as nothing more urgent comes along. Then we’ll take stock,’ she said, and went into the incident room. She smiled at Sally. ‘Right, I’m off home. Don’t expect me to agree to overtime every week, sergeant, but good luck with your investigations. Night,’ she said and swung through the door.

  Sally leaned on the open door and raised her eyebrows at Dan. ‘Are we having an eye kept on us, boss?’ she asked.

  Dan shrugged. ‘Maybe. She is our SIO until we get a new DCI.’ He didn’t add, and look where that last one got us when I didn’t tell her everything. No wonder she’s keen to keep on our case.

  He nodded at Sam and Lizzie busy on the phones, and wandered back to his office. The usual rules of the first forty-eight hours being the most crucial really didn’t apply here. He chewed on the skin at the side of his thumbnail, glared at the accusing emptiness of his desk, and turned his back on it, slipping off his tie as he left the building.

  * * *

  The thunderstorm, penance for the last few glorious days, cracked over his head as he left the shelter of the station. He ran across the car park, tumbled into his car, slammed the door behind him and shook the rain off his hair. ‘Bloody rain. I hate bloody rain.’

  The usually short drive to Claire’s terraced house in Pinhoe took him twenty-five minutes, the rush-hour traffic reduced to a crawl in the poor visibility. Rain heaved itself out of a gun-metal sky and he felt the wheels wobble and grip the slick surface as he took a bend a little fast. Nightmare, he thought. There’ll be floods tomorrow, no doubt, and no chance of getting any more evidence out of the grave site. It’ll be filling up with water right now. Not much point continuing the search out there.

  He parked at the end of Claire’s street, cursed that he couldn’t get any closer, and made a dash for her door.

  The little house was Claire’s haven, and it could not have been more different from his modern flat. Her taste was for colour, whereas he liked neutrals. Claire had little rugs, kilims, she called them, on her walls and two low sofas with big squishy cushions. It suited her perfectly, and he had to admit, it was warm and welcoming. He rang the bell, trying to squeeze himself under the tiny porch roof.

  Claire threw open the door and welcomed him with a large glass of red wine and a hug. ‘Hi,’ he said, and took a moment to feast on the softness of her neck and the spicy smell of her hair.

  She pulled back and slammed the door shut behind him. ‘Come on in,’ she said, took his jacket and led him into the kitchen. ‘Bad day?’

  ‘Rubbish, crappy bad day,’ he said, and took a slug of wine.

  ‘Oi, that wine cost a tenner a bottle,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to sip it!’

  He took another slug, felt some of the tension leave his shoulders and grinned at her. ‘Ooh, you’re so posh, Claire. I don’t know what you see in a pleb like me.’

  ‘Hmm…’ she put her head on one side and tapped her finger against her chin while she took him in from nose to toes. ‘No. No, I can’t work it out either. Must be pity.’

  ‘Just give me a minute to get out of these wet clothes and you can show me how sorry you really are,’ he said, making a grab for her.

  Claire laughed and skipped away. ‘Off you go, then.’ She lifted the lid from a pot that was bubbling on the stove. ‘Chicken stew suit you, sir?’

  He came up behind her and wound his arms around her waist, ‘Suits me fine.’

  * * *

  ‘So you want a cat?’ Dan asked, slipping his arm out from under the duvet and tucking it behind his head. Streetlight cast a yellow glow in the small bedroom and lit up the side of Claire’s face as she snuggled in under his chin. It was finally quiet outside; the trains that passed the end of her street had stopped for the night. Only the howl and whip of wind and rain against the window reminded him of the unseasonal ugly weather. Here, warm in bed with Claire, was the best possible place to be.

  ‘I do, I really do,’ she said, and drew a cat’s face on his chest with her finger.

  ‘Big responsibility, an animal.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’ve never had one before. But, it’s just… I get lonely here on my own. I only see you when you’re not on a job.’

  He smiled and rubbed his hand along her arm. ‘I get it. That does tend to be the job, though. Quiet for weeks, then all hell breaks loose and you won’t see me for days. Ousted by a cat, eh? How will my ego stand it?’

  Claire chuckled. ‘I’ll get a fat, ugly one, so you can keep your precious ego intact.’ She traced a swirling pattern along his ribs and down along the line of soft hair on his stomach. ‘Will you help me choose one?’

  Dan could do nothing more than mumble an assent as his mind turned to something entirely different.

  12

  ‘So, that’s it? All your results on one solitary sheet of paper? That’s all you found, in all that soil?’

  Neil Pargeter spread his arms in an arc of defeat. ‘Sorry, Dan, can’t just make it up, can I?’ He scanned the page again. ‘There is quite a lot here, you know, you just need to look at it right.’

  Dan shoved his chair back from the desk, walked to the small window and gazed out at the rain. ‘Go on, then, impress me before I have to go and speak to the DCS.’

  ‘Right,’ said Neil, unfazed. ‘Listen up. There are samples of fibres consistent with hessian or some such sacking material. That means they were possibly transported to the burial site in sacks.’

  ‘Sacks?’

  Neil nodded. ‘Yeah, grain or some such. There were several insect carcases that were from weevils, a common pest in grain, and some bits of straw.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘So, Sherlock, your bodies may have come from a farm, or the murderer may have.’

  Dan sat back down. ‘Okay, I’ll give you that. Or they might have been killed on a farm, at least. That’s good.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry I was being an arse, Neil, I�
��m just getting frustrated. That is actually really useful.’ He sat back and pulled at his bottom lip. ‘They could have been very local to Dartmoor – that would narrow down our search. It’s a start, anyway. What else you got?’

  ‘Laura did her thing with the insect remains and would narrow the time of death to between seven and ten years ago. It’s hard to be more accurate as the peat tends to affect how quickly the carcases deteriorate, compared to how they would in the open air or in a less acidic environment.’ He looked at Dan over the top of his sheet of paper. ‘That’s pretty good work, in case you didn’t realise. She spent hours of unpaid overtime narrowing that window down for you.’

  ‘Yeah, I get it. Send her our thanks, would you? What else?’

  ‘And, keeping the best until the last; Neil Pargeter, Doctor of Archaeology and shoo-in for the senior post, reveals – ta dah! One of them did have a tattoo.’ He paused, and added, ‘The woman. Red, black and pink ink, flower-shaped, so it could be a flower, according to Laura.’

  Dan punched the air. ‘Aha! We thought that might be the case, good stuff. Any idea whereabouts on the body it would have been?’

  ‘The right ankle. Her legs were squashed up under her body, and were quite well-preserved compared to the male.’

  ‘Great. Thanks, Neil.’ He blew air out of his pursed lips. ‘You’re right, there’s a lot to be going on with, I’ve been letting lack of leads get me down.’ Dan took the sheet from him and read it through.

  Neil rose and pushed his chair back under the desk. ‘Right, I’ll be off. Do you, err… d’you fancy a drink on Sunday night? If you’re not busy, that is.’