Death on Dartmoor

by Bernie Steadman

  ‘I sincerely hope not. It’s not the Met, you know. We’re just bringing in a local dealer. In fact, I’m happy just to observe on Friday, find out where he or she sets themselves up, have a look at who their customers are, then bring them in on Saturday. Assuming we get a place and a name from young Bateson, that is.’

  ‘Well, the offer’s there, if you want it,’ she said, turning on her heel. ‘It is a murder investigation, after all.’

  ‘Don’t wish guns on us, ma’am,’ he said the closing door.

  20

  Wayne Ridout was small and skinny with a permanently runny nose and an inability to stay still. He shifted from foot to foot, constantly checking that his money was in one pocket and his stock was in the canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

  He leaned against the low wall, out of the pool of lamplight that lit a small area of the street. Wayne sniffed and checked his pocket again. It was all there. He checked inside the bag. It was all there. He had to keep checking, because he kept having blackouts, and the bastards he dossed with kept nicking his stuff. He knew he’d have to cut down soon; this lifestyle was killing him. But he needed a bigger stash to get away, so he had to carry on. Maybe getting himself a better place to stay was a good idea. Yeah…

  He straightened up as an equally skinny girl slunk out of the shadows. He nodded at her, and got out what she needed. She looked at him, head on one side and licked a raw tongue around thin, scabby lips. ‘Forget it, darlin’,’ Wayne muttered, rolling his eyes. ‘It’s cash I want, not pussy.’ He placed the cocaine carefully back into his pack and raised his fist. ‘Fuck right off or you’ll get a bit of this.’ The girl whined, but backed away; cursing and threatening, but walking. He leaned back against the wall. Quiet night, just what he didn’t need.

  Gary Bateson hugged the side of Darren’s black BMW and watched Darren Carr’s back. Around the corner, on a side street that backed onto Exwick cemetery car park, he could hear two voices. Darren stuck his head out, looked back and nodded. ‘It’s him,’ he whispered. They waited until Wayne’s customer disappeared into the gloom surrounding the one working street lamp, and made their move.

  Gary grabbed Wayne around the throat from the rear, pressing against his larynx with one arm and securing the other arm tight against his body.

  Darren came up in front and punched the dealer as hard as he could in his stomach. He leapt back as Wayne spewed bile and the remains of a kebab onto the pavement. ‘Filthy little prick,’ Darren said, and followed up with a kick to the testicles that rendered Wayne unconscious.

  Gary let the little man slip to the pavement. ‘Brilliant, Daz. How can he talk now?’ He shoved Darren away and pulled up Wayne to sit with his back against the lamp post. He slapped him a couple of times, but Wayne stayed quiet.

  Darren pulled Wayne’s bag up and over the inert body, dug into it and took out a small wrap. He licked his fingertip and carefully placed a small amount on his tongue. ‘Coke, I reckon.’ He opened Wayne’s mouth and poured the powder in, holding the jaw closed with his hand while the drug took effect.

  Wayne popped awake. His eyes fluttered open and he tried to stand, spitting and hawking at the bitterness in his mouth.

  ‘No, you don’t sunshine,’ said Gary, pinning him down. ‘We have a few questions to ask you, and if you don’t tell us straight, I’ll let my mad friend here chop your balls off and you can bleed to death all alone in this shithole. D’you get me?’

  Wayne Ridout felt the warm soak of piss in his jeans. He watched, helpless, as the tattooed one ripped his precious stash out of his pocket, and tipped his stock out onto the pavement. Tears pricked his eyes. The tattooed one stuck his metal toe-capped boot in all his precious stock and ground it into the muck on the pavement.

  Then the tattooed one shook his head, and said, ‘Not this stuff, no legals.’ to the other one, and dropped Wayne’s bag into a shrub. The drizzle moved the tattered wraps gently into a puddle in the gutter. Wayne knew his life was over. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Wayne.’ Gary slapped his face. ‘Wayne. We know it’s not you, alright. But, who is selling MCat to the kids on Countess Wear?’

  Wayne lolled. This was worse than he thought. He shook his head. Only a total idiot would say Moss Garrett’s name and expect to live.

  ‘Wayne. Look at me you little shit. Tell me who it is and we’ll be gone from here. You can go back to your crappy little life and we won’t bother you again.’

  Darren squatted in front of the little man, wrinkling his nose at the smell. ‘You might as well tell us while you’ve got all your bits, Wayne. Know what I mean? ‘Cos you’ll tell us one way or another. Make it easy on yourself, mate. We just want a name; no-one will know it came from you.’

  Wayne turned his head away and spat bloody spittle.

  ‘See, that’s not very helpful, is it? Whoever this guy is, he killed my little brother.’ Darren took Wayne’s limp arm and placed it on the pavement splaying out the dealer’s fingers. He glanced at Gary. ‘Little finger first?’

  Gary shrugged. ‘Don’t matter.’

  Darren stood, placed his boot over the outer portion of Wayne’s hand and stamped.

  Wayne’s scream was pitiful. He dragged up his broken left hand and cradled it with his right. He could see no mercy in the eyes staring at him. What had that psycho Garrett been doing? He considered his options. These two would let him live, Moss wouldn’t. If he got away, totally away, he might be alright. Maybe he could go home to his mum and dad for a few weeks, straighten out. Yeah, that would work. He cleared his throat, spat and tried to speak.

  Gary whirled around. He could hear footsteps, and snuffling. Dog walker. He held his hand over Wayne’s mouth until the sound faded away. ‘Hurry up, Wayne, cough it out.’ He glanced up at Darren. ‘We might need another finger or three, Daz, just to encourage our little friend.’

  Darren grabbed Wayne’s left hand again and placed it on the pavement. ‘Just his name, Wayne. I know you know who it is.’ He raised his boot again and stamped down. This time Wayne’s scream tore the air.

  Gary stood and peered around, suddenly nervous amongst the dead and buried of Exwick. ‘One last chance, Wayne. Do it for Darren’s dead brother, and my son, who nearly died. Get a bit of backbone for the first time in your pathetic little life. Or end it here.’

  So Wayne told them.

  ‘You ever heard of Moss Garrett?’ asked Darren as he drove them up through the quiet city and on towards Beacon Heath.

  ‘No, can’t say I have. But drugs have never been my scene, so I don’t know names.’ Gary smiled. ‘I had to threaten to ground Lee for a year and throw away his x-box to get him to even tell me one dealer’s name.’

  ‘And Countess Wear’s on the other side of town, so no reason for us to know who he is.’

  ‘But Lee knew where to find him, didn’t he?’

  Darren shrugged. ‘The kids always know how to get hold of drugs.’

  ‘What about you, Daz? You into that stuff?’

  Darren took a right round the mini roundabout onto Prince Charles Road. ‘I was,’ he said, ‘when I was younger. Into anything. I’m straight, now, though. Didn’t want to put my Ma through any more shit after I got arrested. Speed makes me mental. You know, angry, violent. I got done for ABH and spend my last year of school in juvie on Portland. And I didn’t want to end up dead of an overdose like my dad.’

  ‘Wow, sorry, mate. I didn’t know. Christ, you can’t be more than twenty, now.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s okay.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘Sorted my life out now. Wish I could’ve saved Ryan, though. I feel bad that I didn’t know what he was doing. Should’ve guessed. He’s my brother, and his father’s son.’

  Gary screwed up his face. He should have guessed about Lee, too. Mouthy little sod was always up to something. ‘Leave it with me for a couple of days. I’ll find out who he is, and where he’s dealing. Then we’ll decide what to do.’

  The BMW slewed to a halt outside Gary Bateson�
�s house. ‘What about that detective bloke?’ asked Darren. ‘We said we’d tell him as soon as we knew anything.’

  ‘Yeah, we will. It’s only Wednesday.’ Gary rubbed a meaty hand across his face. ‘I just want a chance to have a go at the guy first. Make him see the error of his ways, sort of thing. Then I’ll be happy to hand him over.’ He paused. ‘I’d love to have a go at the bastard who’s making this chemical stuff, too. He’s the real murderer, isn’t he? We’ll see what this Garrett has to tell us.’ He punched Darren on the shoulder. ‘You did good tonight, kid. Are you up for a bit of midnight mischief with this Garrett character?’

  Darren nodded. ‘Yeah, you can rely on me.’ He screeched away from the kerb as Gary stood watching. He wasn’t sure he had the stomach for violence any more, but he reckoned Daz would be happy to do the hitting if he played the hard man. He yawned. He was ready for his bed.

  21

  Dan was driving Sally mad. He’d been in and out of the incident room, getting in everyone’s way, pacing and glaring at the phone on Bill Larcombe’s desk since half past eight. She glanced at the clock, almost eleven. Please God, let them ring soon, I don’t think I can stand much more of this. ‘Boss,’ she said, interrupting a particularly vicious slamming open of the incident room door. ‘Boss, can I speak to you, please?’

  Dan stopped mid-stride, swivelled on his heel and stood in front of her desk. ‘What?’

  She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. ‘Were you planning on re-filling that?’ she asked, eyeing the stained mug dangling from his finger.

  ‘I was, as a matter of fact. And your point would be?’

  ‘You’ve had way too much already? Your hands are shaking? You’re driving me insane?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Sir, we’re all desperate to get the results, but we, somehow, are managing to get on with our jobs without resorting to drug of choice and tempting the rest of the team to thoughts of murder. There must be something else you can get on with, surely?’

  Sally stood, reached across and took Dan’s mug out of his hand. She replaced it with a bottle of still water. ‘Drink this, and go and get something to eat from the canteen, and I promise I will call you if the results come through. Alright?’

  Dan looked around the room, desperate to find an excuse not to follow this eminently sensible advice. Not one of the buggers would look at him. He looked back at Sally. ‘Am I being an arse?’

  ‘Two whole cheeks worth. Go on, you’ll only be gone a minute.’

  He managed a small half-smile. ‘You win; I’ll be back in a minute.’ He pretended not to hear the cheering as he walked down the corridor.

  He popped into the men’s room to relieve himself of several mugs of coffee and regarded his face in the mirror. His skin was naturally dark so he kept a tan for longer than most, but winter had made him paler, and the bags under his eyes told the real story. He was worried sick that he might not get to the bottom of either case.

  He and Claire had spent a ridiculous amount of time the night before looking at pictures of cats on various rescue charity websites, and he’d agreed to fix a cat flap into the back door for her. He just hoped there were instructions. He’d have to borrow the tools off his dad. In fact, he thought, as he washed his hands, in fact, he could get his dad to do the job, and survive another day without having to admit he had no practical skills at all. Unless it was mending a bike, or a computer, of course.

  Feeling better, he bought a bacon roll in the canteen and headed back to the incident room, where he walked in, sat at the table, ate his roll and drank his water without bothering anybody.

  Sally gave him the thumbs up and gathered up Sam Knowles to help her interview the two known dealers, Jade Wells and Wayne Ridout.

  ‘If they’re being awkward, bring them in,’ Dan said. ‘I’d enjoy terrifying the life out of a dealer at the moment.’

  Bill Larcombe’s phone rang. He didn’t bother trying to get to it, but allowed Dan to dive across the room and snatch it up. ‘Sergeant Larcombe’s phone, DI Hellier speaking,’ he said.

  Instead, Bill opened his emails, pressed ‘print’ and allowed the written report to drop from the printer.

  Dan’s mouth dropped open. ‘Really? Unbelievable! No wonder we couldn’t get anywhere.’ He thanked the head of the lab and put the phone down. Next to him, Bill tried to scan the report while Ben Bennett leant over his shoulder. ‘Well, I never,’ Dan said, pointing at the conclusion.

  The older sergeants grinned back at him. ‘Bloody hell, boss,’ said Bennett. ‘We’ve been looking on the wrong side of the world!’

  ‘Yeah! No wonder we were getting nowhere. Bill, print off half a dozen copies of the report, let’s have a closer look.’

  Protein and carbs had settled his jitteriness. Dan sat at the table and spread the report out. It was only two sides long. His sergeants pulled up chairs and sat opposite him.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘we should see if DCS Oliver is available to go through this with us.’ A quick phone call upstairs confirmed his suspicion that she was thoroughly enjoying being part of the team. She would drop everything and be down in a minute. He briefly wondered what would happen when the new DCI was appointed and Oliver had to stay behind her desk.

  Oliver entered the room at a trot and sat next to Dan, drawing a copy of the report towards her. ‘Thank heavens for that,’ she said, ‘I thought they were never going to get this through to us.’ She gave Dan a sidelong glance. ‘You must be relieved,’ she murmured.

  Dan cleared his throat and gave her a lop-sided grin. ‘Right, I’ll read, you interrupt, make notes, ask questions. Let’s see if we can move this case forward, shall we? Ben, you’ve got the magic marker, write on the board for me, please.’

  He read the initial findings. The bodies were from New Zealand, of all places. That would focus the search. ‘Apparently, there’s a particular mineral balance in the soils of North Island New Zealand that leave a marker in the calcium of the bones.’

  ‘Who knew?’ said Oliver. ‘It must have been in the grass the sheep or cows ate, then into the milk, or the meat.’

  Bill Larcombe wondered, ‘Does that mean that my bones would say Devon born and bred?’

  ‘I think it probably does,’ said Oliver. ‘And mine would say Bristol via Malta, Germany and Cyprus. Dad in the Army.’

  ‘So what were two not-so-young Kiwis doing in Devon that got them murdered?’

  Larcombe shrugged. ‘Who knows? Still, this will make tracking them down easier. People would remember the accent, even from seven or eight years ago, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘And if they emigrated here, there will be paperwork,’ added Bennett, scribbling on the whiteboard. ‘And they may have been visiting family or friends. That might spark off a few memories.’

  ‘I’ll get on to New Zealand police and ask for their help,’ said Oliver. ‘And we can do another press update now, with a new slant.’ She gave Dan the first warm smile he had seen for days. ‘Well done. I think we might be getting somewhere now. I’ll go up and prepare something for the press. See if we can’t get the public to help us out.’ She took the report and left the room.

  Dan stared at the table. Oliver had been brilliant in bringing Irina Akis to justice in the Braithwaite case, and she’d believed in him even when he was being a total liability. Put her own job on the line for him. But she was different this time. More distant, more pre-occupied, somehow. Was something up? What was bothering her? He knew the DCI applications weren’t exactly flooding in. Or they weren’t up to standard. That could be an issue.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘you know what to do. Let’s try to pin down our Bog Bodies. I’ll be in my office.’ He picked up his copy and went into his office, closing the door behind him. He wrote up his report, pleased to add a bit more detail, and wondered how knowing where the boggies had come from would help if they hadn’t been reported missing by anyone.

  He suddenly felt a bit spare, so he was delighted when Sally rang.

  ‘It
’s Wayne Ridout, sir,’ she said. ‘We got to his flat and found him in a right state with his hand all busted up. We’re at the hospital A and E department and thought you might like to come and talk to him.’

  ‘Is he the one, Sal?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, but he’s got relevant intel, and he’s scared half to death of two blokes who got him last night. Banging on about police protection and knowing his rights, blah, blah.’

  ‘And you’re thinking what I’m thinking. I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ Dan said. It had to be Gary Bateson and Darren Carr. Stupid idiots.

  * * *

  The Exeter University Archaeology Department was deserted at lunchtime. Nathan Solomon, lab technician, closed the laboratory door behind him and crept to the store cupboard. Unlocking the padlock, he pulled open the doors and removed a stoppered glass bottle of sulphuric acid, and a jar of potassium crystals. He wrapped them in towels and transferred them to his empty backpack, where he wedged them upright, and not touching. He locked the cupboard, pocketed the key, opened the log book and carefully altered the inventory to show that both items had been removed the previous week by other members of the team for use in various experiments. Finally, he mopped his neck with the sleeve of his white coat, and headed for the prep lab.

  Neil Pargeter emerged from his hiding place in the gents’ toilet as soon as Solomon disappeared through the front door. He took the key from his desk and followed Solomon’s footsteps into the lab. First he checked the log, and spotted that the changes were the same as the week before. He sighed, and checked the cupboard just to be sure. How could Solomon be such an idiot? Two large jars left an obvious hole in the row, and he hadn’t even had the sense to cover it up. Neil felt vaguely affronted that Solomon clearly thought he wouldn’t notice. Does he think I’m too lofty an intellectual to care, or I’m too dumb to see what’s under my nose? We don’t use that many chemicals in archaeology. Whatever the thought process, his budget wouldn’t stand pilfering from technicians. His horrible suspicion about Solomon being the drug maker was turning out to be a good guess.