Evil Valley (The TV Detective Series)

by Simon Hall

  ‘I don’t reckon he’s gone far sir,’ said Claire. ‘There’s no room in that barn to store a car and he wouldn’t have risked keeping one out here in the car park for a couple of days. It’d soon be noticed. I think he must be on foot.’

  Adam nodded. ‘Which brings us back to where we were. Dartmoor. At least we know for certain he’s here now. But where? Are there any other houses or farms around where he could he hiding?’

  ‘All checked sir,’ said Claire. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Get them checked again. We might have missed something. I can’t risk that. And get the helicopter back to do a sweep over the area.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And get the dogs to see if they can pick up a scent. I know he’s probably long gone, but it’s worth a try. Anything is.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Adam turned to the east. ‘Burrator reservoir’s over there, isn’t it? Not far away either.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And there are lots of trees and woodland there. Plenty of places to hide.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Get a couple of teams going around the reservoir then. It’s worth a shot. We’re running out of time.’

  The yellow sun was already dipping towards the western horizon.

  There was no sight, no vision, it was too dark, perfectly black. There was only the incessant sound. Drip, drip, drip …

  A gasping, wavering sob rose above the tinny beat, then another. He tried to ignore it.

  The crying faded, and a small, faltering voice joined with the drip, drip, drip …

  ‘I’m scared Ed … I’m so frightened … I don’t like the dark.’

  He tried again to shut it out, tapped the rhythm of the falling water on his knees.

  Drip, drip, drip …

  ‘I’m really scared … Ed, please … please …’

  Drip, drip, drip …

  Breathless now. ‘You’re not … you’re not going to hurt me, are you?’

  It was the first time she’d asked it. He flinched, surprised to find the question penetrated his mind.

  ‘No, of course not, my lovely. I would never hurt you. This is … it’s …’

  He struggled to find some convincing words. ‘It’s the very last part of our adventure. It’s the most important bit … where you prove you’re brave enough to … it’s like those stories I read you. You remember those?’

  Drip, drip, drip …

  ‘You remember them, don’t you? When the hero has to go through the final test before he can claim his great prize? Well, that’s what you’re doing now.’

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Drip, drip, drip …

  Then her voice. Querulous, fearful. ‘How long do we have to stay here?’

  He checked the luminous dial of his watch. ‘Not long now, my love.’ He bit back his reluctance, reached out and took Nicola’s hand, squeezed it. ‘Not long. I’m sorry we have to spend part of your birthday this way, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped. There are some people we need to avoid. They’re trying to stop us finishing our adventure and we don’t want that, do we? It won’t be long before we can go out and choose your pony.’

  Drip, drip, drip …

  ‘Really, Ed?’

  ‘Really. You’ve been such a brave girl. We’ve almost finished our adventure now, and when it’s over we can find your pony. Have you decided which one you’d like yet? For being such a wonderfully brave girl, I’ll get you whichever one you want.’

  Drip, drip, drip …

  Then her voice, calmer now. ‘I think I’d like a black one, Ed. I think I’m sure about that now. I think he’ll be black and I’ll call him Beauty. Just like that book you and Mummy read to me. Will Mummy be here to help me choose him?’

  He screwed his eyes shut, tried so hard to shut out her words. It was too late for guilt. Another few hours and it would all be over. But she was such a beautiful girl, so innocent, so trusting. Just a few more hours.

  The relentless noise seemed to be growing louder, echoing in his head.

  Drip, drip, drip …

  Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn’t it have been some screaming, spoilt brat who he could easily hate? Why did it have to be a beautiful little girl, with loving eyes, golden hair, a cute gap in her teeth and a smooth hand she’d hold out for a reassuring squeeze? Why did he keep seeing her riding that pony, shrieking in delight, the tail of blonde hair flying behind her?

  The answer snapped back. Because he’d chosen her. Because she was symbolic. Perfect.

  He thought of her mum, sitting at home, surrounded by friends, family, staring at the phone, willing it to ring, but each time it did dreading what she would hear. What would she be thinking about him? She must be despising, loathing, detesting him. Just as he loathed and detested her. Or was almost sure he did …

  Did she really once want to have a relationship with him? Could he have finally managed one with her? Maybe, if she hadn’t been a vital part of his wonderful plan.

  He hung on to the thought. His wonderful plan. That was what this was about. Not something pathetic and weak, transient and meaningless like a relationship. Something that would live on, be forever remembered, not falter and die, unnoticed by the world.

  Drip, drip, drip …

  Could he have been a father to Nicola? She’d never had one. She’d mentioned that often enough on their outings. It was just her and Mum. It had always been that way.

  That wasn’t so very different from his own childhood. He didn’t have a dad either, just a man who used that name, someone who would make rushed, flying visits, always on his way somewhere else, always with more important things to do, always too busy to stop and play. When he thought of his father he saw a blur, an undefined image of a half-remembered person speeding in and out of his life.

  His imagination brought him that picture again. Nicola, astride the sturdy black pony, wearing matching black riding hat and boots, cantering safely around a grassy paddock, her gappy smile beaming her delight. Would her mum be there beside him, smiling too, perhaps reaching out to hold his hand, share the joy?

  Drip, drip, drip …

  It was growing louder still, boring into his brain. He ground a knuckle into the rocky wall beside him, felt the skin break, the shock of pain helping him force the thought away. It was too late for regrets. There was only one path for him now, and he was almost there. It was nearly time.

  He heard the helicopter buzzing overhead, a couple of voices too he thought, but that could have been his imagination. Everything was going precisely according to the plan. They were looking for him, but he’d out-thought them again. They’d never find him here. They should have discovered the quad bike and hut by now, and they’d be gathering close by. But they’d never find him.

  Not until he was ready. Not for a few hours yet.

  More words in the blackness. ‘My mummy’s very pretty, isn’t she, Ed? Do you think she’s pretty?’

  ‘Yes, I think she’s very pretty.’

  ‘Was your mum pretty Ed?’

  He wanted to walk away, put his hands over his ears, block out the dripping and that innocent little voice. He hadn’t harmed her. He hadn’t hurt anyone. He prided himself on that. He’d done what he had to do, and no one had been hurt. No one would be.

  The two women he’d visited – that was how he liked to think of it – had been upset of course, but they would get over it. Nicola had cried a couple of times. The ride on the back of the quad bike was the worst, but the tears were brief and she’d been fine afterwards. They’d get over it, all three of them. They’d soon forget. It had been necessary. Someone had to make the statement that needed to be made, and it would be him. It was too late for regrets.

  ‘Yes, Nicola, she was very pretty. She was like a princess.’

  He regretted the words as soon as he’d spoken them.

  ‘My mummy says I look like a princess with my hair. She says all princesses have long, blonde hair. Did you know th
at, Ed?’

  ‘I didn’t, but now you mention it you’re right. I’ve never seen a princess who doesn’t have lovely long blonde hair, just like yours.’

  ‘I’ll look like a real princess sitting on my pony, won’t I? Will it be long now before we can go and get him?’

  ‘Not long now, my love. Not long.’

  The guilt came thundering back as he thought about what he had to do next. His father was there, scolding him, a finger pointing, his mother shaking her head, her lips pursed. He tried to block it out but it wouldn’t leave him, echoed louder and louder through his head.

  He could feel the cold gathering around them, pulled a blanket over her little shoulders, tucked it around her. He didn’t want to think about what was coming next, but it wouldn’t leave him, whichever way he turned his head, however tightly he closed his eyes.

  It had to be this way. There was no choice left now. It was too late for regrets.

  Drip, drip, drip …

  ‘Not long now, my love,’ he whispered again through the perfect darkness. ‘Not long.’

  The shadows were stretching further over the moorland, dark fingers pulling at the precious daylight and stealing it away. Dan didn’t bother checking his watch, he’d been doing so every couple of minutes for the last hour. It was just after half past four. And the icy cold was sharpening with the gathering gloom.

  He’d given up on the letters Gibson had sent, the transcripts of the calls and his hastily scribbled note of that last message at the Scout Hut. He was sure the answer was in the letters and he’d stared at them until the words drifted out of focus. Dan had underlined some parts, sketched asterisks and question marks next to others, but still he couldn’t see a solution.

  He’d tried anagrams of Denton and Hyde. The best he’d come up with were Done Thy End, Don’t Heed NY, Dyed Then No and Not Dyed Hen. None made any sense. And how could it be an anagram anyway, if Michael’s computer program couldn’t solve it? It must be something else. But what?

  Manchester kept teasing his brain and he’d borrowed a road map of Britain from the Spray of Feathers, gazed at it, wondering why Gibson would mention the city. He’d even looked at Denton and Hyde again, but couldn’t see any connection to Dartmoor. They were just ordinary towns, part of the suburbs, towards the end of the M67 to the east of Manchester. So why did Gibson write about them? They knew he wasn’t there.

  Dan had learned never to ignore his instincts, but eventually he’d given up, taken the map back into the pub, resisted the sweet temptation of the beer pumps and a quiet corner next to the woodburner, instead hobbled slowly back outside to rejoin Adam.

  Dan leaned back against a police car, rubbed his eyes. His mind felt numb from the lack of sleep and penetrating cold. But still he worked at Gibson’s letters, all the time feeling that each second which passed was another less to find Nicola. Why did Gibson have to single him out as the one who would know how to solve the riddle? What did he do to deserve the torment of this pressure?

  He stared again at his notepad, the letters and words dancing in his blurred sight, but he saw nothing. It was as if the enveloping cold and the strain had made his brain seize. The pain in his ankle stabbed at him, but he hardly noticed. He wasn’t even thinking of his bed and Rutherford any more. His mind felt blank, empty.

  What did that note on the quad bike mean, that the answer was in the names and the numbers? There were no numbers in Gibson’s letters. He’d checked each, three times, scrutinised every line but couldn’t see any hint of figures. Was it some kind of code? He’d tried giving the individual letters a number, one for a, two for b, three for c and seeing if that made any sense with the first or last letters of each lines of the notes, but they meant nothing.

  He’d spoken to Michael and Eleanor, but they’d come to the same dead ends and they were the experts. What chance did that give him? So why was he feeling so angry?

  He knew the answer. He’d solved the Death Pictures riddle, and this couldn’t be any tougher than McCluskey’s mystery. But the Death Pictures had taken him months, and here they’d had only days, now down to minutes. He knew he shouldn’t think it, that it wasn’t fair on himself, but he felt as though he’d failed Nicola. He could solve a riddle where the prize was a painting. But not when a little girl’s life was at stake.

  Adam stood in the door of the police van, staring out to the west and the dying sun, as if willing it to linger in the sky. An occasional burst of static and tinny conversation from the radio inside the van made his head snap around, look imploringly at Sergeant Wilcox, receive another slow shake of the head. He’d turn back in frustration, continue glaring at the sunset. His tie was low down his neck and his suit jacket open. He didn’t have a coat on, must have been frozen but didn’t seem to have noticed the cold.

  ‘We’re running out of time,’ he muttered again. ‘Running out of time.’

  The sergeant’s voice drifted out of the van, gently pleading. ‘I’m going to have to call them back in, sir. There’s barely enough light left for them to see anything. I’ve got to make sure they come back safely. They’ve been out all day and they’re exhausted.’

  Adam turned, his voice hoarse. ‘Just a few minutes more, Sergeant, please. We’ve got to give it every chance. Just a few more minutes.’

  ‘Sir, with respect, we’ve given it every chance. They won’t find anything in the dark and they’re more likely to be a danger to themselves. Sir, please. We can start again in the morning.’

  Adam sat down heavily on the van’s step, his head bowed. ‘It’ll be too late in the morning. We’ll have lost her by then. I know we will. Her birthday was the deadline. All we’ll find in the morning will be a corpse.’

  He looked over at Dan. ‘We’ve lost her. Tomorrow you’ll be doing your story on the discovery of Nicola’s body, and Gibson will have what he wanted. He’s humiliated us. Me in particular. I might as well write out my resignation now.’

  Dan stood up and hobbled over to his friend, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Nothing like it, Adam, nothing like it. Don’t talk like that. You did as much as you possibly could. More than that in fact. You did everything. It was me who failed. Gibson picked me to solve his riddle and I couldn’t do it. I failed, not you. Let the searchers come home for now. We can look again in the morning. There’s still hope.’

  Adam stared down at the dusty ground. The land was losing its colour as the light faded.

  ‘It’ll be too late then. It was today or never. We’ve lost her. And to think he stood in front of me and did his act and I never saw it. I could have stopped all this if I’d been thinking. It’s my fault. A little girl’s out there dying and it’s my fault. I could have saved her.’

  ‘Come on, come on.’ Dan gently shook Adam’s shoulder. ‘Let them come back in.’

  Sergeant Wilcox stepped down from the van, looked at Adam who stared at him, then, finally, gave the slightest of nods.

  ‘Come and sit in the warm of the Spray of Feathers for ten minutes and let me get you a beer,’ said Dan. ‘You haven’t stopped all day and there’s absolutely nothing you can do while the searchers come back in. Come and sit down in the warm for a few minutes. It’ll do you good.’

  Adam got slowly to his feet and walked alongside Dan, each step laboured and heavy with defeat. He could hear the sergeant on the radio in the van, calling the search teams home.

  Dan bought them a couple of pints of Prison Ale, Princetown’s finest. He carried the drinks over to the black slate table next to the woodburner where Adam had slumped. The detective was staring down at the table, tracing patterns in the stone with his finger.

  ‘We’ve run out of time,’ he mumbled. ‘We’ve lost her.’

  Dan passed the pint across. ‘Not yet. Not yet. There’s still hope. There’s always hope.’ He wasn’t sure how much belief he managed to force into his voice. ‘There are plenty of people out there, still keeping an eye open for her. We’re not lost yet.’

  Adam took a long sip fro
m his beer, then another. ‘We’ll start searching again tomorrow at first light, but I reckon we’ve missed Gibson’s deadline. And I don’t want to think about what that means for Nicola.’

  ‘Have we any leads left?’

  ‘None. The dogs didn’t pick up a scent from the scout hut. The helicopter’s found nothing. The house-to-house inquiries found nothing. There was nothing around the reservoir. The search teams combed most of the section of moor where Gibson could have been and found nothing. There were a few tents without people in, but none were suspicious. There was no trace of Nicola. I’m starting to wonder if he is still on the moor with her, or if he’s escaped somewhere else. Anything could have happened. He could have killed her, dumped her body and made off in a car he’d hidden somewhere. We’d struggle to find a child’s body. There are so many places he could have hidden it.’

  Dan sipped at his pint and thought. ‘No … that doesn’t fit. First of all, and I know you won’t agree with this, but the guy’s not a killer. He said so in one of his letters, that he didn’t want anyone harmed. And his actions bear it out. He hasn’t actually hurt anyone …’

  ‘Yet,’ interrupted Adam bitterly.

  ‘OK, fair enough. But I certainly don’t think he’s set out to hurt anyone. And for him, all this is about getting at the police isn’t it? It all seems to be building up to some climax, some kind of showdown. I can’t believe he’d simply run and not have his moment of insane glory. That doesn’t fit. I’m sure he’s still around here somewhere and we’ll soon find out what the end of his great plan is. He wouldn’t allow us not to.’

  Adam managed a tired and weak smile. ‘That’s one of the things I like about you, Dan. You always try to think the best of people. Whereas, me, I’ve been a detective for long enough to usually think the worst.’

  ‘I’m not trying to paint him as some sort of misguided victim hero type. I don’t believe in that stuff. I’m just giving you my best guess about what he’s thinking and how he’ll behave.’