Dead on Dartmoor

by Stephanie Austin

  CHAPTER TEN

  Daison Cottages are not really cottages at all. They are council houses, built after the war for agricultural workers. Like all council houses constructed back then, they are solid, well built, and have large garden plots. These stand in an isolated group of four on the road towards Owlacombe Cross, separated from the roadway by a low stone wall and surrounded on all sides by fields. At some time during the Thatcher era they must have been sold by the council and acquired by their owners. Since then, some have been resold and various degrees of gentrification have taken place. Of the four identical houses, originally painted cream, one is now pistachio green, and one pink, giving the whole row the appearance of a block of Neapolitan ice cream. The third cottage, still vanilla flavour, has sprouted an unconvincing Grecian portico and has a front door painted blue, with flowering baskets hung on either side. It matches the blue-painted wheelbarrow sitting on the front lawn, filled with pink petunias. Pretty, but undeniably naff. It’s the last house, number four, which seems to have undergone no change at all, the cream-painted walls grubby and slightly sad, the front door a dull brown and the wire fence separating the garden from the adjacent field set in concrete posts that look original. This is Chez Knollys.

  The garden gate was rusty and squeaked when I opened it, a cracked concrete path leading to the front door. The strips of lawn on either side could have done with a trim and the scruffy rosebushes were overgrown. There was no sound when I pressed the doorbell, so I rapped the brass pixie knocker for backup. As neither of these attempts produced any answer from within, I wandered around the side to the rear of the house.

  The back garden was long, a washing line strung down its entire length, a solitary floral nightdress billowing gently in the breeze. There was a large vegetable plot on one side with some old cold frames, a water butt and a wizened apple tree. I picked up a fallen apple, hard as a conker and bright green – a cooking apple, probably. Apart from a few dishevelled dahlias, the rest of the garden was grass, except at the far end, where a small patch of wildflower meadow had been sown. I wandered down to take a look. Earlier in the summer, poppies and cornflowers would have glowed amongst tall, rustling grasses ticking and buzzing with insects. Now it was mostly gone, just a tangle of brown stems and rattling seed pods. Beyond the garden fence was a paddock, three ponies watching me from the far end, swishing their tails.

  The neighbour with the blue wheelbarrow out front had constructed an imposing length of fence separating the two back gardens, the panels topped with sections of trellis, the whole lot stained a fashionable shade of green. It made the divide between the two neighbours abundantly clear: We are not like that shabby lot next door, it seemed to be saying. As I walked back up the path towards the house, it spoke to me.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I had to draw close to the trellis and peer through a diamond-shaped hole to see who had spoken. I could see part of a woman’s face through the lattice work, her brown hair wavy and short. ‘Are you from social services?’ she asked.

  Well, I didn’t say I was and I didn’t say I wasn’t. She just made her own assumptions and went plunging on. ‘Only, I’ve phoned your department more than once.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, I worry about the old lady.’

  ‘Mrs Knollys?’ I ventured.

  ‘There’s only that young lad to look after her, and he’s still at school. He’s away all day and that poor old soul is bedridden. In fact, I’ve never laid eyes on her.’ She stopped, apparently expecting some response.

  ‘Ah!’ I said. ‘So there is no Mr Knollys?’

  She shook her head, ‘Only young Oliver.’

  So Oliver Knollys was a schoolboy. ‘I’m afraid these days it’s not unusual for a child to be the sole carer in their family,’ I told her, shaking my head sadly.

  ‘I’m sure he does his best, bless him,’ the neighbour went on, ‘but I’ve never seen a doctor, or a district nurse go in … or a carer … or anyone.’

  ‘Have you lived here long?’

  ‘About eighteen months now.’

  ‘Well, I’m here to have a chat with Oliver,’ I told her, with the voice of one who has arrived to take control of all problems.

  ‘He won’t be back from school yet.’ She seemed slightly ruffled, as if she thought I should already know this.

  ‘Do you know what time he gets home?’

  ‘About half past four.’

  ‘You’ve been most helpful, Mrs …’

  ‘Hardiman,’ she told me, ‘April Hardiman.’

  ‘You’ve been most helpful, Mrs Hardiman. I’ll come back.’

  ‘And what did you say your name was?’ she asked.

  I didn’t. Damn. ‘Juno,’ I said, turning to smile at her. ‘Juno Browne.’

  As I reached the front gate and turned to close it, I could see Mrs Hardiman watching me from her living-room window. She must have run back through the house to get a proper look at me. Obviously the diamond-shaped view was not sufficient. I gave her a cheery wave. I don’t know whether I make a convincing social worker. I generally look a bit scruffy so I’m sure I fit the bill.

  I had an hour before Oliver was due home, time to drive down to Old Nick’s and check on the takings, possibly pick up a few groceries whilst I was in town. For the first time I switched on White Van’s radio, something I’d been reluctant to do because of what happened when Sophie did it in my last vehicle. This time there was no conflagration, just the local news. There had been a double murder at Dartmoor Prison, so the newscaster told me, and a riot during which prisoners had set fire to their cells. But police were not looking for anyone else in connection with the tragic death of nineteen-year-old Gavin Hall, she went on, who died in a stabbing at the weekend, and whose death was being treated as unexplained but not suspicious. She started blathering about the weather, but I switched her off.

  I drove back to the shop, and after the briefest of hellos to Sophie and Pat, ran upstairs, sat on the bare floorboards in the living room and picked up Nick’s phone.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t picked up on the other end by the person I wanted to speak to, but by Det. Constable DeVille. Inspector Ford was at the prison, she informed me, investigating a double murder, what did I want? I didn’t want to speak to her. I asked if the inspector could phone me back. There was a weary sigh at the end of the line. She would leave a message − she was obviously doing me an immense favour − but I shouldn’t anticipate a response any time soon. The inspector was busy. She hung up.

  But I was barely halfway down the stairs before the phone rang and I doubled back on myself to pick up the receiver. ‘Juno Browne?’ It was a man’s voice, but not the inspector’s. ‘This is Detective Constable Collins. You phoned the station just now.’

  It took me a moment to realise who was speaking: Detective Constable Collins, he of the burly, no-nonsense physique and twinkly eyes, the sidekick’s sidekick. He must have been earwigging on my conversation with Cruella. ‘The inspector won’t be free for hours,’ he went on. He definitely wasn’t a Devon man. His flattened vowels suggested a northerner to me – well, north of Bristol, anyway. ‘I wondered if there was anything I could help you with, Ms Browne?’ Meaning: he was curious to know why I’d phoned. Whatever, it was nicer talking to him than Cruella. I asked him if what I’d heard on the radio was correct, that they thought Gavin’s death was an accident.

  ‘Well, there are no prints on the weapon except for Gavin’s and those of Mr Bartholomew who sold it to him,’ he explained patiently. ‘There’s no sign of pursuit, no evidence that anyone had been fighting with Gavin, or chasing him. There’s a clear mark on the trunk of the tree where his foot had slipped. And …’ He hesitated.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The pathologist confirms that the weapon’s angle of thrust—’

  ‘Dear God,’ I moaned.

  ‘Sorry, but you did ask. Shall I go on?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘The weapon’s a
ngle of thrust is consistent with the wound being self-inflicted. When he hit the ground, the blade was forced into his body.’ Constable Collins allowed me a few moments to ruminate over this before he spoke again. ‘You found him, Juno. Don’t you think it was an accident?’

  ‘It’s his specs that bother me. They were found so far from his body.’ I told him I couldn’t believe that anyone as blind as Gavin could have carried on running after he’d dropped his spectacles, not unless all the fiends in hell were on his tail.

  Constable Collins did a bit of silent ruminating himself. Then he said, ‘I’ll make sure your concerns are passed on to the detective inspector.’

  It was the best I was going to get and a damn sight more than I’d have got from Cruella DeVille. At least he’d listened. I thanked him and put the phone down. Then I headed off down the stairs. If I didn’t get a move on, I was going to miss the bus from school.

  Most kids in Ashburton attend South Dartmoor College. I passed clusters of them in their uniforms dawdling home in the way that only adolescents can dawdle, as I drove up to Owlacombe Cross. I climbed the hill, following a road twisting between overgrown hedgerows until I was forced to brake sharply, the way ahead blocked by a twisted knot of kicking feet and flailing fists. I couldn’t see the target at the centre of this affray, but whoever it was, he was outnumbered. I blasted my horn and the group scattered. Four lads, about fourteen years old, shot off in different directions, two of them scrambling through the nearest hedge. I opened the van door and yelled after them.

  ‘Olly Nolly!’ they chanted as they escaped, laughing. ‘Olly Nolly!’

  A small skinny figure was curled up in the road, lying on his side in a foetal position, knees drawn up protectively, elbows tucked in. I couldn’t see his face because he had sensibly buried it in the schoolbag that he was clutching to his chest. I could only see short, spiky fair hair and one pink ear.

  I leant over him. ‘It’s all right, they’ve gone now.’

  He moved cautiously, uncurling like a little hedgehog, and one blue eye stared at me apprehensively. I had expected the owner of the rucksack to be older, a sixth-former perhaps, but I had no doubt that this skinny little lad was the one I was looking for. I held out my hand to help him up. ‘Oliver Knollys, I presume.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Oliver Knollys had a split lip, torn trousers, a bloodied knee and probably a black eye brewing, but it still took a lot of persuasion to get him into my van and let me drive him the short distance home. It was only when I showed him his rucksack caged in the back he agreed to slide into the passenger seat next to me.

  ‘So, what was all that about?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he hunched a shoulder, feigning unconcern. ‘They’re just smegheads.’

  ‘Do they bother you a lot?’

  He dabbed at his bleeding lip. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Have you told anyone you’re being bullied?’

  He didn’t answer, didn’t look at me.

  ‘A teacher?’ I prompted.

  He gave a little snort of laughter. ‘That’d make it worse.’

  ‘Your grandmother, then?’

  He looked taken aback. ‘How do you know about my grandmother?’

  I told him how I’d tried to return the rucksack to him earlier and had talked to his neighbour.

  ‘Nosy cow, she is!’ He turned to look at me suddenly, blue eyes wide with alarm. ‘You aren’t going to tell no one, are you? I don’t want people coming round the house. I don’t want anyone upsetting my nan.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to.’

  Oliver stared unconvinced.

  ‘I promise.’

  He frowned. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ By now we were pulling up outside his house.

  ‘Juno. I was a friend of Gavin’s …’

  He lowered his head. ‘I know what happened to him,’ he told me, fiddling uncomfortably with the strap of his schoolbag. ‘They told us in assembly at school.’

  ‘He used to be a pupil at South Dartmoor, didn’t he?’

  ‘Then they gave us a lecture about carrying knives.’ He swung the van door open. ‘Can I have my bag now?’

  ‘Not just yet. We’re going to patch you up first.’

  He froze like a startled rabbit. ‘You’re not coming in?’

  ‘We won’t disturb your nan,’ I assured him. ‘She needn’t even know I’m in the house.’

  I pointed to his reflection in the rear-view mirror. ‘You don’t want her to see you like that, do you?’

  ‘Well, all right,’ he muttered, and led me reluctantly up the front path and around the side of the house, his schoolbag thumping on his shoulder. I held on to his rucksack. He dug a key from his pocket and let us through the back door into a large, square kitchen. A scrubbed pine table took up the middle of the room, an original oil-fired range set against the wall with clean washing hanging around it on an old wooden clothes horse.

  ‘D’you want to sit down, Oliver? We need to get that dirt and gravel out of your knee.’

  ‘Call me Olly,’ he said, rolling up the leg of his trousers. ‘Only teachers call me Oliver.’

  I swung open the door of a fridge almost as old as Nick’s. ‘Any ice?’ I pulled a tray of ice cubes from the tiny freezing compartment, bashed some out into the sink, grabbed a handkerchief from the clothes horse, wrapped some cubes in it and handed it to Olly. ‘Hold that against your lip.’ It had stopped bleeding but was puffing up ominously. I asked if there was a first-aid kit in the house.

  ‘There’s some stuff up in the bathroom cabinet,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘Sit!’ I commanded. ‘I can find it.’

  ‘Nan will be having her nap,’ he said anxiously.

  ‘I’ll be quiet as a mouse, I promise.’

  ‘I’ll make her tea in a minute,’ he said, then added pointedly, ‘when you’ve gone.’

  I was getting curious about Olly’s nan. He seemed terrified of disturbing her. Or was it Nan herself he was terrified of? Was he being overprotective or was she some kind of gorgon?

  I crept up the stairs. The door of his bedroom stood open, the bed tidily made. It looked like the room of a much younger boy; the Thunderbird wallpaper was probably an embarrassment to him now, much of it covered up by film posters. I listened outside Nan’s door, which was shut: no sound from inside, no muffled television or radio, no enquiring voice. She must have been sleeping. The bathroom was pink-tiled, with a frilly curtain at the little window and a crocheted loo roll cover sitting on the windowsill, a medicine cabinet with a speckled mirror over the sink. I came downstairs armed with scissors, cotton wool, plasters and a bottle of TCP.

  In my absence Olly had grabbed the rucksack and was checking out the contents. On the table lay a cloud of bubble wrap, and a few inches above it, four little motor blades whirring softly, the drone hovered like a giant dragonfly.

  ‘It’s working all right, then?’ I don’t like drones. I think they’re a bloody nuisance. But I’d never seen one working at close quarters before and it was fascinating. Olly’s fingers were busy on the controls as he sent it higher, circling the kitchen, before bringing it back to the table for a controlled landing.

  ‘That must have cost a lot,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘I made it.’

  ‘You made it?’ I cleared a little space amongst the bubble wrap to put down the things I carried.

  ‘It’s not difficult,’ he informed me nonchalantly, ‘I got the parts off the Internet.’

  ‘In a kit?’ I knelt before him and began dabbing gingerly at his bloodied knee. ‘Sorry, this might hurt a bit.’

  ‘Yeh, but some of the parts were a bit crap, I had to modify ’em.’

  ‘Do you want to do this kind of thing when you leave school? Electronics?’

  ‘Nah! I’m going to be a chef.’ He watched me picking grit out of the wound. My teeth were on edge, but he was remarkably stoical about the process. ‘You got a boyfrie
nd?’

  I don’t currently have a man in my life. Men tend to want to murder me. ‘Actually, there’s a vacancy in that department at the moment. Did you want to apply?’

  He shook his head and grinned, his face flushing faintly pink. ‘I’m too young for girls.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen. But I look younger, don’t I? People are always telling me.’

  He was certainly still a child, no sign of the volcanic eruption which must shortly take place in his hormones. His skin was clear, cheek soft as a girl’s, his voice a childish pipe; a skinny pixie of a boy, with spiky hair and sticky-out ears. There was something old-fashioned, almost quaint about him. Perhaps it came from living alone with his nan, being her sole carer. I looked around me. The kitchen was clean, the washing aired. When I’d opened the fridge I’d noticed the remains of a shepherd’s pie in an enamel dish. He put me to shame. I felt quite moved at the idea of this little lad coping on his own. ‘Do you get any help with your nan? You’re entitled to support, you know, from the council.’

  ‘We don’t need any help,’ he answered defiantly. ‘Besides, Nan doesn’t like anyone coming here. Look, thanks and all that, but you’ll have to go now. I need to give Nan her tea.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you a few things about Gavin. Look, now you don’t look quite so scary, why don’t you go and check on your nan, see she’s OK? She might like a cup of tea.’

  He agreed reluctantly and limped upstairs. I heard him knock on the door, calling softly.

  It opened and then closed as I binned the bloodied cotton wool. He came down a few moments later.

  ‘She’s all right, for a few minutes. She sleeps most of the time,’ he went on, ‘or watches telly. I leave her sandwiches for lunch before I go to school, and a flask of tea. We have our proper meal in the evening.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s old.’

  Old age isn’t a disease, but I decided not to pursue it. I reckoned if her grandson was only fourteen, she couldn’t be very old, anyway. ‘I won’t keep you long,’ I promised. ‘You knew Gavin from school?’