Dead on Dartmoor

by Stephanie Austin

  The fat bastard could move faster than I thought. I was still scrabbling to my feet when he grabbed me, his fingers closing over my arm. I turned and punched him hard in his flabby gut. He doubled over, belching like a deflating balloon. But he didn’t release his grip. He cursed, grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my face into the stone wall.

  I felt the force ricochet down my spine. Rough stone scraped against my jaw and cheek.

  I tasted blood. He pinned me against the wall, his grip on my hair tightening. He was out of breath, his chest heaving as he pressed his foul body against mine. ‘You got to learn to mind your own business,’ he rasped into my ear. I slammed backward and downward with my foot, scraping his shin. He swore. He was pulling my hair out by the roots. ‘You’ve been poking your nose where it don’t belong. We’ve had the police round the depot this afternoon, wanting to look at all our trucks. Someone had reported seeing us on the moor the other night. I know that was you, bitch. I got to teach you a lesson.’

  I let my body sag, heavy and limp, as if I’d fainted. As he shifted his feet to keep hold of my dead weight, I twisted around, my hand held rigid, fingers poking out straight, and jabbed him in the belly. He yelped and staggered back. I was free, but not for long. He grabbed me clumsily and dragged me onto the floor, rolling his entire grizzly-bear bulk on top of me, crushing my ribcage. His face hung over mine, his bristling double chin like a blancmange rolled in ash, his breath stinking of beer and fags. ‘Seeing as you’re rather tasty …’

  One hand slithered between our bodies, groping for his belt. I squirmed, spat in his face and he sat back, knees like boulders pinning my arms to the ground. He raised one mighty fist to swipe me across the face.

  The blow never landed. Something parted the air between us. Something that made no noise beyond a soft thunk as it embedded itself in the wall and sent a chip of mortar flying. Instinctively, we knew what it was.

  GBH growled. ‘What the fuck …?’

  ‘Let her go,’ a calm voice commanded.

  We stared at the figure illuminated by the solitary street lamp: an elderly woman with a handbag under one arm, a cat tucked under the other and a pistol clutched firmly in her right hand. It was slightly surreal.

  ‘What the fuck …?’ he repeated.

  ‘Please don’t oblige me to fire this gun again, my cat doesn’t like it.’ The mystery lady waved the pistol slightly, indicating to GBH that he should back off. The cat wriggled, making an unholy yowling noise as if he was revving up for a fight and she clamped him to her side more firmly.

  ‘Where the bloody hell did you come from, Grandma?’ GBH demanded. ‘You’re not going to shoot me—’

  ‘I won a medal for pistol shooting in my youth,’ she informed him coolly. ‘It was only a bronze, but you don’t want to take any chances, do you?’

  He made a move, a slight raising of his hand, and a bullet drilled through his outstretched palm. ‘Fuck!’ he screamed, clutching his hand and rolling away in agony.

  ‘Your vocabulary is quite limited, isn’t it?’ My mystery lady kept her sights fixed on him as he staggered to his feet, sobbing and swearing. ‘I’d get going if I were you,’ she advised. ‘I’m a little out of practice, we can’t be sure where I might shoot you next.’

  ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’ he spat, reeling against the wall. ‘Both of you!’

  ‘Oh, do get along!’ She sounded bored.

  GBH shambled off, vowing vengeance. We could still hear him gibbering with pain long after he had disappeared from sight.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ my saviour enquired as I staggered to my feet.

  ‘I think so.’ The skin on my cheek had been scorched by a blowtorch and my spine ironed flat by tank tracks but otherwise I was fine.

  She put the cat down, his lead looped around her wrist and let him wander, sniffing, as she knelt to dig the bullet from the wall with a penknife she produced from her handbag. ‘You didn’t see where that other shell case landed? I do think it’s important to tidy up after oneself, don’t you?’

  I began to peer vaguely at the ground around me, my feeble brain still trying to process what had just occurred.

  ‘Ah! There it is!’ She stooped and picked it up, dropping both cases into her bag and closing it with a soft click.

  ‘Thank you!’ I breathed belatedly. ‘But how did you … um, come to …?’

  ‘I was taking Toby for his evening walk, when I saw you run hell for leather across the street and dive down here, chased by our primitive friend. I thought I’d better investigate.’

  ‘Well, I’m very glad you did. Thanks again.’

  ‘You’re welcome … er …?’ She raised her brows enquiringly.

  ‘Juno.’

  ‘Juno.’ She held out a slim hand for me to shake. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said, and smiled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘I was married to George for thirty-six years,’ Elizabeth began. We were sitting at the kitchen table in Old Nick’s, each with a mug of coffee, the cat Toby curled up on the seat of the chair next to hers. I was holding a swab of cotton wool, soggy with TCP, gingerly dabbing at my cheek from time to time. ‘It’s funny,’ she sighed, ‘how you can live with someone all that time and never really know him. He was in finance, I was a teacher. We lived very comfortably. I knew he gambled of course, but he’d always persuaded me that his losses were small. “My little vice”, he used to call it. It was only when we retired that I realised how bad things were, that all of our savings were gone. I had some money, some investments of my own. He begged me to help him, promised me on his life that it would be the last time.’ She gave a brief, bitter smile. ‘It wasn’t, of course.’

  She took a sip of coffee. The kitchen was warm and quiet, the only noise a slight hum from the electric heater I had brought up from the shop and she looked around her pensively. ‘You have no idea how lovely this is, sitting in a room instead of in a car with the roof a few inches above my head.’

  ‘We could have gone to my flat. But this was closer.’

  ‘This is fine.’ She fondled Toby’s ears reflectively and he mewed in his sleep. I wanted her to carry on with her story, and after a few moments, she spoke again, her voice steady and calm.

  ‘In the end, everything went – our weekend cottage, our cars, my jewellery. But it wasn’t until George died that I discovered he had remortgaged the house, that the property we had lived in for over thirty years was no longer my home, that I would have to get out. And he still owed money to some very unpleasant people. It didn’t matter that he was dead, that the stress of it all had killed him. As far as his creditors were concerned, I was liable. And the money I had in my own name was far from sacrosanct. Their methods were …’ she paused, a frown puckering her delicate brows, ‘intimidating.’

  ‘Didn’t you go to the police?’

  ‘I thought about it. But the problem was that, technically, the law was on their side. I soon realised I’d be lucky to be left with the clothes I stood up in. I’d be reduced to living in temporary accommodation on some endless council housing list. At worst, I would be on the streets. Well, I thought, if I’m going to be homeless, let it be on my own terms. I cleared out what was left in my account, and sold everything, all I owned, anything I could turn into cash. It was when I was going through the loft that I found my father’s pistol − the old Luger Parabellum.’ She smiled. ‘I thought it might come in useful one day.’

  ‘It certainly did.’

  ‘I bought the old car and disappeared.’ She gave an elegant shrug. ‘I simply vanished, left the house empty, dropped the keys into the bank, and left London with no forwarding address. Left all my old life behind. So far, no one has followed me.’

  ‘You had no family? No friends?’

  She was quiet for a moment, gone inward. ‘No one to speak of,’ she said at last.

  ‘And you’ve been living in the car all this time?’

  She smiled. ‘Occasionally I treat us to a night i
n a guest house, but I have to watch the pennies. Of course,’ she gave a wry smile, ‘I did things all wrong. What I should have done was to have invested in a camper van. But they are rather expensive.’

  ‘What made you come here?’

  ‘George wouldn’t countenance the idea of living in Devon, strictly a Home Counties man. But I’ve always been attracted by the area, so I’ve been driving around, trying to find the right place for us to settle. I keep being drawn back here for some reason. Ashburton has the right atmosphere.’ She smiled again, mocking herself, ‘the right vibe.’

  ‘You’re welcome to sleep on my sofa,’ I told her, although I wasn’t sure what Toby would make of Bill, and vice versa.

  ‘No, no. The floor here will be fine. I have plenty of bedding in the car.’

  ‘If you’re sure? You’ve got a choice of two rooms. The floors are clean, just recently laid.’

  ‘It will be absolute luxury. I shall be able to spread myself out. What I would love,’ she added tentatively, ‘is a bath.’

  ‘Help yourself. And don’t feel you have to get up early in the morning. I’ll leave a note for Sophie and Pat downstairs so that they’ll know I have a friend staying. You won’t be disturbed.’

  ‘Thank you.’ There was a moment’s pause. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

  ‘My turn?’

  ‘To tell your story. All that carrying on in the lane back there, I still don’t know what it was about. Please don’t tell me that was an angry boyfriend!’

  ‘I’ll tell you everything—’ I stopped suddenly as a new thought occurred. I glanced at my watch. So much had happened since I left the shop at closing time I couldn’t believe it was barely eight o’clock. I looked at Elizabeth. ‘How would you feel about a change of plan?’ I asked.

  ‘Very well,’ she agreed, somewhat doubtfully. ‘What?’

  ‘We’re going out. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  Olly listened with eyes wide, his mouth slightly open, as Elizabeth recounted to him the same story that she had told me.

  ‘So you see, Olly,’ I said when she had finished, ‘Elizabeth needs a place to stay. And you need a grown-up living here with you − then,’ I added quickly as he opened his mouth to object, ‘you won’t need to worry about your neighbour, your teachers, or anyone else finding out that your nan isn’t living here. You can stop worrying about being taken into care.’

  Olly scowled, jerked his head in Elizabeth’s direction. ‘What’s she know about my nan? You promised you wouldn’t tell.’

  ‘I haven’t. That story is yours to tell, or not. It’s up to you.’

  ‘I know only that your nan isn’t here,’ Elizabeth said calmly. ‘We have to be able to trust each other. If the wrong people found out where I was living, that could be very bad for me. I’m trusting you to keep my secret, and I promise you can trust me to keep yours, whatever it is.’

  Olly frowned, unconvinced. ‘So, what would happen, then?’ he asked, looking from her to me.

  ‘What I suggest, if you’re agreeable,’ Elizabeth said slowly, ‘is that Juno, Toby and I go away now, and then I return in about an hour in my own car. I’ll park where we can be sure your neighbour will see me arrive. You can come out and make a great fuss of greeting me, as if you haven’t seen me for a long time. In the morning, I will introduce myself to your neighbour, telling her that I’m your aunt, that I’ve been living abroad, but that now your nan is so ill, I’ve come back to look after you both …’

  Olly thought about this for a few seconds. ‘What room will you sleep in?’

  ‘Whichever room you’d like me to sleep in. Then, after a little while, preferably on a day when your neighbour has been out, we’ll tell her that we’ve moved your nan into Oakdene.’

  Olly considered this plan with a furrowed brow, fidgeting unhappily. ‘You’re a teacher, ain’t you?’

  ‘I was a teacher,’ she corrected him.

  ‘What you teach?’

  ‘I taught a variety of subjects, but music primarily.’

  His face brightened. ‘You play piano?’

  ‘Yes. I hear you’re learning the bassoon. Perhaps I could help you, if you want me to.’

  At that moment, Toby, who’d been lying in idiotic bliss next to the Rayburn, stretched, flexed his paws and rolled over, displaying his cream-coloured tummy. Olly giggled.

  ‘It looks like Toby’s settled in already,’ I said.

  ‘You know, Olly, this need be only a temporary arrangement,’ Elizabeth assured him. ‘You can throw me out, any time you like.’

  He slid a glance at me for confirmation. I nodded. ‘All right,’ he agreed grudgingly. ‘We’ll give it a go.’

  Elizabeth solemnly shook hands with him on the agreement, and then she and I buzzed off, cat under her arm, so that she could return and put her plan into action.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  On Friday morning, I went to Ashburton library. I asked the librarian if she had any maps of old tin mines in the area and she came up with an absolute beauty. It showed me the positions of all the known shafts on the Moorworthy estate, including the shaft at Applecote Farm. What it didn’t show, unfortunately, were any underground tunnels that might link them. But I got her to photocopy it for me and took away a copy.

  I met Elizabeth, as planned, for coffee. She wore a silk scarf at her neck, her face beautifully made-up, hair in an elegant French pleat. She laid leather gloves and handbag on the table as she sat down. Despite being dressed in jeans and sweater, she looked immaculate. I looked like a woman who’d been smashed into a wall. I had a fine black eye, purple with yellow and green around the edges, and my jaw and cheek were freckled with scabs where I’d made contact with granite. I’d had to make up a silly story to explain my appearance to Pat and Sophie. The librarian had looked at me askance and when I told Maisie I had fallen and landed on my face, she just said, ‘Bollocks! You’ve been in a fight!’ I was going to have to come up with a more convincing story: I was seeing Ricky and Morris later on.

  ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘Sore.’ I asked her how the first night went.

  ‘Oh, fine. Breakfast was a little tense, but Olly was happy to accept a lift up to the animal sanctuary. He hinted I could start running him to school when the half-term holiday is over.’

  ‘Make him walk,’ I recommended. ‘Where did you sleep?’

  ‘In a room I believe belonged to his grandparents. There’s a double bed in there.’ She laughed softly. ‘The decoration is a bit grim.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ll survive. And Toby is in seventh heaven. He hasn’t stirred from the kitchen range all night.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘I’m getting the piano tuned, by the way. Oh, I know I’m buying affection,’ she added, holding up a slim hand in defence, ‘but music is common ground between Olly and me and I want to take advantage of it.’

  ‘Sounds sensible.’

  ‘And I introduced myself to our neighbour as promised. Mrs Hardiman.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Perfectly charming.’

  ‘You or her?’

  Elizabeth gave a low laugh. ‘She did take a little winning over, but I got there in the end. She’s invited me in for coffee next week.’

  ‘Are you going to be all right living there?’ She seemed so elegant, so effortlessly chic. ‘Dolly’s old house doesn’t seem like an appropriate setting for you, somehow.’

  She reached across the table and laid a hand on mine. ‘My dear, I shall be happy to live there as long as Olly is prepared to put up with me. I have three things I thought I would never have in my life again – a garden, beautiful country surroundings, and a piano. And,’ she added wryly, ‘the challenge of learning to cook on a range, although Olly has promised to help me with that one.’

  ‘There’s just one thing that worries me.’ I leant closer to her and lowered my voice, ‘The pistol.’

  ‘I’ll keep it well hidden. Olly will never know it exists.’
>
  ‘Actually, that’s not what I meant. Jamie Westershall knows about Olly. He made threats. I don’t think he knows where Olly lives but it might be wise to keep that pistol handy.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘I will.’

  ‘And I don’t want him flying his drone anywhere near Moorworthy House.’

  ‘That boy will come to no harm,’ she promised solemnly, ‘not while I’m around.’

  She sat back and studied me silently. ‘But you, you must be careful, my dear. This Westershall man sounds dangerous, don’t provoke him. If you don’t feel ready to go to the police, please leave well alone.’

  It was good advice. I only wished I could have followed it.

  I had never seen Ricky angry before. I’ve seen him throw a prima donna hissy fit hundreds of times, but I’d not seen the cold, quiet anger with which he studied me now, two long fingers pressed against his temple, the cigarette poised between them sending a thin spiral of smoke above his head. He was wearing his specs and the lenses magnified his blue eyes, intensified his gaze. ‘So, let’s just have a brief resumé, shall we, Princess? The lorry driver in the green hat tried to run your van off the road and you didn’t go to the police?’

  I nodded.

  He continued to glare like an angry hawk. ‘Same bloke, same hat, attacks you in Love Lane and you still don’t go to the police?’

  ‘I can’t prove anything.’

  ‘It’s the police’s job to prove things, not yours.’

  ‘You had a witness in the van − young Oliver.’ At the edge of my vision, seated on my left at the table, Morris was also giving me a disapproving stare.