by Carola Dunn
Before she could argue, the car she had spotted arrived. Both front doors opened. Two men: One could go with her and the other stay with the guv’nor to man the radio. Scumble was quite capable of both organising and talking to Aunt Nell at the same time.
If Aunt Nell had returned to the car by now—
“Sarge!” the two-way squawked. “Sarge, someone over to the north of us is flashing a torch and blowing a whistle fit to bust!”
TWENTY-FOUR
Eleanor ran out of breath. Her ears ringing, she wondered whether anyone within a mile or two could have failed to hear the whistle.
The moon sailed out from behind the clouds and illuminated what lay at her feet, which she had much rather not have seen so clearly. Teazle had alerted her to the body sprawling face-down in the bog, first whining and then, when she didn’t respond in the desired fashion at once, uttering shrill, anxious yelps.
At first Eleanor had had no room for anything but relief that the man was neither Nick nor Alan Freeth. The lifting of the burden of fear made her feel positively giddy.
That it should be a person unconnected with the murder and kidnapping, who just happened to be rambling on the moor this foggy evening, would be altogether too much of a coincidence. If not one of her friends, then who? Nick was tall and lanky, Freeth slight and slim. The man who had died so gruesomely in the mud was burly, with a thick neck and bristly hair. He must surely be one of the villains who had abducted them after killing poor Mrs. Mason: probably Stone, alias the Sandman.
It was difficult to feel any real sorrow for his death. But was he dead? His face was buried in mud up to his ears. He certainly wasn’t breathing now. How long had he lain there? Could she save his life if she managed to get him out and somehow clear his airway?
Though fit, and strong for her age and size, she very much doubted she was capable of hauling a hefty, inert body from the glutinous muck. That was when she had remembered her whistle.
Now, recovering her breath, she flashed the torch in what she hoped was the Morse SOS signal. Dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot—or was it the other way round? Never mind, one or more of the searchers was bound to realise what she meant. She gazed down the slope and saw several of the powerful police torch beams turning her way.
Her forefinger was tired of pressing the button on and off, so she left it on and swung it in an arc to indicate her position. While she waited, having got over the first shock and revulsion, she studied the body and its surroundings by the light of the moon, now shining bright.
For a start, how had he ended up in the bog? Did he fall, or was he pushed? A quarrel between the crooks, leading to blows, would probably have landed him on his back, or perhaps his side. Besides, from what Megan had said, Eleanor had gathered that the second man didn’t look like a violent thug who could overcome Stone. A sneak shove from behind might have done the trick.
More likely, she thought, he had tripped over the rock that lay on the brim close to his feet. How ironic that rocks invisible in the fog had brought both him and his vehicle to grief.
The position of his arms, raised and bent at the elbows, showed that he had put out his hands to break his fall. But why had he not scrambled out of the bog? Few were more than thigh-deep, most much shallower. The surface was too liquid to retain the marks if he’d struggled and failed to rescue himself.
Teazle barked.
“Ma’am? What are you doing— What have you found?” A constable unknown to Eleanor was the first to arrive. He gasped as he caught sight of the body. “Omigawd, that’s a nasty way to go!”
“He may not be dead yet. You’d better get him out of there and find out.”
“Move him? Before they take photos?”
“What if he dies because you won’t?”
The Speed Demon came up, panting. “What you got here, Mrs. Trewynn? Oh, lor! DC Dawson, Constable. You better get in there and try for a pulse in his neck.”
“Me?”
“You, mate. I didn’t study to be a detective so I could go playing in the mud. Hurry up about it. What d’you reckon, Mrs. Trewynn? Who is it? Not one of your friends, I take it.”
“No, thank heaven. No, I’d guess it’s Stone, the one they call the Sandman. But that’s just a guess, based on what I’ve heard.”
“Course. Well, man, what about it?” Dawson asked the unhappy constable, now over the top of his wellies in the smelly bog. “Is he alive or is he dead?”
“I can’t feel a pulse.”
“Then he’s dead.”
“But I might just be missing it.…”
“I s’pose we’d better get him out.” He looked down at his suit and shoes with a sigh. “Not what I passed Driver Grade One for, neither. Oh well.”
He was saved by the arrival of two more common-or-garden bobbies, whom he happily sent to join the first. While they were busy, he took out a pocket radio and called Megan.
“Sarge, your auntie found Stone’s body.”
“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving fellow.”
“Leastways, we think that’s who it is, and we think he’s dead.”
“Think he’s dead?”
“Drowned in a bog. Or suffocated, same difference. I’ve got some lads hauling him out in case there’s anything we can do.”
“Did you … I hope I misheard you. You didn’t say my aunt found him?”
“’Fraid so, Sarge.”
“Oh hell! Luckily the guv’nor is talking to Launceston, but that’s only postponing the thunderbolt. Did she notice any sign of life when she found him?”
“You want to talk to her?”
“No, I might say something I’d regret. Ask her.”
“You hear, Mrs. Trewynn?”
“I could hardly help it,” said Eleanor drily. “No, there was no sign of life that I could see.”
Dawson told Megan, who said, “Seven minutes since she blew the whistle. Even if he’d just fallen in, he’d likely be dead now, but try anyway. Dr. Prthnavi will be grateful not to have to wade in to examine him. He’s on his way. An ambulance has arrived. It’s stayed down in the car park so as not to get stuck up here with cars behind it. A couple of men are bringing up a stretcher.”
“Strikes me they’re going to need more than one.”
“I hope not,” said Megan. Eleanor silently echoed her words. “Was it an accident, do you think? Or is the guv’nor going to have to beg for Bodmin’s SOCO team?”
“Dunno, Sarge. There’s a muddy mark on his back that could be significant.”
“Make sure it’s not messed up. I’ve got a Minicam on me, but I don’t suppose you do. “
“Nah. Do me a favour: Come up and take over.”
“Be careful what you wish for. Mr. Scumble’s making ‘see for myself’ noises.”
“Oh lor’! Hold on a mo. They’ve got him out. Gotta go.”
Jay and Kali had come up and now stood nearby, watching the struggles of the men in the bog. When the body was at last heaved out onto solid ground, Jay said, “You are DC Dawson? I’d like to let my dog get the scent of this man.”
“Go ahead, Sergeant, but we’re not looking for him any longer.”
“Kali will discover which way he came and we’ll backtrack him, which may lead to others.”
“Oh, right.”
As Kali sniffed at the inert body, one of the constables asked, “We don’t have to do kiss of life, do we?”
“Nah,” said Dawson, “Just hold him up by the heels and whack him on the back. That’ll bring the stuff out and get his heart and breathing going if anything will. Mind out for that blotch on the back of his coat there, see?”
Eleanor couldn’t watch. She considered following Jay as Kali, nose to the ground, led him away at a trot. That was what Teazle obviously wanted, but Eleanor was afraid the little dog’s presence might distract the big dog from whatever trail she had found.
She decided to climb right to the top of the Cheesewring quarry. There was a footpath up there on
what was left of the flattish top of the hill where the tors still stood. It ran a few feet back from the edge of the sheer face where granite had been blasted out of the hillside. From there, now that the fog was gone and the moon shone, she would have a view of the whole stretch of moor down to the village. With luck, she’d be able to spot the searchers. If she saw any large gaps between them, she would try to make her way there to concentrate her efforts in an area no one else was covering.
After a few false starts among a jumble of rocks, she found the path she wanted. Teazle, still full of energy, led the way up the steep slope, Eleanor trudging after her.
As they got higher, she met wisps of mist. Higher still, she could see that the clouds had cleared only to the south and east. The hill blocked the breeze and the leeward side was still draped in fog. The crest of the hill rose above it though. Reaching the top, she looked out to the northwest across a silver plain, as if the valley were filled to the brim with snow. In the far distance, Rough Tor and Brown Willy stood like islands in the sea of clouds.
Eleanor and Teazle came to the first tor, a huge pile of rock slabs, like an uneven stack of Scotch pancakes, all different sizes. The biggest was near the top. It was hard to believe Mother Nature had piled them up or eroded their surroundings so thoroughly and strangely. No wonder legends of giants abounded.
Standing in the moon-shadow of the tor, Eleanor gazed out over the wide expanse to the south. The line of cars was easy to see. The nearest had its interior light on. She couldn’t really tell from this distance, but she guessed the two silhouettes behind the windscreen were those of Scumble and Megan. She hoped Megan wasn’t getting an earful about letting her aunt and Tariro become involved.
Here and there on the slopes, torches were visible, bobbing up and down, disappearing momentarily behind bushes or rocks, flickering through gorse bushes. A lot more men had arrived since she had slipped away from Megan’s car.
In finding Stone, she could be said to have done her part, but that was not what she wanted. Until Nick and Freeth were safe, or beyond help—
Teazle whined. It was a soft, anxious sound, not insistent like when she had drawn attention to the body in the bog. She was staring at the tor as if she could see right through it.
“Hush,” Eleanor whispered. “Good girl. Stay.”
Inch by inch, she crept round the north side of the tor, setting each foot down with care. A loose pebble rolled against another with a chink. She stopped and held her breath.
From beyond the tor, she could now hear a low, intermittent mutter. Nothing about it suggested that her approach had been noticed. The impression it gave was of someone arguing with his own silent inner voice. She strained her ears to catch a second voice. Nothing.
Cautiously, she took two more steps and peeped round the tor, through the sideways vee between two of its rocks.
Between her tor and the next stretched a space of grass and tumbled boulders. On one of the smaller stones, much too close to the edge for comfort, a man sat with his head in his hands.
As she watched, he stood, stiffly, and took a step towards the edge, then hesitated. His silhouette against the moon-bright sky suggested he was taller than Freeth, shorter than Nick, thicker at the waist of his belted raincoat than either, or so it seemed to Eleanor. Nor could she imagine any reason why Nick or Freeth might contemplate suicide.
For that was undoubtedly what was going through the man’s mind, she realised. Two more steps and he would plummet down the vertical face of the quarry.
What was she to do?
On the one hand, she was virtually certain he was a crook, a murderer, the partner of the man in the bog. Many would say good riddance; he was no loss to the world. It was his life and his choice. It wasn’t even as if suicide was still considered a crime, and in Eleanor’s philosophy, the only “sin” was any action that deliberately harmed another.
On the other hand, every life was precious, and killing oneself in a moment of despair ended the possibility of making amends, of becoming a better person and making a contribution to the world. She knew nothing of his history, circumstances, or background. Who was she to judge?
Another factor, one she ought not to allow to influence her, was curiosity. He might be the only person who could explain the events leading to the present situation.
As all this flashed through her head, she was simultaneously working out how to stop him jumping. If she spoke, tried to dissuade him, she could precipitate immediate action.
Teazle whined at her feet. Stay was a flexible, short-term concept to the Westie.
The man swung round. “Who’s there?” He sounded terrified, not at all aggressive.
“It’s just me.” Meaningless, but perhaps her equally unaggressive tone would reassure him. “And my little dog.” She stepped forward, still in the shadow of the second tor.
“Wuff?” Teazle barked uncertainly. She couldn’t possibly have sounded less threatening.
“What do you want? Come out where I can see you!”
“Teazle, stay!” Eleanor used her most commanding tone. She didn’t want to find herself tripping over the dog. Taking a long pace into the moonlight, she was just a few feet from him now.
He stepped back. “That’s close enough!”
“Be careful. You’re awfully close to the edge.”
“What does it matter? I’m going to jump. In a minute.”
“Why?” Eleanor’s skills and experience had not prepared her to argue someone out of committing suicide. Was she saying the wrong thing, in the wrong way? She had no idea.
“None of your business. You can’t stop me. What are you doing here?”
“Looking at the view. It’s beautiful from up here, in the moonlight. There are so many beautiful things in the world.”
“Not in a prison cell.”
“Prison isn’t forever these days. They don’t lock you up and throw away the key.”
“What do you know about it! Kill the soul but not the body, that’s what they do these days.” He spoke in a monotone now, more chilling than any histrionics. “I killed him. I murdered him.” He thumped with his fist on the nearest boulder. “Too many rocks here. One tripped the van and killed it. One tripped Vic, but it was I who killed him. He fell over it and landed in the muck. It wasn’t that deep. He was pushing himself up and I put my foot on his back and held him down till he stopped moving. He deserved it, the dirty rotten bastard. He killed my sister.”
With that, he turned and moved without hesitation towards the brink.
For a moment, Eleanor was frozen in disbelief. Then she launched herself at him. By the time she grabbed one shoulder, one of his feet was already over the abyss. Quickly she seized the other shoulder, dropping her weight backwards, stepping out of the way as he fell on his back.
He landed with a thud and lay still. Either he was stunned by the fall or he’d had the breath knocked out of him. He had fallen on grass, thank goodness, not against a stone. Eleanor was quick to take advantage to grip his arm, pull it across his body, and flip him onto his stomach.
Breathing heavily now, he lay there, showing no sign of trying to get up.
Eleanor sat down cross-legged beside him, holding one wrist lightly, alert to the slightest motion. In a second or two she could move into position to be ready to put him in an armlock if necessary. She’d have immobilised him already had he shown the slightest sign of fight, but he seemed to have had the stuffing knocked out of him physically and, she suspected, emotionally.
She had dropped the torch when she’d leaped at him and she couldn’t see it anywhere. It must have broken. She took her whistle from her pocket and blew a blast.
The man shuddered. Teazle came trotting up. She sniffed him with interest, then jumped onto his back and curled up for a nap after all the excitement.
Eleanor blew again, then settled into a state of meditative hyper-awareness, as if she were preparing for an Aikido practice session. An automatic count ticked on just below h
er consciousness, and every ninety seconds or so, she sounded the whistle three times.
She had done everything she could. Sooner or later, someone would come.
TWENTY-FIVE
Megan had studied the six-inch map pretty thoroughly while sending out her team. The direct route from the cars to the deadly bog was reasonably straightforward. Once Scumble had given her permission, on the grounds that only she could identify the villains, she had jogged most of the way. Biking to work every day, downhill there but uphill all the way home, kept her fit.
She reached the spot just after DC Dawson gave up trying to revive the corpse. Or rather, after he had told the uniformed men to give up—he himself had not actually touched the revolting object.
“Wouldn’t want to get so mucky that I couldn’t handle evidence,” he said to Megan, showing her his clean hands.
“I’m sure that was your only reason.” She thanked the filthy constables and told them to stand by. “You said my aunt found him. Where is she?”
“I dunno, Sarge. Must’ve left when I was busy.”
Megan sighed. “I hope she knows what she’s doing.”
“She found him, didn’t she?”
“True. Let me have a look.” She eyed the prone body, its head turned to one side.
“He’s all yours, Sarge.” Dawson’s torch beam lit on the mask of mud that had once been a face.
“Wait, here’s Sergeant Nayak.”
“He already came and went! Dog lost the scent, Sergeant?”
“What’s up, Jay?”
“Kali is confused. I am sorry, Megan; I cannot read her mind. But in the van were the smells of several people, I understand? So Dawson told me. And here, this man”—the Indian gestured—“the mud also adds its own scent.”
“Scent isn’t the word I’d use!” Dawson exclaimed. “Sorry, Sarge.”
“You are correct; it has a stink that changes the smell of the man. So does death. Also, she is told to note this smell and to seek, yet here is that which she seeks. The trail I want her to follow is older, fainter, and without the odours stirred up from the stagnant water.”