Coming, Ready or Not

by Michael Fowler

  Hunter watched his back and thought, What a character.

  As he followed in his wake he found himself reflecting.

  Yesterday, the laborious drive down to Cornwall had taken them seven-and-a-half hours. It had been 8.30 p.m., before he and Grace had booked into a small hotel in Wadebridge.

  After grabbing a meal and a pint, Hunter had spoken briefly over the phone with retired Detective Inspector, Rodney Highton and arranged to pick him up from his home that morning.

  When they had pulled up outside his bungalow, he was waiting for them on the doorstep, wearing a pin-stripe suit, with collar and tie; dressed as if he was still on the job.

  As he had climbed into the back of their car he had tapped the face of his watch and reminded them, ‘You told me you’d pick me up at ten a.m. You’re ten minutes late.’

  Hunter had found himself apologising and had set off with a wheel-spin. Out of the corner of his eye he had caught Grace cracking a grin.

  During the journey to Harlyn Bay, the former DI had told them he had been retired ten years and then moaned on about how the job wasn’t like it used to be. ‘Bureaucratic and soft’ he had repeatedly said. At times, Hunter had found himself switching off. It had been like having an older version of Barry Newstead in the back of the car with them. He had been glad when they had finally pulled up at the campsite entrance.

  They had been met by one of the site’s joint owners, carrying out maintenance, who explained that they weren’t open yet for visitors. Once they explained the purpose of their visit he was more than happy to give them unrestricted access and left them to it.

  It had been Hunter’s first view of the place where Polly had holidayed in 1988, two months prior to her brutal death.

  Calling back over his shoulder Rodney shouted above the wind, ‘This was my only undetected murder in thirty-five years. Good record that, eh?’

  It dragged Hunter back from his thoughts. He agreed it was a pretty good record and asked, ‘No suspects?’

  Highton glanced back as he walked, ‘None that you could put firmly in the frame for it. But I had my suspicions.’

  After a couple more minutes of tramping across calf high, damp rye-grass, the retired DI stopped and turned. He drew a circle in front of him. ‘This is where we found them. Roughly anyway. She was found inside the tent, and he was about ten yards away. Witnesses reported hearing shouting and screaming in the early hours but it was dark and so it wasn’t until first light when they were found. A bloke going to the toilet block saw their tent collapsed and went to investigate. He found the husband first and called the police. He was in a hell of a mess. The blade had actually gone in under his chin and up through the roof of his mouth. It looked as though he’d been crawling around for a while before he died. There was blood everywhere. The wife was found by the police. She had been slashed and hacked repeatedly with the same scythe. The pathologist said she had literally bled to death.’

  ‘Just remind me of their names again?’ said Hunter.

  ‘James and Helen Moore.’ He pushed a hand through his thick, wavy, white hair. ‘They lived not too far away from here – a little village out by Bodmin Moor. They were druids, the pair of them. Hence the cloak. They’d come here to meet up with others, to do whatever druids do. But they never actually got to meet up with any of them – their bodies were found the morning after they’d set up camp. They’d come here with their two fourteen-year-old sons – twins.’ He darted a nod towards a small clump of bushes. ‘The boys were found hiding in bushes over there – covered in their parents’ blood.’

  ‘Did they see who’d done it?’

  ‘To be honest we didn’t get anything from them. The pair were in a bit of a state when they were found. They weren’t injured or anything, just kept giving us these weird blank looks.’ He tapped his temple. ‘We took them to hospital and a child psychologist had a look at them. She said that they were in a deep state of shock. We were told there was no point in interviewing them until they came out of it and so we tried to track down their relatives.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘We couldn’t find one living relative – would you believe that – and so Social Services took them into care. And, that’s when our problems started.

  Hunter drove to the next village – Constantine Bay – and pulled into a pub car park for lunch. The pub was a traditional one made of Cornish granite with a dark slate roof. A sign next to the door said it served home-cooked food.

  Hunter led the way inside. The interior maintained the traditional look with oak beams to the ceilings and light painted walls. It was laid out mainly for the serving of food as opposed to drinking. Scanning the lounge he saw that most of the tables were occupied, but spotting an empty one next to a slate fireplace he pointed it out.

  Grace shepherded Rodney Highton to the table while Hunter got the drinks.

  He bought two pints of local hand-pulled beer and a glass of wine and made his way back. Grace and the retired DI were poring over a menu.

  ‘The food looks nice,’ said Grace, looking up as Hunter set down her glass.

  He slipped off his coat, hung it over the back of a seat and sat down. Taking the top off his beer he said, ‘Rodney, you were saying that you had your suspicions about who killed the couple?’

  ‘Not at first we didn’t. It looked like a frenzied attack by a madman, and initially we focussed our enquiries on known psychiatric patients and we also visited psychiatric wards at all the hospitals around here. But as we got into the job and the forensics came through, or should I say, lack of forensics, it just didn’t feel right.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ll start with the victims first.’ He took a sip of his beer and licked his lips. ‘These two were a couple with no known enemies. They lived a very quiet lifestyle and there wasn’t anything untoward in their backgrounds. I mentioned to you earlier that we didn’t find one living relative of theirs – well that’s not strictly true. We did eventually find the pair’s adoptive parents. In both cases they were abandoned babies and taken care of by Social Services. Helen Moore originated from Liverpool and James from Birmingham. When we spoke to their adoptive parents we learned that during their early lives the pair were quiet and introvert. Helen was bright and an avid reader but didn’t want to stay on for further education. When she was seventeen she sat down with her adoptive parents one day and told them she wanted to find her own way in the world and then left. James was a creative young man, who fantasised a lot and who very much kept himself to himself. In fact at sixteen, he simply packed his bags, left a note telling his adoptive parents he was off to find work, and left home. That, in a nutshell was their early background.’ He shook his head and took another drink. ‘We have absolutely no idea how James and Helen came together. We just know that in nineteen seventy the pair married at Liskeard Register Office, rented a cottage on the edge of the moors and a year following their marriage Helen gave birth to twins.’ Pausing for a few seconds he drifted his gaze around the pub. Then he turned to Hunter and Grace. ‘I suppose the only thing that was slightly controversial was their practice of Paganism. They were involved with a group of druids around here.’ He swung his gaze between Hunter and Grace. ‘The press had a field day with that, I can tell you – rituals, dark arts and human sacrifices – that kind of stuff. You can imagine it, can’t you?’

  ‘But their murders had nothing to do with that?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘No. We’re almost certain of that. We spoke to the circle of druids they mixed with – who were their only friends by the way – and all of them had alibis.’

  ‘What were they doing camping?’ asked Grace.

  ‘It was a frequent thing apparently. They usually went off and camped near Bronze Age Monuments and the likes. Stone circles, that kind of thing.’ He took another drink. ‘You can see now what I said about the press having a field day!’

  ‘And they hadn’t upset anyone? And it wasn’t a robbery?’ questioned Hunter.

 
Rodney shook his head. ‘We didn’t have any motive whatsoever. On the face of it, it was a random killing.’

  ‘But you said you had your suspicions?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘Only when we began to look closely at the twins. During our enquiries we discovered that they’d both been interviewed when they’d been eleven, following the death of a thirteen-year-old boy. The story went that a group of kids, including James and Helen’s lads, went off playing hide-and-seek around a derelict farmhouse, and one of them – a thirteen-year-old lad – didn’t come home. The local police organised a search that same evening, but they hadn’t found the lad by nightfall and so had to abandon it. He was found the following morning in an old chest freezer in the cellar of the disused farmhouse. He’d suffocated. All the kids were interviewed, but on the surface it looked like a tragic accident – the kid had climbed into the freezer to hide and the heavy lid had fallen shut on him. The inquest recorded an accidental verdict.’ He finished the remainder of his beer and set down his glass. ‘There is an add-on to this. Once we heard this story we re-interviewed the people who’d been involved in this and discovered that one of the girls in the group had been fancied by one of James and Helen’s boys, but the thirteen-year-old – the one who died – had got off with her and then repeatedly taken the mick out of them. Well once we’d heard this, we made arrangements to formally interview the boys, who by this time were in a care home just outside Wadebridge – but that never happened. We don’t know how, but we guessed they must have got wind, because when we turned up the next day, they were nowhere to be found. Both of them had packed most of their things and disappeared overnight. We circulated them, and made loads of enquires at the time, but we never found them. They as good as dropped off the face of the earth.’

  ‘And the names of the two boys?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘Dale and Scott – Dale and Scott Moore.’

  After dropping Rodney Highton back at home Hunter and Grace returned to their hotel in Wadebridge. Hunter rang Detective Superintendent Leggate and gave her the news.

  ‘That’s brilliant, Hunter,’ she said down the line. ‘Are you liaising with anyone down there about this?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve filled in Rodney Highton’s son with what his dad’s told us. He’s in Wadebridge CID. He got back to me ten minutes ago. He’s spoken with his DCI and they’re setting up an incident room down here. They want me and Grace in tomorrow morning to give them the heads up on what we’ve got from our jobs. They’re setting up HOLMES as we speak, and currently pulling together the paperwork and exhibits from the original job. I’ve passed on your name so you should be getting a phone call shortly from the SIO who’ll be running it.’

  ‘Good. What about Dale and Scott Moore? Are you on to anything down there? Do we have an address, or anything for them?’

  ‘Not as yet. That’s one of the priorities. They’re trawling their systems, and going back over the original file to see if any friends or contacts were listed at the time. However, that’s not looking too good. Rodney Highton is of the opinion that the pair were loners, who relied on each other for company.’

  ‘And what about the Met? Have you informed them about this?’

  ‘Not yet. DS Macey was my next call.’

  ‘I’ll make sure that’s done. Do you need any more resources, Hunter? Do you want anyone else to join you?’

  ‘Not at the moment. DC Highton tells me that they’re currently pulling together a team. I’ll get back to you tomorrow morning straight after the briefing and update you on that.’

  ‘Okay, Hunter, and once again well done – it looks as though things are knitting together nicely.’

  - ooOoo -

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Day Twenty: 6th April.

  Wadebridge, Cornwall.

  The incident room had been set up in the CID office at Wadebridge police station. Hunter and Grace rose early at the hotel, and gave breakfast a miss to get to the station well before morning briefing. They were met in reception by DC Stuart Highton. As he led them upstairs he told them that extra resources had been drafted in from other parts of the county, and so they weren’t surprised when they entered an office bursting at the seams and bustling with activity.

  Two large wipe boards had been set up at the front and Hunter scrutinised the display. One of the boards was full of photographs – mainly black and white, together with an aerial photo of Harlyn Bay and a large scale ordnance map of the area. He stepped closer to the boards and focused on the crime scene shots. Even in black and white, the sight of James and Helen Moore’s mutilated bodies was horrific. On the adjoining board were details of their killings and a list of priorities. He noted that they had acquired copies of the suspect e-fits which Linane Brazier had helped construct. Besides those were two head and shoulders colour shots of two teenage boys. They looked alike, and were dressed similarly, in white shirts, with blue and black striped ties. Below these, in red ink, had been written, ‘Dale & Scott Moore – 14 years,’ and he guessed these were old school photographs from the original case file. Even given the fact that these images were twenty three years old, he knew that with computer technology they would soon be able to pull together something which would closely resemble what Dale and Scott looked like now. This was a good start, he thought.

  Hunter and Grace had no sooner sat down with Stuart Highton to discuss things, when a tall, slim, flaxen haired man, in a dark blue suit strolled into the room. Chattering faded away as he made his way to the front.

  Stopping beside the incident boards he cleared his throat and glanced in Hunter and Grace’s direction. ‘For our guests here this morning, I am DCI Stainthorpe and I am running this investigation.’

  Hunter gave him a courteous nod.

  ‘Okay, let’s remind ourselves of why we are here.’ He shot a sideways look at the boards and then returned his gaze. ‘On the twenty-fifth July, nineteen eighty-six, James, a primary school teacher, and Helen Moore, a social worker, both thirty-six, were murdered at Harlyn Bay…’

  Hunter listened intently as the DCI outlined the circumstances of the slayings, which translated in not too dissimilar detail what retired DI Rodney Highton had already imparted the previous day.

  Ten minutes into his speech DCI Stainthorpe said, ‘I am told that the original enquiry got bogged down with rumour and innuendo from quite a number of sources. The fact that these two were part of a circle of druids created all manner of suspicion. The original team had to deal with dramatic headlines, witnesses who’d heard rumours that the children were involved in animal sacrifices and that they’d been made to dance naked. The fact of the matter is that none of that was true. The circle of Druids James and Helen belonged to were respectable, law-abiding, professional people and the only thing they practised was Paganism – and only in respect of worship. That was it. I have no doubt once the media get wind of our re-investigation of these murders those issues will crop up again. However, we have already prepared press statements to refute all those rumours. With regards the investigation itself, despite the fact that a large number of people were interviewed no firm suspects were identified. That was until these two came into the frame...’ he paused and slapped a hand over Dale and Scott’s school photographs ‘…following the accidental death of a thirteen-year-old boy.’

  Again, Hunter listened on as the DCI revealed details of the incident Rodney had already mentioned.

  Continuing, Stainthorpe said, ‘After running away from the care home Dale and Scott Moore effectively dropped off the radar. And with no one else in the frame the investigation into their parents’ murder was wound up in nineteen eighty-nine.’ The DCI dropped his gaze upon Hunter. ‘Now, following the murder of three women in South Yorkshire, these two have arisen as suspects again.’ He extended an open hand toward Hunter. ‘I’d like to bring you in here, DS Kerr. Can you tell us about your killings and how Dale and Scott Moore fit into your enquiry?’

  For the next half-hour Hunter had the floor, explaini
ng in detail the 1988 murder of his girlfriend, Polly Hayes, and the recent slaughter of Gemma Cooke and Elisabeth Bertolutti. He also outlined the evidence they had gathered during their enquiries, and then, he disclosed the links to the attacks in Richmond upon Thames during the 1990s.

  As he finished DCI Stainthorpe picked up the lead again. ‘It would be fair to say that Dale and Scott Moore have a lot of questions to answer and are our chief TIEs. I therefore want all the stops pulling out to Trace, Interview and Eliminate these two as soon as.’ He stabbed a finger over the two suspects’ e-fits. ‘We must consider these men as a real threat, as well as a danger to women out there, and with that in mind I have arranged a press conference for two p.m. this afternoon. I have already cleared it with the Met and South Yorks. By this evening their names and faces will be slapped across every TV in the country.’

  By four o’clock Hunter had had enough. He’d spent the day rooted at DC Stuart Highton’s desk, reading through a copy of the original file into the murders of James and Helen Moore, and listening to updates coming in – though unable to get involved – and he was frustrated.

  He’d caught up with DS Macey on the phone, who’d told him she was on her way to join them and anticipated her arrival to be around 5.00 p.m. He’d given her the name of the hotel where he and Grace were staying and then arranged to meet them in a recommended pub-cum-diner in Wadebridge.

  From the police station he went to the hotel and following a quick shower and change of clothing, Hunter contacted Detective Superintendent Leggate and gave her an update. Then, he called on Grace in her room and shared his frustration. She’d told him that what he needed was a pint. He hadn’t argued and they’d set off early into Wadebridge town centre.