Before his sergeant could begin to organise her latest task, her phone rang. She listened intently for a few seconds, while King waited patiently.
“That was Forensics, sir. They had taken a hair from the headrest in the Punto and DNA tested it. They have now compared the DNA sample from the mitten with the stored data, and can confirm that it belongs to Mary Cranson.”
*
Back at the main police station in Plymouth, and before the detectives ended their ten-hour day, they sat in the office to review what had happened so far in the investigation. As a rule they didn’t have a daily debrief, but on this occasion, King thought it advisable. Sherbet lemon time, but only a short pause before he spoke.
“So, sergeant, yesterday a young, attractive woman went missing on Dartmoor. Many people knew she would be on the moor at that time as she had announced it in the rugby club. One of her mittens was found some distance from Haytor: how did it get there? Was it taken from Mary or did she drop it? If she dropped it, how did she get to Hound Tor? It is possible she could have walked that far? Did she go there by herself or did someone take her there? If so, who took her and in what?”
Harris offered, “I’ll get on to the tyre and foot print impressions first thing in the morning, sir.”
“Of course, finding one of her mittens could mean she is somewhere out there, possibly stuck in one of the notorious bogs that are dotted around the moor, but if so, why haven’t the searchers found her already? Unless, of course, a bog has swallowed her whole!”
Harris looked at her inspector to see if he was joking: he was deadly serious. He then began to repeat an earlier speculation, but this time with more certainty:
“You know, sergeant, if she was abducted, as we suspected after a few hours of her not being found, we have two possible scenarios: firstly, was it a random act? What are the chances of someone intent on snatching a woman off the moor, coming across Mary. Or if not premeditated, an opportunist abductor just happens to be passing where she is walking. We are in sleepy Devon. Chances of either? Slim at best, or should I say, worst.
“Secondly, is one of the people who knew she would be on the moor, implicated or, indeed, directly responsible for her disappearance?
“If she has been taken, those are the two possible scenarios, sergeant, and the more we learn about this case, the more I am inclined to the latter.”
FOUR
Inspector Richard King wanted to interview all the people who had been in the rugby club on the evening before Mary Cranson disappeared. One of them was already known to the police as he had been involved in an incident that had happened a year before the events surrounding Haytor.
*
‘LAMBING IN PROGRESS. PLEASE KEEP YOUR DOG ON A LEAD. THANK YOU’ the homemade notice read. It was in bold, red, capital letters behind a clear plastic protective envelope and pinned to the kissing gate entrance to the field. Sadly, this barrier was not designed for young lovers, but rather to prevent inquisitive livestock from exploring beyond their domain. Most of the year the sheep were encouraged to roam the moor where the grass provided free food in abundance. However, at lambing time, farmers needed to keep a closer eye on their investments.
This particular fourteen-acre field was farmed by the Sutton family and was used around lambing time as it was enclosed and fairly close to the main farm buildings. The proximity allowed John Sutton, the farmer, and his two sons, Dick and Harry, easy access to check how the lambing was progressing. Occasionally, it was necessary to bring a ewe and her new born lamb undercover if either was in distress and in need of special attention. The local vet much preferred to deal with a breached birth, requiring intervention, in a barn rather than out on the moor.
All the fields with secure borders were given names to allow easy identification when the farmer and his sons were discussing their use as part of good husbandry. This particular field used for lambing, was named after its elevation and quirk of fencing, which, when viewed on a map, took on the form of a European country; that’s why it was called High Spain.
*
Everything about the dog owner was big. You didn’t need to consult any body mass index chart to know his height and weight were out of kilter. He was at least four stone overweight and without dog walking for exercise, his BMI reading would probably have been off the scale. He drove a huge Toyota Land Cruiser and his German Shepherd dog, called Bruno, was big too, weighing at least six stone (it would hardly have fitted the fat owner’s image to own a poodle). The massive dog leaped down when the tailgate was opened and, after locking his car, its owner ushered it towards the kissing gate.
They were entering the field from the south west corner, while the Sutton’s Quarry Farm was situated about half a mile to the east. The dog owner paused to read the notice, peered over the gate and scoffed as there were no sheep visible in the part of the field he could see from where he was standing. He hadn’t brought his dog on the moor to walk him around on a lead; he wanted Bruno to run free and release the energy that had been heightened by being cooped up at home.
Once through the gate, the dog accelerated up the field, which was shaped like an upturned saucer. In less than half a minute Bruno was well up High Spain, akin in position to Madrid in the real world, and was still visible to the owner. From its elevated position it was now looking down on a flock of about fifty sheep, each with a new born lamb, who were sheltering on the lee side of the field away from the chilly westerly wind. The German Shepherd breed is known for being curious, loyal, courageous, intelligent and obedient. Sadly for the sheep, obedience was not a characteristic that applied then: a latent hunting instinct took over.
The overweight owner was still about half a field away from his beloved pet as he shouted his name several times, but to no effect. Normally, Bruno would have gone to his master, but on this occasion something in his psyche made him deaf to any command. At considerable speed he headed down the slope towards the sheep. The lambs on the perimeter of the flock did not see the dog coming before it was too late. The first had no chance to rise from its prone position before the deranged dog had sunk his sharp fangs into its neck. It then shook the helpless animal from side to side before discarding the lifeless corpse. It was dead, with its throat ripped wide open: Bruno had tasted blood. This commotion had alerted the rest of the flock, which had now taken flight.
Two-day-old lambs were no match for a rampant canine. The inappropriately named Shepherd caught its second victim by its hind leg, then its vice-like jaw gripped the neck of the terrified animal and blood began rapidly seeping across its virgin fleece.
By this time the owner had reached the top of the rise and was looking down in horror at the carnage being played out below him. He was unaware that a dog’s instinct is very much like that of a fox. He didn’t know that if a fox breaks into a hen house, it doesn’t just kill one chicken and take it away to eat, it kills all the chickens. The dog was intent on doing the same to all the lambs and to their mothers too if they dared to defy him.
Bruno had to run to catch his next prey, but a defiant, protective mother ewe turned to face the aggressor. Even though she was four times the size of her new offspring, which she was protecting, she was no match for this muscle-bound beast. It pounced and gripped the mother’s right ear forcing the unfortunate animal into submission as the dog’s jaw snapped first one way and then the other before the poor animal’s ear was ripped off. It only released its grip to go for the sheep’s throat, which proved an effective manoeuvre. The proud, defiant mother finally gave up her resistance as the dog exerted even more pressure to its bite.
“Bruno! Bruno! Bruno!” the fat man repeatedly screamed his normally docile pet’s name as he waddled down the hill as fast as his bulk would allow. The dog took no notice: it was on a killing spree.
The fourth victim was again a defenceless lamb that nearly had its back leg severed by Bruno’s clamped jaws before attack
ing its belly with yet more vicious headshaking causing its innards to spew out as it became another victim.
It was about this time of the day that one of the Suttons visited High Spain and surrounding fields, feeding and checking on their livestock. On this occasion it was Dick Sutton’s turn and he was using the quad bike to carry out this important task. He just entered the field to witness the fourth victim being disembowelled by the ferocious, disobedient dog.
The farmer could see the owner coming down the field, lead in hand, and witnessed his futile verbal attempts to control his rampant hound. Dick Sutton accelerated and quickly covered the ground towards his panicked flock. He had a long leather holster attached to one side of the bike, rather like how the cowboys secured their Winchester rifles in the Wild West: in his holster was a twelve bore shotgun.
The bike slithered to a halt and almost before it had stopped sliding, Dick Sutton had his feet on the ground and was reaching for his weapon. He took the double-barrelled twelve bore from its sheath. Before he raised the gun, he shouted to the dog owner who was still some way from the slaughter.
“Control your fucking dog you asshole!” The animal moved in for its next kill, but there was to be no fifth victim for the now deranged dog. Sutton moved to within a few paces of the out-of-control beast and blasted its nearside flank. It gave a piercing yelp as it dropped the terrified lamb from its jaws and fell onto its undamaged side. The enraged farmer took a further pace towards the wounded animal, raised his gun once again and, with the other cartridge in his double-barrelled weapon, blasted off Bruno’s already bloodied muzzle.
Just as Dick Sutton returned his gun to its holster, the breathless owner, sweating profusely, arrived at the scene of the bloodbath. He had witnessed what had happened and when he saw his bloodied, twisted, muzzle-less dog lifeless in the grass he was incandescent with rage.
“You bloody bastard!” He shouted, and moved more quickly than he had hitherto as he lunged at the farmer. By and large farmers are rugged individuals with muscles developed over many years of carrying out their arduous farm tasks. The dog owner’s intention was to somehow severely damage the man who had killed his beloved pet. It was evident he was not a skilled fighter as he strode forward with his arms flailing: Sutton had a score to settle too. He clenched his huge right fist and when in range thrust it straight at his assailant’s face. Blood gushed from the broken nose and the dog owner staggered back, but such was his rage he refused to go down. He only paused momentarily to wipe away the blood with his sleeve from his now misshapen nose before he re-launched his attack. This time he was met by the same fist, but delivered as a haymaker, appropriate for a farmer. The punch, thrown with furious force, struck the hapless antagonist on the side of the face, breaking his jaw in several places. He hit the ground close to his dead dog.
He was still conscious and through his dazed eyes could see the farmer collecting the now orphaned lamb. Sutton knew that it would have to be bottle fed until a lamb-less ewe could be identified as a surrogate mother. The dead sheep would be collected later when he had a more suitable vehicle. He sped away holding the lamb tightly in his lap and steering with his free hand.
*
Later that day when Dick Sutton returned to collect the dead sheep, the dead dog was gone and tyre marks could be seen heading over High Spain in the direction the dog and its owner had originally come across the field. Before he began the grisly task of collecting the carcasses, he drove his utility buggy along the path of the tracks. It appeared the grossly overweight man had entered the field in his vehicle by driving straight though the hedge and inner fence, demolishing both. He had also left the same way.
*
The Crown Prosecution Service advised the police not to charge Sutton with the killing of the dog as it was a lawful act. Prosecutors were well aware that a farmer had the right to shoot a dog that was attacking sheep. However, in its role as a prosecuting authority for criminal offences, the CPS took the decision to authorise a charge of causing actual bodily harm against Dick Sutton.
At his trial in Exeter Crown Court, the prosecution alleged that in anger at the killing of his sheep, he had viciously attacked the helpless dog owner, who only wanted to apologise for what had happened and to retrieve his poor dog. He acknowledged that he had read the notice warning about lambing, but Bruno in his exuberance, had run off before he could attach his lead: he assured the court that this was very out of character. The poor dog walker wanted to offer his profuse apologies to the farmer, but was attacked before he had a chance to express his remorse over the death of the farmer’s animals. Of course, he was aghast at seeing his mutilated pet, but he was also horrified with what his dog had done to the sheep. He told the judge that he wished to offer his belated apology to Mr Sutton: his sham contrition was complete.
The defence barrister told the defendant’s story exactly as it had happened. The arrogant owner who, indeed, had read the notice pinned to the gate, but chose to ignore it. Counsel accepted that he had not actually set the dog on the sheep, but, nevertheless, he was responsible for the attack, for failing to keep Bruno under control. Contrary to the statement he had given about the assault, the defence alleged that the dog owner was the aggressor and that Mr Sutton had to defend himself when attacked. Sutton’s barrister requested that the charge against his client should be dismissed, citing self-defence, or, if not withdrawn, the jury should find his client not guilty. The judge summarised the case and directed the jury upon the applicable law.
It was rather surprising that less than an hour later the jury foreman told the court usher they had reached a decision. The unanimous verdict was duly delivered: not guilty.
Later, the dog owner pleaded guilty to criminal damage to the fence and having a dog out of control and was ordered to pay compensation for the loss of livestock and destruction of the fence. In total the judge fined him £2000 and, to add insult to injury, added a £85 victim surcharge; that cost, coupled with the bodywork repairs needed on his Land Cruiser, caused as he smashed his way through the fence and hedge twice, had made it an expensive afternoon: he was a very bitter man.
In a case like this there were no winners: that didn’t stop Dick and his father high-fiving on the steps of the courthouse. The older Sutton brother had been exonerated and the message was clear: don’t mess with the Suttons. The incident with the dog attacking the sheep, and the subsequent court cases, had happened a year previously. After twelve months, the farming family could have been forgiven for thinking the matter was closed: they were wrong.
*
It was now Friday morning, and Mary had been missing for over forty hours. DI King and DS Harris drove the tree-lined drive to Quarry Farm and they were, of course, aware of the year-old court case against Dick Sutton. However, they saw no reason to let it influence them in their enquiries. They were gradually interviewing all the people who knew of Mary’s plans to walk the moor that Wednesday afternoon and had decided to ‘kill two birds with one stone’ and interview the Sutton brothers, separately, that same morning. As they got out of their unmarked police car a burly, unshaven giant of a man emerged from the farmhouse; he had obviously seen them approaching long before they arrived. He could have welcomed them with, “Good morning. Can I help you?” Instead, they were greeted with, “What do you want? This is private property!”
When the detectives told him who they were and that they were interviewing a number of people in connection with the disappearance of Mary Cranson, surprisingly his tone did not mellow. John Sutton’s default demeanour was evidently between grumpiness and outright hostility. However, nothing fazed DI King.
“We were hoping to have a chat with your two sons. Are they about?” The inspector had hardly finished asking the question when a young man emerged from the adjacent barn. He had overheard the exchanges with his father.
“It’s okay, dad, it’s me they’ve come to see.” He introduced himself as H
arry Sutton as his crotchety father retreated to the farmhouse. He explained that his brother was out on the moor, tending to their flock of sheep, but was expected back in the next half hour. The detectives were introduced by King and they were offered the farmhouse kitchen or the barn as an interview place. Not wishing to spend any more time than was absolutely necessary in the company of the father, DS Harris was very pleased her inspector opted for the latter venue.
The three of them sat on hay bales arranged in a loose triangle, suggesting that this had been used before as a break area. DI King quickly began to question the younger brother.
“Mary Cranson has now been missing for over forty hours. When was the last time that you saw her?”
“That would be in the Bovey Tracey Rugby Club on the Tuesday evening after training when we were all together having a drink and a bit of a laugh. I always liked Mary. She was a fun girl and we got on very well. I seem to remember her asking about the weather the next day, but can’t remember why as I was chatting to someone else about rugby at the time.”
“You said she was a fun girl; why use the past tense?”
“Oh come on, inspector, it’s just a figure of speech. I know she’s been missing for nearly two days now, and although I hope she’s found safe and well, I can’t help thinking something terrible may have happened to her. Aren’t you thinking the same thing?” Although he would have conceded that point, King didn’t respond to the question as he was more interested in what the young farmer thought.
“Can you think of any reasons why she has disappeared?”
“Sorry, none at all.”
“I expect you travel over the moor quite extensively?”
“Yeah, we have livestock all over South Dartmoor and we are either feeding them or checking on their welfare.”
“And what vehicles do you use?”
“Either the quad bike, that’s the single seater, or the buggy, that’s got two seats at the front and a small cargo bay at the back. If we are just checking on the animals we tend to use the bike and if we are feeding we use the buggy.”
Missing on Dartmoor Page 5