“You said you travel quite a way to clean windows: why at Two Bridges?”
“Well, they are big houses and the owners pay me a tidy sum each month, so I don’t mind the travelling.”
“We’ll need to know the addresses of the four places please. If you can jot them down at the end of our chat and pass them to the sergeant. Two Bridges to Bovey could take you past Haytor?”
“It could, but I don’t use that road. I cut through the lanes.”
Harris was as sharp as ever and wanted to mildly challenge the coach.
“But surely, the B3387 is the most direct route from Two Bridges to Bovey and it’s a better road than the narrow lanes, particularly in your van. So why not use it?”
“Granted, it is a better road, but you get sheep and cattle wandering across it and so I tend to use the lanes as they are, what shall I say, animal free zones.” Harris wasn’t entirely convinced by his reasoning, but let it pass.
King again picked up the questioning. “Tell us about the relationships amongst the players you coach. Do they all get on well together?”
Betteridge spoke of them in first name terms and neither detective asked him for full names as they were well acquainted with them all from their interview with Tom Bowers.
“Yeah, they’re a good bunch of lads. Tom and Jack both play on the wing and are very good players. They tend to score most of our tries. Tom is captain of the team, as I mentioned already, and he has the respect of all the players. When it comes to ability, George is not the sharpest tool in the box, but he tries hard. The key player in our pack is Dick Sutton, not only because he’s a very strong boy, he also has a good rugby brain. His biggest failing is that he always wants to fight the opposition, even though I constantly tell him that controlled aggression is what I’m looking for: anger management isn’t his forte!
“Our best player by far is Harry. He plays in the pivotal role of scrum-half, and not only makes a good link between the forwards and the backs, he is quick and tricky on the break. Apart from the wingers, he is our highest try scorer. Josh plays occasionally and can play anywhere in the back division, so he is a useful chap. Unfortunately, he can get called away to the hospital at very short notice and I sometimes have to find a late replacement. Brian, that’s Brian Cantwell, is a very fit chap and a good player: a definite asset to the team.
“I want the team to play good rugby and win games, but I also want them to enjoy matches. I often have a laugh and a joke with the lads. For instance, I asked them a question at training last Tuesday: what do you call an Ivybridge player who is holding a bottle of Champagne after they’ve just played us? Someone said victor, but I said no, a waiter. They liked that one.”
The detectives barely smiled.
“Sonia Hill, our medic, is very popular amongst the players for two reasons: firstly, she’s very good at what she does, and secondly, if you’ve got an injury, I can’t think of a better person to kiss it better.
“You asked me do they all get on well together. Yeah, they have the odd falling out if someone tackles too hard in training, but generally they’re a happy bunch. Of course, there are other players in the side, but the ones I mentioned tend to stick together; I suppose you’d call them a rugby clique.”
“You didn’t mention someone else who is in that clique as you call it: your daughter.”
“Oh, Rachel, how could I forget her? She does a lot for the club and seems to get on well with most of the players.”
“We hear she would like to get on with Tom Bowers even better!”
“I don’t know anything about that. Tom’s a nice guy so I wouldn’t be surprised if women find him attractive.”
King moved on: “I believe you postponed the game today?”
“Yes, I thought it was the decent thing to do in the circumstances. I’ve asked the players to turn up for training next Tuesday, knowing full well that if Mary isn’t found in the meantime, it will be nearly a week since she went missing. I’ll understand if they don’t show, but it’s about giving support to each other.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us that might be relevant to our investigation?”
He paused to consider the question and once again Harris thought she detected a slight change in his manner.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Thank you, Mr Betteridge: if you can jot down those addresses for us please. We probably won’t need to interview you again, but if you can think of anything else, please contact Sergeant Harris by leaving a message on 101.”
After a few minutes the coach passed a slip of paper to the sergeant. With that the detectives returned to their car. King was looking weary as he turned to his sergeant while reaching for a sherbet lemon.
“Thoughts?”
“Seems credible, but I did notice a slight change in his manner twice. Firstly when you asked him to account for his whereabouts on Wednesday and, secondly, if he had anything to add to his statement. I just got the feeling there is something he’s not telling us.”
“Yes, I noticed that too. When you follow-up on those addresses you’ve got noted on that slip of paper, it’ll be interesting to see if his story checks out.”
“I’ll let you know, sir. The other thing I’m still not convinced about is the route he took from Two Bridges to Bovey. Even travelling at forty miles per hour, which is quicker than you can drive down some of the lanes, the main road is by far the best one to use. If he’s lying and he did use it, he would have been passing Haytor around the same time as Mary was starting her walk.”
“I told him we probably wouldn’t want to see him again. Well, I was wrong. On reflection, I don’t think we’ve finished with Mr Betteridge.”
*
The detectives then drove the three miles to Bovey Garden and Leisure where Harris had arranged for them to interview Rachel Betteridge. They didn’t seek her out immediately, preferring to grab a coffee in the on-site café before yet more information gathering.
Harris knew that Miss Betteridge worked in the outdoor plants section and, after their refreshment, the detectives duly followed the signage. A young lady approached them.
“Good morning. Can I help you or are you just browsing?”
King glanced at the nameplate on her fleece showing RACHEL in bold capital letters.
“Miss Betteridge? I’m Detective Inspector King and this is Detective Sergeant Harris. I believe you are expecting us?”
“Oh, yes, I had a call yesterday. By the way, I prefer to be addressed as Ms not Miss. This is about Mary isn’t it? I really don’t know how I can help. I do hope she’s okay.”
King wished people would let him be the judge of that. He didn’t react to her preferred title announcement, but it didn’t particularly endear Ms Betteridge to him. He wasn’t that friendly, but neither was he hostile.
“Ms Betteridge, she is still missing and we’d like you to answer a few questions. What happened in the rugby club last Tuesday after training?”
“All I can tell you is she said to everyone in the club that night that she was walking up Haytor the next day and wanted to know what the weather would be like.” In these situations, King liked to see how a person would react to a pointed question: some would call him mischievous, but he saw it as a legitimate tactic. After all, the innocent had nothing to fear from any line of questioning.
“I understand you fancy Tom Bowers?”
“What if I do? I hope you’re not suggesting that I would try and scupper his relationship or in some way harm Mary?” She suddenly dropped her garden centre bonhomie customer face and became more than a little feisty.
“I’m not suggesting anything Ms Betteridge. As it has been mentioned to us on more than one occasion I wanted you to confirm or deny it. Either way, we are just seeking clarification of the information we have been given.”
“I do
like Tom, but he’s spoken for and I accept that.”
“Okay, let’s move on. We need to know your movements last Wednesday afternoon.”
“I am contracted here to work four hours a day from Monday to Saturday from an hour before opening time until noon. I’d like more hours, but management prefer fewer full-timers than part-timers, so twenty four hours a week is all I get. Mind you, it suits me to work half day on Saturdays as I can then be involved with the rugby team. So it’s not all bad and it’s better than having a zero hours contract. I sometimes help my dad with his window cleaning in the afternoons if he’s got a lot on.”
“So, last Wednesday?”
Once again Harris detected the same almost indiscernible change in manner that she had noticed in her father’s response to awkward questions.
“I think I was pottering around at home.”
“Did you see anyone else?” King could have added “to corroborate your story”, but it was implicit.
“No, I was on my own all afternoon.”
The rest of the interview more or less confirmed what the others had said and was summarised in Harris’s note book as follows:
INTERVIEW WITH RB: Tom – lovely man/ Brian and Josh – both nice chaps/Dick – bit quiet and can appear surly, but ok when you get to know him/Harry – lively young man who flirts with all the women/Sonia – more friendly with Mary than with RB/George and Sonia – not really RB’s type of people/Jack – appreciates what RB does, which is nice of him to say so/Alice – hard to get to know (didn’t know why) and tend to avoid each other’s company/Mary – not particularly friends with RB, but they get on well enough/No corroboration of her movements on Wednesday/RB hopes Mary is ok. END
*
The detectives arrived outside a new build house in Ermington, about three miles southeast of Ivybridge and a twenty minute drive from the rugby club. There was only one tradesman working on the site and they confirmed that he was Brian Cantwell. King asked him the, by now, standard questions. His replies more or less mirrored the answers given by others regarding what was said in the rugby club on the eve of Mary’s disappearance. As to where he was the next day, he said he had been working on the new build all week. He was asked the names of other tradespeople who were working on the Wednesday and he duly obliged. Diligent as ever, Harris would make the necessary enquiries to check his story.
“Oh, I remember now, I did have to pop out during the afternoon to get a non-standard pipe join. They didn’t have one at the first place I tried and said they’d order it for me, but I needed it right away so I could finish the bathroom. I then tried Plumb 4 U and they didn’t have it either, but checked another branch of theirs for me and they had the part in stock: so, I drove over there and picked it up.”
“And where is this branch?”
“The Plumb 4 U shop that rang the other branch is in Ivybridge. I picked up the part I wanted from their warehouse in Bovey Tracey.”
Up until that point, both detectives were treating the interview as a matter of routine, but as soon as Cantwell said Bovey Tracey, it took on a whole new interest.
“Which way did you go to get to Bovey?
“Straight up the A38. Why do you ask?”
“Not far from Haytor.”
“Oh, I’m with you now. No, I didn’t go anywhere near Haytor. Why would I? That would have been out of my way. Look, all I wanted was the part to finish the job. I’ve absolutely no interest in Mary Cranson and have nothing to do with her disappearance.”
King was unabashed by the plumber’s statement. “Nevertheless, we would like to check out your actual movements for last Wednesday afternoon. So we need a more detailed account of exactly who you visited and at what time. By the way, have you got the receipt for the part?”
“Yeah, I always file them to keep the taxman happy.” He produced the slip of paper from his back pocket and handed it to King who studied it carefully. He asked, “What time did you say you got back to fit the part?”
“I didn’t, but it must have been about half four.”
“The receipt is not only dated, but timed also, and it shows you left the warehouse at 15.01. Bovey to Ermington took us about half an hour, whereas Bovey to Haytor, roughly fifteen minutes. Let’s assume for a moment that you came straight back here: why did it take you ninety minutes to cover a thirty minute journey?”
Cantwell looked nonplussed, verging on panicky.
“I… I don’t know. I must have been back earlier than half past four.”
He regained his composure and adopted a truculent manner, “If I knew I was going to be questioned about where I was, I’d have kept a bloody detailed record of my movements!”
The inspector wasn’t impressed with the bolshie plumber.
“Can I remind you, Mr Cantwell, this is possibly a murder investigation and we’ll ask whatever questions we think are pertinent to finding out what happened to Miss Cranson.”
Cantwell was apologetic, but the damage had been done. Harris thought to herself he’d need to be very careful if he wanted to play hardball with King.
“I want names of any people who can corroborate the account of your movements last Wednesday afternoon, backed by any other evidence you can produce. If it’s not too much trouble, think about every minute of that time and give my sergeant a detailed account of where you were. If we are not satisfied with the information you have supplied, we’ll discuss it with you at the station under police caution. Do you understand?”
Harris was in awe of her boss as Cantwell looked crestfallen after the inspector’s verbal lashing. Without another word, King returned to their car.
After ten minutes, Harris re-joined him and her boss, sucking on a sherbet lemon, turned to face her.
“This investigation is turning out to be anything but straightforward. We have an estate agent, a car salesman, a window cleaner, a farmer and now a plumber all potentially loose on the moor at the crucial time. Something just doesn’t seem right with each of their testimonies. Fanciful as it may sound, I am not ruling out some collusion.”
*
His sergeant dropped King in Ivybridge and he spoke as he got out of the car.
“Thanks Lucy for coming in on your day off. Have a good day, what’s left of it, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning. I have an early interview with Superintendent Edwards, as unusually for a Sunday, he’s working. First thing, you and I can reflect on all that’s happened over the last few days.”
Harris secretly wished she was going back to his place with him.
*
King went home and caught up with a few household chores, and then read about twenty pages of ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ by Stieg Larsson. He so admired the central character, Blomkvist, who wasn’t even a copper, but an investigative journalist. Good as the book was, it couldn’t keep the inspector awake. He woke up in his armchair with it resting on his chest. He then showered to freshen up before walking down to his local, The Exchange, in Ivybridge. He was on what he called ‘the early shift’, namely he’d go out about six o’clock and read the Western Morning News over a few beers. He smiled when he thought of the paradox of reading a morning newspaper in the early evening. He’d then grab an Indian take-away from his favourite restaurant, the Meghna Tandoori, at about 8 o’clock, or later if he got talking to friends; he called this being hijacked: but, he wasn’t going to be hijacked tonight as he was in contemplative mood. He had different groups of friends in the pub, but when he sat on his own reading the paper, he must have been sending out ‘Do not disturb’ signals as no one joined him.
He began to think of Mary: where was she and what had happened to her? He remembered the police dog on the day of her disappearance, following her scent up Haytor before it started circling, obviously confused as to the direction she had taken. He asked himself why did Max do that? It was as if she had simply been plucked off
the moor: he ruled out the possibility of her being lifted up by a helicopter as absurd. So, why would the dog circle? He put forward a number of theories to himself: maybe the dog just lost the scent as the ground was very rough. Maybe Mary had turned around and gone back to the car park, which was possible if she had forgotten something or changed her mind. She could have mounted a horse and galloped across the moor: no, he thought to himself, that is just too far-fetched. He concluded that the most likely scenario was either she had retraced her steps or, more worryingly, been taken away in some sort of vehicle, either from the car park, if she had gone back, or from the moor itself, willingly or, much more likely, unwillingly.
The inspector was reading what was in front of him, but not really taking much interest. He turned a page of his paper and one of those smart advertising types, who thought that less is more, had left a whole page nearly blank, save for the product shown in the centre. It worked, as King’s eyes were attracted to the item. However, he wasn’t remotely interested in purchasing the latest Apple gadget, but couldn’t resist the white space. He was never off duty and would often crystallise what had happened in a complex investigation by jotting down the salient points. As he bought his next pint, he asked the barman if he could borrow a pen. After a few minutes thought, he began scribbling notes against improvised bullet points on the nearly white newsprint. Ten minutes later he had filled the page and sat back to scan what he considered were the key points in the disappearance of Mary Cranson. A wave of sadness very nearly engulfed him. He really was professionally and personally very disappointed that it was still a mystery as to what had happened to her. His summary posed a number of questions and other thoughts that were tinged with lateral thinking:
•Because the police dog was confused by the abrupt termination of Mary’s scent, had she accepted a lift from someone she knew, or was it a purely random abduction?
•The location of where the mitten was found gave an indication of direction: Should I ask the detective constable to work out possible destinations north of where it was found, bearing in mind the fading light would have restricted the distance of travel?
Missing on Dartmoor Page 9