Betters tried to suppress his usual jovial personality, but did try one joke to lighten the mood. The rivalry between Bovey Tracey and Ivybridge on the rugby field was never far from the surface, even though they were over twenty miles apart. During a particularly quiet spell, and there were many that night, he stood up.
“Listen up guys. After a game, an Ivybridge player went up to his medic and said that when he touched his head it hurt; when he touched his chest it hurt; when he touched his leg it hurt. The player asked what was wrong with him? The medic told him he’d broken his finger!”
No one laughed. He realised he had misjudged just how badly they were dealing with the loss of Mary.
Everyone, was thinking of her, but no one spoke her name. She was always in Alice Cranson’s conscious and subliminal thoughts every waking moment, but right there sat among all those people, strangely, she was the one person who wasn’t thinking about her sister. She would not rest in peace until the perpetrator had been punished. At that point her idea of justice for the culprit did not involve the police.
ELEVEN
Sam Dyson couldn’t sleep. It was 5 a.m. on Wednesday and she’d been awake for over an hour. She was reflecting on the information she had been given just before she left work, late the day before. Forensics had examined Billy Price’s backpack and drawn a blank: although he had matches because, rather surprisingly considering his fitness regime, he was a smoker. There was no trace of petrol or anything else likely to implicate him to arson. However, he was still a suspect due to proximity and a possible revenge motive.
Dyson remembered what Alex Hammond had said: rather than being a purely random act, he thought it had to be malicious and deliberately done to cause the Suttons harm. Billy Price certainly had the motive after what Dick Sutton had done to his arm, but if it wasn’t him, who else disliked the Suttons enough to torch their barn? It wasn’t until sometime later that morning she decided to redouble her efforts on the other lead given by the walkers, namely the white 4x4.
*
That Wednesday morning, it was nearly a week since Mary Cranson had disappeared. The inspector and sergeant would continue to interview suspects and analyse their statements, looking for any small detail or inconsistency that may implicate them in her disappearance. Later that morning they would be seeing Paul Betteridge once again, following two sightings of his van parked next to Mary’s car on that fateful afternoon.
*
DC Dyson arrived at work at the same time as DC Hammond and she updated him on the forensic analysis of Price’s backpack. They agreed that a follow-up interview with him was unlikely to prove worthwhile. They alternated with their own views on the likely causes of the fire until they had exhausted all the possibilities. Because none seemed plausible, and because of the Coke bottle found at the scene, they were inexorably drawn back to arson. They worked together on Hammond’s hunch that the arsonist wanted to cause damage to the Suttons rather than simply derive perverted pleasure from the blaze – although that couldn’t be entirely ruled out.
Dyson thought to herself who might bear a grudge against the Suttons? Then she remembered that although it was some time before, the older Sutton brother had been involved with an incident of a dog worrying his sheep and he had shot it. She told her fellow DC about what she could recall. He accessed the electronically held file and scrolled through the pages until something caught his eye.
The detectives knew that once King started his day, it would be difficult to get his attention, so they lingered outside his office. He arrived and had barely removed his coat, when they asked for a few minutes of his time, which he willingly gave to his eager detectives.
After exchanged greetings, Dyson launched in: “We are off to market tomorrow, sir, but we’ve been thinking about the barn fire. The empty Coke bottle seems to point to arson, but if not we thought what could have started it? Before we went down a blind alley we considered other possible causes. Kids playing with matches? Not very likely as the barn is fairly remote. Natural heat from the hay causing combustion? A possibility. Lightning? I checked the weather for that day and there were no electrical storms. Faulty wiring? There was no electricity in the barn. So, we dismissed all of these and concentrated on the Coke bottle. If it was arson and it wasn’t Billy Price then who?
“It seems to us that this was not a chance happening, but a premeditated attack on the barn with the sole intention of destroying it and its contents, but why? Alex is convinced the arsonist was on a revenge mission. Forensics couldn’t find anything untoward with Billy Price’s backpack, so we turned our attention to the white 4x4 the witnesses said they briefly glimpsed leaving the scene.
“Do you remember the incident with the dog killing several sheep and the farmer shooting the dog, sir?”
King nodded and commented: “That was about a year ago wasn’t it?”
“We’ve just checked and it wasn’t about a year ago, sir, on the day of the fire it was exactly a year ago!”
DC Hammond then continued their story: “We looked through the file on the dog killing and realised it was Dick Sutton who had shot the dog. The irate dog owner then drove his vehicle through the farm fences and was prosecuted for the damage he caused. Reading the transcript of the trial it stated that the owner was driving a white 4x4. He certainly had the motive to torch the barn: retribution.” King was impressed with their deduction.
“Good work you two: get his address and pay him an unannounced visit. Let me know later today how you got on.”
*
The second interview with Betteridge was not done at his convenience as two uniformed officers collected him from his home address and brought him to the central police station. He was shown into an interview room and a constable stayed with him until King and Harris entered. The inspector recited the, by now, well-rehearsed introduction saying that the interview would be recorded and he was under caution.
The preliminaries were swiftly concluded and the inspector began by asking the window cleaner an open-ended question: “Have you any idea, Mr Betteridge, why you have been brought to the station today and are now being formally interviewed?”
“No. I really can’t think why I’m here, or why it’s being recorded.”
“Last time we spoke, you told us that on the afternoon when Mary Cranson disappeared, you had been cleaning windows in Two Bridges and Bovey Tracey. You supplied the names and addresses of your customers, and my sergeant has checked with them the approximate times you arrived and left. You also told us you used the lanes when travelling from Two Bridges to Bovey. Calculating the time between you leaving the last house to arriving at the first house in Bovey, it took you approximately an hour and thirty five minutes. According to the AA Route Planner the distance you had to cover was approximately sixteen miles, and would have taken you about thirty five minutes. What happened to the other hour, Mr Betteridge?”
“I can explain that. Because I’ve got a big tank full of purified water in the back of the van – it gives a better clean on the windows as it doesn’t leave streaks – I tend to drive slowly as it slops about. Also, I’m not a particularly fast driver.”
“The Route Planner takes account of the speed limit and assuming you were driving at, say, thirty, and not forty miles an hour, it would only make ten minutes difference to the journey time. That means there are still about fifty minutes of your time for which you can’t account.”
A more than slightly irritated rugby coach asked his own question.
“Where is this questioning leading?”
King adopted an assertive manner. “I’ll tell you where it’s leading, Mr Betteridge; we have two independent witnesses placing your van parked next to Miss Cranson’s Fiat Punto last Wednesday afternoon. As we are dealing with a potential abduction, I am sure you will appreciate that this is a significant piece of information, particularly as you seem unable to fully account for the timi
ng of your movements that afternoon. Now that we know your van was seen parked next to her Punto, would you like to reconsider the answers you have given so far as presently you are the lead suspect?”
“I didn’t lie to you about cleaning windows in Two Bridges and Bovey, but I didn’t use the lanes to get back to Bovey. I took the road that goes past Haytor, as I wanted to get an ice cream from the top car park: there’s always a van there until about 3.30. I made it just as he was packing up. I sat in my van and enjoyed my whippy ice cream. The only thing I forgot to mention was that coming down the hill towards Haytor car park, I noticed a yellow car and thought it might be Mary’s. I pulled in alongside and, by then, she was standing by the side of her car, carrying her hat and gloves. We chatted for about five minutes before she said she wanted to walk up Haytor and be back before it got dark, so we finished our chat. At that point, I watched her cross the road and then got back in my van and drove on.”
The normally placid inspector, retorted to what Betteridge had just said with a degree of hostility.
“A woman goes missing and you forgot to mention that you were probably the last person to see her! Forgot to mention what could be a vital piece of information. You had better be telling us the full story now, or I’ll detain you in custody for as long as I can legally do so, and then charge you with abduction. Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
This short tirade reduced the hapless coach to a quivering jelly. Harris admired King’s robust reaction, and thought his anger was fully justified.
“Because when I heard that Mary had gone missing and, apparently, I was the last person to see her, I was afraid that I would be accused of being responsible for her disappearance. All I simply did was have a friendly chat. As I had nothing to do with what happened to her after, I thought my brief meeting was irrelevant. If I hadn’t been seen in the car park, you would have been none the wiser, which wouldn’t have mattered, because I can’t offer any information or explanation as to why she went missing.”
“Let me be the judge of that. What did you talk about with Mary?”
“We talked a bit about Tom and also just general chit-chat about the rugby club and how her parents’ hotel was doing in Bovey.”
Detectives are generally not easily convinced of the veracity of uncorroborated stories, and King was no different. When someone has not actually lied, but has not given a full account of their actions, he reserved the right to have a healthy scepticism about their testimony.
“I will need our Forensic Unit to take a look at your van, Mr Betteridge. Have you got the keys with you?”
He didn’t speak, but dangled the keys in front of King, who took them and passed them to his sergeant. The inspector commented on what was happening for the benefit of the recording and then suspended the interview at 9.41. The custody sergeant carried out the inspector’s request that Betteridge would remain in custody until the forensic examination of his vehicle had been completed. The van was duly collected from his home on a lowloader police lorry.
*
Following their early morning meeting with the inspector, Dyson had got the dog owner’s name from the police computer and then contacted DVLA about his vehicle. Hammond was making arrangements to attend the livestock market the following day, when Dyson updated him on what she had discovered.
“I checked on the dog owner and his name is Brad Donald; I’ve got his address; he lives close to Ashburton. He was convicted at Exeter Crown Court in May last year of criminal damage. He is the registered owner of a Toyota Land Cruiser and have a guess what colour it is?”
Hammond treated this as a rhetorical question so never actually answered it.
“Great. The inspector left it up to us to follow this through. We need to have a chat with Mr Donald and there’s no time like the present.”
Half an hour later the two detectives and two uniformed officers arrived at 27 Moor View Close, which was about a mile from Quarry Farm, the home of the Suttons. They initially approached the front door of the property, while the uniformed constables stood on the pavement by their marked police car ready for action if they were needed. Hammond walked up the path with Dyson following. She glanced to her left and then veered off towards a double garage on the side of the property with one of its doors raised. The overweight householder was inside and appeared to be getting ready for the first use of his lawnmower since the last cut of autumn. He was bent over it with a rag in his right hand and was unscrewing a cap on the machine.
“Mr Donald? Mr Brad Donald?” Dyson said without any intonation in her voice.
“Yes, that’s me. What do you want?”
“I am Detective Constable Dyson.” She showed him her warrant card. Donald was unimpressed and it was immediately evident he was going to be un-cooperative. At this point he thought Dyson was alone as he couldn’t see anyone else from his position just inside the garage. He even moved towards the detective in what could have been interpreted as a threatening manner.
“I said what do you want and why are you bothering me? Can’t you see I’m busy?” As the last word left his mouth, the imposing figure of Hammond came in to view. Confronted by this giant, he suddenly adopted a much more helpful stance – which drew a wry smile to Dyson’s face.
“This is DC Hammond and we are investigating a fire and would like to ask you a few questions. Where were you last Thursday afternoon at about four o’clock?”
“Last Thursday? I would have been at work.”
“Where would that be, Mr Donald?”
Having given them the name, he regained his bravado and gesticulated dramatically, his arms outstretched and his palms facing up.
“What connection can there possibly be between the barn fire and me?”
“I didn’t say anything about it being a barn fire.”
“Yes you did. Don’t try and trap me with your fancy tricks.”
He was getting very angry as he realised his mistake. Rather stupidly he moved towards Dyson and it appeared he was about to lash out, just as he had done towards Dick Sutton over a year before: the outcome was much the same. He didn’t get a broken nose this time, but before he knew what was happening, Hammond had grabbed him and, with a judo style move, Donald was face down on his front lawn with his hands cuffed behind his back. As he was hauled to his feet, Dyson couldn’t resist a jibe.
“So, not only are you likely to be charged with arson, but also resisting arrest and threatening a police officer. Mr Donald, we have two witnesses who have told us they saw a car leaving the scene of the fire, and that description matches your vehicle.” She nodded in the direction of the Land Cruiser.
He regained some composure.
“Are you saying that these witnesses gave you the registration number of my Toyota?”
“No. They didn’t actually get the registration number, but they did say it was a big white 4x4 vehicle.”
“Surely I can’t be the only owner of a white 4x4 in this part of Devon?”
The detective didn’t answer the question, but changed her approach.
“From our records, we are aware that the day of the fire was the anniversary of an incident that happened exactly one year previously. I am, of course, referring to the death of your dog, Bruno, and the court case against Mr Sutton.”
As she said the dog’s name, Brad Donald changed his demeanour and spoke through gritted teeth. “As if I could forget what that bastard did to my beloved Bruno. I’m not admitting anything. I want to speak to my lawyer. I’ll tell you something though; if it was his barn that was torched, I am absolutely delighted. That piece of shit deserves everything that’s coming to him!”
By now the uniformed officers were restraining the still angry man.
“Sam, I think you should see this.” DC Hammond drew his colleague’s attention and nodded in the direction just to the left of the lawnmower. A two litre bottle of C
oke was on the floor partially obscured by the machine: it no longer contained the sugary drink.
“Do you mind telling me, Mr Donald, what is contained in the plastic Coke bottle?”
“I’m not telling you anything until I’ve spoken to my lawyer.”
Hammond picked up the bottle and sniffed it, confirming its contents as petrol, presumably for the lawnmower. He spoke in a very authoritative and grave manner.
“You see, sir, a Coke bottle similar to this one was found discarded at the scene of the barn fire. It’s currently being forensically examined, but just from the smell, it appeared to have been filled with petrol.
“So, what we have here is someone with the motive to exact retribution on the barn owner who killed his dog, is the owner of a white 4x4, that was placed in the vicinity of the fire, and has petrol contained in a similar bottle to that which was found at the scene.”
The detective knew that each claim was circumstantial, but together added up to sufficient evidence to proceed to arrest: Hammond did what was required.
“Mr Brad Donald, I am arresting you on suspicion of arson, criminal damage and threatening behaviour towards a police officer.” He followed this with the standard caution and asked Donald if he understood what he had said. He continued: “The officers will escort you indoors to collect a coat, if you wish, and inform anyone you think needs to know you are being detained. I suggest you close the garage door and secure the premises and you will be taken to the central police station in Plymouth where you will be formally interviewed. Have you anything else to say?”
By now, Donald had adopted a less belligerent stance, but still looked defiantly straight at the detective. He wasn’t about to show any contrition when he answered the question: “No comment.”
Both detectives knew that such a remark in no way proved guilt, but, in their experience, was seldom used by innocent people. As he left the house in handcuffs leaving behind a tearful wife, DC Dyson made sure the top was properly secured on the Coke bottle as she put it in a large plastic evidence bag. She thanked Hammond for his intervention and commented as Donald was put in to the back of the police car.
Missing on Dartmoor Page 14