Missing on Dartmoor

by Julian Mitchell

  On arrival, they were briefed by one of the uniformed officers and saw little point in immediately talking to the – by now – extremely distressed mother. They would only have words of comfort for her and it would delay the necessary action. King wasn’t unsympathetic and would speak to her when he could report positive search action.

  The inspector had a, not unreasonable, foreboding about the events unfolding before him. He reached for another sherbet lemon and began to reflect on this latest situation. It felt uncomfortably familiar.

  He called Superintendent Edwards: “Sir, I am at the scene of the new disappearance. The young woman is now nearly two hours beyond the time she was expected home. If she doesn’t return in the next ten minutes I’d like to call in the Dartmoor Search and Rescue Team. They can work in conjunction with our police dog. I also think we should have the police helicopter on standby. Should the searchers not locate her by, say, 3 o’clock, we will have at least two hours of daylight left to extend the search from the air.

  “It is far too early to make a link with the disappearance of Mary Cranson, sir, however tenuous, but as Haytor is only about fifteen miles to the north-east of here, I don’t think we can rule it out.”

  “I agree with your analysis, Richard, and authorise you to make any decision necessary without reference back to me. I have already alerted the DSRT at Yelverton and the helicopter, so if you have to call them in, they should be with you fairly quickly. I’ll arrange for the dog and handler to be with you asap. I just hope we are not dealing with a serial abductor.”

  *

  Soon after, King spoke with Mrs Mason and reassured her that a police dog and handler would be with them shortly and that the search team plus the helicopter were on standby. This gave the mother some comfort, but at the same time confirmed the seriousness of what was happening. Inadvertently, the information had sparked a surge of overwhelming panic and she began hyperventilating, gasping for air.

  Quickly identifying the symptoms, Sergeant Harris grabbed her arm and gently lowered her to the ground, preventing her from collapsing. Because of her first aid training, the sergeant knew this condition wasn’t caused by insufficient oxygen, but by too much. Within seconds, one of the uniformed officers was ready to request an ambulance, but Harris asked him to wait. She then calmly told the distressed mother to hold her breath for fifteen seconds, then to breathe normally, before repeating the process. She did as she had been asked, three times, and her breathing miraculously returned to normal. The sergeant knew that a body needs a certain amount of carbon dioxide mixed with the oxygen in order to breathe properly, and this technique restores that balance. King was impressed by her quick action, as well as her first aid knowledge, and, most noticeably, her calming influence, averting a potentially serious situation.

  The inspector requested a uniformed officer to urgently contact the Dartmoor Search and Rescue Team at Yelverton, which was on standby, and ask for their immediate assistance.

  The searchers, in their resplendent red tops, arrived within twenty minutes and were briefed by King, who, during that period, had calculated that the woman, if walking normally, should be within a five or six mile radius of the reservoir. He asked them to wait for the arrival of the sniffer dog. Sure enough, a few minutes later the handler and his dog arrived. The inspector recognised Max, the Labrador Retriever, and its handler from their experience on Haytor, just over a week before. A police officer gained access to Amy’s car by unconventional means and the dog quickly jumped in and began picking up her smell. His paws were muddy, but no one frowned at Max leaving paw prints on the seats: there were far more important things to worry about, like potentially saving the life of the car’s owner.

  All the searchers were waiting eagerly for the dog to show them the direction Amy had taken. One of them stayed by the eight-seater Land Rover: his role was to keep in touch with his colleagues via walkie-talkie and to bring any additional equipment that might be required.

  *

  About four miles to the east of the reservoir, a quad bike raced out of a wooded area, travelling at a high speed, and headed north along one of the many tracks that criss-cross the moor.

  *

  Max, once again, was making a favourable impersonation of the Pied Piper, as he strained at his leash in relentless pursuit of Amy’s scent. This lasted for about a mile and then it became apparent that she had walked around part of the reservoir, but had then headed in a north-easterly direction towards Fox Tor. Only she knew why she had not carried on around the water’s edge, rather choosing to aim for higher ground.

  Back in the car park, King hadn’t joined the search party, preferring to remain at the reservoir, with his sergeant, where he could direct operations as necessary. It also gave him the opportunity to address emails on his mobile, which had been sadly neglected of late, due to other pressures on his time. Regardless of this necessary, but frustrating, task, he was in constant touch with the dog handler: he also regularly spoke with the searcher left behind. This man knew Dartmoor like the back of his hand, and as soon as it was reported that the dog had moved away from the reservoir and headed east, he spoke to the inspector.

  “Sir, I’ve been informed that it would appear the young lady did not walk around the reservoir, only along its northern edge. The scent appears to be leading east to north-east, and that path eventually leads to Fox Tor Mire. At this time of year, particularly after heavy rain, like we had last night, it can be a dangerous place to walk if you don’t stick to the paths. Certain parts of the moor, inspector, are covered in thick layers of decaying vegetation. However, in some areas where hard granite hollows were formed millions of years ago, the water tends to accumulate and some of these get topped with bright green moss: one name the locals call them is quakers, because they can shift, or quake, beneath a person’s feet. Walkers really should avoid them because if they stray onto this vegetation, they can suddenly find they are sinking into a bog. Unless they’re near the edge, it can be very difficult for them to extricate themselves. They are sometimes up to twenty feet deep in places. I hope the lady steers clear of the Mire.”

  King listened intently and the threat of another abduction began to recede.

  “Thanks for that: you just helped me make a decision.”

  Armed with this new information he decided, despite the expense, to involve the police helicopter and get it to concentrate the search to the north and east of the reservoir, in front of where the search party was heading.

  All the searchers guessed that Max was leading them inexorably to Fox Tor Mire, but as he was travelling at a good pace, there was little to be gained by overtaking him, as the area covered many square miles: the hope was the dog would lead them directly to the young woman, if, indeed, she had fallen prey to the boggy mass.

  By now Max had travelled, with his entourage, over two miles from the reservoir and upon reaching some squelchy ground, he stopped dead in his tracks. It was now the turn of the dog handler to have a sense of déjà vu as he cast his mind back to the last search operation on Haytor. All the eight searchers, including his handler, waited anxiously for Max to continue his quest. With his nose to the ground, as it had been for the last two miles, he moved to and fro on the edge of the bog, occasionally looking up as if seeking inspiration or confirmation that what he was doing was right. He was given plenty of encouragement and after a few minutes, having found a drier area, he went around the bog: he continued to move back and forth over and over again, searching for that elusive scent.

  Meanwhile, the helicopter could now be heard overhead carrying out a zigzag manoeuvre, surveying the ground in front of the search party below. Eventually, the dog appeared to find Amy’s smell again and after several rotations, seemingly to check out what his nose was telling him, he was once again straining at the leash and heading directly towards the infamous bog.

  *

  Earlier that day, just after da
wn, Amy Mason had locked her car, zipped up her puffa jacket and pulled her green cap firmly on her head, as the wind was becoming stronger. She loved walking on the moor at this time of day, as there was no one else around. She paused to look over the reservoir, which usually had tranquil waters, but today the surface, disturbed by the wind, was very choppy. Her original plan was to walk the four miles around the reservoir, but after she got to its northern edge, she decided to head for a well-known monument called Childe’s Tomb, for no other reason than to give her a destination aim. She roughly calculated that she could get there and back and be in time for work. Amy knew the obelisk was so-called after a wealthy hunter in the seventeenth century, Childe, who became lost in a snowstorm on the moor and died: a granite cross marks the place where he had perished. This morning, she wasn’t interested in its history, only in using it as a waymark.

  She also knew that Fox Tor Mire could be a dangerous place, if she strayed too far from the path, which she had no intention of doing. Looking up, in the distance, the cross of Childe’s Tomb was visible and she walked on, knowing she was still in good time to reach it and get back to her car by about 11 o’clock. She was glad of her cap to stop her hair from blowing about in the swirling wind and to keep her head warm in the chilly air. However, as the morning temperature rose, coupled with her brisk walking, her body began to overheat under her puffa jacket. She partly unzipped the front and also pushed her cap back further up her forehead in an attempt to reduce her body heat. Altering the tilt of her cap was to prove her undoing.

  Without warning a sudden gust of wind got under the peak, and blew it off her head several paces to her left. The wind didn’t stop there, as her cap was gradually getting blown further and further away from her. Momentarily forgetting her cautionary route and, instinctively, rushing to retrieve it, she eventually caught up with her tumbling headgear. Purely as a natural reaction, she stamped her foot on it to halt its progress. If her weight had been evenly distributed, she may not have pierced the thin grassy layer over the bog, but the act of running, and then stamping, meant she broke through the treacherous surface. Too late, it was only then that she realised she had entered the Mire. Within seconds, her feet and lower legs were engulfed by the black sludge. Amy was normally very mature and level headed for her age, but looking down to see her legs quickly disappearing in the morass, she began to panic. The natural reaction was to struggle, in a futile attempt to recover firm ground, but this only increased the speed of her descent. The notorious Fox Tor Mire was intent on claiming its latest victim.

  She was quickly submerged up to her armpits. Fortunately, the terrified young woman regained some self-control and thrust out her arms in an attempt to halt her downward progression. This had the desired effect, but she was relentlessly sinking into the quagmire: her crucifix position was helping, but she realised that alone would not save her. In a matter of seconds, not minutes, Janet Mason’s daughter had virtually disappeared from the surface of the moor.

  As she prepared herself for death she stopped struggling: this fatalistic act of resignation saved her life. As the morass crept over her shoulders, then her neck, she tilted her head backwards in an attempt to keep her face above the all- enveloping sludge. Closing her mouth prevented her from swallowing the thick mud, but it was now covering her upper lip. She knew that in a few short moments her last remaining airway would be covered and her life would be over. The brief period while she waited for her inevitable end seemed like an eternity and thoughts flooded her head: the loved ones left behind; the unfulfilled dreams; the husband not yet met; the children not yet conceived; the birthdays not yet celebrated. What an utter waste of a life: her life.

  *

  Max relentlessly sniffed on, with the searchers following in his wake. His handler was in contact with the hovering helicopter, but the bird’s eye view was proving fruitless. The observer could see the search party below and was scanning the ground in front – in what he thought was the likely direction Amy Mason had taken – through his normal vision and via the powerful camera attached to the underside of the chopper. This dual vision continued for over a mile until he spotted what he thought, at first glance, was a tuft of grass and a partly submerged, gnarled and blackened log lying across the grass surface of the moor.

  The helicopter had been steadily searching in advance of the rescuers below and the observer suddenly asked the pilot just to hover. He then directed the camera back to where he’d seen what he thought was a log and magnified the image on the screen in front of him. To his horror, and delight, the tuft of grass was a woman’s hair and as the log came into focus he could just make out the sleeves of a puffa jacket, on outstretched arms. He could also see part of a face, which by now was barely visible. Contact was immediately made with the pursuers, who were still some distance away from the hapless walker.

  *

  In her death throes, Amy Mason felt a fierce wind on her face and a deafening noise, her thoughts moved from her short life to its surreal end as the noise and wind intensified: she thought this must be the prelude to her death.

  As she brought herself back to the real world, opening her eyes and looking up she could see a helicopter hovering immediately above her. The bog had by now nearly reached her nostrils and, fearful of moving her head in case her last airway became blocked, she moved her eyes only, glancing first one way and then the other to try and see if help was closer to hand. The police helicopter was not equipped with a winch to rescue the stricken woman, but it had played its part in precisely identifying her location.

  As they arrived on the scene, the rescuers, without even a momentary pause, acted instinctively. Although it would have been a natural reaction, they knew it would be folly to simply blunder onto the bog in a desperate bid to save her, however well-intentioned. One of them quickly threw a rope towards Amy, which caught her on the side of the head, while another rescuer, with the help of a colleague, secured another rope under their armpits.

  The tethered person was the lightest of the rescuers and as she gingerly began to cross the bog, she was very aware they may not be in time to stop Amy drowning in the mire. Summoning her remaining strength and with a last desperate monumental effort, Amy managed to pull her right arm free and grasp the rope that lay close to her head.

  Although they might have been tempted, the rescuers on the other end, did not jerk it in their desire to extract her from a potentially muddy grave. Rather, they waited until she had firmly grasped it, and very slowly began to pull, in a life-saving tug-of-war.

  Painstakingly slowly, Fox Tor Mire was being forced to give up its potential victim. The attached rescuer was now close enough to Amy to grab her hand, and although she too began to sink, the other rescuers made sure both cheated the bog.

  Alerted by the observer in the police helicopter some time before, as the incident played out below him, the air ambulance had landed on solid ground, directed by the dog handler. No doubt Max was going to get some treats for his evening meal. Within a few minutes, Amy’s ordeal was over. She had been stripped of her soiled clothing, down to her underwear, and was wrapped in thermal blankets covering her lower and upper body: she was able to walk to the helicopter with support from two paramedics. The shock had passed, but hypothermia had started to invade her very being. Nevertheless, she was still able to thank the rescuers for saving her life.

  When the searcher, who had remained at the reservoir, informed the mother that her daughter was safe and well, for the second time that day she began to sob, but this time she cried tears of relief and thanksgiving.

  *

  Back at the reservoir, King had been informed of the rescue and was mightily relieved that this particular disappearance had a happy ending. He informed his superintendent of the successful outcome. The inspector’s relief was palpable.

  “I’m so pleased, sergeant, that we’re not dealing with another abduction.

  “Come on, the Bur
rator Inn is only a few minutes from here and I’ll treat you to a celebratory drink and a late lunch: after that, as we’re out on the moor, we’ll pay that visit to Black Tor Farm.”

  True to his word, the inspector bought sandwiches and two orange juices. The sergeant didn’t expect or want alcohol: after all they were still on duty. Having finished their lunch, King reached for his bag of sherbet lemons and was in reflective mood.

  “You know, Lucy, whenever we are dealing with a case involving a woman, whether it’s a road traffic accident, a missing person or, God forbid, a murder, I totally empathise with the victims’ loved ones. Mrs Mason today, Mr and Mrs Cranson, Alice Cranson and Tom Bowers. Why? Because I know how devastated I was when I lost my wife two years ago.”

  He bowed his head and stared at the floor, unable to continue. Lucy Harris placed a consoling hand on his forearm, and he in turn, placed his hand on top of hers as acceptance of her solace. They stayed in that position for no more than a few seconds, but it seemed much longer. Something stirred deep in the soul of Richard King: something that hadn’t stirred in him for a very long time. Eventually, he regained his composure and gave her hand an affectionate pat.

  “Come on, sergeant, let’s see what farmer Pearce has got to say for himself.”

  FIFTEEN

  The only sensible route to Black Tor Farm was down a single track lane about half a mile long. The euphoria that the detectives felt following the rescue of Amy Mason, soon gave way to a less jubilant mood, as King and Harris, once again turned their attention to the disappearance of Mary Cranson. They would not have been visiting farmer Pearce, save for the actions and comments made by John Sutton: his hasty departure and reason for leaving, had led them to yet another Dartmoor farm. On this occasion they had arranged to meet DCs Dyson and Hammond on site: they were parked in their unmarked police car close to the entrance and followed the senior detectives to the farmhouse.