Missing on Dartmoor

by Julian Mitchell

  Halfway through the second half, two incidents happened that changed the course of the game. Dick Sutton received the ball in open play and was well tackled. The ensuing skirmish was particularly fiercely contested by several players from each team, in an attempt to retain or gain possession. Bovey kept hold of the ball and Harry Sutton whisked it out to Josh Ingram, who booted it deep into opposition territory. When the melee had dispersed, Dick Sutton was left prostrate on the ground, bleeding heavily from his nose. Sonia Hill, reacted immediately by sprinting to his aid and staunched the flow of blood with some gauze from her medical bag. The burly player was dazed, but hadn’t lost consciousness and when the blood was wiped away from his face, he regained his position on the field. Although the referee suspected foul play, he was unable to take action, as the culprit could not be identified. Billy Price jogged back to his position and the knuckles on his right hand began to redden: revenge is sweet thought Price. The referee did not know who the offender was, but there was no doubt in Dick Sutton’s mind as to who was responsible.

  Then Ivybridge gained possession from a lineout, the ball being swiftly moved from hand-to-hand and by the time it reached Price, he had gained significant momentum. In his path to the try line and glory stood his nemesis, Sutton, the indomitable prop forward. As Price tried to jink round him at speed he was tackled with a muscular forearm to his throat. Although badly shaken, Price recovered, but Bovey had to play the last ten minutes of the match one man short as Sutton – sent off – trudged dejectedly from the pitch.

  The resultant penalty reduced Ivybridge arrears to just eight points. Then a technical infringement by the Bovey pack, now missing its cornerstone, reduced the points difference still further, and there were now only five separating these weary warriors.

  As the game reached its closing stages, fatigue set in and the loss of a player began to take its toll on the home side. Much to the delight of the travelling supporters, a breakaway try and conversion put Ivybridge in the lead with only a few minutes of the match remaining.

  From a scrum deep inside Ivybridge territory, Harry Sutton dummied his opposite number and darted for the opponents’ goal line, following his own kick ahead, for what would have been a match-winning try. However, the full back had other ideas and ferociously tackled the wily scrum half, before he had gathered the ball following the kick ahead, unceremoniously leaving him in a heap clutching his upper right leg. The referee deemed it to be a foul tackle and immediately produced a yellow card to the full back, consigning him to ten minutes off the field: he would only serve a minute of his punishment as that was all that was left in the game.

  Harry Sutton hobbled back to his own half as Tom Bowers prepared to take the penalty kick that, if successful, would give Bovey a one-point victory. The large crowd fell silent as the captain eyed the goal posts. He struck the ball well, and its trajectory looked on course for victory, before, at the very end of its flight, it began to tail towards the left-hand post. The crowd, the players from both sides, and the officials held their collective breath as the ball struck the left-hand upright. Despite rebounding back into the field of play it was quickly collected and dispatched by an Ivybridge player over the heads of the crowd, bringing the game to its anticlimactic conclusion: Bovey had lost. It seemed to its valiant captain that nothing was going right in his life.

  As with most rugby games, the fierce battles on the pitch gave way to more friendly encounters over pie and chips, washed down with more than a few pints of beer. However, for two players their battles were not so easily forgotten.

  *

  After the game, Sonia Hill had tended to the wounded and patched them up as best she could, although her medical kit did nothing for damaged pride. She changed from her tracksuit into jeans and a flowery blouse. Eventually, only a few stragglers remained in the bar, and the barman began the arduous task of clearing away numerous glasses and restocking. Harry Sutton was sitting with Sonia Hill and his thigh injury was stiffening up as he hobbled to the bar to get his last drink of the evening and a Coke for the medic. His brother had left about an hour before, taking the car they shared, after Harry confirmed he had the offer from Sonia of a lift home.

  Time passed and they realised they were the only two remaining in the club, save for the barman who was busy doing what he had to do. Harry was feeling sorry for himself as he spoke to Sonia: “The last couple of weeks have not been a good time for the club. Obviously, first with Mary going missing, then George Kemp being prosecuted, Betters leaving the club and now, to cap it all, losing to bloody Ivybridge. If that wasn’t bad enough, my leg is starting to tighten up.”

  “Yeah, but for the thickness of an upright, we could have won the match and that may have turned around our fortunes.”

  “You can’t do something for this bloody leg can you, Sonia?”

  “After we finish our drinks, I’ve got my medical bag in the changing room with some very effective embrocation oil, which should help ease the pain.”

  “Thanks, Sonia, I’d appreciate that.”

  Ten minutes later, they told the barman where they were going and he said he wouldn’t be leaving for about another hour. As the bar was at first floor level, they went down to the home dressing room and Sonia flicked on the light switch. Without a hint of embarrassment she told Harry to take off his trousers and lie on the treatment couch, which was in the middle of the room. Harry was sitting up on the hinged couch. She took the embrocation from her bag before pouring a small amount into the palm of her left hand, then transferring some to her right hand, after putting the bottle down. She stood to one side of the couch facing the grimacing young farmer. Her skilful hands set to work and she began rubbing his muscular thigh. Her deep tissue massage technique used slow firm strokes of pressure to ease and release tension deep in his upper leg.

  Harry began to feel the benefit of her strong fingers, and they started to have an effect, which he had not anticipated. Although loose fitting, his boxer shorts could not hide his arousal, and it hadn’t escaped her notice. He wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass and tentatively he placed his hand on her breast. Sonia took her hands off his leg and aimed a slap at his face with her right hand, which he caught before it could be delivered. He held her arm mid swing in his powerful grip: Harry didn’t like being slapped or denied.

  For a few seconds, they stared at each other, both issuing some kind of unspoken challenge. Sonia suddenly pulled away and reached for a towel from her bag and began to wipe her hands. Harry thought his massage was over, and he was right. She gently tossed the towel onto her bag and undid the top three buttons of her blouse, revealing her ample cleavage. No words were exchanged, as that provocative action spoke for itself. She gently slid her hand up the right leg of his boxer pants and, simultaneously, his index finger glided down the minimal space between her breasts, until it hooked over the straining button of her blouse: undoing blouse buttons was Harry’s forte. Her hand began massaging again and so did his! He couldn’t resist the temptation to fondle her breasts and she wasn’t about to stop him.

  Within minutes they were both naked as Harry was very skilled in such matters for one so young. He knew where her G-spot was and it didn’t take him long to find it. Sonia was well practised in the sexual act too and she knew exactly where to find his erogenous zones. Soon he’d forgotten about his painful thigh. It wasn’t the most romantic or erotic place to have sex, but that didn’t bother either of them: neither did the absence of a comfortable surface. The improvised bed of rugby tackle bags, hastily placed side-by-side on the changing room floor, did little to dampen their ardour.

  They changed position three times, not seeking comfort, purely to enhance their intercourse. It lasted less than ten minutes, such was their lust-filled excitement, but they climaxed simultaneously and throughout, their lips never touched: testimony to their pure and unadulterated desire for orgasm, rather than the ultimate act of shared lovemakin
g with a soulmate. They both instinctively knew that an enduring romance was unlikely and that they may never have sex with each other in the future, but, there again, privately, neither ruled it out. As they hurried to get dressed in case the barman had finished his chores, Harry thought to himself that it wasn’t such a bad day after all.

  SIXTEEN

  The Jeep Cherokee had been down this lane after market day last week. Then, it had sped past the entrance to the farm, but not tonight. It rolled to a halt about twenty paces before the long driveway: the passenger door silently opened and quietly closed. The vehicle then drove on as stealthily as it had arrived. A half-moon and scudding clouds provided fleeting glimpses of the surroundings. It was 2 a.m. and the sinister figure, clad all in black, walked on the grass verge to avoid any crunch from the drive. Wearing a combat uniform, topped with a similarly coloured balaclava the nocturnal thief was practically invisible; black leather gloves completed the menacing ensemble. Discounting the screwdriver in the right side trouser leg pocket, all that was missing from this SAS style outfit was a weapon. The retractable blade knife in the corresponding pocket on the other leg could also constitute being armed, but he had no intention of using it for a hostile purpose. Despite the sporadically black night, he only carried a pencil torch light in the breast pocket of his windcheater jacket. However, this would not be needed until later.

  Partly to steady his nerves, and partly due to an addiction to nicotine, the would-be lawbreaker had one last smoke, lighting the hand-rolled cigarette before entering the driveway leading to the farm, taking care to shield the flame, not from the wind, but from detection. The glow would only be a red speck in the dark and would be difficult to see, if anyone was looking – but at that hour, nobody was.

  The five bar gate across the drive was closed, but not locked. Discarding what was left of the cigarette, he quietly lifted the latch, glancing at the nameplate on the top bar of the gate for confirmation, if it were needed, that this was the right place. The white letters on the black background announced that this was, indeed, Hope Farm. The gate swung open noiselessly and automatically engaged with the ground-mounted stop. Leaving it open was crucial to the success of his mission. The interloper returned to the soft verge to continue his silent progress.

  Pausing to check all was quiet and that there were no lights on in the farmhouse, the final piece of military garb was added: night vision goggles. The way ahead was now visible, albeit the images appearing in monochrome green. Through the hi-tech glasses, the outline of the farmhouse could clearly be seen. Greater stealth was needed as there was no longer a verge, just dirt and stones, which increased the risk of noise. By day, no one would have taken any notice of the footfall sound caused by a pedestrian, but in the small hours it seemed to be amplified by a factor of ten. Fortunately for the thief, the road was not gravelled and rubber-soled boots moved noiselessly as they approached the farm buildings.

  In the fenced farmyard, the goggles picked out some motionless livestock, which took on a surreal form, portrayed as they were in a hazy green light. Moving past the yard, an open-ended outbuilding appeared: this contained the target of this night-time mischief.

  The two-year-old Land Rover Defender had been reversed into its covered parking space, making it even easier to steal, as no manoeuvring would be needed. Although his target was now visible through the green haze, the pace of the intruder did not quicken, rather he carefully continued, ever mindful of the ground ahead and avoiding stepping on any objects, which could create unwanted noise. From the outset of this illegal escapade, the thief had placed his heel down first and then, painstakingly, rolled his foot slowly and gently onto the ground. This contrived way of treading, coupled with only using the outer edges of each foot, was very effective for silent walking, but was extremely uncomfortable. No matter – the potential reward more than made up for his discomfort.

  Reaching the open-fronted garage the thief paused to take in a panoramic view of his surroundings: this was someone who was very confident in his work. Satisfied that there was nothing untoward to worry him, he moved towards his goal. If the vehicle was locked, it would make the task more difficult, but a mere hindrance to this highly skilled car thief. He knew that two years previously, Land Rover had announced it was ceasing production of its iconic Defender, considered to be the farmers’ stalwart. As the second hand value had risen so had the thefts a staggering six-fold: John Hope was about to become another statistic.

  Trying the door handle, a smirk spread across the robber’s face, realising the Defender was defenceless. Nine times out of ten, the farmer would have locked it. Unfortunately, on the one occasion when it had been vital, John Hope had been distracted by his wife calling him for his evening meal and had left it unlocked. The thief quickly, and silently, opened the door, as wide as it would go, and immediately set to work: he was an expert at hotwiring cars. Straightforward as the task was, it would have been so much easier with a duplicate key, which had been acquired on two previous raids.

  Pushing up the goggles until they rested on his, by now, perspiring forehead, with the aid of the screwdriver, and using the narrow beam from the pencil torch, he quickly removed the plastic cover on the steering column. The all-important wires were now exposed and holding the torch between gritted teeth, they were illuminated for as long as it took to see which was which. Swiftly pulling apart the colour-coded thin cables for the battery, ignition, and starter, he was nearly ready. Using the torch was risky, but without that identification, the mission was doomed to fail. He pulled out the retractable blade knife from his trouser pocket and the bare bronze-coloured wire beneath their coloured sheaths was soon exposed. The next process required a steady hand to avoid being electrocuted: if correctly executed, touching the starter wire to the other wires meant the engine would burst into life.

  Things were going well, too well, when he was suddenly startled by what sounded like footsteps approaching the garage: the torch beam was quickly smothered. Ever since passing the Hope Farm sign, fuelled by adrenaline, his senses had been working overtime. Acute hearing again detected what sounded like someone moving across the farmyard. His fight-or-flight instinctive physiological responses readied themselves. The night vision goggles were slid down his sweaty forehead and, once more, the thief peered into the blackness. Although he hadn’t intended to use the knife as a weapon, if threatened, he would brandish it without a moment’s hesitation. As he readied himself for the confrontation he now had the screwdriver in his other hand. He could see movement and a huge figure walking in his direction. A cow slowly ambled across the yard to the water trough to satisfy her thirst.

  Mightily relieved he turned back to the job in hand, the wires were touched together till they sparked: the dash lights and other electrical components instantly came alive. However, triumph soon turned to despair as the CD player came alive as well, very loudly playing some pop song. In the still of the night, the noise was deafening. The piano introduction to Lady Madonna by The Beatles momentarily reverberated around the buildings.

  It only took a few seconds to locate the off button, but, by then, the damage was done. He cursed his bad luck and also his personal incompetence as he should have checked that the radio and CD player were both off. Turning the volume knob fully anti-clockwise would have assured no sound even if one of the systems was set to activate on the ignition. He swore under his breath in the form of a personal reprimand, but taking a positive from potential disaster, at least the engine was now ticking over.

  In this situation it would be ideal to rev it a few times to ensure it wouldn’t stall: that luxury could not be afforded. From previous knowledge of this type of vehicle, he knew the task was incomplete: the steering lock was still engaged. Once again, skilled hands were needed and using the screwdriver a crucial spring was released to break the lock.

  Speed was now of the essence as either the sound of the CD, brief as it was, or the engine noise could hav
e alerted the occupants in the farmhouse, whether human or canine. Closing the car door as quietly as possible, and guided by the goggles, he edged the Land Rover out of the garage and, at walking pace, headed for the escape route. Unfortunately, this exit passed the farmhouse before reaching the open gated entrance. Still in first gear and his foot gently on the accelerator, the car was easing forward, the tyres making more noise than the thief wanted as they crunched over various debris on the drive.

  John Hope was lying in bed almost asleep and yet half awake: he had a surreal experience. He wasn’t old enough to have seen them perform live, but there was no mistaking the sound they made. He could have sworn that he heard a distant burst of the opening bars of a track from the Fab Four.

  As the Defender crept forward, the thief felt a sense of relief that evidently the noise from the CD player had not alerted anyone and his task was almost successfully completed.

  Suddenly the whole area in front of the farmhouse became bathed in a harsh light: this was no ordinary household light, but a tungsten halogen floodlight. For the first time that evening, the intruder lost his hitherto calm composure: he snatched off the night goggles and hurled them into the passenger foot well, as they were no longer of any use in the intense glare.