Missing on Dartmoor

by Julian Mitchell

  The furious farmer was not about to surrender his precious transport without resistance. He opened the porch door, carrying with him his trusty twelve bore double-barrel shotgun. Still clad in his pyjamas and slippers, he cut a rather comical figure, but this situation was devoid of humour. He quickly moved along the pathway leading to his front gate and was soon between the thief and his escape route.

  Mrs Hope appeared in the porch behind her husband, urging him to be careful. He was not about to heed her impassioned plea, being determined that no one would deprive him of the vehicle that he had worked so hard to buy. He was now courageously standing in the path of the Defender with the shotgun nestling against his shoulder, but pointing to the ground. The message was clear: leave my vehicle and get off my land or I’ll use my weapon. The panic-stricken robber was quickly computing the possibilities in his mind: leave the vehicle and run away from the farm risking being shot; surrender; or complete his mission. He dismissed the first of these, as it would surely lead to ignominious capture or death. The second would result in a humiliating end to this night-time escapade. It didn’t take him long to choose the third option.

  Abandoning caution, the four wheel drive was engaged and the accelerator was thrust down. The Defender responded with a roar and spinning wheels as it accelerated towards the armed farmer.

  “Oh no you don’t you bastard! You’re not stealing my motor.”

  Undaunted, John Hope levelled his weapon and pulled the first of the two triggers without a thought for the consequences. The reinforced windscreen was tough and designed to shatter on impact: it wasn’t designed to withstand the blast from a shotgun at point blank range. Aiming at the centre of the windscreen it grieved him to be damaging his beloved car, but it would have grieved him more to lose it. The car thief was on the periphery of the blast that blew a gaping hole in the glass. The acceleration was remorseless, and the driver instinctively ducked to his right as all he could see side-by-side were the two round black holes of the barrels.

  In order to avoid the flying shards, he jerked the steering wheel down in an involuntary movement. This action inadvertently set the Land Rover on a collision course with the gunman. What with the harsh light and the flying glass, the unwelcome guest could only see the black silhouette of a figure behind the gun as the solid wing crunched into the resolute farmer.

  The impact sent his weapon spinning through the air, landing at the feet of Mrs Hope. Her husband was thrown hard against the wooden fence surrounding the farmhouse where he was impaled on a broken slat. For the farmer’s wife the shock and horror quickly turned to rage at the event unfolding in front of her. She instinctively picked up the gun and, in one movement, fired the other cartridge at the back of the departing Defender. This time the back window shattered, but it sped on.

  She discarded the weapon and went to the aid of her broken and bloodied husband before returning to the farmhouse and dialling the emergency services. She just wanted an ambulance as quickly as possible, but, on hearing about the tragic event, the operator also contacted the police. Now distraught, she went back to where her husband lay bleeding from his mouth and nose, the wooden shard protruding from his back. Sinking to her knees she cradled his head and gently wiped the blood from his face with the sleeve of her nightdress. Because of the rural location, the police took nearly twenty minutes to arrive in three cars with blue lights flashing: neither the lights nor the two-tone were really needed at that hour of the morning, but they gave the occupants their own sense of urgency.

  Shortly after they were joined by an ambulance and the paramedics took over from the police officers who had given first aid to the battered farmer, ever mindful not to move him for fear of causing more damage to his already mangled body. Mrs Hope was the archetypal farmer’s wife: she was made of stern stuff, but at that moment, she knew her life, and that of her husband and children, would never be the same again. The ambulance crew quickly gave the still-conscious farmer some morphine. However, because of the shock from the impact, he was not yet feeling any pain from his extensive injuries.

  The police gently quizzed Mrs Hope about what had happened, although they could probably deduce for themselves how the tragic events had unfolded. The ambulance left with the unfortunate farmer: his wife wanted to go with him, but realised, her place was to remain with their young children. Using the headlights from their cars and powerful torches, the police tried to gather evidence, whilst alerting their colleagues from stations around the moor about what had happened and to be on the lookout for the Defender. According to the farmer’s wife, the stolen vehicle had turned right out of their driveway giving an indication as to the direction of travel, but no more than that. Remarkably, considering her distress, she also remembered the registration number and this information was passed to the same police forces across Dartmoor who were already responding to the first alert. Whilst one female officer comforted Mrs Hope, the other officers searched the farmyard. They could see the empty barn that had garaged the Defender, but there was no obvious evidence to identify the culprit.

  A message came through on the car radio that a fire had been reported a few miles to the east of Hope Farm: two officers set off in that direction, correctly assuming it was linked to the tragedy, and eventually finding its source. By the time they reached it, the Land Rover was well alight, but the number plate on the back was still clearly visible: this confirmed it belonged to John Hope. One officer used the on board extinguisher with some success, but it proved no match due to the intensity of the fire. Although it was beyond saving, nevertheless, a fire engine was requested as the vehicle was part of a serious crime and dousing the fire might salvage some incriminating evidence. However, when the firefighters arrived, the vehicle was just a smouldering wreck. The officers instinctively knew that the fire had been set deliberately to destroy any trace that might have snared the thief. The area was sealed off. POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape was also in position across the entrance to Hope Farm.

  *

  As he arrived for work, Richard King was informed of what had happened during the night. He spoke to DC Dyson and they realised this was yet another theft, that, on this occasion, had gone disastrously wrong. The crime was quickly upgraded to Aggravated Vehicle Taking. He asked her to contact the officers who had attended the farm in the early hours, if they were still on duty, to get a first-hand account. Although the inspector had a burgeoning workload, he decided to visit Hope Farm immediately and he and Dyson arrived there within half an hour. They entered the farmhouse via the backdoor, as the front entrance was now a crime scene. From the front porch they could see the bloodstained broken fence, where the catastrophic incident had taken place. They couldn’t speak to Mrs Hope, as she was now at Derriford with her badly injured husband: in the circumstances, a police car had taken the devastated, but dogged, farmer’s wife to the hospital. A friend was in the farmhouse caring for the Hopes’ children.

  The detectives noted the verbal report they were given of the shotgun blasts and the callous running down of the brave farmer. Forensic investigation was well underway on both sites, the farm and at Cadover Bridge where the burnt out Defender was being closely examined. King knew that in contrast to how the white-suited officers were often portrayed in TV dramas, where in a murder investigation cause and time of death are instantly available, the reality is that these people are meticulous and work painstakingly slowly: the record of a crime scene can take days before a full report is produced. Of course, sometimes these initial results are needed urgently, before the trail of the culprit goes cold, so the inspector requested to be told their early findings.

  Walking around the farmyard, sucking a sherbet lemon, waiting for the forensic people to give him their preliminary report, he thought to himself that crimes were being committed faster than he could solve them. Shortly after a senior forensic officer spoke to him, explaining that two of his colleagues had gone to the other site, linked as they were
, while the rest had begun their investigation at the farmyard.

  *

  At Cadover Bridge, the shattered front headlight of the now worthless Land Rover, was evident, caused by the hit-and-run impact, rather than the fierce heat from the fire. They had found a few footprints, not directly leading away from the wreck, as most of the surrounding ground was too hard to leave any impression. However, softer earth nearer the ditch alongside the road, where the vehicle had entered the riverside car park, did show small indentations, possibly linked to the incident, maybe made by a child or a woman. They had retrieved and managed to identify a blackened Stanley knife and severely charred night vision goggles from the front foot well; both items were duly bagged. Slowly, but surely, they were piecing together what had happened several hours before.

  *

  Back at the farm the search had been widened and now included the whole length of the driveway to the farm. Close to the main gate, the remains of a roll-up cigarette had been found: they didn’t know at the time, but this was to prove a crucial piece of evidence.

  At the main crime scene, Dyson’s mobile rang. She listened intently for a short time without speaking, then gave her thanks and said goodbye. She put the mobile back in her breast pocket as King approached and asked what the call was about: he sensed it was not good news.

  “Sir, you know we were treating this as an AVT? Well, it’s now a murder enquiry: John Hope died ten minutes ago.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Early that morning the realisation of the bungled theft had shaken the thief, but self- preservation overcame the shock of the hit-and-run. Several miles away from Hope Farm, the battered Defender had pulled into a large car park next to a river. The driver’s whole body was shaking – not from any reaction to what had happened, rather shivering from the cold night air, which had blown right through the vehicle as there was no windscreen or rear window to stop it.

  He switched off the engine and the car’s lights, although one headlight was already out: part of its shattered glass was embedded in John Hope’s thigh. He was ruing the botched attempt to steal the Land Rover, the market value of which was now seriously depleted by the extensive bodywork changes sustained in the getaway. He briefly sneered as he thought to himself what he now needed to do was true damage limitation. Help was needed and a call was quickly made.

  “The silly bastard tried to stop me from taking it. The windscreen and back window are shot out, so I’m ditching it. Don’t worry, I was lucky and didn’t get hit. Meet me at Cadover Bridge asap and bring petrol.”

  The thief had decided to cut his losses as the stolen vehicle was no longer of any value, but could be of use for the inevitable police investigation. The Jeep Cherokee arrived as requested twenty minutes later, and when no headlights could be seen in either direction of the roads leading to where the wreck had been abandoned, petrol was poured over the front seats of the battered Defender and within seconds the interior was engulfed in flames.

  *

  At Hope Farm the drama of the previous evening was slowly unfolding as the Forensic team had arrived at first light and King, Dyson and Hammond had received a preliminary briefing from a uniformed officer who had been there since answering the emergency call.

  Mrs Hope was due back home shortly from the hospital. There was little point in her staying there as she could no longer be of comfort to her husband. She knew her place was back at the farm, to give the agonising news to her children: daddy won’t be coming home. In these circumstances, the detectives always had a difficult balancing act: respect for the grieving widow, set against the need for information to help catch the person, or people, responsible for the theft and, ultimately, the death of her husband.

  *

  On a sunny day during mid-February, Cadover Bridge offered plenty of off-road parking, the river and, invariably, an ice cream van. In the aftermath of the night’s events, there was no ice cream van, there were no children paddling, there were no dog walkers and there were no cars, save for the charred remains of the Defender. There were a few people milling around and they were clad in white. Police vehicles were parked on the verges bordering the car park. Even the sheep that would normally be milling around the periphery of the bridge stayed away as if in respect for the dead farmer. Apart from the forensic people doing what had to be done, the scene was remarkably peaceful: the river almost silently passed under the bridge as it meandered over the moor. The blackened wreck cast a sombre shadow over the whole scene.

  *

  The detectives needed to speak with Mrs Hope, ever mindful not to intrude on her grieving for too long. After introductions and commiserations, King spoke to the stoical farmer’s wife.

  “In your own time Mrs Hope, please tell us what happened last night?”

  “It was soon after 2 o’clock that I woke up and was aware that John was out of bed and was putting on his dressing gown. I asked him if everything was okay and he told me that he’d heard something in the yard and was going to check it out. As he went downstairs, I put on my dressing gown and followed him in case I could help, as I thought perhaps the cattle had got out of the farmyard. I saw him quickly unlock the gun rack, which is in the utility room, and take out his twelve bore shotgun. At that point I began to get worried as, apparently, he was not thinking about cattle getting out, but something worse. Possibly a fox or, now I know what happened, something must have alerted him to an intruder.

  “As he opened the front door, and before opening the porch door, he flicked the switch to light the whole of the front of the house. Over his shoulder I could see that the Defender was very slowly moving towards us. John had his gun loaded, but broken over his forearm, for safety reasons, and he quickly went to the front gate. I stayed in the porch and urged him to be careful.

  As the Land Rover kept moving towards him, he must have realised that it was being stolen. He engaged the barrels and put the gun against his shoulder, although at this stage he was pointing it at the ground. The Defender then suddenly accelerated towards him and he shouted something that I couldn’t hear, possibly a warning or maybe a curse. I know he would have been incensed at someone stealing anything from us, let alone his prized possession. He raised the gun and fired at the windscreen, but the Land Rover kept coming and soon after the blast it veered towards him…” She paused at that point gazing in to the distance as she remembered the tragic event before continuing: “The impact flung John up into the air and he landed on the fence. The gun somehow landed close to me. Instinctively, I picked it up and, in anger and shock I suppose, I fired at the back of our car, which by now was fast disappearing down the drive. I then went to John’s aid and realised that, sadly, he hadn’t just suffered a glancing blow and he needed an ambulance.

  “After phoning for help, I went back to my husband’s side and knew he was very badly injured. I got a blanket from indoors to cover him and, as he was still conscious, I tried to reassure him that help was on the way. Every minute we waited seemed like an hour, but eventually the police arrived, followed by an ambulance. I don’t remember much after they took John away as I was so shocked at what had happened.”

  The detectives listened intently and although they wanted to ask questions, they felt compelled not to interrupt.

  “I then rang my neighbour, as I didn’t want to leave the children on their own, and she came over within ten minutes and the police kindly took me to Derriford Hospital. When I got there I was told that my husband was on the operating table; I was given a cup of tea and comforted by a nurse. Sometime later, when it was light, the surgeon came to speak to me and said my husband had suffered life-threatening injuries, but he had come through the surgery and was in intensive care. I was allowed to see him, but he was not conscious and was attached to a machine by several tubes.”

  This was more detail than the detectives needed, but they continued to listen patiently.

  “As I sat with him an
alarm sounded and two doctors and a nurse rushed in and I was escorted back to the waiting room. Soon after the surgeon I had seen when I arrived came to see me. I could tell before she said anything that John had gone.” With that she began to sob.

  King waited a respectful time before continuing: “Did you see the person who knocked down your husband?”

  “It was a bit of a blur and all I can remember is someone in a balaclava with just his eyes visible. Thinking back, I got the impression that he was not particularly big or tall as his head was barely visible over the steering wheel.”

  “I know this is difficult for you Mrs Hope, but can you remember anything else about the thief or the tragic event?”

  “I saw him very briefly from the front and then fleetingly from the side as he sped past.” She paused and closed her eyes as she tried to recall what she had merely glimpsed several hours before. Gathering her thoughts and emotions she went on: “As I remember, the side view probably confirms that it wasn’t a particularly tall person and, I’m not sure if I am imagining it, but I think I saw some hair flicking out at the base of the balaclava. There again, it may simply have been a trick of the light.”

  King sympathised: “Thank you Mrs Hope; we are so sorry for what happened to Mr Hope and we’ll do whatever we can to apprehend the culprit.”

  *

  The person responsible for the tragedy the night before was watching the lunchtime news on Spotlight, the local TV channel, and speaking to no one in particular: “Why did the bloody fool try and stop me? I didn’t mean to kill him. Anyway, it was self-defence as he was going to shoot me. If I hadn’t ducked, it would’ve been me in the bloody mortuary and not him. How can the police say it’s a fucking murder enquiry? I didn’t go there to kill the bastard, I just wanted his motor.”