Evil Valley (12 page)

‘So what does the stone dropping OS map tell us about where we are?’ asked Claire.

‘Well that,’ said Dan, pointing to a series of piles of granite blocks, tumbled together in roughly room-sized rectangles, ‘is the remains of the old Eylesbarrow Tin Mine. It was a major tinning centre in Victorian times. The path we walked up is the old mine track.’ He took her hand and pulled her over to stand on a small ridge. ‘And just down there is one of its old adits, or mine shafts.’

A round black hole, about the circumference of a bus, gaped in the moor. It was like the entrance to the lair of a huge, subterranean beast. A small wire fence complete with danger signs circled it. Dan picked up a stone, threw it in. Several seconds later a hollow rocky clank echoed from the void.

‘Most of the old adits are sealed up, but some are still open and you can get into the tin workings,’ he said. ‘It’s not my kind of thing. I’m not keen on confined, dark spaces, but some people explore them. It’s a notorious place for illicit sex for youngsters who’ve got nowhere else to go.’

He gave her a sleazy smile and pinched her bottom. ‘Maybe later,’ she said. ‘Depending on what time we get home and how good you are.’

‘Come on then, let’s get the walk done so we can get back,’ Dan replied with his best winning smile. Claire gave him a look.

They continued up the stony track, growing narrower now and fading into the moorgrass. Dan pointed west. ‘Just over there is a place you might have heard of. You know how much of Dartmoor has mystic connections and there are lots of strange place names? There’s a famous one down there. That’s Evil Coombe – or valley, if you prefer.’

It was small and shallow, like a dry riverbed, pitted with grey granite boulders and yellow gorse. A green tent stood halfway down, ruffling in the buffeting wind. A small stream crossed the valley just below the tent, its flashing, crystal water gushing, swollen by the autumn rains. A couple of crows stared at them from the top of a pyramid-shaped boulder, then hopped effortlessly into the sky, wheeling into flight and mocking them with their cackling calls.

‘It’s got quite an atmosphere,’ said Claire. ‘It does feel sinister. I’m almost frightened to ask. How did it get to be called Evil?’

Dan chuckled. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you there. Your detective’s instinct wants to hear some story of murder long ago, or ritual sacrifices by black-robed figures doesn’t it? Well, it’s nothing like that. The name probably comes from eval, the old tin miners’ word for a pick. Lots of Dartmoor names are like that. They sound good, but don’t bear closer examination. The Devil’s Walk near Princetown is just the same. It was named after a local chap who unfortunately was called Mr Devil.’

They walked up to the top of the ridge and into a renewed battering from the angry wind. There were a few spots of rain too, and the sky was looking leaden and menacing, as if it was glowering at their invasion of the sacred wilderness of the moor.

‘Had enough?’ asked Dan hopefully, memories of her half-promise still fresh. ‘I think we might get soaked if we go on much further.’

‘What was this dog thing you were going to show me?’

‘Over there,’ said Dan, pointing north. ‘See that low, boggy area?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s Fox Tor Mire. It’s one of Dartmoor’s most treacherous bogs. It’s generally reckoned to be where Sherlock Holmes’s
Hound of the Baskervilles
is set. I thought it’d be appropriate for Rutherford as a non-fiction hellish hound. But we can do it another day.’

‘Fine. I’ve got to get back to the station this afternoon to do some more work on the marksman case, but your suggestion for spending a little more time together first sounds appealing.’ She snuggled into him, whispered in his ear. ‘Can we go back to your flat rather than find an adit?’

Dan thought their walk back down the hill was one of the fastest he’d ever managed.

Marcus Whiting sat cross-legged on the bed in his hotel room on Plymouth Hoe, the floor around him covered in sheets of paper. It was a modest hotel, not the standard he was entitled to, but he didn’t have extravagant tastes. He worked with public money and it would not be wasted on excess.

On his left were the documents from the first shooting, five months ago. He’d divided them into five piles; witness statements, Crouch’s statement, Gardener’s statement, the previous IPCA investigation report and background documents on the police officers and the witnesses.

On his right were the papers from the latest shooting, divided into five similar piles. Whiting was staring from one pile to another, eyes flicking from left to right, trying to spin the different details in his mind to see if some settled together. He’d been doing so for four hours now, but still nothing came.

Frustrated, he closed his eyes and laid back on his bed, stretched his aching back. He knew he should go out, find a reasonable restaurant to have an evening meal, but he didn’t feel hungry. The investigation did not allow time for luxuries. He would let himself eat when he had answers or ideas. Not before.

He opened his eyes, turned his body, and focused on the red and white hoops of Smeaton’s Tower, the old Eddystone Rocks lighthouse, now standing guard over the Hoe. The window rattled as the wind gusted in off the sea. He could hear distant rumbling skateboard wheels on the tarmac and gulls squealing to each other as they soared in the wind, but he scarcely registered them. There was something he was missing, he was sure of it. Something about this case did not add up. Whether it was criminal or not, he would get to the bottom of it.

The suspicion returned. He didn’t like it, but knew it could be justified. It had happened before, it could well be happening again. Was his inquiry being obstructed? There was no direct evidence of it, just the suspicion. And if not deliberately obstructed, how about subtly? Was he being shown the whole picture? Were some people protecting others? Were these officers who’d been assigned to help him up to the job? Were they driven enough and sufficiently sure of their purpose to see it through? Would they spot the crucial evidence? Even if they did, would they tell him?

The answer came back the same as always. The only person he could trust was himself. No one wanted him here. It was a familiar feeling. It used to make him lonely, but he was long past that now. He’d forgotten what it was like not to feel lonely. He was used to being alone and couldn’t imagine any other way.

He’d learnt that in his childhood; he could trust only himself. So much, so many times they’d moved around. How many was it? He didn’t know, just that he’d lost count. It had been explained to him, lovingly and patiently each time, that Dad had an important job to do in a new Embassy and they would have to move. Again.

It was about every year, he thought. A year was just the wrong amount of time for a young boy. Less and he wouldn’t have made the friends he loved. Less and he wouldn’t have found walks, dens, places to play. Less and he wouldn’t have joined clubs and settled at school. Less and he wouldn’t have become attached.

If it had been more than a year, the friends and places might have endured. He might have kept in touch, written and phoned, gone back to visit. But it never was. It was always a year in one place, then on to the next, starting all over again. Just the wrong amount of time.

How many times had they moved before he stopped making those friends to whom he would always have to say goodbye in a few months? He didn’t know. He suspected it wasn’t many. Was it deliberate, or something subconscious, not forming bonds? He didn’t know that either, just that it was a thing he didn’t do. Yourself, that was all you really had.

There was his duty too, another lesson his father had taught. To be more accurate, initially his father, but then, more importantly, fate. It was duty which meant they had to move again his father had said every year over the dinner table, the young Whiting pulling himself up to his full height to hear the words clearly, looking over the wooden fruit bowl that followed them on each annual move. He must do his duty.

When he was much younger, Marcus Whiting had thought the talk of duty was exciting. It meant his dad was a spy, like those he saw on the television, pitting his life and his wits against enemy agents to save his country. It was only much later he’d found out the truth. He would never forget the deflation and disillusionment.

He knew he had never really understood how someone who worked in the passports and visas section of the embassy could be so driven by duty. But nevertheless, duty was something he had inherited.

Not at first, though. The teenage Whiting had rebelled against it. He smiled faintly at the memory but with indulgence, not warmth. It was the natural thing to do, of course. Boys rebelled against their parents, it had been going on for ever and it always would. He had been a rebel, a frequent visitor to the headmaster’s office, caned a couple of times too. He wore the raw weals with pride, delighting in showing the other boys, the nearest he ever got to friends.

Then, there was that clever teacher at his last boarding school, Mr Lewis. He’d spotted the young Whiting’s potential he said, and told him not to waste it or he’d regret it. He must work hard and do well at his O levels, particularly the mathematics that he taught.

Mr Lewis had made him a prefect, the old trick of giving the bad boy responsibility. Even then, he’d still been a rebel. Until the night of the accident, that was. Then he’d finally come to understand what his father meant by duty and the importance of it. He had never forgotten.

Another rattling gust of wind drew his mind back to the inquiry. What was he sure of? That he was suspicious, yes, but also that he was making little progress. He gazed around at the ten unsteady piles of documents, the pillars of thousands of pieces of paper.

Was there an answer in them somewhere? He certainly had no evidence, and he still wasn’t sure if he was being obstructed. But there could be a way to resolve both those questions. It would be risky, and quite probably dangerous, but it might also be his only chance to find out what really was going on. And he thought he had identified the unwitting person for the role he had in mind, had sensed a similarity of purpose that he could use.

He would go through the papers one more time and decide whether to give it a try, but he knew he already suspected it might be the only way. It had worked before. He sensed he was hungry but he ignored the ache in his stomach. Dinner could wait. Duty was far more important.

It was remarkable how quickly you could get used to something, Dan thought, as he lay outstretched on his great blue sofa that evening, Rutherford on the floor by his side. He’d hardly noticed the policeman at the flat’s door when he got home and the thought wasn’t taunting his mind any more. He didn’t have that urge to keep checking over his shoulder either. Nothing whatsoever had happened to unsettle him over the weekend and he’d begun to convince himself that letter was an idle threat.

The time with Claire had been great too, and for the first time Dan allowed himself to imagine what might happen between them. Could they move in together? Here, in the flat? Why not?

She loved it and she got on well with Rutherford. The place was big enough certainly, larger than most two-bedroom houses. But it was very much his. How would he feel about her stuff appearing, her changing the odd thing around? That would be an invitation for friction. Everything here was perfect as far as he was concerned. Maybe it would be better if they bought somewhere new. That way it would seem more equal, a healthier start to their life together.

He checked himself, blew out a deep lungful of air. What was he thinking about? They hadn’t talked about any of this, hadn’t even mentioned the love word yet. How could he know she was thinking the same? Don’t spoil it by going too fast, he warned himself. Don’t push it. Just let it develop naturally.

He did feel so much better than when she’d rung the doorbell this morning. Then he’d been expecting his P45 notice of termination of employment as partner. He was even rehearsing his plan, a day in the pub with the lads, drinking away his sorrow, a roast dinner, anything to fight off the Swamp as best he could. Now he was lying here, feeling relaxed, contented and at peace with the world. There was no sign of the Swamp, fickle foe that it was. Life’s clouds had lifted.

He stroked the dog’s head with one hand, sipped at a glass of beer with the other. It was remarkable too how little he thought of Thomasin now. She was still there, on the fringes of his mind but without the substance she once had, without the hold and the destructive power. Adam had been right in one of the early pep talks he’d handed out: meet someone else and memories of unfulfilled love fade fast.

Right, time for his last chore of the day, watering the five hapless houseplants which eked out an unfulfilling existence in the flat. He took the green plastic watering can from the top of the fridge and filled it up, added a couple of drops of plant food. He was on the last needy and grateful recipient, the spider plant in the bathroom, when his mobile warbled. He jogged back into lounge, kneed the curious Rutherford gently out of the way. Adam.

‘He’s done it again.’

‘What?’ said Dan, thrown by the unorthodox start to the conversation.

‘He’s done it again. Your stalker. The second attack in his great bloody plan.’

Dan juggled the phone between his shoulder and ear and reached for his notepad and a pen. ‘Where? What? When?’

‘Plymouth again, in the last couple of hours. It’s similar to the other time, but not the same by any means. He’s left what looks like a heart this time. I’m assuming it’s a pig’s.’

‘And a letter?’

‘Yes, another letter, addressed to you. And another physically unharmed but traumatised woman. He grabbed her in her car this time. But now I think we’ve got a good lead. I reckon we might be closing in on him. I damn well hope so. I get this feeling he’s going to do something far worse unless we get him quickly.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘You’d better get over here.’

‘But I’ve had a few beers. I can’t drive.’