Blood Substitute (3 page)

‘Should we stop his pocket money for a month, do you think?' Patrick suggested.

‘No, that would be counter-productive because he's saving up to buy a book from the school book fair,' I said. ‘I think that as he's had a real fright you just ought to stick to the talking-to.' We had already discussed the behaviour problem and were hoping to address it by Patrick taking some leave and devoting more time to the boy. I thought that in the long term more would be achieved by sending him to stay with his grandmother – after all, Elspeth had sorted Patrick out, hadn't she?

‘Thinking of stitches, you remember when James went off during the match to have his cut attended to and a substitute came on?'

‘Of course.'

‘The man's been missing from home for a week and his body's been discovered in a wood. He was murdered, shot in the back of the head.'

‘That's dreadful!'

‘James is upset as he knew him quite well – the guy was a DS working at HQ in Bristol and, obviously, they'd trained for matches together.'

‘Is the killing to do with the job, do they think?'

‘There's every chance that it could be as he was part of a team tackling some nasty outfits that have moved to the West Country from London. But of course it's early days yet: the body was only found this morning.'

‘Did James ring you with the news himself?'

‘Yes, he did.'

‘That might mean he's hoping SOCA will get involved.'

‘That occurred to me too.'

I suddenly recollected that players temporarily brought on to replace injured team-members are referred to as blood substitutes.

I
drove on, the going getting rougher and rougher and, not for the first time, wondered how people make a living on these remote Dartmoor farmsteads. The answer, I suppose, is that they do not and that most are now lived in by people who seek wild places and have other means of support or those who are retired and want to keep a few animals as a hobby. But what was a Scot doing in the fastnesses of England when he had the whole of his native land available to him?

I spotted Sheepwash Farm another half-mile farther on, the ancient steading seeming to huddle beneath a promontory that jutted from Fox Tor and looking like a house built just below the prow of a stone ship. The road climbed towards it and then, just past the entrance, appeared to come to an end at a gateway that led to the higher open moorland on the flanks of the hill. I stopped the car and looked at the group of buildings through my binoculars: it seemed to be a ruin. This called for a more direct approach than originally planned and so I drove closer.

The place was indeed mostly in ruins, the walls of the old barn and byres that fronted the central yard crumbling, their roofs open to the sky in places. The house was little better, with slates missing, vegetation growing in what guttering remained and from holes where stones were missing in the chimney stack. The upstairs windows were either shuttered or boarded up on the inside and the curtains were drawn on the ground floor. I drove between the leaning gateposts – there was no gate – into the yard and turned off the engine.

It had stopped raining and a deep and utter silence flowed in with cold, damp air when I opened the driver's window. Then, in the distance, a lamb bleated. A swallow swooped from one of the byres, skimmed over the roof of the house and went from sight. Nothing else moved; there were no vehicles here unless they were inside the barn and no tracks because the yard was surprisingly clean: it appeared to be deserted.

I got out of the car, the quiet sounds I made a violation of the silence. I did not slam the door, just gently pushed it to before walking slowly towards the house, which was actually no larger than a cottage. The blank windows seemed to stare back at me and for some reason I shivered.

I banged with my knuckles on the front door as there was no knocker or bell. There came no echo from within as there might in a house devoid of furniture, but instead there was a kind of dead resonance. I had a story ready should anyone answer the door – that I was on a hunt for a relative – but nothing moved inside; no one came. I knocked again, louder, with the same result.

Wondering if anyone was outside in a garden at the back I went down the narrow passageway between the house and the barn – the house was joined to an open tractor shed on the other side – but there was nothing that could be described as a garden at the rear, only a tiny paddock overgrown with bracken and rushes. Three large wooden packing cases – empty, I saw when I went closer – were stacked up against the rear wall of the house.

I went back around the front.

‘He's deid,' said a man who was standing as though waiting for me to return. He was wearing hiking clothing, the full kit: over-trousers, gaiters, walking boots and a very expensive anorak. The binoculars on a strap around his neck looked top-of-the-range too. He somehow belonged to this place: a chill emanated from him, possibly from the cold blue eyes.

‘Deid?' I echoed.

‘Aye, deid. Early last winter.'

I decided to take a risk and tell the truth. ‘It's Archie Kennedy I'm looking for,' I told him.

‘Aye, that's him. Deid.'

‘That's a shame. Were you a friend of his?'

‘In a manner of speaking.'

I went a little closer to him. ‘Do you know if there are any other relatives I can contact?'

‘No.'

‘Are you living here now?'

‘You ask a lot of questions.'

‘Sorry, I write books for a living – people and places interest me.'

He did not thaw by one fraction of a degree and said roughly, ‘There's nothing here for you or your stories.'

‘It has a strange atmosphere,' I replied defensively.

‘It has a violent history.'

It was obvious that he was not about to be more forthcoming so I had no choice but to tell him it was lovely to have met him, wish him good day, get into the car and leave.

I rather felt that I had masses of material.

‘
Do
you reckon he was living there?' Patrick asked later when I told him of my encounter.

‘There are no other houses nearby that could have suggested he was a neighbour,' I replied. ‘I actually think it's a strong possibility he not only lives there but is Archie Kennedy himself. He spoke with a strong Scottish accent. To have two Scots living in the same area – the middle of a bunch of bogs six miles from Princetown – is too much of a coincidence.'

‘He could have been a regular hill-walker from the village; it's quite large. And if you look at the map you'll see that the road takes a long route following the contours of the land – Princetown is only really a couple of miles away just over the hill to the north.'

‘If you survive crossing the various mires and don't fall down the mineshafts,' I said sarcastically.

‘Ingrid, I cut my special operations teeth on Dartmoor – they chuck you out there clad in only a thin tracksuit and armed with a bluntish knife, two snares and some fishing line. I know what I'm talking about.'

I love this man of mine to bits but the moor covers 365 square miles, give or take a few, and even he is sometimes prone to trumpet-blowing. Waggling a finger at him, I said, ‘And I happen to know that on one of your very first evening sorties the six of you went straight into the Plume of Feathers in Princetown, four formed a barbers' quartet, someone else played the piano and you did impressions. I gather you ate and drank very well on the proceeds and were allowed to sleep in the camping barn that night.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘Your mother.'

He grimaced. ‘I didn't tell her about the aftermath – how we were rounded up, given a thorough dusting and then chucked into Crazywell Pool before being told to stick to the rules for the rest of the exercise.'

‘And did you?'

‘No, we trotted ourselves dry across to Chagford and repeated the performance there.' Laughing, he added, ‘You don't find out until years later that they only pick the real anarchists for Special Ops.'

It was two days after my own sortie on to the moor and late evening. Patrick was home for a short weekend. He had been on another training course, which were for SOCA these days and not so physically demanding, thank everything holy, and had flown to Plymouth from London as there always seem to be engineering works on the railways at weekends.

‘I don't really know what to tell James,' I admitted.

‘Tell him what you've just told me,' Patrick said after taking a sip from his whisky nightcap.

‘But you've just rather rubbished my conclusion.'

‘It's up to James what he reads into your findings. From what you've said though, it doesn't appear likely that anyone's living in the farmhouse as it's uninhabitable.'

‘It could have been made to look like that. Oh, I forgot to mention the packing cases by the back door.'

‘Packing cases?'

‘Yes, new-ish wooden ones. The sort of things valuables might have been packed in for shipping.'

‘They could have been acquired to be chopped up for kindling.'

‘So is someone living in the place, or aren't they?' I retorted, exasperated.

He gave me an unnerving grin. ‘There's only one way to find out – conduct a night offensive.'

‘That doesn't seem necessary somehow,' I replied after a pause. ‘I don't think James expects us to go to those lengths.'

Patrick did not answer, unaccountably going outside into the yard for a few moments. When he came back he said, ‘There's a three-quarter moon, not a breath of wind and the weather's settled. Let's go for it – I could do with some fresh air.'

‘What, drive out and sneak up on the place
now
? That's daft!'

‘I'll go on my own then.'

And he actually poured the rest of his tot back into the bottle.

I was glad when Patrick offered to drive as, from the turn-off in Princetown, this would have to be achieved without lights. Car headlights are visible for miles in wide open spaces, especially ascending hills when they shine up into the sky or illuminate things you don't want them to. The moonlight was quite bright so finding our way was not a problem, the only hazards being rocks sticking out from the sides of the track that were visible in daylight hours but now hidden in deep shadow and likely to inflict real damage on the wheels or suspension if struck at speed.

Everything looks different at night; colour eradicated, shade taking on a solidness that makes a medium-sized boulder look like a car, a leaning tree like a giant bull about to walk into the road. Patrick had ghosted at walking pace over the cattle grid to prevent a giveaway rumble – sound travels for miles on a still night too – and we both ducked this time when the vehicle scraped beneath the rowan tree.

‘I forgot to tell you the latest on that cop whose body was found in woodland near Bristol,' Patrick said. ‘He'd been tortured before he was killed.'

‘How horrible,' I murmured. ‘What was his name?'

‘Cliff Morley. Carrick rang me with the news this morning and he'd only just found out himself. It appears that Bristol CID are keeping all this very close to their chests. Strictly speaking it isn't anything to do with him but James is not happy about the reticence at all and is making waves at HQ, his attitude being that police departments, especially those in the same force, shouldn't keep secrets from one another. He also thinks they might have lost the plot with the case as the criminal outfit involved – a fairly new one to the area, which is the number one suspect – is an offshoot from one in London and too big for them to handle. And, understandably, he's wondering what information, if any, his killers managed to extract from poor Morley before they killed him – he can't think there was any other motive for torture.'

‘This gang sticks to the usual recipe of drug-trafficking, robberies, organizing prostitution, extortion rackets and so forth, I assume.'

‘They appear to have got as far as holding up a building society branch, armed robbery of a jeweller's shop, stolen a few expensive cars and other crimes of which I don't know the details. They've also finished off some of the local opposition, which some cops might think a good thing as it saves them work, but murder's murder, whichever way you look at it.'

Patrick might have become a little distracted here, telling me this, for the vehicle encountered a large boulder while crossing the stream and stalled. Swearing under his breath he restarted it, reversed out again and chose a different route. ‘How far now?' he asked.

‘About a quarter of a mile along this straight bit above the mires and then steeply downhill to the left for a short way, another straight bit for several hundred yards before a tight turn to the right and then a climb up to the farm.'

A short distance farther on he spotted a recess in the rocky hillside immediately on our right, drove across a narrow grassy area tufted with rushes and edged the Range Rover into it, leaving just enough room for us to open the doors and get out.

There was a breeze up here, blowing towards us as we faced our destination and bringing with it the wet smell of peat and bruised greenery. Patrick scented the air like an animal.

‘Something's disturbed the ground,' he whispered. ‘But I can't smell sheep or ponies – not close by anyway.'

‘There are people who go hiking on the moor at night,' I whispered back. ‘Properly organized groups, I mean.'

‘Umm.'

We set off, walking on the grass at the side of the track so as to be as quiet as possible. Occasionally Patrick paused to look and listen, the reason I do not walk closely behind him. Cattle grazed not too far away, over to the right and up wind of us on the slopes of the hill – I could actually hear them tearing at the coarse grass. A fox yapped.