Dead and Buried

10

Ben Cooper parked his Toyota by the little green in the centre of Castleton and opened his Ordnance Survey map. It was a well-used, heavily creased copy of Outdoor Leisure 1, the Dark Peak.

As usual, the area he wanted went off the edge of the map and crossed into the White Peak. That was just to make things more difficult.

Above the town, a team of officers were attempting to follow the route that the Pearsons might have taken from Castleton on the night they disappeared. It had been done before, but DCI Mackenzie had insisted on it being done again. The scope of the search had been widened, taking in a broad sweep of the moor right over to Speedwell Cavern and Winnats Pass on one side, and including the Limestone Way itself on the other.

In most parts of the country it would be impossible to imagine how two people could simply disappear in open countryside like this. But Cooper was aware of what lay underneath his feet. The whole of this landscape was hollow. It was one huge lump of porous limestone, scooped out over millennia by running water to form endless caves and tunnels and passages.

The Peak Cavern system alone ran for more than ten miles before it emerged at Speedwell, and it included the deepest shaft in the UK, twice the size of St Paul’s Cathedral. Rain falling on the surface in Cavedale found its way through to the show caverns below and fell as lime-stained waterfalls on the heads of tourists.

Even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had once said: ‘All this county is hollow. Could you strike it with some gigantic hammer it would boom like a drum.’ In that wider context, it was far too easy to imagine anything disappearing.

Cooper glanced out of the car window. Up Castle Street, he could see the sign outside the George, directly opposite the parish church. He dialled Carol Villiers’ mobile number, and she answered after three or four rings.

‘Where are you, Carol?’

‘Still at the George.’

‘Anything?’

‘No. The story stays the same, right down to the details. Except the details are becoming a bit vague by now. I’ve been going through the names of the other people who were eating here that night. I know it’s been done before …’

‘Hasn’t it all?’ said Cooper.

‘Well … anyway, they’re all in the clear. No connection with the Pearsons, so far as I can tell. One couple were from Sussex, which I suppose is not a million miles from where the Pearsons lived.’

‘Did they speak to each other?’

‘Not that we know of. Not that anyone saw.’

‘A washout, then.’

‘Of course, we don’t have all the names,’ said Villiers. ‘Some of the customers are unaccounted for. So there are gaps.’

Cooper sighed. ‘I know. Thanks, Carol.’

‘I’m leaving the George in a few minutes. I’m going to go past the Green.’

‘Fine.’

Details of the Pearsons’ movements towards the end of that night were sketchy, and had to be partly speculation. What was known for certain was that they’d arrived at the George, where they’d booked a table for dinner at seven thirty. Since their Range Rover III was still standing outside The Old Dairy next day, the presumption was that they’d walked to Castleton. The owner of the cottage confirmed they were keen walkers — that was why they came to the Peak District, they’d said. At the George, staff who’d served them remembered that they’d come in wearing outdoor clothes and walking shoes. It wasn’t at all unusual; Castleton was a centre for walkers at any time of the year.

Cooper thought about the photographs of the Pearsons again. You couldn’t always tell the outdoor types, of course. And the Peak District had enough variety to attract anyone. But personally, he wouldn’t have pegged David Pearson as the kind of man to be hiking over the moors in the middle of winter. The activity had its attractions, without a doubt, but it was minority appeal. Most people would have jumped into the car and driven to Castleton. Almost everyone, in fact, even if they hadn’t bothered to check the local weather forecasts. It was one of the factors that had fuelled theories that the Pearsons had set the whole thing up. If you looked at it that way, it was the unlikeliest element of the scenario. Yet from the evidence, that seemed undoubtedly to be what had happened.

Okay, so the meal had gone off uneventfully. The mushrooms in peppercorn sauce, the Bantry Bay mussels, the honey-glazed ham shank. The Pearsons’ table hadn’t been close to the windows, so they might not have noticed the weather deteriorating. It was only a bit of sporadic sleet anyway. A few wintry showers. What was that to a couple of determined, experienced walkers with the right gear?

But wait a minute. Exactly how experienced were the Pearsons? Cooper made a note to find out. The original inquiry had traced their movements the day before their visit to Castleton, but those had all been by car, surely? They’d filled up the Range Rover at Sickleholme service station, so they must have been using fuel. A trip into Buxton for the Christmas market, maybe. Afternoon tea at the Old Hall Hotel. The Twelve Days of Christmas at Chatsworth House. That would have been David and Trisha’s style, if he wasn’t mistaken.

But still, they seemed to have decided to walk to Castleton — a distance of about three miles from the cottage. He estimated an hour at a brisk pace. No one could say exactly when they’d set off, so the couple might have taken their time, a leisurely stroll over the moor to work up an appetite, with a nice meal awaiting them at the end of it.

Well, not quite the end of it. There had been the hike back to The Old Dairy to take into consideration.

So what about when the meal was over? When they left the George, the Pearsons were believed to have walked in this direction, past the green and into Bargate, where they could turn directly on to the start of the Limestone Way as they headed back to their cottage.

He watched Villiers do it now, walking up Castle Street, passing his car and stopping at the gift shop by the green.

And that was what bothered Cooper. From the statements taken at the time, there was really no confirmation of it — only a passing reference to the Limestone Way in the course of conversation with staff at the George.

What if the Pearsons had instead turned the corner of Castle Street by the youth hostel on to the narrow lane called The Stones? Extensive interviews and appeals to the public had resulted in an identification earlier in the evening by customers who had been waiting at the little fish and chip shop a few yards up. The couple had been seen to cross the bridge over the Peak Water. According to the statements, they’d seemed very relaxed, and had stopped, as everyone did, to listen to the water rushing under the parapet as it tumbled from the mouth of Peak Cavern.

But, as Fry had pointed out, that was when the Pearsons were on their way in to Castleton, not out of it. It was merely confirmation that they’d arrived on foot. It gave no indication how they’d left. They had talked about the Limestone Way, and that was the safest route back to their cottage in bad conditions, wasn’t it?

Yet it was perfectly possible that the Pearsons had taken the other route. If they’d left Castleton the same way they’d come in, they would have gone over the slopes of Hurd Low and found themselves on the edge of Oxlow Moor. Their route should have connected them to the Limestone Way to the east, and a straight run back to the cottage at Brecks Farm. But what if they’d strayed to the west? With no landmarks or reference points to guide them, it would have been all too easy. Once you’d lost your way in those conditions, you could walk round in circles for hours and be none the wiser.

There was a track to the west, too. He pictured the Pearsons struggling across the snow-covered heather, stumbling over rough ground and finally feeling a path under their feet. They would have followed it, surely. If they were desperate enough by then, they would have grasped at it like a drowning man sighting an oasis.

He shook his head in dismay. But all that did was widen the search area dramatically. His suggestion would not be welcomed.

Yes, the Pearsons would probably have found it easier to follow the track to Hurd Low, but it would have meant leaving the lights of the town behind sooner, as the trail started in Cavedale, deep below the ruined walls of Peveril Castle. If they’d walked over Hurd Low on their way to the George, it would have seemed logical to go back the same way.

Logical, but possibly fatal.

He’d lost sight of Villiers now, so he redialled her number.

‘Carol?’

‘I’m going through the gate into the dale,’ she said.

‘Cave Dale?’

‘Yes. It’s pretty gloomy in here, you know. Lots of dark corners among the rocks. Caves, even.’

‘Well, that’s why it’s called Cave Dale.’

‘Right. I was just thinking it would be an ideal location for an ambush.’

‘Ambush? Is that your military training coming out again?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Who would want to ambush the Pearsons?’

‘I have no idea,’ admitted Villiers. ‘I’m just using my imagination. Isn’t that what you do, Ben?’

‘I wouldn’t always recommend it,’ said Cooper.

‘The start of the Limestone Way is straight ahead. There’s no missing it once you’re in the dale.’

‘You can come back now, Carol.’

A few minutes later, Villiers opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat of the Toyota. Cooper showed her the map and told her his theory.

‘It’s not really a theory,’ she said. ‘It’s speculation.’

‘You’re right. I know.’

‘But I suppose speculation is what we need right now.’

‘We don’t have anything else.’

They both sat in silence for a moment. Cooper guessed that Villiers was thinking what he was — how disappointing it would be if they went over all the old ground and came up with nothing but the same old facts and the same worn-out theories.

Cooper had never known a case where the events they were investigating were so ambiguous. He could see why the inquiry had eventually run out of steam. There was no firm evidence that the Pearsons had died. Nor was there definite proof that they were still alive and living under new identities somewhere.

‘The Pearsons both had mobile phones, didn’t they?’ said Villiers. ‘Why didn’t they make an emergency call?’

‘Yes, that was looked into, of course. David had an iPhone.’

‘Oh yes. At the George, they said he was using it constantly to access the internet, to read emails and even to look at maps of the area with its GPS feature. The staff overheard Trisha telling him that he would run the battery down.’

‘Well if he was using GPS when they walked across the moor, it would have drained pretty quickly,’ said Cooper.

‘That would be the phone found buried in the peat.’

‘Yes, that was David’s. As for Trisha, she had a smartphone too, but she was on a different network. According to the phone company’s records, her handset wasn’t logged on during the relevant time. It seems likely that she couldn’t get a signal. It isn’t unusual in that area. Heck, it isn’t unusual anywhere in this part of the county.’

‘So where is Trisha’s phone?’ asked Villiers.

‘We don’t know, do we?’

‘No.’

Villiers looked thoughtful. Cooper waited, watching her expression, trusting her to put her finger on some significant point. Or at least hoping that she would.

‘The conversation in the restaurant sounds a bit staged, doesn’t it?’ she said finally.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It seems to me it could have been acted out by the Pearsons specifically so that the staff or other diners would hear it, and be able to report later that David’s battery was running low. It’s far too convenient.’

Cooper nodded, feeling slightly disappointed, though he didn’t know why.

Villiers opened the door of the car again.

‘I’ll do The Stones, then, shall I?’ she said.

‘We’ll both go,’ said Cooper.

She watched him lock the car and pull on his jacket, folding the OS map and shoving it into his pocket.

‘You want to go all the way up to Hurd Low and check out your theory, don’t you?’ said Villiers. ‘Your speculation?’

Cooper smiled. ‘You know me too well.’

They turned the corner by the youth hostel, past the entrance to Peveril Castle, which loomed above them on the hill. They entered The Stones by an outdoor clothing shop and found themselves in a narrow space between buildings, their footsteps echoing against the walls as they passed the tables outside the fish and chip shop. The river and the Peakshole Water bridge were just a few yards further on, where The Stones met Goose Hill.

Cooper tried to imagine that he and Villiers were David and Trisha Pearson leaving the George after their meal. With a bit of effort he could see the whole thing in his mind’s eye — the Pearsons looking at the falling sleet as they walked out of the door of the George, pulling up the collars of their coats and setting out to walk in the direction of their holiday cottage.

It had been dark for hours by then, of course. But if the Pearsons had chosen this route via The Stones and Hurd Low, they wouldn’t have left the street lamps of the town behind until they were on Goose Hill, just passing the last house and the back gates of Goose Hill Hall. He realised they were climbing quite steeply already, as they made their way up the slope of the hill overlooking Cavedale and the gorge of Peak Cavern itself.

He could picture the Pearsons reaching the top and coming out on to this gentler slope near Hurd Low, which had fine views in daylight towards Winnats Pass and Mam Tor. They must have had torches with them, because they would have been beyond any lights by that time, and the sky was heavily overcast. They would surely have been aiming to follow the path that linked up with the Limestone Way, just over the moor.

But the weather had changed in that time. The light flurries of sleet that had already been falling while they lingered in the George must have become more frequent as they walked up Goose Hill, turning to snow by the time they left the shelter of the town.

Cooper shook his head again. People so often didn’t realise how different the weather conditions could be when you gained a few hundred feet in height. Within minutes, the Pearsons could have been struggling through a blizzard blown across the moor by the wind. Their torches would have been almost useless, the track disappearing rapidly under drifting snow.

Was that what they’d done? He wondered if there was a point where they’d considered turning round and going back to Castleton. Or had they simply pressed on, perhaps misjudging the distance to their cottage, which had been such an easy walk in daylight and fine weather? He imagined them laughing and thinking what fun it was to walk through the snow in the darkness, with the mountains of the Dark Peak lurking in the low clouds and the sounds of civilisation deadened by the snowfall. He could see even David Pearson running ahead, kicking up the snow, calling to his wife, perhaps making a snowball to throw at her. All a big joke. Just a bit of a laugh.

The amount of alcohol they’d consumed might well have impaired their judgement. Those two bottles of wine could have led them astray from the path. It only needed one rash decision, and they were lost. It was so easy to get disorientated on the moor, to follow a dry-stone wall for reassurance, then cross a stile in the wrong direction. He supposed the Pearsons didn’t have a map with them, let alone a compass. Far too many walkers went on to the hills without any of the proper equipment.

Cooper looked at the OS map again. Those last few hundred yards, where the path south from Goose Hill ran alongside the Limestone Way, were scattered with the ominous symbols indicating disused mine workings.

Villiers had stopped, and he turned to see what she was doing.

‘I’m starting to get the idea,’ she said, with a hint of surprise in her voice.

‘You are?’

‘It felt really safe when we walking up past the houses. You’re so closed in there, it’s as though you’re protected. It evens feels a bit claustrophobic, because the buildings are packed so close together.’

‘I’ve often thought that about Castleton,’ said Cooper.

‘But it’s misleading, isn’t it? It gives you a false sense of security. Because once you’re up here …’

She gestured towards Mam Tor, the sweep of her arm expressing the sudden wildness of the landscape. It was quite unexpected after the intimacy of Castleton’s narrow lanes, even for someone who knew the area well.

Cooper followed her gaze. So when the Pearsons got up on to the moor, what would they do? Were they looking for a light in the distance to guide them? Had they been searching so hard that they hadn’t seen the headlights of a car sitting on Goose Hill, where someone had been waiting for them? Were they surrounded by that eerie silence created by snow, the world around them white and dead and hushed? Or had the snow been driving horizontally across the moor, the wind moaning and whining like an animal?

It was funny how in winter everyone found it difficult to remember what summer was like, and in summer it was just as hard to imagine the cold of winter.

Yesterday, surrounded by acres of blackened heather, with smoke still drifting across the slopes, Cooper would have found it almost impossible to picture Oxlow Moor deep in snow. After months of dry, unseasonably warm weather, it took quite a leap of the imagination to visualise the freezing-cold conditions the Pearsons would have been struggling through that night. They must have gone over that same hill he could see now in the distance, but in the teeth of an icy wind and zero visibility.

Cooper recalled driving back from the Light House to Bridge End Farm one winter night many years ago, with horizontal sheets of snow streaming through the headlights of Matt’s Land Rover and sweeping across the road. No one lost on the moors in those conditions would have stood a chance, unless they found shelter.

To the north of Oxlow Moor, Winnats Pass was hardly an easy road to negotiate at the best of times. But once a bit of snow began to settle, and drivers found their wheels failing to get traction on the first incline, they soon turned back and looked for another way out of Castleton. Well, there wasn’t another route — not in this direction. The old A625 had been swept away by the landslides off Mam Tor years ago.

So, even if they had any visibility in the snowstorm, the Pearsons would have seen little or no traffic passing to the north. No headlights to reassure them that there were other people around that night.

Where was it the family came from again? Surrey, somewhere just south of London. Dorking, that was it. In their day-to-day lives, they were probably never out of sight or earshot of a major trunk road. They were within spitting distance of the permanently congested M25, almost under the flight paths of two of the busiest airports in the world.

The Peak District wasn’t exactly the remote, inaccessible wastes of the Antarctic. But that night, for the Pearsons, it might as well have been.

When Villiers had gone, Cooper looked at his watch. It would be a good time to catch his brother at Bridge End Farm. Matt didn’t like being disturbed during milking or when he was out on the tractor. But right now, he’d probably be tinkering in the workshop or the equipment shed.

‘Ben? How’s it going?’ said Matt when he answered. ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’

‘No, no. Everything’s fine.’

‘We’ve not seen you and Liz for a while. We thought you might have called round.’

‘Oh, why?’

‘Well, aren’t there things to discuss? I mean …’

‘Oh, you mean the wedding.’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘We’ve been a bit busy, Matt. House-hunting, looking at cakes … You know the sort of thing.’

Matt sighed. ‘Yes, I remember.’

‘But you’re right, we do need to talk some time.’

‘Kate says I can’t make any rude jokes during my speech,’ said Matt. ‘Is that right? I thought it was traditional for the best man.’

‘You can say what you like, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Ben.

‘Good. I’m working on it. There are one or two incidents I remember …’

‘Yes, well … don’t forget how faulty your memory is sometimes.’

‘We’ll see.’

Ben hesitated, listening to the clang of a spanner in the workshop, picturing Matt carrying on working with one hand while holding his phone with the other.

‘How’s everything on the farm?’ he asked. ‘Are things picking up?’

‘Well, I’m hoping we might make a bit of money from the wool this year,’ said Matt. ‘At least a fleece will be worth more than the cost of shearing it, for once.’

‘That’s good.’

There was a brief silence.

‘Well,’ said Matt, with a laugh. ‘You didn’t phone me to talk about the wedding arrangements, and I don’t think you’re really all that interested in the price of wool. So …?’

‘You’re right. It’s do to with an inquiry that’s come up again.’

‘Ah, let me think. According to the news, they’re reopening the case of that couple from down south who went missing.’

‘That’s right. The Pearsons. That’s what I wanted to ask you about.’

Matt stopped clanging the spanner. ‘Me? What would I know about it? I read the papers and listen to the local news like everyone else, but that’s it.’

‘That Christmas, around the time the Pearsons disappeared. Do you know when I mean?’

‘Yes?’

‘There was a party of some kind at the Light House, wasn’t there?’

‘The Eden Valley Young Farmers Club. It was their Christmas piss-up. I mean, celebration.’

‘What night would that have been, Matt?’

‘Monday, I think. I haven’t been a member of the YFC for a good few years now, Ben. I’m too old. They don’t want you when you’re past twenty-six. We were only there that Christmas as guests. I judged the handling classes at the show for them earlier in the year.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said Ben uncertainly.

In his mind were fragmentary flashbacks to the evening. A lot of sweating, laughing faces. Music, shouting, perhaps a bit of dancing. Christmas lights had been strung over the doors; a decorated tree stood in one of the windows.

‘It was always a good do at the Light House,’ said Matt. ‘It was held just before they closed the pub for Christmas. There wasn’t as much pressure to leave when eleven o’clock came round, if you know what I mean. The YFC lads took it as a challenge to drink the place dry.’

‘Yes, of course. I’d forgotten the Light House used to close for Christmas until old Thomas Pilkington mentioned it.’

‘The Whartons, who ran it, liked to have Christmas on their own, as a family. I can’t fault them for that.’

‘No.’

Ben was trying to picture the main bar area. Who had been there? He saw three middle-aged men sitting on a bench discussing the quality of the beer, two young couples laughing at a table full of vodka bottles, an elderly woman on her own in the corner with a glass of Guinness and a plastic carrier bag. Oh, and a noisy group standing at the bar. Not locals, surely.

‘I wonder what happened to the Whartons when they had to leave the pub,’ said Matt. ‘I never heard.’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll have to find out.’

‘Anyway, you were quite a hit that night in the Light House.’

‘Was I? I usually try to keep a low profile. So many people know that I’m a police officer.’

‘Nobody would have taken too much notice of that, once you started singing.’

‘You’re kidding.’ Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t remember that.’

‘It’s no wonder you don’t remember.’ Matt laughed again. ‘You never could hold your drink that well, Ben. You were as pissed as a newt that night.’