Dead and Buried

11

Samantha Merritt would be in shock later. But Diane Fry knew the early stages could provide valuable information from bereaved relatives, details she might otherwise have to wait days for.

To some, her approach might seem cold and insensitive. Exploitative, even. She could practically hear it being said about her now, though behind her back, of course. But the family of a murder victim wanted the killer found, didn’t they? And for that to happen, she needed information about the victim — as much of it as possible

‘The funny thing is, Aidan called me and left a message,’ said Samantha. ‘He said he was on the moor near the fire. It can’t have been very long before he, you know …’

‘He was on Oxlow Moor? Near the pub where he was found?’

‘Yes, up there somewhere. I just thought he’d gone to watch the fires. A lot of people do that, don’t they?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘It’s a funny kind of spectator sport. But Aidan was interested in things like that. He wanted to be at any big event he thought was likely to be in the news. I suppose it made him feel he was seeing history take place.’

Fry studied the room as Mrs Merritt spoke. The house was neat and clean, but otherwise unremarkable. The furniture and decor ranged through beige to off-white. Everything she saw seemed bland, much like the victim’s widow herself. Samantha was a plain woman, with straight brown hair that seemed to have become instantly damp with her tears and hung raggedly round her face. She nervously tore tissues in half from a box at her elbow on the sofa.

‘What did he say to you when he called you?’ asked Fry.

‘Well, he was rambling, not making any sense at all. Something about the ninth circle of hell.’

‘The what?’

‘The ninth circle of hell.’

‘He must have been referring to the fires, I suppose.’

‘He could have been,’ said Samantha doubtfully. ‘It feels so strange, the fact that those were his last words to me. And yet I couldn’t understand what he was talking about. I wish he’d left me a different message.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Fry was silent for a moment, allowing Samantha Merritt the surge of emotion. It mustn’t overwhelm her, though. Not at this stage. Fry still needed her to focus.

‘We found your husband’s car, Mrs Merritt,’ she said. ‘A blue Ford Focus?’

‘Oh, yes. I didn’t think about the car. Where was it?’

‘It had been parked at the side of a road near Oxlow Moor. It seems Mr Merritt left it there and walked the rest of the way to the Light House across the moor. It’s possible he intended to get nearer, but was prevented by a road closure.’

‘Road closure?’

‘The fires.’

‘Of course.’

Fry could see that the woman was having difficulty. In these circumstances, the mind tended to go round in circles, unable to cope with the facts it was being presented with. Unless she was guided, Samantha would keep coming back over and over to the ninth circle of hell, which wasn’t helpful at all.

To concentrate Mrs Merritt’s attention, Fry leaned forward and clasped her hands tightly together until the knuckles turned white, forming a focus point they could both see. She waited for the woman’s eyes to settle on her hands.

‘Mrs Merritt, have you any idea why your husband would have gone to that pub? It had been closed for six months.’

‘The Light House, you mean? Aidan went there a lot.’

‘Yes, but there could have been no point this time. It was closed,’ insisted Fry, spelling out the words slowly and clearly. ‘He must have known that.’

‘Of course. Well … yes, I’m sure he did.’ Samantha stared vaguely at Fry. ‘I can’t imagine. I don’t know what he was thinking of.’

‘Didn’t he talk to you about it?’

‘Not about where he was going. He must have gone up there right after school. He sometimes had to stay behind for a meeting or to do some marking or something like that, so I didn’t expect him home straight away. He didn’t drink heavily, but now and then he went for a drink with a few of the other teachers. They like to get together and have a good moan, you know.’

She laughed. It was that short laugh with the slightly hysterical overtones that Fry had heard from relatives before. It could mark the beginnings of denial, an insistence that nothing as ludicrous as the story she’d just been told could possibly have happened. But I only spoke to him that afternoon, they’d say, as if the whole world had taken an unbelievable turn of events in the meantime.

‘He was a teacher at Edendale Community School,’ said Fry. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes. Aidan is … was an English teacher. He was good at his job. Oh, does the school know? I’ll need to tell them. They’ll be wondering where he is. Aidan isn’t the type to call in sick, you see.’

‘We’ll deal with all that,’ said Fry. ‘There’s no need for you to worry.’

There was a family liaison officer sitting in the room, a young female PC who’d made the tea now standing on a table in front of Mrs Merritt. Fry could see that it was untouched and going rapidly cold, a scum forming on the surface.

‘The Light House,’ repeated Fry. ‘Why would Aidan have gone there? Please try to think what his reason might have been. Did he mention the pub at all recently?’

‘Aidan never mentioned the Light House, once it had shut,’ said Samantha. ‘He started going somewhere else. Actually, he’s been going to several different places. He never settled on a regular pub after the Light House.’

‘Did he talk about meeting anyone?’

‘No. Not that I can remember.’

‘Didn’t you go to the pub with him sometimes?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t like pubs. I do take a drink now and then, but I prefer to stay at home with a nice bottle of wine and watch a DVD.’

‘Perhaps you can give me the names of the other teachers,’ said Fry.

‘Who?’

‘The ones he used to drink with sometimes after school.’

‘Oh, certainly. I can give you one or two.’

Fry offered her a notebook. ‘Please write them down while you’re thinking about it.’

Mrs Merritt did as she was asked, scrawling two or three names with a shaky hand and passing the pad back to Fry.

‘I need to ask you …’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘How did he die exactly?’

Fry had a copy of the post-mortem report right in front of her. When Mrs Merritt asked the question, she instinctively covered the file with her hand, in case any details were visible.

‘Blunt-force trauma,’ she said, repeating the Home Office pathologist’s practised phrase.

Most murders in the UK were the result of blunt force or a bladed weapon. Bashing or stabbing — the two methods favoured by the British for doing each other in.

Samantha nodded, balling a tissue in her fist.

‘Do you know what he was hit with?’

‘Not exactly. Something heavy, made of wood. We’re doing more tests, of course. We’re hopeful of getting some forensic evidence that will help us catch the person who did it.’

‘You haven’t found the … weapon, then?’

‘No.’

Fry knew that Mrs Merritt had identified the body of her husband earlier. Although Merritt had been cleaned up in the morgue, it would have been obvious what his fatal wounds were. It was impossible to conceal head injuries in the way the mortuary staff could sometimes keep damage to other parts of the body from the family.

The report in front of Fry talked about the results of the blows on Aidan Merritt’s skull. There had been brain injuries both at the site of impact, and on the opposite side of the skull due to the contrecoup effect of the brain ricocheting within the skull.

In fact there had been three blows, the pathologist said. The first two had not been immediately fatal, but they had cracked the skull and certainly concussed the victim. They had also caused the leaking of cerebrospinal fluid, cerebral contusions, lacerations to the scalp and haemorrhaging of the skin. If Merritt had survived those two injuries, he might well have been left in a coma and suffered permanent brain damage. The bruising from the floor, the glass cuts to his face and hands — they seemed almost irrelevant.

But the third blow, the one that had struck Aidan Merritt when he was already on the ground, was the one that had pulverised the right side of his brain.

‘Mrs Merritt, did your husband ever talk about David and Trisha Pearson?’ asked Fry.

She shook her head in confusion. ‘Who? Do they work at his school?’

‘No. They were two visitors to the area who went missing a couple of years ago.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Mr Merritt was interviewed at the time. The Pearsons visited the Light House shortly before they disappeared.’

‘I think I remember that,’ said Samantha, with a great effort. ‘I didn’t like him being interviewed by the police just because he was there at the pub that night. But he told me it was only routine. Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Fry.

‘Well then. I don’t understand. I don’t seem to understand anything.’

Fry watched her, judging that the moment had come when she wouldn’t get any more information. She hadn’t got very much at all from the visit. But she hoped that some day Mrs Merritt would be able to understand a little bit better.

Ben Cooper examined the buildings critically. On the night they disappeared, the Pearsons had been setting off from Castleton to walk here, to their holiday cottage, which turned out to be a two-bedroom conversion from some ancient outbuildings on Brecks Farm.

The Old Dairy, it was called. Looking at it, Cooper suspected it had been used for some less picturesque purpose than a dairy, but he supposed the name sounded better in the tourist brochures. The cottage stood well away from the farmhouse and the more modern agricultural buildings that had been erected much closer to the tarmac roadway running south towards the back road out of Peak Forest.

Whatever their purpose, the buildings that had become the Old Dairy would quickly have become awkward and inconvenient for modern farming practices. A rough track running back from the present farmyard had been maintained for the benefit of paying guests, but otherwise the situation of the cottage was quiet and undisturbed. Ideal for a peaceful holiday. Perfect if you wanted to drop out of sight for a while.

Cooper turned until his back was to the door of the cottage. The view was pretty peaceful too. It encompassed several acres of rough grazing dotted with sheep, and a backdrop of moorland, with a few other farmsteads nestled here and there in the landscape, all of them a good walk away from The Old Dairy.

And there, prominent on a rise to the north-west, was the Light House. Unlike the distant farms, its position made it seem surprisingly close. If he was a visitor to the area staying at this cottage, he would certainly have been tempted to walk to the pub in the evening. Probably every evening. Although it was uphill, the slope wasn’t too steep and didn’t look difficult to manage. No problem for anyone reasonably active, and eager for a pint or a bar meal. And there was always the reassurance that it would be mostly downhill coming back.

The Pearsons would have been familiar with the Limestone Way. They’d used it earlier in the week, according to the statements. Coming back in the dark, in the snow, they would have looked for the little circular signs with their yellow arrows identifying the route. For most of its length here, the trail ran between dry-stone walls, which would have offered some protection from drifting snow for a while. In his own mind, there was no question. That was the way he would have come.

Well, as long as he was in his senses and not too befuddled by drink. Then, there was no saying what he might have done. The Pearsons might have taken the most familiar route, but not necessarily the safest.

David Pearson had that look in the eyes. Confident, but unpredictable — the sort of man who would get an idea in his head, and then move heaven and earth to follow it through, against all the best advice and in the teeth of good sense. Trisha must have seen that in him. It was probably what had appealed to her, that aura of danger and unpredictability.

Cooper consulted the OS map again, and scanned the countryside around Brecks Farm.

‘Where does that track go to, I wonder?’ he said.

‘Shall we see?’ asked Villiers.

‘Fine.’

They bumped up the track, kicking up dust from their wheels, until they turned a bend and were stopped by a steel barrier.

It was an abandoned quarry. Some sites in the Peak District had been cleared up and machinery removed, then either converted to a different use, such as landfill, or restored to agriculture. This one was too recently abandoned, perhaps. The entrance gate was blocked by large chunks of calcite, left as if for display as geological samples.

Just inside the site, a series of blue shipping containers stood at one side of the roadway, with their doors left gaping open. One of them had been used as a store for equipment spares such as conveyors, pumps and screens. The sides of the interior still carried labels with faintly mysterious names: Transfer Conveyor, Crusher, Cobbles Belt, Pearls One. The door had been wedged open with a wooden pallet, and there was little left inside it now.

Outside, though, the ground was littered with long strips and rolls of black conveyor belt. They were heaped and scattered everywhere, as if the departing workers had simply thrown everything out of the containers before they left the site. Among the debris were broken bits of machinery, part of a drive shaft from a quarry vehicle. Two smaller containers were perched precariously on a pile of corrugated-iron roofing sections.

Further into the quarry was an abandoned lorry, digging equipment, a caravan that might once have been used as a site office. The signs warned of blasting and cautioned Cooper to observe a ten miles per hour speed limit. The barriers would not stop anyone who wanted to enter the site, but the machinery was too big to steal, so it had been left.

Now, only the sound of birds disturbed the site, where once there would have been a deafening cacophony of machinery, crushed stone and blasting.

‘This must have been searched at the time,’ said Cooper.

‘Oh, surely.’

He wished he could feel as confident as he was trying to sound. Something had gone wrong in the original investigation of the Pearsons’ disappearance, and he wasn’t yet sure what it was. In fact, he had no firm idea at all.

Back at the office, Luke Irvine had been landed with the job of ploughing through all the old witness statements, search reports and case files. It was a thankless task, but someone had to do it, just in case a fresh pair of eyes spotted something new.

‘I’ll get Luke to check,’ said Cooper. ‘It might make him feel a bit more involved.’

Returning to the entrance, Cooper found himself standing in a gateway looking at a little circular sign with its yellow arrow identifying the Limestone Way. He’d noticed that right below it was another sign, with no words on it, only a simple graphic. It showed a small human figure falling head first into a hole in the ground.

Its message ought to be clear. But how many people set off to walk across the moors without any realisation of the dangers under their feet?

Cooper tried to imagine the Pearsons thinking they could follow the Limestone Way in the dark, and in a snowstorm too. If that was what they’d done, it could only be called foolhardy in the extreme. He supposed they weren’t the first ill-prepared travellers to have lost their lives on these moors. But it shouldn’t happen in the twenty-first century.