Over the Edge

By Mike Crowson

Veronica Dobson was murdered & dumped near Grazelema in Spain; father-in-law Nathanial Dobson was an unlikely suicide next day at Witchmoor Edge. Veronica's husband Luke has disappeared `& nephew Mark was the last to see either alive - or the killer if it wasn't him. DI Millicent Hampshire & Louis Hortez of the Gaurdia Civil untangle a web of drug smuggling, illegal immigrants and murder

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Crowson
• Release date: Dec 21, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458067722

Mike Crowson

Former teacher, former national secretary of what became the UK Green Party and for 40 years a student of things esoteric and occult. Now an occult and esoteric consultant offering free and unconditional help to those in serious and genuine psychic or occult trouble

Book preview

Over the Edge

Mike Crowson

Copyright 2006 Mike Crowson

Smashwords Edition 2010

Over the Edge

Grazelema, Southern Spain: Late Afternoon, Wednesday May 29

Sargente Luis Hortez of the Spanish Guardia Civil let out more rope and abseiled a little further down the slope. He was keeping a few feet to the north of where the woman had probably fallen, so as to avoid any further disturbance of the ground. He examined a scrubby bush with broken branches. All the damage suggested it had been done by something going up the slope. 'The recovery team from the Grazelema mountain rescue,' Louis thought, and let out more rope to abseil further down.

He reached the point where the body had been found. He turned and looked back up the mountainside, towards the viewpoint and car park at the top of the pass. If the woman had had fallen from there, why had no one reported her missing? His unit had heard nothing, anyway, and they would certainly have been informed. She hadn't been identified either, which is why Teniente Alfonso Diaz, senior officer at Grazelema, had taken them off checking motorists on the main road for vehicles without a roadworthiness certificate and sent them up here. This was a more interesting way for a young detective to spend a morning anyway.

He stood there, rope hanging slack, in the pleasant morning sunshine, studying the slope. Luis was thin and wiry and inclined to 'worry' a subject, like a dog with a bone or a cat with a mouse, until he understood it.

The slope was steep and rocky, with stunted trees, bushes and tufts of grass and he had used the rope to abseil down, but it hadn't really been essential. It would be easy to lose one's footing and fall, but it wasn't precipitous: he thought he could have managed without the rope. Any normal adult would be able to catch hold of a shrub or rocky outcrop and come out of the experience with no more than cuts and bruises and a seriously damaged ego. The woman would not have fallen to her death unless she was either drunk or unconscious. He thought she might even have been dead before she found her way to this spot.

He saw Paco watching from the car park some fifty metres or so above and waved. Then he began looking around. This was the spot where the body had come to rest, jammed against a pine tree. The woman's remains had been brought into Grazelema the evening before by the Parque Natural's Mountain Rescue team and it irritated his logical mind that he had not seen the body in situ. He examined the tree. There were flies swarming around the base but there wasn't much sign of blood. The flies must have found something though. A woman's sandal lay just below the tree to one side. She must have lost it in the fall.

A careful search of the steeply sloping ground around and a little way below the tree turned up no other items of any kind and that fact nagged at him a little. There was a trampled area with footprints, broken branches and the grass was crushed, what little there was of it. That would be the mess that the hikers and the mountain rescue team had made, tramping around. Possibly a native African or South American Indian tracker could have read something into it all, but he couldn't. He could see no personal items beside the shoe. This he popped into a plastic evidence sack, which he stuffed into his backpack.

He pulled out his mobile phone and rang Paco. I'm starting back up, he said. There's nothing here for us, but I'm going to look each side of where she fell and see if she dropped anything. You pull the rope tight and get as near as we can to the line of her fall. Loop it over the far bumper of the jeep.

The line tightened and Paco moved two or three metres across to his right to get in line with Luis. I think that's about it, he said. She must've fallen from about here. I've got the line looped round the bumper of the jeep, like you said.

Keep it tight, Luis said. I'm going to use the rope to help me back up.

The Sergeant used the line to pull himself up, though it wasn't really supporting his weight most of the time. He moved a couple of metres up at a go, looping the rope in his left hand to keep it taut while he scrambled up the steep slope and then letting it go slack each time he stopped to look around. Each time the line went slack, Paco pulled it in and took a fresh loop round the bumper of the jeep.

Apart from a couple of places where grass and bushes had been bent down by the passage of something big - presumably the body - there wasn't much to see. As it was, Luis almost missed it. Quite why the belt had come off wasn't clear, but it had presumably happened during the fall. Among the rocks was a 'bum bag' - one of those zip-up bags tourists often use to carry valuables and important documents, keeping them close without weighing down their pockets. The bag was dusty and showed signs of its slide down the mountainside, but it was intact. Luis picked it up between his finger and thumb, dropped it into another evidence sack and stuffed that into his backpack with the first one to continue the climb.

Luis completed the climb without finding anything more and hauled himself over the lip of the slope, onto the car park. Coil the rope, he told Paco. I need a drink.

He reached inside the jeep for the water bottle and took a long swig. Then he lit himself a cigarette from a packet in his top pocket and wandered back to look over the edge of the drop. As he studied the slope another thought occurred to him. He sat on a rock, still smoking, to consider several things now puzzling him.

Paco! he called, and his partner ambled over, partly coiled rope in his hand. Two questions, Luis said, and pulled out the evidence sack with the sandal. Would you go walking with shoes like this?

What do you mean?

These are lightweight town sandals, with medium heels and no tread. No grip on hillsides and no protection from snakes or insects. Most unsuitable.

Paco didn't say anything.

I looked at the body last night, Luis continued reflectively. She had no hat.

Lost it?

I looked on the mountainside. No hat and no water bottle.

She wouldn't need a hat or walking shoes, Paco said. She fell from a car park. So she probably came by car.

If she came alone, Luis said, where's the car? If she didn't come alone, why didn't whoever she was with report her missing?

Paco shrugged and Luis took the other evidence sack from his backpack. I found this bum bag, he said holding it up. It's probably hers.

Paco nodded. You got a spare cigarette?

No, Luis said, but I'll give you one anyway. He took the packet from his top pocket, took one out, lit it from his own and passed it to his partner. So how did she lose the bum bag?

I guess it came off when she fell.

That's what I thought at first, Luis admitted. But it's still fastened at the buckle and the belt isn't broken.

Then I don't know.

I think, Luis said, taking a last drag on his cigarette, "that someone threw that women over the mountainside when she was already dead. That somebody came back to the car, realised the bum bag was still in the car and threw that over as well, without noticing it was still fastened.

The Lieutenant's office in the Guardia Civil Barracks in Grazelema looked out over the rooftops of the town, towards the towering peaks behind and the pine forests that spread up their lower slopes. The view was impressive, certainly, but the bum bag and the woman's identity were more interesting to the policemen - all three of them had seen the view many times before.

Diaz watched as Hortez, the one detective on his small detachment, slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and took the bag from the plastic evidence sack as if he were an archaeologist with a priceless treasure. He unzipped the main section of the bag, held it upside down and shook it. A plastic bottle of sun block, a tiny perfume spray, a pair of sunglasses, some keys and a mobile phone fell out.

Diaz grunted and Hortez unzipped the front pocket. He tipped up the bum bag again and some coins fell out. A total of seven euros and thirty-eight cents lay on the desk.

Hortez unzipped the slim rear compartment and shook out a passport, a driving licence and several ten Euro notes. He smiled in satisfaction and opened the passport at the photo page. He studied the photograph, nodding slightly. He passed it to Lieutenant Diaz who also nodded. It was the same woman the Swedish walkers had found yesterday. She was British and her name was Veronica Dobson. Her address would be on her driving licence.

Witchmoor Edge: Morning, Thursday May 30th

It could have been suicide. Indeed, to Detective Inspector Millicent Hampshire, it did look like suicide, at least at the first glance. The dead man was Nathanial Dobson and Doctor Millard was hovering over him. All she knew, from the report over her mobile phone, was that Dobson's grandson had reported him missing from a farm. He was, therefore, old enough to be a grandfather - and he looked to be around seventy or so - and he most probably was or had been a farmer.

He wasn't on the farm, though. If it was suicide he had chosen a pleasant spot to kill himself: an area among the trees by a reservoir, above the town of Witchmoor Edge and looking towards the distant pollution haze that marked the City of Bradford. This was the 'Edge' that lent its name to the town, and the views across Airedale were superb. It was a spot widely used as a picnic area in appropriate weather, by those fleeing temporarily from urban life.

The vehicle was a new looking and fairly recent estate car. On the rear door a badge indicated 'Suburu 4 x 4'. The inspector glanced through the window. The rear seats were down and a sack of seed lay amongst a scattering of straw and other bits. A length of what looked quite like a vacuum cleaner hose had been pushed onto the end of the exhaust pipe, leading inside through a rear window. Millicent thought it looked a bit longer than your average cleaner hose but she didn't touch it. The body of Nathanial Dobson was in the driver's seat and Millicent could see him properly as Millard stepped back and dusted himself off.

Been dead a little while, Millard said. Probably around one a.m.-ish, though it might have been as early as eleven thirty last night or as late as two or two thirty this morning.

Does the death look natural, Brian? Millicent asked.

Millard hesitated. I'll need an autopsy to be sure about several things, he said, But he does appear to have died of monoxide poisoning and the car still stinks of exhaust fumes. There is a leg injury: his ankle is well strapped up with an elastic bandage. He also has a bruise on his forehead, but I'd say at a quick glance the bruise is a couple of days old and goes with the ankle injury.

How serious is the injury?

That's one of the things I need the autopsy to tell me. You're wondering whether he could have hopped around and set it all up with a gammy ankle.

That was precisely what Millicent had been wondering. Yes, she said.

Well, Brian Millard said judiciously, Going by the professional job of bandaging, I'd say it was a fairly serious sprain, seen by a nurse or a hospital doctor within the last few days. That doesn't mean he couldn't have done this all by himself. He gestured at the hosepipe. Let me see whether I can give you a better estimate after the PM. You could also investigate who treated the injury and get their opinion.

Here comes the SOCO lot, Millicent said as a police van pulled up by the roadside and the two man Scene of Crime team in plainclothes got out carrying bags. As soon as they've taken their photos you can take the body and get on with the post mortem.

In a rush as usual, said Millard brightly. Well, tell the ambulance men to move him when you're ready. I too have other things to do.

Millicent watched him bouncing down the path to the road where his car was parked, a cheerful and friendly man - not actually that short, but he looked it because he was somewhat overweight. She stood aside to let Sergeant Baines and his constable move in. Baines was a newcomer to Witchmoor Edge CID. He said little and was the opposite of Doctor Millard - he was tall and thin, gloomy and taciturn where Millard was short and plump, bright and cheerful. Still, Baines seemed to be very good at his job.

When you've taken your photographs, I want you to have a look for a crutch or a walking stick, said Millicent.

Baines glanced at Dobson's ankle and nodded. His constable was taking out a camera. Millicent turned away and looked about her.

She was just turned forty, part Afro-Caribbean, tall for a woman and lean from a regular attendance at the gym. She wore little make up and did not tint her hair to hide the wisps of grey flecking the loose curls, more southern European than African.

DC Tommy Hammond watched his boss in silence. It was common knowledge in the Witchmoor Edge CID that she was a widow, come to the West Yorkshire police from the bomb squad and that she had sought refuge there after her Spanish policeman husband had been killed in Seville by an ETA car bomb. Whatever demons drove her - and there were some - she was a bloody good detective, he thought. That was at least partly why promotion had been so rapid: she was good at her job and drove herself hard. However, she was psychic too, and had flashes of controlled intuition. Sometimes she made what seemed to be impossible leaps in the dark but Tommy knew better. His wife was part of an occult group to which Millicent belonged.

Okay Tommy, Millicent said, breaking into his thoughts as she turned back from the scene in general to the incident at hand. You saw the grandson. What is he like? What sort of background did you uncover?

His name's Mark Dobson. He's twenty and the son of Matthew Dobson, one of the dead man's offspring - there were two sons and a daughter, I think. Apparently old Mr Dobson owned three adjoining farms. His son Luke runs one, another Mark's father ran, but his daughter-in-law Mary lives on it, with Frank Staples, the farm manager she married after Dobson junior died. The third farm his daughter Esther runs. I gather he usually lived with her.

So why, Millicent wondered out loud, was it Mark who reported him missing?

Mark was in Spain with Luke and Veronica - that's Luke's wife - when the accident happened to the old man's ankle. It seems Mark came back specifically to help out because granddad couldn't manage on his own.

He was in Spain with his uncle and aunt? Millicent was not really puzzled but she felt in danger of becoming confused.

That's right.

But Luke and his wife didn't come back?

They're still in Spain, Tommy said.

What were they all doing in Spain?

No idea! Holiday I presume, but I didn't get around to asking for details like that.

When did Mark get back?

Sometime yesterday, Tommy said. I didn't get as far as a detailed timetable.

But before the victim disappeared?

I gather Mark saw his grandfather last night, but he said it was only briefly. He was late in and the old man was asleep.

And why did he ring in? Millicent asked.

It seems he couldn't find the old man this morning, saw the car was gone and he was worried because he hadn't heard anything during the night and didn't think his grandfather could walk much or drive at all.

And that's why you thought I ought to take a look for myself? Millicent asked, nodding. The question seemed rhetorical so Tommy Hammond said nothing. Who found the car?

The timing was sheer chance. After I'd talked to Mark I put out an interest report on the car straight away. As I was driving back from talking to him, I heard a patrol car radio in. They had been driving past on the lane over there. He nodded towards the edge of the field. They saw the vehicle I had reported and drove here to investigate. I came up here myself and phoned you as soon as we found the old man.

Millicent glanced at her young DC with his freshly pressed shirt and contrasting silk tie and knife-edge creases. Tommy was a handsome dog and very concerned about his appearance.

Right, she said. We can't do much more here. I think we'll leave it to Baines and have him tow the car in for a thorough check when they've done. I want to know all about that bit of hose. In the meantime I think I'd like to meet Mark Dobson and fill in some gaps. I can't make decisions without something to go on.

You want me to drive to the farm as well?

I think so, yes, Millicent said. She crossed to Baines. After you've done they can take the body away and you can have the vehicle towed in. I'd like forensics to give it a thorough going over.

Yes ma'am, Sergeant Baines said. No sign of a walking stick so far, but we'll have a good look in the grass as well.

Right, Millicent said. By the way, is it an automatic transmission? She glanced at the pedals of the car and saw that it was. It was drivable with one foot. I'll talk to you later, she added.

With that she began to walk with Tommy over the field to the lane. It was a pleasant day in late spring and the trees were mostly in leaf. The grass was fresh and growing but the beauty spot, though not maintained much by the water company, wasn't overgrown yet. Along the margins of the field grew some late coltsfoot and brambles in blossom and there was a scattering of daisies and dandelions among the grass.

The path ended in a little stile but, there were gaps in the dry-stone wall. Besides the open gate and track the Suburu had used, the wall was missing in one or two places. The car had followed the faint track to the place where it stood, about thirty metres from the gate. Millicent could see why the patrol would have seen it if they had been driving slowly and looking, but it wouldn't have been obvious. It looked as if they had been pretty sharp. Either that or they'd been taking a break here.

She vaulted over the stile and strode across to her car. Tommy Hammond climbed carefully over a collapsed section of wall, brushing an invisible speck of dirt from his trousers as he did so.

You lead, I'll follow, Millicent called as she climbed in her car. The two unmarked police cars turned in the gateway and drove the back lanes to Merrimoor Edge Farm.

Merrimoor Edge Farm was almost in Witchmoor, although Millicent wondered as she turned in at the farm gate whether it shouldn't actually be the other way round - the boundary of Witchmoor seemed to have oozed out on this side of the town to almost encompass the farm, and the notorious Merrimoor council estate came close up on one fringe. A classier, private development encroached on the other side, coming right up to the hedge of the lower field.

The farmhouse was built of what had been dark cream or pale yellow coloured local sandstone, blackening with age in places. Millicent thought from the architectural style, especially the stone window frames, that the place looked 250 or more years old. It was long and low, with an extensive dwelling built of a piece with what had been a cattle byre but was now garages and storage areas below and bedrooms over. The house faced the road and the paved yard was alongside, barns and other buildings forming a loose square round it.

The whole place had an almost deserted air, as if it was no longer a working farm, though a tractor and trailer stood in one corner and a harrow rusted peacefully in another.

Millicent stepped out of her car and looked around. Tommy had pulled up just in front of her and was waiting.

Looks genuinely old, Millicent remarked. I bet it's worth a bit.

Nice inside too, Tommy agreed. It must be ripe to sell on to a developer, judging by the closeness of those new houses. He nodded towards the exotic homes of the private estate.

A young man emerged from one of the barns and saw Tommy. Back already? he called.

He was well spoken: clipped northern vowels, but a noticeable absence of the local Yorkshire dales accent one might have expected. Tall and well built but not overweight, he was dressed in brown, brushed denim trousers that you might call 'moleskin' and a plaid shirt. He was wearing quite heavy brown suede boots and a tan jacket hanging open. Millicent thought he looked rather fashionable for a farmer as he strolled unhurriedly across the yard, with a wide, easy stride.

Mark Dobson? Millicent asked.

He nodded. Yes.

I am Detective Inspector Hampshire, Millicent said. My DC called me and told me about his conversation with you. I'd just like to ask a few more questions. Is there somewhere we could sit down?

You've found the old man then and he must be in a bad way.

Millicent looked at him quizzically. What makes you say that? she asked.

Oh come on, Mark said almost derisively. Being a farmer doesn't make me some kind of country bumpkin, you know. If he was still just missing you wouldn't have come back at all yet: I'd have had to chase you. If he'd been found fit and well, then an ordinary constable would have brought him back - you wouldn't have wasted a detective's time. It must be serious to turn out an inspector. You'd better come into the house.

'Interesting logic,' Millicent thought, 'and right on the nail. '

As Mark led the way to the rear of the house, Tommy Hammond muttered, He may be a bit blunt, but he's no fool.

Hmm. Millicent made a non-committal noise and followed Mark and her DC.

In the back porch Mark took off his boots before entering the house, though they didn't look muddy and the day was dry. Tommy brushed his shoes carefully on the doormat and followed the young man into a sitting room.

You said you had some more questions, Mark said with no preliminaries. You may as well sit in here to talk. He gestured to a three piece suite.

We did find your grandfather, Millicent said. There didn't seem much point in beating about the bush in view of what Mark had said outside. He was, it appeared, both shrewd and down to earth. A patrol spotted the missing vehicle. I was called out to investigate.

And?

As I think you have already guessed, Millicent said. I'm afraid your grandfather is dead.

Mark looked down at his hands for a moment. I'm not altogether surprised, he said. His disappearance in the middle of the night was too peculiar to be normal. I was worried. He looked down again, then looked up again and added And not being surprised doesn't mean I'm not shocked. How did it happen?

It looked like suicide to me, Millicent said. He was in the driver's seat of the car and there was a hosepipe from the exhaust into the rear of the vehicle.

Mark looked sceptical. He called me by phone in Spain and said he couldn't walk much. That's why I came home, he said. He was fast asleep when I arrived home last night. I shouldn't think he could kill himself. Not that way, anyway. As to whether he would, he was a stubborn old man. I can't think of any circumstances in which he'd kill himself.

I think I'd like to get the story straight, said Millicent. "Start at the beginning. Where did