nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
“All right,” she said. “We’ve not got much choice, have we?”
And indeed they hadn’t. They couldn’t take a room at the hotel because Mark was married, supposed to be at a company do, and Mandy still lived with her mother and brother, who expected her home from her girlfriend’s by midnight. He had bought her an expensive five-course dinner, and they had drunk Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Going home, he had even negotiated the winding one-in-three hill that led over the open moors because it was more isolated up there than on the valley road. This might be one of the last warm evenings of the year; he might never get another chance.
Using the torch, they made their way over the heather and found a shaded knoll surrounded by rocks and boulders about fifty yards from the road. Mark spread the blanket and Mandy lay down. Open moorland stretched
for miles all around, and a half-moon frosted the heather and gave the place the eerie look of a moonscape. It was cold, but they soon ceased to notice as they warmed each other with caresses. Finally, Mark got Mandy’s tights and knickers down around her ankles, pushed her knees apart and lay on top of her.
Mandy stretched out her arms and snatched at the heather as the waves of pleasure swept through her. Soon, Mark speeded up and began to make grunting sounds deep in his throat. Mandy knew the end was close. She could smell the port and Stilton on his breath and feel his stubble against her shoulder. The more he groaned, the more she snatched at the heather by the nearest rock, but even as he came and she encouraged him with cries of ecstasy, she was aware that what she clutched in her right hand wasn’t grass or heather, but something softer, some kind of material, more like an article of clothing.
I
That Sunday morning in Eastvale passed as most
Sundays did. The locals read the papers, washed their
cars, put the roast in, went to church, messed about in the
garden. Some took walks in the dale or went to visit
nearby relatives. The fine weather held, and tourists
came, of course, jamming the market square with their
cars, posing by the ancient cross or the facade of the
Norman church for photographs, perhaps enjoying a pub
lunch at the Queen’s Arms or tea and sandwiches at the
Golden Grill, then driving on to the craft show at
Helmthorpe, the sheep fair at Relton, or the big car-boot
sale in Hoggett’s field near Fortford. And out in the dale,
around massive Witch Fell between Skield and
Swainshead, the search for seven-year-old Gemma
Scupham went into its fourth full day.
Back in Eastvale, at eleven-thirty that morning, a very nervous and hungover Mark Hudson walked into the police station carrying a Marks and Spencer’s bag. He quickly placed it on the front desk, mumbling, “You might be interested in this,” then tried to make a casual exit.
It was not to be. The desk sergeant caught a glimpse of
140
yellow cotton in the bag, and before he knew it Mark Hudson was whisked politely upstairs to the CID.
Gristhorpe, aware that his office was far too comfortable for the interrogation of suspects, had Hudson taken to an interview room with a metal desk and chairs bolted to the floor and a small window covered by a metal grille. It smelled of Dettol and stale cigarette smoke.
With Richmond along to take notes, Gristhorpe planted himself firmly opposite a sweating Mark Hudson and began.
“Where did you find the clothes?”
“On the moors.”
“More precisely?”
“On the road between Rosedale Abbey and Hutton-le-Hole. I don’t remember exactly where.”
“When?”
“Last night. Look, I just—”
“What were you doing out there?”
Hudson paused and licked his lips. He looked around the room and Gristhorpe could tell he didn’t like what he saw. “I … well, I’d been to a company do at the White Horse. I was on my way home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Helmsley.”
“What company do you work for?”
Hudson looked surprised at the question. “Burton’s. You know, the rag trade. I’m a sales rep.”
“And this do you were at, what was it in honour of?”
“Well, it wasn’t really … I mean, it was just an informal affair, some of the lads getting together for a meal and a chat.”
