IT TOOK STEVEN WELL OVER AN HOUR TO WALK TO DUNKERY Beacon, even though his way was speeded by not having to carry the spade.
The spade.
Now that he’d stopped digging, just thinking the word “spade” made him squirm with the guilt of potential failure.
Still, he was faster without it, allowing his arms to swing freely, working up a rhythm and a slight sweat as he trudged uphill—always uphill—onto the moor. He hadn’t even bothered with sandwiches, just a bottle of water and the camera making bulges in his old anorak.
The camera was Davey’s; a cheap disposable—one of a pack of three he’d got for his birthday. He’d wasted the first photographing feet, ceilings, and blurred people. He’d dropped the second in the bath while photographing the epic sea battle between Action Man and a plague of off-worldly beings in the shape of colored beads of bath oil. Too late, Davey had realized the colorful capsules melted in the hot water, leaving just a white oily slick, a scrap of fruit-gum-like gel—and him open to the wrath of his luxury-rationed mother. In his panic he’d dropped the camera.
The third camera had gathered dust on the bedroom window-sill until Arnold Avery’s letter arrived, then Steven stole it without compunction.
He needed it, Davey didn’t.
Dunkery Beacon was not only the highest point on Exmoor, it was also the coldest, thought Steven, as the wind whipped his cheap anorak around him, flicking his thighs painfully with the metal zip. He zipped it up to avoid further injury.
Because it was pretty much the only thing to look at apart from the nonexistent view, Steven briefly considered the plaque that commemorated the gift of the Beacon, an area of outstanding natural beauty, to the nation in 1935. The names of the benefactors were carved in stone, and Steven couldn’t help snorting: they should see the natural beauty today, he thought.
From Exmoor there was often a view of the Bristol Channel and sometimes of the Brecon Beacons, rising across the channel from the foreign land of Wales, but today the white sky with its relief of scudding grey clouds left the horizon fuzzy and foreign. He turned and looked back down the rough track that had brought him here, to the small level patch of gravel that constituted a car park. There were two cars there. It wasn’t unusual—people liked views but luckily people also liked walking, and nobody could enjoy both at the same time unless they got out of their cars.
Steven glanced around but couldn’t see anyone. It was astonishing how quickly people could disappear on Exmoor’s seemingly featureless hills.
Dunkery Beacon was not entirely featureless. Here and there were the stone humps of ancient burial mounds. He tugged the blue plastic camera from his pocket as he turned a slow circle, wondering which angle would be best.
All too quickly, he knew, and felt sick for knowing.
Avery would want the angle that showed the best view of that part of Dunkery Beacon where he’d buried the bodies.
Steven hadn’t been thinking of the bodies when he walked up here, but now he realized he was standing within five hundred yards of three of the shallow gravesites.
Yasmin Gregory.
Louise Leverett.
John Elliot.
With a feeling of uneasy voyeurism, he scanned the ground around him to see if he could spot any evidence, even after all these years, of the excavations that had been made during the search. The burial mounds—markers denoting respect and honor—became mere backdrop as his memory imposed three sets of red biro initials onto the windblown gorse and his killer’s eye made shallows in the turf, scars in the gorse. But his ordinary boy’s intellect reasserted itself. It had been a long time. Grass, gorse, and heather would have crept back by now, recolonizing the exposed soil, softening the harsh, gaping wounds of little families and the whole nation. He knew there would be nothing to see unless one knew exactly where to look, and even then imagination would have to play a part.
And so he imagined, and peered through the dirty little view-finder across a part of the moor that he thought had held one of the graves and clicked the shutter. It seemed to be over rather quickly and easily, considering his long walk up here, so he moved around a little and clicked the shutter again before trudging back down the Beacon.
As he crossed the car park, Steven peered idly into the cars. Sometimes people left dogs in their cars on hot days. Steven dreamed of finding a dog in a car on a hot day and being forced to smash the window to rescue it, then taking it home with him, secure in the knowledge he’d saved it from stupid, undeserving people.
But today wasn’t hot, and most people who brought dogs to Exmoor had brought them there with the express purpose of walking them, not leaving them in the car. Steven sighed and realized he’d have to live near a supermarket to have a decent chance of making his fantasy a reality, and there was no supermarket in Shipcott.
He turned and looked back at the Beacon, brown and ugly under the lowering sky.
The angle of the light made the ancient burial mounds stand out much better from down here. What had seemed flat from the summit was relief from the car park. It would make a better picture from this angle, he reasoned.
So, with fingers turning numb from the cold, Steven prized the camera out of his pocket once more, pointed it back up the rising ground, and clicked the shutter.
Then he turned and started the walk home.
He was at the fork in the track that would lead him down into Shipcott when he saw the hoodies coming towards him, their heads down as they made heavy weather of climbing the steep hillside from the village.
Steven stood stock-still. He looked round briefly as though a rock, a bush, a tree might suddenly emerge from the almost featureless moor and afford him somewhere to hide. He knew it was pointless. He knew he could drop out of sight right here in the deep heather beside the pathway. He and Lewis used to hide that way from Lewis’s dopey dog, Bunny, when Bunny was still alive. They would wait until Bunny loped off after a rabbit, then throw themselves into the heather and whistle. They would snigger and peer and whisper as they heard the Labrador- cross blundering about the moor around them—and always get a shock when he finally found them with his big wet nose, his lolling tongue, and his excited yaps.
But that was from a dog’s-eye point of view.
Steven knew that if he lay in the heather now, when the hoodies came to within ten feet they would see his frightened form flattened in full view against the flowers, like a stupid ostrich with its head in the sand, and then he would be humiliated as well as chased and roughed up.
For a moment he just stood there, waiting for one of the panting boys to glance up at the path ahead and see him, while he decided on the best way to run.
The camera.
The thought popped into his head. If they caught him, they would take the camera. Or break it.
Quickly he pulled it out of his pocket, chose a place, and dropped it into the heather. He tried to imprint the location on his brain. Two pale mauve heathers with a sprig of yellow gorse between them, next to that stone shaped like a jelly bean.
He looked back at the hoodies at the very moment one of them looked up and saw him, and realized that dumping the camera had lost him the distance he so badly needed to turn and run.
They were on him in a second.
“Lamb,” said one—the tallest one.
He said nothing and they seemed momentarily at a loss for what to do with him.
“Got any money?”
“No.”
Rough, careless hands tugged at his clothes anyway, pulling his pockets inside out, his water bottle dropping
