Free Tainted Ground by Margaret Duffy Page A

over to the crew of the area car, at a guess from Frome. I followed.
    â€˜Gillard,’ he said. ‘Are the vehicles easy to access?’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ he was told. ‘The quarry’s virtually a walk-in job.’
    â€˜Perhaps you’d be so good as to lend me a good light.’
    A bright beam came to rest on me. ‘And the lady, sir?’
    Well, I was wearing a long woollen skirt with sparkly bits on it, mostly on account of the cold draughts in parts of the rectory.
    â€˜Miss Langley’s under training and was called out without having had time to change. Come on man, the torch!’
    It was handed over and he plunged off into the quarry, the trainee having to hurry over the rough ground in order to keep up and suddenly remembering that there was a tracksuit that fitted me in the car.
    â€˜If I hold your arm will we be reported for inappropriate behaviour?’ I said.
    Patrick snorted derisively but slowed down a bit.
    Trees and rocky outcrops loomed on either side. Very soon we had to take things very carefully and pick our way over and around increasing amounts of rubbish; old fridges and washing machines, chunks of concrete, bricks and split plastic bags containing rubble, some of it looking like broken asbestos tiles.
    â€˜I’ll get the Environment Agency in to have a look at this lot,’ Patrick said under his breath. He flashed the torch around, the beam illuminating a cliff face ahead of us. Among piles of scrap wood were the remains of the two cars.
    I said, ‘They couldn’t have been driven in here so they must have been pushed in from up top.’
    â€˜It might pay to come back in the morning and see what’s up there. A set of tyre tracks or some other traces would go down a real treat right now in this case.’
    The vehicles were severely damaged where they had crashed down, one upon the other, the top one seemingly having then slid off into some bushes, which had subsequently been consumed by the flames. Amongst the blackened stems and twisted metal was a blob of melted plastic, perhaps the container in which petrol had been carried to start the fire.
    There was nothing recognizable inside the cars. Patrick gave me the torch and endeavoured to lever open the boots of both with a length of angle iron he had come across lying in the grass but the heat had buckled the metal and they were jammed. He then re-acquired the light and spent several minutes searching the floor of the quarry, moving in increasingly wide circles.
    â€˜Nothing,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s too much to expect that one of the killers would drop his wallet …’
    The twin beams of car headlights swung across the cliff, revealing for an instant a lot more dumped rubbish, so presumably James Carrick had arrived. We waited for him.
    â€˜There’s not a lot to see,’ Patrick called to the approaching light from a flash lamp. ‘Watch out for that glass.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Lynn Outhwaite’s voice. She joined us. ‘I told Chief Inspector Carrick I’d check to see what would be required to recover the vehicles.’
    â€˜You might need a crane from up there,’ Patrick said, pointing skywards. ‘Or a tow truck to winch them out through here. I take it Carrick’s not with you. There’s no real need for his presence.’
    â€˜He was coming but wasn’t feeling too good – worn out, really – and went home. You may as well do the same – we can’t do anything until morning.’
    When we had taken our leave of Lynn and were on the outskirts of Hinton Littlemoor, Patrick said, ‘Go past the rectory and drive by Stonelake’s place slowly, would you? You never know …’
    By this time it was just before midnight. The night was fine and cold, the roads almost empty of traffic. We went past the church and downhill to the old railway station and goods-yard site, actually quite