There were no village bobbies any more; like the oggie man, they were a thing of the past. But Banks did happen to know that the Safe Community officer in Lyndgarth happened to drive a Range Rover, and when they raised him on the phone, he sounded only too willing to whizz over to Ingleby and do his best to get them as close to Garskill Farm as possible.
When Constable Vernon Jarrow arrived, they left their own cars by the telephone box and piled into his Range Rover, Banks in the front and Winsome and Joanna in the back. PC Jarrow was a pleasant, round-faced local fellow with the weather-beaten look of a countryman. He said he was used to driving off road. Banks got out and opened the gate to the winding lane up the daleside, closing it behind him. Jarrow drove slowly and carefully, but the Range Rover still bumped over the rocks sticking out of the dirt and the ruts made by tractors. Some of the bends were almost too tight, but he made them. Banks was reminded of a tour bus he had once taken with Sandra to an ancient site in Greece, hugging the edge of a steep precipice all the way.
‘Do you know Garskill Farm?’ he asked Jarrow over the noise of the engine.
‘I know of it,’ Jarrow answered. ‘It’s been like that for years. Abandoned.’
‘Ever been up there?’
‘No reason to.’
‘Not even just to check on it?’
Jarrow gave Banks a bemused sideways glance. ‘Check on what? There’s nothing there.’
‘Mrs Boscombe heard rumours there’s been some Gypsies or Travellers staying up there recently.’
Jarrow grunted. ‘They’re welcome. Long as they don’t cause any trouble in the community.’
‘How do you know they haven’t?’
‘I’d have heard about it, wouldn’t I?’
It seemed like unassailable logic. Banks didn’t blame Jarrow for not checking out every square inch of his patch as frequently as possible, but that kind of complacency in assuming that he would know the minute anything was wrong was no excuse. Still, he let it go. After all, the man was driving them to a remote spot, and there was no sense in giving him a bollocking on the way.
When the track came to the east — west lane halfway up the daleside, PC Jarrow kept going straight on, up the daleside, where the road became even more rudimentary, so much so that it was hard to make out at all sometimes, forcing them back in their seats. Soon, they were weaving between outcrops of limestone, bouncing around even more than on the rutted track below. If Banks had contrived this whole business to irritate and upset Joanna Passero he couldn’t have done a better job, he realised, as he caught a glimpse of her ashen face in the rear-view mirror, hand to her mouth. But he hadn’t, and he found himself feeling sorry for her. He had no idea that she suffered from carsickness, and she hadn’t said anything. Still, there was nothing he could do about it at this point; she would simply have to hold on.
Soon they were driving across the open moorland, and while it was still as bumpy, at least they were more or less on the flat. This had once been an area of about two or three thriving villages, Banks knew. There was an isolated old house known locally as the School House, which was exactly what it had been even as late as the First World War. After that, the moorland had fallen into decline and never recovered. The military had been making noises for years about taking it over for manoeuvres, but they already had plenty of land in the area, and they didn’t seem to need Garskill Moor yet.
There were roads, tracks or laneways criss-crossing the rolling tracts of gorse and heather, and soon the bumpiness of the ride improved somewhat. Joanna took her hand away from her mouth, but she was still pale. Winsome didn’t seem bothered by any of it. Jarrow drove slowly, straight ahead. It was an interesting landscape, Banks thought. People often assume the moorland that runs along the tops between dales is flat and barren, but this landscape was undulating, with surprising chasms appearing suddenly at one side or the other, unexpected becks lined with trees, clumps of bright wildflowers, and the ruined flues and furnaces of abandoned lead mines in the distance. Even in the pale April sunlight, it resembled an abandoned land, an asteroid once settled, then deserted.
‘Does nobody live up here any more?’ Banks asked.
‘Not for miles. There used to be an old woman in the School House. Everybody thought she was a witch. But she died a couple of years ago. Nobody’s moved in since, so that’s falling to rack and ruin, too.’
‘Are we almost there?’ Joanna asked from the back.
‘Not far now, miss,’ Jarrow assured her. ‘You just hold on there. It’s in a hollow, so you can’t really see it until you come right up on it.’
They crossed over a tiny stone bridge and bumped along beside a fast-flowing beck for a while, then up the steep bank, along the top and, sure enough, as they turned a corner by a small copse, there, in the hollow, stood Garskill Farm; or rather, the ruins of Garskill Farm.
Actually, it didn’t look as bad as Banks had been led to expect. The three solid limestone buildings, arranged around what might have once been a pleasant garden or courtyard, were for the most part structurally intact, though there were slates missing from roofs here and there, and all the windows were broken. Most of them had been boarded up. The two outlying buildings were smaller, and had probably been used for storage, while only the central, larger building was meant to house people. Even so, if anyone was squatting there, they must be desperate.
Jarrow pulled to a halt by the remains of a drystone wall, which had clearly marked the border of the property. They all got out of the Range Rover. Banks felt shaky, as if all his joints had worked a bit loose, and Joanna Passero immediately turned her back and walked a few yards away before resting her palms on her knees and bending to vomit quietly into the shrubbery. Everyone pretended to ignore her. Even Banks felt no desire to take the piss. Only Winsome had had the sense to bring bottled water, and she offered some to Joanna who immediately accepted and thanked her, apologising to everyone for her little display of weakness. The wind howled around them and seemed to use the buildings as musical instruments, whistling in the flues and rattling loose window boards like percussion. Mrs Boscombe had certainly been right about how eerie it was up there.
Banks stepped over some variously shaped stones that had once formed the drystone wall. A lot of skill had no doubt gone into building that wall, he thought, and now it had collapsed, brought down by stray cattle or sheep, or winter storms freezing the water in the cracks and expanding. Such drystone walls were built to withstand most things nature could throw their way, but they needed a little repair work now and then, a little tender loving care.
Finding himself standing in a garden completely overgrown by weeds, mostly nettles and thistles up to thigh height, Banks paused and turned to address the others. ‘OK,’ he said, stepping back. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any kind of an easy way in here, and if anyone was using the place you’d think they’d at least clear a way in and out.’
‘Round the other side?’ Winsome said.
‘Exactly. So let’s make our way around the perimeter and see if we can’t find an easier access point. And be careful. There are bloody nettles and thistles everywhere. Winsome, will you take Inspector Passero and check out that first outbuilding, on the left there. PC Jarrow, you come with me, and we’ll start with the centre building, then we’ll all meet up in the one on the far right.’