‘No matter what you think you may have seen or heard, no matter how small or insignificant you think it may be, we would like to hear about it,’ he said. ‘We’re also interested in speaking to anyone who was out walking or camping on Rutmoor on the night of Friday, 10 August or at any time over the following weekend.’

*

From the Devonshire Herald, 15 August 1951

Boot of missing schoolchild sparks further police appeals

The discovery of a walking boot thought to belong to missing 14-year-old Charles Gregson has prompted fresh appeals by police and a £30 reward for information.

Devon and Cornwall Police have issued a further appeal for information after the discovery of a child’s walking boot thought to belong to missing teenager Charles Gregson. The boot was found by a dog-walker on Tuesday, 14 August, 15 miles south of the area Gregson and fellow camper Paul Reece were initially reported missing. Police say the boot was discovered on the bank of Foxglove Stream, but have refused to give further details at this stage.

Charles Gregson and Paul Reece were on a school camping trip in the north east area of Rutmoor when they were reported missing on the morning of Saturday, 11 August.

Parents and teachers are said to be organising a search of the 15-mile area between the children’s original campsite and the spot where the boot was found yesterday.

‘We’re following up a number of leads and speaking to various people,’ said Chief Inspector Douglas Brown. ‘At this stage, I’d urge anyone who may have seen or heard anything unusual in the Rutmoor area, at any time from Friday, 10 August until now, to come forward immediately.’

2015

Thursday, Part One

This time it’s the rain that gets him.

Every time he makes the journey out of London – starting on a train at Waterloo and winding away from the city, flashing past towns and villages and cutting back into the countryside of his childhood – every time there’s something that triggers the memories.

Last time it was the sight of the sun catching a field of heather, peeking out from behind a cloud to turn the mass of purple into a lighter violet and making him squint as he stared out of the train window; this time it’s the rain.

Only it’s not really rain, is it?

Pissy fucking drizzle is what Gary would probably have called it, and Gary may have been wrong about a lot of things but he wouldn’t have been wrong about that.

He stares out of the train window and the droplets seem to hang there in the air, blowing about in the wind like snow, and he knows it’s the type of drizzle that’d soak you through to the skin in less than a minute if you were stupid enough to go outside without a decent rain coat.

It’s the type of drizzle they used to get on Rutmoor.