Murder in the Woods Page 10

  ‘There are a lot of Irish people in Liverpool – two cathedrals and all that.’

  It would seem that DS Jones makes a salient point, Liverpool – with its accent exceedingly rare – is the most profoundly Irish of English cities. But Skelgill is inherently wary of jumping to conclusions just because convenient patterns emerge. Coincidences can usually be found if one looks hard enough, but that doesn’t make them connections. To illustrate his unease he leans forwards and cranes up at the gathering sky.

  ‘Look at that – a cloud in the shape of Ireland – we must be on the right tracks.’

  Now more severely he regards each of his colleagues. DS Jones is plainly frustrated.

  ‘What about Marvin Morgan, Guv – will you see him?’

  His answer is not what she expects.

  ‘No, Jones – you will – but I’ll explain nearer the time.’

  ‘Sure, Guv.’

  That Skelgill says no more might be construed as him not actually having a plan – however there is no way of knowing this. After a few moments it is DS Leyton that speaks.

  ‘There is one other person, Guv – that woman Veronica Crampston – if I’m following up with Coot and Fox I can ask them about her. Would be a bit remiss if she turns out to be our mystery lady.’

  ‘Happen we’d know if she was reported missing, Leyton. She probably just had her fill of the pair of them. I shouldn’t blame her.’ He rubs distractedly at a mark on the windscreen with his cuff. ‘Make sure you interview them separately – otherwise you might as well speak to a ventriloquist and his dummy.’

  DS Leyton nods thoughtfully.

  ‘How should we approach this business of the date, Guv – 25th of October?’

  At Skelgill’s behest they have agreed to “park” the possibility that this was the night of the interment. While a forensic botanist has pronounced that Skelgill’s theory about the semi-preserved oak leaves is indeed feasible, it will remain a card tucked up the sleeve.

  ‘Just work around it – don’t make it obvious. Ask folk when they were out of the area – holidays taken in the last 12 months.’

  DS Leyton settles rather broodingly over the wheel – their speed has crept up to a rate that might just about evade the attentions of a police patrol. After a short while he speaks in rather subdued tones.

  ‘So you reckon we’re on a bit of a wild goose chase with these locals, Guv?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Leyton – but we could spend months tracking down every last person that’s ever set foot on Harterhow and still not get close.’ He turns over his shoulder to DS Jones. ‘What would you say to the Chief – if she asked you for a status report right now?’

  DS Jones leans forward. She has on a short pencil skirt and a sleeveless white blouse; she is holding open DS Leyton’s A-to-Z and now she presses it two-handed to her breast in the manner of a chorister receiving instruction mid-recital.

  ‘Well – it’s true we don’t have any suspects as such – the local people are merely witnesses to the location – they may have some role to play in due course. We have to approach it from the perspective of what we know. We’ve got a pretty good description of the victim, and with the rings and the dental work we would be able to corroborate her identity.’ She pauses to brush away a strand of hair from her face. ‘But then there are the things that “might be”. She might be Irish or of Irish descent. She might have been strangled. The killer might have been someone she knew – a partner or a relative – someone who might have cared for her – or at least who felt remorse for what they’d done. She might have been killed on or before the night of 25th October last year. That the body was dismembered suggests a single person – in that they were able to conceal the murder and the disposal. Quite likely a male – someone fit, and competent with tools – the dismemberment, the carrying of the remains, the digging of the grave. They probably own a vehicle. And probably know Harterhow – that it’s a rarely frequented place. A dog walker – hiker – birdwatcher.’

  A silence ensues. DS Leyton’s eyebrows have gradually risen – perhaps he is surprised and impressed by his younger colleague’s grasp of the case. When the facts are added to the reasonable assumptions a solution seems tantalisingly within their grasp. If this is so it, it causes a release of emotion and his features crease into a pained mask. Skelgill notices his subordinate’s distress.

  ‘You alright, Leyton?’

  DS Leyton looks somewhat blankly at his superior.

  ‘You what, Guv?’

  Skelgill stares at him for a moment – but then he turns to the road ahead and extravagantly flings out a hand at the oncoming motorway sign.

  ‘Take this junction – scenic route.’ He glances back with a frown at DS Jones. ‘The M6 does my head in.’

  DS Leyton complies and swings the car across to the inside lane to reach the off-slip.

  ‘You’ll need to direct me, Guv – this is bandit country, for all I know it.’

  ‘Just follow your nose, Leyton.’

  ‘Easy for you to say, Guv.’

  Skelgill darts a suspicious glance at his sergeant – but DS Leyton’s countenance has resumed its usual mask of phlegmatic innocence. It is possible that DS Jones suppresses a chuckle, but she might just be recovering her breath from her little soliloquy. Skelgill lets it go – though after half a minute or so he rubs an itch from the bridge of his nose. They sink into contemplation, punctuated by the odd grunt of encouragement from Skelgill for DS Leyton to take the turns he guesses will lead them eventually to the service road into Tebay. DS Leyton is subdued, his driving sedate by his usual standards. The lanes are quiet and as they pass through hamlets and farmsteads they scatter frequent flocks of birds, family parties of sparrows and finches that feed on spilled grain, and wagtails that mine invertebrate roadkill from the tarmac, leaving late their escape from a similar fate beneath the wheels of the car. Occasionally a swallow hawks ahead of them, twisting and turning and taking out flies that otherwise explode upon the windscreen – from time to time DS Leyton engages the washers, but the splats just smear and this seems to disconcert Skelgill, and he turns to watch from the side window, which he lowers halfway. He blinks at the blooming verges, an alternating cream and purple blur of meadowsweet and rosebay; a young buzzard on a post, mewing for a meal; a heron loping across a water meadow; multi-coloured birthday balloons affixed to a cottage gatepost; honeysuckle draped over a dry stone wall; a war memorial with its desiccated wreaths of paper poppies.

  ‘Look at that, Guv – strange name for a place – sounds like it’s out of a whodunit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There, Guv – “Hidden Dip” – that sign.’

  Skelgill looks askance at his sergeant, and then around at DS Jones, but she has her gaze discreetly buried in DS Leyton’s A-to-Z.

  ‘That’s a warning, Leyton – you donnat – not a settlement. What – do you think it’s twinned with Blind Summit?’

  DS Leyton’s eyes roll and he puffs out his cheeks.

  ‘Cor blimey – hidden dip – so it is, Guv. I thought it was the village! Seven years and I’m still showing my ignorance.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  This remark comes from DS Jones. Skelgill is baring his teeth, grinning gleefully – he swivels in his seat to share his amusement – but he finds his female colleague frowning at the open Liverpool street directory.

  ‘You won’t find it in there, Jones!’

  DS Jones looks up.

  ‘It’s not that, Guv – it’s Spencer Fazakerley.’

  ‘What is?’

  DS Jones turns the guide and offers it to Skelgill.

  ‘I think it’s an address – look.’ She points carefully with an index finger. ‘Fazakerley is a district of Liverpool – and here’s Spencer Avenue – right near the centre.’

  Skelgill takes the book and glowers at the page – he has to extend his arm before it will come into focus.

  ‘I thought from the beginning it was a strange
name, Guv – and it would explain why we haven’t been able to trace him.’

  Now DS Leyton chimes in – though his tone is rather downbeat.

  ‘That’ll make a right old monkey out of me – when those Scousers realise I’ve got them looking for a geezer whose name is a postcode.’

  Skelgill tuts.

  ‘Leyton, if they were on the ball they’d have noticed as soon as you mentioned it.’

  DS Jones is animated.

  ‘They ought to be happy – it will help us find him. If that’s his address – we just need a photograph – a neighbour will surely recognise him?’

  Skelgill and DS Leyton are long enough in the tooth to join up the dots in DS Jones’s supposition: that ‘Spencer Fazakerley’ – for reasons best known to himself – one day visited June Collins’ guesthouse and checked in with a false name. If it was a whim, conjured up on the spur of the moment, then his home address of course could spring to mind – or perhaps he was in the habit of using an alias. Why he might have persisted with it is unknown, but it has certainly facilitated his disappearance more latterly.

  ‘Leyton – you’d better get a photo from her – she must have something if they were together four years.’

  Skelgill turns and hands back the A-to-Z to DS Jones.

  ‘Miss Marple strikes again.’ His tone is charitable – but now he adds a caveat. ‘Let’s not get carried away – as far as we know this couple are a sideshow to the main event.’

  ‘Sure, Guv.’

  ‘And keep the lid on this – we don’t want the media getting hold of it and declaring that a non-existent Spencer Fazakerley is the prime suspect.’

  DS Leyton raises a hand from the steering wheel and points an index finger skywards.

  ‘That reminds me, Emma – that reporter, the Minto geezer from the Gazette – he was hanging about in reception early doors – making a nuisance of himself – wanted a word with you. Seemed to recognise me and collared me as I left.’

  DS Jones reacts with apparent disinterest.

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Hah – a date I reckon. Gave me his card for you – for old time’s sake, he said.’

  DS Leyton glances at Skelgill, to see that he is scowling.

  ‘He tried the usual reporter’s blag, Guv – reckons he’s got some clever idea he wants to bounce off’ve Emma.’

  Skelgill shrugs casually. ‘You should have bounced him out, cheeky little git. It’s a scoop he wants.’

  DS Leyton can sense that Skelgill’s annoyance runs deeper than he admits. He casts about, in search of inspiration to change the subject. Then he gestures at a black-and-white bird that bobs buoyantly, crossing in the air ahead of them.

  ‘Look, Guv – I’ve learned that one, at least – it’s a Pee-Wee!’

  ‘It’s Pee-wit, Leyton, you lumpheed.’

  11. ALWAYS FISHING

  The gradual change in the weather sees gentle July rain pluck at a stippled Derwentwater. Skelgill sits becalmed. He has borrowed a rowing boat from his friend Harry Cobble at Portinscale marina, for his own craft lies landlocked in the secluded inlet of Peel Wyke on Bassenthwaite Lake. A fellow fisher would notice he is under-equipped – in fact vastly so by his usual standards – he wields a six-piece, eight-foot fly rod, and has just a small black rucksack tucked in the bow. Nowhere to be seen are his bristling array of pike rods, his big green plastic tub of tackle boxes, his scale-spangled landing net, or his clanking ex-army backpack that smells of soot and methylated spirits and holds his Kelly kettle and Trangia stove. His own boat has a mackled bracket that accepts a capacious fishing umbrella, and takes on the appearance of a Chinese junk when it is unfurled – but this afternoon he is protected from the elements by what for Skelgill is a rare extravagance – he has splashed out on a brand new set of lightweight black Gore-Tex waterproofs. “Neither use nor ornament – wouldn’t last ten minutes on Bass Lake – a treble hook would have ’em in shreds,” had been his retort to the terrified shop assistant. Nonetheless, he had steeled himself to the price ticket and the prospect of quips such as, “They saw thee coming, Skelly, lad” from his drinking pals. Given the doubtful utility of the outfit, a certain conclusion can be drawn about his activity now: he is fishing only for appearances’ sake.

  Indeed, as he casts, and drifts minutely towards the western bank of the lake, he does not look at the water. His eyes seek neither rises, those ripples more prominent among the raindrops, nor promising wind lanes to target; he merely goes through the motions. There is the occasional drip of rainwater from the tip of his nose. His gaze is elevated. The gathering cumuli that marked the journey up from Manchester this morning have coalesced into a grey blanket of stratus, a sinking cloud base that has already decapitated Causey Pike and now threatens the distinctive peak of Catbells. Bright in the gloom he can see the red cagoules of plucky walkers on the zigzag path up to Skelgill Bank.

  But the majority of his attention is reserved for the distinctive wooded cone of Harterhow. From this angle it looks perfectly symmetrical, its slopes a patchwork of simple greens in the flat light: medium green for the oak woods that creep up from the lakeside, pale green for the big clearing, midnight green for the spruce plantations that cap the little hill. In the three-quarters of an hour that he has lingered on the lake, he has seen no movement on Harterhow, though the occasional group of ramblers meanders along the water’s edge, following the route of the Cumbria Way.

  At twenty-four minutes past three – slightly later than he has anticipated – he receives a text message. He tussles briefly with the unfamiliar zip of his breast pocket. He checks the display and engages silent mode before he replaces the handset. He winds in furiously, the reel protesting like a cicada on amphetamine. He catches the nylon leader – he has been using a tiny lead shot in lieu of a fly (lest he get seriously distracted by the temptation to fish). Now he bites it off and spits it away. He dismantles the rod with a succession of pops that ascend in scale from butt to tip, and slides the pieces into his backpack. Then he begins to row purposefully for the shore.

  *

  Emma!

  Marvin Morgan swallows as he watches DS Jones slip her mobile phone into a trendy canvas shoulder bag – the sort students use to carry their laptops. She has plainly heard him scrabbling at the door – it’s a trick he uses when he wants to buy a few seconds to see who is there – at the rattle of the key a visitor tends to look up and face the spyhole. He takes off his spectacles and slides them into the pocket of his shirt. He licks his lips. He smiles. He turns the handle.

  ‘Mr Morgan?’

  Marvin nods – there’s an unexpected lump in his throat and no words can get past. She’s holding out a warrant card – he has to lean closer to read it without his glasses; he can smell her perfume! There is a small unmarked car parked beyond her in the driveway; he notes it is empty.

  ‘You met my superior officer, DI Skelgill?’

  ‘I did – that’s right.’ Marvin gives a polite cough. ‘About the unfortunate discovery on the other side of Harterhow.’

  She’s looking at him very calmly. No nerves again – either that or she’s good at concealing it. And now she’s smiling back at him. He feels his heart make a little bump.

  ‘You offered to provide us with copies of your photographs – we’d like to take you up on that – if it’s convenient, sir?’

  Sir. He is dizzied – he has to resist the scenario that wants to play like an illicit movie, dark and sinister, grainy and crackling across the little screen deep in the recesses of his subconscious. He regenerates the smile.

  ‘Of course – of course – come in, please.’

  ‘Thank you. It shouldn’t take long, sir.’

  As he steps back to admit her and she passes so close he feels his eyes widening and has to wrestle with a sudden urge to reach out.

  ‘Don’t mind the dog – he wants to lick you to death.’

  Who wouldn’t? She’s stooping to pet the doodle. See how she’s dress
ed – changed from this morning – assuming that was a live broadcast. Now she’s wearing tight black stretch jeans and a fine long-sleeved cashmere top that clings to her figure. He can hear his pulse in his temple.

  ‘Can I get you a drink? Tea, coffee – sparkling rosé – hah-ha!’

  She doesn’t take offence. Imagine if she said yes.

  ‘Tea would be fine, please. Just as it comes – no milk or sugar, thank you.’

  That’s a surprise.

  ‘Do you want to get straight on with the computer – while I make it?’

  She stands up – such poise – like a gymnast.

  ‘It’s okay – you’re my last call of the day.’

  And then a little rendezvous.

  ‘Straight ahead to the kitchen.’

  The kettle seems painfully slow. He senses her watching – then no girl should accept a drink blind from a stranger, should they? He strains for small talk. Should he say he saw her on TV – he feels an urge to ingratiate himself – but that might be a bad idea – why would he be watching CrimeTime or, before that, the press conference?

  ‘I’m pleased to be of assistance.’ He wants to call her Emma. He feels like he knows her – in the way of knowing a celebrity. But what should he call her? Sergeant? Officer? Miss? Remember to smile – in a self-deprecating way. ‘As I told your Inspector, I’m stranded on seventeen followers – perhaps I’ll get a few more if you publicise one of my photos.’

  She understands the irony in his tone; she seems interested.

  ‘They’re very good – you must spend a lot of time waiting to get some of the shots.’

  ‘You’re too kind – but, really, more often than not it’s just a matter of having the camera ready in your pocket.’ You have to grasp the moment.

  That’s the tea ready. Carry her mug.

  ‘Shall we go through? My laptop is set up in the study – in fact I’m in the middle of a project organising pictures into themed folders.’

  ‘Sure.’