Murder on the Moor Page 11

  ‘That must bring in a pretty penny.’ DS Leyton makes the hand gesture of filthy lucre. ‘Last time I heard what suckers pay for a day’s shooting – not to mention when it’s grouse – the Glorious Twelfth. You’re talking the price of a presentable second-hand motor.’

  Skelgill is plainly put out – though it cannot be because he disapproves of the cost of the sport; more likely it relates to DS Jones’s attitude of familiarity with the gamekeeper. He interjects somewhat bluntly.

  ‘So what about his poacher-turned-burglar theory?’

  His sergeant seems to start – as if shaken by Skelgill’s harsh tone. However, she regards him evenly.

  ‘Funnily enough he dismissed it.’

  Skelgill hesitates for a moment, as though he might dispute her statement – but then he moves on, his tone becoming decidedly sarcastic.

  ‘And did you ask him about his saboteurs?’

  There is a slight narrowing of DS Jones’s eyes, as though she is discomfited by the tension underlying this exchange, but her voice remains calm.

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact. He said he was anticipating a “spectacular” any time now.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘He wasn’t specific – just something that would make the news – blacken the name of the estate. Along the lines of his conversation with Daphne Bullingdon when we came about the birds.’

  Now DS Leyton interrupts.

  ‘Those chicken harriers.’

  ‘Hen, Leyton.’

  ‘Righto, Guv.’ DS Leyton affects a grin, evidently not wishing to fall foul of Skelgill’s recalcitrance. ‘Maybe they’re for the chop.’

  Skelgill does not reply to this point; but DS Jones expounds.

  ‘Actually, I did mention the hen harriers – and it’s obviously a source of irritation. He complained that the conservationists’ twenty-four-hour watch on the nest is interfering with his own breeding programmes.’

  Skelgill is still scowling; now, rather uncharacteristically, he throws in a piece of hearsay, even borrowing a phrase.

  ‘For what it’s worth, Miranda Bullingdon seemed to think it suits Melling to have bogeymen lurking. Justifies his existence. Lets him play soldiers.’

  Reflected in DS Jones’s insightful gaze there might just be the suspicion that her superior’s proprietorial instincts are bruised. However, when neither she nor DS Leyton responds, Skelgill continues.

  ‘So what’s his theory on her Ladyship’s Crown Jewels?’

  DS Jones inhales and shifts back a little in her seat as though conscious of the gravity of what she is about to say.

  ‘Without naming names he suggested we should be looking among the foreign employees.’

  In fact DS Jones is here being a little economical with information. Lawrence Melling’s response had been more multifaceted. That poachers and saboteurs tend to stick to what they’re good at. That he is a good gamekeeper, and not a detective. That how well do the estate really know their staff? On the latter point, a brazen double-edged remark, she had challenged him. In that case – what about him? His response had been that she was welcome to find out for herself – indeed that Shuteham Hall estate maybe wasn’t the best place to do it. DS Jones had responded with cool neutrality – but she had mentally noted, it was neutrality and not the professional distancing that would be expected of her. But hadn’t her strategy in suggesting the choice of interviews been to prise the most information from their subjects? No more would Miranda Bullingdon have lowered her guard before a perceptive female detective than would Lawrence Melling have given the slightest ground to Skelgill. And this remains her rational explanation to herself about her motivation. As for the handsome gamekeeper’s motivation – she is yet unsure if his approach was some attempt to deceive – or if he merely wishes to seduce her.

  ‘Hah – does he include himself, as a Jock?’

  DS Leyton’s quip snaps his associate out of her momentary reverie. She grins, a little wanly, and shakes her head.

  ‘He just said in his opinion Miranda was too trusting for her own good.’

  When no one offers anything further DS Leyton again takes it upon himself to keep the conversation on track.

  ‘How did it go with Lady Bullingdon, Guv?’

  Skelgill looks pained; rather ironically he mirrors his sergeant’s reaction when asked about the woman’s husband.

  ‘I’m just a daft country copper, Leyton. She’s from another world – might as well be another planet. You saw her last time. She likes to be in charge and she doesn’t give owt away.’

  DS Leyton looks rather unconvinced. Skelgill’s “daft country copper routine” is something he has had them all participate in at times, when it is judged that affected bucolic ignorance will slip beneath the radar of smugness. So he is surprised to hear his boss self-reference in this way.

  ‘That suggests you think she’s got something to give away.’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘She reeled off a list of international brand names – where the jewellery came from – then acted like she’s lost a pair of cheap earrings. No histrionics, no subtle hints about relatives, no finger-pointing at staff or tradespeople who may or may not have visited Shuteham Hall. Just pretty laid back.’

  As he uses this phrase the image of the scantily clad woman reclining on the chaise longue comes to mind; automatically he glances at DS Jones, to see she is watching him closely.

  ‘I’ll probably need to speak to her again – depending how these inquiries into Stanislav pan out.’

  Skelgill notices he has prepared the ground for this future interview – even though it is stating the obvious – and he detects a wry smile form briefly at the corners of DS Jones’s mouth. Accordingly, he adds a caveat.

  ‘And the housekeeper. In fact we’ll need to revisit the lot of them.’

  There is a silence before DS Jones raises a question, rather offhandedly.

  ‘I get the feeling you don’t suspect Karen Williamson, Guv?’

  It is perhaps a slightly impertinent inquiry, but Skelgill is conscious he has fallen into something of a trap – and one that he does not fully understand – in having agreed to the schedule proposed by his younger female colleague. Her logic about the productivity of interviews is unarguable – it is no different in principle to his “daft country coppers” tactic. But he was troubled at the time and the same undercurrent of disquiet has risen to the surface anew – a feeling not helped by the contradictory circumstances of her ‘catching’ him in an inappropriate if not exactly compromising situation with the housekeeper. As is often the case at such times, he resorts to a glowering belligerence.

  ‘You know me, Jones – I suspect everyone. Don’t be fooled by appearances.’

  Abruptly he rises, tossing off the last dregs of his coffee. He bangs the mug down close to DS Leyton.

  ‘Your round I reckon, Leyton – make mine a tea this time.’

  Skelgill heads off towards a pair of timber doors respectively marked with female and male icons. Exiting two minutes later he hears the adjacent cubicle being locked, and he sees that their table is empty, although his colleagues’ jackets are in place. On reaching his seat, outward facing at the elbow of the L-shaped cafeteria, he spies DS Leyton waiting at the service counter near the head of the staircase. Casting about for something to occupy his attention, he stretches for a discarded copy of the local Cockermouth newspaper, and begins to work his way in from the back page, scanning for fishing headlines. He has just found an item entitled “Vendace Search Flounders” when a female laugh draws his attention.

  A young couple – in their mid-twenties he would guess – are casually strolling towards him, acting like they know the place and indeed as they pass and wheel to their left they seem pleased to find that a comfortable-looking sofa with a broad low coffee table before it is free. They either do not notice or are not perturbed that Skelgill has followed their progress over the top of his newspaper. This may be that they are
accustomed to being stared at – in fact a good-looking pair despite their slightly shabby outfits, which might have been purchased from an army surplus store, giving them the paramilitary look of militant New Age types. The young man is a little above average height, with short fair hair and an unshaven weatherbeaten countenance; the girl has long thin dark hair which, though combed, looks like it might benefit from a dose of shampoo; her complexion is tanned, with blue eyes set wide apart amidst pleasing if undistinguished features; she is almost as tall as her companion, and naturally so, for she wears similar army boots; her fatigues are a better fit than his, and she wears only a camouflage vest tank top and no bra, when clearly one might have been helpful – and Skelgill, in the moments it has taken him to absorb this information, is conscious that his gaze is attracted inappropriately. He ducks back into his newspaper, and when he looks again a minute later the couple have settled down facing him and have opened up a laptop before them. The man digs into the breast pocket of his shirt and picks out some small items that he juggles in the palm of a hand before selecting and inserting one into a port on the side of the device. He manipulates the track pad and the pair observe closely for a moment. Seemingly satisfied, they exchange a few hushed words and the young man rises while the girl fishes a small woven purse from a shoulder bag of similar artisan provenance and hands it to him and he sets off back towards the counter.

  At this juncture Skelgill’s colleagues return more or less simultaneously. As DS Jones slides easily into her seat Skelgill surveys the tray to see that DS Leyton has procured a large mug of tea with milk already added and the teabag floating, a sugar bowl and a single slice of sand cake, and two modest coffees.

  ‘Got some more nosh in case you’re still hungry, Guv. Emma and me, we’re all done. It’s bangers and mash tonight – the missus’ll scream blue murder if I don’t show appreciation for her efforts.’

  Skelgill, having warned of the futility of trying to hold someone’s attention when food arrives is in fact waging a not entirely successful battle against the competing instinct stimulated by the young woman’s low-cut top. But DS Jones follows his gaze and self-consciously he turns side-saddle his seat. He notices the girl’s partner returning; casually he shifts his attention to him: the man carries two cold drinks in recycled jam jars with paper straws protruding – unappetising green concoctions, new fangled smoothies, Skelgill supposes – in his view a triumph of advertising over common sense. If you want to eat some veg what’s wrong with chips and mushy peas? The man deposits the drinks carefully and hands back the purse. The girl points out something on the screen and they lean in close together, their expressions intense, their eyes seemingly tracking the same movements. After a few seconds they react simultaneously to something that amuses them. The man slides his arm around the girl’s waist; she does not demur, as though she is accustomed to the contact.

  ‘Er, Guv – what we thought, if it’s okay with you – I’ll email my notes to Emma tonight and she’s going to pull together the report for first thing tomorrow? Then we can ping it off to the Chief once we’ve been through it with you.’

  Skelgill rather absently starts spooning sugar into the tea. He nods as though he is not really listening. His colleagues have learned not to expect written contributions from himself – but whether they have appreciated he has largely avoided commenting upon his own interviews is another matter. This is not to say he would withhold some essential fact. It is more the case that, though he has ‘findings’, he would presently consider it impossible to put these into meaningful words. Take his encounter with Miranda Bullingdon. He was not really interested in small detail. She had already been questioned once, and he skimmed over the surface. His objective, not even explicit in his own mind, had been to gauge her manner. On the face of it, he is none the wiser. (Except he is, of course.) And Karen Williamson, what is he to make of her? Yes, slightly more in the way of facts to toy with – the two mugs in her bag (was she expecting company?), the brief visit with the bag to the cottage (was she moving the jewellery?) – but realistically only unfounded fancies that have no actual substance; they are potentially dangerous distractions. More informative, but just not yet, is how she behaved towards him – again, he knows what he feels but he has no clear sense of what it means. However, he is certainly convinced that he should recast his entire experience through the prism of Carol Stanislav’s disappearance. They all should. And thus he responds.

  ‘Aye. There’s not a lot we can do until we get something back from the feelers you pair have put out. Reckon we’ll have to sleep on it.’

  Skelgill, of course, has no intention of doing any such thing.

  6. EVENING CALL

  Monday night – Overthwaite

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Danny Skelgill?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Don’t you recognise us?’

  ‘I recognise your accent – Pereth.’

  The man on the other side of the bar, without turning away, points behind and above himself to a plaque fixed on an oak beam. It states: “Graham Bush – licensed to sell all intoxicating liquor for consumption on these premises.”

  For Skelgill, the penny drops.

  ‘Basil?’

  ‘The one and only – hah-ha! – boom-boom! Put it there, marra.’

  Skelgill stares as if not quite convinced, but automatically shakes the hand that is offered. The man perceives his indecision and adds a further prompt.

  ‘We sat next to one another in the bottom maths set. That old git Doc Birch who used to scop the board rubber at you, or twat you round the lug for no reason!’

  Now Skelgill nods. After a moment he speaks reflectively.

  ‘You were in the Air Cadets. You wanted to be a pilot.’

  The man guffaws, self-effacingly.

  ‘I were too thick to fly, me. But I still joined the RAF – they took me on as apprentice ground crew. I was posted to Gib, Ascension, Akrotiri, Falklands. Rose to master aircrew rank. Did my twenty years. Retired last spring – I’ll be able to claim a pension in three years. Age forty!’ He makes a triumphant double click with his tongue. ‘Met Nikki, the missus – she were a chef in the NAAFI – she looks after the food. Bought this place with our ill-gotten gains.’ He indicates to a blackboard listing the day’s specials. ‘She cooks the meals, I cook the books!’

  Skelgill nods and tries to force himself to look with suitable interest at the menu. It is coming back to him that Graham ‘Basil’ Bush was something of a liability as a classmate. He had a knack of attracting trouble and sidestepping the repercussions. Before he can answer, the man continues, seemingly unperturbed that Skelgill has not joined in his banter.

  ‘Are you eating with us? You liked your school dinners, as I recall. I could recommend the pheasant hotpot – or the jugged hare – all locally sourced game.’

  This sparks a slightly panicked reaction from Skelgill. He looks over his shoulder, although the pub is empty and the door has not opened since he arrived as the only patron.

  ‘Er – I’m meeting a contact to discuss some ideas. I’d better see what he wants to do – he might be having his tea at home after.’

  The landlord shows no sign of taking offence.

  ‘As you like. Tell you what – why don’t you bring the missus along – have a bar meal – you could meet Nik and be our guests – on the house.’

  ‘That’s – er – very kind of you, Basil.’

  The man reads the poorly disguised awkwardness with which Skelgill receives this offer. However, perhaps incorrectly, he deduces a reason for his old schoolmate’s reluctance. He makes a casual hand gesture.

  ‘Plus one, then – you know what I’m saying – just rock up, any time – it’s not like we’ll be away – hah!’

  Skelgill grins agreeably.

  ‘Perk of the job – no need to commute.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right. So, what’s your line these days, Danny? Surprise me – professor of
mathematics!’

  Skelgill was hoping to get away without being quizzed about his occupation. Given the references to ill-gotten gains and cooking the books, he casts about in momentary desperation for a diplomatic exit strategy. His gaze alights on a stuffed pike in a glass case fixed to the wall on the right of the bar. Relief.

  ‘I’m working on a project for the Centre for Ecology and Hydrology. Preservation of rare species. The chap I’m meeting’s a gamekeeper.’

  Basil, who is clearly of an easy-going nature, suddenly seems a fraction more alert.

  ‘What – the gadgee from the big posh place down the road – Shuteham Hall? Now you mention it, he’s not been in lately.’

  Skelgill hesitates. He scents a lead.

  ‘No – my pal keeps for the Chase-Downes estate over by Bassenthwaite. You know this other bloke, then?’

  ‘Aye – the Scotsman – thinks he’s Sean Connery?’

  Skelgill frowns affectedly.

  ‘I don’t know. Could be.’

  ‘I can’t pretend to be on familiar terms with him – but one of our barmaids was, on the quiet, like. Nudge, nudge – know what I mean, squire?’

  Skelgill shrugs casually.

  ‘Happen it’s the way of the world.’

  Basil seems keen to elaborate. Skelgill wonders if he is gaining the benefit of being the first customer of the day, there being a gossip quotient to be fulfilled.

  ‘Foreign girl – Romanian. Gabriela. She didn’t stay with us for all that long, had to go home for something – pity – she was good – and a looker – customers liked her – the Scotsman obviously did – hah!’

  Skelgill is trying to act no more than politely interested.

  ‘So – how did that come out?’

  ‘She were kaylied on her last night here – that were fine, it were a little leaving do – the missus baked her a cake, and the regulars were all standing her drinks. But she spilled the beans to Jen our other barmaid – she’s not on tonight, we’re quiet Mondays, as you can see. Anyway, Jen reckoned Gabriela was warning her off – rather than boasting, like. Went on about how he’s got a secret love nest up on the estate somewhere – and that he’s not quite the gentleman he likes to pretend he is.’