Murder on the Moor Page 12

  Skelgill is reflecting upon the laws of serendipity. But there is a certain equivalence to angling; the more he casts, the more catches. He selects an innocuous cliché from his repertoire.

  ‘It takes all sorts, Basil.’

  ‘We certainly get all sorts of stories coming across this bar – stranger than fiction. I’m just getting the hang of it, Danny. They say to be a successful publican you’ve got to be a good listener. Not easy when you’re stone deaf from mending jet engines – boom-boom!’

  But at this juncture Skelgill is released from the conversation, for his awaited acquaintance, a middle-aged man, sturdily built in distinctive outdoor garb with a ruddy complexion beneath a tweed cap pushes open the door of the Overthwaite Arms and stands squinting into the relative gloom of the old inn. Basil seems to have a keen sense of duty in such circumstances. He drapes an arm over a Jennings handpump and assumes the affable pose of mine host.

  ‘Hey up – looks like here’s your marra. Get theesens sat down by the hearth – I’ll bring your ale over. Two of pints of bitter, aye? Tell you what, Danny – they’re on the house – auld lang syne and all that.’

  Skelgill gives a genuinely meant thumbs-up sign.

  ‘Nice one, Basil. Couldn’t chuck in a couple of bags of salted nuts, could you?’

  The man points an accusative finger, but grins widely to offset any accidentally implied aggression.

  ‘You always were a bit of a chancer, Danny – although copying my maths homework weren’t your smartest move!’

  ‘I still struggle to make two plus two add up to five.’

  Skelgill smiles ruefully, waves a hand in admission, and then turns to direct the newcomer towards the said fireside table.

  ‘Alreet, Eric.’

  ‘Alreet, Dan.’

  Skelgill feels a curious wave of comfort wash over him in being able to bask amidst the undemanding vernacular of his locality – even these greetings, with their implied questions as to the other’s health need no elaboration, merely reciprocation. Easy. He moves so much in formal circles that his reformed pronunciation bears little resemblance to the Cumberland twang that he actually hears inside his head – the little voice that ticks him off and makes him feel like a fraud, for instance when he refers to “a householder”, enunciating the letters “h” which he knows intrinsically are not really there. It must be the encounter with Basil that has brought this thought to bear – his high school contemporary retains his Penrith brogue – yet his talk of twenty years in the armed forces has highlighted for Skelgill that he, too, has spent roughly half his life serving the public. Small wonder that societal mores have chafed the rough edges off his accent. Then again, whenever did he hear his Cockney oppo DS Leyton pronounce the letter “h”?

  At this juncture the beers (and peanuts) arrive; Basil is an efficient operator, Skelgill can see, as he brings the two brim-full pints in straight glasses on a small round tray, which he places on the table before moving the ales to fresh beermats in front of each of his customers, spilling not a drop. He even seems to have remembered that Skelgill is left-handed. There is a small exchange of introductions, and the landlord, understanding the private nature of the meeting, makes a diplomatic exit, backing away and bowing, before turning. He makes no mention that the drinks are free. Accordingly, Eric Hepplethwaite raises his glass to Skelgill.

  ‘Cheers, Dan. Sorry I can’t hang about, the missus’ll have me guts for garters if I’m late for me tea.’

  ‘You sound like one of my sergeants. He was just saying the same thing.’ Skelgill grins, though he cannot suppress an unheralded sigh. ‘It must beat ready meals and takeaways.’

  The other makes a face – if it were put into words it might be along the lines of, “you haven’t tasted my wife’s cooking” – of course, these are not sentiments that could ever be voiced, indeed he glances instinctively over his shoulder, in all seriousness. But the action seems to inform his response.

  ‘Decent little boozer, this. It’s changed a lot – it’s yonks since I were last in.’

  Skelgill looks vaguely apologetic.

  ‘Aye – sorry to drag you out of your way – it’s just I’ve got a couple of bits of business nearby, later.’

  ‘It’s hardly a detour, Dan – I’ll be gannin’ yam by Ruthwaite – tek us ten minutes. Just that I drive reet past the door of The Star every night – so it’s a no-brainer under normal circumstances. Any road – how can I help thee?’

  Skelgill, supping from his pint, nods and swallows and wipes froth from the tip of his nose and upper lip with his forearm.

  ‘Know anything about this new gamekeeper at Shuteham Hall?’

  ‘The Terminator, you mean?”

  Skelgill, enjoying the well-kept ale and taking another swift gulp, lifts an eyebrow in response.

  ‘What’s that? We’re talking the Melling bloke, aye?’

  ‘Aye – but that’s what they’re calling him – the Terminator – his reputation precedes him. Vermin beware. Apparently there wasn’t a weasel within ten miles of his last place – big estate in the Borders – Duke of Hawickshire’s lands. Bit of a coup, him dropping down a division to a mere barony.’

  Skelgill ponders for a moment.

  ‘Why would he do that, then? He’s from the Borders himself, by the sound of it. Why come south?’

  Now Eric Hepplethwaite is taking a drink. Skelgill meanwhile reaches for his peanuts, bites open the packet and tips about half of the contents into the palm of his hand. The gamekeeper lowers his glass and taps the side of his bulbous nose while he swallows.

  ‘Could be he got a golden handshake – signing on fee, aye?’ (Skelgill is nodding and munching on the nuts.) ‘But if the jungle drums have it right, I reckon he might have jumped before he were pushed.’

  ‘Aye?’

  It is sufficient of a question from Skelgill.

  ‘Seems there were a little dalliance with the lady of the house.’ The gamekeeper makes a disapproving tutting sound. ‘Never a good idea – biting the hand that feeds you.’

  Skelgill is staring at the far wall, though not seeing the saturnine landscapes with their bloodthirsty hunting scenes. Into his mind’s eye, curiously, has sprung an image of his dog, Cleopatra, the fearsome-looking bullboxer. Despite her generally placid ways – provided she is not provoked – he is still not quite accustomed to the gusto with which she takes a treat out of his fingers.

  ‘Some dogs can’t help themselves, Eric.’

  Eric Hepplethwaite nods sagely.

  ‘Aye, well – has he been cocking his leg already?’

  For Skelgill, this is a bit closer to the mark than he intends to go; he rows back.

  ‘What? Er – no, no – it’s nothing like that. Don’t get me wrong – just it’s my job to turn all stones. You’ll probably see it in tomorrow’s papers. There’s been a big jewel theft from Shuteham Hall – we’re talking well into six figures. Quarter of a million, in fact. I’m just trying to get as much background information as I can.’

  The man gives a low whistle.

  ‘Inside job?’

  Skelgill grins wryly. He takes a drink, puts down his pint, and then presses both palms on the table.

  ‘Look – it could be a complete coincidence – but one of the estate workers has disappeared into thin air.’

  ‘But not the Melling character.’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘So – if you hear owt on the grapevine.’

  The man nods.

  ‘Aye – I’ll keep me ear to the ground. There’s a number of us Allerdale keepers – not your Scotsman – we’ve set up a WhatsApp group. I’m not aware of any other break-ins hereabouts. The odd bit of kit gets nicked from a shed or a barn. But most estates have got good security these days – what with the attention your boys pay to us lot that keeps guns.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Eric.’

  They exchange ironic smiles.

  ‘They’ve got hen harriers on Over Moor, aye?
’

  The statement causes Skelgill to start.

  ‘Is that common knowledge, then?’

  Eric Hepplethwaite grins.

  ‘I think there’s plenty of keepers happy to hear it. Puts the spotlight somewhere else.’

  Skelgill makes a sardonic growl in his throat. Much as this man is a trusted ally, their contrasting vocations have them dancing on the knife-edge of conflict.

  ‘There’s plenty of legal ways to control predators.’

  ‘Aye – but else what’s the point of a gamekeeper? Dan – you know as well as I do – when it’s your job, your livelihood – putting food on the table. What would you do?’

  Skelgill attempts to make light of the matter.

  ‘Try not to get caught.’

  This raises a smile of approval from his friend.

  ‘I never said I do owt wrong, Dan.’

  ‘But you called Lawrence Melling the Terminator – that’s not exactly a Blue Peter Badge for services to conservation.’

  The man simply laughs and has another pull at his pint, and Skelgill realises he is not going to get any more of an admission.

  ‘Reckon there’s much poaching going on at the moment?’

  The gamekeeper turns out his bottom lip and shakes his head.

  ‘Nowt you’d call organised. I wouldn’t expect much until t’ pheasants are released in August – and bear in mind they’re not mature until October. I reckon sheep in-bye are more at risk about now.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Aye – there’s some of that going on. Jud and Arthur Hope caught a couple of lads with a van and dogs the other night, right up beside Stonethwaite. Took our uniform boys a while to get there.’

  ‘That’s not so good.’

  ‘It weren’t for the two reivers.’

  The man nods in quiet satisfaction. Skelgill has another question.

  ‘Would you shoot crows this time of year?’

  ‘Aye – I’d shoot the buggers at any time of year. But right now I wouldn’t fart about chasing after them – find the bird ont’ nest and put both barrels through it. You know what the Jocks say, twa birds wi’ oan stane.’

  The man sees something approaching a look of alarm on Skelgill’s face.

  ‘Yon harriers – surely nowt to worry about there, Dan? There’ll be a camera on the breeding site – and they’ll have the adults satellite-tagged. That’s how they do it nowadays.’

  Skelgill is uncertain about such technological detail, though he has no reason to doubt his friend’s knowledge in this department. And he can agree in principle.

  ‘Aye – there’s twenty-four hour surveillance. The Allerdale naturalists – the Nats, they call themselves.’

  ‘You mek ’em sound like storm troopers.’

  Skelgill attempts to tone down the impression he has given.

  ‘Sticklers, more like – but I reckon they’re a mild-mannered bunch.’

  His companion raises his eyebrows as if unconvinced; probably he has an alternative experience. He dips again into his pint and Skelgill can see he is hurrying through it and will shortly have to leave.

  ‘Had any bother from the animal rights squad, Eric?’

  The man looks surprised.

  ‘You don’t reckon there’s a connection there?’

  Skelgill grimaces, as though to confirm he agrees it is a long shot.

  ‘I’m just thinking along the lines of who might be skulking about a shooting estate. Your regular hikers tend to give it a wide berth. Melling’s spoken about saboteurs – like he’s expecting dirty tricks – queer his pitch.’

  ‘Sounds to me like he’s getting his excuses in first, Dan. Double bluff.’

  Skelgill nods pensively. It has not escaped him that some of the more extreme tactics employed by so-called environmentalists are liable to backfire. Unless it can be proved – on film, say, or by the unearthing of a stash of illegal chemicals – a poisoned bird of prey can hand a rogue keeper the pretext that it was planted as an act of mischief.

  Eric Hepplethwaite drains the last of his ale and checks his watch.

  ‘Hey up – I’d better get me skates on, Dan. Will that do thee?’

  ‘Aye – I appreciate your time.’

  ‘Like I say – I’ll keep me ear to the ground.’ He taps a knuckle against the empty glass. ‘My shout next time.’

  Skelgill grins a little sheepishly. He glances to see if Basil the barman is eavesdropping – but an elderly couple have entered and he is regaling them with some tale of airborne exploits, by the look of his arm movements. Eric Hepplethwaite is just moving away when it seems he is taken by a sudden thought.

  ‘I meant to say – I mean – don’t take this too literally – but the keeper yon Melling chap edged out – arl Jack Carlops, he’d been there donkey’s years.’

  ‘Edged out? I thought he retired?’

  ‘Early retirement.’ The man makes a show of mid-air apostrophes with his index fingers. ‘As I heard it, he’d reet got his dander up. Had a few too many in The Star one night, and he were cursing and swearing and threatening bloody revenge.’

  Skelgill’s ears are pricked.

  ‘What – against the new keeper – or the estate?’

  ‘Both maybe?’ He shrugs. ‘But if anyone kens their way about t’ place, it’s him.’

  ‘Know where I’ll find him?’

  ‘Those labourers’ cottages at Scawthwaite Mire. Moved in wi’ his sister – she’s a widow.’ He grins ruefully. ‘And I’d better get a shift on else my missus might decide she’d rather join t’ club!’

  Without further ado, Eric Hepplethwaite departs. Skelgill drains the last of his own drink. He sees that Basil is still occupied, now expounding over the menu with the older couple. He rises and makes his customary scan of the table for personal possessions – he sees that his friend has left his peanuts unopened. Skelgill pockets the bag and slips away.

  *

  Despite what can be seen in the movies, it is not easy to creep about in a car, so when Skelgill bumps his shooting brake and trailer loaded with his boat into the small parking area set aside for Over Water birdwatching hide, he is not in the least surprised when an inquisitive head pokes meerkat-like out of the door of the wooden structure, despite its position some thirty yards distant along the shielded boardwalk through the reeds. The head belongs to Christine Vholes. With her distinctive straight brown hair and long visage with its narrow set eyes she remains staring at him, in the vexed manner of a possessive householder watching a stranger park outside her property, but unable to do anything about it. Only when, through his open window, Skelgill waves a casual hand in her direction is the head withdrawn – to report back to Neil Vholes, no doubt. Skelgill’s assumption is bolstered by the presence of the same two vehicles as he saw on his early morning fishing trip. There is the smart Volvo with the personalised plate, VH0 L35 – not a lot of detective work required there – and the dilapidated but rather more intriguing Ford Consul estate, the throwback to the 1970s that on his last visit had been steamed up as though inhabited by an overnight camper. Skelgill backs his trailer down into the shallows, but he leaves the car and instead saunters across to inspect the parked vehicles. The Volvo has tinted windows and just an Ordnance Survey map and a bird guide on the dashboard – nothing to tempt the average thief. The Ford Consul, however, is a case of chalk and cheese. Its contents have Skelgill grinning wryly – it is a car after his own heart, packed with gear and jumbled belongings, more likely to send a potential robber away with a migraine, his limited brain confused by the sheer disorder. What is plain, however, is that someone is living in this car, for the flatbed has been extended by the removal of the rear seat to accommodate a double mattress.

  ‘Evening all.’

  Occupying the hide are two couples, and upon them Skelgill’s salutation has a disparate effect. Christine Vholes has retreated to huddle beside her brother on one of the narrow benches that line the two long sides; they regard him with a mixt
ure of apprehension and irascibility. Beneath an electric bulb at the far end, facing him over a camping table that has their laptop computer on it – a not-dissimilar pose to that in which he last saw them – and looking entirely relaxed, are none other than the New Agers from the Cockermouth coffee shop. Too young to appreciate the melodramatic irony in his salutation, perhaps they simply take him at face value: a local fisherman, by the look of his instrument-spangled gilet. Certainly, if they recognise him from earlier, they give no such indication.

  His boots clump noisily upon the elevated timber floor, attracting librarian-like looks of disapproval from Christine Vholes. There is the impression of a secret bunker, the war room of some underground resistance movement. The Vholes, though not up to the paramilitary standards of the New Agers, are nevertheless clad in their olive-hued birdwatchers’ outfits; strung around their necks they have expensive Leica binoculars. A green rubber-armoured Optolyth telescope on a tripod is set up to point through the narrow observation flap across Over Moor. The young couple are seated on what appears to be a fold-down bunk. In one corner a bank of car batteries is connected in series by crocodile clips and wires that come in through a hole in the timber gable, and there is a second table on which there is a gas burner and cooking equipment, a kettle, mugs, packets of tea, powdered milk, biscuits and jars of instant coffee and cocoa powder. On the floor stands a large plastic jerry can of water.

  The atmosphere is oppressive; the heat of the day seems to have accumulated in the hide, and it is mingled with assorted smells that would take a more discerning though not necessarily larger nose than Skelgill’s to untangle; but there are impressions of cooking oil, unwashed laundry, and what he suspects to be Christine Vholes’ cloying perfume. Neil Vholes rather awkwardly extracts his legs from the confinement of the viewing bench and swivels to face Skelgill.

  ‘We’re hoping you’ve come with news of a prosecution, at last, Inspector.’