Murder on the Moor Page 24

  Skelgill casts about the garden admiringly.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got this place well sorted.’

  His observation carries an implied knowledge of Jack Carlops not having been here all that long; the man seems to get this.

  ‘Aye, well – oor Doris’s Fred – he’d let it go – but he were a gardener in his time – I just had to whip it back into shape.’

  As the man casts his own reflective eye across his handiwork, Skelgill steals a glance at him. A gaunt weathered figure, maybe a little hunched and not moving with complete ease, as though he suffers a bad back; but he does not look like a candidate for retirement, early or otherwise. His brown eyes are bright, set astride a hooked nose beneath curved brows; a weak chin and small mouth; a seemingly intact head of grey hair but cropped very short, matching what might be a week’s silvery facial growth; features that combine to give him an alert hawkish countenance. He is probably Skelgill’s epitome of a keeper.

  He is wondering about his next line when a harsh cry comes from the cottage.

  ‘Jack!’

  Skelgill turns to see a woman – he would judge considerably older than Jack Carlops – standing in the open doorway. The man leans his hoe against a water butt and steps past Skelgill.

  ‘Howay up, have a mash.’

  Skelgill begins to follow. He does not try to keep pace; instead he reflects on events. What should he read into Jack Carlops not immediately inquiring as to his business? The man seems to know he wants to talk with him; possibly so does his sister. Indeed, neither of them appears particularly surprised by his presence – but neither do they seem put out. It is as though they know something is afoot and are unquestioningly accepting of a degree of omniscience on behalf of the police.

  Jack Carlops enters the kitchen without removing his boots; it frees Skelgill from uncertainty.

  ‘Oor Doris.’

  Skelgill nods at the introduction and gives his name and title. The woman, like her brother, is of above average height – and (in accordance with his first impression) he would guess ten years older, seventy-five, maybe. She seems in good fettle and moves easily, and – long grey hair aside – is facially something of a double for her younger sibling. However, the familial looks do not extend to mannerisms – she is edgy, and jerky in her movements – birdlike, yes, but more fowl than hawk. She is dressed in an apron-type overall that covers most of her outfit, and looks like she intends to be busy about the place. Skelgill wonders if he detects some anxiety, or whether he is simply looking too hard – best to leave it to his intuition to decide whether these are people behaving normally, or people trying to behave normally. He accepts the chair pointed out to him at a small kitchen table at which two mugs of tea have been placed on a calico cloth and where Jack Carlops is already settled.

  Skelgill feels there is a danger of his taking advantage of their hospitality; a semblance of guilt gets the better of him and he moves swiftly to the point.

  ‘Have you heard about Lawrence Melling – at Shuteham Hall?’

  There is a moment’s hesitation as the pair exchange glances. Jack Carlops answers.

  ‘Nay – what’s that about, then?’

  Skelgill, by ladling sugar into his tea, is trying not to make too much of a drama of the announcement. Now he looks up, not at Jack Carlops but at Doris, standing by the sink.

  ‘Monday night – early hours of Tuesday – he died in an accident out on the moor.’

  The woman stares as if this statement cannot be true – but not at Skelgill; instead she seems to regard her brother as the sole arbiter of its veracity. Skelgill turns back to the man; he is glaring disbelievingly.

  ‘An accident? What kind of accident?’

  Skelgill is interested that Jack Carlops questions the news as though it were an improbable event. He seems calm enough – though Skelgill senses that his sister is itching to speak; she shifts on her feet and begins to move items pointlessly about the drainer.

  ‘He stepped in a mantrap and his gun went off. He bled to death from a leg wound.’

  Jack Carlops’ frown deepens.

  ‘A mantrap, you say?’

  Skelgill nods earnestly.

  ‘Do you recall – it’s usually hung just inside the main door of the castle?’

  Now the man seems a little outraged.

  ‘What’s that doing ower ont’ moor?’

  Skelgill hesitates long enough to make the moment potentially uncomfortable – but, just as he begins to yield the high ground, to relent and make a face of honest helplessness, Doris suddenly blurts out what has been on the tip of her tongue.

  ‘We were watching T’ Birds.’

  Not surprisingly, his mind conjuring an image of the hen harriers, Skelgill raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Pardon, madam?’

  But Jack Carlops intervenes.

  ‘She means t’ film – Alfred Hitchcock – ont’ telly. We watched it after Newsnight and t’ weather forecast were finished.’

  A shade disoriented, Skelgill finds himself responding conversationally.

  ‘I didn’t realise it were on.’

  ‘It’s a new series. Late night horror and suspense. Canna be doing wi’ yon detective mysteries.’

  ‘Right.’

  Skelgill raises both hands off the table – it is a tacit acknowledgement that they are providing him with an alibi, unasked for – but – yes, that he probably would have posed the question in due course. Shrewd country folk such as this are not the kind of company to patronise.

  ‘Actually – what I wanted to ask – can you tell me anything about Lawrence Melling?’

  He detects an easing in the body language of the woman. But now, perhaps for the first time, her brother appears discomfited.

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  Skelgill looks like he might be short of suggestions.

  ‘Did you meet him?’

  ‘Never set eyes on him.’

  He glances apprehensively at his sister, and it prompts a response. She steps towards Skelgill brandishing a wooden spoon.

  ‘Oor Jack – he knew when he weren’t wanted. Those Bullingdons – couldn’t look him in the eye – after all them years of service. Then they couldn’t get him out fast enough.’

  Skelgill is uncertain if she is slating her brother’s former employers or blowing her own trumpet for providing a roof over his head, for she waves the wooden spoon in a proprietorial manner. Or is it just a smokescreen? For his part, Jack Carlops looks rather like he wishes she would hold her tongue. He makes a weak effort at regaining the initiative.

  ‘Happen they wanted to bring in some modern methods.’

  Skelgill decides he ought to be more direct.

  ‘Word is he was known as the Terminator.’

  The man regards him rather shiftily.

  ‘There’s plenty of folk as would say that about any keeper.’

  Skelgill grins.

  ‘Some might say it’s a badge of honour, eh?’

  ‘Aye, prince among thieves.’

  Skelgill sits back in his seat and relaxes his arms; the little exchange seems to have defused the tension.

  ‘Marra of mine, Eric Hepplethwaite – keeper at Todd Hall beside Bassenthwaite?’ Skelgill pauses to allow for recognition.

  ‘Oh, aye? I ken Eric.’

  ‘He reckons Lawrence Melling were a bit of a ladies’ man – ran into a spot of trouble at his last place, up in the Borders.’

  Jack Carlops lifts a hand to the swelling on his crown and presses it tentatively. It is developing into a decent sized egg and Skelgill has to admit that it probably merited the greater part of the colourful outburst.

  ‘Aye – there were some crack about that. That he were of law unto hissen wi’ t’ birds.’ The man makes a wry face at the double entendre.

  ‘Who would know?’

  Jack Carlops grimaces.

  ‘Who starts a rumour? It wouldn’t be a rumour if you kent that. Besides – can you mind next morn a quarte
r of what’s been said int’ pub of a night?’

  Skelgill nods philosophically. The man, too, remains taciturn. The silence provides another opportunity for the sister to stick her oar in.

  ‘Jack – thou told me it were that Rapture thingamajig.’

  Whatever this means, it strikes Skelgill that she is following the same line, protective of her brother. Jack Carlops does not respond, and Skelgill is obliged to reprise the question.

  ‘Rapture?’

  The man waves a hand as though he does not know how to explain – or perhaps even that he has doubts over the validity of the statement.

  ‘They say it’s some online animal rights faction – guerrilla, like – hackers and whatnot.’

  Skelgill regards him quizzically.

  ‘I’ve not heard of them.’

  ‘They target estates where birds of prey have been disappearing – raptors – reckon that’s the reason for their name, aye?’ (Skelgill shrugs. Raptor – Rapture – he supposes so.) ‘The regular sabs plant hidden cameras to catch keepers using pole traps and suchlike – this lot, they hack your phones and your emails. Get some dirt on you.’

  At first hearing this sounds innocuous – but it quickly dawns on Skelgill that, as Professor Jim Hartley is fond of saying, there are more ways than one to skin a cat. Get hold of someone’s private communications and you can do a lot of damage. To be privy to a peccadillo is as powerful as proof of poisoning by paraquat. Skelgill suddenly feels an irrational compulsion to get out of the cramped kitchen and the claustrophobia of the loitering sister. Any other questions that he might have – as yet only partially formed – can wait for another time.

  He knocks back his drink with an air of finality and rises. He suspects he reads some relief in the expression of Jack Carlops; but sister Doris seems more uneasy at his brusque departure. He makes his excuses and backs out of the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

  He eschews his car and walks as gravity takes him. He joins the lane and turns downhill towards Uldale. The bordering pastures are wire fenced, bolstered by patchy hedges of shrubs inedible to sheep: blackthorn, dog rose and gorse, the latter mightily abloom – indeed a copious hatch of coal black St Mark’s flies, drunk on its coconut nectar swirls in ungainly aerial courtship; the stretch is like one long invertebrate pick-up joint, and Skelgill absently spits out several unfortunate specimens as he moves through. That these are the Bibio – the hawthorn fly – much prized and imitated by the trout fisherman does not seem to distract him, when ordinarily the combination of a hatch, a nearby trout stream, and his rod in the car would have him twitching like an ornithologist on the trail of an eastern kingbird; it is a sign of his detachment from consciousness. Indeed, before he knows it he is leaning over Stanthwaite bridge, gazing down into what meagre water winds through the Ellen, here just a stride wide, crowded by thirsty alders rooted in its shingle. He comes around without any great sense of revelation; if anything there is an anti-climax that is echoed in the cascading song of a willow warbler, a descending scale that in the birdsong game of snakes and ladders lands on a snake time and again.

  When he gets back to his car his phone is ringing – it is DS Jones’s ringtone and the display tells she has tried several times, as have others.

  ‘I was about to call you.’

  ‘Morning, Guv –’ She pauses, perhaps optimistically, and then continues. ‘It’s just that I have some news on Cian Fogarty and Ciara Ahearne.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘They were definitely on Mull – as we thought, they hitched across to the island. The local police tracked down the two guys that gave them a lift. But they left last night – apparently they were talking about driving cross-country to see some Slavonian grebes south of Loch Ness. So they may have done that overnight – or they might be travelling now. We’ve had no reports of their car since, but the Oban police can’t find it in the town.’

  Skelgill ponders this information.

  ‘It’s a heck of a cover story.’

  DS Jones hears the sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘I know, Guv.’ She takes on his ironic tone. ‘Although I suppose we might think otherwise if they don’t come back tonight.’

  Skelgill makes an indistinct murmur of agreement – but before he can comment more pointedly DS Jones moves to the next pressing item on her agenda.

  ‘Also, some information from Forensics. They found Lawrence Melling’s fingerprints on the shotgun and his bloody handprints on the trap – but no one else’s prints on either item.’ There is something in her voice that makes Skelgill think she is about to revisit the idea that Lawrence Melling shot himself – but, after a pause, she corrects the impression. ‘From analysis of the trousers the lab has concluded that there were two successive bleeds. Probably only a few minutes apart – but blood begins to coagulate almost immediately.’ She pauses briefly. ‘It supports the theory that Lawrence Melling tried to prise open the trap – hence the blood on his hands – and then the shot was fired.’

  Skelgill is nodding grimly. It is as he has been picturing since Helen Back’s instructive lesson.

  ‘Suggests gloves were worn.’

  They both know that gloves have extra significance when it is not the weather for them.

  DS Jones continues.

  ‘The lab are running more detailed tests – for alien DNA – but that’s going to take longer.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

  It is a little harsh of Skelgill. But DS Jones does not take it personally.

  ‘Nothing more on Carol Stanislav, Guv – or the jewellery, come to that. You’d think we’d have had something by now.’

  Skelgill inhales audibly – as if he disagrees.

  ‘Happen nothing is something.’

  Despite the cryptic phrase his tone is grave, and DS Jones seems reluctant to probe; such caprice can make him an uncomfortable person with whom to have a discussion. But she knows he would not say it without reason. She soldiers on.

  ‘Guv – I’ve been trying to find out what I can about Lawrence Melling – prior to his arrival at Shuteham Hall. I came across an interesting article online, cached from the Selkirk Chronicle. It’s just ... here ... hold on a second – I bookmarked the page.’

  While she locates the website Skelgill puts his phone on hands-free and starts the car and pulls away. Now she finds it.

  ‘Okay. So – it’s from last December. I’ll read it verbatim. “Local Selkirk man Kenneth Scott, 47, has been recruited to the prestigious position of head keeper on the Borders estate of the Duke of Hawickshire. The employment of Mr Scott ends a period during which the estate was without a head keeper, following the resignation in September of Mr Lawrence Melling. Chronicle readers may recall that in June Mr Melling was tried at Jedburgh Sheriff Court on a charge of the wanton destruction of a golden eagles’ nest, the only breeding pair in the Borders. Mr Melling was acquitted on the grounds of insufficient evidence. When approached for a quote, the Duke of Hawickshire declined to respond in person, although the press release issued by his estate office announcing the new appointment stated that Mr Scott comes with an excellent reputation for conservation and resource management, in an industry that is an important contributor to the Borders economy.” That’s it, Guv. What do you think?’

  Skelgill finds there are moments in every case when serendipity trips him up, leaving him knowing he has stumbled upon something, but often still too disoriented from the mental somersault to understand exactly what.

  ‘Guv? Can you hear me okay?’

  DS Jones must just be wondering if she has been reciting the article to a dead line – when Skelgill abruptly cuts in.

  ‘Can you look up an organisation called Rapture.’

  She hesitates.

  ‘Rapture – as in ecstasy? Well – I mean, you know – the emotion?’

  Skelgill gives a half laugh.

  ‘Probably not – I reckon it’s meant to be a play on words. From raptor – as in bird of prey.’<
br />
  ‘Oh – okay, that should help – will I do it now?’

  ‘Nay – hold on – wait till we’re through – do it properly. Jack Carlops just mentioned it to me. It’s supposed to be cyber vigilantes – hackers that target gamekeepers and the like – probably all field sports – maybe even livestock farmers.’ He scoffs derisively. ‘Anglers, for all I know.’

  To DS Jones he must sound as though he harbours doubts – yet there is an undertone of urgency.

  ‘Okay. Is there something else?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I just wondered, Guv.’

  Skelgill seems distracted – it must seem to his colleague that he is listening to another conversation at the same time – which, in a sense, he is.

  ‘What’s Leyton up to?’

  ‘He’s at Shuteham Hall – overseeing the search. Obviously we’ve got limited time and resources and he’s making sure they prioritise what they look at.’

  ‘Right. What else?’

  It might sound odd that he is now asking the same question as she has just posed – yet it seems he has detected something. And he is right, but DS Jones is a little reticent.

  ‘Oh – just that the Chief was looking to get hold of you.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘It’s nothing new, as such.’ She realises there is no point in procrastination. ‘Apparently Neil Vholes has complained to the regional director of the RSPB – and he’s got the ear of the Chief. But I imagine she’s just paying lip service in wanting to speak to you.’

  ‘Jones – she doesn’t know the meaning of the expression.’

  DS Jones is forced to agree.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘These things are best snuffed out at source.’

  ‘The Vholes?’

  ‘Aye.’ He forces a laugh. ‘Kill two birds with one stone, eh?’

  13. CALDBECK

  Wednesday, late morning

  Cumberland born and bred, Skelgill had found himself humming the old county’s unofficial anthem, “D’ye ken John Peel” as he passed through the village of Caldbeck, birthplace and burial site of the infamous huntsman; there would be no doubt which side of the fence he would be found, with his hounds and his horn in the morning. But Skelgill was soon distracted from the ditty as the road crossed the eponymous river – Cald Beck, that is, a vigorous brook that eventually wrestles its way into the Eden at Carlisle. To be an angler moving around England’s most watery county is not a prescription for concentration; unless actually fishing, when Skelgill can stare for hours at a float.