Murder in the Woods (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 8) Read online

  ‘A walker.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘How often do you see someone with a whacking great rucksack – wild camping – you don’t bat an eyelid.’ He scratches his head vigorously; midges are biting. ‘Leastways, most folk don’t – I’m nosy myself, see what they’ve got if there’s gear strapped on the outside. Tells you if they know what they’re doing.’

  She gets his point – a large rucksack would enable the body parts to be carried with comparative ease – and in plain sight. She waves a palm in front of her face

  ‘I was thinking more from a point of view of knowing about this place, Guv – that if you were a dog owner – you’d be aware few people come here.’

  Skelgill does not demur. Indeed his underlying – perhaps subconscious – desire to explore the area has its roots in such a sentiment. The locus might prove to be a vital indicator to the identity of the killer. But it is far from an exact science. Murderers have buried their victims in their gardens (usually a spouse) believing they will not be missed, while others have simply dumped the cadaver in the most convenient layby, believing they themselves will not be connected to the crime – there is no hard-and-fast rule – for the mind of a murderer is not always a logical domain. This location, however, implies a more considered rationale – and the non-removal of the rings an expectation that the corpse would not be discovered. But it might simply have been an oversight – and that haste and panic abounded post mortem.

  *

  It’s definitely the same couple. The girl has changed her outfit – a looser top that’s not so revealing, and more casual trousers that look better suited for being outdoors – but the man’s red-and-blue check lumberjack shirt he recognises from yesterday. Marvin Morgan glances at his dog, but it is preoccupied with its nether regions; in any event it rarely bothers about humans. Today the couple don’t have their dog – or dogs. At times they walk close beside one another, conferring quietly, their expressions serious. In places, though, they have to go in single file – the man first. If they’ve climbed to the top of Harterhow they’ll have been disappointed – he came that way himself – there’s nothing to see, is there?

  Now they’re heading back across the big sloping clearing towards the oak wood. It doesn’t seem like there’s going to be any fooling around. He wonders if they’re connected with whatever’s going on down below. He hasn’t risked too close a look himself – only glimpses of white tents through his binoculars – and people moving to and fro. It might be an outward-bound school party – plenty of them come to the Lakes for the last few of weeks of summer term. Maybe the staff have arrived early to set up camp – perhaps these two are teachers having an affair.

  Maybe he’ll come back after dark, without the dog, with his night-vision gear.

  *

  ‘Do you think it was just a fluke that the terrier found it, Guv?’

  Skelgill is staring into the woods, away from the tents. He points to a narrow path, barely six inches across that winds away through the undergrowth.

  ‘See that – it’s a badger track. There’s probably half a dozen setts on Harterhow. You rarely see them – unless you stake them out at dusk – and even then they just get on their way. Folk think a badger’s cute – but you wouldn’t want to tackle one that’s backed into a corner. It’s Britain’s biggest carnivore – make mincemeat out of your average fox. And they can dig like there’s no tomorrow.’

  DS Jones is nodding.

  ‘So you think it was uncovered by a badger?’

  ‘Likely as not – then the smell would attract foxes – and dogs.’

  ‘Morse.’ DS Jones grins. ‘A bit ironic, Guv.’

  Skelgill makes a clicking noise with his tongue.

  ‘Aye – I reckon we’ll skip that detail when it comes to the report.’

  DS Jones gives him a casual sideways glance.

  ‘What was your impression of the owner?’

  ‘Interesting.’ However the word does not match Skelgill’s tone of voice; he sounds guarded and is distracted for several moments. ‘She runs a B&B in Keswick – overlooking Crow Park – that’s where I’ve seen her – it’s popular with dog walkers. But I reckon we can rule her out. And I’ll show you why.’

  Skelgill now strides across to a trestle table upon which are laid various tools and implements. He selects a spade and returns to DS Jones, passing her and indicating she should follow. He leads, taking the badger track; it is not so easy as it looks, for in places it passes beneath fallen boughs and elder bushes and patches of ferns. When they are about fifty yards from the site, he stops and casts about. Then he hands the spade to a bemused-looking DS Jones and points with the toe of his left boot at the ground before them.

  ‘Try digging.’

  DS Jones grins.

  ‘What – for badgers, Guv?’

  ‘Who knows what we’ll find.’

  DS Jones does as bidden. She positions the implement against the leaf mulch and applies pressure with her right foot. The cutting edge breaks the soft surface but to her evident surprise penetrates barely an inch before it meets some obstacle. She glances at Skelgill and moves the spade to an adjoining position – but to no avail. She puts more effort into the task, first pushing down with both hands upon the handle, bending her back, and when that does not work she hops two-footed upon the shoulders, and balancing she attempts to transmit her body weight down through the tool. With a small shriek she topples off and has to let go.

  ‘I don’t think I’d make a gardener, Guv – or a grave digger!’

  Skelgill is smirking with some satisfaction. He picks up the spade and begins to scrape away at the leaf litter. Immediately he reveals the source of the problem: a network of fine pale roots that lies just beneath. Once he has cleared a small patch he changes his grip.

  ‘Stand back.’

  Now he becomes a man possessed – for it is plain that to do this job requires considerable force. But instead of digging conventionally, he wields the spade like an axe, swinging it double-handed through a great arc to bring the blade on one side down at an angle of 45 degrees, slashing through the roots, or splitting them sufficiently for a second spearing downward thrust of the cutting edge to sever them. After maybe a minute of vigorous exercise and a modicum of cursing he has hacked out an area of about two square feet, to a depth of some eight inches. It is plain, however, that even this technique has its limitations, for he has exposed a much bigger root, as thick as his forearm, upon which the spade makes little impression other than scoring its surface and releasing a milky sap.

  ‘You’ve done that before, Guv.’

  DS Jones sounds impressed and Skelgill looks pleased with her compliment. Panting, and rather heroically, he wipes beads of sweat from his brow, and then shakes his head as more no-see-ums begin to home in on the static target.

  ‘You should see my garden – you wouldn’t think so.’

  Now DS Jones puts her hands on her hips and adopts a rather insouciant pose.

  ‘The landlady could have had an accomplice, Guv.’

  Skelgill slings the spade over his shoulder and flashes his colleague a wry grin. DS Jones has understood the purpose of his experiment, and her thoughts have leapt ahead. He puts one foot into the hole.

  ‘If you came here thinking digging a grave would be plain sailing you’d be disappointed. If you wanted to make it really deep – to minimise the risk of discovery – you’d need to know what you were doing – what tools you’d need – and allow plenty of time – maybe even prepare it in advance.’

  ‘There’d be the risk of someone finding it, Guv.’

  Skelgill looks about. In contrast to the coniferous woodland around the summit there is more undergrowth, a patchy herb-and-shrub layer that restricts visibility.

  ‘Less so here, though, eh?’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘The actual trench that the body’s in, Guv – it isn’t all that deep?’

  Skelgill hops out of the hole and makes to re
trace their steps.

  ‘See what the boffins come up with.’

  They walk in Indian file for half a minute. As they approach the camp bearded individuals are congregating at the tent designated for social purposes, pitched a respectful distance from the gazebo over the grave.

  ‘Looks like it’s time for their lunch break, Guv.’

  ‘That makes us late for ours.’

  While Skelgill returns the spade DS Jones checks her messages.

  ‘Oh-oh.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘George on the front desk. As you foresaw, Guv – a reporter from the Westmorland Gazette has been asking what’s going on in Harterhow Woods – how come the lane is closed.’

  Skelgill tuts.

  ‘Next thing some bright spark will be running pleasure trips across the lake for rubberneckers.’

  DS Jones smiles; simultaneously she interrogates her inbox.

  ‘We’ve got several promising names on the missing persons list.’ Skelgill watches as she reads. She purses her lips; they look full and soft. Her hazel eyes become pensive. She glances up at Skelgill and catches him observing her. ‘Perhaps I should head back and get onto this, Guv?’

  ‘Aye, maybe.’ Skelgill sounds momentarily disappointed; his eyes narrow. Then he inclines his head in agreement. ‘Fair enough. You can drop me at Portinscale and I’ll make a plan with Leyton. But you need to eat.’

  DS Jones chuckles, and then she pats her taut midriff.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Guv – I’m still living off yesterday’s sausages.’

  *

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Guv – bit of an issue at home early doors. Set me back all morning.’

  Skelgill is accustomed to ignoring DS Leyton’s protestations concerning matters domestic, on the grounds that hyperbole is inbuilt in proportion to the noise and disorder created by small unruly children.

  ‘You should get yourself out first thing, Leyton – then you can’t be roped in.’

  DS Leyton looks uneasy, crestfallen in fact. It seems his boss is missing the underlying sentiment – and shows no inclination to ask what it might be – and that he himself feels unable to elaborate. He pulls out the chair opposite Skelgill and lowers himself down with a resigned groan.

  ‘I had to take over the school run, Guv – it’s a right old bun fight for parking spaces – flippin’ ruthless those mums are – I pity the old lollipop lady, trying to keep ’em off the zigzags – like a pack of hyenas.’

  Skelgill is regarding him rather blankly – but a young waitress approaches their table and pre-empts any response he might make. She seems a little overawed by Skelgill, though his reaction is oddly paternal.

  ‘Same again I reckon, lass – times two.’ The girl makes a little curtsey and backs away. Skelgill glances at DS Leyton, who is regarding him suspiciously. ‘Some kind of cousin, once removed.’

  DS Leyton forces a smile.

  ‘You’ve got more contacts in your family than DI Smart has in his little black book, Guv – and that’s saying something.’

  ‘Aye – except I don’t have to pay for information you can’t trust.’ Skelgill rubs his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand – but if it has some implied meaning he lets it pass. ‘Plus we get the staff discount here – that’s another saving for the taxpayer.’

  ‘Every little helps, Guv.’

  Skelgill recognises his sergeant’s platitude for what it is.

  ‘How did you get on at the council?’

  DS Leyton glances about, perhaps out of habit – but the café is patronised exclusively by well-to-do middle-aged and elderly couples occupied by carrot cake and cappuccinos, maps and guidebooks. There is subdued conversation and the polite clink of cutlery punctuated by the sporadic clatter of plates and pans from the kitchen. Notwithstanding he leans forward and lowers his voice a little. He pulls his notebook from inside his jacket, though he lays it aside on the table surface.

  ‘I met with the officer for the Parks Department – by all accounts they’re more stretched than we are.’ (Skelgill scowls in disagreement, but holds his peace.) ‘She didn’t seem to know much about this Harterhow place at all, Guv. I reckon they’re out of their depth with a nature reserve. She admits they ain’t got the expertise – nor the budgets.’

  ‘Someone must be in charge, Leyton. Surely they’ve got a management plan? Some kind of warden – park ranger?’

  But DS Leyton shakes his head.

  ‘Have you seen the size of the council offices, Guv? I’ve passed it times and not even noticed – I thought it was a pub. They’re mainly responsible for what you’d call regular public parks – kiddies’ swings and herbaceous borders and football pitches. There’s a depot on the industrial estate near the pencil museum – where they store all their kit – tractor and trailer, mowers and line-markers and whatnot. All keys are kept there – there’s a chain and padlock on the gate at the end of the lane that leads to Harterhow. If the emergency services needed access, they’d call the duty officer for the council.’

  Skelgill looks unconvinced.

  ‘Aye, there’s a gate, alright. But beyond it’s rough terrain. You’d want a tracked vehicle – or a Defender at a push – or you’d get nowhere. If there were a forest fire it would have to burn, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton shrugs his broad shoulders.

  ‘How do you get in on foot, Guv?’

  ‘There’s a stile beside the gate – dogs can just slip through – or there’s a culvert beneath the wall.’

  Skelgill’s remark prompts DS Leyton to open his notebook.

  ‘She did say that if we had an idea of dates she could check through their invoices – it might be possible to trace a subcontractor who’s done some work – like repairing a wall or cutting down a dangerous tree.’

  Skelgill’s expression is one of doubt.

  ‘How would they find out about that if there’s no warden?’

  DS Leyton raises an index finger, as if he has been holding back a more salient point.

  ‘Apparently there’s this local voluntary group, Guv. Keeps an eye on the place.’ He consults a second page of his tidily written notes. ‘Friends of Harterhow Hill.’

  DS Leyton sounds rather formal, carefully pronouncing the initial ‘H’ of each word, going against the grain of his East London accent. Skelgill’s frown deepens.

  ‘Not hill, Leyton.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  I doubt it’s called “Friends of Harterhow Hill” – leastways not if they’re proper locals. ‘How’ means hill – you don’t need it twice – it’s as daft as saying Lake Windermere.’

  DS Leyton tries to look simultaneously interested and apologetic. His superior can be surprisingly pedantic for one so often disorganised.

  ‘I’m just going by what she told me, Guv. There’s a little committee – and they produce a newsletter. She gave me the secretary’s phone number.’ He turns the page. ‘Lives in this neck of the woods. Want me to arrange to see him this afternoon?’

  Skelgill does not reply at once – and now the food arrives – a bacon roll each, and tea in takeaway beakers. DS Leyton thanks the girl while Skelgill inspects the contents of his roll – a generous helping of streaky rashers – and reaches for the red sauce bottle.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Leyton – we’ll divide and conquer. You hop over to the B&B and get a full statement from the landlady – find out what happened to her ex if she doesn’t volunteer it. I’ll take your committee man.’

  DS Leyton is again looking rather discomfited, though now the focus of his concern seems to be his lunchtime snack.

  ‘Righto, Guv.’ He sits back and folds his arms. ‘To be honest, Guv – I’ve not got much of an appetite – I’ll take the tea with me and get moving – if I could work through lunch and finish a bit earlier today it would help?’

  ‘As you like, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton is surprised by his superior’s ready acquiescence. He tears out from his notebook the
page with the telephone number.

  ‘I’ll email you all the notes, Guv.’

  Skelgill is already tucking two-handed into his roll, and gives a cursory nod. As DS Leyton rises and turns away, he frees a hand and draws his sergeant’s forsaken plate alongside his own.

  5. COOT & FOX

  ‘I didn’t hear your car, Inspector – you gave me a right old fright.’

  Archibald Coot leans to look past Skelgill and he seems perplexed that the curving driveway of the secluded cottage is empty; but Skelgill does not trouble to explain that a few minutes on foot has brought him to this leafy lane south of Portinscale. In fact he is processing the man’s accent – it is not pronounced, but the vowels in right and fright suggest Merseyside. In appearance there is something hunched and gnome like – amplified in his manner, which is slow and unblinking. He is a little below average height, a little tubby, and largely hairless, a trait that extends to the absence of eyebrows. His complexion is noticeably pink, his skin almost opaque, and small watery blue eyes are subsidiary in a round face dominated by fleshy lips and a bulbous nose. His attire is that of the retiree – grey polyester trousers and a maroon pullover – but also a shade formal for regular indoor wear, in that he sports black slip-on shoes and a check shirt with an unevenly knotted tie: indeed he looks ready to attend a meeting of the crown green bowls club.

  ‘You had better come in, then, Inspector.’

  Skelgill’s silence seems to unnerve the man, who shuffles backwards to admit him, before fastening the door and making a strange lurching dart to lead the way into a modestly sized beamed sitting room midway along the low-ceilinged hallway. Skelgill’s first impression is of a certain fustiness mixed with cooking smells (possibly cabbage), but he finds respite in lush green foliage that presses up to the flank of the cottage, visible through small mullioned windows on either side of an exposed slate chimney breast. The room is accordingly shady, and to his surprise a tall angular man seems to rise out of nowhere – but in reality from a wing-backed chair in the corner to his right.