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

  ‘What leads have you got?’

  The young detective does not waver or look to her colleagues for support.

  ‘As you would expect we are following several lines of inquiry. At this stage what is most important is to identify the deceased. She probably went missing between September and Christmas – she is somebody’s mother, sister, daughter, wife or partner – we appeal to you to make this request of the general public – particularly if they know of someone who travelled to the Lake District around that time and did not return as planned.’

  ‘So you have reason to believe she was not a local woman?’

  ‘As you may be aware we get over 16 million visitors a year to the National Park – compared to a resident population of 40,000 and half a million in Cumbria. Statistically a visitor is more likely. Moreover, our initial investigations into persons listed as missing have not revealed a local match.’

  ‘What about someone who’s not been reported as missing?’

  The young officer maintains her composure. Marvin Morgan watches unblinkingly as the camera zooms in closer.

  ‘That remains a possibility – and again we would ask the public if such circumstances – someone they have not seen since the autumn – in conjunction with the description of this lady – might jog a memory – of a neighbour not seen in the last six-to-nine months – or perhaps a dog walker who is no longer taking their usual route.’

  ‘Why do you say dog walker? You said the dog walker who found the body isn’t implicated.’

  ‘I give that as an example – there are many instances where people are acquainted by sight but not by name – shopkeepers, for instance, where a regular customer has stopped coming, or members of a society or social group.’

  ‘Did she have a dog – the victim?’

  ‘There’s nothing to suggest she had a dog.’

  ‘But isn’t it a popular dog-walking spot?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say popular – it’s quite inaccessible.’

  ‘But someone could have been attacked while walking their dog.’

  The officer just narrows her eyes slightly. Marvin Morgan shifts in his seat – the newsperson is angling for a scaremongering story. “Maniac Stalker Buries Naked Dog Walker.” But the young detective sergeant is equal to the question.

  ‘We have reason to believe the victim did not meet her death at Harterhow.’

  ‘So the body was taken there? And buried?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We’ll be releasing more information once the forensic examination is complete. At this stage we stress that we don’t believe there is any threat to the public associated with Harterhow Local Nature Reserve – and bear in mind the victim died many months ago.’

  Now there is a slight pause. Marvin Morgan rubs the two-day-old stubble on his chin; something tells him he ought to shave this morning, straighten a few things up. Now another correspondent has gained the attention of the boom operator – it is a more youthful-sounding voice. Unlike his predecessors he introduces himself.

  ‘Kendall Minto – Westmorland Gazette. What do you say to the rumour that this was drugs-related? Some kind of revenge killing?’

  For the first time the young woman glances to her senior officer, but although the camera pulls back it isn’t quick enough to catch the latter’s reaction. There is a rumble of discontent among the old hacks: that some cub reporter has a tip they don’t. The sergeant moves quickly to head off the idea before it gains traction.

  ‘We don’t suspect any such connection. The profile of the deceased makes that extremely unlikely.’

  The journalist has a follow-up question ready.

  ‘Is it true that the corpse had been mutilated?’

  Marvin shifts uneasily in his chair as he sees the senior officer glare at the questioner. Too right, you wouldn’t want her on your case. The hubbub increases and the director cuts away to the agitator. He is seated near the rear of the pressroom; he has boyish good looks though he is probably mid-twenties, wearing a fashionable collarless leather jacket, his expression confident. Marvin Morgan presses an index finger against the screen – however it is not the journalist that he pinpoints – but a person standing at the back of the room – it’s him! The ‘boyfriend’. He knows it’s him – he couldn’t mistake the roughhewn features and unkempt hair. So – is he a reporter, too – or is he in the police, like the girl?

  The top brass woman begins to speak and it’s clear they’re not about to answer this question directly. She says that’s all they’ve got time for today – they’ll schedule another press conference as soon as they have new information. She thanks them for their help and appeals for good coverage – well, they’re already getting it on the telly, aren’t they? Just as the three police officers are gathering their papers, the voice of the young journalist pipes up again. He still has the attention of the roving mike.

  ‘I’ll be burning the midnight oil – if there’s late news you want to disseminate.’ The director cuts back to him. He’s now standing. Behind him Marvin can see the ‘boyfriend-journalist-cop’ (or whatever he is) – his expression is like thunder. The young correspondent’s face is creased by an impertinent grin. Now he calls out. ‘Detective Sergeant Jones – just say the word – your place or mine.’

  There is a ripple of laughter among the journalists, most of whom are male, and probably a chauvinistic bunch, Marvin thinks. The director switches back to the police – they are leaving the raised platform with their documents tucked under their arms. But the young detective sergeant, rather than ignore the heckler turns and responds. She is too far away from the desk microphones – and perhaps she knows this – but the background effects microphone picks up her rejoinder:

  ‘Both – you go to yours and I’ll go to mine.’

  There is a much louder burst of laughter as this put-down registers – but Marvin notices that as she exits she casts a sympathetic glance in the direction of the reporter. Marvin’s breathing rate has increased. What about Emma coming to his place?

  *

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – this girl played a blinder!’

  ‘Just as well, Leyton – with a stuffed dummy sitting beside her.’

  Skelgill, already installed behind his desk as his sergeants enter his office, has a tea from the nearby machine; he holds it rather broodingly at arm’s length on the surface. DS Leyton winces theatrically in the face of Skelgill’s slight, but DS Jones lowers her eyes as she settles by the window. Skelgill glares at the world in general.

  ‘What’s her ladyship doing changing the time – and nobody lets me know?’

  Now DS Jones looks up from the papers on her lap. She and DS Leyton exchange meaningful glances. They would be correct to suspect Skelgill’s frustration will be channelled into making their inadvertent complicity an act of wilful subordination. DS Jones gives a nervous cough.

  ‘She only gave us ten minutes’ warning, Guv. Her secretary told us that a senior contact in the BBC had offered to get the press conference broadcast live on the News Channel if we went half an hour early. The secretary rang round and got all the media guys to come in at short notice. We tried your mobile, Guv.’

  Now Skelgill grimaces at his handset, which lies discarded upon a stack of Angling Times newspapers that occupy his in-tray. He has forgotten to switch it back on, having earlier desired not to be disturbed.

  ‘Aye, well – happen the battery’s knackered.’

  DS Jones leans forward a little.

  ‘We said you were at Harterhow, Guv – there’d obviously be no chance of getting here in time.’

  Skelgill reacts with faint softening of his expression. DS Leyton seizes the opportunity of further mollification.

  ‘If I’m being honest I was brickin’ myself, Guv – in case the Chief asked me to take the lead – but I reckon she guessed Emma would have read all the reports. Hah!’ His laugh is self-deprecating.

  DS Leyton has up his sleeve the knowle
dge that his superior would be equally uncomfortable in the hot seat. Apart from likely not having read all the reports, Skelgill is a fish out of water when it comes to quick-witted banter – and pressurised by what he would regard as a “parasitic naysaying layabout” of a journalist, he is prone to flounder and respond by thumping the unfortunate questioner (or, at least, making it plain that is what he would like to do). To this extent, much of his anger this morning is directed at his own inadequacy. The reality is, circumstances have probably done him a favour – just that he does not want to admit it. DS Leyton presses home the small advantage for the benefit of world peace.

  ‘Turns out the Chief was right – made your team look good, Guv.’

  Skelgill scowls as he slurps from his tea. His expression may or may not reflect upon the quality of the machine beverage; accordingly, DS Jones recognises an opening.

  ‘Shall I get some fresh-brewed from the canteen, Guv?’

  Skelgill nods, rather grudgingly it must be said, and she slips away, flashing an unseen (by Skelgill) smile at DS Leyton.

  ‘She’s a natural, Guv – gives her a nice little leg up on the career ladder – the Chief seeing her in action like that. She knows how to dodge a question – and they’ll think twice about heckling her again.’

  Skelgill regards DS Leyton pensively as he digests his sergeant’s observations – though the outcome does not appear to please him any better.

  ‘I take it the Chief blocked any mention of the dismemberment?’ He scratches his temples with the nails of both hands, as if the sensation of biting midges suddenly revisits him. ‘And cause of death.’

  And now for a moment DS Leyton becomes distracted – but he gives a little jolt and replies.

  ‘She said the priority has to be getting an ID – to focus on the description of the live person, Guv – in the hope that someone will recognise her.’

  Skelgill gnaws at a thumbnail.

  ‘Aye – but we’d get twice the splash – it’s the blood and gore that gets folk talking.’

  DS Leyton frowns reflectively.

  ‘You know the Chief, Guv – she ain’t happy when it looks like things are out of control on her watch. She soon put a stop to proceedings when that little twerp from the Gazette started asking about drugs – I mean, where did that come from?’

  ‘Smart.’

  ‘How’s that, Guv?’ To DS Leyton’s ears this is a contradictory adverb.

  ‘Alec Smart – he’ll have that hack in his pocket. Pound to a penny he put him up to that question. Let’s just rock the boat, eh? Get the Chief thinking we’re flailing about. Never mind her watch – what about my patch.’

  ‘Don’t you reckon she’d see through that, Guv?’

  Skelgill makes a disparaging growl.

  ‘Have you heard Smart when he’s with the Chief? Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, Leyton. What’s worse, she laps it up – beats me why.’

  Now it is DS Leyton’s turn to exclaim.

  ‘Maybe he knows something he oughtn’t, Guv. He told me the other day what I was having for dinner – I got home and stone the crows he was right!’ DS Leyton absently brushes back his mop of dark hair from his brow. ‘Then the missus remembered some shifty character chatting her up at the butcher’s counter in the supermarket.’

  Skelgill is looking agitated, but at this juncture DS Jones re-enters bearing steaming mugs upon a tray. She distributes the drinks and settles down in her place. It is DS Leyton that joins her into the conversation.

  ‘Guvnor reckons it was DI Smart that tipped that local journo off – and him acting all innocent and pumping George about the lane being closed.’

  DS Jones momentarily bites her lower lip; she looks a little unconvinced. She seems to be making up her mind whether or not to respond.

  ‘I was at school with him – he was in the year below – he was a chancer back then, thought he was God’s gift.’

  DS Leyton chuckles.

  ‘So it’s not the first time you’ve used that put-down on him, eh, girl?’

  DS Jones forces a grin.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Skelgill is looking increasing unhappy with the direction of this thread. He deposits his mug with a clunk and extravagantly throws himself back against his sprung chair.

  ‘So, what’s happened to our promising leads?’

  DS Jones regards him earnestly.

  ‘We’re still sifting through the Missing Persons Bureau list – it is producing some names nationwide – but for Cumbria there are fewer than ten females who have been gone for more than six months – and only three of those roughly match the profile. Two have turned up alive and no one has bothered to notify us.’ She raises her eyebrows and spreads her hands in an exasperated gesture. ‘The third we’re trying to get more information from Social Services – they submitted the report.’

  ‘How about DNA?’

  ‘The samples from the deceased are with the lab – provided they get a successful extraction they should be able to run a cross-check against the national database no later than tomorrow.’ Pensively DS Jones brushes a strand of hair from her cheek. It seems she still harbours reservations. ‘There’s a low likelihood that she’ll be on the database – but a chance that it will throw up a familial relationship through which we can identify her. And the possibility that it would lead us directly to her killer.’

  Skelgill is obliged to nod – even he can recite the broad statistics: most murdered females are victims of someone they know – and though the majority suffer at the hands of a partner or former partner, a quarter are killed by a relative. That some lengths have been gone to in concealing the body adds weight to DS Jones’s prognosis. If the murderer happens to be a relative and a former offender, a DNA sample from the dead woman may well catch him. Skelgill, however, is reluctant to pin any hopes on such a straightforward outcome.

  ‘How about the rings?’

  ‘Again we’re waiting for feedback, Guv. The lab has finished with them – detailed photographs have been sent to the Assay Office in Birmingham. We should have a top-line report this afternoon and some specialist feedback by close of play tomorrow.’

  ‘No inscriptions on the inside?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Just hallmarks – but the rings are quite elaborate – and the four together make a distinctive combination – the sort of thing you’d notice if you knew the wearer – a unique identifier really.’

  Skelgill is examining his own hands – ringless – although maybe it is something about their coarse texture that prompts a change of tack.

  ‘Leyton – the landlady.’

  DS Leyton looks up slowly, and has to rouse himself from some daydream that has evidently crept upon him.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘June Collins – how did you get on?’

  ‘Oh, right, Guv – she, er – she fancies herself as a bit of a dolly bird.’ He glances apprehensively at DS Jones to check he has not offended her sensibilities, but she appears unperturbed – his assessment is sincere. He fishes out his notebook, but does not consult it immediately. ‘Interrupted her drying her hair – bit odd for the middle of the afternoon – and nearly choked me with her perfume.’

  Skelgill is watching his sergeant through narrowed eyes. He senses DS Jones is now looking at him, but he keeps his gaze fixed on DS Leyton. However he does not comment, and so DS Leyton continues.

  ‘I took a more detailed statement about her visit to Harterhow. She reckons she walks her dog there about once a month. Proper little horror – bit me flippin’ ankle, soon as I walked in.’ DS Jones can’t suppress an involuntary giggle, while DS Leyton shrugs resignedly, as if he knows this fate is reserved for him, some inexplicable karma. ‘She has a regular circuit around the hill – saves climbing over the top.’ Now DS Leyton hums to himself, approving of this method. ‘Says the dog wanders off into the bushes, but generally keeps within earshot. This time it didn’t come back and she thought it was stuck down a fox
hole – an earth?’ He looks to Skelgill who gives a little nod of expert confirmation. ‘But she could hear it snuffling and that’s when she saw the skeleton – she’s still upset by that, but who can blame her – out for a nice stroll in the woods and there’s a set of Hampsteads grinning up at you?’

  Skelgill seems unmoved either by the rhetorical question or his sergeant’s obscure rhyming slang, and nods for DS Leyton to carry on.

  ‘You know the rest, obviously, Guv – seems like you made an impression on her.’ Now the sergeant grins a little sheepishly, for he is familiar with the details of Skelgill’s first encounter. He consults his notebook. ‘As for background, she moved to Keswick from Liverpool five years ago. She had her own beauty salon – suppose that explains the looks – came and stayed at the B&B one Easter, and it was for sale – so she fancied the idea and bought it. Been there ever since. Unmarried and no kids – seems to like what she’s doing – she’s obviously making a go of it – tidy little place.’

  ‘What about the ex-partner?’

  ‘Yeah – I asked about him, like you said, Guv. Spencer Fazakerley, name of.’ DS Leyton lowers his notebook onto his lap and leans forward. ‘Reading between the lines, I’d wager he’s done one.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Well – couple of times she said they’d split by “mutual agreement” – I always think when someone tells you that it means they’ve had the old heave-ho.’ He glances at DS Jones and she responds with a nod of encouragement. ‘Seems she met him when he came and stayed at the guesthouse – turns out he was a bit of a handyman – fixed some plumbing – cut a long story short, he ended up getting his feet under the table. That was four years ago – and he slung his hook in the autumn – October, November time.’

  DS Jones is alert to the possible significance of this date, and looks inquiringly at Skelgill. He appears less interested, however.

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘She claims not to know – she had to chase him up about some outstanding bill and his mobile number didn’t work any more. Reckons he’s from the Liverpool area, and that he might have gone back there. He was a long-distance trucker – freelance. He’d be away most weeks, three or four days at a time.’ Now DS Leyton regards Skelgill apprehensively. ‘Want me to organise some background checks, Guv?’