Murder in the Woods Page 6

  But Skelgill is also hesitant, his features somewhat corrugated. ‘We can’t get sidetracked harassing everyone who might have been to Harterhow – the Chief won’t buy that.’ He takes a drink of tea and waits while it has some lubricating effect. ‘Just top-line, Leyton – in case he’s got any form.’

  DS Leyton looks relieved and nods.

  ‘She seems happy enough without him, Guv – the place looks spick and span – wish my paintwork was in as good nick. Reckon she can afford to pay local tradesmen. She had her ‘no vacancies’ sign in the window – and a punter turned up just as I was leaving – she shoved him and his suitcase in the sitting room – said he’d come early – poor geezer looked a bit embarrassed – must have thought I was a hotel inspector, what with me taking notes and her acting all proper, like.’

  Skelgill remains pensive.

  ‘Anything strike you about her as odd?’

  DS Leyton is more accustomed to Skelgill’s straight shooting, and adept at dodging unfriendly fire. He makes a show of racking his brains via an assortment of facial contortions.

  ‘Only what I’ve said, Guv – about her being a bit of a dolly bird – but there’s no law against –’ For a second he pauses and then he raises an index finger. ‘There was one thing, Guv – as she showed me out she asked if you’d be seeing her.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I kept it vague – explained we never could tell if we’d need to interview a person again.’ Now DS Leyton becomes a little reticent. ‘Thing is, Guv – then she said you’d offered to walk her dog for her.’

  Skelgill looks genuinely perplexed – although from his subordinates’ perspective it could be a well-practised expression of denial. DS Leyton feels obliged to elaborate, lest their superior’s evident discomfort becomes reflected upon him.

  ‘I just wondered, Guv – maybe there’s something she wants to tell you – that she didn’t like to say to me?’

  Skelgill scowls at his sergeant.

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘I dunno, Guv – but, since you found her in the woods – sort of rescued her – maybe she just feels more at ease.’ (Skelgill is glaring rather belligerently.) ‘Just the impression I got, Guv.’

  Skelgill leans back and folds his arms.

  ‘Happen I’ll cross paths with her anyway.’

  There is a small hiatus, and this becomes extended as DS Leyton receives a text message, which uncharacteristically he opens in the meeting. After a moment he looks up, blinking as though he is surprised to find himself with his colleagues.

  ‘Sorry, Guv – just the missus.’ He is plainly distracted, and looses off a question to Skelgill. ‘How about you, Guv – how did it go with that secretary geezer?’

  It would not come as any great shock to Skelgill’s team to discover that he actually went to recce the fishing on Derwentwater. However, his response dispels any such latent cynicism.

  ‘Geezers, Leyton.’

  Both sergeants now look on with interest.

  ‘I gave the secretary ten minutes’ notice, and in that time he managed to invite the chairman to the interview. Messrs Coot and Fox. They come as a pair.’

  DS Leyton makes an exclamation.

  ‘Blimey, Guv – sounds like The Wind in the Willows – I was only reading that last night – one of the nippers was having a job getting to sleep.’

  Skelgill declines to become diverted by his sergeant’s domestic travails.

  ‘Appears they live together – which explains the other one being on hand. I reckon it’s just a little hobby they’ve cooked up to keep themselves busy. Not the outdoor sort – no dogs – no boots in the hall – they more or less admitted they don’t go out on the hill. Look like they’ve drawn their slippers as well as their pensions.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. ‘I got the feeling they were expecting a visit from the law – but a body was a bit more than they bargained for.’

  Skelgill is of the view that most folk have a skeleton or two in their closets and become uneasy in the presence of the police. Accordingly he is wary of reading too much into a person’s reaction; he might be asking about a bloody murder, when all they can think of is the untaxed car with a bald tyre parked outside. He swills the last of his tea around in his mug and swallows it in one.

  ‘This newsletter they produce – there’s a birdwatcher they get their information from – lives in a cottage at the back of Harterhow – Marvin Morgan.’

  DS Jones sits forward.

  ‘Someone you know, Guv?’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘What are you thinking, Guv?’

  Skelgill repeats the words of chairman Lester Fox.

  ‘They called him their “eyes and ears” – happen he ought to be more observant than most. He might have seen something that could help us.’ However, it is with an unreasonable degree of expectation that he fixes his gaze upon DS Jones. ‘But first we need this date nailed down.’

  DS Jones makes a brave face of it.

  ‘I’m confident by this time tomorrow we’ll be getting closer, Guv. I plan to see Dr Herdwick this afternoon – to stress the importance.’

  Skelgill notices that DS Leyton is again glancing at his phone and simultaneously yawning.

  ‘Leyton – if we’re boring you –’

  DS Leyton jolts and looks rather flustered.

  ‘Sorry, Guv – if you don’t mind there’s just a couple of things I need to sort.’ He rises and looks to his superior for permission to leave the meeting. ‘I’ll get on and run that check on the Fazakerley cove.’

  Skelgill shrugs and DS Leyton takes this as consent. He departs and closes the door – but almost immediately it reopens – however it is not the returning sergeant, but the wily features of DI Alec Smart framed in the narrow gap.

  ‘Nice one, Emma – showed a few old stagers a thing or two.’ Pointedly he switches his leer from an embarrassed-looking DS Jones to an irate-looking Skelgill, and then again to DS Jones. ‘If you want any tips on early promotion – you know where to come.’ He taps the side of his nose and then swiftly pulls away, winking at Skelgill. He closes the door and is gone before Skelgill can summon a retort.

  DS Jones looks discomfited on behalf of her superior: that DI Smart has cleverly fired off a little barbed compliment and made a hasty retreat. She gathers her papers and rises, perhaps deciding that to leave is the most diplomatic course.

  ‘I’ll chase Dr Herdwick, Guv – get back to you as soon as I can.’

  Skelgill does not reply, and indeed sits obdurately with his arms folded as DS Jones opens his office door. It is only when she is halfway out that he calls her back.

  ‘Jones.’

  ‘Guv?’

  Skelgill’s expression is at once pained and appreciative.

  ‘That press conference – well done, lass.’

  7. MARVIN MORGAN

  ‘Mr Morgan?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘DI Skelgill, Cumbria CID.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘May I come in?’

  The man pays particular attention to Skelgill’s warrant card, and leans forward to read it; he might be short sighted – or perhaps he has never seen one before and now takes his opportunity. Skelgill is struck by his facial appearance: closely shaved receding hair, dark crescent brows that meet above a hooked nose, prominent cheekbones, pointed ears, large fleshy lips, and almost black eyes that are sunken and strain from their sockets; it is a sinister countenance. Marvin Morgan must be in his fifties, but looks fit – wiry and no doubt strong, like himself, though a couple of inches shorter, perhaps average height – and wears a newer, freshly laundered version of the outfit that he would ‘kick around’ in, loose black hiking trousers, slip-on trail shoes and a fawn multi-pocketed outdoor shirt. He is clean-shaven and Skelgill detects a hint of cologne.

  The man turns to look over his shoulder.

  ‘Stay.’

  That he utte
rs this command is explained as he steps away from the door to admit Skelgill, and to reveal halfway down the stone-flagged hallway an excited-looking though mostly obedient dog. As Skelgill enters, however, its enthusiasm gets the better of its training and it makes a couple of friendly passes at his legs, and Skelgill a couple of largely unsuccessful attempts to clap it, for it is slippery, a wriggling wagging blur of wavy chocolate coloured fur.

  ‘What is it, a –’

  Skelgill is about to venture “Cockerpoo” – but he finds the name somehow distasteful – and in any event Marvin Morgan, like all dog owners, is ready to supply the relevant information.

  ‘Miniature Australian Labradoodle.’

  Skelgill drops down on one knee and unobtrusively collars the creature; it seems happy to accept a scratch behind the ear before he allows it to trot away.

  ‘Not so miniature. I didn’t hear him bark.’

  ‘He wouldn’t make a guard dog – unless the burglar were a fellow canine – he’s less amenable when they enter his territory – he even sets up an invisible no-go zone for dogs the minute I settle somewhere with a flask.’

  Though Skelgill nods comprehendingly as he stands to face Marvin Morgan he is actually thinking that the man’s unkind physiognomy belies his apparent nature – he is softly spoken and plainly erudite, his accent perhaps grammar school with some underlying regional burr; and his manner is accommodating.

  ‘On which note – can I offer you a cup of tea, Inspector?’

  ‘Never known to refuse one.’

  ‘Please – continue straight ahead to the back kitchen.’

  Skelgill does as bidden. There is the bite of bleach as he passes the slightly ajar door of what must be a downstairs toilet, and the kitchen too has its own smell of some pine-fragranced proprietary cleaner. He settles upon one of two chairs at a narrow oak breakfast table that occupies a space beside a wall. The room, low ceilinged and beamed like the hallway, has a small mullioned window that gives on to a bright green bracken-covered slope, a little rectangle sampled from the north west flank of Harterhow. Marvin Morgan empties and then refills a kettle with freshly drawn water. Once the splash of the tap ceases, he speaks with an inquiring tone while he lights a gas ring and reaches for two mugs from a mug tree.

  ‘How might I help you, Inspector?’

  Skelgill hesitates for a moment – perhaps it rails with him that the man might make the running, when it is for him to decide – and in consequence his response is rather terser than the tenor of their interaction to date.

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  Marvin Morgan swivels at the waist. His expression demonstrates concern, without trace of guilt.

  ‘It sounds like I should.’

  Skelgill makes a little inclination of the head towards the window. ‘I believe you’re a regular out on the hill – Harterhow. Doing your birdwatching.’

  Now Marvin Morgan turns fully, cradling a mug in each hand.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Skelgill is watching him minutely – and the man must sense that.

  ‘On Monday afternoon a dog walker found human remains – it’s been on the news this morning.’

  Marvin Morgan glances at an old-style portable television set on the worktop opposite to where Skelgill sits. There is also a transistor radio. When he looks back at Skelgill his eyes might be fractionally narrowed.

  ‘I haven’t been over – I mean – the last few days I’ve been staking out a family of Sparrowhawks – just up the fell in the nearest stand of larches – they’re ready to fledge and I’m hoping to get some shots of them as they leave the nest.’

  Skelgill sticks to his script.

  ‘We’ve got a scene of crime team working round the clock – in the oak woods that run down to Brandelhow – do you go that way, sir?’

  ‘I go all over, Inspector.’ Marvin Morgan turns away – it may be that the adjunct “sir” prompts some reassessment of Skelgill’s intentions towards him, although the kettle is now boiling and he lifts it and fills the mugs. He swings them onto the table, followed by a screw-top carton of sterilised skimmed milk, and spoons and a ramekin for their teabags, and then as a second thought he retrieves a sugar bowl from a cupboard. ‘Yes – I roam about – but the reserve extends to 250 acres – that’s a lot of ground to cover. The oak woods are at their best in spring when the migrants arrive.’

  Skelgill shovels several sugars into his tea, scowls at the milk but nonetheless adds a splash, and then stirs methodically, leaving the teabag in. Marvin Morgan watches evenly.

  ‘You take photos – for your internet blog.’

  The man is extracting his own teabag, taking care not to drip onto the tablecloth. Skelgill’s observation brings a humble grin to his goblin-like features.

  ‘I’m impressed that you know, Inspector – I’ve been blogging for the best part of three years and in that time I’ve acquired only seventeen followers.’

  Skelgill appears neither impressed nor unimpressed.

  ‘Between last September and Christmas – that’s when we think the body was buried. A female – about your age, sir.’

  It is somewhat provocative of Skelgill to make this connection with Marvin Morgan, albeit a tenuous one. But if he is fishing for a reaction he does not succeed in even inducing a nibble. The man places his elbows upon the table and intertwines his fingers. He looks Skelgill in the eye, and his demeanour is earnest.

  ‘How does my blog fit in, Inspector?’

  Skelgill gives his teabag a poke with a finger.

  ‘You don’t just take pictures of birds, sir.’

  ‘That’s right – you might say I shoot whatever’s in season – I’m coming across a lot of butterflies at the moment – fungi in autumn, that kind of thing. My output would get a bit monotonous if I solely featured birds – there are only so many species, and they’re the hardest of all to photograph.’

  Skelgill folds his arms and leans forward on the table.

  ‘It was scenery I had in mind.’

  Marvin Morgan inclines his head – it seems he gets Skelgill’s point. He is already nodding before Skelgill has finished his next question.

  ‘I take it you have more images, sir – not just those on your blog?’

  ‘I tend to post the photogenic ones – generally close-ups – they’re just the tip of the iceberg – two or three a week. I can certainly show you the rest.’

  Skelgill takes a couple of gulps of his tea. It does not seem to trouble him that the teabag is bobbing about in his mug. Then he pushes off from the table as though he considers Marvin Morgan’s invitation to mean right away.

  ‘You could be the next best thing to CCTV, sir.’

  Marvin Morgan rises, and smiles obligingly, revealing a set of rather long and uneven teeth.

  ‘Bring your tea, Inspector – we’ll go through to my study.’

  As Skelgill passes the portable TV set he places a palm upon it – it is something of a relic from times past, and Marvin Morgan recognises Skelgill’s interest.

  ‘Had it since my first job as a sales rep – I won it in an incentive – it was state-of-the-art back then, can you believe? I keep it for its sentimental value.’

  He leads the way into a small cosy room tucked partially beneath a staircase that has an enlarged picture window overlooking a typical Lakeland cottage garden, shady and lush and damp underfoot, with a border of straining rhododendrons backed by mixed deciduous trees. A rustic bird table stands directly opposite the window, it is heaped with grain and a family of Chaffinches is making hay, while Blue, Great and Coal Tits acrobatically dispute a feeder of mixed sunflower seeds and peanuts. To Skelgill’s eye the garden is well tended, and this orderliness is reflected in the study’s interior. The walls are lined with bookcases, their contents arranged with the precision of a newly merchandised bookshop. Volumes of the same height are neatly aligned, and those that are not taper in descending size order from the centre of the shelf to the edges. Skelgill n
otes distinct sections: birds (there must be 300 books alone, about half of them antiquarian), trees & wild flowers, butterflies & moths, walking guides & maps (a collection to rival his own, though in superior order and condition), general reference, a business section, and finally – perhaps as many as the rest put together – paperback fiction; names mostly unfamiliar to Skelgill: John Fowles, Patricia Highsmith, Thomas Harris. Placed in recesses between books are a striking exotic stuffed bird, vintage brass field glasses beside their scuffed leather case, and several bleached animal skulls: Skelgill recognises fox, badger and a species of owl. In somewhat jarring contrast, arranged like a jagged coronet around the top shelves is a fantastic haul of metal trophies – Oscar style – fashioned from brushed aluminium, chrome and gold, of various sizes and shapes: cylinders, inverted cones, spirals, shining stars and gleaming globes.

  On the back of the planked door a row of hooks holds a winter parka-type jacket, a beige cotton gilet, and a small black rucksack with a water bottle protruding from one mesh side-pocket and a tennis ball bulging in the other. On an oak desk before the window stands an open laptop. Skelgill’s sweep also takes in a printer on top of a multi-drawer steel filing cabinet, the latter’s slim drawers neatly labelled with the letters of the alphabet. On the window sill stand a pocket Lenser torch, a matching thermos flask and mug, a new-looking pair of binoculars – Leicas, no expense spared – a pocket-sized camera, an atomic clock that displays the time of 3:59, a similar device that monitors electricity usage, and a small grey plastic bottle labelled “Cod Liver Oil 500mg”. Beside the laptop is a mesh desk-tidy, in which the items of stationery are impeccably organised, even by desk-tidy standards.

  Marvin Morgan indicates that Skelgill should take his seat, a well-appointed wheeled office chair upholstered in tan leather. From a corner he pulls across what looks like a child’s high stool, made of ash perhaps – it is a clever space-saver and Skelgill admires it with interest. Marvin Morgan perches on the stool and politely reaches over to pull the laptop towards him.