Murder in the Woods Read online

  ‘Oh – good morning, Inspector – I hope this is not a bad time?’

  A new kind of alarm occupies Skelgill’s countenance.

  ‘We’re surveying here this morning.’

  That this explanation has little practical meaning does not seem to trouble June Collins.

  ‘Well, I’m so relieved to encounter you, Inspector.’ Skelgill finds himself tongue tied, but she approaches him directly, right up close until she can take a grip on his sleeve. ‘I decided to brave it, you see?’

  ‘Brave it, madam?’ Skelgill’s focus is divided between the intimate attention he is now receiving from June Collins, and DS Jones, who has edged away and is making surreptitious adjustments to her blouson.

  ‘Inspector – I thought if I didn’t come back straightaway I should never be able to do it – and that would be such a shame for poor little Morse.’ She pushes up the sunglasses onto her forehead and gazes soulfully at the dog. ‘But I’ve been followed through the trees – I heard the crackling of twigs – and someone coughed – so I dashed out of the woods and into this clearing – and here you were –’ She breaks off and casts a conspiratorial glance at DS Jones. ‘Both of you. Thank goodness.’

  Skelgill has thus far ignored the Lakeland Terrier, persistent about his knees. But now he avails himself of the excuse it provides and squats down to appease the creature. A frown creases his brow.

  ‘Miss Collins – you saw our constable on the gate?’

  Now the woman seems bewildered.

  ‘It wasn’t him – following me?’

  Skelgill pats his breast pocket, from which protrudes the aerial of a two-way radio.

  ‘You’re the only person so far this morning to have come to Harterhow. If you heard something in the undergrowth – happen it was a roe deer – they’re rutting this time of year – they can make a barking sound.’

  June Collins appears disappointed that Skelgill would de-escalate her crisis and substitute some mundane natural explanation. She looks imploringly to DS Jones.

  ‘Well – you know how frightening it can be for a lone female, Inspector – even when you do have your dog for protection.’

  Skelgill is still crouching and he stares rather doubtfully at the terrier – the suggestion calls to mind the whereabouts of his own dog. She has remained curled up (though with one eye on proceedings), half hidden in a shady nest beneath a clump of bracken. Skelgill rises and rather theatrically staggers backwards as if he has stepped in a divot.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Miss Collins – Sergeant Jones will escort you back to the gate. I’ll take a wander down through the woods.’

  Skelgill detects a raised eyebrow from his subordinate; meanwhile June Collins looks rather crestfallen. Then suddenly she has an idea.

  ‘Would you like to take Morse? He’s barely had any exercise this morning – I didn’t dare to let him off the lead – after last time, you know?’

  To DS Jones’s evident surprise Skelgill consents to this request.

  ‘Aye – why not.’ He accepts the leash and draws the willing canine to a patch of gorse bushes. He ties a half-hitch to a leathery stalk and returns to begin packing his gear. He glances up to address DS Jones. ‘I’ll meet you back at the office – couple of things to do on the way.’

  DS Jones looks a little sceptical but nonetheless nods obediently. They say their goodbyes and the two females begin to pick a path down the hillside. Skelgill watches them out of sight. When they have gone he gingerly pushes his way into the middle of the clump of chest-high gorse. Standing stiff to attention, he quickly casts about on all sides. Satisfied that he is unobserved, he complies with the call of nature – an occupational hazard for a man who drinks so much tea.

  He rouses Cleopatra, swings his rucksack onto his back, and then promptly lets the potentially errant Morse off his lead. The joyful terrier makes a couple of random sorties into the bracken, perhaps in the hope of picking up a scent or surprising a rabbit. However, as Skelgill has anticipated, it soon falls in with the older dog, and they seem content with a degree of mutual indifference.

  At the edge of the oak wood Skelgill parts the overhanging foliage of an elder, displacing a myriad of tiny cream flowers, miniature stars that cluster in great galaxies all over the leafy firmament and infuse the air with their delightful muscat effervescence. Ahead of him an unruly band of corvids – he recognises the calls of Jackdaws, Jays and Magpies – has set up a raucous cacophony. As he nears the spot they begin to disperse, casting vengeful backward cries. Twenty feet up, a venerable oak has lost a limb, and there is a dark rent in the trunk. Skelgill claps his hands – and as if by magic a Tawny Owl pops up from within; it leans forward on the rim and fixes him with a malevolent stare before launching itself silently into the wood. The dogs, their attention momentarily attracted by the handclap, show no interest in the avian contretemps – flocks of birds, preferably overfed ducks, are for scattering when there is nothing better to do.

  But the incident is not irrelevant, for it tells Skelgill that no one has passed this way in the last short while. The site of the grave is another hundred yards off, downhill, but now the Lakeland Terrier appears to pick up a scent – for it darts ahead, leaping with tremendous agility over fallen debris, dodging ferns and flattening nettles. Catching up, Skelgill discovers that the creature has homed in directly upon the target. The soil might have been sifted and sorted for every last clue, but Morse still finds something worth sniffing. Cleopatra, sedate at heel, is probably more intent upon securing the uneaten sausages in his rucksack.

  The forensic team has done its best to restore the site to its original condition – no doubt with a view to deterring ‘ghouls’ and souvenir hunters. But to Skelgill’s eye the disturbance is still evident – and in any event he has Morse’s powers of olfaction to provide corroboration. There is no indication of an interloper, but he halts and listens; this time of summer the songbirds fall mute, and only a distant Wren, the tiny troglodyte, half-heartedly trills from some mossy bank. All about, the tall oaks, their leaves unmoving, stand silent witness to events past.

  And then a sudden sharp yelp from the Lakeland Terrier ends his moment of reflection. The dog has recoiled – and as Skelgill strides across he sees upon the grave, armed with crescent thorns, a spray of wild roses, delicate pink and yellow blooms possessing the damp sheen of a just-brushed watercolour.

  *

  Back in his cottage, Marvin Morgan stares pensively at his latest batch of photographs. Where to file them? A kiss is ‘level 2’. But then it – and the shot of the inspector urinating in the gorse – they could be “PC” – Potentially Compromising. They’re not for posting on the blog, not yet – but they might have their uses. He grins and begins to hum, it is not especially tuneful, but it could be ‘Watching The Detectives’.

  9. FORENSIC FINDINGS

  ‘You’ve caught the sun, Guv.’

  Skelgill flops flamboyantly into his chair; his colleagues are already seated in his office, and they notice immediately that he seems to be in good spirits.

  ‘I might as well have been sunbathing, Leyton. Five hours on the fell and only June Collins turns up.’

  He grins a little sheepishly at DS Jones. She returns his smile.

  ‘How did it go with Morse, Guv?’

  Skelgill makes a so-so face – but his reply refers to the terrier’s owner.

  ‘What I want to know is how she got under the radar. Did you ask Dodd?’

  The trusty if somewhat accident-prone local constable is another of DS Jones’s contemporaries, and it is plain she seeks to mitigate his lapse.

  ‘Reading between the lines, Guv – I think it was a – a comfort break. He said he’d climbed over the opposite wall to investigate a strange noise – and in the time it took him June Collins had pulled up in her car and disappeared into the reserve.’

  Skelgill tuts ostentatiously.

  ‘Aye, same roe deer as spooked June Collins, eh?’ But he is joking. ‘It looks l
ike it’s right what everyone says about the place – it’s too much trouble to get to, to be popular with dog walkers from Keswick.’

  DS Leyton is looking pensive.

  ‘In that case, Guv – reckon there’s anything in June Collins coming back?’

  Skelgill contorts his features into a benign scowl. He understands that DS Leyton refers to the propensity for killers to ‘find’ their missing victim; in the way that a crowd watching a great blaze will contain the arsonist, they ought at least to have June Collins on their list of suspects.

  ‘I can’t see it, Leyton.’

  But Skelgill’s definitive response prompts a rather terse intervention from DS Jones.

  ‘She seems to like the attention.’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Like she said, lone female.’

  Now he beams affectedly at his colleagues – it seems to be an invitation to move the conversation on – and the act prompts DS Leyton to check his wristwatch.

  ‘Guv – I’ve got to nip out for half an hour at ten-to-four – if I could have first dibs?’

  Skelgill holds out a palm, his expression amenable. It is as though his underlying thoughts are running with some other, more satisfying, scenario and for the time being leave no room for his customary recalcitrance.

  ‘Aye – as you like.’

  DS Leyton nods and brings up his papers, squinting until he finds his focal length. Skelgill seems to think that he is bothered by the sun, and stands briefly and reaches above DS Jones to adjust the window blind.

  ‘Well – sticking with June Collins, Guv – in a fashion. Her former partner, Spencer Fazakerley – so far no trace of him. Nothing on the police computer – nor the missing persons database – even the checks we’ve done on the electoral register haven’t come up with a match for the name.’

  Skelgill looks unconcerned.

  ‘If he’s got no previous, Leyton – are we bothered?’

  DS Leyton seems a little flustered by his superior’s rather casual indifference – he might wonder if Skelgill is playing devil’s advocate, despite his offhand manner. And likewise DS Jones seems unwilling to let the matter pass without comment.

  ‘Guv – what if Spencer Fazakerley isn’t his real name? We only have the woman’s word for it. We know he went to Harterhow with the dog – and he disappeared within the time frame of the death.’

  Skelgill remains phlegmatic – and he concedes the point without further contention.

  ‘Keep it open at the moment – let’s see how things develop.’

  DS Leyton nods and refers to his notes.

  ‘The only other thing I’ve got, Guv – about that committee – Friends of the... Flippin’ How’s Your Father – it seems there was another member – a woman called Veronica Crampston – used to be their treasurer.’

  The additional revelation does not trouble Skelgill; instead he seems amused by his sergeant’s stumble over the name of the society.

  ‘And where is Veronica now?’

  ‘Only just got the information, Guv – the officer I saw at the council contacted us – seems she’s been doing a bit of digging, herself – er... no pun intended. The name has sprung out of that.’ (Skelgill raises his eyebrows but does not comment.) ‘She’s compiled a list of all the notifications for council work on the Harterhow reserve in the past 18 months, plus invoices for jobs done by sub-contractors. I was going to drop in and pick it up before close of play.’

  Skelgill considers his sergeant equably.

  ‘You’d better shoot off, then.’

  DS Leyton is surprised – but clearly decides he should not look a gift horse in the mouth. With a groan he raises his bulk and flashes a thankful grin at DS Jones.

  ‘I’ll be back after five, Guv.’

  Skelgill waves him away with a dismissive palm. When the door is closed he turns to DS Jones.

  ‘What’s that all about – coming in later?’

  DS Jones looks like she is wondering whether to answer frankly – but perhaps she detects that Skelgill, despite his rather blithe manner, is watching her more closely than he might like her to believe.

  ‘Er – his wife’s got a hospital appointment – there’s no one else who can meet the kids out of school. That’s all it is, I think, Guv.’

  Skelgill scoffs, but not in a disparaging manner – he slides back in his chair and folds his arms – he produces a look of wistful nostalgia.

  ‘They should be so lucky – when I was a bairn we got the bus. If you missed it – eight mile walk and no one would come looking for you.’

  DS Jones regards him thoughtfully for a moment – but then she bows her head and considers her notes.

  ‘I’ve got some feedback, Guv.’

  Skelgill is still reclining, and he casts his eyes up to the ceiling, where in a corner a daddy longlegs is hopelessly trying to make an escape – a mummy, in fact: he notes it has an ovipositor.

  ‘I take it I’d know by now if there was a result on the DNA?’

  DS Jones sighs audibly – of course – they both know – that had a match been struck this news would have been transmitted through more urgent channels.

  ‘Nothing, Guv – I suppose the only thing we can say is that from a familial point of view she’s no relation to the watch list of local offenders.’

  Skelgill looks pensive.

  ‘We don’t know she’s British.’

  Now DS Jones turns a couple of pages, with more urgency.

  ‘Ah – that’s one interesting thing, Guv – the report on the rings.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘They’re not especially valuable – nor particularly uncommon – they’re probably of quite recent Chinese manufacture – but made for the European market. Low-grade gold with non-precious stones. One of them is quite distinctive, though.’ Now she folds the sheaf of notes and presents to Skelgill a page showing the four rings separately photographed and enlarged. ‘This one – it’s called a Claddagh ring – it’s a traditional Irish design – see how the clasp is two hands holding the heart in the middle.’

  ‘Irish.’

  ‘Most popular among Irish people and the Irish diaspora.’

  ‘Never heard of it – not that I would have.’

  DS Jones nods eagerly.

  ‘There are traditional ways to wear a Claddagh ring. To show what kind of relationship the person is in.’ Now she pauses. ‘The victim – she was wearing the ring on her right hand with the point of the heart towards the fingertips.’

  Skelgill looks at his own right hand, something he has often joked he could manage without.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It indicates she was single – or looking for love.’

  There is another pause while DS Jones scans her notes. Skelgill watches her.

  ‘I’m guessing that doesn’t rule out that she could be married?’

  DS Jones glances up – it takes her a second to cast aside some preoccupying thought. ‘No, I believe not.’

  Skelgill sets his jaw and broodingly scrapes at the beginnings of a beard with a bare knuckle.

  ‘So where does it get us?’

  ‘I suppose your point, Guv – there’s around half a million Irish-born citizens living in Britain.’

  ‘That just makes life more difficult.’

  DS Jones places the papers on the corner of Skelgill’s desk.

  ‘I still think the combination of the four rings is the best clue, Guv – on top of what we now know about the Claddagh ring – surely it’s just a matter of getting a picture in front of the right person?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I recommend we put them on CrimeTime.’

  Skelgill makes a sudden explosive exclamation.

  ‘The Chief won’t buy it – you know what she reckons to that programme. She takes the hump – as Leyton puts it – if her officers are on the telly getting too big for their boots.’

  DS Jones knits her brows and sits in silence for a few mo
ments.

  ‘Maybe if I asked her, Guv – it wouldn’t seem like that?’

  Skelgill’s expression becomes introspective. Certainly DS Jones has achieved favour with her performance in the press conference. She has a point. But his antipathy towards cowardice overrules his common sense.

  ‘If there’s any asking to be done – I’ll do it, lass.’

  DS Jones nods rather meekly.

  ‘We’ve got a reasonable description of the victim, Guv – and the cosmetic work on her front teeth is also quite distinctive – it’s the sort of thing that friends or relatives would know about. All we need is a lead – a name and locality – and then the dental records would confirm the ID.’

  Skelgill looks doubtful.

  ‘What about Ireland? What if she’s from over there?’

  ‘I’ve checked, Guv – CrimeTime is also screened on RTE – it goes out the following night – but these days with digital, the BBC has a big audience in the Republic, plus they watch BBC Northern Ireland. And the broadcasters will post the images on their websites and social media feeds.’

  Now Skelgill grins contritely – as usual his sergeant has not just come up with a spur-of-the-moment suggestion – she has thoroughly vetted the idea.

  ‘If I’m to sell it to the Chief – we need it to be our best bet. What’s the story on the post mortem?’

  DS Jones is already nodding and flicking through her notes.

  ‘Again it’s more a case of what it isn’t, Guv – if you get my meaning.’ She glances up and Skelgill raises an eyebrow. ‘There’s nothing definitive regarding cause of death – Dr Herdwick thinks strangulation is most likely.’

  ‘That’s his standard get-out.’

  ‘I know, Guv – but in this case his report states that there is a fracture of the hyoid bone – it’s consistent with fatal strangulation – found in a third of adult cases.’