Murder on the Moor Page 8

  ‘Has anyone stayed over the weekend?’

  Drinking, she shakes her head.

  ‘No – it’s just during the shooting season. There’s a peak in August when they start the grouse. Then in October for the pheasants. They’ll generally have a house party for Christmas, with a big shoot on Boxing Day. It ticks over the rest of the time. They’re busiest at weekends – but obviously my cleaning job’s fine to do during the week, and it’s pretty flexible – dust is a patient client.’

  Skelgill is nodding amenably.

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Coming up for three years.’

  ‘What about the other staff?’

  ‘Well – Cook – she’s called Pru – she’s the longest serving. She’s been with Teddy’s family for generations. She lives in. There’s a kind of maid’s room above the kitchen that’s been extended over the scullery to make a little bedsit. She has a girl – Janice, from Overthwaite – who comes in evenings to help her with dinners – prep and serving and clearing up – she’s been here longer than me, as well.’

  Now the woman seems to need to be prompted – although it might just be Skelgill’s imagination.

  ‘How about the gamekeeper?’

  ‘Lawrence?’

  ‘Is there more than one?’

  ‘Er – no. He came last September, I think it was.’

  ‘What’s the story there, then?’

  Karen Williamson seems a little unnerved.

  ‘I believe the bags had been falling for a number of years – last August was the worst on record. So Teddy replaced his old keeper – I think he was more or less due to retire, anyway.’

  ‘And has he made a difference?’

  ‘They say there’s been an improvement in the organisation. I suppose with the birds it’s too soon to judge – until nature runs its course. And there are others involved – four estate workers. They’re all Eastern Europeans – a really nice crowd – turn their hand to all manner of jobs – although their English isn’t always that good.’

  ‘Folk say that about me.’

  She simpers tactfully – but for his part he has noticed she did not dwell on the subject of Lawrence Melling. As for the remaining staff, those employees whom ‘inside information’ places in a category of being necessary targets for inquisition, for some reason Skelgill feels little compunction to pursue them at this juncture. It could be said there is the disconcerting ability of foreigners to switch into impenetrable mode, their smattering of English dropping away like autumn leaves after a heavy frost – but his personal experience of scores of émigré workers from the old Soviet Bloc is of industrious, honest, cheerful types – who have swapped their homes and families for the company of strangers, poor quarters and workman’s wages; faithfully to remit the latter to their loved ones. If he harbours any resentment, it is against those who would exploit them by paying rates the locals will not get out of bed for.

  ‘So what do you reckon, Karen?’

  ‘What about?’

  For the first time there might just be a slight tremor in her voice – perhaps she detects a change in tenor brought on by his use of her name and the open-ended question.

  ‘Who should I put in thumbscrews?’

  As she stares at the dusty ground in front of her the sun is suddenly obscured, and she widens her eyes as if she is trying to readjust to the inferior light.

  ‘Aren’t I the prime suspect?’

  Skelgill does not answer for a moment, and as he turns his head to look at her she reciprocates. To his relief her gaze is fiercely interrogative. He makes a face that perhaps goes some way to being reassuring.

  ‘I’d like proof they’re stolen.’

  She looks shocked by his statement.

  ‘Oh – but surely they are?’

  Skelgill shrugs and casts about the cramped space. Lying on its side he notices a rusty zinc watering can that has a screw thread on its spout, and it reminds him how he is always losing the push-on rose from his own plastic version. He ought to obtain one like this. It looks discarded. Maybe it is available?

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first theft I’ve been called to that never was. Sometimes things disappear and then magically reappear.’

  Karen Williamson frowns pensively.

  ‘Cook said she heard Teddy telling Daphne that Miranda didn’t want to report the loss.’

  Skelgill is reminded of an incident from his childhood. At the age of five at infant school he ‘borrowed’ a desirable miniature toy car from a classroom display. But it was soon burning a hole in his pocket – and his cheeks were burning even hotter when the teacher lined up the class and made them turn out said pockets. Miraculously, by some instinctive sleight of hand he was not caught. The pupils were then conscripted to scour the classroom – and by the same magic to which he has just referred, by the end of the search the model car was back in its place! It was the last thing he ever stole – or, at least, the last thing that wasn’t a fish – but a fish is a wild animal, and no human can own a wild animal.

  ‘Happen she thought they’d turn up – like I say.’

  ‘That the thief would have second thoughts?’

  Skelgill produces a wry grin – she might have read his mind – but he is interested in her use of the word thief. If any one thing she has said would convince him of her innocence, it is this. Almost certainly if she were self-referencing she would have said person. But he reminds himself to retain a small percentage of doubt. It would be too easy to fall for her unaffected candour when it is so starkly juxtaposed to Miranda Bullingdon’s seduction technique.

  ‘But isn’t it most likely just to be an actual burglary? At night – when there was no one around and everyone was sleeping?’

  Skelgill nods slowly, though he does not quite agree with her assessment of probability.

  ‘There were no signs of a break in.’

  She regards him uncertainly.

  ‘I’m not sure they always lock up properly. I mean – I believe Teddy does it when he goes to bed – at around ten. You can’t get through the main door from the outside once it’s locked. But the scullery door to the kitchen garden, that’s got a Yale lock on it so people can get in with their key. Cook normally opens that at seven. I have a spare key in case I need to start any earlier.’

  ‘Doesn’t a Yale automatically lock itself?’

  ‘There’s been some mornings – not often – when I’ve gone up early and it’s not been locked. Of course, it could be someone’s already come out and left it on the latch – like Julian, doing his nature study.’ She hesitates for a moment, as if she might believe otherwise – but then she shrugs lightly. ‘But there are also French windows in the Georgian wing that could be left open. You could get through into the old part of the hall that way.’

  Skelgill nods noncommittally. It is true, a confident cat burglar would have few qualms in creeping about while folk were asleep, but in a place the size of Shuteham Hall – there must be fifty rooms – it would surely require more than random chance to home in on Miranda Bullingdon’s jewels? It doesn’t yet quite stack up.

  ‘Was she in the habit of leaving her valuables lying out?’

  The young woman furrows her brow.

  ‘I would say mainly not. She’s very methodical. With all her outfits and cosmetics and stuff like that.’

  Skelgill rather feels this is not the impression Miranda Bullingdon endeavours to convey.

  ‘I take it you knew the jewels were there?’

  Karen Williamson looks at him wide-eyed.

  ‘Oh, yes – she showed them to me when I started – asked me if I wanted to try anything on – said I could borrow something if I ever needed to.’

  It is Skelgill’s turn to look surprised.

  ‘And did you?’

  She shakes her head vigorously.

  ‘No – no – I wouldn’t dare. Imagine if you lost one of those diamond earrings.’

  Skelgill reserves comment. He is wo
ndering if a woman, given the freedom of a dressing table full of jewellery and the opportunity (and the invitation) to try it on, would be able to resist the temptation. The tackle shop he visited earlier – were he to have been accidentally locked in over the lunch hour – how long would it have been before he was swishing handmade bamboo fly rods that he could only dream of owning? But he decides not to challenge her on this hypothesis. He reverts to matters of fact.

  ‘I know you’ve been asked this – but as I haven’t had chance to read the statements – when did you clean Lady Bullingdon’s room?’

  ‘Today. I always do her room first thing on a Monday. The missing jewellery wasn’t on the dressing table – but it could have been in the drawer.’

  ‘You didn’t open it?’

  She looks at him and shakes her head.

  ‘It does open by accident sometimes. It’s got a mechanism that you have to press – so when you’re polishing the dresser you can trigger it. But it didn’t open today.’

  The sun comes out; Skelgill sighs and shades his eyes with a hand.

  ‘It’s giving me a headache – that we don’t know when it was taken.’

  The woman seems reassured by his reaction. She reaches for the vacuum flask.

  ‘It might be dehydration. Like a refill? Oh – and I’ve got some chocolate digestives. They’ll get your sugar levels up.’

  She pours him more tea and pulls an open packet of biscuits from the bag beside her. Skelgill seems to rejuvenate instantly.

  ‘Every first aid kit should have them.’

  ‘Is that what you carry in the mountain rescue?’

  ‘Kendal mint cake, actually.’ And now a pause while Skelgill dunks a biscuit and swallows it whole. I try to keep these in the car, or when I’m fishing. It’s not a proper mash without them.’

  She grins and offers him another.

  ‘My Kieran would eat a whole packet in a sitting if I let him.’

  Skelgill has to turn his face away to hide his smile.

  ‘I expect he needs the energy, young lad, getting loads of exercise.’

  She nods, and then speaks with sudden eagerness.

  ‘Would you like to see a video of him competing?’

  ‘Aye, sure.’

  She carefully balances her own mug on the orange box and, leaning sideways, pulls her mobile phone from her thigh pocket nearest to Skelgill. She shuffles along the bench until she is close beside him, and bends over the handset, her long hair veiling her face but also shading the screen from the overhead brightness while she finds the item. She starts the recording and half turns around to Skelgill. A shaft of sunlight is reflecting off the screen and he automatically shades it with his palm and leans closer to see, so that their heads are more or less touching. They watch, both perfectly still now.

  ‘He’s the one with the dark hair.’

  Skelgill concentrates upon the action.

  ‘He’s good. He’s got your natural sense of balance. And your kick, I bet – look at that!’

  The woman laughs delightedly.

  At this moment there is a sharp crack and Skelgill and Karen Williamson look up simultaneously. It is the distinctive snap of a fragment of glass trodden on; and silhouetted in the vine-festooned doorway, looking a little disconcerted, but quickly composing herself, is DS Jones.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Guv – there’s been a development. I think you ought to come.’

  *

  ‘Guv, look at this – his passport.’

  DS Leyton has entered the cramped cottage kitchen carrying an apparently empty black Nike holdall, its white tick logo scuffed and its carry straps frayed and its beading split. He brandishes the passport, held open at the ID pages and steps between his colleagues. He drops the bag onto a small square table as they cluster around.

  ‘That’s a corker of a name, “Carol Valentin Stanislav” – no wonder they call him Stan. Age – what would that be – twenty-nine? Wait a minute – he’s the clown we saw fall off the ladder, remember, Guv?’

  Skelgill nods grimly. He takes the travel document from his sergeant and squints at the pixelated image. He turns over to the cover; royal blue embossed with gold lettering, it states: “Republica Moldova”.

  DS Jones responds to the silence of her colleagues.

  ‘It’s landlocked between Romania and Ukraine. The text will be Romanian – it’s the official language. It’s one of the poorest countries in Europe – they estimate that a quarter of its population is working abroad. By the way, “Carol” is Charles.’

  DS Leyton is looking at her somewhat open-mouthed.

  ‘Don’t forget – I have relatives from Ukraine.’

  For his part, Skelgill stares reflectively at his female colleague. In the poor light, the illumination channelled from a smallish window, her strong physiognomy is cast into sharp contrast, the prominent cheekbones and dark eyes, the sculpted classical features that often turn heads. Skelgill muses that perhaps the Eastern European influence is stronger than he normally allows. But now DS Leyton chips in.

  ‘I keep forgetting you’re not as Welsh as you’re a Jones, girl.’

  She chuckles.

  ‘Heinz 57 – but Cumbrian born and bred.’

  She glances rather insouciantly at Skelgill – as if to make some point – but rather than elaborate she reaches for the black holdall.

  ‘This is surely his travel bag.’

  There is a crushed airline tracking tag still attached to one of the straps. She flattens it out. It bears the letters ‘MAN’ – which they all recognise as the IATA airport code for Manchester International.

  ‘Looks like the last flight he took was inbound.’

  ‘Or he wants it to seem like that.’

  DS Jones appears momentarily crestfallen; but she quickly collects her wits and nods pensively; her superior is right in principle, if not in management style. She has found him in a capricious mood since her intervention at the walled garden. He had been taciturn during their brisk walk to their present locus, as if he harboured some smouldering resentment. That was unusual – he normally fires from the hip – a preferred trait, in her view. Accordingly, she had not volunteered details of her own interviews, preferring to wait until the subject is raised.

  Now, still holding the bag, she seems to detect some irregularity, and weighs it in mid air as if to indicate as such. She puts it on the table and delves inside as her colleagues look on. At one end there is a zipped compartment designed for transporting damp sports kit. From this she produces an envelope, unsealed. Inside is a thick wad of sterling banknotes, in denominations of twenty.

  ‘Cor blimey – there must be a couple of grand there.’

  It is DS Leyton that makes this estimate. Skelgill waves a hand at the holdall.

  ‘Leyton, where was the bag?’

  ‘Ah – you see, Guv – there’s a little porch at the back door. There’s four refuse sacks piled up. It was in the bottom one.’

  ‘What, in with the rubbish?’

  ‘Nah, Guv – it was clean – just the holdall. I do it myself.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Leyton?’

  ‘Well – if we go to a caravan, or a little holiday flat – these places are never very secure, and the local tea-leaves are always on the prowl, knowing you’re down the beach for the day. I reckon it’s best to hide things in plain sight. Like the nippers’ computer games consoles and whatnot. Put ’em in a bin-bag beside the rest of the trash. Maybe stuff in a few of the littlun’s disposable nappies – no one wants to stick their hand in one of them!’

  Skelgill is glaring somewhat disbelievingly at his colleague – but he can hardly disparage the method when it has apparently just been vindicated. And, frankly, it is smart thinking (discounting the risk of a cleaner visiting unheralded to dispose of the rubbish). He glances at DS Jones, who is looking on admiringly – then he addresses DS Leyton once more.

  ‘What did Daphne Bullingdon have to say?’

  ‘Well –
I was about to interview her – before I could start she came straight out with this information – that she’d just been made aware of. Seems the workers have a breakfast meeting with her, early doors Mondays, where she allocates the jobs for the week. The cook brings a tray of bacon rolls and coffee over to the estate office. This Stan geezer wasn’t there, but they didn’t think too much of it because he’s been building an extension at the back of here. It was only when he was needed to help unload a delivery of feedstuffs, about an hour ago – and they couldn’t find him – that they notified the office. Now they’ve realised no one’s seen him since Friday. He’d given no indication that he was going away – and wasn’t in the habit of doing so.’

  ‘What’s his track record like?’

  ‘She reckons he’s good as gold, Guv. Been here since October, hard working, bit of an all-round handyman, not a peep of trouble out of him. Seems he found a hoard of old coins when he knocked the wall down, here – and took ’em straight up to her.’

  Skelgill is scowling; it is not a reflection upon his sergeant – merely that he is inwardly troubled. He steps across to the sink and runs the hot tap, feeling the water. He places a palm against the kettle. Then he opens a small refrigerator, and moves aside.

  ‘What do you reckon to this?’

  DS Jones seems to work out that this is a question aimed at her qualifications; she does not object, and stoops to examine the interior. After a moment she pulls out a shelf on which is a large dish, its contents covered in cling-film, and remarks, using what sounds like a foreign language, half speaking to herself. She reprises, not entirely in English.

  ‘Pierogi – coltunasi in Romanian – homemade dumplings – probably filled with cheese or cabbage or potato. They look quite fresh. I’d say a few days, at most.’

  Skelgill bends to inspect the items, his expression that of a teenager being offered some vegetable or other.

  ‘What do you do with them?’

  ‘Boil them in water.’

  Skelgill makes a disapproving face and suppresses a groan; but he does not press the case for frying over boiling. Instead he makes a far more strategic move. He digs into his jacket pocket and produces his car keys, which he hands to DS Leyton.