Murder in the Woods Page 9

  Skelgill, leaning on his elbows, seems to be digging his thumbs beneath his chin to test this hypothesis.

  ‘Aye – except there’s a but.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘The fact that the body was dismembered – the hyoid may have been damaged at that stage.’

  ‘Whatever caused it – it doesn’t look like it’s going to help us much.’

  ‘Strangulation at least suggests a male assailant, Guv.’

  Skelgill now gives a shrug of his shoulders. He is already satisfied on this score: the dismemberment, the removal of the corpse to the distant grave, the heavy digging.

  ‘What about time of death – what do they reckon?’

  Now DS Jones leafs further through the report. Skelgill can see yellow highlights in places in the text and red comments in the margins. After she has refreshed her memory she speaks without the notes.

  ‘The soil analysis – they measure the levels of phosphorous and nitrogen that leak from the cadaver and compare it to the surrounding earth – indicates concentrations of both elements were well past their expected peak – and that’s roughly 100 days – but that was strongly suspected, anyway. There’s a similar difficulty with the forensic entomologist’s and microbiologist’s reports – they can be most accurate within the first couple of months when the process of decay is at its most active. So we’re not really getting any closer than 6 to 9 months ago. In fact the absolute outside limit they’re stating is last June – that extends the original estimate.’

  Skelgill watches in silence as she checks again for some salient detail. He looks relieved that this job has not fallen to him. Now DS Jones stops and reconsiders a highlighted paragraph.

  ‘A couple of points that struck me, Guv – more to do with the description of the burial itself. The grave was dug to a maximum of eighteen inches – not very deep – and it seems to me there was a kind of ritual aspect.’

  ‘What do you mean, ritual?’

  ‘The grave was about five feet long. But when you think about it, the murderer had dismembered the body – he – or she – they didn’t need a hole that big – some kind of square pit would have been sufficient. But it looks like the body parts were laid in their correct positions. Also, the alignment of the grave had the head facing east.’

  ‘And your deduction?’

  ‘Doesn’t it suggest that the murderer had some inclination to provide a Christian burial, Guv? And – therefore – cared about the victim – which is supported by the fact that the rings weren’t taken.’

  Skelgill pulls a face – she could be right. His thoughts hark back to the tribute of wild roses. But DS Jones’s theory, while informative, is not revolutionary – most victims knew their killers. DS Jones observes his doubts and taps the report with the back of one hand.

  ‘The other thing, Guv – and this could have a bearing on timings – beneath the corpse and also to some extent mixed in with the back-filled earth, there was an unusual number of oak leaves that were still in a relatively fresh condition.’

  ‘What – like the grave had been deliberately lined with them?’

  ‘Not to that extent, Guv – it is an oak wood, after all – but it could suggest the burial took place earlier in the year – in the summer, even.’

  Skelgill rests his chin on his knuckles and closes his eyes. His features now contort rather alarmingly – it is an expression that has a corresponding effect upon DS Jones and she watches him with trepidation. But Skelgill is merely picturing the scene that he visited earlier: the oaks are all mature trees – towering bare trunks with hide like a rhino’s, there are no oak leaves to hand – just shrubs of hazel and elder and the occasional downy willow. He presses his fingers against his temples and bows his head. Now he slips into a moment he has envisaged since first encountering the exposed skull, its fateful smile a glint of white in transient moonlight; of cloaking blackness and howling wind that descend to smother the senses; of driving rain and intermingled sweat; of bursting lungs and burning muscles; of the ghostly fingers protesting against his face of leaves ripped from a storm-tossed canopy. Sharply, he sits upright, and stares unseeingly for a moment at DS Jones.

  ‘Wait a minute.’

  He reaches for his mobile phone and calls up a number, engaging the loudspeaker function and leaving the handset on the desk between them. Then by way of explanation he makes a hand gesture at the device.

  ‘My old fishing mucker, the Prof – he’s a bit of a birder on the quiet.’

  DS Jones nods – not quite understanding – but now the call is answered.

  ‘Hello – Daniel?’

  ‘Jim – sorry to trouble you.’

  ‘It’s always a pleasure, Daniel.’

  ‘I’m with a colleague – DS Jones – we’re investigating the body found on Harterhow.’

  ‘Ah – I saw the news – and your young lady in action – a very competent performance, if I may say so.’

  DS Jones makes a suitably self-deprecating cough. But Skelgill does not want to dwell on this, for some idea is boring a hole in his head.

  ‘Jim – oak trees – correct me if I’m wrong – but they don’t cast their leaves until it’s nearly winter?’

  ‘That is right, Daniel – it is often December before abscission occurs. The leaves may remain green well into November.’

  Skelgill pauses.

  ‘We found leaves in the grave that hadn’t gone brown – they’d not naturally withered and fallen – remember there was a heck of a gale last autumn?’

  ‘I think I can help you, Daniel – my log. One moment.’

  There is the sound of a chair shifting and a grunt and then pages being turned.

  ‘Here it is – the first Fieldfares came down on a strengthening northerly on the 25th of October – a tail-wind all the way from the Arctic. Gusts touched hurricane force 12 overnight.’

  Skelgill glances at DS Jones; she is writing down the date.

  ‘Are you thinking it would be a good night to dispose of a corpse, Daniel?’

  Skelgill makes a sound that smacks of reluctant agreement.

  ‘It would explain the leaves.’

  ‘They would have been falling like confetti – there were trees down all over the county.’

  Skelgill nods grimly. Then he sits more upright.

  ‘On a separate note, Jim – there’s a twitcher does a blog for Harterhow – birds and wildlife.’

  ‘I have seen it.’

  ‘Is he bona fide?’

  ‘Oh – I should say so, Daniel.’ Now the professor allows for a diplomatic pause. ‘He is not your prime suspect, by any chance?’

  Skelgill produces a somewhat nervous chuckle.

  ‘If you’d told me he was a fraud I might have considered it.’

  ‘Ah, well – one never knows – strange lot, birdwatchers.’

  ‘Nearly as mad as fishermen, Jim.’ Skelgill ahems meaningfully. ‘On which note – I’d better get weaving. Tight lines and all that.’

  The professor seems to understand Skelgill’s hint, and they exchange farewell pleasantries. Once the call is over Skelgill folds his arms and looks pensively at DS Jones.

  ‘Marvin Morgan’s got a photograph of a pine snapped clean off – taken last autumn. Suggests he was out on the hill the next day, at least.’

  DS Jones delays her response for a moment, perhaps choosing her words with care.

  ‘Is he a suspect, Guv?’

  Skelgill rises and walks round his desk to the window. He stands beside his sergeant and parts the blinds with the fingers and thumb of his left hand. It is apparent he does not want to get ahead of himself. His reply is oblique.

  ‘I’ve let him know we might want to requisition his photos – copies at least.’

  ‘If he’s using a modern camera each image file ought to have location and date tags – date, certainly.’

  Skelgill is staring at the midsummer countryside – the foliage is past its spring-green best – the cornfields are a
lready straw yellow, and lone hedgerow trees cast lengthening shadows in the late afternoon sun. It is hard to imagine an autumn gale in such benign conditions. He mumbles.

  ‘Fancy a pint.’

  ‘A pint, Guv?’

  DS Jones’s tone carries a hint of amused indignation.

  Skelgill looks at her sharply, as if he has not spoken at all and she has just read his mind.

  ‘It wasn’t a question – I meant I fancy a pint – but you’re welcome to come. Tonic water, whatever.’

  DS Jones shakes her head with mock exasperation.

  ‘I got the impression you were going fishing.’

  Skelgill taps his temple with an index finger.

  ‘I’m always fishing.’

  10. CRIMETIME – Monday

  She’s got nice hands – smooth tanned skin and slender fingers – nails not too long, not too short – a delicate pink pastel varnish. Has she had them done for this programme? He’s seen Inspector Skelgill’s hands – kept biting his thumbnails while he watched the slideshow – ragged nails and rough skin – callouses on his palms – it’s hard to imagine Detective Sergeant Jones approves. Emma.

  Looks like she’s not getting a speaking part – though the anchor introduced her alongside the boss-cum-boyfriend. Wonder who knows about them – or is he the only one? The director’s had his eye on her once or twice – he knows what makes viewers sit up. Is this a live broadcast? It must be – they’d edit it otherwise. Inspector Skelgill sounds like he’s reading – disjointedly from a script. There’s a tremor in his voice that makes his accent sound even more plodding – he’s not doing Cumbria Police any favours. They should have given the job to Emma.

  Marvin Morgan leans closer to his laptop. The broadband is not so good today and the stream keeps pausing. The anchor has asked Skelgill a question about the rings, and the screen has frozen on a close up. DS Jones is wearing them, two on each hand, her palms resting gently on her bronzed knees. Skelgill clears his throat loudly. The audio is now running ahead of the image.

  ‘Aye – we believe it’s the combination of the four rings together that someone might recognise – including the Irish Claddagh ring on the right hand.’

  ‘And that can have a special meaning – worn with the point of the heart towards the fingertips?’ The anchor has obviously been briefed in advance.

  ‘Aye – it can signify that the wearer is single – or that they are seeking a partner.’

  Ah – the picture is catching up – now an extreme close up of Emma’s right-hand ring finger. She must be calm, there’s no trace of nerves – not like Inspector Skelgill – he doesn’t sound like he’s enjoying it at all. Back to the anchor – she’s wrapping up the show – they’re only giving them a couple of minutes’ airtime. She repeats the appeal – more eloquently than Inspector Skelgill would – the camera cuts to him – he looks like a rabbit in the headlights – and then to Emma – she’s gazing into the lens – her expression sincere – she’s reaching out...

  Marvin Morgan pounces to screenshot the image. As the programme ends and the theme music strikes up he leans back with a growl of satisfaction.

  *

  ‘We don’t know the rings have anything to do with it.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’ DS Leyton glances across from his role as chauffeur – alarmed by his superior’s statement.

  ‘What if they were planted – to throw us off the scent?’

  DS Jones – also troubled – leans forward between the two front seats of the car.

  ‘But, Guv – we’ve just been on CrimeTime and told the whole nation.’

  ‘Aye – and we’ve told the killer that he’s got us barking up the wrong tree – if that’s what he wants.’

  DS Jones is pensive.

  ‘You’ve not mentioned this, Guv.’

  ‘Came to me while I was speaking – on the programme.’ Skelgill shrugs jauntily. ‘I considered saying it.’

  DS Jones now looks more disconcerted – but at the same time relieved. Meanwhile there is something Skelgill has patently been itching to mention.

  ‘How did I do?’

  ‘You were great, Guv.’

  It is DS Jones who is quick to reply – and DS Leyton backs her up with vigorous nodding. He clears his throat.

  ‘It weren’t such a clear picture on my mobile, Guv – but I liked the way you casually covered up your flies being undone – with your clipboard.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Er – only joking, Guv.’

  There is something in DS Leyton’s less-than-convincing retraction that endows his original statement with a certain verisimilitude, and Skelgill glowers at the motorway ahead of them. It is true that nerves had prompted him to visit the bathroom both before and after the broadcast – and – could he remember the state of his dress? He and DS Jones had taken the dawn train down to the television centre in Manchester – DS Jones was already smartly attired, impeccably so, but on arrival at the studios he had been asked if he had brought anything to change into. He had not. But now he shrugs – the ordeal is over – and they already have leads coming in by telephone to their call handlers. Indeed, he picks up on this point.

  ‘What’s the latest?’

  DS Jones has been monitoring updates via her mobile.

  ‘Sixteen names so far from the general public.’

  Skelgill nods. He is torn between celebrating the positive response and lamenting the open invitation for cranks, pranksters and batty pensioners to occupy precious police resources. But at this moment the sign for Burton-in-Kendal services comes into view and Skelgill presses a hand to his stomach. The time is approaching 11.30am. There is a barely perceptible hunching of DS Leyton’s broad shoulders and the car seems to pick up speed – indeed he makes what appears to be a premature overtaking manoeuvre, for the next vehicle in their lane is some way ahead. Ominously, Skelgill leans across and checks the dashboard clock.

  ‘Happen we’ve just timed it right for a mash at Tebay.’

  DS Leyton suppresses a sigh. Skelgill’s stated intentions to have a ‘mash’ – a pot of tea – rarely go without some form of calorific accompaniment.

  ‘Righto, Guv.’

  Skelgill seems satisfied with this arrangement; now he gazes contentedly at the countryside, industrialised though it is, hedges neatly trimmed and fields liberally bathed in agrochemicals that leave little room for real wildlife. After a few moments’ reflection he speaks.

  ‘How did you get on with the Scousers, wack?’

  He makes a bad falsetto attempt at the Liverpool accent, and it comes out sounding more like Brummie. Regardless, DS Leyton understands the reference to his mission, first thing this morning, to confer with the Merseyside police, a trip that has enabled him to collect his colleagues by car for their return journey.

  ‘Local bobbies seem a decent enough bunch, Guv – after giving me grief for being a soft southerner – and that’s the printable version.’

  ‘Could have been worse, Leyton – you could have had a Manc accent.’

  ‘They certainly took more of a shine to me when I told ’em I was a Millwall fan.’

  ‘Nobody likes a glory seeker, Leyton.’

  ‘Too true, Guv.’

  DS Leyton seems to ponder this point – or some other – and Skelgill now has to prompt him again.

  ‘So, Leyton?’

  ‘Yeah, right, Guv – well, they’ve assigned a detective constable to the inquiry – seems a decent geezer – he’s a local lad. He’s going to do his best to track down Spencer Fazakerley – he had a look on the computer while I was there, but nothing doing. I also gave him the names of the other people we’ve talked to – since they’ve all got Liverpool connections – just in case one of them crops up in relation to Fazakerley. June Collins, obviously, Guv – but also the Coot and Fox characters, plus that Morgan chap you’ve interviewed.’ DS Leyton raises a hand absently to ruffle his hair. ‘I realised then that we don’t have a whole lot on them – previous add
resses, employment and whatnot.’

  Skelgill has been listening without seeming too interested.

  ‘So long as you tie up the Fazakerley loose end, Leyton – it’s bugging the Chief – on paper he looks suspicious.’

  There is a further silence – a reasonable interpretation of “on paper” is that Skelgill regards the vanished Spencer Fazakerley as a red herring – though he does not trouble to explain why.

  ‘When I was briefing the DC, Guv – it did strike me as a bit of a coincidence – I mean, what’s the odds of four people – five including Fazakerley himself – all coming from the Liverpool area?’

  Skelgill shrugs indifferently.

  ‘You tell me, Leyton – you’re the one with the bookie for an uncle – but remember one in ten folk in the Lakes are from Lancashire.’

  DS Leyton makes a ruminating noise in his throat as he counts with his fingers, lifting them sequentially from the steering wheel. ‘That would be one in a hundred thousand chance, Guv.’

  The bald figure might be thought provoking – but Skelgill responds with a shake of the head.

  ‘Aye – except Coot and Fox – they’ve moved up together – so there’s no coincidence there – and what if June Collins knew Fazakerley beforehand and isn’t telling us? It’s not like they’re all complete strangers.’

  DS Leyton adjusts his calculation.

  ‘That would bring it down to one in a thousand, Guv.’

  Skelgill turns to DS Jones, to find her watching him with anticipation. It appears his subordinates feel this matter should not be swept under the carpet, whatever else is going on in Skelgill’s head. He yields and sits back in his seat and folds his arms.’

  ‘Aye – fine – while we’re twiddling our thumbs waiting for these CrimeTime leads to be vetted we’ll have another little chat to them – do it this afternoon. Leyton, you can take June Collins and the committee men.’

  DS Leyton grins.

  ‘They sound like a folk band, Guv.’

  DS Jones is holding DS Leyton’s A-to-Z of Liverpool, which she has picked up from beside her on the back seat. She pats the cover.