‘We’re also looking for this woman – the two of them may have been together.’
There is now just the hint of a leer, the uneven yellowed teeth more exposed than before.
‘Nope.’
He turns back to the trap at his feet and digs into his pocket. He pulls out half a dozen staples and jams them between his lips, picking one back out and recommencing the job the detectives have interrupted. DS Jones glances at Skelgill; he indicates with a flick of his head that they will leave. He directs a final salvo at the disobliging gamekeeper.
‘Contact the police if you see either of them.’ (The man perhaps grunts an acknowledgement, although it could be the effort of hammering, much harder than is necessary.) ‘And remember – those traps are only legal for small corvids.’
This latter remark attracts a contemptuous glance. Indeed, as Skelgill and DS Jones depart towards the main track, he breaks off from his task and watches them from the corner of the building. Then, first checking the frontage of his cottage, he returns to the rear and unlocks the door and enters within.
*
‘Did you notice, Guv – all the windows were shuttered?’
Skelgill nods grimly.
‘Aye – I’d like to know what he’s got in there – a freezer full of dead goshawks and hen harriers, like as not.’
‘Are you going to ask at the castle to see the licence for the traps?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Much as I’d like to – but they don’t need one – it’s a General Licence to take or kill birds to prevent damage.’ He scoffs at his use of the ironic formal terminology. ‘Anyone can download it from the government website – all you have to do is comply with the requirements.’
‘He didn’t seem to know that, Guv.’
‘He probably knows enough to know he’s covered – so long as we don’t catch him with a hawk in one of the traps.’
‘How do they work, Guv?’
Skelgill contracts his lips in an expression of distaste.
‘You bait one half with a live magpie. Stick the trap in a clearing in another bird’s territory – ten minutes later and it’ll come to investigate – when it lands it falls into the other section through a trapdoor. Then you put your twelve bore through it – unless you want the new magpie as bait for a second trap.’
DS Jones appears appalled at the prospect.
‘He had a ruthless look in his eyes, Guv – I shouldn’t like to be caught accidentally trespassing by him.’
Skelgill frowns as though he begs to differ, and would happily prompt such a situation.
‘He wasn’t about to go out of his way to help us, that’s for sure.’
‘No, Guv.’
They stride downhill, the gradient still quite steep; the track has now entered the forest. The mid-afternoon birdsong is subdued, although a buzzard mews persistently above, lording over its realm. At one point they glimpse the flashing white rear of a roebuck as it bounds into the undergrowth, and at intervals clumps of primroses rejoice in the spring sunshine. In due course they encounter the locked gate that restricts vehicular access to Blackbeck mines. A notice similar to that at the quarry warns visitors of the perils that lie ahead. By turning left onto the ‘trunk’ road (a narrow lane that accommodates two cars only with extreme care), another mile will return them to their parking spot. About halfway, however, an unmarked track cuts back into the woodland: it is the inconspicuous driveway of Blackbeck Castle.
‘Must be fun being the postie around here, Guv.’
‘Aye – you’d want a Land Rover and plenty of emergency supplies in winter.’ For a moment Skelgill becomes contemplative. ‘I’d quite fancy that – having to camp out for a couple of nights in the snow – maybe trek to the nearest inn – log fire and unlimited real ale.’
‘So long as they’d got their delivery, Guv.’
‘I’d make do with bottled, at a push.’
DS Jones grins and shakes her head. But if she is forming a reply she adapts it to accommodate the sight that greets them as they round a bend in the track.
‘Wow, Guv – this place looks about as scary as the mines.’
While Blackbeck Castle might disappoint the visitor hoping for an authentic medieval fortress, it would almost certainly find favour among Hammer Horror aficionados. Not that it is open to the public as an attraction. Indeed, the towering wall yields only to wooden gates of an equivalent height, leaving visible solely the upper storeys of the castle – with its towers, turrets and battlements. Built in the early Victorian era for an heiress whose dubious fortune was built upon the ‘sanitised’ leg of a despicable triangular trade that shipped rum from the West Indies to Whitehaven, its mock Gothic Revivalist architecture would equally dismay today’s architect or archaeologist. As it is, surrounded by dense forest, supplemented with a preponderance of large ornamental conifers in its immediate grounds, the unsightly edifice generally goes unseen by tourists and hillwalkers alike.
The large gates appear well maintained and are painted in the same shade of grey as the portal they came across earlier. Indeed, to their right is a similar door, with an electronic panel cemented into the wall at head height. Skelgill presses a button marked “Call.” Immediately there is a sound – but it emanates not from the loudspeaker in the control panel, but from the smaller gate itself. The noise sounds like the lifting of a bar, and then the door swings open – inwards – and the tall figure of a man steps out. He has on leads a pair of large German Shepherds. The door appears to be sprung, and closes behind him. The man, whose eyes have been on his animals, looks up in apparent surprise to see the two detectives standing so close by. The dogs, when they might be expected to exhibit some territorial reaction, in fact are simply watchful.
‘Ah – may I direct you good people?’
The man’s accent and clipped enunciation betrays little provenance other than British public school – though there may be the hint of a foreign brogue beneath, perhaps Dutch or German. Aged in his late fifties, he is well over six feet, and attired in sturdy leather brogues, beige moleskin trousers and a green quilted shooting jacket with stitched suede shoulder patches – these garments, in contrast to those of the gamekeeper – are in pristine condition. His bearing is very upright, a naval impression that is emphasised by short-cropped grizzled hair and a matching anchor beard. His wide-set eyes stare unblinking astride an aquiline nose. Though his opening words are friendly enough, his underlying demeanour – rather akin to that of the dogs – is entirely neutral, as though he is gauging the status of these interlopers. Skelgill produces his warrant card.
‘DI Skelgill – and this is DS Jones – Cumbria Police.’
Skelgill says no more – but the man merely returns his gaze, thus obliging him to elaborate or face a silent standoff.
‘We’re trying to locate a person who may have been in this area – yesterday evening or this morning.’
DS Jones has the passport ready, and holds it up to the man, again covering the identification details. He narrows his eyes and retracts his head by a couple of inches, as though he would prefer to be wearing reading glasses. However, he scrutinises the image for several seconds, before allowing his gaze to trace a path from DS Jones’s neatly manicured nails and along her bare forearm to her face. His eyes are a disconcertingly pale blue and she appears uncomfortable beneath his interrogative stare.
‘Does the picture ring any bells, sir?’
It is Skelgill that breaks in, perhaps detecting his sergeant’s discomfort. The man turns back to face him. His expression remains implacable.
‘Neither I nor any of my staff have been outwith the grounds since yesterday lunchtime, Inspector – apart from my gamekeeper who is based up towards the quarry.’
‘I believe we met him on our way down, sir.’
The landowner inclines his head in acknowledgement.
‘This man didn’t call here, sir – asking for somebody?’
‘You are our first vis
itors since a delivery of wine on Saturday, Inspector. I have been at home the whole time myself and I would know.’
Skelgill gestures with an open palm towards the gates.
‘Is it remotely possible that he could have wandered into your grounds, sir?’
‘I think Hansel and Gretel would have soon found him and let me know.’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘My Alsatians, Inspector. They have the run of the place – they tend to be rather more assertive when they are not under my command.’
Skelgill glances down. Unobtrusively, one of the creatures has stepped closer and is sniffing at his trouser leg. He looks away, and at the same time casually lowers the back of a hand. The dog transfers its attention to his wrist, but then seems content as Skelgill rubs a knuckle against its mastoid process. The man is watching keenly.
‘You perhaps have been a dog handler, Inspector?’
Skelgill appears surprised by this remark. He places his palm gently on the top of the Alsatian’s head.
‘My own dog is best of pals with one of these, sir.’
The man regards the animal with a detached stare.
‘They make good friends – and bad enemies.’
‘That might be why our chaps use them, sir.’
The man nods, though his expression remains inscrutable.
‘I am about to walk around the perimeter – it is a route I take some days – precisely five kilometres. If I see anything I shall contact you.’
Skelgill nods. There is little they can do to detain him – even should they have more questions. His responses have been perfectly adequate, if economical.
‘I didn’t catch your name, sir?’
The man has already begun to move off. He hesitates, and then turns back to face the two officers. He contrives a perfunctory smile.
‘It is Wolfstein – Doctor.’
*
‘I was surprised you didn’t ask him about the girl, Guv.’
Skelgill holds up his pint against the light of the pub window.
‘Aye – I didn’t feel inclined for some reason.’ He takes a sup of the golden ale. ‘He was as tight-lipped as the gamekeeper.’
DS Jones swirls the cubes of ice and sliver of lemon around her glass of mineral water.
‘It seemed a bit of a coincidence that he was just coming out as we arrived.’
Skelgill nods over the rim of his glass.
‘Certainly saved us a trip inside.’
‘That guy Tarr could have tipped him off that we were on our way, Guv.’
Now Skelgill shrugs.
‘We shouldn’t make too much of a conspiracy out of this – it’s only because we’re quiet at the moment that we’ve followed it up this far.’
‘Is there something wrong, sir?’
Skelgill and DS Jones turn simultaneously towards the bar. The landlord, a portly chap in his mid forties, has raised the serving hatch and is lumbering across the stone-flagged floor of the old inn.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I noticed you were checking the beer, sir – I wondered if it were cloudy? Would you prefer something else – the guest IPA’s pulling well? I’m afraid Eva the new barmaid hasn’t quite got the hang of the cask ales yet.’
Skelgill looks wide-eyed – that the landlord has been so attentive. He takes another swig and holds up the now half-empty glass.
‘The only thing wrong with this is that I can probably only have two pints.’
The landlord glances at DS Jones’s water.
‘You seem to have a driver, sir?’
Skelgill grins.
‘Unfortunately Sergeant Jones here will be taking me back to my car later.’
Skelgill flashes his ID in a non-threatening sort of way.
‘Ooh.’ The landlord holds up his hands in apology. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Just thirsty after a bit of a hike, sir – although you may be able to help us.’
The man rather awkwardly straddles the stool at the head of their table.
‘I’d be pleased to make your acquaintance, er – Inspector. I’m new around here myself – as you can probably guess from my accent.’
Skelgill nods. The Langdale Arms is a favourite watering hole, though occasional given its distance from his regular North Lakes stamping ground. It is one he patronises more often on foot than by road. However, since his last visit the previous autumn, the long-standing elderly local couple who ran the place appear to have moved on, and the tenancy to have been taken up by the self-confessed ‘offcomer’ – who sounds like he hails from the Black Country, pronouncing you as yow and your as yower. Skelgill indicates to DS Jones that she should go ahead and show him the photographs.
‘We believe this man has gone missing – he could have been in the vicinity within the last twenty-four hours.’
The landlord leans over, breathing wheezily as he examines the picture. DS Jones slides the photograph of the girl beside it.
‘He may have some connection to this girl.’
Now the man glances from one to the other. Then he shakes his head and puffs out his cheeks.
‘We were dead quiet last night – closed early – what with it being a Sunday and the holidays coming late this year – and today we’ve just had three or four elderly couples in for lunch.’
DS Jones nods.
‘Were you here in the bar the whole time?’
The man seems a little worried by this question, as if he is unwilling to admit that he abandoned his post at any point.
‘Well – I’ve got Eva, you see?’
‘Perhaps we could ask her, sir?’
Rather reluctantly he rises and pads across to the bar. The young barmaid appears to be humouring an overweight duo of middle-aged commercial travellers who are perched on stools at the counter; they give the impression of settling in to make a night of it. She is about to pull them fresh pints, but the landlord moves in to take over, and mutters a few words of instruction. She looks anxiously in the direction of Skelgill and DS Jones, before rather self-consciously parading around the bar and across to their table.
‘Have a seat, miss.’
The girl does as DS Jones bids. She is tall and slim, perhaps five feet ten, with short dark hair and blue eyes – attractive despite a nose that some would cruelly call beaky. She appears braless in a low-cut vest top, and wears faded hipster jeans and ankle boots with cut-away toes. She could still be late teenage, and the low stool only serves to emphasise her height, as she contrives to fold her gangly limbs into a comfortable position.
‘It’s just a quick word – we were wondering if you have noticed either of these two people come into the pub – within the last day or so?’
The girl’s eyes flick from one photograph to the other, though they seem to pay more attention to the blonde female. However, it only takes her a couple of seconds to respond.
‘I have not seen them.’
Skelgill leans forward with an arm on the table.
‘How long have you been here, Eva?’
‘I come in March.’
Although she has spoken little, it is evident from her accent that she is Eastern European.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Lublin.’
Skelgill frowns in an endearing manner. The girl elaborates.
‘It is city in Poland.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘It is very poor region.’
Skelgill nods. He sighs and casts around the place – it is a quaint enough old hostelry – but the isolated mountain hamlet of Little Langdale is a far cry even from the bright lights of Penrith, let alone some distant Slavic metropolis.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Is okay.’
‘Can’t be much social life?’
‘I like outdoors – is different from my city.’
Skelgill nods.
‘Well – if you happen to see eit
her of these people – in here or out – your boss will know how to contact us – Penrith CID.’
The girl inhales as though she is about to speak – then she glances over to the bar and notices that the landlord is watching her – instead she holds in the breath for a moment. She lowers her eyes and folds her long slender hands upon her lap.
‘Is all?’
Skelgill stares at her for a moment. Then he too exhales and reclines against his spindle-back chair.
‘Aye, that’s all. Apart from what time do you start serving food?’
The girl begins to rise from the stool.
‘Chef arrive at seven.’
Skelgill checks his wristwatch. The time is five-thirty. Beyond the window the light has subtly deepened, the sun has dropped behind the fells, creating a premature sense of evening in the Langdales. He nods.
‘Thanks – but we’ll love you and leave you.’
As the girl returns to her station Skelgill rises and wanders across to a noticeboard fixed on the wall to the right of the bar. Its main feature is an out-of-date promotional poster from one of the beer companies, offering a free inflatable leprechaun’s hat with four pints of their gassy stout. Skelgill scowls disapprovingly and mutters, “Handy to be sick into,” and then realises he has said this out loud and winces in the direction of DS Jones. She chuckles and joins him in perusing the various postcards, faded photographs and local newspaper clippings – many of which date back to the time of the previous tenants. Skelgill points out a blurred image of an elderly bearded tramp, beneath the headline, “Ticker Thymer Clocks Up 25 Years In The Woods.”
‘What is it, Guv?’
‘I’ve heard of this guy, “Ticker” – supposedly lives up in Blackbeck Wood – never come across him, though.’
DS Jones is reading the article.
‘It says it’s a mystery how he feeds himself – all he would tell this journalist is that “Mother Nature is bountiful” – but it’s rumoured that some of the older locals conceal tins in regular hiding places and he exchanges them for prophesies written on charms carved from oak. And he does character readings and predictions at local fairs and shepherds’ meets.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 4