‘Hey up!’
There are cordial nuances of “ahoy there” and “good morning” in his salutation – but it fails to elicit a commensurate reaction. Instead the man pivots aggressively, weighing the sledgehammer two-handed as if readying himself to take a sideways swipe – though Skelgill is a good ten feet away on the other side of the fence. The man freezes in his action pose, and Skelgill senses he is very quickly summing him up, in the way of what threat he poses.
Skelgill finds himself mulling over whether a convivial “Excuse me?” might have been more suitable (but he dismisses the idea as too submissive). On the other hand, “Oi!” would have been overstepping the mark, given the practical balance of power. Realistically, he cannot simply march up and deliver a bald accusation.
He is unacquainted with the landowner, but it strikes him that this man seems less like a gamekeeper than he would anticipate. His attire is of good quality, county-style moleskin breeches, a tattersall shirt and a tweed cap. He has short red hair, and a trimmed ginger beard on a strong jawline, and piercing blue eyes; there is something of the naval officer in his demeanour.
‘Whit are ye daein’?’
The dialect, however, dispels the impression; it is Scots Borders, in Skelgill’s estimation. He suspects the man has held back a more forthright version of his question.
‘I heard a shot.’
The man glances involuntarily to his side. Three or four yards away a shotgun is propped against the stump of an ash; boasting an intricately engraved stock, to Skelgill’s eye it is a pricey model. On top of the stump lies a hessian sack that looks decidedly lumpy.
Skelgill has a feeling of déjà vu – of confrontations played out many times in his youth; his standing role being that of the interloper. He has to remind himself he is a policeman. But then he also has to remind himself he is off duty, carries no ID – and is technically trespassing. The man replies tersely.
‘This is a sporting estate.’
His answer is apparently a logical rebuttal of Skelgill’s challenge. Although his tone is not particularly forgiving, there is again a hint of restraint in his words. It may be due to his inability to fathom Skelgill’s status. But Skelgill too is battling with doubts. He is not blessed with the ability to conjure up quips off the cuff – unlike the silvery-tongued DI Smart, or even DS Leyton, with his self-deprecating one-liners. But his boyhood adventurism has at least equipped him with a stock of rehearsed excuses that he can call upon in such circumstances.
‘You might have been injured.’ He pauses before he adds a rider. ‘There was just one shot – that’s unusual.’
The man fleetingly looks tempted to say it was all he needed – but he forces a scowl, perhaps realising it would amount to an admission of sorts. And Skelgill’s point is disarming – this somewhat dishevelled stranger could have been coming to his aid. As if it is listening in on the conversation, and satisfied with the explanation, the dog darts away at an angle and disappears into a clump of elders. The man watches it indifferently, before turning back and offering a somewhat grudging reply.
‘We’ve had a problem wi’ poachers lately.’
His response is curiously ambiguous; now he scrutinises Skelgill more carefully through the mesh of the release pen. Skelgill’s own attire might just fit the bill – certainly he could not be mistaken for a walker who has wandered off course – he looks more like a commando separated from his unit – and the one item that would categorically identify him as an angler – a vest jangling with chrome instruments and colourful lures lies discarded in the boat. When Skelgill does not respond the man speaks again, more assertively now.
‘There’s nae right of way here.’
He seems to be saying that it would be reasonable to suspect Skelgill of being up to no good. It probably irks him that he has not already sent him packing. Skelgill is prompted to state his semi-official business.
‘I’m surveying Over Water – on special licence from the Centre for Ecology and Hydrology.’ Skelgill makes no show of producing any such licence, though he sounds convincing. ‘I launched at the wyke beyond where the birdwatchers park.’
The man stares broodingly at Skelgill, though mention of the ornithologists elicits a hardening of his features. But it seems Skelgill’s unflappable artlessness has held sufficient sway. Skelgill assumes the initiative.
‘I’d better get back on the job. The fish I’m after don’t feed readily once the sun’s up.’
‘Aye.’
The man relaxes his grip on the sledgehammer and rests it at his side. But he stands watching Skelgill as he casually raises a palm in lieu of an adieu. Skelgill glances at the spaniel, which is now back close to the wire, and makes a double-clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He turns and takes a step away, but stoops to pick up something in his stride – and continues, holding the item out of sight. He twists his head over his shoulder, and calls back.
‘Like I say – you might have shot yourself in the foot.’
Anyone knowing him would detect just a hint of triumph creeping into his tone.
He heads for the sun and in half a minute is gone from sight of the release pen. Beneath his own controlled façade his pulse has not quietened. It was a tense exchange, crowded with hidden inferences. He reproaches himself for his rashness – it was a hopelessly risky mission. Yet though he was thwarted he has collected some intelligence. Plainly the man is the only person shooting this morning. He looks reflectively at the object he has picked up. For the purposes of fishing he often salvages quills to fashion into floats; the woods abound with cast-off pheasant plumes. But he brushes across his cheek the broad, barred feather; there is no mistaking the super-soft touch that affords a bird of prey its silent approach.
2. CONSERVATION
Monday 10am – Police HQ
‘Cor, flippin’ heck, Guvnor – there’s a queer old couple at the desk asking for you by name – insisting on seeing you. They look like climate change protestors.’
DS Leyton has entered his superior’s office bearing a tray and three mugs. Skelgill seems more interested in the larger one, and his eyes track its progress to his desk. DS Leyton hands a second mug to the seated DS Jones, at whom he winks, and then settles in his regular spot in the chair beside Skelgill’s filing cabinet; though grey in colour, it has properties more akin to a black hole.
‘What do they want?’
‘Something about a bird being shot.’ DS Leyton makes a reproving cluck. ‘Imagine – if everyone wanted to speak to a DI every time there was a bird shot round here, we’d never get a scrap of work done. All these trigger-happy farmers.’
Skelgill scowls over his steaming tea.
‘It’s not farmers that are trigger-happy, Leyton – it’s toffs from your neck of the woods.’
This is rather disingenuous of Skelgill, and DS Leyton recognises it. He raises an admonishing index finger.
‘You should see my neck of the woods one day, Guv. Shooting, yeah – I’ll give you that – but not the sort you’re thinking of.’
Skelgill shrugs indifferently; but his sergeant has fought his corner, he has to concede a draw.
‘What species of bird?’
DS Leyton looks surprised – that his superior is apparently interested.
‘What? I dunno. No – actually, the geezer said it was a buzzard, now you mention it. Is that an actual species – or is it just like sparrow or crow or seagull?’
DS Jones is nodding, as if she knows the answer, but Skelgill glares at DS Leyton.
‘When was this?’
‘Just now, Guv. Well – I mean, I don’t know when it was shot.’ He looks baffled and a little flustered. ‘I told ’em to file a complaint with George, but they won’t budge. They’re probably supergluing themselves to the coffee machine as we speak.’
Skelgill rises and pushes back his chair. He glances cursorily at his two colleagues and then more studiously at his mug – which he picks up and carries away w
ithout further explanation.
In the reception area Skelgill has no difficulty in identifying the “queer old couple” to whom his sergeant has referred, although it being a Monday morning there is competition for queerness as the flotsam and jetsam washed up by the weekend’s societal storms bring their accrued problems to the police. However, the pair evidently have retained faith in his coming, for they are watching keenly and, seeming to know it is he, rise as one upon his arrival. In their early fifties, Skelgill would guess, most striking is that they are unusually tall. As he approaches, Skelgill realises the woman must be his own height, and the man several inches taller. Smartly clad in matching olive-green waxed-cotton jackets, hiking trousers of the same cut but different hues of khaki, and walking boots unsullied by mud, they look like they have just kitted themselves out at one of the district’s many outdoor gear shops.
The man reaches forward. It is not Skelgill’s custom to shake hands in these circumstances – at this juncture he never knows which side of the law the person he is meeting might be on.
‘Inspector Skelgill? We are the Vholes. Neil and Christine.’
It is an educated northern accent. They strike Skelgill as the sort who have retired early to the Lakes from somewhere in Yorkshire, having been regular weekenders for many years; it is quite a common type. He is obliged to shake hands with the man, and the woman is queued up to do the same. She has their next line ready.
‘Professor Hartley of Braithwaite said we should ask for you.’
There is a polite note of inquiry in her intonation. Perhaps now that they have him in their sights they have shed the belligerence reported by DS Leyton. Besides, if mention of the shot buzzard were not enough, the woman’s name-dropping has achieved a critical mass. And he has no grounds at this moment to contest their claim of acquaintanceship.
‘Ah – Jim.’ He inhales to buy a second or two. ‘How can I help?’
The couple look at one another meaningfully. And then they glance around as though disturbed by the presence of fellow complainants. The man, Neil Vholes, lowers his voice.
‘We have some footage we would like to show to you.’ He pats a leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
Skelgill hesitates. He glances across at DS George Appleby to see he is leering wryly. Skelgill indicates with jerk of the head that he will use one of the interview rooms. He leads them along a corridor via a plate-glass electronic security door released by the desk sergeant and into the first room on their right where there is a table and four plastic chairs. He gestures for them to be seated but does not wait. He has his tea still and takes a slurp. They look on a little longingly, but Skelgill does not appear to notice. He addresses Neil Vholes.
‘You say you have a video, sir.’
The man was obviously waiting for the invitation. Now he begins fastidiously to unpack a laptop from his bag and fire it up. Skelgill notes that it is a pricey model, and the protective case is customised with a pixelated image that might be a murmuration of starlings. The woman is watching the procedure anxiously, as if in dread that some technological malfunction will thwart their mission. While he waits Skelgill contemplates the similarity that extends from their matching clothing to their physiognomy. Christine Vholes has straight shoulder-length brown hair with a fringe, and Neil Vholes an almost identical hairdo, merely cut shorter, to just below the ears. They also share the characteristics of a long head, prominent cheekbones, a narrow thin-lipped mouth, a rather pasty complexion and narrow set greyish blue eyes beneath faint brows. They must surely be brother and sister; perhaps twins.
‘Here we are, Inspector.’
The man rotates the laptop and positions it at the head of the table so they can all see. The full-screen image is of a dark bird against a blue sky. He clicks the ‘play’ icon and the frozen bird comes to life, circling in a tight spiral. There now ensues a short sequence – spine-tinglingly familiar to Skelgill, his second déjà vu in as many days – although this of course is not a déjà vu in the accepted sense; it is real, accompanied by an unfamiliar commentary provided by the voices of the Vholes; Neil Vholes closest to the microphone, loudest, evidently operating the camera, and Christine Vholes in the background:
“It’s hunting.”
“No, Christine – this is display flight – over its territory.”
“Do you think it’s the male, Neil?”
“It looks smaller – but you really need to see them together.”
“The female could be incubating.”
“Yes – it’s about the right time.”
Then the distinct sound of the muffled shotgun report.
The female voice:
“Ooh.” It is tentative, and worried.
The camera loses the bird momentarily when it does not follow the expected trajectory and the picture zooms out a little before homing back in on the now descending raptor. It is exactly as Skelgill remembers. There is a hiatus in the narration until the corpse falls into the canopy, when the man hisses – “Disgraceful” – there is repressed anger in his voice, like that of a schoolmaster many times defied and now disobeyed once again, a certain helplessness yet an underlying determination to do something about it. More steadily now, the camera zooms out again – showing clearly what is Bullmire Wood and the bright silvery expanse of Over Water (Skelgill catches a brief glimpse of himself in his boat) – and pans around until it is revealed to be recording from inside the shadowy birdwatching hide. And there is Christine Vholes, hunched on a bench beside the camera operator, staring rather manically into the lens.
“A cold-blooded killing, Neil.”
The man is more composed.
“State the location – and the date and time, please Christine – for evidence purposes, just in case it is incorrectly programmed on the camera.”
The woman does as she is bid, and then the film ends. In unison, like a pair of perched owls, the Vholes lean expectantly towards Skelgill.
For his part Skelgill is experiencing a curious conflict of emotions. While on Sunday he was all set to drag to justice the perpetrator by the scruff of the neck, he has since undergone an inexplicable loss of will, and is ready to consign the matter to history, as one of those things that make his blood boil – like gratuitous littering at beauty spots – but which he can somehow shrug off, knowing that otherwise he would go around with an accumulating tonnage upon his shoulders, when it is not his burden to bear. But, beneath the predatory gaze of the Vholes he reminds himself that wildlife crime is a serious matter and, while animals may live by the laws of the jungle, humans may not. There is also Professor Jim Hartley – his friend might have a vested concern.
Skelgill finds himself asking a necessary question but one he immediately regrets.
‘Were there any more witnesses?’
The Vholes glance at one another as though there is some issue of which they have not spoken. Neil Vholes inhales as if he is about to respond – but then, as if through telepathy, they appear to agree to let it pass.
Instead, it is Christine Vholes that pipes up; it seems she will make a subsidiary point.
‘There was a fisherman.’ She extracts a notebook from her coat pocket and tears out a page. ‘This is his car registration – no doubt you will be able to track him down should you require corroboration. He must have seen it – he rowed towards the shore immediately after the bird was murdered.’
Her inflammatory language is eclipsed in Skelgill’s mind by a flash of alarm, that they took his plate number. He is thinking – what other footage do they have? The zoom on the man’s camera is phenomenal. They could probably have recorded him picking his nose. He is thankful he wasn’t on the water long enough to have been faced with the dilemma of a call of nature.
He rises decisively.
‘Okay – we can look into that. I’m going to send someone along who can take a copy of that file – assuming you’re willing?’
The woman now produces a memory stick. They have come prepared.
Neil Vholes rises as though wishing to shake hands again. Skelgill takes evasive action, stepping away, cradling his mug.
‘You will treat this as a serious matter, Inspector?’
‘Sir, serious is my middle name.’
As Skelgill returns through reception he passes the entrance to the canteen. At the waft of fried bacon his stride falters. “Two-dinners” more like, is Skelgill’s middle name. The desk sergeant hails him.
‘Get owt, Skelly lad?’
DS George Appleby means vendace – but Skelgill answers more cryptically.
‘Dead buzzard.’
*
When there is no answer to his knock at the Braithwaite cottage of Professor Jim Hartley – but a familiar tuneful whistle just audible – Skelgill employs his outdoor skills to defeat the natural hawthorn hedge that borders the quaint slate property. He infiltrates the sloping back garden from behind a potting shed. Sure enough, at the top of a narrow lawn that runs down to Coledale Beck, facing away from him and apparently fly fishing at an improbable distance from the little stream is his erstwhile angling mentor. In fact, he is practising, false casting with a tiny fragment of white cloth tied where the point fly would be, for maximum visibility. He wears a panama hat upon his shock of white hair, the only clue to his age; for in his effortless casting action he seems to have rolled back the years; it has Skelgill watching with admiration, and reminding himself that he forces it too much: he always wants the rise that is just out of reach, when a perfect cast is better than spooking all the fish in the lake.
Murder on the Moor Page 2