‘Aargh ya!’
It is DS Leyton’s sound effect – though he gives the distinct impression of being thrilled by such good fortune as to witness the comedy moment. DS Jones reacts with a more sympathetic intake of breath. Skelgill, who has drawn the car to a halt, takes the middle ground.
‘They’re pretty lightweight, those aluminium steps.’
And, sure enough, the man is not permanently down. He shakes his head as if to dispel the stars he sees, and then seems to realise he has an audience. He scrambles to his feet and performs a little Chaplinesque mime – a staggering dance which may owe more to genuine concussion than his sense of humour – but he indicates with a rap of his knuckles upon his crown and a broad grin that he is fit to continue, and he goes about the business of restoring the ladder to its position and retrieving his shears from the bush. Skelgill takes his foot off the clutch and they move on.
‘Just as well we’re not from Health & Safety, Guv.’
‘I reckon we’ve given them enough to think about, Leyton. They’ve not liked having their cage rattled.’
DS Leyton nods phlegmatically.
‘I take it you had no joy with finding the dead bird, Guv?’
Skelgill muffles a curse such that it sounds like a gasp of exasperation. While this was something they had discussed beforehand – that a search of the woods for the corpse of the buzzard would be a requisite were they to launch a formal investigation, it was not something that Skelgill in his own mind had taken seriously. On Sunday morning the gamekeeper’s dog would have made short work of sniffing out a kill, and there was the jute sack that looked like it contained the very same. Seeing the commercial incinerator beside the rearing sheds had confirmed Skelgill’s expectations. Likely the only surviving remnant of the buzzard is the feather he had picked up beside the release pen – and, of course, any old buzzard could have shed it. His intimation to Daphne Bullingdon and her keeper of a ‘scout round’ was a hollow threat, and it was plain the keeper knew it, if she didn’t. If Skelgill’s subordinates now assume that was what he went off to do – despite that there was inadequate time even to reach the right area of Bullmire Wood – a little detective work on their part would reveal the sandy mud caking his boots to match that of the shoreline of the artificial lake. Drawn by instinct, he had found himself awed by the pipe dream of owning a private fishery, with its two-storey boathouse that one could camp in. He had stood, eyes closed, while voracious rainbow trout ripped mayflies from the calm surface; it is a sound, a visceral splosh that spikes his pulse like very few things in life.
He is about to put DS Leyton right about the futility of his enquiry, simultaneously craning his neck to get a last glimpse of the little lake, when DS Jones cries aloud.
‘Look out!’
A figure breaks from the trees and dashes across the track, oblivious to the onrushing shooting brake. Skelgill deems there is no need to decelerate, though it is a close shave. In a whirring blur of legs and arms the vision disappears into the shrubbery opposite.
‘There’s your white rabbit, Leyton.’
Skelgill’s assessment has limited merit, other than in the more general surrealist sense. The fellow – for it surely was a fellow, despite that he appeared to wear over baggy trousers a long pale dress (although it may have been an agrarian smock-frock of the kind sported by eighteenth century peasants) – was distinctive for his skinny frame and angular movements, strained aquiline features, trailing fair hair and sockless sandals. On a short handle he wielded a wide-mouthed butterfly net like a lepidopterist of yesteryear.
‘Mad hatter, more like, Guv.’
Skelgill tilts his head from side to side.
‘Second thoughts, I’d go mad professor.’
It falls to DS Jones to provide clarification.
‘That must be Julian Bullingdon. Daphne Bullingdon explained that she is the child of Edward Bullingdon’s first wife. Julian is the son of the second – apparently she was some kind of artist – she put in place these creative touches around the grounds – the topiary, the phone box, the Swiss-chalet-style boathouse.’
‘Was?’
Skelgill’s question is lazy but she understands.
‘Miranda is wife number three. She is a former model.’
His features are immobile, indicative of some re-evaluation of matters in this new light. Eventually he comments.
‘Still a model, by the look of it.’
He snatches a sideways glance at DS Jones, as if to check her reaction, for his choice of words is a little provocative, but she simply nods in agreement. However, a silence descends until DS Leyton, who has a nose for all things ‘soap opera’, voices the gist of what his colleagues may be subconsciously mulling over.
‘Seems to me Lady Miranda’s taken a bit of a shine to the gamekeeper. I reckon that’s put the cat among the pigeons, Guv.’
Skelgill sets his jaw and renews his grip upon the steering wheel.
‘Why would someone in her shoes go for him? Looks to me like he’s getting above his station. Arrogant type.’
DS Jones inhales as if to speak, but then seems to think the better of it. But Skelgill prompts her.
‘What?’
‘Oh – just that – well, sometimes that ‘type’ can have its own appeal – for some women.’
Skelgill does not immediately reply. For a moment his female colleague’s response diverts him. Certainly it had not escaped him that various antipathies (and otherwise) were played out during their visit, and little if any of it for the benefit of the three detectives. But his primary focus has been upon their stated mission, and the reaction of Lawrence Melling in this regard.
‘Remember we’re here for the birds. Get things in proportion. We’ve done what we came for. We can wash our hands of the lot of them.’
4. MISSING
Monday, noon – two weeks later
‘You spoke too soon, Guv.’
DS Leyton has arrived at his superior’s office wielding a sheaf of papers. Skelgill responds by looking irked; he does not appreciate the cryptic reproach. Or perhaps it is the lack of tea.
‘Remember we were over at that queer old place – Toad Hall, whatever it’s called? The hawk that was shot – those chicken harriers.’
‘It’s hen harrier, Leyton, not chicken.’
DS Leyton looks like he thinks Skelgill is gratuitously splitting hairs. He contrives a face like a schoolboy unfairly ticked off and now going on strike. Skelgill is obliged to make amends.
‘Why did I speak too soon?’
His sergeant immediately perks up, no grudge borne.
‘All those wacky characters – you said we could forget about them – except now there’s been a burglary.’
Skelgill glowers indignantly.
‘What’s it to us?’
He is questioning why CID would be called upon for a petty crime. DS Leyton raises the documents and declaims in the pompous manner of a master of ceremonies.
‘Lady Bullingdon’s jewellery stolen to an estimated value of a quarter of a million.’
Skelgill splutters. That someone can own trinkets worth more than the average house conjures all manner of largely unreasonable reactions in the average police officer. What do they expect? Why do folk need to flaunt their wealth? Why were the valuables not kept in a safe deposit?
In the absence of a coherent rejoinder from his superior, DS Leyton continues.
‘We’ve had a couple of uniforms up there, doing interviews. Seems they’ve drawn a blank. Main problem being, Lady Bullingdon can’t say when the theft occurred. Could have been any time in the last few days – and they’ve got no CCTV.’ He reads at arm’s length. ‘No signs of a break-in. No reports of intruders or strangers. And there’s no forensics to speak of. Seems the jewellery was kept in an unlocked drawer of a dressing table. We sent a fingerprint officer but the furniture’s all been cleaned and polished.’ He looks up at Skelgill. ‘Reading between the lines, Guv – I’d say it’s an insi
de job.’
‘Not necessarily, Leyton.’
Skelgill is thinking of Karen, the cloth-wielding karate cleaner. He has witnessed first hand her dedication to duty. She would be every burglar’s best friend. Unless she caught them in the act, in which case they might have something to regret. He consults his watch and scowls, as if there was something he wanted to do but is now thwarted.
‘Like we’ve got some special powers of mindreading.’
Though he uses a rather fatuous analogy he makes an incisive point. A crime of unknown occasion destroys the mainstay of detective work – the capacity to ascertain the whereabouts of, and therefore eliminate, suspects. It is the next worst kind of investigation to that of a murder without a body.
‘Anything from the statements?’
‘Not really, Guv – I didn’t print them off – just brought you this top line summary and some photos.’
He hands over the materials but Skelgill immediately lays them upon his desk.
‘What’s Jones up to?’
‘I think she’s running a training session for the DCs. I caught sight of her in one of the seminar rooms.’
‘Get her to go through them – she can give us a rundown on the way – I need to duck into Penrith – we’ll leave in half an hour.’
‘Righto, Guv – anything you want me to do?’
Skelgill shrugs, but then begins to delve impatiently into his in-tray. At length he extracts the brochure given to him by Daphne Bullingdon. He squints at the small print on the reverse side.
‘See what you can find out about their finances. Here – they’ve got a trading company, Shuteham Hall Limited.’
‘Should be “unlimited” – hah!’
But Skelgill either does not approve of or does not see the joke. DS Leyton swiftly retrenches.
‘You thinking it’s an insurance job, Guv?’
Skelgill turns down his mouth.
‘That amount of money, Leyton – brings into play quite a few possible motives.’
DS Leyton mirrors his boss’s somewhat pessimistic expression.
‘From what I’ve seen so far it’s not clear how organised they were. You’d want valuation certificates and proper photographs. I suppose if they’ve just taken out a brand new policy it’s a little alarm bell. All we’ve got at the moment are paparazzi shots of Lady Bullingdon in some of the gear.’ Skelgill’s gaze drifts over the papers. ‘I’ll get one of the gofers onto Companies House – see what’s been filed by way of accounts.’
When his sergeant has gone Skelgill gathers up the printout and takes it over to the light of the window. He ignores the top page of type and turns to the photographs. Miranda Bullingdon poses casually yet provocatively, engaging with other socialites at some event – prestigious, judging by the lavish outfits. Her shimmering dress leaves plenty of space to showcase the jewellery against her smooth honeyed skin. He is reminded of the subtle fragrance when she approached.
*
Chanel No5. Now he sees it on the dresser. She has moved half a step closer than would be normal, intruding upon his personal space. Is it from her or the uncorked bottle that fragrant tentacles coil into his nostrils? The effect is heady; the woman seems to exude some exotic wavelength; there is a kind of immaculate perfection about her, despite today’s informal attire.
Miranda Bullingdon breaks his trance – she presses the moulding that forms the rim of the cabinet and a drawer that is not apparent slides open. It is shallow and lined with black velvet and still contains a substantial trove of gemstones and precious metals.
‘They didn’t take everything?’
‘It seems they had good taste. Just a diamond tiara from Tiffany’s – a duty-free gift in lieu of salary after a New York photoshoot. A De Beers diamond tennis bracelet with matching earrings and necklace. And a Rolex that was given to me by Versace.’ She sighs wistfully. ‘Well – Gianni.’
Skelgill endeavours not to show he is in over his head – but he sees her scrutinising his reaction in the mirrors. Quickly, she shifts her gaze to her own reflection, and makes a considered adjustment to her hair. Skelgill concentrates upon the glittering array of valuables; those remaining would not take much space in a bag or large pocket. Why not just snatch the lot?
‘Did they think you wouldn’t notice?’
She seems to understand his point.
‘Well, the fact is, I didn’t.’
Against a tide of reluctant inertia Skelgill finds strength in protocol and shifts sideways towards the room’s only window, undersized but cut deep into the thick stonework. He glances out momentarily before turning to face her.
‘Could you tell me about that, madam?’
She seems amused that he feels the need to establish a respectable distance between them.
‘Before I went out for coffee this morning – I thought I might just wear the bracelet. It was missing – along with the other items. I last wore them at the Hunt Ball, on Saturday.’
Though Skelgill more or less knows the answer from the photographs he has perused, he asks for clarification.
‘So it was just what you wore to the ball, nothing else?’
‘That is correct, Inspector.’
‘Is it possible you took them off somewhere else? Put them safe, automatically. Folk do it with their reading glasses all the time.’
She looks further entertained – there is a challenging glint in her eye.
‘And where would I have taken them off, do you think?’
Her tone is entirely warm, as if she revels in the notion of having her movements interrogated. Skelgill is finding her mood difficult to fathom – after all, would not most women be distraught, beside themselves with woe at such a catastrophic loss? He deflects her question with a nod towards the dressing table.
‘Madam, is it likely you left them on top?’
‘I think I should have noticed in the morning.’
A little self-consciously Skelgill casts about the room. The centrepiece is a four-poster bed and the décor is traditional in its style; it is not easy to establish the status of this domain. The woman seems intuitively to know what he is trying to work out.
‘I sleep alone, Inspector – it’s more satisfying, don’t you think?’
Skelgill feels blood rising to his cheeks. He turns his head towards one of two internal doors.
‘Where does this lead to?’
‘To Teddy’s room – the other is the bathroom.’
Skelgill unaccountably is finding his questions sticking in his throat.
‘Do you keep your doors locked?’
‘Oh – why would I?’ She purrs throatily. ‘After all the years changing without underwear, beneath prying eyes – it is not something I think about.’
She has moved to face him – although he has crossed to contemplate the interconnecting door. It has a mortise lock; the key is on her side. He senses she is willing him to look at her, and that the comment about underwear was given special emphasis. She is barefooted, and clad in a close-fitting nude velour tracksuit, the top unzipped to her breastbone.
The distraction might just be in his head. He determines to concentrate upon what is surely a straightforward crime. He steps over to the window once more and, looking out properly now, sees the black shadows of the topiary cast by the sun, and the pale gravel driveway winding around the verdant lawn. He becomes conscious of the aroma of citrus – beneath him on the sill there is an expensive-looking candle in a branded glass container. He speaks with his back to her.
‘After the ball – how did you get home?’
‘Teddy drove. He doesn’t drink these days. Alcohol disagrees with his medication.’
Her answer would seem to rule out an opportunistic taxi driver – although frankly it strikes Skelgill as improbable that a complete outsider could have found their way with such precision through the castle grounds and corridors and stairs to home in on this tiny drawer. He turns, and fixes a stare decisively upon the languid pools of her d
ark eyes.
‘How about at the ball – do you recall anyone admiring your jewellery?’
She averts her gaze. It could be an act of reflection – or, judged more cynically, of affected modesty.
‘Oh – I suppose I did attract some attention. But I don’t believe a jealous wife would have wreaked her revenge upon me, do you, Inspector?’
She is quick to join up the dots – a little too swift for comfort.
‘What about serving staff?’
‘There must have been thirty or more.’
Skelgill knows she makes a good point.
‘Who took the photographs?’
‘Oh – she’s a local snapper – I’ve seen her around. She syndicates her work. Country Life sometimes uses her material. But there were no renegade paps, if that’s what you are thinking.’
Skelgill is trying not to think too hard. For him, detective work is like fishing – though he would not openly characterise it as such. But he knows he would never tackle an unfamiliar water by rowing to the centre and flailing about in all directions. He would walk the perimeter, taking in the topography and habitat, watching for signs of bird and insect life. Then he would begin somewhere promising – a small bay perhaps, or the mouth of a beck; at the very least a wind lane – places where food collects, for all creatures obey their basic instincts. Literally clueless at the moment, he is in the middle of the metaphorical lake. Sure, he can pick a direction and spin out a plausible theory – a rogue photographer has a buyer waiting online, follows her home, watches for her bedroom light to go out, knowing she will sleep soundly after all the champagne; the security at the castle is almost non-existent. Tch – he can invent a dozen plausible lines of inquiry that would radiate like endless ripples. Better to stick to the shore, work from outside to in. Ask questions, and don’t mither himself too much over the answers.
Murder on the Moor Page 6