Skelgill regards DS Leyton quite piercingly – and yet shows no inclination to scrutinise the picture.
‘Was it framed?’
DS Leyton appears perplexed.
‘Er, yeah – it was, Guv. She’s a pretty girl, look.’
Skelgill now does look. The photograph is of a young woman, maybe mid-twenties, a head and shoulders shot taken in front of a fountain with a circle of jets against a background of trees and a clear blue sky. She has her head tilted to one side and her long dark hair falls across one eye, while the other glints mischievously and she seems to blow a kiss without the obligatory selfie-trout-pout. As his colleague has observed, she possesses a certain natural allure. However, Skelgill makes no remark and instead cuts a forkful of cake. DS Jones picks up the narrative.
‘We have his mobile number. It’s an active pay-as-you-go account but it appears to be switched off. We’ve put in a request for information regarding recent use and location. Apparently it’s just a basic handset, so there won’t be precise GPS data.’
Skelgill has bitten off more cake than he can chew, and his colleagues are obliged to wait patiently for his next question.
‘Have we got a definitive last sighting?’
DS Leyton has this information.
‘He was spotted a number of times on Friday morning. Then they’ve got a kind of workshop and materials store in one of the old stables – the Artur geezer runs it, and he says he issued him with a box of anchor bolts for his renovation work – that was around two p.m.’
‘Nowt after that?’
‘No, Guv. Daphne reckons she’s now spoken with everyone.’ DS Leyton absently pulls at a handful of the thick dark hair on the crown of his head. ‘By the way – she reiterated that she don’t think he’d do it – steal the jewellery.’
‘So what does she think?’
Skelgill’s question is terse, and his sergeant seems a little demoralised.
‘She don’t know, Guv. I caught up with her after we’d been back down to the gatehouse. She says she has no reason to suspect anybody else, nor any knowledge of intruders or strangers – and we’ve had that from multiple sources. She reckons it would be difficult for someone to get in and out unnoticed during working hours, while there’s folk dotting about. She mentioned that Lawrence Melling has been talking about poachers in the grounds at night – and wouldn’t that be the most likely explanation?’
DS Leyton again glances at DS Jones – presumably because she has interviewed Lawrence Melling. For his part, Skelgill would be inclined to point out there were no signs of a break-in, but Karen Williamson’s comments in regard to erratic locking up temper that position. He turns to DS Jones.
‘What do you reckon?’
‘Miranda Bullingdon was flashing her jewellery at the Hunt Ball. It was heavily covered in social media. It’s a striking coincidence – a trusted worker with sufficient inside knowledge and probably the opportunity disappearing at the same time as the valuables. And an organised crime connection is feasible – especially when it comes to fencing such distinctive items.’
Skelgill is nodding, though reluctantly. This is the logical conclusion, hardly the pinnacle of Holmesian deduction. In his mind all the evidence points to this outcome. But in his gut, none of the feelings do. The affable clown who fell off the stepladder does not fit the bill for a cynical jewel thief. DS Jones seems to read her superior’s troubled expression.
‘Of course, it could be attention-seeking behaviour by Miranda Bullingdon. It could be an insurance fraud by Lord Bullingdon. It could be an act of revenge or spite by Daphne or Julian Bullingdon. Or it could be a real theft by a different insider, and Carol Stanislav’s disappearance is a genuine coincidence. The housekeeper clearly had the best opportunity.’
Both Skelgill and DS Leyton regard their colleague in a rather wide-eyed fashion, as she rattles through these like bullet points in a slide presentation. But, while she assuages his doubts over the Moldovan handyman, her closing observation shifts the onus back onto Skelgill, perhaps calculatingly so. His brow creases. Karen Williamson is the only person along with Edward Bullingdon who has admitted to entering the bedroom. She is obviously struggling to make ends meet. And, as she volunteered, she has a spare key. However, he represses what feels like an heroic yet irrational reflex to leap to her defence – and instead he gives some credence to DS Jones’s opening hypothesis, albeit the most fanciful.
‘Apparently Miranda Bullingdon told her husband she didn’t want to report the loss.’
DS Jones homes in upon the imprecision in his statement.
‘Where’s that come from, Guv?’
Skelgill takes a drink of his coffee. The foam as always frustrates his thirst and he smears his upper lip with the back of his hand and grimaces as though the concoction were bitter.
‘This is relying on Chinese whispers, mind. He was overheard telling Daphne Bullingdon.’
‘Daphne never mentioned that to me.’ DS Leyton is peeved.
‘Happen she didn’t take it seriously. It sounds like the sort of thing Miranda Bullingdon would come out with.’
Skelgill’s tone is such that he seems to regard the issue as insignificant. DS Jones, however, is more emphatic.
‘Particularly if she knows the jewels aren’t stolen.’
After some consideration DS Leyton embellishes the notion.
‘Or to protect someone she suspects has taken them.’
Skelgill is regretting having stirred this particular little pot, indeed is alarmed that it is all too quickly coming to the boil. He doubts that such altruism would rank highly on Miranda Bullingdon’s list of personality traits; and also that despite her apparent indifference to the theft she could not seriously overlook its value. But she is a woman of smoke and mirrors, at once overacting and underacting. To downplay the theft could have a purpose; or it could be her honest sentiment – but it is impossible to tell. And he is disturbed – confused, even – by the resurfacing of feelings that he experienced during their encounter and does not wish to acknowledge; she is double the distraction of Eve with her rosy apple. He is nodding, which can only be misleading for his colleagues, for he responds on a different tack.
‘Have we got anything on the estate’s finances, yet?’
DS Leyton has snatched the opportunity of a bite of his snack; he shakes his head, swallowing hurriedly – too hurriedly, for he begins to choke and wheeze – and it takes a sharp blow between the shoulder blades from a prompt acting DS Jones to remedy the complaint. Eyes watering, he coughs and splutters, waving his hands contritely as he recovers his breath.
‘Flippin’ heck – and I’m always telling the nippers not to speak and eat at the same time.’ He gestures to his plate. ‘It’s these massive slices, Guv – they ought to rename this the Cake District!’
For Skelgill, a factor in his choice of café is its reputation for generous portion size, with its handmade local specialities. Unsympathetic to his colleague’s plight, he eyes his remaining cake a little wolfishly. However, DS Leyton’s close encounter with suffocation has not dimmed his appetite, and the sand cake is incredibly moreish, so to Skelgill’s dismay he resumes where he left off. Then he remembers he is supposed to be answering a question. This time he is more fastidious when it comes to ingestion.
‘Fraid not, Guv – we’re still waiting on the financial analysis. I did manage to get Daphne talking on the subject. She seems to have a half-decent business head on her. She basically reckons the place is washing its face – but they need a big investment to bring it up to scratch. She mentioned that she’d like to do weddings in summer to complement the winter shooting – makes sense while they’ve got the properties standing empty – like that boathouse as a quirky bridal suite – but Lord Bullingdon won’t hear of it – he’s old school gentry.’
It strikes Skelgill that fly-casting tuition and trout angling would be an obvious addition, and sufficiently pukka – huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ and all that. Th
ey have the artificial lake, well stocked, it seems. However, he is prompted to inquire about the landowner himself.
‘So what did his Lordship have to say?’
Now DS Leyton makes a face that suggests his interview was not a success.
‘You’d think we’d come to hinder rather than help, Guv. He’d hardly give me the time of day – said he’d already told everything he knew – which was nothing – to our constable this morning. Said he didn’t expect we’re going to be able to do anything about it – and he’d have to pick up the pieces as usual, whatever that meant. I asked him about locking up and he said of course the castle is locked at night – he does it himself. Then he started ranting about how he’s going to sit up with his shotgun and start armed patrols, himself, the gamekeeper and Daphne Bullingdon, and he was moaning about how Julian’s a waste of space and doesn’t know one end of a gun from another. Then he was talking about setting traps like they used to for poachers in Victorian times! I pointed out the inadvisability of taking matters into his own hands – but he just repeated his mantra about what use have we been so far? This is what happens when the police waste their time investigating false reports of birds being shot when they should be catching actual criminals.’
This somewhat verbose account from DS Leyton nonetheless gives an idea of the difficulty he must have experienced in trying to wrestle information from a more-than-usually bombastic Edward Bullingdon. There are resignedly raised eyebrows from his colleagues, most notably at the last familiar platitude. Skelgill allows a moment for this to pass before he queries a more definite issue.
‘What’s the score with insurance?’
‘He said he’s not had time to contact his insurers yet – but anyway he’s still waiting for a crime number from us before he can make a claim. I asked him if the jewellery was covered – as specified items, like – and he fobbed me off, saying it’s some kind of complex policy they’ve got with an estate like this. That he didn’t expect me to understand it. Probably I wouldn’t.’
Skelgill regards his subordinate perplexedly.
‘How did he seem?’
‘You’ve met him, Guv – his default mode’s set to bad temper.’
Skelgill leans back in his seat and waves a hand casually in the air.
‘Leyton – what I mean is – for instance, did he mention Miranda Bullingdon – that she’s mithered about it – that there’s been a burglar in her bedroom – that irreplaceable possessions have been stolen?’
DS Leyton shakes his head rather ruefully.
‘Now you mention it, Guv, he didn’t have anything to say about her. He’s preoccupied with it being a personal affront – invasion of his property, I suppose. Englishman’s home is his castle, and all that – hah! – which it is, in this case.’
He looks with some amusement at his colleagues, but though DS Jones reacts amenably, Skelgill merely seems frustrated. He is thinking that if it were an insurance fraud – which he somehow feels is unlikely – then Edward Bullingdon would have to be involved in the process. The bluff and bluster could be the man kicking up dust to impede their progress – but, as DS Leyton says, this is pretty much his normal behaviour. Moreover, there is the absence of one tangible factor that makes him doubt that a scam is afoot. In his experience false claims normally come hand in glove with an amateurish attempt to stage a break-in; and no such tactic has been deployed.
DS Jones, meanwhile, offers an alternative slant.
‘I shouldn’t be surprised if Julian Bullingdon has had solvency issues.’
Skelgill regards her sharply.
‘What makes you say that?’
She ladles froth from the surface of her cappuccino and clamps her lips around the long-handled spoon, slowly pulling it out like the stick of a lollipop.
‘Nothing specific that he told me – but reading between the lines I get the feeling he’s under a kind of tacit house arrest – confined to the castle and its grounds.’
Skelgill recalls his eccentric appearance on their former visit, in full flight with his flailing butterfly net and trailing hair.
‘Is he all there?’
Skelgill’s rather cruel inquiry elicits the hint of a frown from his female colleague.
‘Oh, yes – he’s bright alright – he’s got a degree in some branch of botany – from Cambridge, no less.’ She sees that Skelgill continues to glower cynically. ‘I had no reason to disbelieve him – he sounds well informed – but he’s clearly shy and sensitive. Remember – his mother was Lord Bullingdon’s second wife – the artistic one – I think he takes after her. I guess that hasn’t gone down too well with his father. He has no job – not externally, anyway – and he doesn’t seem to have any commercial role in the running of the estate. He says he’s working on a project to classify all of the flora and fauna, and is focusing on invertebrates at the moment. He started talking about how he’d like to rewild the fellsides – turn them back into native woodlands.’
‘Bang go the grouse.’
DS Jones grins wryly.
‘Bang go the pheasants, as well, Guv – he said his vision is for a vegan community that manages the entire estate for the benefit of nature.’
‘He’s in cloud cuckoo land, ain’t he?’
Now it is DS Leyton who supplies a colourful image. But DS Jones does not automatically agree. Evidently she needs a moment to reconsider her encounter.
‘I’m not so sure it’s as clear-cut as that. He seemed quite determined about it.’ She brushes absently at a strand of bronzed hair that has strayed across one cheek. ‘I mean – on the one hand he was quite frank about Lord Bullingdon keeping a tight grip on the purse strings – for instance that he wouldn’t fund a bat box initiative – but on the other, when you think about it practically, his father’s seventy-four, fifty years his senior. Time will take its toll.’
Skelgill makes a rather scornful growl in his throat.
‘Lord Bullingdon’s going to leave Daphne in charge – never mind that he’s giving her a hard time. At least he can see she’s committed to running a shooting estate.’
DS Jones, however, seems determined to stick to her point of view.
‘Afterwards, I got one of the team to look up Burke’s Peerage. Lord Bullingdon’s title is governed by primogeniture – despite being the younger sibling and child of the second marriage, Julian will inherit the barony, not Daphne. And, as far as we can determine, the estate as well.’
The trio sit in silence as they mull over this point. It would seem that Julian Bullingdon could afford to play a long hand, though he might in the short term be frustrated financially. Skelgill now picks up a point that had jarred with him earlier.
‘So you’ve got him and Daphne down as no fans of their stepmother.’
DS Jones realises that he refers to her comment about vindictiveness as a possible motive.
‘Oh – I was perhaps being overzealous when I said that, Guv.’ She grins obligingly. ‘When I asked if he had any idea of what might have happened to the jewellery, he said, “Oh, she’s probably stripped them off somewhere” – I had this sudden flash, an image of him coming across them and tipping them rebelliously into the nearest bin. Mad, really.’
Skelgill is frowning – as much as anything because she admits to a style of judgement that chimes with his own habit, though some would call it laziness. Notwithstanding, he challenges her statement.
‘Were those his actual words – “stripped them off”?’
DS Jones looks puzzled.
‘Er, yes – as far as I can remember.’
Skelgill does not elucidate, and she does not ask why he wants to know. In the hiatus that ensues it is DS Leyton that picks up the thread of their discussion.
‘So, young Julian – he’s got no suggestions as to the theft?’
Rather pensively DS Jones presses her right ear lobe between thumb and forefinger. She is wearing discreet diamond studs, two in each side; she lets go and shakes her head.
�
��No – like I say – other than he didn’t think they were stolen – mislaid, more likely. He wasn’t particularly sympathetic – probably he regards her as profligate – though he didn’t criticise her explicitly. I get the feeling the younger generation are circumspect in what they say, in case Miranda brings the wrath of Daddy down upon them. It looks like she calls the shots.’
DS Jones’s inflection turns this final observation into half a question, and she looks inquisitively at Skelgill. It seems she has exhausted what she has to say about Julian Bullingdon. Though it remains for her to update her colleagues on her interview with Lawrence Melling, it strikes Skelgill that she is reluctant spontaneously to speak of the gamekeeper; yet he can summon up no enthusiasm to prompt her. Indeed it takes DS Leyton to raise the subject, by harking back to his earlier assessment.
‘How did it go with Lady Miranda’s fancy man?’
DS Jones reacts with rather uncharacteristic sharpness.
‘Why do you say that?’
But DS Leyton, as ever, is accommodating.
‘Remember, Emma – last time, he was like a cat with the cream – and that was in front of Daphne and Lord Bullingdon.’
Pensively, DS Jones bites her bottom lip.
‘I think he just knows he’s good looking – and he does have a certain charisma – there’s an aura of self-assurance to go with the handling of firearms.’
Skelgill folds his arms; he glares censoriously, as though DS Jones ought to mirror his sentiment. DS Leyton continues.
‘I hope he didn’t bring a six-shooter along to his interview!’
DS Jones looks up, a little surprised.
‘Actually, it was at the gunroom where I caught up with him. He was oiling and polishing some expensive-looking shotguns. Lawrence was saying they can accommodate up to thirty clients.’
Murder on the Moor Page 10