Murder on the Moor

by Bruce Beckham

  Skelgill is immediately irked by the man’s tone of condescension.

  ‘Unless you want me to issue you with a ticket for your rear offside tyre that’s contravening the legal limit – I’m afraid you’re going to have to be patient, Mr Vholes.’ Skelgill affects a grin and pats his chest, indicating his angling credentials. ‘As you can see, I’ve got my conservation hat on tonight. But I can assure you the gravity of the situation has been made plain to those that need to know.’

  The Vholes look at one another but do not speak and again Skelgill suspects them of having some special sibling powers of silent communication. He regards them sternly for a moment, and then looks more inquiringly at the young couple. ‘Are you not going to introduce me?’

  Neil Vholes responds stiffly. ‘Ah – yes – Inspector Skelgill, these are two of our most dedicated volunteers, Cian and Ciara – they have been performing sterling work on the night watches.’

  Skelgill makes friendly eye contact with each of the couple in turn, but he does not deem it necessary to stretch to handshakes – they look of a generation and a type for whom it would be alien – but in the exchange of greetings it is immediately apparent that both have accents to go with their Irish names.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  It is the girl that responds, assuming charge without looking to check with her companion, or partner or whatever he is.

  ‘I’m from County Louth. Mooretown, originally. Cian’s from Galway, for his sins. We’re on a structured gap year as part of our ecology Masters at Trinity. We were working at RSPB Leyton Moss – studying the marsh harriers – until we heard about this hen harrier project. They’re far more endangered. It was too good an opportunity to miss, so it was.’

  Her voice is pleasant and lilting and her enunciation polished. Skelgill, who can just about tell a northern from a southern Irish accent, if pressed would guess she has perhaps been the beneficiary of a private education. He senses that the Vholes are regarding him rather disparagingly, and it prompts him to show off his newly acquired knowledge.

  ‘I believe you’ve got them satellite-tagged – and a webcam on the nest.’

  He detects twitches of annoyance from the Vholes. But the girl responds brightly.

  ‘Sure we have, Inspector – come and see for yourself.’ She nudges her companion with an elbow. ‘Cian Fogarty – now, let the man in, will you?’

  The young man rises obediently and vacates his position on the bunk. When Skelgill sits, the girl slides the laptop a little closer to him, and shifts her position until her hip touches his. He has his shirtsleeves rolled up and her bare forearm brushes against his. She smells unwashed, and yet it is not something he finds unpleasant – if anything, the reverse, perhaps complicated by the faint but unmistakable spicy overture of marijuana. He has to blink to concentrate, lulled by her occasional touch as she manipulates the trackpad, and some hypnotic quality in her soft voice.

  ‘So – here’s the female on the nest. She’s called Hetty, originally from the Forest of Bowland, where she was tagged as a nestling. She’s nearly eight – that’s old for a breeding female. There are five eggs, which is marvellous.’

  Skelgill stares at the screen – the close-up image is remarkably sharp, the bird sitting in the heather, motionless but for its head with its beady yellow eyes constantly scanning the sky above – and the occasional ripple of a feather in the light moorland breeze.

  Then the girl clicks on another icon and brings up a map – Skelgill immediately recognises the lie of the land – Over Moor running up towards Great Cockup, and Skiddaw with its tightening contours, the blue oval that is Over Water, the policies and buildings of Shuteham Hall estate, and even the little stretched triangle of Troutmere. She points with an index finger – the nail rather disappointingly bitten down to the quick, and perhaps the brown stain of smoke on the inside – and she highlights first one and then a second flashing icon.

  ‘There’s Hetty on the nest – and that’s Galahad – he’s still out hunting – look – the blinking frequency tells you he’s on the wing. He’s only four – a Scottish bird from Dumfriesshire. But he’s doing a good job so far – she’ll rely on him for her meals for up to five weeks.’

  She clicks back to the hen on the nest.

  ‘She’s watching for her supper. If we keep an eye on them – if you’ve got time, Inspector – we can show you a food pass – normally she rises up to take it from him in mid air.’

  A frown creases Skelgill’s brow.

  ‘I’m surprised he gives it up so easily.’

  The girl laughs, her voice suddenly throaty.

  ‘Well, for a start the female’s fifty per cent heavier – and, besides, would you fight a woman when she knows what she wants? I think we’re secretly the dominant sex, Inspector.’

  Skelgill inhales to speak but perhaps does not find a suitable rejoinder, and instead he looks away from the screen and follows the trajectory of the telescope to the outdoors.

  ‘How far’s the nest?’

  ‘About half a kilometre. The scope is on it – but the bird’s down in the heather, obviously.’

  ‘Looks quite isolated.’

  Skelgill says this as though he means it is a good thing.

  ‘There’s a beaters’ path leading to the grouse butts. It goes within about thirty metres. So far she’s sat tight whenever anyone’s passed by. We have an inconspicuous side-path for maintenance of the webcam. The keeper makes a patrol most nights at dusk, sometimes after dark – like he’s beating the bounds. Taunting us.’ She looks at Skelgill with significance. ‘He knows we have our eye on him. He just doesn’t know how closely! But I think he realises the law is on our side.’

  Skelgill has already demonstrated to Neil Vholes his reluctance to get drawn into a discussion along these lines, and now the girl’s conspiratorial intonation clearly invites his patronage. He makes a show of looking at his watch and then squinting to assess the twilight.

  ‘Happen I’d better get my act together. It’s a sight easier to set up while there’s still light.’

  He begins to rise, conscious of the warmth of the girl’s thigh against his.

  ‘What is it you’re conserving, Inspector?’

  He is tempted to resume his seat, but he makes a show of flexing his spine and steps away to give himself more space.

  ‘Ach – I’m trying to prove there’s vendace in Over Water.’ He grins, wryly. ‘Given the powers that be can’t disprove it.’

  She smiles.

  ‘Just like a leprechaun.’

  Skelgill meets her gaze, the green-tinted eyes seem curiously familiar – she is endearingly taking the mickey, and he wonders if she suspects a more nefarious motive underlies his mission.

  ‘Keep up the good work, folks.’ He turns his attention to the Vholes, who have maintained a disgruntled silence during the demonstration by the Irish girl, observing through their binoculars through the open shutter on the moorland side. Now they grace him with grudging nods. Viewing in the opposite direction they will be able to watch him – at least until nightfall. In fact the young man, Cian, sitting on the bench close to the door, is doing just that, meticulously scanning the lake, perhaps for the resident great crested grebes. As Skelgill reaches him a thought strikes him. ‘How do you manage in the dark?’

  Neil Vholes takes it upon himself to reply, as though he might be keen to re-establish some position of authority.

  ‘The camera is fitted with infrared night-vision capability. The birds can’t see it, but we can see them.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Can you view it remotely? Like – when you go home?’

  ‘The satellite tracking data, yes. But the camera is powered by a combination of solar and wind and is self-contained on this site. That is one reason for our round-the-clock presence. Besides – if, heaven forbid, there were an intruder – someone needs to be on the scene.’

  Neil Vholes looks meaningfully at the young Irishman, as though h
e has been delegated the task of rushing to the rescue should the harriers’ nest be threatened. Skelgill pats the lad on the shoulder.

  ‘Don’t nod off, whatever you do, marra.’

  *

  Skelgill rows restrainedly, watching the three parked cars diminish in size, testing his eyesight for how far he can retreat before he can no longer read the number plates. He wonders if he should be remotely suspicious that the young Irish couple’s Ford Consul has a British registration. If the time comes to cast the net wider, this itinerant pair would have to be included. Quite likely they were here, in the vicinity of Shuteham Hall during the time of the theft, with good reason to be up and about during the hours of darkness; and he guesses they are competent in moving surreptitiously through wild terrain. But they are improbable jewel thieves. More likely they have picked up the old banger at an auction in England, to see them through their gap year. He could easily enough get it checked out. In order to memorise the registration, ARS 10P, he conjures up a mind picture: his colleague DI Smart flipping a silver coin – that should do it. Smiling with some small satisfaction, he parks the notion and turns his mind to the matter in hand.

  Just over halfway across the lake, he boats his oars and allows the craft to drift. All is calm, and the steely surface of Over Water extends like the floor of a great ice rink, on which he could step out and glide wherever he so desires. But the illusion of solidity is belied by a myriad of delicate mayflies, laying females that dip their ovipositors through the silvery meniscus, the catalyst for a burgeoning rise of trout.

  These brownies would be easy meat. But Skelgill is troubled by the vendace – so little is known about the species. After his first abortive attempt he had consulted fellow angler Jim Hartley. The elderly academic had become consumed by Skelgill’s task, and the prospect of discovering in Over Water what is arguably Britain’s rarest endemic wild animal.

  “This is our kakapo, Daniel – our Javan rhino, our mountain gorilla. We can’t let it become our dodo. You must find it! There have been more documented sightings of Nessie than of vendace!”

  For his part, Skelgill had expressed his frustration: it is the mark of a successful hunter that he knows the habits of his prey. Just what is the killer bait? Employing his research skills the professor had ascertained that the diet of the vendace mainly consists of planktonic crustaceans – ‘copepods’, well known to aquarium owners who add them live to feed captive fish. But, as Skelgill had pointed out, at sixteen to the inch these are not creatures that can be put on a hook! A more obscure literary source, an ancient tome of fishing lore unearthed by the professor in the local library had mentioned the ‘Cumberland vendace’ – but unfortunately did not reveal any practical tips, other than the more esoteric suggestion of fishing at midnight beneath the full moon.

  There is a small parallel here, however, and Skelgill tunes in to his surroundings. Against the deeper blue sky to the southeast rises a waxing gibbous moon. In the lighter northwest, above the black shoulder of Skiddaw, Venus is the first ‘star’ to materialise, though there remains a pink flush of daylight reflecting from vestiges of high cloud. The cooling air is redolent with the invigorating night scents of water; the resonant atmosphere pierced by the sporadic calls of crepuscular birds. What a sublime time to be fishing. If only that were his plan.

  *

  Skelgill is hungry. Since a snatched lunch of patties on the hoof in Penrith all he has eaten are two slices of sand cake and two bags of peanuts. Back ashore in his car, with his Kelly kettle and the rest of his kit there are chocolate digestive biscuits – which reminds him of Karen Williamson and the thought crosses his mind that he could pay her a visit. Surely she would offer him supper. But would she appreciate a tap on her door at this late hour? And what would be his reason for disturbing her? He ponders. True, he could say he is worried about Stan, and ask if she could shed any light on his habits – and there is her curious visit to Keeper’s Cottage, though that might be something on which he wishes to keep his powder dry. Then he remembers there is food in the gatehouse – what was it DS Jones called those unappetising-looking dumplings in the fridge – she said coltunasi, if he recalls correctly. As things stand, they’ll only go to waste – and even boiled they would be better than an empty stomach. The place is not locked, as far as he is aware.

  His boat has drifted very gently to within a few yards of the western shoreline of Over Water, and now in the shadow of Bullmire Wood he is satisfied that he has merged into the gloom. He can see a tiny light in the hide – so they must still have the flap open on the lake side – but a minute ago a car left – presumably the Vholes calling it a night, leaving the young Irish pair to their own devices. A cosy little set up, with their gas burner and bunk bed; no boss on their case, and doing something they’re plainly into. Without feeling actually jealous – thankfully envy is not one of the cardinal vices to afflict Skelgill (though his colleagues might argue he makes up for it with a couple of the others) – he can’t help thinking he wouldn’t mind being in young Cian’s shoes; nodding off would be the least of his problems.

  He winds in frenetically. There is method in this, for he does not want the hassle of returning yet another perch; already he has a throbbing palm from one carelessly unhooked that jagged him with its spiny dorsal fin. The trouble is, perch do love maggots. All fish love maggots – that’s why he is persisting with them. And Jim Hartley had concurred: “Daniel, every single freshwater fish in the British Isles has been taken on a maggot.” And it was with a maggot that he inadvertently succeeded in Bass Lake. Now he unhooks the flaccid larva from his line and flicks it into the water – and then he is struck by a thought – when will he fish again? Not until the weekend, at best. He picks up his bait box from the bottom boards and squints rather hopelessly in the darkness at the seething contents – even in his fridge these wrigglers will surely pupate in the next couple of days, and he is no fan of casters, let alone bluebottles. He tosses the lot over the side, and mutters ironically.

  ‘Enjoy your dinner.’

  He can just make out a fallen alder, the trunk of which protrudes perpendicular to the shore – it serves as an ideal mooring spot, and one he can reliably find again, should he so need. But now Skelgill is handicapped. His powerful pocket torch is a weapon of final resort – the last thing he wants to do is betray his presence. Besides, it won’t help him find his way; one direction looks much the same as any other. To avoid the risk of descent into ever decreasing circles he falls back upon method, and his mental map of the estate. Following moon shadows he makes unspectacular westerly progress, weaving a route of least resistance through the shrub layer, holding out in front a branch he has wrenched from a coppiced hazel. In ten minutes he comes up against the boundary wall bordered by the lane to Overthwaite. Now he turns northwards to reach West Gate House. It could easily be missed in the murk of the wood. Dismissing his fantasy of fried coltunasi he presses on, hugging the dry stone wall. His next landmark is Crow Road, the broad woodland ride that terminates at a functioning five-barred gate; though it is padlocked, he imagines this provides a convenient means of shipping shooting parties by Land Rover to the more northerly reaches of the estate, avoiding a lengthy loop via the main entrance and public highway.

  The turf track makes for easier going than the spongy forest loam. In the ankle-deep grass Skelgill can feel the cool dew soaking his boots, though so far they hold firm, despite that the much-vaunted proprietary linings rarely last more than a couple of years, making his well overdue to spring a leak. The sky has cleared entirely and darkened to a midnight blue; overhead is the Plough and, a little to the left, Polaris and north. From the woods comes the periodic hoot of a tawny owl, like a distant steam train. And every so often he detects a Natterer’s bat as a fleeting disturbance in the air upon his face, though its calls are beyond his range.

  When he gets to within fifty yards of Keeper’s Cottage Skelgill veers from the centre to the edge of the ride – and promptly cracks a tw
ig that precipitates a great squawking commotion. From the canopy half a dozen crows break cover – vaguely he discerns their silhouettes bend and bank away. Crow Road, of course. Maybe not such a wise choice, so near to the Terminator. Indeed he can smell the keeper’s larder – but perhaps this is no deterrent to a bird more properly called the carrion crow. He waits for the melancholic complaints to fade, and in time silence returns. He stoops and feels around for a pebble. Stepping out from the shadow of the trees he hurls it in the direction of the property – and scores a direct hit, drawing a reverberating twang from the sheet iron roof of the wood store. He takes cover. But there are no repercussions – and, in particular, there is no barking dog. He waits another minute and then, sticking to the treeline works his way around the back of the cottage. In common with West Gate House it is in darkness – he wonders if there are security lights, and for this reason keeps his distance. And then, once again, like this morning, he suffers the same distinct sensation that he is being watched. Is he hearing something? Are there barely audible footsteps that cease each time he stops to listen? But it cannot be – no one hangs around in woods on the off chance that someone will come by. And not only does the property appear deserted, as far as he can discern the quad bike is not there. Beneath the shelter there is only velvet shadow, when surely something of it would glint in the moonlight.

  Much as he itches to search Keeper’s Cottage he gives the idea only scant consideration. He might just about be able to talk his way out of being in the grounds after dark, but to be caught inside one of the properties would take some explaining, not least to the Chief. And never mind the present danger: the violent retribution that Lord Bullingdon has threatened to exact upon prowlers; it sounds like his arsenal could equip a small private army. So he moves on, and perhaps only now acknowledges that his coming here at all is a little puzzling, even to himself. To some extent this ‘plan’ (no plan, really) has unfolded as an extension of his comparatively rudderless progress through the day, like a leaf carried by rainwater finding its course after a long drought. True, a semblance of logic can be ascribed to his evening’s itinerary: first, picking the brains of Eric Hepplethwaite about the new keeper, and learning the beat of the local jungle drums; second, paying a surprise visit to the ornithologists to understand their setup and conduct; third, venturing forth on his boat to gain a different perspective of the locality – these are all justifiable as acts of fact-finding. In addition there is his formal mandate to catch a vendace – he has license to be on Over Water and, as per his last visit, is entitled to investigate a potential crime. Yet he might easily have skipped these steps, or put them on tomorrow’s agenda.