Murder on the Moor

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘We’d better speak to Vholes. In case he tries to clear off.’

  *

  ‘Surely I don’t have to go over this once again, Inspector – I have a heads of departments’ meeting at midday. I related everything I know to your constable.’

  Skelgill wishes he had a fiver for every time he’d heard a version of this protest. He shrugs stolidly and casts about the interior of the hide. He and DS Jones have entered to find Neil and Christine Vholes seemingly birdwatching as normal, although it strikes him that the pair had their Leicas fixed zealously on the point on Over Moor where a white scenes-of-crime tent is hurriedly being pitched.

  ‘We’d like to hear it from yourself, sir – the horse’s mouth as they say.’ This draws a disapproving expression. ‘For accuracy, sir – I’m sure you’ll understand the importance of that.’ The rider seems to mollify him a little.

  However, Neil Vholes sighs excessively and glances at his sister who evidently consents to his acting as spokesperson – and he begins without further prompting.

  ‘At approximately eight o’clock this morning we noticed that Galahad the male hen harrier was behaving oddly. The bird had brought prey for the female; he was circling, and calling agitatedly – but she wasn’t coming off the nest. I imagined there might be a predator nearby – and that Hetty did not want to risk revealing the whereabouts of their clutch. I was scanning with my binoculars and that was when I noticed the dog.’

  He stops as though this is sufficient – but to Skelgill mention of the hitherto unseen canine is something of a curved ball.

  ‘The dog, sir?’

  The man regards him wearily.

  ‘A black cocker spaniel. It was moving about in the vicinity of the – er – accident. I was just seeing occasional glimpses of its head. At first I thought it must have been a raven, until I got a clear view.’

  Skelgill is looking perplexed. He is obliged to digress.

  ‘And where is the dog, now, sir?’

  Neil Vholes’ tone becomes increasingly indignant.

  ‘In our car, Inspector – I didn’t see what else I could do with it – I certainly didn’t want to leave it to rampage about the moor.’

  Skelgill parks the practical aspect and refocuses his thoughts; but the man does not voluntarily restart his narrative.

  ‘So you went from here to – what – to catch the dog? That’s what you thought you were doing?’

  ‘Precisely, Inspector. I had no idea what I was going to find. The – er – the gamekeeper was not visible from this angle.’

  Skelgill looks at Christine Vholes.

  ‘And did you both go?’

  ‘Christine remained here.’ Neil Vholes’ interjection is swift and decisive, as if he means to suppress a possible contradiction. But, for her part, she nods implacably. ‘I drove back onto the lane and followed it, and took the bridleway until I reached the nearest point. You have no doubt been using the stile and the footpath to gain access yourselves.’

  Skelgill nods, but does not otherwise answer. After a moment Neil Vholes continues.

  ‘The footpath meets up with the beaters’ path. I turned onto that and in fact the dog came running towards me. I had one of our own dog’s leads but I couldn’t get hold of the infernal creature – it kept darting away each time I got close. And then I realised it seemed to be trying to draw my attention to something. Which of course it was.’

  He swallows now and grimaces with distaste, as though what happened next was offensive to his sensibilities.

  ‘You have no doubt witnessed what I found. I could see immediately that the man was dead. Naturally I knew not to touch anything. I managed to collar the dog and came back here as quickly as I could. Christine had our mobile phones in the rucksack.’ He gestures to a new-looking green daypack balanced on the bench seat.

  Skelgill has listened reflectively. It is a few moments before he breaks the silence that has ensued.

  ‘Did you touch anything at the scene, sir – the dog apart?’

  ‘Of course not, Inspector – credit me with some intelligence.’

  Skelgill remains patient.

  ‘At what time did you arrive here, sir?’

  Skelgill notices that Christine Vholes begins to nod almost before her brother answers.

  ‘Just before seven.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else?’

  ‘Not out on the moor.’

  Skelgill waits but the man is unforthcoming.

  ‘The Irish couple – Cian and Ciara. What about them?’

  ‘They were asleep in their car when we arrived. Christine went out to speak with them a few minutes later, and they had driven off.’

  ‘Is that normal, sir?’

  Neil Vholes looks strangely embarrassed; he glances a little uncomfortably at DS Jones before turning back to Skelgill.

  ‘You may have noticed we have no formal washing and toilet facilities here, Inspector. They use the transport café on the A66, at the Lamplugh roundabout. I believe they may also eat their breakfast there.’

  Skelgill inhales through clenched teeth; he senses that DS Jones is watching him.

  ‘When will they be back?’

  Neil Vholes looks surprised.

  ‘I have no idea. I would need to look at the rota. It is on the Nats website. Not until this evening, at the earliest, I should think. In the meantime I imagine they will be sleeping somewhere in their car.’

  ‘Have you got a mobile number for them?’

  Skelgill’s question is curt and Neil Vholes frowns and glances briefly at his sister.

  ‘I don’t believe their budget extended to mobile telephones. As far as I am aware they conducted all of their communications via their laptop using free Wi-Fi.’

  Skelgill looks momentarily stymied – but it is clear that another thought suddenly occurs to him. He steps away from Neil Vholes towards the table at the end of the hut. Connected up is the expensive laptop with the distinctive customised case that the man had produced at police headquarters.

  ‘The webcam – is it recording?’

  Neil Vholes immediately replies.

  ‘It can record. But it is directed only upon the nest. That would be no use to you.’

  Skelgill rotates on his heel and stares at the couple.

  ‘But it’s got sound – I heard the birdsong when Ciara demonstrated it. Any sound would have been captured.’

  Neil Vholes looks to his sister. She rises from the bench and walks somewhat reluctantly to the table. She turns the laptop around to save her from squeezing onto the bunk on the other side. She bends at the waist to interrogate the machine. After a few moments she speaks without looking up.

  ‘The server has the capacity to record up to twenty-four hours. But, to prevent the memory from becoming overwhelmed, the default setting is on an hourly loop – since we always have a presence. I can confirm that is the current position, I am afraid, Inspector Skelgill.’

  She stands upright and holds out an open palm towards the screen, as though inviting him to see for himself. He senses that DS Jones wishes to check, but he manages to convey through a glance that they should not bother. He addresses Christine Vholes.

  ‘Do you have anything to add to Mr Vholes’ account, madam?’

  He watches closely to see if she makes any reference to her brother, but she regards him evenly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What time did you leave, last night?’

  Skelgill assumes that they know that he knows the answer to this question. Christine Vholes holds his gaze.

  ‘It must have been ten-thirty-five. I noticed it was ten-fifty when we arrived home, and the journey always takes almost exactly fifteen minutes when there is no traffic. We live just this side of Stanthwaite, Inspector.’

  She continues to look at Skelgill, now more quizzically. After a moment he shrugs and indicates with a toss of his head to his colleague.

  ‘We’ll return the dog.’

  He detects from the body langu
age of the Vholes that they are little irked by his presumptive manner. He starts towards the door but suddenly swings around to face them. His voice, however, carries a casual drawl.

  ‘How did you know he was the gamekeeper?’

  There is a distinct hesitation in Neil Vholes’ reaction.

  ‘Inspector – I – we – have met him.’ He exchanges glances with his sister; this time she more overtly nods to demonstrate her accord. ‘A week or so ago we participated in a group tour of Shuteham Hall estate – it had been organised through the Nats. The gamekeeper was one of the employees to whom we were introduced – he gave a short talk about the pheasant rearing and release process.’

  Christine Vholes is smiling self-assuredly.

  Skelgill nods once but does not pursue the matter. Instead he leads the way from the hide across to his car, which is parked beside the Vholes’ Volvo. He throws up the tailgate, and defiantly stares down their disparaging glances at its dishevelled contents.

  The Vholes have a travel crate and the spaniel looks pleased that it is about to be freed from what must be an unfamiliar confinement. They make no offer of their leash – and so Skelgill opens the cage and reaches in, letting the dog first sniff his hand. He moves to stroke it around the ears and then gently but firmly grips it by the scruff of the neck and lifts it out. Christine Vholes makes an involuntary squawk of protest but Skelgill ignores her and transfers the animal to his own vehicle, where it immediately finds something of an unspecified nature to eat. He closes the tailgate and rounds to the driver’s door. When it is apparent that he is not about to grace them with departing formalities, Neil Vholes blurts out a protest.

  ‘Inspector – your people can’t hang around here – near the nest, I mean. The hen harrier is a red-listed species. It is technically a wildlife crime to disturb a breeding site. The offence carries a jail sentence.’

  DS Jones watches Skelgill with consternation. Such insubordination from a civilian, coupled with Neil Vholes’ condescension is likely to provoke an unfavourable reaction. So he surprises her when he smiles affably.

  ‘I’ve ordered screens to cover the last part of the approach from the track. The team are all briefed about the significance of the birds. They won’t take any longer than is necessary, sir. However it is our statutory duty to examine a crime scene.’

  The Vholes are looking at Skelgill with considerable dismay, despite his conciliatory speech. Neil Vholes, in particular, remains most vexed.

  ‘Why is it a crime scene, Inspector?’

  Skelgill returns their gaze, his expression uncharacteristically bland, and his demeanour inquisitive, polite even.

  ‘Did you see him lay the trap, sir?’

  The man frowns confoundedly.

  ‘Of course not, Inspector. But what else could it be but an accident?’

  ‘It might have been an accident, sir. But at this stage, I reckon if I tried to convince the coroner that a fatal incident involving an illegal Victorian mantrap needs no investigation, then I might just find myself looking for a new career.’

  Neil Vholes is plainly riled; no doubt he considers himself a far more important personage than the rather unkempt country detective. And, thus infuriated, he is unable to keep a note of schadenfreude from his voice.

  ‘Surely it is quite obvious the man has become hoist by his own petard.’

  Skelgill shrugs and nods across the car for DS Jones to get in and he does the same. He reverses out and accelerates abruptly, leaving the Vholes to stew amidst a cloud of slowly settling dust. Meanwhile the cocker spaniel has finished exploring the rear compartment and now scrambles over to forage amongst the debris that clutters the back seat. Skelgill cranes to observe it in his rear-view mirror. He wonders if Lawrence Melling brought it with him from the Scottish Borders, or inherited it on the Shuteham Hall estate; it does not seem to have absorbed anything of the unbiddable personality of its erstwhile master. DS Jones notices his interest.

  ‘You’re not thinking of adopting, Guv?’

  Skelgill starts from his reverie.

  ‘You’re kidding – I’ve got my hands full already. Plus there’s the cost. Besides – these things are crackers – especially working dogs like this. Doggy day care’s no place for them. They want to be tearing up the undergrowth for woodcock.’

  DS Jones nods reflectively, but before she can add anything Skelgill issues an instruction.

  ‘Just while we’re driving round – call in the search on the Irish couple. Mid-twenties, slim build, both a bit above medium height – especially the girl – she’s dark, he’s blonde, they usually wear combat gear, he’s Cian Fogarty, she’s Ciara – don’t know her surname – they drive a 1970s Ford Consul estate, ARS 10P, white with a black roof.’

  ‘That’s impressive, Guv.’

  Skelgill makes a face that reluctantly acknowledges his talent. However, when ordinarily he might share how he remembered the registration number, he seems not to be in the mood.

  ‘You saw them yourself – they were in the café yesterday afternoon.’

  DS Jones experiences a sudden flash of recognition.

  ‘Ah – the good-looking guy and his girlfriend with no bra.’

  Skelgill acts like this is something he did not notice. He makes a meal of manoeuvring around a series of potholes. DS Jones continues.

  ‘They had a laptop – they were engrossed in that. Come to think of it, I didn’t see any mobiles.’

  Still Skelgill does not answer. DS Jones calls in to headquarters, specifically mentioning the transport café – but also that the local patrol ought to check public parking places and eateries in Cockermouth. It is running through Skelgill’s mind that they should more widely circulate the description of the couple and their distinctive old jalopy. If they did leave at seven a.m. they could be the thick end of two hundred miles away by now. However, his attention is diverted as they arrive back at the point from which the incident is being accessed. Already there are more vehicles; the rest of the SOCO team has arrived. Across the moor he can see they are erecting screens as he has requested.

  At the rear of his car he pats his pockets without success, and instead delves into a crate and fishes out a length of baler twine. He fashions a makeshift leash; he ties a bowline; it is not ideal, but perhaps the dog will behave itself, and at least it will not choke.

  ‘What are you thinking, Guv?’

  ‘We’ll walk it back to the castle. I want to retrace Melling’s route. Can you text Leyton and tell him we’ll meet him there.’

  Skelgill feeds the dog through the stile and clambers over onto the narrow moorland path. While he waits for DS Jones to transmit the message a meadow pipit rises up from nearby in the heather, making the best of its limited vocal repertoire, its notes gathering speed before the crescendo is released as it comes parachuting down over its territory. For Skelgill it is the archetypal sound of the fells – and from somewhere across the moor floats the haunting call of the cuckoo. They go hand in glove – almost literally for those pipits that fall victim to the guileful African usurper. As if it is not enough to run the gauntlet of the harriers. Mother Nature’s game – fascinating for the spectator – red in tooth and claw for the participant.

  ‘They’re a strange couple, Guv – the Vholes?’

  DS Jones’s remark breaks into his contemplation – it is a question really, and prompts him to consider the pair.

  ‘Aye – they’re a bit up themselves, as the saying goes. Did I tell you they were brother and sister?’

  ‘Er – no, actually. But I can see the resemblance, now you mention it. There’s an odd vibe between them – I wonder if they’re twins?’

  ‘They work together, an’ all. Jim Hartley reckons they’re at Caldbeck – environmental science or something.’

  ‘At the college?’

  ‘Aye. So he said. No doubt we’ll get chapter and verse in good time.’

  DS Jones nods reflectively.

  ‘They’re not going to like it
when we call them in for formal statements.’

  Skelgill pulls a face that seems intentionally bereft of sympathy. However, they are approaching the SOCO tent and the dog, which has thus far kept largely to heel, begins to strain on the twine and lets out a short yap. The side of the tent is open and the sound attracts the attention of a powder-blue-suited female whom Skelgill identifies as the Crime Scene Manager; the recognition is mutual and the woman picks up something and comes out to meet them. She raises to eye level a clear polythene evidence bag. It contains a small black torch, similar to that Skelgill himself uses – in fact so similar that for a second he feels a surge of anxiety – but didn’t he leave his in the boat when he hauled it ashore?

  ‘It was in his thigh pocket. It’s in working order.’

  Skelgill appears slow to process the woman’s words – but DS Jones makes a little intake of breath that suggests she appreciates their significance. The woman watches Skelgill with a look of curiosity – she knows his reputation as something of an eccentric. Abruptly, he smiles broadly – whether the penny has dropped or he is just acting out the stereotype is evidently not clear, and she remains perplexed.

  ‘Nice job. Helen, aye?’

  Skelgill has sneaked a look at her badge – “H. Back – CSM” – but it appears he gets her given name correct. She seems to relax. She nods and smiles behind her mask, if the crinkling of her eyes is anything to go by, but she begins to move away, keeping the item and returning to her pressing work. Skelgill grins. ‘And if you find a watch smashed at the time of the incident, that would be ideal.’

  The woman flashes a frown of the order that he should be so lucky – but then she halts and turns to face him.

  ‘If it’s of any interest – he’s not wearing underpants.’

  Skelgill waves away the remark, as though she makes it in jest – despite that it must have struck her as being of some merit. He wonders if he detects in DS Jones a trace of unease – but as they turn and walk on she addresses the issue at a broader level.

  ‘What do you think he was up to, Guv?’

  ‘Apparently he did a regular nightly patrol – letting the birders know who was boss.’