Murder on the Moor

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘But if he was walking in darkness – not using his torch – they wouldn’t have seen him.’

  Skelgill merely inhales more heavily, but declines to offer an opinion just when it seems he might speak. But the extent of the conundrum has not escaped his colleague.

  ‘And wearing Lord Bullingdon’s gear – for no apparent reason.’

  Skelgill decides he ought to join up some of the dots. Prominent in his thoughts is Eric Hepplethwaite’s offhand remark concerning the eradication of crows, two birds with one stone; putting both barrels through the nest.

  ‘The camera that’s trained on the sitting bird – it’s got night vision – infrared. I reckon Melling would have known that. This sort of thing seems to be common knowledge among the keepers.’

  DS Jones skips nimbly ahead of Skelgill and turns to face him, stopping him in his tracks. Her expression is animated.

  ‘Remember – what he said about the nest? There’s no guarantee it would be successful. What if he were going to impersonate Lord Bullingdon and destroy it?’

  Skelgill shrugs in a way that does not entirely dismiss her suggestion; it is not difficult to imagine the enraged Lawrence Melling doing the very thing – a fit of pique. However, he sidesteps his colleague and walks on; she catches up and pushes for an answer.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘It’s crossed my mind.’

  Enthusiastically, in quick succession DS Jones nods and then shakes her head.

  ‘What I don’t understand, though, is the couple on watch in the hide – the Irish – why didn’t they hear the shot?’

  Skelgill can think of a reason – but he provides a more prim explanation than that which springs to mind.

  ‘Who’s to say they stayed awake.’ He rakes back his hair with the fingers of his free hand. ‘Or maybe they did hear it – it’s a shooting estate – there’s poaching going on. There’s a trigger-happy keeper controlling the vermin. It can’t be the first time a shotgun’s been fired at night. Think about it – say they hear a bang – they’ll check the camera. The bird’s okay – so they let it pass.’

  DS Jones seems to be racking her brains. In a studenty outfit of a lightweight mauve sweatshirt, black stretch jeans and black-and-white trainers with mauve trim she sometimes makes Skelgill think the decade between them is wider than he finds comfortable. Without breaking stride she reaches down and deftly picks up a short stick. As she waggles it absently before her eyes it attracts the dog – she notices and lets it leap up – it seems pleased with its acquisition.

  ‘But the trap, Guv – where does that come in? Much as I dislike the idea of Neil Vholes being right – what he said about Lawrence Melling being hoist by his own petard – it’s plausible.’

  There is a curious note in his sergeant’s voice, perhaps even of pathos – Skelgill glances at her sharply; she is plainly conflicted.

  ‘Did he strike you as the kind of bloke that’d lay a trap and then forget about it?’

  DS Jones does not answer immediately. It might be that she recognises that there are two questions in one, with potentially conflicting combinations of answers.

  ‘No, Guv. Far from it.’

  Skelgill makes a frustrated growl in his throat, and falters momentarily in his stride, as though he has suffered a spasm of cramp in a calf.

  ‘It’s like the first time you climb Scafell Pike.’

  DS Jones senses that he requires her to show some interest in his cryptic pronouncement.

  ‘How do you mean, Guv?’

  ‘It started with a buzzard, unsolved – then the jewels, unsolved – then Stan goes missing, unsolved – and now this. It’s one false summit after another.’

  *

  ‘How long was that, Guv?’

  Skelgill checks his watch.

  ‘Just coming up for twenty minutes. We could have gone faster – but maybe not in the dark.’

  The pair have climbed a stone step stile to discover Lawrence Melling’s quad bike beside the track that leads down through the policies of Shuteham Hall. The spaniel seemed ready to leap into the dog box, and Skelgill has tethered it to a post while he examines the machine. DS Jones approaches.

  ‘The keys are still in it.’

  ‘That’s not so uncommon on private land.’

  ‘Maybe suggests he was in a hurry?’

  Skelgill regards her with a look of amusement. He indicates with a sweep of an arm slewed tyre marks in the turf.

  ‘I reckon we can agree on that.’

  Now he throws one leg over the saddle and grips the handlebars as though he is trying the machine out for size. Casually he leans down to the near side. DS Jones watches as he fiddles with a small tap and with a jerk pulls off a rubber hose that connects it. Then he turns the tap again and a stream of clear liquid runs out. As the stench of petrol fills the air he turns it off.

  DS Jones looks a little alarmed.

  ‘Guv – you’ll leave prints.’

  Skelgill reacts fiercely; but it is hard to tell if his expression is one of guilt or annoyance.

  ‘Jones – it’s hardly a murder weapon. Besides – I’ve got you as a witness.’

  DS Jones regards him rather suspiciously. But then in a more considered tone she asks a question.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Checking there’s fuel.’

  She nods. But as usual she is quickly thinking through the scenarios.

  ‘He couldn’t have got beyond here. He would have had to go on foot.’

  Skelgill does not seem bothered that her logic defeats the purpose of his actions. He rubs both hands on his thighs and checks his palms. DS Jones notices the wound. It is obviously new since she saw him yesterday.

  ‘You’ve cut yourself, Guv.’

  ‘I was attacked by a perch.’ He grins sheepishly. ‘The fish kind.’

  He does not offer further explanation, which DS Jones might consider unusual when there is an opportunity for an angling lecture, and sympathy to be garnered – instead he crosses to untie the working cocker. DS Jones regards him pensively but does not press.

  Skelgill is thinking he could drive the three of them back up to the castle. As they stand, the track curves away in both directions into woodland, offering seemingly identical options, but the dog starts forward and gives its sharp warning bark. Its superior hearing alerts them to a vehicle that is approaching, the crunch of tyres on loose stones now becoming audible – and a few seconds later DS Leyton’s car appears rather ponderously around a bend. They can see that their colleague has a female passenger. The vehicle grinds to a halt. DS Leyton clambers out along with a uniformed WPC. She is in shirtsleeves beneath a stab vest with its many accoutrements (a garment Skelgill quite fancies for himself). She has a reel of police barrier tape in one hand.

  ‘Leyton – what’s going on?’

  ‘PC Dixon’s been assigned to control this access point – your instruction, I believe, Guv. Then when I got Emma’s text I figured you’d be coming this way – thought I’d save everyone the walk. Kill two birds with one stone.’

  Skelgill seems a little indignant – it might be that his plans have been stymied – or perhaps just that his sergeant by coincidence has used the phrase that has been preying on his mind. His brusqueness transmits itself to the new arrivals; DS Leyton steps alongside the young WPC, rather as though he has taken her under his wing. Skelgill notes she is small and slim and would certainly be considered quite attractive. Rather demurely she makes eye contact with each of him and DS Jones. DS Leyton clears his throat.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of bits of information that could be important, an’ all, Guv – didn’t want to hang about in letting you know.’

  Skelgill looks hesitant. He does want to know – but he is torn by the presence of the unfamiliar female officer. He addresses her and gestures towards the stile. Now he sounds surprisingly apologetic.

  ‘It’ll just be for a couple of hours, while SOCO clear out.’

  The girl steps fo
rward.

  ‘It’s no problem, sir. It’s a nice day.’

  Skelgill frowns, his expression doubtful.

  ‘You’ll be alright, on your own, lass?’

  The girl smiles and to his dismay reveals a missing front tooth.

  ‘It’s fine, sir – I’m a black belt in karate, if that’s what you’re thinking. I shan’t let any folk past.’

  Skelgill has an urge to recoil, but he tries not to show it and instead to look impressed by her prowess. He raises a hand to signal his acceptance – but just as he begins to turn away he hesitates.

  ‘Do you know of Karen Williamson – in the karate line?’

  The girl nods.

  ‘Aye – she’s on the district coaching staff – her bairn’s a national age-group champion.’

  When Skelgill does not immediately respond the constable regards him inquiringly.

  ‘Is there some problem with her, sir?’

  Skelgill seems momentarily distracted.

  ‘What? No – she works here, that’s all. Just a coincidence.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Skelgill nods and now bids PC Dixon farewell and the three detectives climb into DS Leyton’s car. Skelgill automatically takes the front passenger seat; the dog seems to understand its place is in the footwell. Skelgill has pulled out the estate map and holds it against the windscreen.

  ‘You’ll need to birl, Leyton. This track’s a dead end.’

  ‘Wilco, Guv.’

  DS Leyton jams the car into reverse and then pulls away rather more flamboyantly than he arrived, but as soon as he has completed the manoeuvre Skelgill is onto him.

  ‘What’s the story?’

  DS Leyton snatches a quick sideways glance at his boss; but his expression is hard to read.

  ‘At first I thought the place was deserted – couldn’t get any answer at the castle. PC Dixon had been dropped off and she was wandering round near those chicken sheds. We went along to the estate office – there was Daphne holding the fort.’

  ‘How did she react?’

  ‘As you’d expect, Guv. Disbelief – but I reckon she’s a tough cookie – she soon pulled herself together and started issuing instructions, and she helped me with contact details. I did question her about last night – she reckons she was doing admin in the library until about eleven – went to bed – slept through – got up at seven. She says Melling wasn’t in the habit of checking in with her, so she had no reason to think anything untoward had happened to him.’

  ‘Did you see Lord Bullingdon?’

  ‘No – like I say, Guv – it’s just Daphne. In fact – until I found her I was beginning to think the whole lot of ’em had gone and done one. Seems Lord Bullingdon’s up at the north end of the estate meeting the Forestry Commission – his phone was diverting to voicemail – like he had no signal. Lady Bullingdon’s skipped off to Whitehaven – to a beautician – left about half eight this morning. Daphne didn’t think she ought to contact her until she’d spoken to her father. I’ve got her number if you want to call her – but she’s due back at lunchtime, in any event.’ Again he glances across, to see Skelgill is now staring anxiously ahead; there being no response, he continues. ‘Julian Bullingdon’s gone AWOL – but she reckons he’s out chasing bugs and will turn up when he’s hungry. He doesn’t have a phone or walkie-talkie. He objects to the radiation.’

  Skelgill makes a groaning sound that might be scathing or possibly despairing.

  But DS Leyton is undaunted; he still has a shot in his locker.

  ‘Perhaps more importantly, Guv – a titbit on Lawrence Melling.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I got Daphne Bullingdon to contact the estate workers – and the geezer Artur – who looks after the stores – he reckons last night Melling came looking for fuel.’

  At this juncture DS Leyton breaks off to negotiate a veritable crater of a pothole. As they are all flung about the car Skelgill senses that DS Jones has transferred her scrutiny to him. He endeavours to play down any reaction to this news – and now DS Leyton picks up his monologue.

  ‘Artur and his crew have a nightly card school in their digs – Melling came hammering on the door. They’ve got a red diesel pump at the back of the stables – but his quad runs on petrol, and they keep a supply of gallon cans locked up in the storeroom. Obviously, Artur’s one of the keyholders.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Ten past midnight. I double checked – he reckons one of the other geezers actually picked up his phone and read out the time – as if to say who the flippin’ heck’s knocking at this ungodly hour.’

  There is now a pause before Skelgill speaks.

  ‘Twelve-ten.’

  It is neither a question nor really a reiteration of what his sergeant has said; rather more as though the phrase has escaped from Skelgill’s thoughts. Still he is conscious of DS Jones’s gaze upon him, and he swivels in his seat to face her. She must surely notice some smouldering embers in his grey-green eyes. Certainly she regards him with an enigmatic smile. For his part, Skelgill grins somewhat manically.

  ‘I should have taken Herdwick’s bet. Bang goes his bullseye! Melling couldn’t have reached that trap much before a quarter to one.’

  DS Jones regards her superior thoughtfully. Of course, she might point out that the pathologist’s offered wager allowed for two hours leeway, each way. However, another point, more salient, exercises her analytical mind.

  ‘But, Guv – surely that depends on where he had run out petrol?’

  Skelgill raises his hands in a conciliatory manner, as though it is not a point worth fighting over. But then he makes a rather half-hearted defence of his position.

  ‘Aye – but if he turned up on foot at the stables, it couldn’t have been that far.’

  DS Jones nods, though she has more to add.

  ‘Also, he may not have driven directly to the start of the beaters’ path. So it could have been later.’

  ‘Aye – I’ve got no problem with that.’

  She might wonder from these words why he did have had such a problem with midnight, but, for now, she does not raise the query.

  Skelgill is battling to contain a strong sensation of relief. Now categorically not the last witness to see Lawrence Melling alive, suddenly he is unshackled. For the time being, at least, he can keep under his hat his more clandestine movements of last night.

  ‘Leyton – did he say owt else to Artur – like what he was up to?’

  ‘No, Guv – just made it clear that he was in a hurry. Seems Melling wasn’t pally with the workers – he considered himself above them – wouldn’t pass the time of day. Besides, I suppose Artur just assumed he wanted to go home to kip. And he wanted to get back to his three-card brag.’

  Without warning Skelgill slumps back in the seat and lets his hands fall limp on his lap. He closes his eyes, and his whole body seems to relax, and he rolls with the pitching of the car as though he were instantly consumed by sleep. He certainly does not look like he is thinking; and it would be a correct assessment; he is not employing his grey cells in the hope of some eureka moment. But he is beginning to feel his way around the problem; his instincts are freed to rise to the challenge. In the analogy of false summits that he made to DS Jones, the mountain is taking shape. And every mountain has its top; even in the worst conditions persistence and a helping of common sense are all it takes to reach the true summit. Once there, with a clear view all around, the mountaineer can pick out a route, a strategy to guide him home.

  ‘Reckon these incidents are all connected, Guv?’

  Skelgill opens one eye – but he resists the urge to trot out the platitude, “your guess is as good as mine”. Instead, he catches his subordinate completely off guard.

  ‘Stop the car, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton knows Skelgill well enough not to question his authority, and the vehicle slides to a halt on the gravelly surface. Skelgill immediately opens the door and hauls himself out by the grab handl
e. Then he ducks back in to address his bemused colleagues.

  ‘I’ll meet you in the coffee shop – same as yesterday. Say – an hour and a half.’

  The two sergeants exchange glances and DS Leyton as the more senior in service takes upon himself the risk of reprimand.

  ‘What about the interviews, Guv?’

  Skelgill seems quite blasé about the matter.

  ‘Leyton – you said it yourself – there’s no one here apart from Daphne Bullingdon – and the staff, maybe. We’ll come back.’

  DS Leyton nods confoundedly.

  ‘What are you going to do, Guv?’

  ‘I’ll walk back to my car. You pair head straight for Cockermouth. See if you can beat the local bobbies and find the Ford Consul and its occupants. If you do – get chapter and verse.’ He regards DS Jones. ‘You know what we’re looking for.’

  They both nod dutifully. Skelgill withdraws. But just as he is about to slam shut the door he hesitates.

  ‘And no nicking my parking spot.’

  As they pull away they realise Skelgill still has the dog.

  8. COCKERMOUTH

  Tuesday afternoon

  Skelgill has reached his summit.

  There is the added bonus that his parking spot is unoccupied. That he has not heard from his team, however, suggests their quest has been less successful. Not that his was a ‘quest’ as such, for the word implies a tangible goal.

  Also vacant upon his arrival is the bench seat overlooking the convening rivers. Early for his rendezvous he settles to watch the spaniel. Having promptly chased away four grazing mallards and a moorhen, it drinks thirstily in the shallows. The weather has been dry for a couple of weeks; the Derwent before him is tamed; at his back the Cocker slides past silent and meek. Both run clear, when at times their differing silted hues delineate their reluctance to meld, for a good distance downstream. But such placidity can be deceptive; a cloudburst over the fells, and Skelgill’s bench could disappear beneath two fathoms of deadly rushing floodwater.

  For the time being, however, sitting comfortably, he reprises the last hour or so.