Murder on the Moor

by Bruce Beckham

  He had first struck off through the woods, crossing the main driveway and following his nose down to the environs of Troutmere. He had tried the door of the boathouse, but found it locked, and had decided against another tilt at the pitched roof. With a small degree of difficulty, he had recovered his hazel rod from the reeds, initially underestimating how far he had managed to hurl it. He had deemed that with a bit of tidying up it would make a half-decent fell-walking staff.

  From the lake he had climbed the twilit tunnel through the rhododendrons. Where last night the quad bike had been parked there now lay discarded a red one-gallon petrol can. He had contemplated taking it with him to preserve it as evidence, but in the end had settled on prodding it by means of his stick into the safe cover of a thick clump of stinging nettles.

  Retracing his steps he had traversed the dam and headed up into the surrounding trees, re-crossing the drive into woodland of a more ornamental nature; in due course he had reached the track that took him back to the stile, now strung with barrier tape. In the lee of the wall the grassy area was a veritable suntrap, and he was not surprised to see that PC Dixon had removed her heavy stab vest and was reclining with her back to the stones. She had leapt to attention, until he had reassured her that, in her shoes, he would be doing the same thing – indeed, that he would probably be spark out on the turf – truer than she could know, given his abridged and fitful sleep last night. Certainly the notion had been appealing, as was the prospect of chatting to the girl – until she flashed him a smile. He found it horrifying and compelling in equal measure that the disfigurement transformed such an attractive countenance into a grotesque mask – and though wanting to he failed to contrive a way to ask about her missing incisor. Presumably a karate incident – and he had recalled his first encounter with Karen Williamson, and her black eye. What was it with these good-looking women that put their looks on the line for sport? Though he was then reminded that sport is the exceptional reason, and there is usually a more sinister explanation. It had occurred to him to ask what she knew of Karen Williamson’s domestic situation, but he had concluded it would keep. Instead, cutting a length of tape for PC Dodds to cordon off the stile at the other side of the moor, he had departed with a commitment to instruct the latter to radio the all-clear as soon as the SOCO team departed.

  The walk back across the moor he had covered in quicker time than with DS Jones, again keeping the dog on the leash; to all intents and purposes the private land is an unofficial nature reserve, so designated by its controversial avian squatters. He had not intended to disturb the forensic officers at work in the tent. But since it straddled the beaters’ path his noisy detour through the deep surrounding heather gave away his presence, and from the partially zipped flap had popped the head of the Crime Scene Manager. His first impression – that there had been an expectant look in her eyes, that she was hoping it was him – was borne out immediately that she had pulled down her mask and stepped out of the tent.

  “Inspector – you ought to hear this.”

  That she did not just think of her role as gathering evidence, but saw the bigger picture, she had already demonstrated – in relation to the torch, that it was unused. Now she was about to doubly prove her worth.

  “You’ve found the watch.”

  Skelgill had grinned cheekily, but she was on a mission and sidestepped his humour.

  “Possibly better than that.”

  Skelgill had waded out of the heather to meet her on the path.

  “It must be good.”

  She had looked like she might not disappoint him.

  “We’ve been taking some measurements and photographs, and we’ve got a metal detector. The angle of the entry wounds and the spread of the shot, including pellets in the surrounding earth suggest the gun was discharged from about thirty inches from his shin at an angle to the tibia of at least thirty degrees.”

  Skelgill correctly reads the implications of her diagnosis.

  “Is that doable?”

  “Would you like to try with your stick? It’s about the same length as his gun.”

  Skelgill had regarded her approvingly. Why wasn’t Herdwick this proactive? He had tethered the dog to a guy of the tent and wielded his staff like a shotgun; he had seen enough of Lawrence Melling to know he was right-handed.

  “It was the left leg, aye?”

  The woman had nodded. Holding the stick at the point where the trigger would be approximately, Skelgill had tried various positions. Thirty inches away was just possible – albeit involved holding what would be the stock up above his right ear. And thirty degrees was also just possible – though the stance seemed unnaturally cramped over. But thirty inches and thirty degrees – as he had remarked, it was like trying to lick his elbow! Despite that he and Lawrence Melling were men of roughly similar stature, no matter how much Skelgill contorted he could not do it. They had discussed the implications of the trap – what the sudden shock might have done to the man’s posture, but still it would have required a spasm of such an order as to defy the laws of human trigonometry. Skelgill had even acted out a couple of charades, imagining what would become of both himself and a loaded shotgun, safety off, wielded at the ready, walking into the jaws of the trap. But in none of these scenarios could he meet the conditions. In the end he had lain prone, his left leg bent a little, and Helen Back had held the staff in the position from which she calculated the gun had been discharged. It required her to stand at his head and reach over him lengthways. The ‘gun’ was close, but tantalisingly out of reach.

  “So you’re telling me someone else pulled the trigger.”

  His synopsis had been delivered in the manner of a statement. But at this point she had retreated into her shell. It had been one thing to state and demonstrate the facts as she had discovered them – but clearly quite another to deal with the bald implications. Perhaps it was above her pay grade – not least since the recalcitrant Chief Pathologist had summoned her on the premise of an accidental death.

  “I’m just advising you of my preliminary findings. They’re subject to final confirmation. We’ll run a 3-D computer simulation to get the exact measurements.”

  Skelgill had scrambled to his feet and taken back control of the dog.

  “Have you phoned this in?”

  “We’ve only just finished the outline calculations – we wanted to check that it was something we ought to pay close attention to. Besides – we’re having a problem getting a mobile signal.”

  Skelgill had nodded sympathetically.

  “I’ll call old Herdwick from my car. Get him used to the idea.”

  Skelgill had departed the scene with the venerable pathologist’s earlier words brought to mind. Snap. Bang. Goodnight Vienna. In a sense, Dr Herdwick had inadvertently demarcated these three stages. And he had triggered Skelgill’s odd phrase: “what time of accident?” Not what time Lawrence Melling walked into the trap. Not what time he died. The crux of the matter is the bang, and the question, when did it occur?

  A glance at his wristwatch tells him it is time to meet his colleagues. He stretches – and the spaniel, detecting a change is occurring, immediately comes running. Rather than lock it in the car Skelgill takes a chance on the café being dog friendly and puts it on the string leash.

  ‘We’ll have to think about giving you a name, lass.’ Its gender, at least, he has worked out – but he only ever heard Lawrence Melling issuing terse orders; such is the fate of a working dog. ‘I quite like Hetty, but it’s taken.’

  Skelgill’s colleagues are occupying what could become their regular corner table, should this investigation be strung out. They see their superior intercepted by a female member of staff, who is evidently informing him that dogs are not permitted; he produces his warrant card and they hear him tell the girl it is a drugs dog. They have tea and sand cake ready for him. He contrives a face of greeting-cum-thanks, though the expression of neither is his strongpoint with those close to him. But his colleagues know him w
ell enough not to take offence – and, indeed, they see that his whipped countenance conceals something of import. He, in turn, reads their anticipation, and so he does not beat about the bush.

  ‘Happen he were shot.’

  Skelgill says no more, but gently shifts the dog out of sight with his left boot and ties a half hitch around his chair leg (from bitter experience with the ‘canine cannonball’ he knows never again to tether a dog to a table). He proceeds to pour tea and ladle sugar into his mug, and then takes a bite of cake – which plainly impedes his ability to relate more; his colleagues look at one another and DS Leyton speaks.

  ‘You talking murdered, Guv?’

  Skelgill, chewing, too much to attempt to answer, nods in an exaggerated fashion. He washes down his mouthful and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

  ‘I stopped by the SOCO tent. It’s a fine margin – but the angle and spread of the shot couldn’t have been achieved if Melling were holding the gun.’

  Both sergeants are more than a little wide-eyed – but it DS Jones that has paid closest attention to his words.

  ‘A fine margin?’ (Skelgill nods – and his eyes narrow as though he suspects she is about to challenge this as too close to call. But he need not have feared.) ‘Guv – you mean someone did their best to make it seem that he was holding it?’

  Skelgill cocks his head to one side, a gesture of accord.

  ‘Otherwise why bother? Why not just let him have both barrels between the eyes?’

  Skelgill is revisited by the spectre of lying prone looking up at Helen Back and thinking he was glad she was wearing trousers. Of all the stances she might have adopted were she brandishing a real shotgun and wishing to shoot him – even in the lower leg – it was by far the most improbable. Unless, as DS Jones has astutely concluded, it was to make the injury appear self-inflicted.

  Now DS Leyton asks a less ambitious but nonetheless pragmatic question.

  ‘What about prints on the gun?’

  Skelgill absently breaks off a small hunk of cake and reaches between his legs. His hand comes up empty.

  ‘It’s gone to the lab. Obviously for DNA swabs as well. And they need to confirm a match with the lead shot and the empty cartridge – various ballistic tests.’

  DS Jones looks like her mind is racing.

  ‘That gun – the more I think about it, the more I’m sure it was the one that Lawrence Melling was servicing at the time I interviewed him. I think it’s Lord Bullingdon’s favourite – some kind of heirloom. I know that no prints don’t prove non-use – but I doubt if there’ll be any prints on it that precede it being cleaned yesterday.’

  Her colleagues nod in silence – Skelgill because he has resumed eating. But DS Jones has plenty to say.

  ‘Guv – it only took us five minutes to drive back up to where the track meets the main driveway, quite close to the office and stables. If we assume like you suggested that Lawrence Melling had not had to walk far to get the petrol – say five minutes, then a couple of minutes to refuel the quad bike – he could have reached the spot where he died in as little as half an hour – based on our walk.’

  Skelgill holds up a hand to prevent further unnecessary speculation while he drinks some more tea.

  ‘I found what must be the petrol can – in bushes above the lake, close to the walled garden – not even five minutes from the stables.’

  DS Jones eyes her superior with a hint of suspicion – that he could pull such a seemingly obscure rabbit from the hat. Skelgill raises his mug to his lips but keeps it there, as if by way of saving him from elaborating. But in fact his thoughts have taken a leap away – in two directions at once. Away to Over Moor, where Lawrence Melling could have walked into the trap and been shot pretty much straightaway, at – say – forty, maybe forty-five minutes after midnight. And away to Over Water – where simultaneously Skelgill himself was ... but wait ... where was he exactly at that time? It was midnight at the boathouse and twelve-forty when he beached the boat. He heard no shot as he rowed across the lake. In the still of night despite the frantic pulling of his oars, the rasping of his breath, and the thumping of his heart, it would have reached his ears. But then he had got into his car, turned on the rumbling engine, cranked up the rattling heater – and listened to the shipping forecast. In such circumstances – would he have heard a shot? Unlikely. What about the couple in the hide? They were not exactly dead to the world (as he had suggested to DS Jones) but they were certainly deaf to it. Dr Herdwick’s so-called ‘bullseye’ was midnight – twelve-forty-five was comfortably within range of his ‘twenty-five’ – truth be told, it would be a skilful prediction. Skelgill doubted if the computer would get much closer.

  And then there was the yellow car that sped past at one o’clock.

  Skelgill emerges from his daydream to find he has finished his tea and is staring at DS Jones, who regards him a little uneasily but reaches for the pot and offers to top him up, which he accepts. She seems to understand that he is wrangling with some issue; for her part she looks to be searching for the right question to crystallise his thoughts – but DS Leyton makes an intervention.

  ‘Who would most want to kill Melling?’

  It is a poignant question – not least for the subtle insertion of the word ‘most’ – and the underlying hint of fatalism in DS Leyton’s tone. As such, Skelgill considers his sergeant deserves first go at providing the answer.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Cor blimey, Guvnor – I should say his fan club wasn’t the biggest in the world – maybe with one notable exception. Hah!’

  The detectives do not need to run through the list of persons connected with the estate who may not be paid-up members, as DS Leyton puts it, of Lawrence Melling’s fan club – nor do his colleagues have any doubt that he refers to Lady Bullingdon as the purported exception; however it is to this latter suggestion that DS Jones offers a caveat.

  ‘How many murders are committed by the person most closely involved with the victim.’

  It is a statement rather than a question – and Skelgill is nodding – it would be naivety in the extreme to cross Miranda Bullingdon off their list of possible suspects. Moreover, he is troubled by the overarching conundrum – are they trying to solve several crimes, or just one? Yet again, alarm bells warn of a descent into unproductive theorising when there is still a plethora of evidence to be gathered. He gestures with his mug to the empty seating arrangement opposite, the comfy sofa and the low coffee table.

  ‘What about our Irish friends?’

  His colleagues sit to attention – this issue has been overshadowed since Skelgill dropped his bombshell. DS Jones takes it upon herself to answer.

  ‘They didn’t go to the transport café. The washrooms are reached through the diner and the two women serving say they would have seen them – they know them by sight. A local foot patrol has checked all the other coffee shops and the town centre car parks. Of course, they could have driven elsewhere – Keswick, maybe. We’ve put out an all-cars alert – but nothing back so far. Most likely they’ve parked up somewhere quiet.’

  Skelgill is scowling broodingly.

  ‘We need to speak to them. One thing’s for sure – they were in the same neck of the woods as Melling when he was shot.’

  DS Jones is nodding. She places a palm on her mobile phone.

  ‘I checked the rota on the Nats website. It’s the same shift pattern all week. The Vholes are on from seven p.m. until ten – and they also do a slot in the mornings, before work, presumably – seven a.m. until nine. The Irish are due back for the nightshift at ten p.m. tonight. I suppose it’s not the end of the world if we have to wait until then.’ Skelgill, however, is looking like he disagrees – but DS Jones continues quickly. ‘The girl – Ciara – her surname is Ahearne, by the way. I’ve put a DC onto tracking down their connections in Ireland – relatives, and college – just in case they do have mobile numbers. Failing that to get their email addresses and send them a request to co
ntact us urgently.’

  Skelgill looks vaguely chastised – he is reminded they don’t call DS Jones ‘fast-track’ back at headquarters without reason. He glances at DS Leyton, who has detected his embarrassment and who now winks surreptitiously at him.

  ‘When we head back, Guvnor – I reckon we’ll be wanting to see Lord Bullingdon first?’

  Skelgill nods, his expression rather grim. Just where will they begin the questioning?

  9. THE BULLINGDONS

  Tuesday, mid afternoon

  ‘Steady on, Leyton – if Julian Bullingdon’s still prancing about with his butterfly net – you could flatten our prime suspect.’

  Skelgill has left his own vehicle at the confluence, with half a mind to a takeaway later. He refers to his sergeant’s enthusiastic driving along the wooded approach to Shuteham Hall; now that he is becoming familiar with the twists and turns he is putting his car through its paces. But when DS Leyton might take umbrage – after all it was Skelgill who almost did the very thing on their first visit – it is the latter part of the remark that rouses him.

  ‘Prime suspect, Guv – I thought young Julian’s not supposed to know one end of a gun from the other? And he sounds like a pacifist, to me.’

  To the consternation of his passengers, DS Leyton cranes around to look at DS Jones for confirmation. She nods urgently – she would agree to anything – and makes a face that evidently conveys sufficient of what he seeks for him to return his attention to the task in hand, although another interpretation might be terror. Skelgill, having instinctively taken up a brace position, gradually relaxes.

  ‘They’re all prime suspects as far as I’m concerned – and I include Stan in that.’

  Delivered in flat tones, this rejoinder proves to be a conversation stopper – that Skelgill is not discounting even the missing Moldovan from his calculations. As they bump along in silence, Skelgill turns to watch as glimpses of Troutmere become available; and then the grassy plateau with its artistic belvedere and incongruous telephone kiosk. As they near the castle and the topiary lawn unfolds, Skelgill suddenly cries out.