‘There’s no rule about what to talk about first.’
She smiles.
For his part, he could explain they have feelers out among their underworld contacts; that they have a computer specialist monitoring black market jewellery channels; that they have intimated a reward – all things true; wheels that DS Jones has put in motion.
‘There’s nothing so far, I’m afraid.’
She nods coolly. Having parried her first thrust, Skelgill thinks about making a little probing riposte. Then suddenly he finds himself throwing caution to the wind.
‘Lawrence Melling was intentionally shot.’
‘Good grief.’
The woman does not physically respond in any way – not a muscle moves, not a flinch nor a recoil, she does not even blink – but beneath her customarily husky tone there is undoubtedly a note of, well – what is it? – Skelgill thinks possibly revulsion.
He waits a moment, to see if there is any other reaction, delayed – but she simply waits, too – as far as she is concerned, it is his call. That he has played his ace, and she has raised him, so to speak, leaves him a little short of ammunition – but, there it is, he has seen her reaction, for what it is worth. He fumbles for what might be his next-strongest card.
‘How do you feel about it?’
‘Lawrence?’ She regards him earnestly – but there is a subtle inflection that suggests she is surprised that he would ask such a question, with its implication of some special relationship. ‘I am just getting used to the idea, Inspector – I only heard from Teddy half an hour ago. Aren’t there supposed to be five stages of grief – the first being denial, into which one should not read too much?’
Skelgill appears a little contrite.
‘You seemed to get on quite well with him.’
‘I had no reason not to.’
Her answer is a challenge to Skelgill to say what he might really mean. He understands this and makes a not-wholly-convincing sally.
‘Exactly, that’s what I’m saying. You weren’t burdened with the working relationship that Lord and Daphne Bullingdon had with him.’ He senses that she eyes him with a degree of amusement, as though his valiant floundering were deserving of sympathy. ‘I thought you might know something about him that could shed light on the matter.’
She is unflustered. She readjusts a lock of her fine black hair. She answers calmly.
‘If anything, it strikes me as a working matter, Inspector – a mantrap out on the grouse moor? It is hardly my department.’
Skelgill makes a face of reluctant acceptance.
‘Are you aware of him having a recent dispute or conflict – anything that he might have mentioned?’
She narrows her eyes reproachfully, as if to signal her disapproval of the continued suggestion that she might be a confidante; but a rueful smile curves her lips.
‘Wasn’t Lawrence in a permanent state of conflict with all those around him?’
Skelgill’s eyes widen a little.
‘You tell me, madam.’
‘Oh, it’s not for me to say – but there are some people for whom it is second nature to ruffle feathers whichever way they turn. To test limits. To break the boundaries.’ She stares pointedly at Skelgill. ‘I’m sure you know what I mean.’ Then she sighs and settles deeper into the chaise, momentarily closing her eyes.
There can be little doubt – that she means him – and probably herself. Skelgill feels the first tingling of a flush on his cheeks. Involuntarily he runs a hand up over his forehead and rakes his hair, like a jousting knight hauling back his visor to reveal beneath the implacable mask a countenance that petitions for a truce. She watches him with undisguised interest, her eyes appraising his whole form. When she does not speak he finds himself reverting to country copper pragmatism.
‘Did you hear or see anything unusual last night? In particular – around midnight.’
She remains composed.
‘I came up here directly after dinner.’ She crosses one leg over the other and runs her fingers lightly across the exposed flesh above her knee. ‘I think I caught too much of the sun yesterday – and I had an early start this morning. I was in bed by eleven – it seemed before I knew it my alarm was waking me.’
‘You didn’t get up at all – look out of the window – hear anyone, any disturbance?’
She casts a languorous gaze over the sumptuously appointed four-poster bed.
‘I sleep like an angel, Inspector. How about you?’
Certainly Skelgill cannot imagine that this serene creature slumbers like the proverbial log – but he is not sure exactly how an angel sleeps – there is some suggestion of ethereal wandering. The idea sends a shiver down his spine; not least that her question sounds like an enticement.
He applies will power.
‘So you didn’t leave the room.’
Though it is at best a fairly meek statement, Miranda Bullingdon meets him halfway.
‘What did Teddy tell you?’
She smiles knowingly and her tone is conspiratorial – as though she is quite openly disposed to protect her husband, to supply him with an alibi as required.
‘That you had a headache – that he didn’t disturb you.’
She seems unfazed, though she gives the hint of a shrug, an expression of ‘so be it’.
‘I don’t envy you this part of your job, Inspector.’
‘Aye?’
Skelgill is not expecting this.
‘You must investigate. You must pry. You must ... suspect.’ With sudden feline ease she shifts into a more upright position, pulling up her knees and encircling them with her arms, her left hand gripping her right wrist. She gazes rather wistfully ahead, at nothing in particular. ‘Some years ago, there was a man with whom I was having a – a liaison, shall we say. Given his position it would have been inconvenient were it to be made public. He was very careful – however, one can never really be careful enough. His philosophy was that while a fool may fall under suspicion, it is a bigger fool that confesses to it.’
Skelgill senses that he is willingly falling under her spell, the siren music of her husky voice; that he finds himself agreeing; that this is a perfectly reasonable stance to take – besides, for him of all people to decry it would be an outright case of the pot calling the kettle black (although he might argue that his own taciturnity is only ever employed in the cause of justice). As has been his constant experience with this skilled sorceress, he is torn between whether to attempt to decipher her incantations, or simply read what is written between the widely spaced lines, and accept stalemate.
From somewhere he unearths a self-deprecating rejoinder.
‘Like you say, madam – someone has to go round rifling through the bins.’
‘I quite understand.’
But he is running out of options. She does understand – that he might lead the inquiry but that does not equal the agenda. If it suits her she will answer; otherwise she will respond with her own question. Now, rather woodenly, Skelgill falls back on a stock question; it feels like going through the motions.
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Oh, it is almost five years. Prior to that I was a resident of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea.’
‘That was before you were married?’
‘Which marriage?’
He raises his hands in contrition.
‘A modelling career is like naked skydiving, Inspector.’
He must look sufficiently perplexed; she enlightens him.
‘Exhilarating – but a severe anti-climax without a parachute.’
He realises she is spotlighting the question he has skirted around. Though ostensibly a mismatch, in fact it is not difficult to see what marriage to an elderly peer of the realm provides. That elusive grade above A-list status on the social circuit. Respectability and a shield from undesirable suitors. And – quite likely under the circumstances – the freedom to lead the life she so desires.
But he
is not convinced that a deeper understanding of her background – nor of Lord Bullingdon’s, come to that – will offer anything other than padding for a report. Gut feel tells him so. The events that he is investigating seem very much rooted in local soil, and in the present day.
‘Occasionally, fellow skydivers must come to one’s rescue.’
She is looking at him how? Alluringly? His mind labours as though time is slowing down; he has a sensation of drowning in jasmine-scented honey, a hapless drone summoned to the queen’s private cell. She seems in no rush whatsoever, certainly not to get rid of him. He starts – realising he has begun to drift. And he recognises the law of diminishing marginal utility – as each minute lengthens it becomes less productive; and he has another lady with whom to tangle.
*
‘This could become a habit.’
‘We can go inside if you prefer.’
‘I’m always glad of fresh air.’
‘Well – help yourself.’ Karen Williamson hesitates just as she is about to swing her legs over the rustic picnic bench. She indicates the platter of sandwiches she has uncovered before Skelgill.
‘I was wondering – about your colleagues?’
‘They’ve got their adult teeth.’
Despite his terse rejoinder she seems mollified – but perhaps his terminology prompts her.
‘You okay with Kieran? He won’t pay attention to us. And it means I can keep an eye on him.’
‘Good to see it.’ Skelgill observes with approval the boy in his karate suit bouncing energetically on the trampoline. ‘Bairns spend too much time goggling at screens.’
‘It’s a great thing about living out here – he can take his bike round the tracks.’ Though her expression becomes a little sombre. ‘So long as it’s not the shooting season.’
Skelgill inhales reproachfully between clenched teeth.
‘When there’s guns to hand it’s always the shooting season.’
‘You disapprove?’
Now he shrugs resignedly.
‘In my job, it’s hard to feel comfortable in the presence of a shotgun.’ He gazes vacantly across the cottage lawn, to where there is a planked door set in the tall brickwork of the walled garden – it would have been the head gardener’s access from his modest home to his horticultural domain. ‘Once you’ve had a close shave – you never quite trust them not to have a life of their own.’
‘I suppose in your job you see them where they’re not meant to be – in the hands of armed robbers and drug dealers.’
Skelgill scoffs, though in a manner that does not intend offence.
‘You’d be surprised. In Cumbria we’ve got double the national average of legally held guns.’
She nods slowly, but then she returns to her point.
‘When I say disapprove – I was thinking of political correctness – shooting wildlife and all that.’
Now Skelgill looks more conflicted.
‘There’s a dozen arguments each way. I’m a fisherman myself. But I don’t like to see animals mistreated.’
Again Karen Williamson nods in accord.
‘It was a bit of an eye-opener for me when we came here. I’m a townie born and bred. Jam eater.’ She grins self-mockingly. ‘All those pheasants they rear like battery hens and then release to be shot.’ She pulls reflectively at a strand of hair that has escaped from her band and which is curling down one chiselled cheek. ‘I suppose it doesn’t help – having to cater for some of the clients that come up from London – treat you like the feudal system was never abolished. Think you’re their property for the weekend.’
Skelgill glances up from his mug of tea.
‘Oh – don’t worry – I can look after myself.’ She chuckles, and he senses that she subtly flexes her limbs and torso. The early evening air is balmy and she wears a lycra vest top; he becomes aware of the toned muscles of her bare arms. He detects a waft of body odour. It is a moment before he responds.
‘What about Lawrence Melling?’
Skelgill is sure he catches a flash of alarm in her dark eyes. She stares at her son on the trampoline. It seems there is a flush of colour in her face.
‘It’s a shock.’
Her apparent interpretation – that he has changed the subject from the gamekeeper’s behaviour to his fate – is not unreasonable, but it seems to Skelgill that she is avoiding the crux of his question. However, he is unperturbed. For the second time in two days following a session of heady free fall with Miranda Bullingdon he feels like he has landed in familiar territory; that occupied by the grounded housekeeper.
‘Have you told the bairn?’
She looks sharply at Skelgill – as if this question is unexpected.
‘Aye. But I didn’t mention a trap – I didn’t want to terrify him. Scare him from wandering around. I just told him there’s been a shooting accident. He seemed alright with it.’
Skelgill is watching the boy – he performs impressive backflips, like some cartoon kung fu character. But his thoughts are with Karen Williamson’s being inadvertently so close to the mark. While the cause of Lawrence Melling’s death will emerge in due course, Skelgill and his colleagues had decided to refer only to the trap and the outside possibility of it being moved by a malicious party. Of course he broke this rule in a moment of madness – but it served his purpose. Now he refrains from repeating the experiment.
‘How did you get on with him?’
He sees that she bites her cheek at the corner of her mouth.
‘I’d say he had a cruel streak.’
It is a candid answer. Under such circumstances – even when there is only the smallest possibility that someone fears they might incriminate themselves – Skelgill is accustomed to responses that range from bland platitudes to crocodile tears; the question is rendered meaningless. Instead Karen Williamson’s rejoinder opens up such a broad panoply of options that he is spoilt for choice. It is like those moments on the water when half a dozen trout rise in synchrony, as if to confound the angler. He reaches a swift decision.
‘I heard on the grapevine that he were a bit of a ladies’ man.’
She is clearly conscious of Skelgill’s close attention. But she turns to look him straight in the eye. He sees a fighter.
‘Aye – well, he fancied himself, alright.’ However, she suddenly relents and holds up her hands in contrition. ‘But you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, as they say.’
She reaches for the teapot and tops up Skelgill’s mug. He shrugs as if to show he does not exactly feel bound by the adage.
‘How well did you know him?’
His question is posed as casually as he can contrive. With good reason he might have asked directly – did you ever sleep with him? – but his intuition spares her an awkward denial.
‘I wouldn’t say he were the sort you could get to know.’ She looks again at Skelgill and he wonders if he now sees in her lanceolate eyes an appeal for leniency – indeed she transfers her gaze concernedly back to her son. He is half expecting her to say, “We all make mistakes.” Instead her response is more prosaic. ‘I’ve not had a lot to do with him lately.’
Skelgill uses the excuse of eating a sandwich to work out what he feels he ought to say next. In the event he also opts for the practical.
‘Last night – what time did you go to bed?’
To his surprise she looks uneasy.
‘Er – it were about eleven – no – maybe earlier, ten-thirty?’
‘You didn’t watch a TV programme that finished at a particular time?’
‘No – I just had stuff to do – washing up, hanging laundry – ironing Kieran’s uniform and packing sports kit that he needed for today – and putting up his bait. Then the place were a midden.’
Skelgill is struck by this list of alien chores. He turns and regards the cottage rather pensively. It is effectively single storey; though there are a couple of small skylights flush with the slate roof that must illuminate a loft; he had not noticed them w
hen he skirted around close to the building in the dark. It is not a big place – it must be two bedrooms and a sitting room – but all the same it cannot be easy after a hard day’s domestic labour to come home to more of the same.
‘Did you hear anything in the night – any disturbance?’
She shakes her head quite quickly, as though she has been expecting the question. But then she hesitates and looks at him quizzically.
‘I might have heard the quad bike?’ But she does not sound convinced.
‘What time?’
Now she inhales, and sighs in turn. She shakes her head.
‘I’m only thinking I may have heard it. I couldn’t say any more than that. It was after I went to bed – but it could have been Kieran that shouted out in his sleep. Or it could have been the night before.’
Skelgill nods reflectively. The property is only fifty yards or so from the main track, Long Shoot, and the quad bike had initially been concealed just a short distance further, in the undergrowth. The cottage retains its original inefficient sash windows; something as raucous as the machine’s engine would surely have carried indoors. But he opts not to enlighten her about the quad bike’s movements. Instead he revisits a theme unsuccessfully explored with Miranda Bullingdon.
‘Did Lawrence Melling’s cruel streak stretch to the making of enemies?’
Karen Williamson does not answer immediately, and her steady unfocused gaze, eyes narrowed, shows her to be deliberating – but certainly not trying to hide that she is so doing. If Skelgill were pressed he would say there is something she wants to tell him, but is weighing up the pros and cons. Finally, she poses a question, the nature of which interests him.
‘Are you saying that what happened to him wasn’t an accident?’
Skelgill regards her dispassionately, as though this is no big deal, just standard procedure.
‘We don’t like to jump to conclusions.’ However, his tone becomes more purposeful. ‘But a gamekeeper stepping in a trap that belongs to the estate – it’s not the way round that you’d expect things to be.’
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