Murder on the Moor

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Guv, I was thinking – the crime scene, while we’re searching that area tomorrow – maybe we should get an expert along from English Nature – just to advise on minimum disruption to the hen harriers.’

  Skelgill nods, though rather grudgingly.

  ‘There’s no cause to go near the nest – Melling obviously never made it that far. I’d say it’s just the stretch between the trap and where we’ve been parking. Although our lot have probably obliterated any tyre marks by now. But you’re right – we don’t want to hand the media an open goal.’

  He can see the headline, “Ham-fisted Cops Scare Off Rare Harriers”.

  Rather portentously, DS Leyton contributes his two penn’orth.

  ‘It ain’t gonna be easy to keep it under wraps, Guv. Those Vholes characters – they’ll be watching us like flippin’ hawks – hah!’

  *

  A coalition of the mind prompts Skelgill to pass the turn-off for Over Water birdwatching hide. He rounds a sharp bend before bumping up carefully onto a rocky verge to tuck his car against the dry stone wall. The logical aspect of his motive is that if he parks near the hide the Vholes and anyone else inside will hear him, and he would rather retain the element of surprise. He would also rather not meet the Vholes. Undoubtedly, as DS Leyton had prophesised, they would complain about disturbance of the harriers – as they had already begun to do earlier – and, if Skelgill personally interviews them again (not managing to delegate to one of his sergeants) he wants to do it as far away from Over Moor as possible.

  The other driver of Skelgill’s behaviour is purely instinctive. He has sailed close to the wind a couple of times – into promising waters, yes, but with disappointing results. Allowing his sixth sense to get a firmer hand on the tiller feels like a good option from now on.

  Accordingly he scales the wall and trots back to the turn-off, whence in the cover of the tall hedgerow that borders the track he makes his way down close to the parking area. His wristwatch tells him it is nine-fifty p.m. – the clear sky suggests earlier; there is still an element of half-light, though the daytime birds have fallen silent. He can just make out the Vholes’ Volvo through a gap in the foliage. He waits a couple of minutes; the stillness is punctuated by tantalising plops that emanate from Over Water – sounds that keep him on edge, so conditioned is he to respond to the stimulus. He begins to wonder – out of every hundred rises, how many of them would be a vendace – or does the vendace never rise to feed? Another mystery yet to be fathomed.

  There is the sound of a car approaching. It must be the Irish couple arriving for their shift. Given their mobile disconnectedness and that no news has yet been released by the police he is working on the principle that they are unaware of the incident involving Lawrence Melling (not dismissing the outside possibility that they were involved in it, of course). As such, he intends to intercept them before the Vholes do. He wants their version of events, untainted by hearsay.

  To his frustration, there is the click of the hide door. The Vholes miss nothing. He begins to barge through the hawthorn; it is unforgiving – but just as he is about to emerge the incoming vehicle performs a smart pirouette on the gravel close by. It is not the Ford Consul. Far too nimble, instead it is a small green Fiat, an old model, hand-painted with explosive sunflowers that could just be mistaken for the impact holes of armour-piercing rounds. Skelgill draws back into cover. The hedge is heavy with may blossom and he is drenched in its sweet musky aroma; though it is hardly Chanel No5, it conjures an image of Miranda Bullingdon.

  Two young women, aged about twenty, he would guess, both with long straight dark hair and dressed like birdwatchers, in bulky sweaters with binoculars prominent on their chests, get out of the car and begin to walk in the direction of the hide. One of them has a small rucksack. Coming along the planks of the boardwalk he can hear rapid footsteps. Then the strident voice of Christine Vholes.

  ‘Oh – it’s you?’

  As well as perplexed she sounds distinctly disappointed – to the extent that Skelgill wonders what reaction her tone will engender. However, one girl at least remains phlegmatic.

  ‘We’ve swapped shifts – Ciara phoned me – they’re on a twitch.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘There’s an eastern kingbird on the Isle of Mull.’

  ‘Well – this is – this is not like them.

  ‘It’s a life tick for them both.’

  The girl seems accepting that this is more than enough justification – but Christine Vholes tuts indignantly.

  ‘They have always given priority to the harriers.’

  ‘Ah, well – me and Mel – we’ll do our best to stay awake. We’ve brought a bottle of rhubarb gin to keep us going.’

  The new arrivals snigger conspiratorially; Christine Vholes merely gives a headmistress-like shake of the head and turns and leads them out of Skelgill’s sight and into the hide. He is pondering his next move when there are more footsteps – and he sees that the Vholes are apparently leaving. From his concealed position he watches as they trudge to their car in silence – unless they are again using their telepathy – and enter, and drive away. Now he extricates himself from the thorn hedge and strides along the boardwalk. He decides to tread heavily.

  A head turns as he enters the dimly lit hut.

  ‘Mr Vholes – did you forget – oh?’

  ‘DI Skelgill – Cumbria Police. There’s nothing to worry about, ladies.’

  Skelgill, conscious of the circumstances, walks directly up to the girl he knows to be not-Mel and takes the unusual precaution of actually handing her his warrant card. To read it she sways a little towards the naked light bulb that inadequately illuminates the hut from above the bunk. The girl that is Mel is already seated and is connecting up a laptop – presumably to resume viewing the harriers via the webcam. There is a sticker on the back of the screen – in curling script it seems to spell the word ‘raptor’ in the shape of a soaring bird of prey. Not-Mel nods to her companion and returns the card to Skelgill – at the same time offering a hand to shake.

  ‘I’m Claire – this is Mel.’

  Skelgill bows his head appropriately.

  ‘Sorry to intrude – but we need urgently to speak to Cian Fogarty and Ciara Ahearne. They may be important witnesses to a serious incident.’

  The girl Claire looks alarmed – but not in any way that makes Skelgill think she will withhold information. Indeed, she is immediately forthcoming.

  ‘They went to Scotland this morning. Cian’s a massive twitcher – and there’s an eastern kingbird on Mull – it’s an American vagrant – a mega.’

  ‘A mega?’

  She nods.

  ‘It’s what twitchers call a really, really rare bird – a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. A megatick.’

  Skelgill decides not to reveal he was eavesdropping.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Ciara phoned me this morning – they were still on their way.’

  ‘We’ve not been able to get mobile numbers for either of them.’

  ‘Oh – well, it was a payphone – I know because the money ran out. She said they’d stopped at the motorway services.’

  Skelgill is juggling multiple questions in his mind.

  ‘Did you delete the call record?’

  ‘Er – no – but it might have been withheld – I can’t remember.’ With a wiggle of her torso she pulls her mobile from the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Let’s see – er – yes, look – this must be it – eleven-forty-three.’

  Skelgill squints at the handset. The number is displayed. He types it into his own phone and sends it as a text message to DS Jones.

  ‘Thanks – that might be handy.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Did Ciara Ahearne say when they were coming back?’

  Claire shakes her head.

  ‘Like I say – the money ran out – but she only asked if we’d stand in for them tonight – I assumed they’d try to get back tom
orrow. They might be driving already – if they saw it this evening. It only takes a couple of seconds to twitch a new species.’

  Two ticks, as Leyton would say.

  ‘This kingbird – it’s genuine, is it?’

  ‘Yes – it’s on Birdline.’

  Skelgill grins wryly.

  ‘You weren’t tempted, yourselves?’

  The girls exchange a brief glance. Now Mel chirps up.

  ‘We’re trainee nurses, at West Cumberland Infirmary – plus, well – we’re not twitchers.’

  Skelgill has received lectures before now from his friend Professor Jim Hartley – a proficient amateur ornithologist as well as an expert angler. It seems that to be a ‘twitcher’ is to belong to an elite cohort, a particular kind of birder (or ‘birdwatcher’ as the professor prefers). The former type is obsessive, stressed-out and not always popular with the more easy-going latter. And probably vice-versa. He nods.

  ‘How well do you know them?’

  It is Claire that answers.

  ‘Oh, well – we’ve seen them and chatted at a couple of meetings of the Nats – that’s our society – ’ (Skelgill is nodding) ‘and I suppose all the people on the harrier rota are aware of one another.’

  ‘How would she have got your number?’

  Claire ponders for a moment.

  ‘You know – I’m on the committee – they have our contact details on the website. It must have been that. Maybe that’s why they rang from the services – where they could get Wi-Fi and look me up.’

  She regards Skelgill a little anxiously, as if he ought to be suspicious over this point – but he does not appear concerned. Indeed, he flips open his wallet and extracts a calling card.

  ‘If she should ring you again – could you ask her to hang up and call me?’

  The girl takes the card and holds it rather reverently.

  ‘Sure, I will – definitely.’

  She smiles engagingly – and there ensues a moment’s silence before Skelgill responds.

  ‘I’ll leave you to your harriers and your –’ He almost says “gin” but in the nick of time realises there is no evidence of such – and indeed he wonders if it were merely an insouciant response to the overbearing Christine Vholes. But now that he has hesitated he feels he ought to say something and he decides in any event it will make sense to enlighten the young women. He indicates in the direction of the nest site. ‘As dawn breaks you’ll see there’s a scenes-of-crime tent out on the moor. The incident involved the death of a gamekeeper. There’ll be an official from English Nature to make sure the forensic team doesn’t disturb the birds. I reckon they’ll be done by noon.’ He steps towards the door and opens it to leave. ‘You could do me a favour – and mention that to the Vholes – I gather they’ll be back at seven a.m.?’

  The girl Claire nods – she does not appear surprised that he is aware of this.

  ‘No problem.’

  Then the girl Mel spontaneously calls out; there is something knowing in her tone.

  ‘Stay for a drink, if you like.’

  12. SCAWTHWAITE MIRE

  Wednesday morning

  ‘Guv – that number – it’s a payphone at a motorway service station on the M74 just south of Glasgow – on the northbound carriageway.’

  ‘Hold your horses, Jones.’

  Skelgill has answered the call on hands-free but now he pulls into a passing place and takes up his handset.

  ‘Carry on.’

  DS Jones does as requested.

  ‘Otherwise the car’s not been detected by any cameras. I’ve checked with Caledonian MacBrayne. The ferry for Mull sails from Oban, roughly every hour. Yesterday and on the dawn sailing this morning – no record of the Ford Consul – and you have to provide your registration number when you buy the ticket and each vehicle is scanned as it drives on. But they could have gone over to the island as foot passengers – if they’d hooked up with other twitchers it would make sense to split the cost and share a lift. Apparently there were three hundred people trying to see the bird yesterday. I’ve made a request through Police Scotland for a local patrol to look for the car parked in the town. And I’m just waiting for the duty officer at the Tobermory station to call me back – I thought they might be able to get their island patrol out to wherever all the twitchers are gathering.’

  Skelgill makes a curious face – perhaps a brief appreciation of having a subordinate he does not need to instruct; instead the luxury of being able to think about what she tells him.

  ‘At least Glasgow’s in the right direction. If they were on the run, I reckon they’d be heading for Ireland. They would have turned off at Gretna – the A75 for Stranraer.’

  DS Jones does not respond immediately – it is as if she is assimilating something new in his statement.

  ‘On the run, Guv? I thought they were in the hide?’

  Skelgill makes an exasperated groan and clambers out of his car. He stares across the open moorland that rises gently before him to a line of grouse butts on the horizon – they are like deserted battlements of some ancient conflict.

  ‘Jones – I’m ninety-nine per cent certain they were in the hide – but that was one o’clock, near as dammit.’

  She understands he has just sufficient reason for doubt.

  ‘But they didn’t leave until the end of their shift – at seven in the morning. If they were involved in some way, wouldn’t they have just cleared out in the middle of the night?’

  Skelgill recognises that his sergeant’s logic is sound – but it does not entirely trump his gut feel. That said, he does not try too hard to imagine other reasons why they made such a prompt exit yesterday morning. The story of the eastern kingbird is becoming fairly convincing. Absently he stoops to retrieve a fragment of slate and slings it left-handed into the heather – to his horror a brace of red grouse explode from the point of impact, flying low and fast, their calls resounding across the moor: go-back go-back go-back. He checks around guiltily – but to his relief he is unobserved.

  Rather abruptly he changes the subject.

  ‘I suppose it’s too early to have anything from Forensics?’

  ‘There’s nothing in my inbox, Guv – I’ll start ringing round at eight-thirty.’ When Skelgill does not comment she continues, more tentatively. ‘I can hear a skylark.’

  He understands it to be a question.

  ‘I’m about to have a word with Jack Carlops – the keeper before Melling.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her tone is inquisitive, tempered by the knowledge not to expect more.

  *

  Scawthwaite Mire sounds as though it ought to have its own demonic black dog, like Dartmoor’s ‘Hound of the Baskervilles’, but these days it is an area of tamed pasture south of the hamlet of Uldale, with drainage ditches emptying into the nascent River Ellen, a watercourse that numbers among its many mountain beck and spring sources Over Water itself. The river enters the sea more fully formed at the coastal town of Maryport, and notwithstanding its limited proportions has runs of salmon and sea trout. Skelgill, despite sniffing the air like a wolf that detects quarry on the wind, resists the temptation of an inspection, the shallow stream here being the realm of minnow and bullhead and stone loach – barely bait-sized fish, though his stock in trade as a lad.

  On such a note a small boy who is evidently waiting for the school bus saves him from chapping the door of each of the row of farm labourers’ cottages. Clearly well briefed in the matter of stranger danger, he backs away from Skelgill’s car, but provides him with the necessary information; the Carlops residence is the furthest in the terrace.

  An abundance of semi-native flora throng the modest walled front garden; stately purple foxgloves, robust comfrey with its drooping clusters of two-tone flowers, and contrasting yellow dotted loosestrife. There is the impression of a gardener who is both relaxed, yet knows what he or she is doing. There is a front door, but it being the end house Skelgill takes the opportunity to slip around to the back – in any
event the rear is surely the regular thoroughfare.

  A scene of more obviously organised horticulture greets him. Apart from a square of paving slabs with a timber table and two seats for leisure purposes, the remainder of the long, narrow garden has the look of a well-managed allotment: raised beds of finely tilled loam and rows of sprouting onion sets; deep furrows concealing seed potatoes; stands of canes ready to accommodate ambitious runner beans. Further down there are blossom-covered apple trees clustered around a new looking shed.

  Skelgill is conscious of a presence at the kitchen window – at the sink; he heard the clink of crockery as he rounded the corner and there lingers on the air a hint of fried bacon. He is about to rap on the door when a sudden commotion has him spinning on his heel.

  His first fleeting apprehension is of an armed assault – two figures, one standing with a gun raised, and the other lurching from the hut. This impression is quickly replaced by a more realistic assessment: that of a scarecrow pointing a broom handle skywards, and an elderly man in a green boiler suit and work boots, a Dutch hoe under his right arm, who staggers to a halt but remains bent double. Frantically he rubs at his crown with his free hand, all the time working his way through the alphabet of expletives. Reaching the letter ‘g’ he runs out of steam, and somewhat painfully straightens up to his full height, inspecting his palm for traces of blood. Skelgill, approaching, his expression a mixture of concern and poorly concealed amusement, half-heartedly waves his warrant card.

  ‘Mr Carlops – DI Skelgill, Cumbria Police. Are thee alreet, sir?’

  Skelgill has instinctively lapsed into his Buttermere brogue.

  ‘Where’s t’ ambulance when thou needs it?’

  Skelgill, raising himself on tiptoes – for the man is well over six feet, maybe six-four – surveys the damage.

  ‘Happen there’ll be a bit of a bruise, that’s all.’

  ‘I should’ve kept yon arl shed. T’were much bigger.’ He indicates to a compost heap, beside which there is a pile of ashes; presumably the cremated remains of the late lamented hut.