Caldbeck Agricultural College sits amidst a once landed estate a couple of miles from the village. Though modern buildings have been added, the nerve centre is still housed in the original Georgian mansion. Skelgill now broods in the grand entrance hallway, following a rather unsatisfactory encounter with a snooty receptionist, a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit who, despite being seated had contrived to look down her nose at him, perhaps for the lack of letters after his name. And maybe he cut off his own nose to spite his face, but her reluctance to smile and instead to regard him with suspicion verging on disdain, had raised his hackles – and so he had been rather abrupt in his request (more of a demand) to see Neil and Christine Vholes, in no particular order. Becoming increasingly obdurate the starched gatekeeper had responded with, “One cannot just walk in off the street and expect to interrupt senior members of the college”. Skelgill’s retort was a belligerent, “I’ll wait”, and he had stomped across to occupy the visitors’ sitting area.
Now, he faces the woman, so that she cannot overlook his presence – and also so that he might see anyone who may pass by. He knows the Vholes are here because he has located their distinctive Volvo in the staff car park. He suspects that the receptionist – who uses a headset for telephone communications, and is adept in lowering her voice so as to become almost inaudible – reaches one or both of them, for she glances furtively at him whilst speaking. But she makes no effort to convey any news of such to Skelgill. He forms the distinct impression that even if the Vholes are free, the woman is making him pay. So be it.
In the absence of any decent magazines (there is often a Trout & Salmon in these sort of waiting areas) and not being a man that looks at his phone other than for practical purposes, Skelgill casts about for mental stimulation. There is an array of freestanding display boards, such as would be used at a conference or exhibition to promote the college, with photographic images representing the range of courses – the likes of Animal Management, Forestry and Horticulture. It seems these days it is part of a greater conglomeration of establishments scattered around the north of England, each of which offers regional specialities. For example, he learns that in Yorkshire there is the National Beef Training Centre; and there is the opportunity for practical study at four twinned colleges in Eastern Europe. But it is a qualification unique to Caldbeck that catches his eye: Gamekeeping.
Skelgill is confounded. A diploma in gamekeeping? It is like when he jokes in the pub that he has a degree in beer tasting. To the best of his knowledge being a keeper is something handed down from father to son, an arcane craft painstakingly assimilated and laboriously honed; from dawn until dusk and beyond, long hours tramping the woods and fells at the coattails of the gnarled elder. How would you learn in a lecture theatre to recognise the smell of a fox or the bark of a roe deer or where to find a crow’s nest?
Rather intrigued by this conundrum, he reaches for one of the bound prospectuses laid in a neat fan on the coffee table before him. The design style corresponds to that of the display boards. Squinting rather uneasily he finds his way to the relevant section. It informs him that the college’s Cumbrian farms comprise over four thousand acres, providing ample training opportunities; there is a gunroom and a game larder and student gundog kennels, along with a hatching and rearing programme; a driven grouse moor and a deer management forest. The college boasts “unrivalled careers guidance”, with its comprehensive UK database of game management estates, and longstanding often-personal contacts with estate managers and head keepers that enable bespoke opportunities to be identified for internships, apprenticeships, and temporary and full-time employment.
Getting his head round the polysyllables, Skelgill begins to feel what he must admit is a slight pang of – well, if not discontent, then certainly regret. Twenty years ago something like this with an angling slant could have been right up his street. But he reminds himself of his regular reasoning when this notion crops up – that any vocation that involved fishing would surely have turned out to be a busman’s holiday (or, rather, some peculiar inverse form of such). He is nodding sagely to himself when a sharp voice penetrates his thoughts.
‘Yes? Yes?’
Is someone calling a dog? Skelgill looks up. It is the receptionist.
‘Dr Vholes will see you now.’
The woman is indicating with a pen, officiously, as if it were a sergeant major’s baton.
‘Left at the top of the main staircase and it is the first office on the right.’
Rising, Skelgill thinks about keeping a copy of the prospectus – but in the event he replaces it; empty-handed he cannot fling anything at the woman.
The instructions are plain enough and via a traditional broad staircase with curving bannisters and thence through contemporary reinforced glass fire doors Skelgill reaches an imposing panelled door in polished oak with a brass nameplate that simply states, “Dr Vholes”.
He knocks. After a couple of seconds there is no answer. Should he knock again more forcefully or simply enter? Thus in two minds, he is caught on his heels when the door opens and before him stands a beaming Christine Vholes.
It must be the first time he has seen her smile; no longer the default stern countenance – and the transformation is amplified by other details: that her hair is swept rather stylishly beneath and around a navy blue Alice band; that she wears a moderate amount of make up; that she is dressed in a rather Prime Ministerial tailored navy suit worn over a relatively low cut white blouse, in the ‘v’ of which nestles a silver bird-shaped pendant, and there are complementary earrings. Even her pale eyes – hitherto cold and suspicious – appear to be welcoming. It dawns upon him that she is actually a handsome woman.
Skelgill evidently does not hide his bewilderment – not least that she has obviously got up from behind her desk to cross the carpeted floor of what is a sizeable office overlooking the grounds to admit him. But it seems she reads an alternative misapprehension into his surprised expression.
‘Ah, yes – it is I that am Dr Vholes – Neil is a mere Master of Science – he was rather too impatient to labour through a Ph.D. – though he insists he has not yet abandoned the idea.’
Skelgill realises that, yes – he did assume he was entering the office of Neil Vholes, and that this is not the sister acting in some quasi-secretarial role; it is her domain. This spacious, bright and airy space is hers and hers alone, and seems to be a mark of considerable seniority. With a sweep of an arm she indicates towards a fireplace where a pair of slipper chairs sit either side of a coffee table, upon which a gleaming china tea service is set out, along with a full plate of expensive-looking chocolate biscuits. This must be for his benefit.
‘Make yourself comfortable, Inspector. A little early for elevenses – but let us throw caution to the wind. I shall be mother.’
Skelgill is conscious that he has not yet spoken, other than perhaps a muttered greeting. Having girded his loins for a duel with the Vholes twins at their most antagonistic, this is not what he expected. Still playing catch up, he finds the woman continues to make the running.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector – I believe Neil is lecturing wall-to-wall this morning – and I was taking part in a videoconference. I am a non-executive director of the Chartered Institute of Human Resources Management – we hold every other board meeting by virtual means – doing our bit to save the planet, you know?’
Skelgill nods a little blankly, accepting in turn the tea she has poured and then a biscuit, before adding his own milk and sugar – he goes easy on the sugar, sensing there is a lack of decorum in more than two teaspoonfuls. He feels he ought to make some comment to show that he is paying attention.
‘You’re on the personnel management side of things then, Dr Vholes?’
She leans back in her chair and rather reflectively glances up at a traditional oil landscape hung above the mantelpiece. It is a somewhat clichéd Scottish highland scene, not particularly expert, a too-gold eagle soaring out from its eyrie
set upon jagged cliffs against a lowering sky. If a bird can look determined, this one does; perhaps she identifies with it.
‘Yes – one would assume, given my interest in ornithology, that I am – like Neil – a biologist.’ She chuckles, introspectively. ‘But one might say from a professional perspective it is human behaviour that has always fascinated me. As Head of HR here at Caldbeck, my remit covers both staff and students, across all of our sites and facilities in the UK and beyond. From conditions of employment and careers, to welfare and counselling, animal husbandry and bio-security policies. One never really knows what might turn up next – we even have contingency plans should some alien disease leap from animals to people, heaven forbid.’
Skelgill looks momentarily alarmed – but he contrives to take her final point as a link to the purpose of his visit.
‘I wanted to reassure you that our work on the moor will be completed this morning – under the supervision of an officer from Natural England. And should we need to return for any reason we’ll adopt the same procedure – with screens and suchlike.’
Christine Vholes appears flattered.
‘Inspector, it was not necessary for you to come in person – besides, we were encouraged when we saw that the hen harriers were behaving perfectly normally last night.’ She lifts her cup and saucer but pauses the cup in mid air, level with her chin. She seems to be deciding whether or not to relate some confidence. ‘I am afraid Neil can be rather hot-headed at times – but, you see, the persecution of wild animals is a highly emotive matter.’
Now she takes a sip and raises her pencilled eyebrows in what might be a brief sign of apology – for her brother’s complaint to the Chief and perhaps her understanding that Skelgill has been despatched to make a grovelling apology.
‘Moreover we received your message from young Claire and Melanie this morning.’
Skelgill seems to feel obliged to particularise.
‘I reckoned they’d see you before our folk got on site – you start your early shift at seven, I think you said?’
She nods, but now a little distractedly.
‘You were hoping, of course to speak with Cian and Ciara about the unfortunate incident.’
Skelgill makes a face of resignation. He drinks some tea, his long fingers struggling with the handle of the delicate china cup. The Vholes, of course, know that he was there – but not that he was hiding in the hedge. They will assume that he has obtained the same explanation as they did from the stand-in nightshift girls about the absence of the Irish couple. He responds accordingly.
‘They seem to be on a birdwatching jaunt in Scotland. We’ve not managed to make contact with them. Apparently they gave the impression they’re coming back today.’
Christine Vholes regards him rather in the manner of a medical practitioner who is intrigued that her patient is unaware of their ailment.
‘Oh – I can give you an update on that, Inspector – I took a call from them whilst I was on videoconference.’
Skelgill looks hopeful – but for a moment the woman’s expression seems to darken.
‘They expect to arrive back – but not until the early hours of the morning.’
Skelgill leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.
‘Do you know where they rang from?’
She shakes her head.
‘It came through the switchboard – there was considerable background noise – traffic – and the call was necessarily brief – in fact it was cut off and I suspect they ran out of change. It must have taken them a while to convince Margery at reception to put the call through – since she knew I was engaged in the board meeting.’
Skelgill mentally notes that he will not be asking ‘Margery’ about the call.
Meanwhile Christine Vholes makes a sound of disapproval.
‘We shall need to organise replacements.’
Skelgill leans back and folds his arms. He tries to appear sympathetic to her plight.
‘Happen these things can’t be predicted – when a rare bird’s going to fly in. And they’ve kept in touch, in a fashion.’
‘Well – it isn’t exactly that.’
Now she looks at Skelgill as though there is something more distasteful that she would rather not tell him but considers it her duty to do so. However, she waits for him to offer a prompt.
‘No?’
‘No, Inspector. There has been considerable erratic and unreliable behaviour lately. And some rather peculiar mood swings. I am not sure they are altogether stable.’ She regards him conspiratorially. ‘I strongly suspect they are taking drugs. More than once we have arrived at the hide in the morning to find them dead to the world in that awful car of theirs.’
Skelgill inhales like a smoker trying to get the last from a depleted reefer; an act, it seems, intended to convey that he shares her disapproval but that his in-tray already creaks under the weight of his worries. He is, however, reminded of the spicy body odour of Ciara Ahearne; undoubtedly she exuded the cloying reek of marijuana. He opts to mollify Christine Vholes as best he can.
‘I suppose beggars can’t be choosers – there’s not so many folk prepared to camp out and watch a birds’ nest for no pay.’ (She looks dissatisfied; he continues.) ‘And I should think the risk to the harriers is quite low at the moment – given the recent attention – access to the site’s taped off – plus I would imagine most folk would know you’ve got a camera trained on the nest.’
This latter remark is perhaps a suggestion that the prime menace – the gamekeeper – is no longer part of the equation, and that any residual threat from Shuteham Hall is surely diminished. But she remains unconvinced.
‘One would rather not count one’s chickens. At this critical stage one can never be too vigilant.’ But now she smiles gracefully. ‘Maybe if you were on watch, Inspector? Perhaps we could tempt you away – to put down the fishing rod? We have a vacancy tonight.’
Skelgill simpers unconvincingly. He can feel his phone vibrating in his jacket pocket – it has been doing so sporadically during the meeting – but now he pulls it out to demonstrate that someone is trying to reach him. He frowns when he sees the caller display, and delivers an expression of apology to Christine Vholes.
‘I’m going to have to return this call.’ The implication is that he means in private, since he has not immediately answered. ‘Keep the powers-that-be happy.’
The woman looks rather self-satisfied – perhaps that this might be Skelgill having to report back in relation to her brother’s complaint. But she does not make any attempt to rub it in. She merely rises as Skelgill does so.
‘Thanks for the refreshments, madam.’
‘You are welcome.’ She begins to chaperone him to the door. ‘And how is your own conservation project progressing – the rare vendace, if I recall correctly?’
Skelgill’s instinct is of mistrust – but then why wouldn’t she approve of the principle? He makes an exclamation of resignation and holds up his handset – the illuminated display shows it is ringing again.
‘That’s on hold at the moment, as you can imagine.’
‘Perhaps we will see you at the weekend?’
‘Aye – if I’m lucky. But I couldn’t tell you which weekend.’
‘Well – drop into the hide if you see our car. Tea is always available.’
*
‘Sorry to pester you, Guv.’
‘Nay – I was in with Christine Vholes – I was looking for an excuse to get out.’
Skelgill, from his stationary position, squints through the windscreen at the grand frontage of Caldbeck College; he is half wondering which are the windows of the Head of HR’s office.
‘Oh, okay. How did it go?’
This is potentially a clever question from DS Jones, since Skelgill has not really provided an indication of his motive for the visit; she knows it would not be like him meekly to apologise, nor aimlessly go through the motions without fresh intelligence. The difficulty, however, is that
while in her experience Skelgill has a knack of walking the tightrope that wobbles between futility and salience, he doesn’t always appreciate it himself – thus to expect onward communication can be a forlorn hope. She is right. He feels unnerved without understanding why.
‘Ask me later. When I know.’
‘Sure.’
But now he surprises her.
‘She’s heard from the Irish pair. They’ve phoned her from the roadside.’
‘Really?’
‘They’re supposed to be arriving back tonight – early hours.’
‘So – tomorrow, morning – for practical purposes?’
‘Aye.’
‘Oh well, that’s good.’ DS Jones seems to consider this for a moment, before she continues. ‘Guv, about Rapture. There’s no website – but I’ve found what might be them on Twitter. I’ll send you a screenshot of the profile.’
‘What about in relation to Lawrence Melling?’
‘I can’t locate anything. To be honest, there’s no indication of who’s behind Rapture, or even what it’s about – perhaps other than their logo – you’ll see what I mean. If it’s what you were told, they don’t appear to be seeking publicity – instead they’re operating under the radar. They might just be using Twitter for recruitment. If you’re happy, I could try to sign up from my personal account?’
‘But there’s photos of you on that, aye?’
‘Yes.’
Skelgill makes a grumbling noise.
‘Or how about if I contact one of my old university friends? There’s a girl I shared with in London who is now working for a biotech company – she’d have a convincing profile.’
Murder on the Moor Page 25