But Skelgill finds himself disinclined to go along with this. To embroil a random member of the public even very peripherally in a murder investigation is fraught with risk; and one close encounter with the Chief’s stinging tentacles in a day is sufficient. But perhaps DS Jones, too, realises it is unwise.
‘I guess I could set up a fake profile – the only problem might be that they were suspicious that I have no history.’
Skelgill does not seem very enthusiastic.
‘Look – you can give that a go. But gamekeepers seem to know about Rapture. Try that angle. Otherwise we might need to call in the spooks.’
‘Sure.’ She seems a little crestfallen. ‘What will you do, Guv?’
Skelgill sighs somewhat wearily.
‘Reckon I’ll head over to see how Leyton’s getting on. While we’ve got a search in progress it’s a good excuse to poke about a bit.’
‘Okay – I’ll hang up and text you this screenshot, Guv.’
‘Aye.’
Skelgill makes as though he is about to set off, but within a few seconds the message arrives. He opens the image – and instantly his expression hardens. He stares at the screen of the phone in its holder on the dashboard. Now he shakes his head slowly. Of course – it said Rapture – not Raptor! He sits back and gazes ahead, his eyes unfocused. Then he leans across and rather laboriously jabs an instruction into his handset, finishing with the selection of a telephone number. He puts the call on speaker, though does not yet drive off.
‘Good morning. West Cumberland Infirmary. How may I help you?’
Skelgill is about to speak when a realisation grips him.
‘Er – sorry – wrong number.’
He ends the call with a muttered curse. No surname! Now he types again. The signal is poor, and his request seems painfully slow to execute – but when another telephone number is displayed, he repeats his actions. Eventually a connection is established – and, after about a dozen rings – an answer.
It is a rather breathless voice, a young female.
‘Hello?’
‘Claire?’
‘Er – yes?’
‘It’s DI Skelgill – I got your number off the Nats website.’
‘Oh – er – hi – sorry – you’ve come up as withheld – and I’m on the ward.’ She speaks apprehensively, in hushed tones. ‘I’ve not heard anything – from Ciara, I mean – although I’ve had my phone switched off most of the morning.’
‘What?’ Skelgill seems momentarily disoriented. ‘No – what it is – that laptop your friend connected to the webcam in the hide – who does it belong to?’
‘Er – well, it’s Mel’s – is there a problem? She’s in theatre – observing a caesarean.’
Skelgill ponders for a second.
‘It’s got a sticker on it – the laptop. It spells the word Rapture – in a fancy script, like a soaring bird of prey. What’s that all about?’
‘Oh – actually – I found that.’
‘Found it?’
‘Yes – in the hide. I don’t know if you’ve noticed – there’s a kind of brochure holder just inside the door, next to the sightings board. There are information leaflets – like for the Over Water SSSI – and other local reserves. There were two or three of those stickers in one of the slots.’
‘Is this recently?’
‘Maybe a month ago?’
‘Any idea who put them there?’
‘No, sorry. Unseen people randomly drop off leaflets. A couple of weeks ago a whole stack appeared advertising a new garden centre, which I thought was a bit cheeky.’
‘And what about this Rapture – what is it?’
Now she sounds a little bemused.
‘Actually – I’ve no idea. I mean – I just thought – we both did – that it looked quite cool – kind of a slogan if you support birds of prey. Like a dove for peace – or a rainbow for the NHS.’ She pauses reflectively. ‘To be honest – I don’t know if it is anything more than that.’
Her inflection almost turns her response into a question, and Skelgill concludes that, however tantalising an avenue this is, he has probably turned off into an unproductive cul-de-sac.
‘Aye – happen you’re right. Well – sorry to interrupt you at work.’
‘I’m getting daggers from the charge nurse – she probably thinks it’s a personal call. Can I say that it was a detective?’
‘Aye – or put her on, if you like.’
She chuckles.
‘She’ll probably suspect you’re my boyfriend impersonating a police officer.’
‘There’s plenty of folk think I do that already.’
*
Skelgill, now parked outside the main entrance, the ancient iron-studded oak door of Shuteham Hall, is on the phone again. He is waiting on hold. He sees DS Leyton appear around the corner of the building; he is moving at a much faster pace than is customary, and has an expression of some alarm written across his malleable features. Huffing and puffing he approaches the open driver’s window – but, just as he is about to utter, a voice comes on the line over the loudspeaker – and Skelgill holds a finger to his lips to silence his colleague – and he indicates with further gesticulation that he should get in the passenger side and do so quietly.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’
The voice is clear and the accent pukka. A male, he sounds like he is perhaps in his mid-forties.
‘Sir – yes. This is DI Skelgill from Cumbria police.’
‘Yes – I was informed. How may I help? I am rather busy.’
‘I won’t beat about the bush, sir. I’m investigating the death of a Mr Lawrence Melling. I believe he used to work for you.’
Skelgill now pauses – and exchanges a knowing glance with DS Leyton. He sees that his colleague is perspiring – he wipes his brow. The man responds.
‘What happened to him?’
There is no discernible emotion in the voice. No alarm, concern or interest even.
‘It was a shooting accident on the grouse moor adjacent to Shuteham Hall. On the face of it he appears to have been alone and was injured by his own gun. He bled to death.’
There ensues a longer pause. The man gives the impression of one thinking through his next move at chess.
‘Why are you calling me?’
Though the voice is unwavering there is a distinct elevation in pitch, a semitone of trepidation – as if he neither wants to ask this nor hear the response. Skelgill contrives to make his own voice sound casual.
‘It’s just routine, sir. Mr Melling seems to have been a bit of a loner. We’re trying to piece together any background information that might help to explain what happened.’
‘Are you saying he committed suicide, Inspector?’
The voice sounds distinctly suspicious now.
‘Would you reckon he’d be the sort to do that, sir?’
The man tuts, annoyed to find the question turned back on him.
‘I have no idea about these things.’
Skelgill waits – but plainly the man will be no more forthcoming. Skelgill knows he has limited time.
‘I was wondering why he ceased to be in your employment, sir? To leave such a prestigious estate – to leave Scotland – there doesn’t seem to be much logic in that.’
Skelgill leaves the question hanging.
‘I am afraid I cannot help you there, Inspector. Mr Melling departed of his own accord and with satisfactory references for his work. Now I must bid you good day. Cheerio.’
The call ends without mutual consent.
DS Leyton makes a face of consolation.
‘Duke of Hawickshire, Guv?’
‘Aye.’
‘Cor blimey – he’s a tartar. He didn’t tell you much.’
‘He told me all I needed to know, Leyton.’
DS Leyton looks puzzled – and for a moment as though he could be sidetracked – but his own pressing news returns to the fore.
‘Something else you need to
know, Guv – we’ve found blood – and it belongs to Stan!’
Skelgill is clearly caught off guard – but his only response is a curt nod that means DS Leyton should elaborate.
‘I got here early doors – met the dog handler at the estate office – stone the crows, if the dog’s not gone and found something before the geezer had even started – traces of blood around that chopping block! Daphne Bullingdon – she was there – she was trying to say it would be animal blood, rabbit probably – they use the area for processing game before it’s packaged – cut off the heads and feet.’ He makes an unintelligible gurgle, indicative of distaste. ‘Meantime, the dog’s gone after a trail – it led to that incinerator by the chicken sheds.’ (Skelgill does not interrupt to correct his sergeant.) ‘Round the back, there’s a shovel – more blood on that, mixed in with sawdust.’
Skelgill is now scowling grimly.
‘How do you know it’s Stan’s blood?’
‘I got one of the forensic officers to drive the swabs straight over to the lab – they’d already got Stan’s profile from samples they’d taken from the gatehouse, off’ve his personal possessions. They put the new swabs through as a priority test and – bingo – a match. I just got it phoned through – that’s why I came looking for you.’
Skelgill is silent for a moment; then he begins to push open the driver’s door.
‘Come on.’
He leads the way, striding out at a pace that requires DS Leyton to break into the occasional lurching trot to maintain. They leave the old keep and follow the main driveway towards the estate office. Skelgill can hear and smell the pheasant poults even as they pass the gunroom – but only when they approach the rearing sheds does he relent. More cautiously he rounds the corner as if there might be a wild animal that he does not want to spook; but he is merely absorbing the scene, his eyes are alert, his features strained. He stands off, six feet short. DS Leyton comes up beside him. They might be visitors to a cemetery, respectfully perusing the epitaph on a gravestone they have sought out. After a minute, Skelgill speaks.
‘I’ve seen these things around and about. Farms these days – they have to have them by law – you can’t just dig a pit and bury diseased livestock or butchery waste any more. There’s even rules about disposal of the ash.’
DS Leyton is nodding, his own expression now alarmed.
‘There’s different specifications – depending upon what size and volume of carcasses you’ve got.’ Skelgill inclines his head towards the shed. ‘These pheasant poults – they’re not very big but there’s a high attrition rate. This model of incinerator – it would take a sheep or a pig.’
DS Leyton swallows. He looks on a little disbelievingly, but he manages to speak.
‘What – whole, Guv?’
Skelgill glances sharply at his colleague – as if his partner’s foreboding tone has suddenly registered its meaning.
‘You’d dismember it, Leyton.’
There is a further silence. Skelgill is recalling that on Monday night – close to midnight – the machine was still warm; it had been operated earlier in the day. Now he steps forward and checks the heat with an open palm. The metal is cold and he stoops and jerks up the hinged door of the ash pit at the base of the unit. It is empty.
‘We need to find out what they do with their ash.’
The corollary of this discussion being thus far unspoken (though no doubt both detectives share a common notion), DS Leyton reads from a panel affixed on the chimney.
‘It says max temp 1,100°C, Guv – would there be anything left?’
‘There might be a gold tooth.’
DS Leyton exhales heavily and is about to speak when he receives a text notification. He seems relieved at the distraction. He pulls his handset from his jacket pocket. He frowns as he reads the message.
‘They’ve found something in the lake, Guv.’
‘What – Over Water?’
‘Nah, Guv – the ornamental one in the grounds.’
Automatically Skelgill turns and begins to walk back in the direction of the castle; he knows the quickest way to Troutmere is the tunnel down through the rhododendrons opposite the walled garden. He calls out without looking back.
‘Does it say what?’
DS Leyton is once again part-jogging to keep up.
‘Just says “items” – that’s all.’
Skelgill does not reply, but as they pass the gunroom he cocks his head to one side.
‘Anything in there?’
‘Not really, Guv – so far the rest of the search has drawn a bit of a blank. I managed to get Lord Bullingdon to agree to let the dog have a quick run through the downstairs of the main house. First off he was objecting, saying he can’t have us accusing one of his family just because they’ve stood in something by accident.’
‘Stood in what?’
‘Yeah – good point, Guv. But I suppose word’s getting about that we’re treating this more seriously than if Lawrence Melling had just tripped himself up. It don’t take Einstein to put two and two together. And Daphne’s seen that we’ve found traces of blood.’
Skelgill inhales, hesitates.
‘Aye, well – I did hint to Miranda Bullingdon that it could be foul play – just to see what her reaction would be.’
DS Leyton does not seem put out that Skelgill has broken their agreed rule; it is what he does best.
‘What did she say, Guv?’
‘Something along the lines of have you found my jewellery, yet?’
‘Cor blimey, she’s got some brass neck, ain’t she?’
Skelgill is nodding slowly. They are passing the hall again and he returns to DS Leyton’s account.
‘How did you convince Lord Bullingdon to let you in?’
‘I just said there may come a time when we need to search the entire place – but that we might be able to circumvent that – at least if we can give the all-clear to the public areas, the entrances. I figured that if anyone came back with blood on their boots or trousers, that’s where there’d be a trace. Plus they leave most of their outdoor gear along by the back door.’
The pair by now are skirting the topiary lawn and heading on the beginning of Long Shoot towards the walled garden.
‘But the dog didn’t find owt.’
‘That’s right, Guv. I left the handler to start working his way round the various properties – outbuildings and cottages.’
As they approach the turn off for Garden Cottage – home to housekeeper Karen Williamson – Skelgill is prompted to comment.
‘Trouble is, Leyton, they’ve got a demon cleaner – if she polished fingerprints off the furniture after the jewel theft, what’s to stop her mopping up blood from the floor after a murder?’
‘Whoa – what’s this, Guv?’
It is not Skelgill’s devil’s advocacy that draws DS Leyton’s alarm – but that his superior has plunged off the track into the shrubbery.
‘Short cut to the lake. Mind your napper.’
Despite that the ground is dry and that at least some daylight penetrates the rhododendrons, DS Leyton still appears relieved as they emerge just above the shoreline of Troutmere. They are met by the sight of a forensic officer kneeling on the grassy bank of the dam; she appears to be sealing a large clear plastic evidence bag. The young woman glances up at their approach and gets to her feet; she holds a similar bag in each hand. Skelgill recognises her as the assistant who had been with Helen Back on Over Moor yesterday.
‘These were trapped against the grating that covers the outfall, sir. Neither item looks like it’s been in the water very long.’
‘What are they?’ It is DS Leyton’s inquiry.
‘A kind of all-purpose boot. Size eight – so it’s most likely a man’s.’ She raises first one then the other bag. ‘And a pair of black Armani boxer shorts – thirty-four inch waist – also probably a man’s.’
‘That would be – like – a twelve in women’s, wouldn’t it?’
S
kelgill turns a bemused look upon his subordinate, clearly wondering why he is showing off such peculiar knowledge. The girl, however, is nodding.
‘They’d hardly be boxers if they were a woman’s, Leyton.’
‘I don’t know, Guv – this girl I used to –’ But now DS Leyton realises his digression has quickly run its course. He makes an effort to dig himself out of the predicament. He points simultaneously to the items. ‘Those sort of sizes – they could belong to the same geezer.’
Skelgill can at least nod in principle – but he does not look wholly convinced. He turns to stare out over the water, his features grim. The natural inclination of a policeman in these circumstances – knowing that a person is missing – is to order the dragging of the lake; and this is not the first time the thought has occurred to him. But there is the conversation he has just had with DS Leyton beside the incinerator. Why would a boot and a pair of boxers be floating in the lake when there is a far more effective means of disposal? Moreover, a body in a lake – could a boot become detached? Possibly. But boxer shorts? And there is another contradictory reason he can think of. He suddenly turns and without asking he takes the two plastic bags from the officer.
‘We’ll borrow these.’ She looks alarmed. ‘Won’t open them – don’t fret.’
And he marches off, leaving DS Leyton to make their apologies. Skelgill heads back up the overgrown path and crosses Long Shoot onto the short track that leads to Garden Cottage. It is lunchtime, and he is thinking that Karen Williamson may be in. He leads DS Leyton around to the back – and he sees immediately that the woman is in the kitchen. She catches sight of the detectives and lifts a hand in acknowledgement.
Perhaps she has a boiling pan or kettle to attend to, for it takes her a few seconds to reach the back door – and then it is locked, delaying her a moment more as she locates the key. Finally she reveals herself; she is wearing an apron and her hair is loose, and she wipes her hands on her midriff and sweeps back her wayward locks.
‘Inspector.’
‘You know DS Leyton?’
Skelgill is not sure himself – though she must have set eyes upon his colleague – but he does not delay any longer with formalities.
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