‘I really couldn’t say.’
Skelgill nods, and turns to move away, but then he hesitates.
‘Sir – does Rapture mean anything to you?’
Julian Bullingdon blinks, his expression artless as usual.
‘Well – aside from its everyday use – it refers to a meeting with the Lord. I should have thought you would know that, Inspector.’
‘Right.’ Skelgill glances peevishly at DS Leyton. ‘We’ll leave you to your hawk moths, sir.’
Julian Bullingdon seems to have no need of further discourse, not even a farewell; he returns to the shadows of the log store and resumes his search for roosting insects.
As they move away DS Leyton falls in more closely alongside his superior. They are following the woodland track – the original driveway – that leads from West Gate House to Shuteham Hall itself.
‘Bit of a coincidence, Guv – that he’s down here just at the same time as us. And it was convenient – that moth being there.’
‘What – you reckon he had it in his pocket?’
‘Dunno, Guv – maybe. I wouldn’t put it past him. I thought you were thinking he’d been snooping. He could have followed us – out of sight, in the woods.’
Skelgill is irked by the prospect – that, if so, he did not notice – but he has to acknowledge that his sergeant’s assessment could be correct.
‘Who knows, Leyton.’
‘And what were you expecting by asking him about Rapture?’
Skelgill makes a scoffing sound.
‘Pretty much exactly what I got.’
They proceed in silence for a minute or two, Skelgill glowering, his head bowed, his eyes on the ground before them. Thus it is DS Leyton who first espies two figures walking in their direction.
‘Hey up – we’ve got more company. Look at this pair, Guv – like flippin’ peas in a pod.’
Skelgill glances up to see Lord Edward and Daphne Bullingdon, surprisingly close – they must have emerged from a side path. There would never be any doubt, as DS Leyton alludes, to their being identified as father and daughter – the same gait (the limp more pronounced in the elder); the same lop-sided deportment; the same peculiar facial disfigurement, not exactly ugliness, just a slightly unnerving asymmetry.
But more eye-catching than this is that Lord Bullingdon carries a short one-piece aluminium stepladder, and Daphne a tote tray from which protrudes the hickory handle of a hammer; beneath her other arm she cradles a stack of commercially manufactured plastic signs.
‘Saves us a job, Guv.’
DS Leyton speaks quietly out of the side of his mouth. Skelgill nods. His colleague means the need to track them down. The two couples converge and draw to a halt about six feet apart. Skelgill can see that the signs read, “Danger, Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted”. He cannot help thinking that, if word gets out about the mantrap, the signs might be superfluous, and poachers a thing of the past. However, when neither of the detectives speaks, Daphne Bullingdon is the first to yield. Her voice is tentative. She addresses Skelgill.
‘Any further news, Inspector?’
Skelgill glances at the evidence bags held by his colleague, as though he will ask him to step forward. But instead he poses a question.
‘I wanted to ask how you deal with the disposal of ash from your incinerator.’
‘Good heavens – and why is that important?’ Lord Bullingdon interjects, pre-empting his daughter. ‘Are you trying to pin a breach of some minor technicality on us?’
Before Skelgill can explain Daphne Bullingdon turns to remonstrate with her father.
‘Daddy – there is no problem – it is a perfectly reasonable question.’ She looks back at Skelgill. ‘Inspector, we deal with a certified contractor, Greens of Aspatria. Our waste is collected every Tuesday. Most is pre-sorted and goes to recycling; the ash is sent to landfill. It is fully traceable.’
Skelgill somehow doubts this latter aspect; his job gives him an insight into the dark arts of waste management; among the cowboy operators corners are cut at every opportunity. However, more significant at this juncture is that the incinerator was emptied by prior arrangement. So now he indicates to DS Leyton that he should show the exhibits. But just as his sergeant begins to make a move the Bullingdons become distracted – and disconcertedly so, to judge by their expressions. Skelgill glances over his shoulder just as the accompanying sound – the rumble of hooves – reaches his ears. It is Miranda Bullingdon, in full flight on her bay stallion, kicking up great clods of earth in her wake.
‘Pah – she’s ruining the track!’
The exclamation of disapproval escapes Lord Bullingdon’s lips. But as the patently competent horsewoman reins in her mount, seamlessly decelerating through a canter and a trot and into a walk, to approach with graceful ease, her husband seems to lose the will to chastise her.
In any event, she largely ignores her family members, and reserves her attention for Skelgill. Capturing his gaze she nods imperiously. For a moment he half wonders if she is expecting him to come forward to help her dismount, as they had seen Lawrence Melling do on their very first visit. But he stands his ground, and she seems content with her elevated position.
She has come from the direction that could have brought her past Julian Bullingdon, and he speculates whether she is likely to have consulted with him. He sees her eyes shift to the evidence bags that DS Leyton is holding, and he decides to cut to the chase.
‘Our search team has fished two items from Troutmere. They may recently have been discarded. A work boot and a pair of boxer shorts.’
‘Let me see.’
Before Skelgill can dictate otherwise, he finds his sergeant responding to Miranda Bullingdon’s command. But as DS Leyton steps across to the shoulder of the horse and holds up the two items, it is Edward Bullingdon who again interjects.
‘Miranda – this is preposterous!’ He glares at Skelgill. ‘Inspector – I do not intend for my wife to be questioned about some alien male underwear!’
Skelgill inhales to respond, but Miranda Bullingdon has a ready rejoinder.
‘Teddy Bear, darling – don’t be so sensitive.’ She casts a gloved hand towards the bag containing the boxer shorts. ‘Besides, these are exactly the style I have been encouraging you to wear instead of those silly old-fangled Y-fronts.’
She smiles coyly – but Lord Bullingdon simply colours – and now he seems lost for words – whether it is because she has blatantly provided him with an alibi of sorts, or perhaps that they find themselves airing their dirty linen in the public eye.
Daphne Bullingdon intervenes; perhaps keen to take the conversation away from the topic of her father’s smalls.
‘Inspector – that boot – I have seen Stan wearing a pair very similar, if not identical.’
There is a moment’s silence – and now DS Leyton turns towards her.
‘Madam – you’ll recall we established in conjunction with Artur that Stan was likely wearing his work boots when he went missing. Could this be one of them?’
He steps closer and raises the bag and Daphne Bullingdon squints critically at the contents.
‘Well – it certainly could be.’ She looks inquiringly at DS Leyton and then at Skelgill. ‘Can you not determine this sort of thing from DNA?’
Skelgill regards her contemplatively for a moment.
‘That’s where they’re going next.’ He glances at his wristwatch. ‘In fact Forensics are probably champing at the bit.’
He looks at Miranda Bullingdon, to see that she smiles gracefully at his unintended humour. But he seems to suffer another jab of pain, and she notices.
‘Inspector – if you need to get them somewhere in a hurry, climb up – there’s room on my horse for two.’
DS Leyton, knowing Skelgill, would not be surprised if he accepted the offer – but then he too realises that Skelgill seems momentarily inconvenienced. Stepping into the breach, he holds up the bag containing the boxer shorts and declaims loudly.
‘So – no takers on the underpants?’
He waves them about like an East End costermonger who has reached his rock-bottom price.
‘No? Ladies and gentleman – we’ll love you and leave you.’
And with a glance at Skelgill, who for once follows his sergeant’s lead, DS Leyton nods to the assembly and the pair of them move away. Once they have passed beyond earshot, he addresses his superior with concern in his voice.
‘You alright, Guv? You were looking a bit peaky back there.’
Skelgill raises a hand to his right temple.
‘To be honest, Leyton – I reckon I’m getting a migraine. Used to suffer them as a bairn. Not had one for donkey’s years. Ma used to blame it on me being a cuddy wifter.’
‘You what, Guv?’
‘A lefty, Leyton – and not the political sort.’
‘Ah, cack-handed.’ DS Leyton ponders this information. ‘They say your lot’s brains are wired up differently – maybe that’s why. Mind you – you’re supposed to be more creative, ain’t that right?’
Skelgill makes a self-deprecating growl. For once it sounds unaffected.
‘I don’t know where that comes from, Leyton. I can’t draw to save my life. And I wasn’t exactly teacher’s pet for writing, either.’
As for musical talent, DS Leyton has suffered many tuneless renderings – but though he declines to remind his boss of the fact, he would be the first to admit that there is something different about Skelgill – some ineffable quality that enables him to see the world in his own peculiar light.
Now, however, he is definitely showing signs of not being himself.
‘Ain’t the best thing to have a kip, Guv?’ DS Leyton turns to glance up solicitously at the taller Skelgill as they stride along. ‘Why don’t you call it a day? I’ll check these items with Artur and the other estate workers. Then get them into the lab pronto. I reckon we’re due a forensic breakthrough – maybe on these – more likely on the gun or the trap – but that’s out of our hands and it’s gonna be tomorrow at the earliest. I’ll contact that Greens crowd and then I’ll catch up with DS Jones. We can work out where we are and run through it with you in the morning.’
Skelgill inhales and sighs heavily.
‘Aye, maybe that’s it.’
‘You don’t sound convinced, Guv. I’m sure you’ll feel better.’
‘I don’t mean me, Leyton.’ Skelgill jerks a thumb back over his shoulder. ‘I feel like we should be homing in on one of this lot by now.’
DS Leyton shrugs rather phlegmatically, as though he does not quite take Skelgill entirely seriously.
‘It did seem a bit like they were tailing us, Guv.’
14. LAST GASP
Thursday, early hours
Teetering, hovering.
The hinterland where conscious and subconscious intertwine.
A fragile, uneasy coexistence.
Falling, weightless – no, not falling, skydiving.
Lady Godiva, naked – both so.
Fingertips touching, tantalising.
Air rushing; dark mane trailing.
Splashdown – Over Water.
No cold shock; smooth transition.
Still deeper, swimming now.
Breathing unnecessary.
Eye contact – imploring.
Light fading.
A nylon line; Stan’s lure, futile.
The bottom; fascination; maggots writhing.
Silver fish flashing; a feeding frenzy.
Vendace!
Embrace.
Enveloping abandon.
Becomes panic.
She is drowning!
Kick for the surface; kick and haul; haul for life.
Air.
Carry her through the shallows; rocks underfoot.
Exhausted, collapse ashore.
Prone, heartbeat pressing upon him.
A cough – water expelled.
The perfume – familiar; spicy.
A voice, at last.
“It is a bigger fool that confesses.”
The accent – Irish?
The face?
But there are only ashes.
Skelgill knows he is dreaming; but despite its sinister twists it is not a dream he wishes to exit. But the hinterland is behind him; the ebb of the fantasy is inexorable. He is powerless to prevent the last ripples of the crazy narrative from slipping away. He is awake. He turns his head. His digital clock reads 01:59. His migraine is gone.
*
Skelgill realises his hair is still damp. The cold shower has only partially restored a sense of reality. The nightmare has left an undercurrent of veracity. As with a drug, whose residue persists in his arteries, come vivid flashbacks and felt sensations indistinguishable from the day’s tsunami of data that finally caused his server to crash.
On arrival home, by then half-blinded by the brainstorm, he had texted his neighbour – would she hang on to the dog? No problem there, Cleopatra is a regular last-minute boarder. He had slumped on the settee. Lights out. Yet he had woken in bed. And on rising this morning there was evidence of a cheese sandwich consumed in the kitchen. Hardly doctor’s orders.
The dashboard clock reads a quarter to three. The Irish couple may be back by now. But, if they’re sleeping he’ll leave them – maybe until six, six-thirty. He’s got a rod; he can fish from the bank. No maggots, though. (Hah – those maggots – still alive and kicking!) Try some daft spinner like Stan’s. It will pass the time. Maybe there’s a monster pike in Over Water.
As he steers sedately through the dark winding lanes he wonders – should he call Jones? She’ll be disappointed to find he’s interviewed the Irish without her being there. But he doesn’t want to chance them clearing off – when the Vholes turn up at seven. Though that seems unlikely this morning, if they’ve travelled through the night. Maybe he should just make sure they don’t leave – and then ring Jones at a more civilised time.
He reflects again on the dream – upon dreams – how they are candid windows on the conscience – they reveal your troubles, your secret aches and deepest desires. But aren’t they also supposed to unravel your problems, sorting, rearranging, and making new connections? The subconscious to the rescue: diving deep into the psyche, surfacing with pearls of wisdom; while the hapless conscious guddles fruitlessly in the shallows?
When Skelgill undertakes a task – such as the ‘eyrie’ he has recently built in his loft, or the arbour he constructed in his garden (both projects owing something to his yearning for boyhood dens) – he does not make a plan, a drawing with measurements and lists of materials. Instead, he sits or stands on the spot, maybe for twenty minutes or so. Then he goes away. And he comes back another time, another day. He loiters again, just being there; maybe he stalks or circles, looking slowly about – his demeanour not analytical, merely absorptive. It is the same when he finds a new place to fish. What to do may not be immediately apparent, but it is possible to learn everything he needs to know by osmosis; it will come in its own good time. In a work context, colleagues and superiors – and tutors or trainers – have resigned themselves to his manner; they have given up trying to cajole or marshal him to use their methods. A lone wolf, Skelgill has the mind of a cat.
But now the lupine component must shift into the ascendancy. For as he turns into the opening of the track that leads down to Over Water his headlamps catch the red reflectors of a vehicle. He recognises the pattern: it is the old Ford Consul. The Irish couple have returned. There are no other cars. The chances are, they will be asleep – either on the bunk in the hide or in the big Ford itself. There is no benefit in waking them. He switches off his ignition; the light fades as the headlamp bulb filaments cool, and he knocks the gear lever into neutral and rolls almost noiselessly down the last of the gentle incline. He swings his car onto the slipway, overlooking the lake – merely a black void. He hauls extra hard on the handbrake and, for belt and braces purposes, toggles the shift into reverse.
&nb
sp; He sits.
Does he want to fish?
The mere fact that he is asking himself the question tells him the answer. It is just not something he can easily admit to himself. But he wants to fish free of the clouds that keep blotting out his sun, free and easy, with a sense of unlimited time available to unfold before him. On the other hand it is another three hours or so before he can reasonably contact DS Jones. Was this such a good idea after all? Well – at least he knows the Irish are back – he would have been anxious about that. But now what? Try to sleep again? He’s had way more than his regular quota – roughly six till two – the thick end of eight hours, apparently minus a ten-minute sandwich break. And the slumber was deep and restful, despite those last few turbulent moments. He cranes to see the sky – there are stars, which mean it will be cold – a grass frost by dawn. Though he is okay now, in twenty minutes he will to start to feel a chill. There are army blankets in the back, in the flatbed, covering his gear. Better to be prepared.
He pushes open the door, but before he has even moved he hears something that alerts him. The engine of the Ford Consul is idling. A flash of alarm comes to him – they are about to leave! He snatches a torch from the console and lurches from his seat – but as he regains his balance he pauses – for now he senses something different is afoot. The car does not give the impression that it is about to be driven off. It stands in stolid stillness, not poised, not straining in gear, no telltale dashboard lights showing. Instead – it must be – they have turned on the engine to keep themselves warm. Skelgill relaxes. He decides to take a chance with his torch.
And then he sees the hosepipe.
*
‘That’s an amazing contraption, Guv.’
Skelgill glances up at DS Jones. The flames that lick from the chimney of his Kelly kettle as he squats to feed the little fire within illuminate his face, his features stark.
‘Aye – so long as you’ve got a lake or a beck and a spot of driftwood you’ve got a mash.’
The water comes to a boil with a sudden bubbling gusto and Skelgill yanks the body off its base, simultaneously lifting by its handle and tilt-chain. He crouches over the two tin mugs on the ground at his colleague’s feet. She sits resting on the flatbed, beneath the raised tailgate.
Murder on the Moor Page 28