Murder on the Moor

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘It’s just powdered milk – but I put some cold in with it – shouldn’t be too hot for you.’

  DS Jones chuckles.

  Has Skelgill’s tea ever not been too hot for her?

  But she thanks him and makes an effort to drink – she seems appreciative.

  ‘I grabbed my work stuff but I forgot my water bottle – I’m not sure I was even properly awake until I came off the A66 and had to start thinking about which turns to take.’

  Skelgill rises and lowers himself beside her, for a moment cradling his mug between his two hands and gazing pensively at the little fire quickly dwindling in the dented aluminium base of the kettle. DS Jones speaks again, her tone now more serious.

  ‘What happened, Guv?’

  Skelgill starts – and exhales exhaustedly, as though he might be reluctant to tell – but then he gathers himself and inhales with more purpose.

  ‘I got out of my car and heard theirs was idling – lights off and no sign of activity. I figured they’d turned the engine on to keep warm. I shone my flashlight on the car and saw the hosepipe.’ He sighs. ‘It’s a bit of a blur after that.’

  ‘But you knew what to do.’ She encourages him.

  But Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘There’s only so much you can do. We practise for carbon monoxide poisoning in the mountain rescue – you get idiots who run their stoves inside their sealed tents – unventilated caves.’ He pauses, as if reflecting upon some incident. ‘I ripped the hose off the exhaust – stopped the source. But the car was locked. I had to get a rock to smash the driver’s window so I could release the tailgate. Then I just dragged them clear and phoned 999. They were both alive. Luckily I had the club’s first aid kit from an exercise last week in the car – so I was able to start giving them oxygen.’

  He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘Then the crews arrived and took control. That’s when I phoned you.’

  They sit sipping in silence; Skelgill’s approach more akin to slurping.

  After a while DS Jones speaks again.

  ‘It must have been a shock.’ Her voice is a little tremulous, as if she is thinking what would she have done, or how would she have felt.

  ‘It’s a shock them topping themselves – trying to.’

  ‘How do you mean, Guv?’

  ‘Coming all the way back here. Why not jump off the Oban ferry? Why not smash head on into a forty-ton artic on the M74? Whatever.’

  DS Jones ponders.

  ‘Maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.’

  Skelgill takes another pull at his mug.

  ‘Christine Vholes reckons they’re using drugs – they’re smoking weed, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I guess they’ll conduct blood tests at the hospital, Guv.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Now there ensues a longer silence. The blue flashing lights from the ambulances are flooding the damp ether with an insubstantial twilight, tangible but too weak to delineate any of their surroundings.

  ‘What made you come here, Guv – so early I mean?’ She gestures in the direction of the shoreline. ‘Were you fishing?’

  ‘Skydiving.’

  DS Jones cannot help but giggle.

  ‘What?’

  Skelgill gives an ironic grumble.

  ‘Leyton told you I had a migraine?’ (She nods.) ‘I followed it up with a mad dream – I won’t bore you with the detail.’

  DS Jones shifts position slightly as though she wouldn’t mind – and perhaps also that she senses he would rather not tell her. Skelgill continues.

  ‘After that I couldn’t sleep. This place was going to be the first port of call this morning anyway.’ He gazes out into the darkness where the lake laps not far away. ‘I did think about fishing – but –’ His voice falters as he recalls the situation. ‘Lucky I didn’t just nod off – else I wouldn’t have heard their engine. I got out to get a blanket.’ He reaches behind and touches the coarse cloth. ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘Oh – no – thanks, Guv. The tea’s warming my toes!’

  Now she is being a little ironic.

  Footsteps approach across the gravel. The senior paramedic from one of the two ambulances that hem in the Ford Consul appears, her complexion as she faces them a flickering ultraviolet hue. She frowns stoically.

  ‘That’s us. Could be a lot worse. They’re stable.’

  Skelgill makes a face that is both appreciative and hopeful.

  ‘Think they’ll pull through?’

  ‘Aye – they’ll pull through alright – just a question of what damage has been done. Stroke of luck for them that you had that oxygen.’

  Skelgill makes a contrary face.

  ‘They might not agree.’

  The woman grins wryly. She holds out a clear polythene bag, which DS Jones accepts.

  ‘Personal possessions – the wallets you can work out – the bag of weed was on the girl and the plastic bits were in the lad’s shirt pocket.’

  Skelgill is about to respond but an impatient cry reaches them. The drivers are keen to head for the hospital. The woman speaks.

  ‘We’ll take them to the WCI – be there in half an hour at this time of night.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  The woman leaves them. Skelgill mulls over the thought that trainee nurses Claire and Melanie work at the West Cumberland Infirmary and whether there is any merit in alerting them to the predicament of their fellow birders – but perhaps it is something that can wait until morning proper. The emergency vehicles depart, the cast of their blue lights fading into oblivion. While he is pondering, DS Jones is delving into the polythene bag. He turns to watch, expecting her to extract the drugs – but in fact she opens her palm to reveal three small flat plastic items, more or less identical.

  ‘What are they?’

  They are working by the small interior bulb behind their heads.

  ‘Memory cards – except they’re not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’re empty – these are just the cases.’

  Skelgill stares distractedly at the items.

  ‘They were looking at them in the café.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv?’

  Skelgill’s statement seems to have omitted something in the sequence of his train of thought. He backtracks.

  ‘In Cockermouth – the first time we saw them – before we knew who they were. The lad – Cian – he got those out of his pocket – they were viewing something on their laptop, remember?’

  DS Jones nods pensively. She weighs the cases in her palm.

  ‘These are actually for micro SD cards, Guv – they’re designed for miniaturised cameras – like my dashcam, that sort of thing. The memory cards must be still in the camera – well, cameras, I suppose.’

  Skelgill feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. It might be coincidence – for the air temperature is still dropping and he wears only a shirt himself; moreover, the adrenaline of the dramatic rescue is ebbing in his veins. But his forearms, his whole body would be shivering if he were truly cold. And he recalls the concentration of Cian Fogarty and Ciara Ahearne crowded over the laptop – excited to see what the memory card that the young man had inserted would reveal. There was even the impression that they had come to the café for the prime purpose of doing this – an act rather like the good old days when folk collected photographs from Boots and made a great ceremony of opening the presentation wallet and working their way through its memories.

  ‘They use infrared.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv?’

  ‘These wildlife cameras – motion activated. They have infrared – like the webcam on the harriers’ nest – so they work at night, when most animals are on the go.’

  ‘Er, yes – I suppose so – but what are you thinking?’

  Skelgill pauses.

  ‘I reckon I know where we might find one – and how.’

  He rises and swivels and leans over into the flatbed. The mountain rescue kit is in a large
zipped holdall just behind where he has been sitting. He rummages in the bag and produces a soft black leather case that has the dimensions of a hardback novel.

  ‘What is it, Guv?’

  ‘They.’ He begins to unzip the case. ‘Night-vision glasses. So long as any camera’s got some battery left, I reckon we’ll see it when its spotlight comes on.’

  DS Jones inhales as if to speak but then she checks herself.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well – I was thinking – the Irish will know where they are – but –’

  ‘Exactly.’ Skelgill begins to clear away his camping equipment. ‘It’s down to us to find them before the batteries go flat.’

  *

  ‘I need you to be the guinea pig.’

  ‘Provided there are no mousetraps.’

  Skelgill stifles a laugh – but despite her irrepressible spirit he asks himself, is he putting his colleague in any danger? Without seeking permission he reaches up and helps her complete the awkward clamber over the five-barred gate; but she seems to accept the contact as reassuring, and allows him to cushion her body weight as she drops down. They have driven in Skelgill’s car, from Over Water circling clockwise past the opening of the main driveway of Shuteham Hall, taking the Overthwaite turn, and passing the old gatehouse and on as far as the locked terminus of Crow Road. Now they must proceed on foot. Skelgill had contemplated a route through the grounds, using the driveway, Long Shoot, and Crow Road from the opposite direction, but covertness has prevailed.

  ‘Here, you can use this.’ He hands her his flashlight. ‘And you can stick to the short grass. I just need you to go far enough ahead so I can watch through this contraption.’

  DS Jones chuckles; her tone is nerveless.

  ‘Sure – I was just joking.’

  Skelgill cannot think of a suitable retort – other than something along the lines that another unexpected drama would be par for the course – but he does not wish to alarm her; besides, there is no doubt that she is up for the fight, and he is glad of her positive energy. As they stride briskly through the darkness, steering a course by the just-lighter sky above the trees that line the woodland ride, it is DS Jones that speaks again.

  ‘What makes you think Keeper’s Cottage might be the place?’

  Skelgill’s honest belief about this is not the answer he decides to provide. To tell her that he has twice experienced the distinct feeling of being watched while prowling about Lawrence Melling’s cottage is hardly the most convincing reason to be trailing her through a dark forest in the early hours of the morning.

  ‘Just logic.’ He senses she glances at him. ‘If they’re recording wildlife – then their cameras could be anywhere – I suppose I’d find a badgers’ sett or something like that. But if they’re not recording wildlife – but something else – ’

  ‘Protecting wildlife.’ DS Jones completes his argument, for the sake of clarity.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Keeping tabs on the gamekeeper – and anyone else they suspected of being a threat.’

  Skelgill is nodding in agreement. Although she can’t see this response, she perhaps detects his accord. She continues.

  ‘Before I went to bed, Guv – I was looking online, searching various terms – trying to find something about Rapture. I can’t say I got anything concrete – no direct references to Rapture as such, but I came across a chat group – some kind of forum – it was a few years since there’d been any activity – but one post did state that there was money to be made in being a “wildlife crime whistleblower” as it was termed. It specifically mentioned sporting estates, and farms where driven shooting takes place. But it was all a bit cryptic. The poster was anonymous, and there was the suggestion that if you were interested you should PM them – personal message, I mean. To do that you had to sign up to the forum and create a profile – but when I tried to click through to that part it came up as inoperative.’

  ‘Happen you’re getting warmer.’

  DS Jones seems to find an extra spring in her step – perhaps his encouragement. But just as she is about to reply she abruptly changes tack.

  ‘Yuck! What’s that awful smell?’

  Now it is Skelgill’s turn to chuckle.

  ‘Shine the torch – over to the right.’

  They are passing the keeper’s larder. In the stark beam the corpses strung on the fence against the velvet blackness beyond seem particularly vivid in their petrified death throes. For a moment Skelgill wonders if they should check here for a hidden camera – but then, if you wanted to catch Lawrence Melling in the act of doing anything illicit, this is not the spot, for this is the public face of his occupation, and the trophies are legitimate vermin, according to the law.

  ‘The Terminator’s handiwork.’

  DS Jones does not respond to his remark – or comment further – but that she keeps the beam trained on the hideous sight as they pass tells him that she is horrifically fascinated. But now they are approaching the cottage, and Skelgill slows his pace.

  ‘I’ll stop here. You walk on. Try round the back first – to the right of the building. I’ll give you a shout when you go out of sight and we’ll approach from the other side.’

  ‘Okay, Guv.’

  Skelgill watches as she moves away. Keeper’s Cottage is just detectable as a darker shadow in the clearing – and now the torch beam plays on its walls and roof as DS Jones gets her bearings. When she reaches within about twenty yards of the property he raises the night-vision glasses. It takes no more than ten seconds for his ‘guinea pig’ to trigger the camera.

  ‘Got it!’

  Skelgill cannot contain his glee. In the mini-movie on the screen before his eyes he sees his colleague wheel around. She waves the torch beam about, but of course the infrared spotlight on the hidden camera is invisible to her.

  ‘It’s on the wall – over the door!’

  That Skelgill is excited is not just that his hunch seems to have paid off – but that the camera is located in such an audacious position. He had expected it to be on a tree, or perhaps in the log pile beneath the canopy. He jogs up to find DS Jones shining the torch on a nestbox above the back door.

  ‘Looks like they’ve got a sense of humour, Guv.’

  Skelgill concurs with her sentiment. Tall enough to reach, he stretches up and unhooks the birdbox from the nail that supports it. It is old and the lid partly rotted away, though he notices it has been fixed down with a couple of relatively new-looking brass screws. He kneels and traps the box between his knees, and with the aid of his Swiss pocketknife he removes the screws while DS Jones provides steady illumination. Sure enough, fixed to a bracket by a rubber strap is a small outdoor-style camera, with camouflage livery. Working in silent tandem Skelgill cuts the strap and DS Jones reaches in and removes the camera with an evidence bag. While Skelgill gets to his feet and props the empty nestbox against the wall of the cottage, DS Jones examines their find. She makes a little exclamation.

  ‘Ah – I can see the memory card is fitted.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it has a screen.’

  DS Jones turns the device over in the torchlight.

  ‘I think that’s considered an unnecessary luxury for this kind of gadget.’ She inhales, as though it is a prelude to a problem, and her tone becomes somewhat contrite. ‘My laptop – it’s under the removable seat in my car – back at the bird hide.’

  ‘We might get that far, yet.’

  Skelgill sounds unperturbed. He shrugs off the small nylon backpack that he has carried and offers the open mouth for her to deposit the camera. He grins encouragingly.

  ‘One down, two to go.’

  They stand silent for a moment, a little breathless, as much from the thrill as the effort – but Skelgill suddenly raises the backpack against his ear.

  ‘What is it, Guv?’

  ‘It’s still switched on – it must have an autofocus – I can hear it.’

  He holds the bag open and DS Jones retrieves the
camera. Sure enough, she locates the power switch and, with a little difficulty through the polythene, manages to turn it off. She replaces it in the bag.

  ‘I don’t think we swore, Guv.’

  ‘That’s not like me.’

  Skelgill is reminded that some of his own movements must be recorded on this device – moreover, is that what alerted him – what unnerved him when he cautiously prowled about? Did he subliminally hear the tiny mechanical movements of the camera? It seems more plausible than sixth sense. He stands pensively for a moment, and perhaps the set of his jaw prompts his colleague to question him.

  ‘Where next, do you think?’

  Skelgill turns to stare into the darkness in the direction of Shuteham Hall.

  ‘I reckon if you were going to monitor the keeper you’d put them on a route you know he’d use. There’s already an official camera on the harriers’ nest – so maybe between here and there.’

  DS Jones makes a murmur of agreement.

  ‘This cottage – like you said, Guv, it was a logical bet. The nest – it must be almost two miles. That feels more like a needle in a haystack.’

  Skelgill is nodding – despite that she perhaps underplays the achievement to date. But he pats the binoculars that rest on his chest.

  ‘Aye – but at least we’ve got a needle detector. Come on – let’s get a shift on while it’s still dark. For once, the night’s our friend.’

  ‘Sure, Guv.’

  ‘Meantime – see if you can raise Leyton – try a text first. I reckon we should get him down here.’

  ‘He’s probably filling a bottle as we speak.’

  ‘In which case he’ll be glad to hear from us.’

  *

  ‘What are you thinking, Guv?’

  Skelgill has stopped at the turn for Garden Cottage. At a distance there is the lone light above the front door.

  ‘We should check down here. It’s where Karen Williamson lives.’

  DS Jones hesitates, as though she does not feel this is the best use of their time.