Skelgill makes an exaggerated expiration of breath, to demonstrate his reticence about counting chickens. Yes – if these cameras enable them to turn back the clock – they may understand what has taken place. But fresh in his mind are startling contradictions: the unexpected and unopposed ‘capture’ of Stan; the limp forms of the Irish couple as he dragged them clear of the fume-wreathed Ford. If DS Jones thinks the former has moved to the top of the list of suspects, what about the latter – where do they rank? And, yet – neither idea consumes him with anything like certainty; it feels like the centre of gravity lies elsewhere in his subconscious.
He does not respond to his colleague directly, but instead sets off, employing the torch to light his way along the worn beaters’ path that forges an easy route through the heather. He calls back.
‘Let me get a cricket pitch ahead. Twenty-two yards.’ He adds the rider in case she thinks he means a whole cricket ground and lags too far behind.
It is about a mile and a quarter from the stile across the moor to the boundary wall. At the pace Skelgill is setting he estimates it will take them twenty-five minutes. But is he being optimistic to think that the Irish couple have sited a third camera along this traversing route? Further on it curves northwards and rises towards the first line of grouse butts. It seems DS Jones is having a similar debate with herself. She calls out; her voice as hushed as is practicable.
‘Guv – isn’t it most likely they’ll have hidden it in the stone wall near the other stile – where we’ve been parking on the track?’
He does not want to make a shouted conversation of it. He gives a wave that she probably cannot see. But her logic is reasonable. If the Irish were trying to monitor encroachments that threatened the harriers’ nest, then these two stiles at either side of this narrow section of the moor are the key access points, from west and east, Shuteham Hall and the public bridleway respectively. From the south there is only impenetrable marshy fen that borders Over Water, and from the north energy-sapping heather, almost impossible to walk any distance through.
As he marches steadily his eyes flick continually to the horizon in the northeast – there is no doubt that the familiar skyline of Skiddaw is becoming more sharply delineated from the paler, milky glow in the heavens above. He assumes these night-vision cameras, in order to optimise the battery life, have a sensor that deactivates the infrared beam at a certain level of daylight. Time is running out – and as if he needed reminding a skylark strikes up – but not from overhead, as is the bird’s daytime habit; instead the sound emanates from in front of him, at ground level. The creature must be perched, stretching its vocal chords in preparation for the dawn chorus proper, when larks and pipits and chats and other moorland species daily beat the bounds of their territories. But the trilling stops abruptly as he approaches – and then just as suddenly a cry breaks out from behind.
‘A flash!’
Skelgill halts.
‘What?’
DS Jones breaks into a jog and catches up with him.
‘Guv – I saw a brief flash on the screen. Just fleeting.’
‘Go back – we’ll both go back. And I’ll cover this stretch again. Watch more closely.’
‘No, Guv – it was ahead of you – maybe about twenty paces.’
Skelgill reassesses the situation.
‘Okay – you stop here. I’ll walk on.’
They do as agreed. But Skelgill counts fifty paces and still there is no call from his colleague. He turns and begins slowly to walk back. The sky is lightening by the minute and the moor is becoming infused with a vaporous grey-brown twilight. Skelgill finds his eyes adjusting and he begins to comprehend the more detailed lie of the land. He recognises exactly where they are. He stops dead in his tracks. DS Jones is slowly approaching, still monitoring through the screen.
‘There’s nothing, Guv. It ought to be about here.’
‘I’ll tell you why, lass.’ His stern demeanour cannot hide the undertone of expectancy in his voice. He directs his torch beam, which still has some limited effect. ‘That’s the little side path that goes towards the harriers’ nest. This is where the mantrap was. This is where the SOCO crew have been coming and going. Look at the flattened vegetation. If there’s a camera monitoring this spot – and why wouldn’t there be? – our lot have probably worn the batteries flat – triggering it every few minutes. The flash you saw was it – on its last legs.’
DS Jones rises up onto the balls of her feet, as though Skelgill’s excitement has been transmitted to her through the peaty earth.
‘It must be close, Guv – but what set it off?’
They stand and look about, turning slowly in unison. But the conditions do not favour the task – it is too dull still to see clearly, but too light for Skelgill’s torch to be of much help. Then he has an idea.
‘Happen it were the bird.’
‘Sorry, Guv?’
‘That skylark that were singing – I bet it triggered it. Look!’
With his faltering torch beam he picks out a short, stout wooden post, barely protruding from the heather, part-decayed and tilted at an angle, the crumbling top flecked white with bird droppings. He has noticed it before – and unthinkingly assumed it acted as a marker to show where the almost invisible access path to the webcam begins. He pockets his torch and strides across – and heaves the post out of the ground. As he does so a fragment of wood flakes away – and there is revealed the third camera. He looks across at DS Jones – she is staring at him open mouthed, and for once he reciprocates.
*
‘Don’t tell me it’s out of charge, as well.’
‘No – it’s alright, Guv – I think it’s just a bit cold – I’ve got a USB lead, in case.’
But with a little musical flourish the laptop springs into life. DS Jones, wearing protective gloves, inserts the memory card from the last found camera into a slot on the side of her device. For practical purposes she is sitting in the passenger seat of her car, Skelgill leaning over from the driver’s side.
‘Ah – excellent.’
‘What?’
‘My photos app – it’s reading the card – look – I’ll just import all the files – it will only take a minute and then we can interrogate them by their chronology. Also, we get a back-up copy.’
As far as Skelgill can see not a lot seems to be happening on the computer screen. One by one icons are popping up as the individual files load. He sits straight for a moment and takes hold of the steering wheel. He realises he is cramped and fumbles around beneath the seat until he locates the release catch, and slides back to the position of maximum leg extension. Then he starts fiddling with various controls, experimenting as to what they might be. He adjusts the rear-view mirror – but ducks away as the rising sun dazzles him. He tries the electric door-mirrors – she has them angled too low in his book, but then he does not have smart alloys to worry about. When DS Jones does not complain that he is messing up all her settings (he would be agitated), perhaps this point strikes him and he turns to see she is staring at the screen, her fingers splayed in mid-air like a concert pianist waiting for the conductor’s cue.
‘What is it?’
‘Guv – there’s a three-minute sequence recorded at twelve-forty a.m. on Tuesday.’
‘That’s when I got into my car, at the hide.’
‘This must be it.’
‘Can you play it?’
‘Let’s see if it works.’
She double-clicks on the highlighted icon and suddenly the whole screen becomes filled by a night scene that opens with instant action.
From along the path a ghostly figure moves towards the camera, now about fifteen feet away, and just entering the limits of the infrared illumination.
There is a sharp mechanical noise.
Then a guttural yell – a male voice.
The man half-rotates and collapses upon his back, head closest to the camera.
He begins to writhe and cry out in agony.
<
br /> He attempts to sit up and reach for his feet.
He falls back groaning.
He tries again, several times, with the same result.
Raised on one elbow, he starts to shout.
“Help! Help!”
The Scots voice is now recognisable.
Perhaps a minute passes.
Then suddenly – a newcomer! Two!
They arrive from off-camera, passing close at waist height, gradually revealed at full length as they approach the prone man.
The image is too grainy to tell at once who they are; they seem to be wearing close-fitting beanie hats, and gloves.
But what is clear is that they simply stand and gaze down at him.
One of them directs a torch into his face.
He jerks into life.
“Thank God – help me out of here!”
They do nothing.
They continue to stand and stare.
The man’s appeals become imbued with panic.
The onlooker without the torch moves to the right.
The person picks up the shotgun.
The man on the ground: “What are you doing?”
There is no reply.
The figure with the gun moves back into position at the man’s head.
The other with the torch directs the beam onto the man’s lower limbs.
The first bends over the prone man, extending the gun.
The man on the ground: “No!”
There is a simultaneous crack and muzzle flash.
The man jolts.
He cries out, consumed by agony.
But his voice subsides; it becomes a low tormented keening.
The figure with the gun steps back to the right and lays it down, out of reach.
Both figures now converge on the left of the man.
They look down at him – their heads bowed rather like mourners at an interment.
They turn away in unison and begin to walk back towards the camera.
Again they are indistinguishable.
As they come close only their midriffs are visible.
But, just as they pass – a voice, female.
“A cold-blooded killing, Neil.”
*
‘Guv – I hear a car!’
‘Aye – it’s them. Hold still.’
‘I’ll start filming now.’
‘Alreet.’
Skelgill has the bit between his teeth. His colleague can feel the tension in his body as he crouches close beside her. He is like a coiled spring. For her part, her heart is racing; she hopes she can hold her mobile steady. With her free hand she presses a Bluetooth earbud into place.
‘Lima, this is Juliet, are you reading me, over?’ She listens for a reply. ‘They’re here. Wait for the word “go” – we want to give them as long as we can – to see how they behave around the Ford. Stay on the line. If I lose you I’ll yell.’
Skelgill glances at his sergeant. She is right at his shoulder, touching him. She seems in control; he can smell a hint of some perfume, and also perhaps perspiration – although that could be his own – and there is the sickly sweet stench of the may – for they are concealed in the hawthorn hedge, close to the parked Ford Consul. They have replaced the hosepipe. There is nothing they can do about the smashed driver-side window – but it will not be immediately apparent from the probable direction of approach.
The time is just before seven a.m. The crunch of tyres on the loose gravel of the track becomes louder; does Skelgill imagine it, or is the driving tentative? The Volvo lumbers into sight and then swings away, to park some thirty or forty feet off. Interesting. There seems quite a long pause, a hiatus, between the switching off of the engine and the opening of a door – doors plural – for the Vholes twins emerge simultaneously.
Skelgill has a good view. He keeps his fingers crossed that the dense foliage and the still-low sun rising behind the hedge will hinder critical scrutiny of their position. The birdwatchers watched. He sees that they are dressed in outdoor gear – but not the spanking brand new outfits in which they appeared at police headquarters to lodge their complaint about the buzzard; this is older attire. The Vholes do not speak but converge at the rear of the Volvo and begin to walk together, steadily, but with a distinct attitude of caution. They make a beeline not in the direction of the hide but diagonally towards the parked Ford Consul.
‘Should I check the hide, Christine?’
‘There would be a car, Neil.’ (Skelgill feels a chill run down his spine at the sound of her voice; though it does not quite carry the incomprehensible malevolence of her sinister phrase, twice uttered.) ‘And there would be police if anyone had raised the alarm.’
‘The engine has died. What if there wasn’t enough fuel?’
‘There was a quarter of a tank, Neil – do you think I wouldn’t have checked?’
‘Of course, Christine.’
‘Besides, it only takes ninety minutes to kill.’
The Vholes stop short of the Ford, perhaps nine or ten feet away from the tailgate; not close enough yet to see within.
‘Remember what to do, Neil.’
‘Yes Christine. We both look in the rear window – put our hands naturally on the glass. You pull the hose away. I use a rock to smash in and get the key. We drag them out.’
Silence.
‘And most important, Neil?’
‘Oh, yes – of course, Christine. You search the bodies – I put on my gloves and search the car. As soon as we find the memory cards or the empty cases you call 999.’
‘THERE’S NO NEED TO CALL 999.’
Skelgill breaks out of the bushes. His voice is authoritative, stentorian and – yes – triumphant. Any such intervention would be a dramatic enough shock for the Vholes – but the sight of the craggy detective, seemingly inured to the thorns, a creamy confetti of fine blossom spangling his unkempt hair must seem like a moment from their own worst nightmare.
They panic and begin to turn towards their car – it seems like in slow motion. In contrast, like a speeded-up scene from the Keystone Cops, the door of the birdwatching hide bursts open and a stream of uniformed officers tumbles out, led by DS Leyton (who is rapidly overtaken by the fitter, more sprightly constables). Simultaneously a large police van rumbles down the track from the lane, effectively blocking the only exit. DS Jones has given the word go!
15. SKY DANCING
Friday, late afternoon
Skelgill is engaged in a battle.
Seated at his desk, hands shielding his eyes from his surroundings, he is hunched over a letter printed on the headed paper of a prestigious firm of lawyers. Working around it, in no particular order (as is his wont) he has picked out certain salient phrases.
“... clients deny any involvement in the death of Mr Lawrence Melling ...”
“... entirely inconclusive video evidence ...”
“... defence of alibi ...”
“... CCTV clearly shows ... clients returned home at 10.50pm ... did not leave thereafter ...”
“... immediate release without charge ...”
“... invasion of privacy ... damage to reputation ... public apology ...”
‘Here she comes now, Guv.’
DS Leyton stands sentry at the door of Skelgill’s office, his head angled so that he can see along the corridor. Skelgill looks up, as though he has forgotten DS Leyton is there.
‘Right – just sit down.’
DS Leyton remains resolutely in place, seemingly ignoring the request of his superior. But before Skelgill can complain he steps back to admit DS Jones and close the door behind her. Her tardy approach is now explained for she balances a heavily laden tray on top of her laptop computer and a stack of manila files.
‘Never compete with the tea lady, Guv.’
DS Leyton winks at his superior.
DS Jones smiles brightly.
‘The canteen were giving away the last of the treacle scones – they’ve been out of favour today.’
&nb
sp; Now DS Leyton quips.
‘That’s because we’ve been up to our eyes in it – eh, Guvnor?’
Skelgill grins, but reluctantly. Like all of them, he still looks tired from lack of sleep over the past forty-eight hours. But despite the evident setback he is undoubtedly sidetracked by the contents of the tray. He waits rather grim faced as DS Jones dispenses the refreshments. When she is ready and seated he hands her the letter.
‘Leyton just brought this down from the Chief.’
DS Jones looks first inquisitive but her expression quickly changes to one of alarm as she digests the contents of the missive. She stares at the page for a moment – but then she begins defiantly to address her colleagues.
‘Wait a minute. If we’ve had them in custody since yesterday morning – and they weren’t expecting to be arrested – how do they know their home security camera recorded their car arriving when they claim?’
There is a silence – perhaps even a stunned silence. Certainly DS Leyton is looking gobsmacked. A light dawns in his eyes.
‘They knew they’d need an alibi!’
DS Jones is nodding vehemently.
Skelgill reaches over and puts out a hand, indicating he wants the letter. When DS Jones passes it to him he crumples it in his palm and aims it at the waste bin behind the door. The ‘ball’, however is imperfectly formed and travels in a curve – but DS Leyton instinctively jerks forward and heads it into the bin.
‘Hah! Let’s hope that’s not an own goal, Guv!’
‘Leyton – it’s all piss and wind. We know it is.’
DS Leyton seems distracted by his moment of glory – but when he recovers he adds a note of sobriety.
‘Mind you, the Chief doesn’t quite seem to see it like that, Guv.’
Skelgill regards his colleagues sternly.
‘But we were there – all through this. Not sitting in an ivory tower watching a wind sock.’ Despite his custom-made metaphor his subordinates recognise the belligerence in his tone and they both nod resolutely. Skelgill casts a hand dismissively in the direction of the waste bin. ‘We can’t let that knock us off our stride.’
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