Accordingly he tucks into his scone – an oversized bite even by his standards that seems to signify that an army marches on its stomach, and now is the precursor to marching. His troops follow his lead.
‘Have we even had lunch?’
Both eating hungrily, his colleagues simultaneously shake their heads – as if to reassure Skelgill that they have not, and that surely he has not – despite that they must both think it is unlikely that he has failed to cram in a Cumberland sausage sandwich or a bacon roll somewhere along the line.
DS Leyton finishes his scone and considers the remainder on the tray. He seems in two minds, and Skelgill identifies the opportunity.
‘Leyton – you kick off.’
DS Leyton licks his fingers and rubs his palms along his thighs. He glances at DS Jones, acknowledging her situation as a latecomer.
‘Well – I’ve just come from interviewing Stan again. The interpreter bothered his backside to turn up this time – but to be honest Stan speaks English well enough – at least, he understands – even if he can’t always find the right words.’
‘I know the feeling.’
Skelgill’s subordinates grin obligingly. DS Leyton continues.
‘In a nutshell, it seems quite straightforward. His background is in agricultural engineering – he got a qualification from an institution in Chisinau. His old college is twinned with Caldbeck Agricultural College here in Cumbria. They have this scheme – for alumni – they call ’em – right?’ He looks a little apprehensively at DS Jones – whom he knows will know this sort of thing. She nods reassuringly. ‘That enabled him to apply for an overseas student working visa – and Caldbeck College put him onto the vacancy at Shuteham Hall.’
‘Christine Vholes.’
Skelgill is looking penetratingly at his sergeant.
‘I reckon so, Guv.’
Skelgill gazes up to the ceiling – in lieu of the heavens being visible. He is reproaching himself for missing the obvious – that Christine Vholes’ position gave her access to the ‘unrivalled’ database of shooting estate contacts he had read about while kicking his heels in reception. But then he reconciles himself to the possibility that the point had sunk in – and that it contributed to the unease that took him to the bird hide in the early hours. He nods to DS Leyton – to indicate that he should continue.
‘Then he reckons, some time later – out of the blue – he started getting these emails from this Rapture group. He didn’t know who they were, and ignored them in the first place. But there were suggestions of easy money to be made for what just seemed like conservation work. Reporting on wildlife sightings. In the end he signed up and started submitting observations – some money was paid into his account. All seemed hunky dory. Then gradually the requests for information began to shift to include examples of wildlife crime. Again – that didn’t seem too unreasonable – but next thing he knows they’re asking for specific information on Lawrence Melling. Not just his gamekeeping, but also his relationships with the landowners and other employees. Stan was a bit uneasy at this point – but he began to provide some details – nothing too controversial – he wasn’t aware of anything particularly unsavoury – but he did report that Melling wasn’t popular and bullied the other workers. Then the demands came to find out about his private life.’ DS Leyton raises his eyebrows suggestively and glances between his colleagues. ‘Stan says he wanted to draw the line here – and he told them so – and it was at this point that he started receiving threats himself.’
Skelgill shifts position, straightening in his chair.
‘What kind of threats?’
‘Well – we’re talking blackmail, really, Guv. It was suggested that if he didn’t come up with the goods, the authorities would be informed of what he’d been up to – and his visa would likely be revoked. By now, he’s got himself romantically involved with the housekeeper – Karen Williamson – although they were keeping that under wraps. But, of course he didn’t want to get sent back home to Moldova. So he felt he had no choice but to carry on. At the end of the day, he wasn’t actually doing anything illegal – just dangerous, as it turned out.’
Skelgill is nodding pensively; DS Jones looks more alarmed. DS Leyton seems to be seeking a diplomatic form of words.
‘He’d worked out that Lawrence Melling was entertaining ladies – at night, using the boathouse – quite a swanky little love nest designed for guests of the estate – and his brief from Rapture was to find out who the current female was – and if possible to get a compromising photograph. Obviously the suspicion was that it was Miranda Bullingdon – if so, that would be dynamite.’
He pauses and leans forward to take a drink of tea; his colleagues wait.
‘You were right, Guv – he got himself a fishing rod – he admits he hasn’t got a clue – but he figured it gave him an excuse to knock about by the lake. He says he would wander along each evening just as it was getting dark, keep out of sight, and watch the boathouse for lights coming on. To cut a long story short, on Saturday night – into the early hours of Sunday – there were people in there. He started by working his way round the bank, moving from one spot to another. Then he left his rod and climbed up onto the balcony. He’d got his phone out ready to take a photo – he could see there was a gap in the curtains – but what he didn’t know was Melling’s dog was on the balcony – and it set up a right racket, barking at him. Before he could get away, Melling came bursting out of the sliding doors and attacked him. There was a fight – more of a wrestle – and Melling being bigger was getting the better of him – trying to strangle him, almost choking him out – telling him in no uncertain terms he was going to kill him. Stan managed to break free and flip over the balcony. But he slipped on the sloping roof and went into the lake. He reckons he’s a good swimmer but somehow he had the presence of mind to pretend he was drowning – coming up for gasps of air and calling for help. He reckons Melling got a torch on him and just watched him. He took a massive gulp of air and went down for what he hoped would look like the last time – and then swam underwater for as long as he could hold his breath. He came up under some bushes a good way off, and waited, trying to work out what to do. He heard the outside door of the boathouse open and close quite soon after – as if someone left – but he could see there were still lights on and a person moving about – including on the balcony for a while after that. Then the lights went off and presumably Melling left – and his torch showed he was searching round the bank in the other direction. That must be when he found the fishing rod. At that point Stan crept out and legged it to Karen Williamson’s place. After that, his story ties up with what she told us.’
DS Jones has been listening avidly. Now she poses a question.
‘Does he know what happened to his mobile phone?’
‘He reckons Melling must have found it on the balcony and chucked it in the lake.’
A collective nod and perhaps even a sigh of relief travel around the room. It does all stack up – especially for Skelgill. Indeed, his sergeants see he is distracted. He rises and turns to gaze at the map of the Lake District on the wall behind his desk, though he stands too close to usefully read it. He is gripped by the thought – did Lawrence Melling think he was Stan – not dead after all, not giving up, back from the brink to haunt him? Or did he think he was another spy sent by Rapture – another dispensable foot soldier? Is that what prompted him to attempt summary revenge by blasting the harriers off their nest?
Skelgill turns and sits and reaches for another scone; they have an ample supply. After a mouthful and some tea he nods to DS Leyton – in a manner that is as close as he will normally get to acknowledging good work. But before Skelgill can move on, DS Leyton has a point to add.
‘The blood, Guv – around the game preparation area and the incinerator?’
‘Aye?’
‘Innocent explanation, can you believe? Stan had been chopping a load of wood for Karen Williamson’s cottage – cut his hand – lost
quite a bit of blood – just bandaged it up himself with his neckerchief. He cleared it up with a pile of sawdust and shovelled that into the incinerator when he passed with the wheelbarrow.’
Skelgill nods broodingly, but does not comment.
‘And there’s us thinking poor geezer’s gone up in smoke!’
Now Skelgill frowns more unfavourably, as though he does not share his colleague’s view; but he keeps his opinion to himself. DS Leyton looks like he has finished his account, and decides he can manage a second scone. Rather philosophically, he adds a closing remark.
‘Hard to see if either of them did too much wrong, Guv. Stan or Karen Williamson.’
Skelgill is asking himself whether events in the long term would have panned out differently had the couple come to the police after the first incident. Indeed, had he himself inadvertently played agent provocateur in round two? But it is the same type of conjecture that usually gets him nowhere (in fact, in the wrong place), and is futile now that history has been written. He turns to DS Jones and indicates with an upturned palm that she should begin.
She opens her laptop and places it on the corner of Skelgill’s desk and angles it so that both her colleagues can see.
‘I’ve watched every second of every film clip.’ She blinks several times as if her toil has taken its toll on her eyesight. Then she glances wryly at Skelgill. ‘That’s a lot of badgers and roe deer and even the occasional fox. Despite the best efforts of the Terminator.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow, and remains attentive.
‘Obviously there’s the final sequence on Over Moor – and other key points which I’ll come back to – but just to join up the dots on Stan and Lawrence Melling. The files from the camera at Keeper’s Cottage are the last ones that I’ve just been through. At around two-thirty a.m. on Sunday – in other words following the events in the account that Stan has given us, someone appeared at the rear of the property, over towards the log store. It’s at the very limits of the camera’s capability – it’s not possible to identify the person. But you can see that they bury an item – possibly a white polythene bag folded over on itself a few times – beneath a kind of freestanding tree stump.’
She plays the footage – it is as she has described. Skelgill’s eyes are burning bright – but it is DS Leyton that utters what must be their common conclusion.
‘The jewels!’
They all three exchange glances. DS Jones indicates to the screen.
‘Whatever they are, they’re probably still there. The camera records no one disturbing the stump.’ She looks at Skelgill. ‘Obviously – at least until we took away the camera.’
Skelgill is nodding, but he knows she has much to cover, and he indicates she should move on. She glances at the screen as though she is toying with showing another video, but then she has second thoughts and turns to her colleagues.
‘Probably most significant are two events. At just after nine-forty p.m. on Monday a figure that I believe is Neil Vholes carried the mantrap and set it on the beaters’ path, five or six paces to the west of the little side-path to the harriers’ nest. He brought the trap from the easterly direction. They must have had it in their car – then he drove it round to the bridleway during their shift, due to finish at ten p.m. – before the Irish could arrive and see him from the hide in the last of the daylight.’
Skelgill picks up a chewed biro and draws an unintelligible hieroglyph on his desk pad – it might be a shamrock leaf – seemingly a reminder of some sort. DS Jones hesitates in case he intends to speak, but he nods for her to continue.
‘Then at twelve-twenty-five a.m. – now Tuesday morning – Lawrence Melling skidded to a halt on the quad bike at the western stile, on the Shuteham Hall side of Over Moor. He had the dog with him, even though it doesn’t appear in the subsequent sequence. He put on the cape and the hat, and took the shooting staff and the antique shotgun – all of which belong to Lord Bullingdon – and climbed over the stile. Fifteen minutes later he walked into the trap.’
She pauses, as though some respect is due, though her smooth features remain implacable.
‘It seems the killers – we say the Vholes – were waiting quite close by – perhaps just on the other side of the wall, beside the eastern stile. I can show you these clips.’
But DS Leyton has a pressing question. For DS Jones’s benefit he employs some moderating London vernacular.
‘What the crispy duck was Melling doing dressed as Lord Bullingdon?’
Skelgill plies his colleague with a somewhat reproachful glare.
‘He was going to blast the nest, Leyton.’ He glances at DS Jones, acknowledging that she had made the very suggestion. ‘Make it look like Lord Bullingdon did it. There’s the official Nats webcam, remember – and Melling knew about it. You heard what he said that first time in the estate office. Since then we’ve learned all about the trail of destruction he leaves in his wake. But why take the rap when he could put old Bullingdon in the frame? Power to his elbow in more ways than one.’
DS Leyton nods reflectively.
‘Looks like the Vholes saved his Lordship’s bacon.’
Skelgill makes a somewhat disparaging harrumph. But it is a fact, albeit an unintended consequence. Now he picks up the narrative.
‘I reckon they spotted the mantrap when they went on the Nats field trip organised by Daphne Bullingdon. Then they just drove in and took it on the same evening they used it. Reverse up to the front door – all you’d need is thirty seconds – take a chance on the car being seen – even that’s unlikely. Neil Vholes planted the trap.’ Skelgill gestures to DS Jones – referring to the video confirmation of this. ‘They went back later to see if they’d caught owt. As it was, Melling was on the warpath – Rapture on his back, we’re crawling about looking for the jewellery and for Stan – he loses the rag, charges off, not paying attention to where he puts his feet in the dark.’
Skelgill abruptly snaps his fingers, the sudden sharp click causing both of his subordinates to start. After a pause it is DS Jones that speaks.
‘How are Ciara Ahearne and Cian Fogarty, Guv?’
It has been Skelgill’s self-delegated task to visit them at the hospital. For her part, while DS Jones is itching to hear their account – for they may provide now-vital circumstantial evidence – her natural solicitude puts their welfare first. However, Skelgill deals with this in a somewhat convoluted manner.
‘I tell you what.’ He looks portentously at his colleagues, first DS Leyton, chewing ruminantly, resting his head against the filing cabinet beside his chair, and then at DS Jones; the afternoon sun slants between the tilted slats of the venetian blind and picks out the golden highlights of her hair. ‘I don’t reckon it were me that saved them.’
He waits – DS Leyton makes a kind of lurch forward, as though urging him to speak. After a gulp of tea, Skelgill obliges.
‘I had a word with the forensic mechanic that’s examined the Ford Consul. There’s a material crack in the exhaust manifold, and the silencer’s maggoty – badly corroded. He reckons most of the exhaust gases would never have made it to the tailpipe, especially if it were constricted. If anything saved them, it was that old rustbucket itself.’ Now he turns back to address DS Jones. ‘The medical report bears it out. While they suffered a degree of carbon monoxide poisoning, the main reason they were comatose was they’d been given sleeping tablets. I interviewed them both – Ciara – she’s right as rain – the lad’s still a bit dopey. They arrived back from Scotland just after midnight – so we’re talking the early hours of yesterday – and the Vholes were in the hide – they hadn’t arranged any cover after all. Christine Vholes made them some cocoa – and Neil Vholes talked them into going to bed – said he and Christine would finish the nightshift. The Irish were knackered from their journey – and feeling drowsier by the minute – so they bunked down in the back of their car. Next thing they woke up in the WCI.’
Skelgill finishes his drink and looks rather deject
edly into his mug. There is an optimum ratio of tea to treacle scones and there are still scones left. But he steels himself.
‘Ciara Ahearne reckons she and the lad were operating off their own bat – nothing to do with Rapture – she hasn’t heard of it – but that they definitely considered the harriers were facing an imminent threat. What she hadn’t realised is that Cian had put the pair of them in mortal danger. They didn’t clear off to Scotland without a word like the Vholes told us. He’d written them a note on the wipe-clean sightings board in the hide. It was as I’d suspected – they’d noticed a disturbance towards one o’clock – a possible shot fired. His message said the harriers were okay – but they might have recorded some activity. They – the Irish – would check when they got back. Obviously he didn’t explain they’d got their own concealed cameras – but it was more than enough. The Vholes realised that there might be footage that would expose them.’
DS Jones is looking relieved.
‘Thankfully we were ahead of the game on that score, Guv.’
DS Leyton is more effusive.
‘It was a flippin’ game-changer – you pair sniffing that out.’
Skelgill grins ruefully – but now he taps the leaf-like scrawl on his pad and looks at DS Jones.
‘Your point about Neil Vholes setting the trap – Monday night. We’ve got corroboration of the timings. Ciara Ahearne reckons she and the lad turned up early for their shift. The Vholes’ car wasn’t there but Christine Vholes was in the hide. She looked flustered and told them Neil Vholes had needed to make an important phone call and had driven somewhere to get a better signal. They didn’t think too much of it, and he came back a few minutes later. Obviously the Vholes were bricking themselves about this as well – because it would come out if we interviewed everyone. They must have pretty quickly realised they needed the Irish out of the picture – along with anything that would make us suspect and start searching for hidden recording devices – which is why they wanted the empty memory card cases. But in the short term the Irish chucked a spanner in the works by clearing off to Scotland.’
Murder on the Moor Page 32