Murder on the Moor

by Bruce Beckham

  DS Jones distractedly brushes away a strand of hair that has fallen across her cheek.

  ‘The Vholes didn’t hang around, though, Guv.’

  Skelgill looks at her rather intensely, before nodding slowly.

  ‘Christine Vholes was preparing the ground for an apparent suicide when I went to interview her at her office – badmouthing the Irish for being into drugs, their unreliable behaviour – something I’d overheard her directly contradict the day before. She was at pains to make sure we weren’t going to turn up on Wednesday night – offering me the chance to come along and help – and asking when I’d next be fishing. And she never so much as mentioned Lawrence Melling.’

  Skelgill dunts his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  ‘I’m kicking myself, now – the straws in the wind, little inconsistencies from the Vholes. All I know is the more I saw them the less I trusted them.’ He pauses to look at DS Jones. ‘You asked why did I go there – to the hide in the middle of the night? Maybe that was it. When I think back to speaking with Neil Vholes on Tuesday morning – he knew Melling was the keeper. He was trying to push the idea of it being an accident – Melling falling into his own trap – and yet he talked about treating it as a crime scene. Then there was the nonsense about the working cocker. For a start – I doubt he could see the dog from the hide – but he knew Melling’s body was there – and he knew the way. I reckon Vholes went to check Melling was dead – not to retrieve what he claimed was some random dog disturbing the harriers.’

  Skelgill bangs his desk with the side of his closed fist.

  ‘We can’t let some gasbag of a lawyer and their high-and-mighty contacts get them out of this.’

  He glares fiercely at DS Leyton.

  ‘What’s the delay with the forensics on the trap and the gun?’

  DS Leyton looks a little dismayed.

  ‘I rang them earlier, Guv – truth be told, they’ve been having trouble getting anything. Like those videos show, the Vholes – if it was them – they were wearing gloves and looked like they knew what they were doing.’

  ‘It was the Vholes, Leyton – don’t even doubt it for a second.’

  DS Leyton nods a little shamefacedly and takes out his mobile phone – as if in the faint hope that there has been a message.

  ‘Stone me!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve had the flippin’ thing on silent, Guv – didn’t feel the text come through – too much padding.’ When he might make something of his joke, instead his focus sharpens upon the screen of his handset. ‘This is actually from the forensic officer – the girl we met by the lake. They’re searching the Vholes’ house. The Chief’s obviously not pulled them off the job – and listen to this.’

  He reads aloud:

  ‘ “While checking outbuildings – neighbour mentioned separate garage – in block of four in lane accessed by gate at foot of rear garden. Heavy-duty locks breached. Items found include nearly new male and female outdoor clothing with positive traces of blood on footwear and trousers. Reel of hosepipe with missing section, pattern matches hose used on Ford Consul.” ’

  Now DS Leyton’s eyes widen and he swallows, as though a lump has risen in his throat – but it is the double fist-pump that tells his colleagues the best is yet to come.

  ‘ “Registered in the name of Christine Vholes, two-year-old VW Golf, yellow.” ’

  He stares excitedly at Skelgill.

  ‘Guv – they must have gone home in the Volvo – parked under the security camera – and sneaked out the back and returned in the Golf – you did see a flamin’ yellow motor!’

  He raises his phone and shakes it triumphantly.

  ‘And I bet they used it to steal the trap. Anyone noticing it from a distance would just think it was the estate’s pool car.’

  A movement to Skelgill’s right causes him to turn to see that DS Jones is silently celebrating as though England have scored a last-minute winner against Germany – and he too feels a welling up of emotion that has some equivalence. He senses that his eyes are stinging – but he fights back the elation, deciding that action is the best cure. He rises to his feet and reaches for his keys and steps across towards the door. As he opens it he places a palm on his sergeant’s broad shoulder.

  ‘Leyton – have a proper conversation with Forensics. Put into motion whatever you think needs done. Then get yourself an early night.’

  DS Leyton looks at once surprised and grateful.

  ‘Actually, Guv – after last night’s palaver I promised the missus a takeaway of her choosing – what with it being Friday, an’ all. She’ll be on cloud nine if I turn up on time.’

  ‘And stick it on your expenses – I’ll deal with the Chief.’

  DS Leyton grins conspiratorially.

  ‘Where are you off to, Guv?’

  ‘Happen I’d better find out what’s buried at Keeper’s Cottage – before someone else beats us to it. Just as well Julian Bullingdon’s got a moth trap and not a metal detector – I reckon Stan’s not the only one who’s been keeping an eye on certain persons’ nocturnal adventures.’ He grins wryly. ‘Then I thought I might kill two birds with one stone – I’ve got a long overdue appointment with a non-existent fish.’

  DS Jones springs to her feet.

  ‘I’ll come with you, Guv.’

  When she might employ a questioning inflection, she does nothing of the sort; assertive would be closer to the mark. She makes brief eye contact with her boss before smiling at DS Leyton and slipping past both him and Skelgill. ‘I’ll log off and meet you in the car park.’

  *

  ‘Ah – your delightful assistant. I somehow imagined you would come alone, Inspector.’

  ‘I need a reliable witness for what I have to do this evening, madam.’

  Miranda Bullingdon steps back to admit Skelgill and DS Jones. Skelgill notices her scrutiny is drawn to his colleague – while DS Jones in turn is unable to prevent her gaze from wandering about the expansive, luxurious surroundings.

  Miranda Bullingdon looks like she has just emerged from the shower. She is wearing a brilliant white towelling robe that contrasts with her tanned skin and her hair is damp and dishevelled. Skelgill looks around. The boudoir is not entirely suited to what he has in mind. Miranda Bullingdon crosses one foot over the other, and tilts her head to one side, regarding him with her characteristic blend of innocence and amusement. Skelgill is carrying in one hand a somewhat soiled polythene bag.

  ‘Mind if we use your bed, madam?’

  Now she smiles casually, as if this were a familiar question.

  ‘It is at your disposal, Inspector.’

  The four-poster is a raised divan, mid-thigh-high and Skelgill does not need to bend over to empty, judiciously, the contents of the bag onto the quilted silk counterpane. But despite his best efforts, small fragments of leaf litter fall amongst the glittering ensemble.

  ‘These appear to meet the description of your missing items, madam.’

  Whatever reaction he is expecting – and perhaps he has learned not to expect the expected when it comes to Miranda Bullingdon – she still contrives to surprise him.

  ‘Ah – and where had my little darling Teddy Bear hidden them?’

  *

  ‘Sure you’re up for this? It could be a long boring wait.’

  ‘Then you need me to keep you awake, Guv. Just tell me if I talk too much.’

  Skelgill, rowing vigorously, is unable to shrug as he would naturally do – and instead pulls a kind of agonised face, at once indifferent and appreciative. After a short while, DS Jones harks back to the case.

  ‘What do you think prompted the Vholes to go to such extremes, Guv?’

  ‘Aside from insanity?’

  She smiles patiently; though they both must feel that there is some truth in his jest. Skelgill feathers his oars and holds them still in mid air. He needs a moment to recover his breath.

  ‘For all we know it’s not extreme for them �
� there might be a catalogue of sporting ‘accidents’ that need looked into. Christine Vholes’ position gave her access to the name and address of just about every keeper in the country. Okay – Melling was obviously a particularly nasty piece of work – and if the Vholes are behind Rapture, they’ve been on his case for a while. He destroyed the golden eagles’ nest in the Borders – so they put paid to his job there. Then he turns up like a bad penny to threaten the rarest birds in Cumbria, right in the Vholes’ own back yard. They’d found his Achilles heel – so they put the same plan into motion. But suddenly their mole – Stan – goes missing – presumed dead. So they see red and take matters into their own hands. Meanwhile Melling’s up to his old tricks – but he’s also feeling the pressure of the persecution – he probably wasn’t thinking straight, either. Looks like the two pots came to a boil on the same night.’

  DS Jones has listened pensively.

  ‘Do you think they planned to kill him – or, just –?’

  ‘Give him a taste of his own medicine?’ Skelgill completes the sentence. ‘Here’s what it feels like to be caught in a pole trap.’

  DS Jones nods reflectively. They both know this is unlikely to be something they will find out. But now a lighter, inquisitive note enters her voice.

  ‘Does Miranda Bullingdon always give interviews in her bedroom, Guv?’

  Skelgill grins.

  ‘Happen it’s all part of her modus operandi.’

  ‘You mentioned Julian Bullingdon – do you seriously think he knew what was going on – that he was on the trail of the jewellery?’

  Skelgill shrugs – as if he is not too worried about this point.

  ‘I reckon he could do with the windfall, for his nature projects – given his old man won’t put his hand in his pocket.’

  DS Jones nods reflectively. She decides to reserve judgement on Julian Bullingdon.

  ‘What did you think – about what she said – it being her husband? She didn’t want to explain why.’

  Skelgill chuckles ironically.

  ‘Like I said before, it’s her golden rule. Don’t tell what you don’t need to.’

  ‘Yet she named him. It sounded ridiculous that he would take the jewellery – but, when you think about it, it could have been true. I mean – to take it, knowing they’d been meeting in the boathouse – and to bury it near Keeper’s Cottage. When it came to light, it would have looked like Lawrence Melling was the thief – it provided the perfect excuse to dismiss him.’

  Skelgill makes a face that expresses some ambivalence.

  ‘On Saturday night they’d got back late from the hunt ball. She’d probably had her fill of champagne. I reckon she lit a candle in her window as a signal when she could meet. That came pretty quick – Melling had probably watched them arrive. She slipped out the scullery door and left it on the sneck. The boathouse is just a couple of minutes across the big lawn. When the you-know-what hit the fan, she made a hasty retreat. Probably forgot she’d even been wearing the stuff. Easy pickings. Perfect cover.’

  ‘Yet it didn’t stop her returning – either of them – two nights later?’

  But Skelgill turns the question back on her.

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  DS Jones briefly closes her eyes as if in contemplation of her answer, her long fair lashes suddenly more noticeable.

  ‘I suppose – when you consider that Presidents have risked their Presidencies for it.’

  Skelgill seems to suppress a sigh; it is a moment before he responds.

  ‘But I reckon she’s relieved that’s him gone.’

  ‘Lawrence Melling?’

  ‘Aye.’ He gazes rather pensively across the surface of Over Water. ‘The whole lot of them probably are, despite the manner of it. The job done by outsiders – they can get back to playing happy families.’

  There would be a temptation for Skelgill to imbue these words with sarcasm – but for whatever reason he does not feel the need to do so. After another silence, DS Jones looks at him questioningly. Now Skelgill grins in a rather boyish manner.

  ‘But – coming back to the jewellery – happen it’s just as well we can’t identify anyone that’s on that first camera – apart from my ugly mug when I took that birdbox down!’

  DS Jones correctly reads into his change of tenor something of a desire for a relaxing of confidences. She concludes she might just as well push her luck.

  ‘Guv – on the subject of people being in the wrong place at the wrong time – did you happen to think the yellow car you saw was mine?’

  Skelgill is caught unawares, and colour rises to his cheeks. But, rather than deny it, he makes an oblique admission.

  ‘I suppose you might have been doing a bit of sleuthing on the side.’

  DS Jones gives an affronted gasp – she regards him with mock reproach.

  ‘Now where would I have got the idea that that was a good thing?’

  Skelgill responds with a peculiar facial expression, but certainly one that is part sheepish. He indicates with a twist of his head their surroundings generally.

  ‘What detective worth their salt, finding themselves on the spot, isn’t going to let their curiosity get the better of them?’

  DS Jones chuckles; now she is in full flow.

  ‘I don’t suppose you saw Miranda Bullingdon throw Lawrence Melling’s boxer shorts into that lake, did you?’

  Skelgill splutters.

  ‘I wouldn’t quite go that far, lass – I’m just putting two and two together. It would be a quick way of removing any evidence of shenanigans in the boathouse.’

  DS Jones smiles knowingly.

  ‘Well, I guess we know she’s never going to admit it.’

  ‘Just like no one’s going to admit to shooting that buzzard – it’s another little unsolved mystery.’

  ‘But, Guv – surely that was Lawrence Melling?’

  Skelgill looks at her, severely for a moment, and then a rather cryptic grin spreads across his face.

  ‘That’s not where my money would be.’

  ‘Well – who, then?’

  ‘I think we’re in agreement that a good handful of folk would like to have seen the back of Lawrence Melling.’ (DS Jones nods.) ‘But if I had to guess who shot the buzzard it’s a toss up between Jack Carlops and Daphne Bullingdon. I’d say they both had it in mind to find a way to reverse a bad recruitment decision. While Rapture prefers to catch a keeper with his pants down – the good old fashioned method is to shoot his fox.’

  Though the idiom may not be entirely apposite, his colleague understands his meaning – but suddenly she cries out in alarm.

  ‘Guv!’

  She is pointing behind him.

  ‘Whoa!’

  Skelgill’s reaction is due to the fact he has not been concentrating and he suddenly realises they are drifting perilously close to Over Water’s wooded western shore, specifically the half-sunken alder he has been using as a mark; he backs the oars furiously to turn and hold the craft. The action seems to bring to an end the business aspect of their conversation. And now DS Jones refers to their present mission.

  ‘What makes you think tonight’s the night, Guv? Is it the weather?’

  She glances about; it is a sublime evening, the sun has set but twilight is still half an hour away and from a perch at the edge of Bullmire Wood a blackbird serenades them with its liquid melody.

  ‘Ground bait.’

  DS Jones frowns perplexedly.

  ‘That sounds like something the rat catcher puts down.’

  ‘It’s an angling method. You pre-bait your swim.’

  Now she plies him with a look to show she is no less confounded.

  ‘A swim – it’s the place you fish – a specific patch of water – maybe an inlet or a shady spot or a deeper section. You go in advance and chuck in some ground bait. It’s called that because it sinks to the bottom. The fish find it and like all animals they’ll return to a place they’ve found food.’

  ‘Ah �
� so you’ve pre-baited a swim?’

  Now Skelgill looks a little conflicted.

  ‘Not exactly.’ He indicates with a sweep of his arm towards the protruding alder. ‘I scopped a box of maggots overboard on Monday night. They were ready to pupate.’

  ‘So what makes you think it will work for vendace?’

  Skelgill opens his mouth to speak – but he realises he is about to say that he dreamt it – and he finds himself having to formulate another explanation.

  ‘It basically comes down to a lack of a Plan B.’

  DS Jones giggles – his artless admission is endearing, especially coming from him.

  ‘Maybe I’ll bring you luck, Guv – remember that time with the pike?’

  While they have been talking Skelgill has dropped anchor and now has nylon line gripped between his lips and cannot answer other than nod. DS Jones watches with a certain fascinated dismay as he deftly hooks a maggot and flicks it overboard. He leans and grabs a handful from the writhing box of larvae and tosses them into the water, creating a little rain-like splatter around his bright orange float.

  DS Jones appreciates that the silence that ensues is what is called for – and indeed they both begin to enjoy the tranquillity, and the simple beauty of their surroundings – albeit that Skelgill clearly has a renewed weight of expectation on his shoulders. Several minutes must have passed when DS Jones whispers urgently.

  ‘Guv, your float – it’s moving.’

  Skelgill curses under his breath.

  ‘I know – don’t worry.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s a perch. I can tell from the bite.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you do something?’

  Skelgill does not answer – but she sees that his demeanour subtly changes – he watches intently, not blinking – in fact as though despite his words he is actually seeing something that is now unfamiliar. He sits totally still, except for his right hand, which slowly winds the reel, taking up the slack in the line on the surface. Then without warning he strikes. It is not a hard strike – just a flick of his left wrist – and then he is reeling in more quickly, adjusting the rod to keep pressure on the line. There is no doubt now that he is perplexed – his eyes fixed like green lasers upon the point where the line enters the water – and he reaches without looking for his landing net and adroitly dips it beneath the swirl at the surface. He pulls in the net; his expression is agog.