‘And to think how many times I must have walked past.’
Skelgill remains guarded, though he decides to explore the avenue this remark presents.
‘You were well off the nearest path.’
June Collins looks extravagantly puzzled by his inquiry – if she were blonde he might say dizzily.
‘Morse wouldn’t come back. He can be very naughty once he picks up a scent. I’m always terrified he’ll get stuck in a foxhole. And then what would I do?’
She stares at Skelgill and bats her long lashes rather helplessly.
‘What took you to Harterhow? Not many folk know it.’
For a fleeting second a pained look crosses her features, and there is a perceptible delay before she replies.
‘Spencer used to go there. He showed me the way. It was their favourite place – Rebus especially. Usually I don’t have time – it can be a half-hour drive in high season.’
Skelgill holds up a palm, traffic-cop fashion. She is going too fast for him.
‘Rebus? Spencer?’
Now she seems surprised – that as a senior detective he does not know all this. She turns towards him in her chair and slides one bare leg over the other; it strikes Skelgill that the rich uniform tan could be from a bottle.
‘Rebus came before Morse. Spencer was my ex-partner. They’re not with us now.’
She presents a forlorn figure, her gaze imploring. Skelgill affects sympathy, though his unforgiving countenance does not especially lend itself to the expression of such a delicate sentiment.
‘Spencer died?’
She puts a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, no – not Spencer – Rebus. Rebus passed away and so I got Morse – from the same breeder. Spencer –’ She gives a little nervous laugh. ‘Spencer left by mutual agreement.’
Skelgill looks uneasy. Absently he pats a pocket of his jacket. He did not come equipped to take a statement – indeed it is a function that falls outside his comfort zone, especially when he can call upon the competence of DS Jones – but now he senses that information of some import might overwhelm him. He opts for a diversionary tactic.
‘Unusual choice of names – I mean Rebus and Morse.’
June Collins smiles; she takes his observation as an encouragement to elaborate.
‘I’ve always loved whodunits – the way the clever detectives solve the crime.’ But now she sighs and shakes her head. ‘If only the writers didn’t give them such unpleasant personal habits. Why can’t there be a hero that you’d want to sweep you off your feet?’
She regards Skelgill rather wistfully, and his expression becomes conflicted. Perhaps just in time a little voice tells him that there might be some chicanery at play – does she flatter to deceive? In his job one never knows. He shrugs reflectively.
‘Happen it would put off male readers if the copper were too perfect.’
The woman looks a little disappointed and folds her arms.
‘That’s what Spencer used to say. He wouldn’t watch American films because he said you always knew the ending.’ A dreamy look crosses her features. ‘A happy ending.’
Skelgill makes a little cough.
‘We hope for that, too, madam.’
She shoots him a reproachful glance – aimed it seems at his use of ‘madam’. Indeed, thus far he has avoided any particular appellation, although perhaps more by circumstance than design. By the time he arrived to return the terrier, they were acquaintances of a sort, and conventional introductions largely inappropriate.
‘Please – you must call me June.’ She sees that his mug is almost empty and reaches forward and her gown gapes open momentarily. ‘Would you like some more tea? And there’s cake and a sandwich? I have a little snack ready for my guests – it’s just one couple tonight and they’re arriving late – there’s enough to go round.’
Though Skelgill remains implacable there is a glint approaching hunger in his eyes. But he steels himself and rather ostentatiously consults his wristwatch.
‘Thanks – but I need to get along.’
Indeed he begins to rise. The Lakeland Terrier, which has settled watchfully in a basket near the back door, detects the change of tempo and makes a brisk skittering lap of the tiled floor. Skelgill determinedly heads into the hallway, stepping over the eager dog, which seems to believe a caper is nigh. He lets himself out and turns to face the woman, who is hot on his heels and remembers too late that she is wearing a short dressing gown – and what might the neighbours think to see her bidding farewell to a stranger at this time of the afternoon? She withdraws to the threshold and blinks candidly at Skelgill, as though they conspire together in this scandal.
‘Someone will call round tomorrow to take a full statement – when would be convenient?’
There is something about the way she leans upon the door jamb, and then raises one bare knee across the other that causes Skelgill to look away. She smiles with satisfaction and slowly brushes a fallen strand of hair from her cheek.
‘Guests leave at ten-thirty – and the earliest arrival is five o’clock. I’ll only have one room to make up – the others are all ready and waiting – empty all day long, hah-ha.’
Skelgill is staring distractedly at the dog, which is burrowing vigorously beneath a rose bush in a corner of the small front garden.
‘Shall I have the pleasure of your company, Inspector Skelgill?’ She says his name with special emphasis, as if she is reading aloud the opening line of a crime mystery, savouring the anticipation of a literary adventure.
‘Aye, well – we’ll see how it goes, Mrs Collins – June.’
‘It’s Miss – but June is better.’
3. SKELGILL’S OFFICE – Tuesday
‘DI Smart was asking how come you were on the scene so quickly, Guv – I reckon he’s peeved you’ve got the case.’
Skelgill scowls disapprovingly at DS Leyton and folds his arms. He glances at DS Jones, who is settled in her usual seat in front of the window. ‘Happen we’d stopped for lunch nearby – and not a penny at the taxpayer’s expense.’
DS Jones grins, a little sheepishly it must seem to DS Leyton. Skelgill’s explanation is doubly holed, given the isolated location, and that the taxpayer funds not only their incidentals but also their hourly wages. However, he continues undiminished.
‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Leyton. Besides, you know Smart – give him half a chance and he’ll put some melodramatic spin on the whole thing.’
‘He reckons it’s narcotics-related, Guv – he says there’s Manchester drug lords who’ve invested in properties up here, hotels and pubs – businesses that deal in cash, just the ticket for money laundering.’
Skelgill makes an exclamation of triumph – as if this proves his point – but there comes a knock on his door, which is partially open and a young female officer from DS Jones’s team makes a nervous entrance.
‘It’s the urgent report you asked for, sir – from Dr Herdwick.’
Skelgill slumps against his chair and jerks a thumb in the direction of DS Jones. He watches in silence as the junior does as bidden, DS Jones rising to accept the delivery and congratulate her subordinate. When she has gone, Skelgill indicates to DS Leyton that he should shut the door. DS Jones meanwhile is trying to make sense of several sheets of handwritten notes, torn unceremoniously from a spiral-bound reporter’s pad. She strips off the untidy perforations and drops them into the waste bin close by. She sits calmly as she reads, her posture serene; her long lashes seem almost to brush her prominent cheekbones. After a minute she glances up at each of her colleagues and begins to recite from memory.
‘Female. Aged between 45 and 55. The body had been dismembered with a saw and cleaver. No clothing but two rings on the middle and ring fingers of each hand. Extensive dental work – expensive veneers upper and lower front teeth. The corpse has been in the ground between 6 and 9 months. Cause of death presently unknown.’
DS Leyton’s expression seems to be one of great worry – when gener
ally he is phlegmatic in the face of the unpleasantness and even horror that can be part of a policeman’s daily fare. Skelgill snorts dismissively.
‘Cheer up, Leyton – I had to breathe it in.’ He turns to DS Jones and squints to signal his discontent. ‘I know I asked Herdwick for the bare bones – I didn’t mean him to take me at my word.’
Both sergeants look doubtfully at Skelgill – it is never easy to tell if he is being flippant – but he does not invite their approval and instead kicks his chair around to glower at the map of the Lake District National Park on his wall.
DS Jones exchanges a puzzled glance with DS Leyton. She clears her throat.
‘At least there’s enough to go on – as far as missing persons are concerned?’
Skelgill remains brooding for a few moments. He speaks with his back to his subordinates.
‘Aye – put someone onto it.’
‘It’s in hand, Guv – I asked the team to keep a copy.’ She flaps the loose pages. ‘Start with local reports and then initially extend to Merseyside, Greater Manchester, Tyne and Wear, and Glasgow. Roughly two hours’ drive time. They should have a list for us before lunch.’
Skelgill makes a half revolution in his chair.
‘That could be a long list.’
DS Jones shrugs off the implied criticism.
‘I thought – in case there’s someone we don’t want to warn in advance.’
‘Don’t worry, Jones – they’ll be expecting us.’
There is a round of silence as the group – Skelgill included – consider his fatalistic prophesy. Perhaps they each put themselves in the shoes of the killer, imagining what it might be like to wake every morning to the knowledge of what they have done, and whether today will be their day of reckoning. A rap on the door: it is the police. A body has been found and they have made some connection.
DS Leyton fidgets in his seat – it is a precursor to asking a question.
‘What about the lady with the dog, Guv – can we trust her to button her lip?’
Skelgill glances at DS Jones but she is re-reading the notes.
‘She’s not the problem. It’s a public amenity – and the Cumbria Way runs along the shore. Folk are going to see us going about our business. As it is we’ve shut off the lane. We shan’t be able to keep the lid on it for long – even if we wanted to.’
DS Leyton looks glum.
‘The media are going to lap it up, Guv. Now that England’s knocked out of the World Cup. Nothing like a good murder to cheer up the country.’
His tone is flat, lacking his usual ebullient stoicism. DS Jones has raised her head and is watching him closely. Skelgill – perhaps unhappy at being reminded of the dismal showing of the national side – is somewhat dismissive.
‘There’s no saying it’s a murder, Leyton.’ For a second time in as many minutes his subordinates regard him dubiously. It is his habit to play devil’s advocate, and not always with good reason. Technically, however, he is correct: at this stage they face a case of the unauthorised disposal of a human body. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time some crank’s decided to give their other half a natural burial.’
DS Leyton objects.
‘But chopping ’em up, Guv – that’s taking it to another level.’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘All I’m saying, Leyton, is without the cause of death, we’re shooting in the dark.’
DS Jones holds up the sheaf of pages.
‘Dr Herdwick’s still on site, Guv – that’s where he wrote these. His assistant has added a note – they’re sifting all the soil around the remains before they excavate them fully. They’re hopeful that once they can conduct a proper examination in the lab the cause of death will become apparent.’
Skelgill rubs his hands together impatiently – although his subordinates recognise the gesture as one that often precedes a request for a cup of tea.
4. HARTERHOW
‘I should have brought the Kelly. I’m parched.’
‘Maybe that would have been pushing our luck, Guv?’
Skelgill grins wryly. The gravity of the discovery has enabled a certain amount of glossing over of the nature of their presence here yesterday. Skelgill glances up; from a bough overhead a woodpigeon coos, a timeless five-note incantation that evokes his youth and tells him there is a nest nearby, an improbably frail platform of brittle twigs that will support two pearly white eggs, sought after by squirrels and schoolboys.
‘We’ll stop in the café at Portinscale – if we time it right we can meet Leyton there.’
‘They’ll have to make some provision for the scene of crime unit, Guv.’
He pulls a disparaging face. DS Jones refers to the fact that the team assembled to work in the wood – a group that includes anthropologists, archaeologists and pathologists – will require sustenance and supplies, a service of which they can avail themselves. Indeed a small, tented village has sprung up, at its hub a translucent-sided gazebo that has been erected over the remains to provide shelter from the elements, and prying eyes. At the moment the weather is set fair, and it is the intention that the field operation will continue around the clock in order as soon as possible to extract whatever clues the ground will yield.
Skelgill stops to consult the large scale Ordnance Survey map he has folded into a clear plastic carrying case (though he declines to wear it on its strap around his neck, should he appear to be a novice walker). Having visited the grave – where progress is painstakingly slow – he has led DS Jones up through the oak woodland, past the site of their ‘lunch break’, and into the pinewood above. Harterhow is a modestly sized domed hill that stands proud to the west of Derwentwater. Designated as a ‘Local Nature Reserve’ by Keswick Town Council it is a peculiar hotchpotch of natural and manmade habitat (the oak representing the former, the pine the latter) that fell into council ownership shortly after the Great War. Public access is not easy – just a winding single-track lane, a no through road that deters most drivers for fear of meeting a vehicle coming back the other way; it is a lonely terminus occasionally frequented by courting couples. Formerly common land, it was enclosed during the 16th century, thence a substantial dry-stone boundary wall has seen to it that random passers-by do not encroach, assuming it to be private property. A further discouragement to visitors is now becoming apparent to DS Jones, as she tracks Skelgill’s uncharacteristically hesitant upward progress: the summit is swathed in Norway spruce; not only are there no paths to the top, but once there, no views are to be had.
‘Do you know this area, Guv?’
‘Knocked around here a bit as a bairn – once in a blue moon nowadays – the occasional short cut.’ He pauses and scowls suspiciously at a semi circle of white-speckled red fungi that sprout from the barren forest floor. ‘It’s a decent spot to exercise a dog – what with the wall, and there being no sheep. Happen I should come more often.’
‘It seems very quiet, Guv.’
Skelgill nods.
‘Can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone here.’ He gestures with the map – ahead of them through the trees is a shadowy stone cairn, supporting tufts of moss and draped in straggling silvery lichen. Such crowning features are normally exposed, blasted by the elements and constantly rearranged by walkers who add gratuitously to their bulk; this one has the look of long abandonment. ‘Harterhow’s only 907 foot – doesn’t attract the top-baggers – it’s not on any of the lists – most are a thousand foot and above.’
DS Jones grins – she comprehends but is nevertheless amused by man’s habit of collecting – mainly man’s. From matchbox lids to electric guitars, from garden gnomes to romantic conquests, it is a trait expressed in hill country by what can become obsessive summiting, though in Skelgill’s oft-voiced opinion at the expense of enjoying the surroundings. In Scotland exponents are referred to as Munro-baggers; in Lakeland there is a popular list of 214 peaks known as the Wainwrights (after Skelgill’s revered draughtsman and biographer of the fells) – only one of whic
h, Castle Crag, is below a thousand feet. DS Jones is further entertained by Skelgill’s dogged insistence upon imperial units – though when pressed he stoutly defends them against an ill-informed foreign bureaucracy that imposes metric measures which bear no practical relation to human proportions.
‘Think it’ll be a dog owner, Guv?’
Skelgill turns sharply. Her question is perspicacious; she means the killer. He does not reply, but glances about – he seeks a spot to sit, and indicates what are natural ‘armchairs’ formed by the buttress roots of a great conifer, their ‘cushions’ dry pads of browned fallen needles. He lowers himself and waits for DS Jones to take the seat beside him; she is more cautious, though the needles are deceptively accommodating. There is no view of course; just ranks of scaly trunks, flaking pillars that descend the shady fellside. Beneath the canopy the air is warm and still, birdsong becalmed; flies hover, spotlighted in shafts of sunlight, tiny angels that populate the woodland cathedral, the infinitesimal beating of their wings perhaps contributing in a minute way to its background sibilance. At last Skelgill responds, if obliquely.
‘Why would you put a body anywhere?’
DS Jones widens her eyes as though she is trying to get them accustomed to the dappled light.
‘So it couldn’t be found?’
Skelgill nods.
‘Seems like it, doesn’t it.’
‘The rings?’
He nods again.
‘It means if we identify the body we find the murderer.’
DS Jones is pensive.
‘It’s curious, Guv. He – or she – has had time to plan the disposal – the dismemberment – the location – you think they’d remove a clue like that. Why stop at chopping off the arms?’
Skelgill grimaces. He pictures a dank garage, a mould-ridden bathroom – an abattoir – was it a bloody scene? But his original thought prevails. If no one finds the corpse, then it doesn’t matter. The dismemberment was simply a case of practicality.
Murder in the Woods (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 8) Page 2