‘This is our chairman, Inspector.’
The second man waits rather self-importantly, as if he is expecting Skelgill to come forward and shake hands, but Skelgill simply holds his ground, creating an awkward stand-off. Indeed Skelgill stares belligerently – his appointment was with the secretary, who has apparently taken it upon himself to invite this ‘colleague’. The latter is roughly of an age with Archibald Coot – Skelgill would guess early sixties – though he presents a clear contrast in appearance: short-cropped grizzled gingery hair and beard, a stretched narrow face with pointed chin and nose, and beady brown eyes that peer from behind thick horn-rimmed spectacles. His attire, however, is of the same smart-casual genre, characteristic of the generation. Archibald Coot meanwhile begins to bow fussily from one to the other, uncertain of what to do next. Eventually he gestures with an outstretched hand by way of introduction.
‘Mr Lester Fox, Inspector.’
The taller man is immediately prompted to speak.
‘That’s L-e-s-t-e-r.’
This might almost be a reflex reaction to the sound of his name, but Skelgill only scowls – as if to suggest why should he think otherwise? However, the man seems to be anticipating some quip, and is disconcerted when it does not come. Archibald Coot makes more fussing movements, and humming sounds, and then he reaches to pat the back of a small chesterfield sofa that faces the fireplace.
‘Why don’t you have a seat, Inspector Skelgill?’
Rather than wait for Skelgill to settle he scuttles around to occupy a single chair on the left of the hearth, leaving Skelgill no option but the chesterfield. Skelgill looks disgruntled, suspecting he is being deliberately positioned where one can surreptitiously observe him whenever he addresses the other. Moreover he senses something unnatural about their manner. Neither appears to be surprised by his visit, neither has yet asked him what it is all about. And both exhibit a demeanour that he has witnessed many times in court – when the jury files back in and the accused anticipates its verdict with an expression of resigned inevitability.
Consequently Skelgill is swiftly reassessing what to tell them. As things stand the ‘murder’ has not been announced. A press conference is presently scheduled for 11am tomorrow, subject to developments as regards missing persons, and the forensic investigation. While, of course, he has no reason to suspect their involvement, there is something in the nature of his reception that cautions him about being overly candid. Rather ponderously he lowers himself into the centre of the sofa, and stares with mild interest at the tall-fronted wrought iron cup dogs that support a decorative summer pyramid of pine logs in the hearth. Then he turns casually to Lester Fox, who has now resumed his seat.
‘Yesterday afternoon on Harterhow a dog walker came across human remains.’
Lester Fox reacts with the tiniest of jolts; a tremor that would be all but imperceptible had it not found its outlet as a twitch of his feet. Skelgill’s gaze falls upon the man’s footwear – carpet slippers – curious that he has brought them along for this meeting. Almost simultaneously there is a release of breath from Archibald Coot – which he tries to disguise as a nondescript mumble. It is plain to Skelgill that both men have responded to the news with some trepidation.
Lester Fox is first to compose himself. He folds his hands upon his lap and tilts his head to one side. It strikes Skelgill as the sort of thoughtful pose he would adopt in his capacity as chairman of the committee.
‘Is this a find of archaeological significance? There are well-documented Iron Age ground formations – rock-cut ditches and artificial hut platforms, over towards Catbells.’
His accent carries the same regional brogue as that of Archibald Coot – but he takes more care with his enunciation. Skelgill glances at Archibald Coot. He is nodding enthusiastically, as though impressed by his colleague’s suggestion.
Skelgill frowns disdainfully.
‘I don’t think I’d be knocking on your door if it were. The body was buried under a year ago.’
‘Buried!’ Archibald Coot’s exclamation draws a withering look from Lester Fox. ‘Y-you mean there’s been a m-murder, Inspector?’
Skelgill folds his arms – he is irked by having to check constantly from side to side.
‘It’s looking that way.’ He glowers at each in turn. ‘You didn’t know?’
Lester Fox appears defiant. Archibald Coot is alarmed. Skelgill’s tone becomes more conciliatory.
‘You weren’t aware we’ve got a scene of crime team operating on the hill?’
Archibald Coot shakes his head with some vigour. Lester Fox remains circumspect; it is he that replies.
‘Despite our ‘professional’ involvement,’ (he makes inverted commas with long bony fingers) ‘we can’t keep abreast of everything that is going on – far from it. Our function is as much administrative as practical.’
Now Archibald Coot is nodding in agreement. Skelgill addresses him pointedly.
‘What exactly do you do?’
The secretary looks flustered, but his chairman comes to his aid.
‘Fetch a newsletter, Coot.’
The man pushes himself to his feet and obediently trots over to an antique bureau that was hidden by the door as they entered. He lowers the hinged lid – Skelgill gets a glimpse of two ranks of narrow pigeon holes, and it is from one of these that Archibald Coot extracts an item of paperwork.
‘There you go, Inspector – this is our latest issue, ready for distribution – the Summer edition.’
Skelgill accepts the proffered bulletin. He scowls rather disparagingly – a response, it appears, to the poor quality of the production – though it is merely his chronic antipathy to the printed word. Nevertheless, it is an amateurish piece – at odds with Lester Fox’s assertion – a sheet of A4 paper folded to make a rudimentary four-page A5 circular. An untrained hand has clumsily juxtaposed photographs and text, embellished with clashing typefaces for the headlines.
Skelgill turns the leaflet over in his hands, making a cursory examination. The masthead – much to his dismay – reads “Friends of Harterhow Hill” – and he hesitates grim-faced, fighting the urge to take them to task. The front page seems to comprise a clichéd reprise of Swallows and Amazons (peculiar, since Arthur Ransome’s fabulous tale was set on a fictionalised Windermere, not nearby Derwentwater). The back cover carries a section entitled, “Notes from the Chair” and is signed off by none other than “Lester Fox, BSc”. The inside spread features on the left an anonymous “Guest Article” entitled “Lakeland Legends” and on the right a “Regular Feature” entitled “Spring Bird Report” attributed to “MM”. Skelgill flaps the leaflet in the direction of Archibald Coot.
‘So how does it work – Friends of Harterhow?’ He cannot bring himself to say the superfluous word “hill”.
To his irritation it is Lester Fox that again answers.
‘In much the same way as any friends group.’
Skelgill glares at the chairman.
‘I can’t say I’m familiar with such things.’
In fact Skelgill is being more than a little disingenuous, for his mountain rescue team has a vital friends contingent, people that for various reasons cannot be active on the fells, but provide invaluable help in fundraising and at promotional events.
‘We are a registered charity.’ (Archibald Coot makes affirmative humming noises.) ‘We can advise local groups who may wish to use the Hill – we can organise guided walks, for instance – and we promote the benefits to the wider public.’
Skelgill is looking sceptical – this has the ring of a well-rehearsed homily.
‘So how would I find out about you?’
With an imperious wave of the hand, Lester Fox now passes the buck to Archibald Coot. The secretary lunges forward and jabs an index finger at the leaflet that Skelgill holds.
‘You can pick up our newsletter at various places – such as the Town Hall – and the Moot Hall, the tourist office, you know?’
Skelgil
l notices that there are miniscule beads of sweat, almost invisible, coating the translucent skin of Archibald Coot’s domed skull.
‘What about a website?’
Now Lester Fox produces a distinctly patronising laugh.
‘That would be a rather unsuitable medium for people of our target age group.’
Skelgill looks unconvinced; but it is not his job to persuade them otherwise.
‘Have you got a list of members?’
Skelgill is looking at Lester Fox, but out of the corner of his eye he detects that Archibald Coot fidgets uncomfortably. Lester Fox rests his forearms upon his thighs and entwines his fingers, leaning forward in an avuncular manner.
‘We don’t offer membership, as such, Inspector – it would be an unnecessary administrative expense – and, you see, Harterhow Local Nature Reserve is public property; being a member would not confer any special rights of access.’
Skelgill has begun to gnaw at a thumbnail and look rather bored. He seems to be arriving at the conclusion that this is a tin-pot organisation, its troopless generals – Lester Fox in particular – revelling in their pompous titles. He taps the leaflet twice with the back of his hand.
‘What about this – your bird report – who’s “MM”?’
Skelgill suspects that MM does not exist – and further that they also pen the “Guest Article” – but to his surprise, and to Lester Fox’s evident annoyance, Archibald Coot blurts out an answer.
‘That’s Marvin.’
Skelgill fixes his stare upon him.
‘Marvin.’
‘Yes, Inspector – Marvin Morgan – he’s a local birdwatcher – well, naturalist, really – he’s quite an expert.’
Skelgill puts down the leaflet on the seat cushion beside him and folds his arms.
‘And is this Mr Morgan a regular, out on the hill?’
Archibald Coot nods – but now Lester Fox interjects.
‘You might say Marvin is our eyes and ears.’
Skelgill nods distractedly – he is thinking that the “eyes and ears” has not yet reported back the presence of police on Harterhow – either that, or he has failed to notice them.
‘Is he on your committee?’
Archibald Coot, under Skelgill’s renewed scrutiny, shakes his head.
‘He publishes a blog – on the internet – with photographs and videos.’
The reply is oblique, but Skelgill joins the dots and concludes that this is the source of their information.
‘Where can I contact him?’
The men exchange glances – it could be alarm, or uncertainty – but Archibald Coot feels obliged to answer.
‘He lives at Overside – it’s very convenient for Harterhow Hill.’
Skelgill again rails at the tautology – though they must have no idea why he grimaces – they may speculate that it is stomach cramps.
‘What about a phone number?’
Archibald Coot shakes his head.
‘But it’s the only property – along the forestry track after the sharp left-hand bend. It’s called How Cottage.’
Abruptly Skelgill jumps up and strides to the door. A puzzled Archibald Coot stumbles to his feet.
‘Inspector – are you looking for the –?’
However, Skelgill seems perfectly in control.
‘We’ll need formal statements from you gents – in due course.’
Lester Fox makes no attempt to rise, and Skelgill exits the room without a farewell. By now Archibald Coot is shambling after him and catches him up at the front door. Skelgill suddenly makes an empty-handed gesture.
‘I left your leaflet.’
‘Oh dear – hold on, I shall fetch it for you, Inspector.’
The older man turns and hustles away.
The instant he is alone Skelgill picks up a small pile of envelopes from a sideboard. He leafs through them, his eyes narrowed. But when a couple of seconds later Archibald Coot emerges from the sitting room brandishing the bulletin the mail is back in its place and Skelgill is politely viewing a framed picture that hangs above the dresser. Nodding with satisfaction, he bends forward, his hands clasped behind his back in the manner of a visitor to an art gallery. It is a Victorian-style cartoon illustration, in which a fox has evidently attempted to prey upon a waterfowl – a black bird with a white bill and white frontal shield – but unsuccessfully so, for the outsmarted fox is immersed up to his nose in the millpond, while the bird – a coot – circles triumphantly.
Archibald Coot emits a rather embarrassed chuckle. Pink-cheeked, he hands over the newsletter. Skelgill absently folds it into a pocket; he scrutinises the stone-flagged floor in the immediate vicinity of the door.
‘You don’t have a dog, then?’
‘No, Inspector, we don’t.’
Skelgill gives a casual inclination of his head. Archibald Coot once more seems unnerved. He glances down the hallway, and then bows towards Skelgill. His voice is lowered.
‘Are we suspects?’
Skelgill grins.
‘No more than I am.’
With this he takes his leave. As the front door closes behind him, Skelgill cocks an ear – for raised voices begin to emanate from the thick slate walls of the quaint cottage.
6. PRESS CONFERENCE I – Wednesday
‘You’re missing the star turn, Skel.’
‘What?’
Skelgill glowers at DI Alec Smart’s jaunty approach. Skelgill is arriving via the back entrance, the way in from the car park. He lets the door swing to behind him rather than wait and hold it for his fellow inspector. DI Smart appears undaunted by Skelgill’s inhospitable manner.
‘Our Emma’s got those old hacks wrapped round her little finger.’ Now he leers salaciously. ‘Or maybe it’s the miniskirt they’re drooling over.’
Skelgill’s expression darkens. Above DI Smart’s proprietorial attitude towards DS Jones looms a more immediate cloud of doom: somehow, he is late. DI Smart plainly revels in his discomfort. Skelgill’s mouth is dry and his voice cracks as he speaks.
‘The press conference doesn’t start until eleven.’
DI Smart smirks and glances casually at his expensive wristwatch. He flashes Skelgill the sort of knowing look that says, “Nice try – but it’s obvious that you’re wrong.” Then he shrugs indifferently.
‘She was in full flow last time I looked – the Chief’s in there – and your Cockney oppo – go and see for yourself, cock – it’s standing room only.’
Skelgill glares past DI Smart, and then takes a step forwards. DI Smart occupies the centre of the narrow corridor; he sways to his right but Skelgill in the same instant veers to his left – and for a moment there is the prospect of a bout of pavement dancing – but only for a moment: Skelgill lowers a shoulder into his antagonist and barges him out of the way.
‘Sake!’
DI Smart’s protest is in vain – for Skelgill storms off without a backward glance or gesture of apology. DI Smart watches him and a cunning grin slowly spreads across his chiselled countenance. He straightens the lapels of his designer jacket and reaches inside for his cigarettes, and saunters from the building.
*
So she’s a police officer. A detective. She looks too young to be a sergeant – DS Emma Jones – that’s how she was introduced by the top brass (another woman, older, red hair tied back, and armour-piercing ice-blue eyes that show no mercy – a latter-day Boudica, hah-ha). ‘Emma’ on the other hand could almost be French, with her nicely sculpted cheekbones, strong features, shoulder-length hair that’s a kind of streaky golden honey colour. There’s not so much to see of her now they’re all seated on the stage. The TV cameras are concentrating on close-ups. But when the police filed in she caused a bit of a stir. The room went quiet – the journalists are obviously more used to characters like the overweight male officer in the ill-fitting suit.
Marvin Morgan reaches for his mug from the kitchen table and scrapes his chair nearer to the small television set on the worktop.
He keeps his gaze fixed on the screen. She’s made her opening statement and there’s about to be a Q&A – the TV crew have got a microphone on a long boom. The local radio said there was going to be an announcement – when he’d heard mention of ‘Harterhow’ his ears had pricked up. That’s why he’s tuned in. So – the body of a woman has been found. By a dog walker who is not suspected of any involvement. Buried since maybe September, they say. Caucasian. Aged about 50. Height between five foot two and five foot four. Long dark brown hair. Wore two rings on each hand. Had a lot of work done on her front teeth. Funny how they always home in on the teeth. Wait – here comes the first question.
‘How was she killed?’
‘At this stage we don’t know. However there is no indication of a trauma injury to the skull, or of broken bones.’
‘What about stabbing, strangulation?’
‘The state of decay means that any soft tissue damage will be difficult to ascertain. We are presently running tests for alien substances. There will be a comprehensive post mortem as soon as the remains can be transferred to the pathology lab.’
‘How do you know it’s not just some walker who’s sprained an ankle – had a coronary?’
This elicits a cynical murmur of agreement from the audience. But she’s not flustered, is she?
‘The body was buried in a shallow grave that entailed the cutting of tree roots.’
Now there’s a silence. Marvin Morgan licks his lips. He takes a careful sip of his tea; it is still too hot and he has to inhale simultaneously. The questions are coming from different journalists, but the director is choosing to focus upon the young female officer.
‘So it’s definitely a murder?’
‘At this stage we have to treat the death as suspicious.’
‘Aren’t there bloodstains – on the clothing?’
‘There is no clothing.’
This revelation causes a small frisson amongst the assembled reporters. The word ‘naked’ must be being hastily written on pads and tablets, added to ‘decay’ and ‘corpse’ and ‘grave’ and putative headline combinations tried out.
Murder in the Woods (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 8) Page 4