‘Shall we go through? My laptop is set up in the study – in fact I’m in the middle of a project organising pictures into themed folders.’
‘Sure.’
This is a carbon copy of Inspector Skelgill’s visit – except it’s chalk and cheese, really. The inspector – dull-witted and intimidating – not good at pretending to be friendly – makes you want to back off. Emma – she’s the complete opposite – her magnetism is almost irresistible, her aura of femininity could swallow him like a dark whirlpool. She steps softly – she’s wearing stylish trainers – each movement showcases her graceful form. No, chalk and cheese is all wrong. It’s more akin to that analogy about the ridiculous and the sublime.
‘Please – have my chair.’
She ducks out of her shoulder bag – she pulls it round onto her lap and begins to unfasten the buckles. At the same time she shakes her hair – so fine and glossy – disturbed by the strap and now restored. He could do that. At least he has reason to lean in close – tap the trackpad – wake it up. Such a delicate fragrance – applied for whose benefit?
‘That’s it – the main library file – everything is in chronological order – you can see how it’s divided by the date bars. Can I give you a memory stick?’
She doesn’t recoil. She’s relaxed, taking her time. He must point out the downstairs loo – it’s freshly cleaned – they appreciate that, females. What would Inspector Skelgill’s place be like? A tip, at a guess.
‘It’s okay, thanks. We can’t accept files on flash drives or attachments by email. IT anti-virus rules. I have a portable drive and disks – if you’ve no objection to that, sir?’
He shakes his head. She could drop the “sir” – but that’s probably just her training. What now? Pull the other chair over? That’s appealing. But maybe she’ll be suspicious. Look – those slender fingers – this morning on television – their delicate movements now here before his eyes. Mesmerising.
‘Shall I leave you to it –?’ Emma almost came out there. ‘I was just preparing a bolognaise when you arrived – I ought to get it seasoned and in the oven.’
Sucking spaghetti between those full rosy lips. Red wine and candlelight.
*
Skelgill beaches his craft and in the same moment leaps from the prow onto the shingle. Given his attire he bears a small similarity to the intrepid ‘Man in Black’ from the Milk Tray adverts; he differs in that he would certainly have eaten the chocolates by now, and the lady in her boudoir would go hungry. He fastens the painter to the exposed roots of a gnarled stump and makes his way swiftly into the trees that line the shore. It is now apparent that his protective lightweight garments will facilitate speed of movement.
The rain as such does not penetrate the wood, but instead drips sporadically from the canopy, larger droplets that have him wiping his brow whenever they strike. Underfoot, the going is still dry, and he makes rapid progress, first reaching and scaling the stone perimeter wall – a momentary hiatus when midges move in – and then striking uphill in a north westerly direction. It is clear that he has a destination in mind, and no fears that he might be observed, for he makes little effort to move with stealth or in silence.
He becomes more circumspect, however, when he encounters the large clearing. He meets it on its east side, nearest to the lake; the site of the grave is to his left, back down through the oak woods in a southerly direction, while the exit gate at the dead-end of the lane is diagonally over towards the south west. For a few seconds he lingers under cover and surveys the area. He is encouraged by a handful of crows that rise silently from some murderous business; one upside of the adverse weather, it deters the casual visitor. He picks his way across the sloping fell, wading through waist-high bracken that wets his new waterproofs. He reaches the ‘clearing within the clearing’ – the circle of rabbit-cropped turf backed by the clump of gorse.
Rather curiously, the first thing he does is to sit, looking in the direction of DS Jones’s approach four days ago. Then immediately he rises, and turns about to face uphill. It is apparent that a small reconstruction is going on, and that Skelgill is now scrutinising the thick coniferous woodland fringe fifty yards off, his grey-green eyes steely, his features straining into a grimace. It is an expression he reserves for those hunting moments, when he waits for a float to bob, or a rod tip to twitch, sensing there is some interest. Now he finds his mark and sets off, rounding the gorse and keeping his gaze fixed upon a particular spot where the overhanging foliage is broken by a small shadowy slit of a window into the wood.
As he nears he takes care not to flatten the vegetation; it diminishes at the edge of the wood, and merges into a carpet of needles. He stands for a moment, squinting into the darkness of the gap, which is a rough diamond about four feet wide by eighteen inches high at its extremities. While at a distance it looks just like a natural break in the branches, close up he can see their tips have been trimmed. He backtracks several yards along the edge of the wood until he can force an entry. Once inside the going is relatively easy; scaly trunks bristle with vestigial annual rings like the spokes of busted cartwheels; little light penetrates, next to nothing grows.
Cautiously he makes his way back towards the ‘window’. It is opposite a particularly thick bole, the same tree whose upper branches sweep down to contribute to the dense woodland fringe. Skelgill recognises immediately a rudimentary seat between two buttress roots: the pine needles have been scraped up to form a raised platform that has an unnatural vertical edge. He kneels and scrapes away a little of the debris: driven into the earth is a row of wooden pegs, a miniature palisade that holds back the cushion of needles to make a level base. Carefully he restores the displaced mulch. He pulls from his backpack a concertina-fold sit-mat and spreads it upon the seat. Then he lowers himself into position – now he sees there are two heel-marks in the leaf litter – a shade short for his longer legs, but nonetheless they produce a stable stance on the downslope. He rests his right elbow on his right knee, and makes a Director’s frame with the opposing thumbs and forefingers of each hand. Directly in his makeshift viewfinder is the clearing with its little patch of gorse.
Now he closes his eyes. The picture he conjures – perhaps surprisingly – is not one that includes himself, despite his knowledge that he has stood in the line of fire. It is the autumn shot of the roebuck, framed by blurred foliage – of conifers in the foreground – undoubtedly photographed from this exact spot.
When he opens his eyes he is confronted by an equally stirring vision – and he has to blink to convince himself it is real. A woman – perhaps three or four years his senior, fortyish – tall and well proportioned and dressed in brightly coloured exercise gear has materialised in the clearing. That she is soaked to the skin appears to be of no concern to her – nor any suggestion that she may be being observed. Dark hair tied back in a severe ponytail, she bends and stretches in an uninhibited manner that leaves little to the imagination in terms of what she wears beneath the ensemble of tight-fitting yoga pants and vest top. And then – as swiftly as she has appeared – she sets off at a sprint, down and across the clearing in the direction of Derwentwater. Now Skelgill realises she is accompanied – for a graceful Weimaraner bounds after her, leaping like a dolphin from the bracken to keep her in sight.
*
She’s taking longer than he expected.
What should he do? Whereas Inspector Skelgill gave the impression that he’d leave at any moment, break off mid-conversation and up sticks and go, Detective Sergeant Jones – Emma – seems content to take her time. She must be able to smell the bolognaise cooking? The piquant aroma of oregano is all pervasive, mouth-watering. Dare he suggest she should join him? Is that what she’s waiting for? Does she cook for herself? She must be single – she wears no rings – unless she took them off for the television programme and hasn’t replaced them. And she seems to like him. She compliments him on his photography each time he goes in. And he can tell she’s impressed by the nea
tness of the cottage. Hadn’t he better check upstairs – make sure everything is shipshape, everything ready that he might need? Do it now.
He comes down – alas! – she’s standing in the hall. There’s some change in her manner. She looks anxious – and ready to go. What’s wrong with her? Has she seen a photograph that has alarmed her? One that’s slipped through the net? Or is it something else? Is it now or never – or should he bide his time? Call her another day – tell her there are more photographs that he’d forgotten about? Why is she looking at him like that? It makes his thoughts race and his head spin – how can he be calm or coherent? Wait – now she’s smiling. She likes him again. But she’s moving towards the front door. She’s thanking him. She’s trying the door. She’s realised it’s locked.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
*
From the secluded ‘hide’ above the clearing Skelgill has followed the faintest of paths, so faint in fact that at first he was not entirely convinced of its existence. If one desires to move about undetected, a pinewood is the place, for the dry carpet of needles expediently accepts few if any tracks. But to his trained eye there was a path, a line of compression caused by regular tread. And its direction stacked up. It threaded its way to the afforested summit of Harterhow and skirted the mossy cairn, a looming edifice in the twilight beneath canopy and cloud like some eerie monument to long-dead hillfolk. Thence it led him down the northern flank, whereupon reaching the edge of the plantation unfolded the present view of Marvin Morgan’s cottage.
From the back gate of the angular slate-built dwelling a dark hairline of shadow strikes up the rough pasture towards his position. He notices a distinct branch that splits off to the west, to the left as he sees it, and hugs the contour of Harterhow. It might be a dog-walking alternative – a change of scene – or a less demanding low-level route for poor weather days, avoiding the mist. Or something else? Skelgill checks his watch – he ought to be getting Harry Cobble’s boat back to him – he’ll want to lock up the marina and go home – or, correction, he’ll expect a couple of pints in return for his favour; a debt the fulfilment of which does not unduly trouble Skelgill. But what does disturb him is this new path. His mind’s-eye-map of Harterhow tells him the contour is that on which the end of the lane will be found – and the public access – maybe one third of the way anticlockwise around the hill. He plunges at a tangent into the wet bracken; Harry shall have to wait.
Sure enough, when Skelgill meets the path he finds it hugs the inside of the wall that encircles the nature reserve; ten minutes’ brisk walking brings him to within a couple of hundred yards of the gate. Now the path turns abruptly and climbs into a stand of larches that begins to run parallel to the wall, some twenty yards higher up the fellside. As soon as it enters beneath the trees it vanishes underfoot – but by now Skelgill knows what is going on. He moves watchfully along the edge of the little copse until he spies the path as it begins again, a short section that reconnects with the wall, a dozen yards short of the gate. It is a clever trick: anyone finding this path, having turned left instead of taking the more obviously trodden route to the right towards the lake, will only discover it peters out almost immediately amongst the dense conifers. The trail to Marvin Morgan’s cottage is neatly covered.
Cautiously Skelgill picks his way down to the wall. Being on the slope it is only four-and-a-half feet high on his side, but there is a drop of six on the other, to a tyre-rutted verge where there is space for three or four vehicles, provided they park close to the wall – requiring the passenger to shuffle across and exit from the driver’s side. Right now, interestingly enough, there is one parked car, apparently empty; from his elevated position Skelgill can see a pink-and-grey tracksuit on the back seat and a dog’s bed in the boot. The vehicle is a trendy hatchback; it calls to mind the athletic amazon, perhaps still braving the elements to exercise her pet. He notes the distinctive personalised plate.
Skelgill leans his elbows on a convenient sill. He is not wearing a hat and is a man that eschews a hood on the grounds that it would impair his hearing. His face is wet and his hair soaked, but he seems not to care as he rests his chin pensively upon his interlocked knuckles. Then all of a sudden he jolts and takes a couple of steps back. His questioning gaze is fixed not on the car but the flat rock upon which he has been resting. Then he notices – maybe ten feet along – another of a similar form. His glistening brow shows him to be perplexed – the copings of a dry stone wall are typically pitched at 90 degrees, like the uneven crest of some ancient reptile, or crocodile teeth. And now he sees that the turf on his side of the wall is eroded beneath the position of each horizontal slab. This is not some chance arrangement – the wall has been deliberately reshaped into a pair of comfortable stances, effectively concealed from the road – something that would suit a birdwatcher, to enable binoculars to be held steady, or a shooter with their gun... or a photographer with a camera.
12. KESWICK COFFEE SHOP – Tuesday
‘You went for a drink with him – was that wise?’
DS Jones gestures at the mugs of frothy cappuccino she has only this minute placed before them.
‘Just a coffee, Guv – I was driving.’
‘Never trust a reporter.’
Skelgill’s scathing words perhaps mask another sentiment – disapproval at the implication that had she not been driving she would have enjoyed something stronger.
‘I know he’s a bit of a Walter Mitty character, Guv – but I thought I should find out what he was doing turning up at Marvin Morgan’s cottage – if he had some information we ought to know.’ She looks at Skelgill and gently combs back her hair with the fingers of each hand. ‘Remembering what he’d said to DS Leyton.’
Skelgill is obliged to relent.
‘And does he – have something on Morgan?’
Now she shakes her head and her hair slips forward again to brush across her prominent cheekbones.
‘It wasn’t exactly that.’ She lowers her gaze – as if she is contemplating the merits of what she might say, weighed against Skelgill’s interrogative manner. ‘To be honest, Guv – I rather suspect he’d followed me. This murder’s obviously a big story for the local press – especially now we’ve been on national TV.’
Whether Skelgill notices that she has avoided answering is not entirely apparent; now a resigned expression comes upon his features. On the table he has a copy of this morning’s Westmorland Gazette. The case is not the lead news item, but nonetheless Kendall Minto’s latest piece graces the front page: “Body in the Woods: Cumbria CID Make Public Appeal on BBC CrimeTime.” Skelgill has skimmed the article. It is at least factual – when a reporter might be tempted by sensational clichés, “Baffled detectives scratch their heads” – ammunition for the likes of gunslinging DI Alec Smart. Perhaps Minto wants to stay on the right side of them – or of DS Jones, at least. And the article does not contain anything that she might have let slip to favour the local journalist – nothing about the Liverpool connection – nor thankfully is there any reference to the contentious questions he had raised at the press conference, about drug-running and dismemberment. Maybe that was all show – to get himself noticed.
‘So what happened?’
‘It was just as I was leaving, Guv. There was a knocking on the door. Hammering, really – a bit embarrassing. Especially when it turned out to be someone I knew. I wondered if Marvin Morgan suspected I’d tipped him off.’
She hesitates – pensive for a moment. Perhaps something now strikes her as odd for the first time. She had instinctively reached to open the door – lest there be more enthusiastic banging – she had assumed the postman, or a courier in their usual hurry – only to find it was locked. Marvin Morgan had darted forward, apologising that it was just his habit – something about having found an intruder in his hallway last year. The incident had become immediately subsumed in the somewhat awkward melee in which Kendall Minto had possibly feigned surprise at finding DS Jones present, and then presente
d himself to Marvin Morgan, who had declined to speak with him, though in perfectly respectful tones.
‘Kendall explained he was writing a feature about Harterhow, and that he’d heard Marvin Morgan was the local expert. Marvin Morgan said he wasn’t free – that he had to attend to his dinner. You wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to be interviewed.’
Skelgill frowns that she is on first name terms – but if she and the journo were contemporaries he can hardly expect much else. As for her account, he knows something of this. Indeed, more than he lets on. Yesterday afternoon, from the viewpoint overlooking How Cottage he had observed the second car arrive. Its driver lingered for a while – maybe ten minutes. Then, apparently, he went to the front porch – out of Skelgill’s line of sight. Shortly afterwards DS Jones and he emerged into view – Skelgill was unsure as to his identity. The pair stood beneath an overhanging yew tree to shelter from the rain. They conversed for a minute or two – their body language was relaxed, friendly. The man offered her a cigarette; she declined. And then they departed in convoy – he lost sight of them in the trees – they may have headed right for Portinscale, or gone left for the pub at Swinside – certainly no vehicles used the clear stretch of road visible beyond that.
Skelgill releases the breath he has been holding.
‘And what about Morgan – how did that go?’
‘He seems a nice guy, Guv. He was very charming. And the place was spotless, really tidy.’
Once again Skelgill is discomfited. That DS Jones – reliably perceptive (more so than he, though he wouldn’t admit it) – seems to harbour an opposing sentiment undermines his self-assurance. Is he prejudiced by the extra knowledge he possesses?
‘OCD – or whatever they call it.’
DS Jones smiles patiently – a reaction that suggests she feels Skelgill is coming from another place altogether.
Murder in the Woods (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 8) Page 11