Murder in the Woods (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 8)

by Bruce Beckham

Skelgill’s remark is patently fatuous, and the older woman regards him good-naturedly, as a schoolmistress might a former pupil.

  ‘I suppose there must, Inspector.’

  Now Skelgill appears to be at a loss for what to ask next. He casts about rather aimlessly, and then claps his hands and rubs them together. It is more a gesture of finishing the interview – but if Lorraine Debitson begins to relax her guard she is disappointed, for he finds a new angle.

  ‘What was Mr Morgan like as a boss? He was a good bit older than you – that can sometimes be awkward – for an attractive woman in your position.’

  In her reaction there is something of the snail that suddenly retracts its tentacles – but when it determines that the threat is not existential, the little eyes on stalks reappear. Perhaps Skelgill’s flattery engenders an unaccustomed frisson that prevails over her former allegiances. Still, her response is somewhat oblique.

  ‘The age difference – I think it’s about seven years – that’s nothing to speak of.’

  Skelgill appears content with this analysis.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘He was unmarried.’

  It is a counter-intuitive remark. Is she trying to tell him there is another reason why Marvin Morgan would not have had her in his sights? Skelgill shrugs casually.

  ‘Happen being single just suits some folk. More time for your hobbies – the likes of birdwatching.’

  Lorraine Debitson folds her arms, her lips compressed. She looks like she may be trying to make up her mind about whether to open up. Again, Skelgill simply waits; he rarely suffers labour pains during a pregnant pause.

  ‘He did work very long hours. I would sometimes see the lights on in here – when I was passing on the bus home from Liverpool – late in the evenings and at weekends.’

  Skelgill can sense there is something she wants to say, but is perhaps reluctant to make a direct accusation. He provides a possible option.

  ‘Could he have been involved with another member of staff? Working late so he could be here alone with them? Pulling rank, even?’

  ‘Honestly, Inspector, I’m sure his conduct was very proper in that regard. I should say he set a good example – against any kind of exploitation. No, it’s not that.’

  She seems determined on this point – yet the implied alternative in her final phrase invites interrogation.

  ‘So there was something?’

  She makes a little cough and strikes again the dignified pose with arms stretched before her and hands clasped upon her knees.

  ‘I suppose – it is of a similar nature – a personal issue.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Well, just that – on occasion when I used to get in – I was always first in the mornings – I liked to have the mail organised and on everyone’s desk before they arrived – and – well – it was the telescope, actually.’

  Skelgill does not speak but bows his head in encouragement. She indicates with a raised hand towards the north-facing windows.

  ‘It would be pointing across at the block of flats.’

  *

  ‘Sorry those calls took a bit longer than I expected, Guv.’

  ‘You didn’t miss much.’

  ‘Typical accountant, eh?’

  ‘Apparently she’s a bookkeeper.’

  DS Leyton postpones any response. He has become preoccupied with navigating the surging cataract that is Switch Island. Growling under his breath, he exchanges profanities with fellow motorists, they blithely unaware either that he is a policeman or that he cut his teeth on London’s mean streets, and has little grasp of the concept of giving way.

  ‘They’re all the same to me, Guv.’

  Skelgill does not reply, and DS Leyton falls silent; indeed his features drain of determination now that he has attained the calm waters of the motorway. He yawns profusely – but then this seems to shock him back into an appreciation that he ought to be more attentive to his superior.

  ‘Did she shine any light on Marvin Morgan, Guv?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Skelgill is staring penetratingly ahead, his eyes narrowed. They are rapidly overhauling a bright maroon HGV with the words “Bargain Booze” painted in great letters on its rear end. As they overtake, he reads the advertising slogan liveried upon the flank, “Making Life Richer... For The Pourer”. He grimaces – it might be a distressed smile elicited by the corny strapline – but perhaps the garishly decorated vehicle neatly conflates the two-pronged conundrum that occupies his thoughts: Derek Dudley and his non-existent occupation as a lorry driver; Marvin Morgan and his extant proclivity for surveillance. ‘Aye, happen she did.’

  There is such a long pause between the two parts of Skelgill’s answer that DS Leyton seems to have forgotten what they were talking about.

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  But now Skelgill is no more forthcoming, and DS Leyton, making a series of faces as if some little battle for precedence is going on among his thoughts, finally volunteers a new starter conversation.

  ‘Well – there’s good news and bad news, Guv.’

  Skelgill folds his arms. In his book, this ostensibly even-handed cliché only ever spells doom – a token spoonful of good news to sweeten the bitter pill of the bad.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘DS Jones reckons we’ll have a picture of Rose by Monday morning. She says she’s seen what they can do and it’s going to look like a real photo. She was asking whether you want her to organise a press conference?’

  Skelgill is not enthused. At the mention of such, a cascade of images crosses his mind’s eye: DS Jones under the maternal wing of the Chief; the cynical pack of hacks – Kendall Minto’s boyish features bobbing in the sea of faces; his own discomfort, tongue-tied when a cutting riposte is called for. It is half a minute before he responds.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ He rubs vigorously at one eye as if he is trying to subdue a nervous tic. ‘What’s the bad news?’

  ‘Oh – well, Guv – it’s not like it’s a disaster – just the CrimeTime leads – no joy so far and they’re dropping off one by one. There’s still a few to go at.’ He sighs. ‘If only it were a geezer in that grave in the woods – we’d know it were Derek Dudley.’

  Skelgill begins gnawing at a recalcitrant thumbnail, a habitual clue to growing frustration. After a while he spits an imaginary splinter and slumps back in his seat.

  ‘What makes you say that, Leyton?’

  DS Leyton blinks several times, seemingly surprised that he is called upon to justify his logic. He sticks out his bottom lip as a launchpad for his thoughts.

  ‘He’s vanished off the face of the planet, Guv. His mobile was a prepay type – not used since the beginning of November. We know he walked the dog in those woods. He disappeared about the right time – going by your idea about the storm. And if either of those women had discovered what tricks he was up to with the other – wallop – who knows?’

  Skelgill now makes his sergeant suffer another long silence. Eventually, between gritted teeth, he utters a quiet pronouncement.

  ‘It’s time we grabbed this case by the scruff of the neck, Leyton.’

  ‘Righto, Guv.’

  DS Leyton’s tone – rich with manufactured enthusiasm – tells he has absolutely no idea what his superior has in mind. Moreover, his body language reveals a degree of trepidation that is not without foundation.

  ‘How are you fixed tonight?’

  DS Leyton looks suddenly downcast. He swallows. It takes him a moment to summon a response.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – the missus has been a bit under the weather lately. She had a check-up first thing this morning, down at the Doc’s – he wants her to go in overnight to the hospital – so they can run a few tests – monitor her vital signs – whatever. It means I’d have to pick up the nippers from school, and get ’em fed and bathed and put to bed. It’s tricky finding a sitter at short notice – plus they want danger money.’

  Skelgill appears more disapproving than sympathetic.

 
‘Friday’s probably better, anyway.’

  14. NIGHT OWL – Friday

  A killer might keep returning to the scene to make sure the body has not been discovered. Once it has been found, their approach may change. They might be irresistibly drawn – but then they have the excuse of publicity. They might be compelled to see what the police are doing. They may think that by going there and acting casually they can actually make themselves seem less like a suspect. However a member of the public, who simply frequents the same vicinity for innocent reason, might exhibit exactly the same behaviour.

  *

  It’s Suzie. After dark – and that’s not a dog in the car!

  Marvin Morgan feels the thump of his heart as he stretches for a better view – the sleek hot-hatch with the SUZ registration plate. Rather inconveniently she has parked midway between his stances. Is this the best angle – with a view into the back, or should he move along and try from the front? Stay put – they’re less likely to look out of the rear window. There’s a faint greenish glow from the sound system display. Seems like they’ve reclined the seats. It’s a cold night – they must want the heater on – the purr of the engine was audible as he approached. Better get moving – before the windows mist up – hah!

  He slithers cautiously to his knees. Not that they’ll hear him – not over the sound of the music and the engine. But he likes the way his soft shooting coat does not even make a rustle. He snaps open his folding step-stool – always comes in handy for extra reach – and pushes it against the foot of the wall. Then he shrugs off his rucksack and delves for his equipment. His camera is fitted with the night-vision scope – just need to feed the object lens through the elasticated aperture in the home-made hood – can’t have his eager face lit up like a transfixed teenager watching illicit videos.

  He pulls the black cloth over his head; now he has to feel his way. Brace with one hand against the cold stone of the wall; step up gingerly. Slide the elbows forward over the flat slab; make sure everything is steady. Now he’s poised like a Victorian photographer – they enjoyed a peep show back in the day!

  Should he record first? Or just try for a couple of stills? Start with live action – he can always cut in – or take a screenshot from the video later.

  A waxing gibbous moon is sailing above the mountains in the south – its reflection is flaring off the curved glass of the windows. Wait – something is taking shape – they seem to be embracing – and fully clothed – but that won’t stop them – not if Suzie’s wearing that little miniskirt she goes home in after the gym. That must be where’s she’s come from – perhaps it’s one of the instructors? Whoever it is, he seems to be raising a blanket to cover them.

  Marvin closes his eyes. Imagine what it’s like. The adrenaline. The suffocation. The abandonment. He feels it! He’s floating! Upwards – his feet leave the step – and backwards – he hits the ground – he’s winded – a blow upon the turf to the back of his head – strong arms have him pinioned – the hood is ripped away – there are stars – and shadowy faces – and harsh voices – they’re saying “police” and “arrest” and “caution” – imperfect perceptions that fade into oblivion.

  *

  ‘Think he’s okay, Guv? He still seemed a bit groggy when they took him away.’

  ‘Nowt a night in the cells won’t cure.’

  DS Leyton makes a face of affected concern.

  ‘We put him down a bit quick, Guv – he kind of floated out of my grip for a second.’

  ‘Aye – young Dodd’s a strong lad, Leyton – farming stock from Matterdale.’

  Ambulance headlights now illuminate DS Leyton’s face and cause him to squint. The vehicle, in which the uniformed constable and a paramedic accompany a handcuffed Marvin Morgan, is too large to turn safely in the narrow lane, and reverses steadily out of sight, its blue light eerily strobing surrounding trees. DS Leyton has ditched his regular lounge suit and city shoes in favour of a more robust outfit, jeans and a leather jacket, better cast for concealment and ambush. DS Jones, on the other hand, stands beside Skelgill with a woollen blanket draped about her bare shoulders, and is beginning to shiver. Skelgill flaps a hand towards the car, the borrowed decoy from which they tumbled upon receiving the signal that their colleagues had moved in to apprehend Marvin Morgan.

  ‘Better get this motor back to the owner.’

  ‘Want me to take it, Guv?’

  Skelgill glances thoughtfully at DS Jones. Darkness has enfolded them now, the ambulance must have turned, and is being followed by a squad car, their headlamp beams bumping and twisting into the night. Only the moonlight remains; does he imagine the flush in her cheeks; her breathing still fast and shallow?

  ‘Go with Leyton – get warm. I’ll drop it off – the lady lives just beside The Queens Head – Woody’s normally there for last orders – I’ve got a rod of his in the garage that I’ve fixed for him – he owes me a lift.’

  DS Leyton nods – though DS Jones looks rather forlorn.

  ‘What about searching the cottage, Guv?’

  Skelgill jangles keys in his pocket.

  ‘It can wait till the morning. Leyton – you got the rest of his gear?’

  DS Leyton makes a quarter turn at the waist to reveal that he has a rucksack slung on one shoulder.

  ‘Reckon he brought everything in this bag, Guv – just need to grab that little aluminium stepladder. I asked Dodd to come back early doors – have a scout round – just in case he’s flung something else we didn’t see.’

  Skelgill is progressively edging towards the hatchback. He seems eager to depart, and climbs in. Not bothering to raise the back of the driver’s seat, he makes a lurching three-point turn, each time approaching perilously close to the opposing walls of the lane. He lowers the electric window and looks briefly to his subordinates. He grins a little crazily, baring his teeth.

  ‘Reet, I’ll sithee.’

  *

  Marvin Morgan’s cottage stands shadowy in the moonlight that filters through surrounding trees. Skelgill stops the car a few yards short and steps out into the coolness of the night. The pungent scent of honeysuckle hangs heavy in the still air. A moth brushes past his face on its way to the stars. As he reaches the porch an overhead security light comes on. He pulls the bunch of keys from his pocket; there are five, two mortise keys and three smaller ones. He contemplates them for a moment, before selecting – correctly – one of the mortise keys and unlocking the front door. He opens it just wide enough to slip through sideways.

  Roughly three minutes later he emerges. He is empty handed but for a length of cord – but as he steps away from the door its purpose becomes clear – for attached to the end is Marvin Morgan’s dog, the chocolate doodle – which trots eagerly beside him, anticipating a walk. However, when Skelgill opens the passenger door of the car, with equanimity it adjusts its priorities and jumps in. Good deed half done, Skelgill pauses to think. Will Suzanne Symington still be up at this hour? Will she be alone and wary of his knock? And how will she react to his entreaty for bed and breakfast? (Of the canine variety, of course.)

  15. HOW COTTAGE – Saturday

  ‘How did you know he’d be playing at Peeping Tom, Guv?’

  ‘If I’m honest, Jones – it was a shot in the dark.’ Skelgill swivels to face his colleague. ‘But let’s just say I’ve been doing a bit of peeping of my own.’

  He does not expand, and sighs and slumps back into Marvin Morgan’s comfortable sprung chair; DS Jones is balanced beside him on the ash stool. They have been interrogating the former’s laptop – not, it must be said, with any significant results. There are hundreds of photographs of various forms of local wildlife – but this is no more than they have already witnessed. DS Jones, competent when it comes to modern technology, is confounded. There is an internet browser – but no indication of an email account – or any history that would lead to one of the big providers – just a link to his blog saved as a bookmark. And there are no archived files of any kind.
On the face of it, Marvin Morgan uses the laptop exclusively for storing his photographs, editing, and uploading onto his blog.

  DS Jones looks about, at the trophies and books arranged with precision around the cosy study. Skelgill leans an elbow on the arm of the chair, and supports the side of his head on his palm. He regards her casually as she apparently mulls over their predicament. She is quite strikingly dressed this morning, lithe-limbed in a short skirt in soft clingy material and a close-fitting top, and there is surely more make-up than her usual discreet ration – it had prompted him to joke whether she had an interview – a rather clumsy backhanded compliment, she had assumed. Now she bites one side of her bottom lip in a gesture of mild frustration.

  ‘I never got an inkling that he might be so inclined, Guv.’

  ‘What – he didn’t ask you to pose for him?’

  She flashes a diffident glance at Skelgill and quickly looks away; however her rejoinder sounds intentionally coy.

  ‘Maybe, Guv.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  Skelgill’s retort is swift, and he keeps a straight face – and now DS Jones frowns with affected annoyance – but at this moment a forensic officer peremptorily interjects – he arrives to inform them he has identified two of the three smaller keys – padlocks on the garage and tool shed – but that one remains unaccounted for. The loft has been inspected but there is nothing of note. He leaves and a moment’s silence prevails. When DS Jones is first to speak, it seems she is keen to return to the subject of last night.

  ‘Since we had a blanket, does that go down as an undercover operation, Guv?’

  She suppresses a half-laugh, and Skelgill grins.

  ‘Keep it quiet – else everyone will want a turn.’

  DS Jones looks at Skelgill with a strange light in her eyes – but now his gaze is fixed resolutely on the laptop, for the screensaver has triggered and images of Harterhow are beginning to dissolve one into another. She offers a prompt.