‘How long are you on the road?’
‘April to the end of October – Water Orton’s the last horse fair of the year, down in Warwickshire – then it’s only 25 miles home.’
‘Which is?’
‘Burbage.’
Skelgill looks in need of enlightenment.
‘Aston Firs, beside the M69 in Leicestershire – it’s a permanent traveller site. I grew up there – went to the village school – some o’ the time.’
Skelgill glances at DS Jones, she is diligently taking notes – but in a shorthand that he can’t read.
‘So Miriam O’Donoghue lived with you there, as well?’
‘That’s right, Inspector.’
‘She didn’t go back after Appleby?’
‘Definitely not – the van weren’t touched – and I’d have heard if she’d been seen.’
Skelgill nods – this is something that will be easy enough to corroborate.
‘You said you’d only been together for two years?’
‘I met her at the Stow Fair – she did my reading.’
‘Your reading?’ Skelgill for a moment assumes this is some matter of illiteracy.
‘Tarot – Gypsy Rose, she called herself.’ His response is introspective – perhaps recalling that first meeting – and he seems entirely unaware that both officers stiffen at his words. He shakes his head and glances up. ‘There weren’t much of a living in it.’
Skelgill recovers quickly.
‘So she had a stall at the fairs – doing tarot readings?’
The man nods.
‘It were a tent.’
‘I assume she didn’t take that with her.’
Now William King shifts uneasily in his seat.
‘I sold it – after a couple of months, like.’ He waves a hand about appealingly. ‘It took up a lot of space, you know?’
Skelgill does not appear judgemental.
‘Did she mention that she might be meeting anyone else – other than her son?’
The man shakes his head, his expression blank.
‘What about folk she may have had connections with in the area – Keswick, Penrith, Appleby?’
The response is the same – though after a pause William King adds a proviso.
‘She told me she hadn’t seen her son for above fifteen year. She must have found out from another traveller that he were living up in the Lakes.’
‘Prior to when you met her – at Stow-on-the-Wold – where had she been?’
‘She said Ireland – that she’d not long started coming over for the English fairs.’
Skelgill nods. The early indications from their Gardaí contacts would confirm this suggestion. It appears Miriam O’Donoghue had lived alone near Galway for some time.
‘What about Liverpool – did she ever mention she knew anyone there – or who came from the area – Merseyside?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Like I say, she din’t make a habit of talking about herself. I got the impression she’d had a bad time and din’t want to be reminded of it.’
Skelgill thinks for a moment and then turns to his colleague.
‘Jones – the rings.’
DS Jones slips a photograph from her file and slides it across the scored laminate table. It is one taken of the rings worn on her hands held side by side, to show their positions. William King considers them for a moment, and then jabs a soiled index finger at the image.
‘They’ve got that the wrong way round – the Claddagh ring – I gave her that – she wore it pointing in – towards her heart.’
The detectives know enough to understand that he means the convention of showing she was in a relationship. Skelgill grimaces, but decides to spare the man the knowledge that the picture represents exactly how the rings were found upon the fingers of the dead woman. Meanwhile William King is shaking his head ruefully.
‘I wondered if she’d come back to me at Appleby this year – come back and see me, at least.’
*
DS Jones makes a small exclamation of triumph. She is interrogating her mobile phone.
‘Last year’s horse fair at Water Orton ran from 22nd to 27th of October, Guv – if William King was there, that would put him two hundred miles from Harterhow on the night of the storm.’
‘There’ll be no shortage of witnesses. Whatever you’d say about him – he makes a decent burger.’ Skelgill is still sporadically sucking at his teeth as drives. ‘Even beats that van our lot closed down beside the A66 above Keswick.’
DS Jones grins – Skelgill had made short work of his “King Size” burger and, to her relief, half of hers. But while she is ebullient he has been morose, and now he renews his grip on the steering wheel and stares grimly ahead. Paradoxically, this decisive breakthrough seems to trouble him in inverse proportion to his colleague’s burgeoning optimism. It is a minute before he makes his next utterance.
‘Forrester – so-called.’
He articulates the words as though they are a snatch of an argument that is going on within his own head. DS Jones looks sharply at him.
‘Do you not believe him, Guv?’
Skelgill shakes his head – but then contradicts the action.
‘Aye – I believe him – like he believed her. But that doesn’t mean she told him the truth. The only thing we know for sure is that she did go to Keswick, or thereabouts.’
DS Jones is frowning.
‘The problem is, Guv – if Forrester doesn’t exist –’
She stops and there is a moment’s silence until Skelgill speaks.
‘Aye. It’ll make looking for Derek Dudley seem like shooting fish in a barrel.’
Now a longer silence prevails – but DS Jones’s mind is plainly turning over.
‘She met someone, Guv.’
‘Aye. Someone who knew Harterhow.’
The exchange reaches something of a stalemate. DS Jones seems reluctant to speculate further. She has wired ahead, and already wheels are in motion to begin tracing anyone by the name of Forrester (and Forrest and other variants). Skelgill might play devil’s advocate – or simply be stubbornly anchored to deep preconceptions – but this new line of enquiry that she has driven forward offers real hope. They are homing in upon a textbook suspect: one who knew Miriam O’Donoghue; one with whom she apparently made contact shortly before her death; and one whose estrangement might underlie the motive for murder. However, she is discomfited to be at odds with her superior, and makes an attempt at conversation.
‘Heck of a coincidence about the name Rose, though, Guv.’
‘Was it?’
*
They couldn’t have found anything at How Cottage. If they had done, they’d have been down on him like a ton of bricks by now. He just has to sit it out – the wronged-but-amenable-victim-of-mistaken-identity act seems to be working. Just need to wait until they run out of time. He’s intentionally not asked them when they can hold him until – but it can’t be much longer. Anyway – how can they charge him for a crime he didn’t commit? That’s what they really want to do – but even that dimwit of a local inspector, Skelgill, must realise there’s not a shred of evidence – how can there be! As for the photographs – there’s no law against it. Though he should have deleted them off the memory card when he copied them over. That was a lapse – he must change the default to auto-delete. Luckily he’d not taken many lately – what with the body being found – he’d kept away quite a bit himself. Only the video of the two people in the car is contestable – but is it really worthwhile the police trying to prosecute him for that? There’s nothing to see.
Yes – it has been a valuable exercise – a dry run – arrested and questioned – on safe ground – but if you weren’t you can imagine now how it would feel. It needs willpower, mental stamina. And the logistical side – precautions taken at the cottage have stood up to professional scrutiny. Marvin Morgan nods and grins – yes, he’s coming through with flying colours. Now, what next to think ab
out to pass the time? How about an evening with Emma?
18. FORRESTER – Wednesday
When Skelgill makes notes it is a clear sign that he is stumped. The written word is no ally of his; at best they have shared an uneasy truce, learning not to meddle with one another. At his desk this morning it should be no surprise to the onlooker, therefore, that when he takes out a pad it is not a paragraph he writes, or a string of bullet points or a table of facts, but a strange doodle – it resembles a childishly sketched outline of a ghost. There are two eyes, offset and angled up to the right, and a mouth shaping the sound “oo”. But now the doodle acquires a wiggling flagellum top and bottom – a bacterium? Next, other lines (some continuous, some dashed) and shapes and hatched areas begin to surround it. It is only when Skelgill begins to add letters – K, P, MM, C&F, JC among others – that the meaning becomes clear. It is a map. The ‘ghost’ (or ‘bacterium’) is in fact a faithful facsimile of the shoreline of Derwentwater – the eyes and mouth its islands and the flagella the River Derwent entering and leaving the lake. “K” is for Keswick and “P” for Portinscale, and other letters represent the properties of Marvin Morgan, Messrs Coot and Fox, June Collins and so on. Crosses mark the location of the grave of Rose (and of the dog, Rebus) and the summit cairn, and various lines the perimeter wall and the network of paths he has divined on Harterhow.
After a while he begins to chew the end of his pen, staring at the map. But his eyes, rather than dart about joining the dots, seem glazed as if some kind of Magic Eye image will materialise if he waits long enough. However, the trance seems to break of its own accord and he begins to draw fish. A pike stalks a shoal of what might be roach. A trout rises for a disproportionately large daddy longlegs. A stick fisherman (Skelgill?) leans into a leaping salmon.
Somewhat capriciously he discards his pen and pushes back his chair and stalks to the window – but he only looks out for a second before returning to pick up the telephone on his desk. He dials a short code.
‘Leyton – how’s it going?’
This is not an inquiry about the sergeant’s wellbeing but a demand for news.
‘Just about finished, Guv – no sign of a Forrester.’
DS Leyton sounds despondent. Having arrived late he missed the opportunity to venture out with DS Jones in search of Forresters in the flesh, several of whom have already been identified; they must be visited if only for elimination purposes. In his stead she is accompanied by one of her DCs, a burly if surly former rugby league prop that she can rely upon in the event of a rumble. DS Leyton, meanwhile, has been assigned to the task of slogging through the list of contractors’ invoices supplied by the local council.
‘What about the repair to the gate at Harterhow – who did that?’
DS Leyton makes a strange strangulated sound that might be a protest at this typically impossible question.
‘When was it, Guv?’
‘How should I know, Leyton – within the last twelve months.’
Now there comes a pause; Skelgill can hear the turning of pages, the regular wheezy breathing of his sergeant, occasional tutting and perhaps oaths mouthed in silence.
‘There’s nothing about a gate, Guv.’
*
‘There he is – get your skates on, Leyton, he’s climbing back on his quad.’
Skelgill now abandons his colleague and swarms over the wall into the rough pasture on the downhill side of the Harterhow parking area. His object is Stanley Gill, an ancient hill farmer of moderate acquaintance, whose wife has directed them here. Skelgill lets loose a piercing whistle – simultaneously the heads of a pair of Border Collies perched on the pillion twist to look his way – the old man follows their line of sight and sees Skelgill, who raises a palm and begins to jog towards the little shepherding outfit.
DS Leyton pulls up panting a minute later, having been delayed by the combined difficulty of scaling the wall, an inspection of damaged trousers, and unsuitable footwear. Skelgill and the farmer have exchanged pleasantries. Rarely a lengthy process – this being Cumbria, where men tend to be of few words, and farmers even fewer, “Hoo’s t’gaan” just about summing it up – they are already engaged in a similarly pithy conversation. DS Leyton notices that the dogs are giving him the evil eye – their main pleasure being the nipping of sheep and strangers – and he sidles closer to Skelgill improve his odds. Meanwhile, evidently having thought at length about a question posed by Skelgill, the farmer fixes a rheumy gaze upon the spot whence they have come.
‘Yon yat? On t’other side? Aye – it were brocken – t’gale weren’t it?’
Skelgill’s eyes narrow.
‘The storm – in October?’
‘Aye – last backend. Knocked yon girt pine ower an’ all. Yowes were reet flaiten.’
He gestures with a gnarled hand towards the clump of Scots pines halfway to the wall. Skelgill sees what the farmer means – one of the trees has been snapped clean off – and of course now he realises he has seen this before – it is among Marvin Morgan’s photographs of havoc wreaked by the tempest.
‘So what fell on the gate? There’s no trees near enough.’
The farmer shrugs.
‘Mebbe some daft ha’porth int’ car – there’s plenty a’ folk wouldn’t let storm put ’em off.’ He winks at Skelgill to confirm his salacious meaning. ‘But I divvent ken who done it.’
‘Stanley – it’s who fixed it I’m trying to find out.’
‘Aye that were Norman Church frae Braythet – leastways it were one o’ his trucks – saw it mesen the next morn.’
Now Skelgill is suddenly animated.
‘Did you see who?’
‘I din’t deek – I were too busy chessin t’yowes.’
‘Norman Church.’
Skelgill is already backing away. He thanks the farmer, who seems not in the least perturbed by Skelgill’s abrupt termination of the conversation, and fires up his quad bike. DS Leyton has to scurry to keep up with his superior, and looks in constant danger of tangling his feet in a clump of rush and tumbling headlong.
‘What did we find out, Guv?’
Skelgill grins over his shoulder and picks up the pace.
‘He were chessen t’yowes – they were reet flaiten.’
*
‘Looks like someone’s here, Guv.’
‘Aye – with any luck it’ll be Norm.’
Skelgill slides to a crunching halt on the gravel of the builder’s yard, close to a grey Portakabin. The journey to the small village of Braithwaite (“Braythet”, as the farmer put it) has taken just fifteen minutes through winding back-lanes, progress that was slowed by scores of young pheasants recently released for a couple of months’ R&R before being blasted to smithereens when the shooting season begins; those that make it past the roadkill stage, that is. The compound is bordered by a tall wire security fence, and holds various neat stacks of bricks and blocks, and scaffolding planks and poles, and pyramidal heaps of sand and stones, and there is covered racking containing various types of sawn timber. A single liveried pick-up is parked in one corner, its tailgate down ready to accept some such materials. The sounds of Skelgill’s somewhat rude arrival prompt a scowling figure to appear in the open doorway of the hut. The man – a weathered-looking character in his fifties, with a closely shaven head and wearing a cement-smeared ensemble of t-shirt, cargo trousers and rigger boots – glares suspiciously, but upon recognising the car he gives a rather sardonic grin and produces for display a kettle that he is holding, before disappearing from sight.
This time Skelgill introduces DS Leyton, and they are invited for a “mash” – since Norman Church is just about to have elevenses. Skelgill knows the older man well enough. They share a common interest in fishing – and real ale – and a few minutes are spent bemoaning the unsuitability of the prevailing weather (a standard conversation among anglers, whatever the weather) and various techniques that are currently proving unsuccessful. But once they are seated with large mugs of sweet b
uilder’s tea around a makeshift table – a door laid upon a pair of sawhorses – Skelgill gets down to business.
‘It’s a bit of a long shot – but you’ll know about the body in the woods at Harterhow?’
The man nods, and for the first time there appears a hint of alarm in his thus far easy going demeanour.
‘Aye – a woman, weren’t it?’
Skelgill nods; his expression is conspiratorial.
‘We’ve identified her – she’s not from around here.’ He sinks back in his chair, and gives the impression that this is good news for them all. ‘But that’s making our job tricky.’ (The man nods over his tea.) ‘There’s a witness we’d like to trace.’
Skelgill now explains what the farmer has told them, that a ‘Norman Church’ vehicle was present for the repair of the gate. But the proprietor is looking confounded. He rises, shaking his head, and clumps over to the far end of the cabin, where a broad shelf serves as a desk. He takes down a lever-arch file from above, and begins flicking through the contents. After a minute or so he turns, the downward curve of his mouth foretelling of a negative outcome.
‘There were no such job, Skelly lad.’
‘You do work for the council.’
‘Aye – it’s our biggest contract.’
‘Could you have done it as part of another job – just included it without bothering about the admin?’
‘Aye – we could – but yours truly would have to have known about it – and the time and materials would still need booked out and invoiced.’
Skelgill dunks a digestive biscuit and expertly swallows it whole before it can disintegrate.
‘Do you recall anything? The morning after that storm.’
The man digs his shovel-like hands into his pockets and stares at the protruding steel toecaps of his scuffed rigger boots. Then he looks back at the detectives.
‘Aye – I remember that morning, right enough. We were all over at Cockermouth – flippin’ great tree fell on a school building and we had to make it safe.’
Murder in the Woods (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 8) Page 19