Skelgill has not yet touched his coffee.
‘I’d like to know if he’s deleted any since I saw them. Did you get the one of the snapped-off pine?’
She nods. ‘There were several shots featuring storm damage.’
‘And what about the date?’
‘Sure enough it’s the 26th of October. The image files have data labels – in fact his photos application displays them by date.’
‘So it confirms he was on Harterhow the next day. What about the 25th?’
She shakes her head.
‘Naturally I didn’t ask him directly. He admits he goes out every day – with his dog – but that if the weather’s bad he doesn’t walk far – and there’s not always something to photograph. If you look at his blog, he only posts items once or twice a week.’
Skelgill regards her doubtingly, and then more aimlessly he casts about the café. That she does not share his suspicions regarding Marvin Morgan is perhaps the cost of his taciturnity. She does not even know why he had instructed her to confirm by text Marvin Morgan’s presence at the cottage. Skelgill checks his watch.
‘Where the heck’s Leyton got to?’
DS Jones seems a little guarded.
‘I think he’s calling back to see June Collins this morning – there was some domestic problem yesterday afternoon. I gather he tried to see her in the evening – but she was busy with her guests.’
Skelgill ferociously stirs the froth into his coffee.
‘I’m getting a bit worried about his commitment lately.’
DS Jones hesitates to reply and is saved from doing so when a panting DS Leyton bursts through the café door, and peers blindly into the gloom, plainly thinking he has missed his colleagues. It takes a shrill whistle from Skelgill – to the consternation of several elderly hearing-aid-wearing patrons – to orientate the poor sergeant, who apologetically squeezes his perspiring bulk between occupied tables to reach them at the back of the room. He recognises Skelgill’s patent disenchantment.
‘Got the photo, Guv – Spencer Fazakerley.’ He brandishes his mobile phone. ‘I got her to forward it to me. Have a butcher’s, Guv – I’ll get you a top-up. Emma?’
Despite that Skelgill has barely touched his coffee – and that DS Jones flashes him a smile and gives a shake of the head – DS Leyton makes a diplomatic retreat to the serving counter, apologising once more to the only-just-settled senior citizens. It is a couple of minutes before he returns, and when he does – with two coffees and an Eccles cake, which he has bought as a peace offering for his superior (“Don’t mind if I do, Leyton”) – Skelgill is still examining the photograph. A composition taken from the waist up, it shows what might be a tallish man, gaunt, with lank brown hair, long cadaverous features and dark sunken eyes. By contrast the backdrop is a summery garden, a blur of blue and white delphiniums. The man has his bony hands pressed upon the handle of a spade or fork, and is looking up with an expression that suggests he has been surprised by the photographer – presumably June Collins – indeed there might be an element of protest in the shape of his mouth, and the beginnings of an objection in the cast of his eyes.
‘Recognise him, Guv?’
Skelgill is chewing pensively.
‘Aye.’
‘Really, Guv?’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘Aye – I’ve seen him before.’ But now he gives a dismissive flap of a hand. ‘Couldn’t tell you where.’
‘Maybe walking the dog, Guv?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘There’s hundreds of folk hereabouts I’d know by sight, Leyton. Work in bars, tackle shops, Post Office – folk you pass in the street with their paper or their chips – on the fells, fishing.’
‘June Collins reckons he’d be 40 in that photo, Guv – she said she took it not so long after he moved in. That would make him 44 now. He don’t seem her type, really – I’d have expected someone a bit more suave-looking.’
Skelgill considers this proposition, but then his mind moves on.
‘Any paperwork?’
‘Not a scrap, Guv – no mail – nothing.’ DS Leyton’s jowls droop in a hangdog manner, as if he feels this is an oversight that could be attributed to him. ‘I asked her if she’d cleared it out – thrown it away – but she reckons he didn’t get any post. He told her he had no family to speak of – never married, only child, parents dead – and that he did all his banking and whatnot online.’
Skelgill becomes introspective – he is reminded of his own sparse mailbox – and that this morning Cleopatra got to his Angling Times before he did.
‘What about junk mail – how do you avoid that?’
‘I wish I knew, Guv – but it seems he did.’
DS Jones has been spooning froth from her coffee; now she speaks up.
‘He must have another address. If he were employed as he’d told June Collins, the Revenue would correspond with him. There’s also DVLA – if he worked as a truck driver there’d be a correspondence address relating to his licence – as well as tax for his private vehicle.’
The others are nodding. It fits what they now suspect about his name being false – and the idea of an address in Liverpool.
‘Didn’t you say June Collins told us he was away three or four days most weeks?’
DS Leyton nods.
‘Reckon she just took him at his word – suppose she had no reason to believe otherwise.’
Skelgill is scowling. His contribution is more cynical.
‘Happen it suited her to believe it, Leyton. Ask no questions, tell no lies.’ He looks again at the photograph on DS Leyton’s mobile. ‘Is that the best she’s got?’
‘She says it’s all she’s got, Guv.’
Skelgill passes over the handset.
‘Figures, eh? Better send it to your Scouse oppo.’
‘Done it, Guv – he’s going out on the knocker around Spencer Avenue – teatime today, when most folk are home.’
Skelgill leans back – he and DS Jones share a boxy leather-upholstered settee tucked into an alcove, but its seat cushions are too deep and he would have to sprawl excessively, so he is forced to sit upright again.
‘And what else from the lovely June?’
Now DS Leyton inhales – abruptly – as if he has remembered something – and indeed he raises a palm to indicate there is some important matter before he can move on.
First off, Guv – here’s a strange thing. That Lester Fox.’
‘Aye?’
‘I called on him and his sidekick yesterday afternoon – like we’d agreed?’ (Skelgill is nodding, impatiently.) ‘Well, Guv – Fox is only the geezer I’d seen at June Collins’ guesthouse last Tuesday – the one she told me was a visitor that had arrived early.’
Skelgill contorts his features as though he doubts his sergeant.
‘Straight up, Guv – you can’t miss a queer-looking cove like that.’
Skelgill considers this proposition; certainly Lester Fox is of distinctive appearance.
‘So what was his explanation?’
Now DS Leyton looks alarmed.
‘I didn’t ask him, Guv.’
Skelgill’s frown deepens.
‘Why not?’
‘He didn’t recognise me, Guv. I thought it was better to keep my powder dry. I mean you never know –’
Skelgill interrupts.
‘Hold your horses, Leyton – what do you mean he didn’t recognise you?’
‘At June Collins’ place, Guv – when she let him in, I was further back down the hallway, it was a bit shadowy, and he never actually looked at me. I think he realised someone was there – he was acting a bit embarrassed, like. She said something about just finishing off an inspection. I assumed she didn’t want to mention the police to a guest – fair enough. She sort of bundled him into the lounge with his case. He went in without any protest. It seemed a bit odd at the time.’ Now DS Leyton leans forward across the table, at least as far as his long-suffering belt will permit.
‘And another thing, Guv – she called him Mr Smith.’
DS Leyton looks inquiringly at his colleagues as they take in this curious fact. He may rather be hoping that Skelgill doesn’t ask why he has waited until this morning to impart this news. However, it is DS Jones who is first to offer a response.
‘We know they’re indirectly connected through Harterhow – maybe she’s a member of their friends group?
Skelgill pulls a disdainful face.
‘Doesn’t explain why she pretended he was a paying customer. And what was he doing with a suitcase?’
DS Leyton shrugs.
‘I suppose it’ll be easy enough to find out – they can hardly deny I saw him.’
Skelgill looks irritated – that this is another twist in the tail – and quite likely a diversion that may waste their time. He eats the last of his Eccles cake and gazes searchingly across at the counter as though he might fancy another.
‘Sit on it for now. Remember which investigation we’re conducting – else we’ll be up one garden path and down another.’
DS Leyton appears a little crestfallen. However he pulls out his notebook and offers to press on.
‘Shall I finish on June Collins – and then the committee men?’
Skelgill nods.
‘She can’t remember the exact date Spencer Fazakerley left – she thinks early November, definitely after Halloween. She said it drove him crackers kids knocking on the door – this American trick-or-treat malarkey they do nowadays – he insisted they put all the lights out and pretended they weren’t in – she’d wanted to get into the spirit of it – her to dress up as a vampire and him as Frankenstein.’
While DS Jones’s eyes register a little sparkle at this suggestion, Skelgill is looking like he is firmly in the lights out camp. DS Leyton continues.
‘Seems the geezer didn’t talk about his past and she was happy to let sleeping dogs lie. He palmed her a generous wedge every week for food and bills.’ The sergeant performs the action, passing an imaginary wad of cash out of the side of one hand. ‘Lived a quiet life – told her he needed to take it easy because the HGV driving exhausted him. He’d spend a lot of time during the day taking the dog for walks. And at night he used to stay in and watch the telly.’
‘And what about them splitting up?’
‘She’s still being cagey about that, Guv – I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to tie the knot and he weren’t having none of it. She said he’d mentioned going away for a while – getting a job delivering on the continent. But I don’t reckon they ever actually sat down and said “right, that’s it over” – like I said before, I think he just did one and she don’t want to admit it. He left behind some clothes – she’s saying that’s because he was hedging his bets – but it don’t exactly fit with there being some clear arrangement between ’em.’
‘Any trouble that she knew of?’
DS Leyton shakes his head.
What about neighbours?’
Now he nods.
‘One side’s a holiday home – no one there. There’s an old bird on the other – she was in. Said he kept to himself – would say hello but wasn’t one for a chat – said he was polite enough. With them being terraced properties and the car parking at the back – folk can come and go without the neighbours noticing. She said he took the dog regular – early morning and late at night on the street. But she can’t be that observant – she didn’t know he’d slung his hook.’
‘Got the details of the car?’
‘Silver, Guv.’
Skelgill stares with exaggerated patience. DS Leyton hunches his shoulders.
‘It’s all June Collins can remember. Might have been Japanese.’
‘That narrows it down.’ Skelgill makes a scoffing sound. ‘It went when he left?’
‘She thinks so.’ Rather in the style of Stan Laurel, DS Leyton plucks at his thick dark hair. It might be for effect, or it could be an unwitting gesture. ‘She’s quite scatterbrained, eh, Guv? It’s not easy to get sense out of all that hair and nails and make up. Then there’s the dressing gown – bit off-putting – seems every time I call she’s been having a shower. No wonder she’s as thin as a rake.’
DS Jones is amused, but Skelgill remains brooding on this point. It is a few moments before he speaks.
‘And what about Tweedledum and Tweedledee?’
‘Coot and Fox, Guv?’ DS Leyton chuckles; the allusion is apposite despite the disparity in their appearances. ‘I spoke to them individually – like you said.’ Now he harrumphs. ‘Waste of time – for all the difference I got in their answers. Same previous address in Liverpool – eighteen years – and the pair of them employed by the council. Only, Archibald Coot worked in the marketing department – that’s how come he produces their newsletter – and Lester Fox was in the finance section – seems to be the more educated of the two. Moved up together about six years ago when they took early retirement. Claim they haven’t been away since they got here.’
‘Did you ask about Fazakerley?’
DS Leyton nods – but his jutting jawline portends of an inconclusive report.
‘No joy there, Guv – though you might have thought one of them would have mentioned it sounds like the place name. They just clammed up. Coot, mind you – when I said, doesn’t your blogger bloke Marvin Morgan come from Liverpool an’ all – he said no, he’s from the Wirral – admitted he’d talked to him once or twice in passing.’
DS Leyton now gazes at his notebook. His expression is such that he seems to be willing it to spout more facts – but the well appears to have run dry.
‘Anything else?’
DS Leyton optimistically turns the page – and then starts as he sees there is another entry.
‘Oh, yeah – the treasurer woman, Veronica Crampston. Seems she’s not been around for at least two years – they were surprised when I mentioned her – but both of ’em came up with the same story – she had to drop it due to other commitments – WI, church, local magistrate. Apparently lived in Keswick. They didn’t have a postal address. I thought I’d put one of the team onto it once we’re done with the CrimeTime leads?’
He looks at his superior a little apprehensively. But Skelgill takes this as cue to turn to DS Jones – and she correctly reads his segue. She licks melted chocolate powder from her lips as though she can tell it draws his eye.
‘In all, Guv, twenty-five names have been put forward – mostly by the public, but the UK Missing Persons Bureau has now suggested three more possibilities. There’s still a handful to be investigated, so far twelve have been ruled out, including the remaining local woman. We’ve sent packages with photographs and descriptions to four of the forces where more promising individuals have been reported missing. We’ve also sent the same information to the police in Northern Ireland, the Irish Republic, and Europol. It’s probably going to be a couple more days before next of kin can be contacted, and for any new leads to come in from the media coverage in Ireland.’
Skelgill is grim faced – an onlooker would judge him to hold a pessimistic view of the likely success of the television appeal. That 24 hours after their broadcast the tactic has not yielded a clamour around a particular name might be disappointing, but it is not grounds for dismay. For a man prepared to sit for hours and not catch a fish – and then return the next day and do it again – his impatience seems unreasonable. Moreover, as DS Jones points out, there are leads being followed up and still a significant audience to be reached, over the Irish Sea. Skelgill ought to think of the exercise as more akin to the baiting of a swim, such that it will produce the right result a few days hence.
DS Leyton, too, appears somewhat downcast, his usual genial optimism tinged with some underlying malaise that gradually surfaces when silence prevails. It is he that remarks next upon the lack of a newsworthy response.
‘You’d think we’d get dentists calling us up, Guv – all that work she’d had done – what, four implants and six veneers – must’ve cost
thousands. I had to have a crown sorted a few years back – one of the nippers coshed me with a Barbie doll – dentist stung me good and proper, just for the one tooth.’
Skelgill is fortunate enough to have no idea what would represent value for money in the crown department. He shifts irritably in his seat and runs his fingers through his hair.
‘There must be something we can do to speed this along.’
DS Jones might just have been waiting for such an opening – for purposefully she turns to face her boss.
‘I’ve got a suggestion, Guv.’
Skelgill folds his arms, his body language immediately contradicting his stated desire.
‘Which is?’
DS Jones does not answer directly, but instead she reaches for her mobile phone. After a few dexterous taps she turns the screen to Skelgill. She has conjured up the image of a face – it is a lifelike waxwork bust of a man, at once stern and regal, wearing a mediaeval beret emblazoned with a jewel-encrusted brooch.
‘Are you familiar with this, Guv?’
‘Richard III.’
DS Leyton is craning to get a look.
‘Cor blimey, Guvnor – how’d you know that?’
‘Because it says underneath the picture, Leyton.’
‘Oh – I can’t read that far, Guv.’
Skelgill turns back to DS Jones. ‘They dug him up from under a car park in Leicester – from beneath the letter ‘R’ marked on the tarmac.’ He has a peculiar note in his voice – whether it is cynicism at the improbable act of divination that preceded King Richard’s exhumation, or indeed some awakening of interest in this regard, it is hard to tell. But DS Jones is eager to press on with her point.
‘It’s not exactly that, Guv. There’s a university that has developed a new technique – from a 3D scan of a skull they can reconstruct the face. They can produce a computer-generated image. In the case of Richard III it closely matched the most credible contemporary portrait. We could do that for –’
‘Rose.’
It is strange, but in the split second that DS Jones hesitates, Skelgill supplies a name. For a few moments his colleagues look at him open-mouthed – and he realises he must be more forthcoming to correct the false impression that he knows who she is. He rests an elbow on the arm of the sofa and leans sideways to cradle his brow in a gesture of discontent. His other hand he flicks dismissively, but perhaps in the approximate direction of Harterhow.
Murder in the Woods Page 12