Murder in the Woods

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Happen we’re about to find out.’ He picks up. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Guv – you got a minute?’ The sergeant’s voice is wheezy.

  ‘Where are you, Leyton?’

  ‘Just legged it along to your office, Guv – thought I’d get privacy in here.’

  ‘Smart’s probably got my line tapped.’

  Though Skelgill’s mood is light, and he makes this joke, for once DS Leyton does not take time to humour him; instead he presses on with his point.

  ‘I’ve just being going through all the material on Marvin Morgan’s camera, Guv.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The Chief wants to see it.’

  ‘We’ve all got our little vices, Leyton.’

  ‘Thing is, Guv –’ DS Leyton pauses to catch his breath – and perhaps also to realign his tactics in the face of Skelgill’s facetious manner. ‘There’s some film from last night – fair enough – you can read the car registration plate, and see people moving inside the car – and that’s all – so the video’s okay – just the job.’

  Now DS Leyton stops – as if he doesn’t want to relate what comes next.

  ‘Guv – you were joking about the line being bugged?’

  ‘Course I was, Leyton, you donnat.’

  ‘Well, Guv – what it is – the still photographs – what’s left on the memory card – they date back about three weeks. Mostly birds and wild flowers and whatnot – and there’s some of that Suzanne Symington, doing her exercises – a bit spicy, if truth be told – but there’s also a couple of you, Guv – along the same lines.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Skelgill sounds neither surprised nor concerned. He says no more – it is plain DS Leyton is reluctant to elaborate, but his boss’s taciturnity leaves him no option. His voice momentarily becomes more distant – as if he has risen to check outside the door.

  ‘Cut to the chase, Guv – there’s one of you and DS Jones – kissing.’ He hisses this last word, and when Skelgill still does not comment, he continues. ‘And another – just you – it looks like you’re – well, Guv, you know – having a gypsy’s in the bushes?’

  ‘These things happen, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton makes a queer sounding groan of exasperation.

  ‘Guv – I see where you’re coming from – you know how to ride out these things – but what about DS Jones? A picture like that – on duty – it’s not like it’s the Christmas party – it could go against her with the Chief – affect her career, even.’

  Quite whether Skelgill discerns that DS Leyton is tactfully suggesting that while his trajectory is probably permanently stalled, this does not apply to DS Jones, it is hard to judge – but he glances searchingly at his female colleague, who is diligently working through dates of photographs on the laptop and taking occasional notes; she shows no sign of eavesdropping. Casually he switches the phone to his other ear, furthest from her.

  ‘What are you suggesting, Leyton?’

  Now DS Leyton has a small coughing fit – perhaps asthma brought on by his exertions and the stress of the moment.

  ‘You know me, Guv – all fingers and thumbs – Mr Clumsy my old woodwork teacher used to call me. Nearly had me hand off in the circular saw half a dozen times.’ He gives a nervous laugh, and his self-deprecating tone intensifies. ‘Cor blimey – I could be looking through a fancy camera like this – trying to get the hang of it – next thing I’ve deleted a couple of photos without even knowing I’ve done it. No one would be the wiser.’

  Skelgill seems to freeze. He inhales and holds in the breath, causing DS Jones to look up from her work. His teeth are bared and his grey-green eyes glazed – but when his facial muscles do begin to move it is to form the tiniest smile, and he nods almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Just leave it, Leyton – I’ll deal with the Chief.’

  *

  ‘Not a whole lot there, Guv.’

  ‘We know he’s a clever bloke.’

  Skelgill stares pensively down upon How Cottage, with its grey slate pitched roof and various extended dormers, and overhanging eaves typical of so many Lakeland properties. While the minute and thus far unproductive search continues within, he has brought DS Jones partway up the hillside, the northern flank of Harterhow – hauling his rucksack that contains his Kelly kettle, and settling down in a spot that catches the morning sun as it strikes over the south eastern shoulder of the small domed hill. DS Jones blows steam off her enamel mug – the powdered milk employed by Skelgill means it is far too hot, almost too hot to handle, though Skelgill is undeterred, and slurps noisily at regular intervals.

  ‘Had you hoped for something in particular – in the cottage?’

  Skelgill shrugs; his answer is oblique.

  ‘I reckon the ball’s in your court, lass.’

  DS Jones turns her head to look at him.

  ‘You mean Rose?’

  ‘Aye.’ Skelgill sniffs and rubs a cuff across his nose; his gaze remains fixed on the building below. ‘We need to connect her – and fast.’

  DS Jones nods. She realises now that Skelgill has for some time suspected Marvin Morgan – for reasons about which he has not been entirely forthcoming – and this explains his less-than-enthusiastic view of his subordinates’ interest in the likes of Derek Dudley, aka Spencer Fazakerley. But also she understands the tenuous basis of their arrest of Marvin Morgan. The evidence – at least as far as linking him to the body in the woods is concerned – is entirely circumstantial. That Marvin Morgan has a predilection for prurience is no proof of murder – and provides inadequate grounds for detaining him any longer than the lesser charge allows. Yet her boss must be convinced, for he has made an early move by his standards.

  ‘Not that he’ll flee the country if we bail him, Guv.’

  Skelgill nods, but his features remain grim.

  ‘We’ve shown our hand. Once he’s free – any evidence we’ve not found – pff.’

  Skelgill expels a jet of air through compressed lips to illustrate the disappearing effect.

  DS Jones looks at him earnestly.

  ‘Guv – are you thinking he’s got more photographs? It would be easy to conceal a memory stick – or you can just hide material online.’

  Skelgill is silent. He nods slowly.

  ‘Aye – photos, videos and other stuff maybe. Look at those trophies. His blog. He’s retired and he’s even kept all his advertising books.’ Again he pauses; he is comparing his own accumulations of maps and fishing tackle and unnecessary outdoor paraphernalia of all kinds. ‘He’s a collector.’

  DS Jones gazes at the cottage below; her dark eyes become narrow and small lines crease her brow.

  ‘If he is, Guv – then I don’t think he’ll destroy his collection.’

  *

  ‘Mr Morgan, you understand you have been arrested under caution for suspected non-consensual voyeurism under the Sexual Offences Act 2003?’

  Marvin Morgan, who has chosen not to have a lawyer present, shakes his head. It is not a repudiation of Skelgill’s question, but a gesture clearly meant to indicate that the parties are at cross-purposes.

  ‘This can all be explained, Inspector.’

  Skelgill is sitting in a straight-backed plastic chair with his arms folded. DS Leyton is beside him. They have polystyrene cups of machine tea and across the table Marvin Morgan has one of water. The interview room is just a regular office on the second floor of police headquarters. The detectives have their backs to large windows that give on to partly wooded farmland to the south of Penrith, which in turn admit the morning sun and cause Marvin Morgan to squint. He wears the same outfit of outdoor shirt and trousers in which he was apprehended, but has managed to look presentable, albeit unshaven. Indeed, he appears composed and possessed of a surprisingly good-natured disposition. Skelgill drains his cup and pulls a face of distaste.

  ‘Then perhaps, sir, you might start by explaining what you were doing last night on Harterhow?’

  Marvin Morgan nods obligingly and
leans forward; he places his elbows on the table and intertwines his fingers. He looks from Skelgill to DS Leyton, and then turns his gaze back upon Skelgill.

  ‘Inspector, I have been trying to film a Long-eared Owl for several weeks. It is a scarce species in Cumbria and a pair has a territory in that area. Naturally, like most owls they are nocturnal – elusive and very shy – so you have to go at night – and effectively stake them out.’

  Such radical evasiveness wrongfoots Skelgill – hackles raised, emotion impedes a swift response. He requires a minute to gather his thoughts.

  ‘Why did you film the car – and its occupants?’

  Now Marvin Morgan leans back and presents his palms for inspection – it is a gesture of repentance.

  ‘Inspector – my apologies to those concerned if that occurred by accident – you saw my portable hide? It’s a bit of a Heath Robinson affair, based on the focusing hood that early photographers used. Unfortunately when I am setting up it’s almost impossible to see what I’m doing – I often end up with some opening footage of my feet or the sky – or something that’s wildly out of focus. Until I get sorted out and into a settled position.’

  Skelgill is grim faced.

  ‘Why would you try to film an owl when there’s an engine running a couple of yards in front of you?’

  ‘I assumed the car was about to leave, Inspector – as you say, the motor was idling.’

  Skelgill pauses. He inhales and exhales ponderously, as if it is with some reluctance that he commands his will to live.

  ‘You’ve been there before at night.’

  It is a statement rather than a question – Skelgill knows Marvin Morgan cannot deny this – he has already referred to his familiarity with the supposed owl’s habits.

  ‘I have, yes. Occasionally I take the dog out late that way, it’s handy to keep close to the wall so you don’t lose your bearings – that’s when I first noticed the owl – it has a particularly distinctive cooing call. Perhaps your officers heard it? It’s most unlike the hoot of the Tawny Owl.’

  Skelgill treats the question as rhetorical.

  ‘So you know that folk park their cars down there at the end of the lane – after dark.’

  Marvin Morgan takes a drink of water. Skelgill watches his hand lift the cup, but there is no sign of a tremor; however his thick eyebrows kink at their junction.

  ‘I can’t say that I’ve seen anyone at that time of night, Inspector – the occasional dog walker during the day, certainly.’

  Skelgill is patently irked by what he considers persistent evasiveness. He opts to change tack.

  ‘Mr Morgan – how do you explain the still photographs that were on your camera – close-up shots of a woman exercising – and of myself and Detective Sergeant Jones – plainly taken without the subjects’ knowledge?’

  Now Marvin Morgan nods and manufactures a look that rather too convincingly combines regret and sheepish guilt.

  ‘Yes – of course – I confess it is remiss of me not to have deleted these images you mention.’

  ‘So you admit to taking them?’

  ‘Well – strictly speaking, I didn’t take them.’

  ‘Would you like to explain that, sir?’

  ‘With pleasure, Inspector. As I’m sure you’re aware, these modern cameras have advanced technology – such as a motion sensor and autofocus – and can be programmed for close-ups. You see – from time to time roe deer visit that clearing to graze – but they are very alert and excessively shy. I think you’ve seen the one that’s on my blog – taken by my camera, concealed and left to its own devices, so to speak.’

  Skelgill does not intend to reveal just how much he has discovered about Marvin Morgan’s clandestine habits.

  ‘Where else do you keep your photographs – videos?’

  ‘Those I don’t delete I transfer to my laptop, Inspector – you have seen my collection, both you and your colleague whom you mention.’

  Skelgill makes a reluctant grunt that suggests he is prepared to give Marvin Morgan the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘There’s no second computer, memory sticks – online archive?’

  Marvin Morgan frowns in a rather exaggerated manner.

  ‘I can’t think why I would want to duplicate my equipment – or my nature blog.’

  ‘What if your laptop were stolen?’

  Now Marvin Morgan makes a conciliatory gesture with the palm of one hand.

  ‘Ah – well – I do have a plug-in drive. About once a month I back-up my hard disk – but it is essentially the same content.’

  Skelgill does not react. The police have found the said device – it was kept on a bookshelf in Marvin Morgan’s study – not easily to hand for a casual burglar – but neither hidden in such a way that would make it look suspicious to the authorities. The search – now complete – has not revealed anything else – and has encompassed the outbuildings and his car. But – as DS Jones has pointed out – a memory stick is easily concealed. Skelgill has concluded that he himself would seal it in a watertight bag and climb a tree that he regularly passed and put it down a hole. In a wood the size of Harterhow it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. A stick in a forest.

  Skelgill glares pointedly at DS Leyton, and then again at Marvin Morgan. He begins to rise. ‘That’s all for now, sir – we’ll be back with you later.’

  DS Leyton concludes the formalities for recording purposes. As they cross to the exit Marvin Morgan calls to them, a plaintive note in his voice.

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I would do the same – I mean, in your shoes – I appreciate you have a murder to solve and this looks a tad suspicious.’ He folds his hands upon the desk and grins assuagingly. ‘But I can assure you I am an innocent member of the public going about my legitimate business.’

  *

  ‘He’s taking it too much on the chin for my liking, Guv.’

  Skelgill glares at his subordinate. DS Leyton’s observation is couched in doubting tones, and – while on the face of it he suggests that Marvin Morgan is putting on an act – a pessimistic interpretation could be that he suspects such protestations of innocence are genuine, however contrived they may seem. Skelgill opts to respond to the metaphor rather than the ambiguous sentiment.

  ‘Wish I had the excuse to lamp him on the chin, Leyton. Lying creep.’

  Of course, this is a sanitised version of what Skelgill actually says. DS Leyton grins dutifully: after all, the man has photographed his boss relieving himself, and it would be only natural to exact some revenge. However, before he can comment, a raucous explosion of locker-room laughter reverberates about the canteen. In a far corner DI Alec Smart is holding court amidst a fawning clique of lower-ranked officers. He glances across and catches Skelgill and DS Leyton gazing on; he winks triumphantly – look how the fools eat out of his hand! Skelgill and DS Leyton turn away, unsmiling, but he has scored his little point. The incident appears to exacerbate DS Leyton’s gloomy outlook.

  ‘Guv, Morgan didn’t want a solicitor – he’s not even trying to argue the legal point. He must know there’s no law against photographing people in public places.’

  ‘Aye – but videoing someone at night in their car without their knowledge or permission – he can’t deny that – we’ve got witnesses and the tape.’

  DS Leyton seems compelled to pour cold water upon Skelgill’s optimism.

  ‘Maybe we should have left him to film a bit longer, Guv. What if you can hear that flippin’ Long-legged Owl tooting away in the background? He’d probably convince a jury that’s what he was really up to. He’s got plenty of form as a twitcher.’

  ‘Eared.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘Long-eared Owl, Leyton – not legged. There’s Long-eared and Short-eared. I spoke to the Prof – he reckons there are a few pairs in the Lakes. Both types. And it’s hooting, not tooting.’

  DS Leyton ruminates for a moment.

&nbs
p; ‘Must admit – I never knew birds even had actual ears – still, I suppose there’d be no point ’em tooting if they didn’t.’

  Skelgill looks at DS Leyton with resignation.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s irrelevant, Leyton. We only need to convince the magistrate to let us hold him long enough.’ But Skelgill can’t suppress an involuntary sigh. ‘Roll on Monday.’

  ‘The photo of Rose?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Reckon it’ll really make a difference, Guv?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘It’s our best hope – the search of the cottage has been a dead loss.’

  DS Leyton still looks down in the dumps.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – you’d think those rings would have done the trick – and at least there’s no mistaking them – I mean, how do we know this reconstruction is going to be accurate?’

  But Skelgill’s attention has been wrenched away – for he has spotted a stout member of the catering staff barrelling towards their table, bearing a loaded tray.

  ‘Thoo’ll be fair brossen efter this.’

  That the dinner lady has a twinkle in her eye reflects her familiarity with Skelgill’s prodigious appetite, and in her local dialect she warns of over-eating. In turn he repays her with an uncharacteristic helping of charm.

  ‘Annie, folk hereabouts couldn’t sleep safe in their beds if it weren’t for you.’ He casts an imperious arm about the cafeteria. ‘This great army of coppers marches on its stomach.’

  The woman flashes a gap-toothed grin – however, as she manoeuvres herself away she tips her head towards DI Smart and his motley crew.

  ‘Not a lot of marching ower yonder – sitting ont’ backsides bletherin’, more like.’

  Skelgill shrugs helplessly, knife and fork already poised over the crowded plate. He tucks in, and for once DS Leyton requires little encouragement to follow suit. Indeed, his application to the task draws Skelgill’s notice.