‘You not getting fed at home, Leyton?’
DS Leyton looks rather ill at ease.
‘Missed breakfast, Guv – had to get the nippers ready for their Saturday-morning clubs – running riot they were – then I remembered I had to get that rucksack of Morgan’s booked in and examined – the camera an’ all.’
This explanation evidently reminds him of his coded conversation with Skelgill concerning the photographs – for he retreats behind the cover of a forkful of food. Skelgill, in any event, is engrossed with the same.
‘Hear you’ve nicked your pervert, Skel. Nice one.’
The two detectives raise their heads in unison. DI Alec Smart has sauntered unobserved to stand behind DS Leyton. He has his fists balled in his trouser pockets, and a scheming glint in his weasely eyes. Skelgill continues chewing, prolonging the moment when he must respond. DS Leyton hunches his shoulders and regards his superior with a pained expression.
‘Just a matter of time before you indict him on the homicide rap, eh, pardner?’
DI Smart brings out imaginary six-shooters and simulates an American accent; he looks pleased with his efforts. Skelgill has no desire to play along.
‘Something like that, aye.’
DI Smart affects surprise.
‘I thought it was all over, bar the shouting?’
‘There’s still a few loose ends to tie up.’
Skelgill aches to sound confident, but is wary of gilding the lily; if he has to eat his words, DI Smart will exact the maximum pleasure in reminding him. And now DI Smart reveals something of his real purpose in coming across.
‘Been running round Liverpool like headless chickens? I promised the Chief I’d drop off a file – got a review meeting with her at one.’ He glances at his ostentatious wristwatch and then casually kicks a heel against the tiled floor. ‘Might be a few things in there you ought to know.’
Skelgill is conscious that DI Smart’s acolytes have fallen silent and must be trying to eavesdrop on the exchange. And it seems his artful colleague still harbours ambitions to put his own spin on the case.
‘Anything I ought to know, Smart – you ought to tell me.’
DI Smart affects an affront; he reverts to his American accent.
‘Gotta protect my sources – play by the rules, buddy.’
Ordinarily, instructing Skelgill to play by the rules is rather akin to asking a dog given two sausages to save one for later – but in this instance ‘the rules’ refers to DI Smart’s own devious brand of detection, a strategy that relies upon a shadowy network of spivs, spies and second-rate supergrasses, employed in lieu of actual legwork, one that finds the cocksure Mancunian glued for hours to his mobile phone; hanging about in supermarket car parks and outside telephone kiosks; or making clandestine rendezvous in and seedy clubs and dingy bars.
Skelgill is still searching for a suitable rejoinder when DI Smart delivers his coup de grace.
‘Word is there’s one or two tasty photographs been taken into custody?’
He taps the side of his nose with a forefinger and leaves the question hanging, and begins to back away. DS Leyton’s expression becomes one of alarm – that Skelgill might think he has something to do with the leak. But Skelgill is glaring at the smirking DI Smart.
‘Aye – we’ll see about that.’
That this remark has no substance – and that Skelgill fails to land a glove on DI Smart – might be noticed, for as DI Smart returns to his coterie there is another burst of hilarity, and furtive glances are cast in Skelgill’s direction. Skelgill pretends to ignore the attention, setting about his plate, and now DI Smart’s crew gets up and leaves as one. After a minute or so of silence, DS Leyton speaks – evidently keen to make sure no suspicion attaches to him.
‘How does he get to know stuff, Guv?’
Skelgill makes a vague growling sound.
‘Happen he’s guessing half the time.’
DS Leyton nods dutifully, but he remains disconcerted.
‘Reckon the Chief tips him off, Guv?’
Skelgill is finishing a last giant forkful of fried food; he pushes away his plate, and rises and then reaches to swig down the dregs of his tea. He smacks his lips and wipes his mouth with a cuff.
‘I’ll go and ask her, Leyton.’
16. PRESS CONFERENCE II – Monday
‘So why are you calling her Rose if that’s not her real name?’
‘Happen it is her real name.’
The Chief and – it must be said – DS Jones, too, glance sharply at an exasperated Skelgill as he supplies this surly retort to the journalist. With the Chief in the chair, Skelgill has insisted upon a prominent role – though it is DS Jones who has introduced to the press conference the digitised reconstruction of how the murder victim may have looked. As a matter of fact Skelgill himself is not happy with police PR department’s campaign – “Recognise Rose?” – a supposedly catchy slogan to capture the public’s imagination; but he is not about to criticise his own in front of the hyena pack that is the media. Instead he is irked that, as he sees it, the reporter is splitting hairs. A profession he ranks somewhere between ticket touts and loan sharks – he detests the ethos which seeks to find fault where none is due, to undermine honest graft and self confidence (and which he holds responsible for singlehandedly demolishing the chances of an England team ever again winning the World Cup).
‘Someone start a book on it!’
This is a chirrup from elsewhere in the crowd, and immediately other hacks rise to the challenge.
‘7/2 it’s Rose Gardener!’
‘4/1 says Rose Bush!’
‘Evens it’s Rosie Lea!’
Sniggers expand into guffaws as the would-be wordsmiths put more witty combinations forward. A certain amount of controlled hilarity is tolerated by the authorities – it is not a live broadcast and they rely on these journalists for a good outcome – but when “Rose From The Dead” is proposed, the hacks, like an unruly class of schoolboys sense the steely eye of the headmistress – one who wields sanctions ranging from instant expulsion to future exclusion. Realising they ought not abuse her beneficence, a silence permeates the group and innocent faces are presented for further edification.
Into this hiatus – perhaps having waited his moment – chime the clear tones of Kendall Minto.
‘The local man arrested near the site of the grave on Friday night – is he a suspect for the murder of Rose?’
All heads turn to the back of the room, where the young reporter evidently prefers to station himself. Even the police look alarmed. Skelgill, however, is staring at DS Jones – but her eyes too are fixed upon Minto, and she shows no sign of culpability, only fascination. Then the spotlight gradually reverts to Skelgill. They expect an explanation. Skelgill glances at the Chief, but she is stern-faced and gives him no clue as to which answer will find him in the least hot water. He gulps from a glass and clears his throat.
‘A 57-year-old male was arrested under caution for an unrelated offence. He is assisting with enquiries.’
Now the mob scents blood – a hail of quick-fire questions has him cornered and confused.
‘Is he the killer, Inspector?’
‘Has he been charged?’
‘What’s the charge if it’s not murder, Inspector?’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Is it a local man, Inspector?’
‘Does he have a record?’
‘How long have you been watching him?’
‘Did he tell you she’s called Rose?’
‘Is it the husband, Inspector Skelgill?’
The police, of course, are not obliged to publicise details of those whom they apprehend. And neither has Marvin Morgan exercised his right to inform someone of his arrest – saying there is no one to inform, and insisting that in any event the misunderstanding will soon be cleared up. Therefore, it is only if he is actually charged before a magistrate that his predicament will become known. And yet the public – or, at l
east, one of their representatives (and now a roomful) – already seems to know. It is at rare moments like this that Skelgill grudgingly appreciates the firm qualities of the Chief, for with imperious disregard for the congregation she brings to an end the press conference before its main purpose is subverted, and briskly leads out her officers. Furious hacks turn their frustration upon Kendall Minto, rounding upon the young whippersnapper to demand a slice of his scoop.
*
‘So that’s your little school pal put the cat among the pigeons.’
DS Jones shifts uneasily in her seat. They have retreated to Skelgill’s office, where they have met up with DS Leyton.
‘I don’t know where he gets his information from, Guv.’ She looks Skelgill in the eye – and with a hint of defiance. ‘But I’m sure I could persuade him to tell me.’
It is hard to determine the exact nature of Skelgill’s ire, but it perhaps becomes a little clearer as he reacts to DS Jones’s rejoinder.
‘Forget it, Jones.’ He glances away, and for a moment aimlessly pushes around some papers that have appeared on his desk during his absence. ‘It’s a sideshow – pound to a penny it’s Smart up to his tricks. Anything to trip us up.’
DS Jones regards Skelgill from beneath long lashes; a knowing grin teases the corners of her mouth. Then, decisively, she hands out colour photographs of Rose. Perhaps for the first time they each properly consider the image. And it is striking – half an hour earlier it silenced a cynical audience when it was flashed up on the big screen. Of course, there is brown hair and the prominent white front teeth – this much they knew anyway from the physical remains – but most captivating is the particular juxtaposition of well-formed brows, angular cheekbones, small ears, a snub nose, and slightly hooded blue eyes, contained in a face that is unusually broad. Interestingly, the hair has been drawn back from the head, as though in a ponytail. It demonstrates the creators’ confidence – why hide behind a hairdo when you know the precise physiognomy? It is a countenance that exudes vitality. Rose she may not be, but real she is.
DS Jones is first to speak.
‘That daft knockabout, Guv – over her name?’
‘Aye?’
‘It gave me an idea.’
‘A daft idea?’
She smiles patiently.
‘It started like that. When someone said Rosie Lea I thought of a cup of tea.’ She glances at DS Leyton – as a native exponent of Cockney rhyming slang he confirms with a nod. ‘And then I suddenly thought of a fortune teller – you know, with the tea leaves?’
She stops and now Skelgill is looking at her like he knows there is a daft idea coming. He inhales to make some protest – but hurriedly she pre-empts him.
‘I don’t mean that we should consult a fortune teller – or even that she was one.’ Now she holds her copy of the photograph up for inspection. ‘But what if she were a traveller? It could explain the Irish connection – and also why we’ve had no success in tracking her down. If the person who knows her identity is on the road – they could easily have missed the news coverage.’
DS Leyton now makes a rather sullen contribution.
‘There’s Appleby.’
Both Skelgill and DS Jones regard him acutely. What DS Leyton refers to is the biggest annual gathering of gypsies and travellers in the British Isles, the week-long Appleby Horse Fair, which takes place every June – only twenty minutes’ drive from where they sit.
Again they ponder in silence. And perhaps they share a common if unrealistically bucolic image: a handsome gypsy cob that clip-clops along a leafy lane, in tow a traditional bow top caravan; at the reins, pulling contentedly at a pipe, the reclining incumbent, blissfully ignorant of the image of Rose that at this very minute envelops him, if only he could access the invisible electronic ether.
‘I read there’s 15,000 gypsies and travellers come to Appleby, Guv.’
Skelgill blinks and then looks at DS Leyton as though he is surprised to find him there. However, he has registered his sergeant’s rider.
‘Aye – but they all know one another, Leyton.’
DS Leyton looks doubtful. It is a common tactic, that his boss employs hyperbole to win a minor argument. For his pessimism is justified to the extent that this disparate community convenes once a year with no form of registration, many of no fixed address, and most preferring to remain anonymous to outsiders. Come the end of the fair, they scatter to the four winds, some to spend the rest of the summer on the road, others travelling where tradition and casual work dictate. Had Rose been discovered at the beginning of June instead of July, then the police would have been able to circulate her image at the great gypsy jamboree. As it stands, only bonds of kinship now connect the diaspora. DS Jones, however, has a suggestion.
‘Guv – I stood in at one of the meetings of the Horse Fair liaison committee. I think there’s a chance they’ll be able to contact the Shera Rom – the head gypsy. I could have a word with the secretary?’
Skelgill turns out his bottom lip.
‘Might be worth a shot.’
‘A long shot, Guv.’
Skelgill ignores DS Leyton. He checks his wristwatch and turns towards DS Jones, but in fact he surveys the weather beyond the window. It is bright and showery, more like a day in April, and one that would lend itself to fishing, with a cool flush of fresh water percolating through the lakes. He stands and from a peg improvised from a size 9-aught treble hook he reaches down his jacket, and shakes it to verify that his car keys are in a pocket.
‘Leyton – be on standby to field any leads that come in about the photo – Jones, you follow up your daft idea.’
DS Jones gives a purposeful nod, a twinkle in her eye; DS Leyton looks a little disgruntled.
‘What about you, Guv?’
Avoiding eye contact with either of his subordinates Skelgill stalks over to the door.
‘I’ve got to see a man about a dog. Woman, actually.’
*
‘Inspector – such a pleasant surprise – won’t you come in for tea?’
Another dressing gown, satiny and revealing – Leyton was right. Skelgill glances about as if he is checking for spectators. Is that the old lady’s curtain twitching next door?
‘I thought I’d just take Morse. And these boots are a state.’
June Collins steps back as if to draw in Skelgill, but the Lakeland Terrier darts out and begins to perform tight circles around Skelgill’s legs. It seems to settle the argument. June Collins pouts and makes an adjustment to the belt of her kimono, and then wraps her long pink talons around the edge of the door.
‘When you drop him back, then.’ Her tone is insistent. ‘I’ll have something nice and hot ready – my first guests won’t be here until seven.’
Skelgill nods rather curtly.
‘Aye – I wouldn’t mind a quick chat – just something that’s come up in our investigations into – Spencer.’ Skelgill almost says “Derek”, but a sixth sense saves him from showing his hand.
June Collins looks a touch dismayed. She does not respond directly, but squints past Skelgill to his car parked beyond her small front garden.
‘You don’t have your dog, Inspector?’
Skelgill is down on one knee, in the process of looping a length of blue baler twine through Morse’s collar.
‘My neighbour – she’s in the doggy day-care business. Comes in handy. Plus mine’s big pals with hers – Sammy.’
*
Morse knows his way. No sooner has Skelgill lifted the tailgate than the terrier, a liquid blur of black and tan, pours out and slips under the stile; immediately Skelgill can hear the frantic crackling of dry bracken as a rabbit hunt ensues. He locks his car and then pauses to wonder if he should pull a tarp over all the gear in the back. But on reflection one look at the great melange of tackle would have the average sneak thief recoiling with a migraine. His is the only car, and he has parked it in the same position as the police decoy on Friday night. He stoops to peer through
the interior and up to the top of the wall, at the two photographic stances where Marvin Morgan replaced the upright coping stones with flat rocks. A passer-by would not think twice about them, if they even noticed; in the dark the arrangement would be undetectable.
Skelgill now turns to consider the scene across the lane. Beyond the opposite wall is a small cluster of old Scots pines, characterised by their orange upper limbs, their dense bottle-green crowns providing thick cover. Is that where a Long-eared Owl might reside? Beneath, the rough pasture slopes away, a continuation of Harterhow, bristling with common rush and marsh thistle; a couple of dozen black-faced Swaledales are finding some pickings, the grass refreshed by the latest rain shower. Accordingly Skelgill inspects the sky. The weather is coming up from the south west; the temperature is ideal for walking and he decides to take a chance without a waterproof.
He pauses at the gate to read a small sign that denotes what to do in the event of a fire. “Don’t start one,” would be Skelgill’s advice. The gate itself is in reasonable repair; a couple of the spleats and one of the braces have been replaced with newer wood; however the old posts have seen better days – they look like railway sleepers, slick with diesel oil. The chain and padlock are also fairly shipshape; for a moment he considers the idea of Marvin Morgan’s unmatched key – but the lock is another brand altogether.
When he passes near to the site of the grave he finds Morse already there, snuffling about. There are no new tributes, however. He calls the dog and it seems willing enough to move on; they strike uphill and shortly break the cover of the oak wood and emerge into the clearing. Skelgill gives an ironic chuckle – at least he knows Marvin Morgan is not watching him. For a fleeting second he experiences a crazy urge to moon in the direction of the ‘hide’ – but what if there is another camera, one they have not found?
Trousers thus untroubled, he crosses the clearing and barges backwards through the prickly foliage at the margin of the pinewood. But rather than follow the faint path that crests Harterhow on its way to Marvin Morgan’s cottage, he follows his nose – or, rather, Morse’s nose – for the dog gambols ahead of him, traversing the steep wooded hillside with some purpose in mind. Despite the cross-slope, the going is easy underfoot; next to concrete these plantations are a naturalist’s worst nightmare, inadequate light penetrates and nothing can grow; a fine network of tree roots sucks up what moisture is in the ground.
Murder in the Woods Page 17