Skelgill takes his time. He is not sure what he wants to think about, but figures it might happen anyway. The dense forest cocoons him in its eerie brown light – greener if he cranes his neck to look up – a kind of sensory deprivation. He fancies that a shower is passing – but no raindrops reach down here. There are occasional signs of deer – they leave their calling cards in neat clusters – and odd cones stripped and discarded by red squirrels; but songbirds seem to have deserted Harterhow, though he knows they must be skulking about, shepherding their fledglings, trying to avoid the attention of the hawks that have their own chicks to fatten.
Morse is digging.
Skelgill sees the dog a good way ahead, its front legs a blur of motion, mulch spraying out from between the back. Skelgill is just thinking that they are on a path – although sometimes it is simply the way the fallen needles settle, like ripples of sand on a beach, a pattern formed by a less mindful force. The terrier is worrying some object beside a small pile of rocks. As Skelgill nears it successfully detaches the thing and pulls it away. Skelgill instantly recognises a skull.
But it is the skull of a badger or fox.
‘Argh – come away, lad!’
He collars the dog and makes it drop the skull – it is narrow with two long curved fangs – surely a fox. Then a glint of silver from the dark exposed earth catches his eye.
‘Stay.’
But “stay” is no good – he fishes out the baler twine and attaches the terrier to a branch beyond reach of its latest excavation. He produces a lock-knife and winkles out the shiny object. It is a metal disc and he realises it is attached to something else – he gives it a sharp yank and a strip of leather pulls free of the loose soil. It is a dog’s collar. He rubs the disc clean between finger and thumb. It is engraved. It says, “Rebus.”
Skelgill rises and takes a couple of steps backwards. It is a grave. The dog has clearly been buried here. That’s what the rocks are for – to prevent foxes and badgers from doing exactly what Morse has just done – and perhaps to mark the spot. But time and tide has degraded the structure and Morse knew where to come.
Of course – most likely Derek Dudley buried the dog. And – actually – why not? Plenty of people do this with their pets. Take them to a place they liked to be. Somewhere that the owner would regularly pass – a way to remember them. A boyhood rat of his own is buried on Haystacks.
Skelgill restores the skull to its intended resting place and kicks mulch back over the bones (he pockets the collar and disc, however), and then kneels and pulls the rocks back into position. When he is satisfied with his handiwork he rises and inspects his hands: there is fine black peat beneath his nails – but there is often fine black peat beneath his nails. He looks about; the terrier seems resigned to its fate and sits obediently. Beyond the dog there is a definite line of wear in the woodland floor, angling slightly downhill. Perhaps he was right about this being a path. He releases the dog; and as if to corroborate his theory it bounds away, taking the same course. Skelgill follows.
In spite of the absence of landmarks the lie of the land tells Skelgill they are heading in a north easterly direction, towards Portinscale. And it is no surprise to him that, after leaving the boundary of Harterhow reserve (via subtle wall-steps that might easily escape the notice of passers-by), the path begins to converge with the minor road that extends past the village – but not before it makes a sharp right turn, butting up against the dense hedgerow that surrounds the secluded property inhabited by Archibald Coot and Lester Fox.
Morse, of course, pays no heed to the law of trespass (in common with Skelgill, some would say), and slips through the thick barrier, no doubt using a fox’s trail – an invitation that is plain to him but invisible to the human eye. Skelgill calls and whistles and snaps his fingers, but to no avail. From time to time he can hear the creature panting excitedly and he begins to envisage the excavation of a precious vegetable patch. He could follow the path to the lane, and then double back up the driveway – but he spies a more expedient solution in the shape of an overhanging beech. He scales it with little trouble.
Dropping down into the garden he pauses to wipe green algae from his beige hiking pants, but only succeeds in making the smears worse. Surveying the scene he sees the roof of the cottage some fifty yards off, the lower part of the building concealed by well-trimmed topiary. There is no vegetable plot, and in fact the decorative theme sweeps past him, with low hedges of clipped box dividing off a winding gravel path from beds that burst with Mediterranean herbs such as rosemary and lavender; a weeping willow overhangs an ornamental lily pond, its fountain a copy of the Manneken-Pis, functioning as nature intended. Surrounded by woodland, the effect is of a peaceful oasis, and as the sun emerges from behind a cloud it turns up the volume of the bumblebees that harvest nectar from the lavender.
Then Skelgill spies – or rather hears – Morse. He spins 180 degrees to face – behind a partial screen of bamboo – a small single-storey outbuilding, of considerable age, built in the vernacular style, with no windows and just a solid door at the front – perhaps an ancient byre that became enclosed within the property. While many such buildings can be seen about the Lake District, leaning precariously in farmyards or crumbling in field corners, built on outcrops from the nearest available stone, this particular one is in excellent repair. The roof, though in traditional slate, is new, and the pointing recently restored. The door is varnished oak, and Morse has his nose applied to the gap at the bottom, and takes long loud sniffs.
‘Come away, lad.’
For the second time this afternoon Skelgill issues this instruction, but he does not expect the dog to comply and strides towards it, pulling the twine from his pocket. As he reaches down the creature tries to evade him, and dislodges a short plank of wood propped against the wall beside the door. It falls with its other side uppermost, and Skelgill sees that in fact it is a hand-painted signboard with eyehooks and a chain to hang it. He turns his head to read the words: “Welcome to Harterhow Visitor Centre.” He pauses, bent over the object, his brow knitted. He is just restoring it to its original position when there comes a rustling in the bamboo behind him. He wheels around.
Alarmed, white knuckles wrapped about the handle of a grass rake, stands a trembling Archibald Coot.
‘Ooh – ooh! Mr – er – Inspector?’
Skelgill draws himself upright.
‘Aye – Mr Coot.’
Skelgill now pulls the terrier between then by lifting the makeshift leash to shoulder height with an arm outstretched.
‘This dog got into your garden.’
Archibald Coot looks like he thinks Skelgill might set the creature on him. He takes a step backwards and glances nervously over his shoulder. Or perhaps he fears his housemate will arrive at any second to admonish him.
‘But – but – the side gate is kept locked.’
Skelgill makes a clicking sound with his tongue and gives a casual tip of the head.
‘He’s a fox terrier – there’s no stopping them. He’d have your onions up before you could say Jack Robinson. Lucky I caught him.’
That there are no onions, and that – presumably – Archibald Coot is more concerned about how Skelgill got into the garden does not seem to trouble Skelgill – and he is not about to admit to his means of ingress. Archibald Coot shifts his weight from one foot to the other. With an unsteady hand he wipes perspiration from his pale bald crown, and then he makes a half-hearted gesture with the rake.
‘I was just tidying up some leaves – I came to put this back in the – the tool shed.’
On the face of it this might be an attempt to suggest that he doesn’t understand how the inspector apparently ghosted past him – but Skelgill is more consumed by the obvious discontinuity in the man’s description. But any further question he might pose is pre-empted by the ring of his mobile phone. Archibald Coot starts with fright. Skelgill, however, knows the ringtone.
‘Jones.’
‘Guv
– we’ve found her.’
‘Who?’
‘Rose – we’ve identified her.’
Skelgill inhales and holds back the breath. He glances at Archibald Coot and then at the outbuilding, and then at the Lakeland Terrier.
‘I’m just, er –’
But DS Jones is insistent.
‘Guv – I think you should come – DI Smart is on the prowl.’
17. ‘ROSE’ – Tuesday
‘You look worried, Guv.’
‘What?’ Skelgill casts a quick sideways glance at DS Jones, his eyes screwed into tight pinholes. ‘My sunglasses are in my fishing jacket. Knew I’d left something – just couldn’t think what.’
‘You’re welcome to mine, Guv.’
Skelgill makes a rather ungrateful scoffing noise – which could generously be interpreted as a reaction to the prospect of donning the unashamedly feminine designer shades. In any event, DS Jones, behind the dark lenses, seems unfazed. Skelgill faces the road ahead, determined to see out the ordeal – signs for Scotch Corner are beginning to flash by and they’ll be turning south shortly. A 6am rendezvous at Penrith means they have met little traffic on the eastbound A66, but the rising sun has provided a challenge. Their destination is Seamer Horse Fair, near Scarborough – a trip of around two-and-a-half hours.
It is a breakthrough that cannot be ignored. Yesterday, as Skelgill was pottering about in Harterhow Woods, DS Jones – with her ‘daft idea’ – took one giant leap. Having consulted the secretary of the Appleby Horse Fair liaison committee she made contact with the Shera Rom. While the head gypsy was unable to shed any light on the identity of Rose, he did inform DS Jones that there was such a thing as the Irish Travellers’ Association – curators of a heavily subscribed social media page. Within an hour of the reconstructed image of Rose thus being posted online, three people had independently named her as Miriam O’Donoghue, an Irish traveller originally from Tuam in County Galway. And one had supplied the information upon which Skelgill and DS Jones now act: that she was last known to be travelling with a Romany gypsy from England, William King.
Skelgill now experiences a small conflict of instincts. Ahead of them in a broad layby a white catering trailer defiantly flies a tattered St George’s cross. (“This may be Scotch Corner, but you’re in Yorkshire, mate.”) Already the aroma of frying has permeated Skelgill’s car. He sees the queue of hungry truckers. Though it pains him – for his stomach responds with a groaning plea and a concomitant spasm – his urge to press on wins the day. His right foot is unwavering. They speed past.
And therein lies the little germ of truth that DS Jones has exposed through her concern for Skelgill’s frame of mind. With Marvin Morgan in custody – but not for much longer – this journey to England’s east coast, every minute taking them a mile further from the epicentre of the case, symbolises Skelgill’s growing unease: though he would not wish to admit it, there could be another explanation altogether.
But there is a silver lining. Word has it that William King – a stalwart stallholder of the gypsy fairs – as befits his name, is renowned as purveyor of some of the finest burgers in the land.
*
‘Ar – that’s ’er – that’s Miriam.’
William King nods – his chestnut brown eyes glisten as he grips the photograph with grease-stained fingers. Perhaps a semblance of regret causes his lips to become increasingly compressed; but it is difficult to judge entirely his reaction to the news that Rose is dead.
Short and wiry, and somewhat cheerless, he is not Skelgill’s idea of the touted ‘Burger King’ – as suggested by a sign near the entrance to the camping field – whence Skelgill’s car had been trailed by a glowering pack of swarthy children armed with sticks and stones and a Shetland pony. Indeed, his expectation was of an amply proportioned, ruddy faced and welcoming character, a living advertisement for the output of his mobile fast-food emporium. Moreover, his accent – when they might have expected a Romani brogue that can sound more like Hindi – is deepest East Midlands, with its lazy vowels and dropped aitches: “Ar kernt ’elp it, me duck – it’s ’ow I were bought up.” (There is no brought.)
‘Where d’yer get the photer? She din’t like ’aving ’er photer took. She were superstitious.’
DS Jones glances animatedly at Skelgill – the reconstruction is that good – the man thinks it’s a real photograph.
They sit in a cramped camper van, its slept-in air stale with the stink of unwashed laundry. Skelgill and DS Jones occupy one side of a fixed table and William King the other. There is no sign of a television or laptop or even a transistor radio. Much of the space is filled with haphazardly stacked cartons, wholesale SKUs of ketchup and tins of onions and packets of salt, and boxes marked as packaging for takeaway food. Attached to this vehicle is a trailer, serving hatch closed, liveried with the words ‘BURGERS’ and ‘KING’ in red capitals and juxtaposed such that they surely flaunt the laws of passing off. At just after 9am it is too early for the proprietor to be firing up his broilers, thus breakfast has not yet been mooted (if indeed the offer will be forthcoming) – though they have strong milky teas in polystyrene cups with unsatisfactory lids.
Skelgill takes a gulp and ignores the direct question, and reverts with one of his own.
‘When did you last see her?’
‘It were Appleby – last year.’
‘In June – at the Horse Fair?’
‘That’s right – she went off to visit her son – never came back.’
Skelgill and DS Jones exchange glances.
‘What’s her son’s name?’
‘She called him Forrester – that’s all I know.’
‘Is that a surname?’
‘I assumed it were – from his father. She wouldn’t talk about the bloke – nor the son, come to that.’
‘Do you know the address she went to?’
William King shakes his head.
‘He were s’posed to meet her off the bus toward Keswick – he weren’t on the road, though – I believe he had a house.’
The man has an unconvincing manner, he looks away each time he answers a question, and then furtively returns his gaze to the interviewer to check the results of his reply – as though he is accustomed to being evasive in the face of authority, and that to be candid conflicts with an entrenched habit.
‘Did she tell you how long she intended to stay?’
‘I thought it were just a couple of days – but – she went while I were working on the stall.’
‘Aye?’
‘She took all her stuff – in a big suitcase – one of the lads told me afterwards – she’d asked him for a lift down to The Sands on his two-seater gig.’
Skelgill folds his arms.
‘Are you able to give us the name of that person?’
For the first time William King looks suddenly alarmed – as if he has just realised that he is a possible suspect and must act fast to clear his name. He nods urgently, and inhales deeply as though he is in need of a cigarette.
‘It were Frankie Boswell’s youngest – they’re here at Seamer. They do buggy rides for visitors.’
Skelgill glances at DS Jones who nods as she writes to confirm that she has the note. Skelgill turns back to William King.
‘When did you last hear from her?’
‘I ain’t heard from her.’ Once more he glances away and then back – but now pathos infects his expression – as it sinks in that neither will he. ‘The last time I spoke to her were the night a’fore.’
‘So you don’t know if she arrived in Keswick?’
William King shakes his head solemnly. Skelgill remains silent, watching the man, as if he is intentionally cranking up the tension.
‘Mr King – why didn’t you report her missing?’
Now he looks doubly evasive – and casts about the camper as if a suitable answer will be found by reference to some item of its contents.
‘I had no claim on her – we’d only been going together
a couple a’year.’
Skelgill extends the silent treatment, and after half a minute it produces a small result.
‘An’ I din’t want no trouble for her.’
‘What do you mean, trouble, Mr King?’
His countenance is pained – clearly it goes against the grain to say what is on the tip of his tongue – but self-preservation is winning the day.
‘She took half a week’s takings.’
‘How much was that?’
The oblique default is back in action.
‘I hadn’t counted it.’
Though this seems unlikely it is a detail that does not concern Skelgill – he understands that the loss of the money – far from being a reason to report the woman’s disappearance – would be a reason not to do so – since it would surely invite an investigation into William King’s finances – non-existent books, cash and the black economy likely being the order of the day. The man is too valuable a witness (if not a suspect) for Skelgill to let a small detail like this become an obstacle to progress.
‘Enough to make you think she’d left you for good, eh?’
He looks sharply at Skelgill, with surprise in his eyes – that the Inspector has taken this pragmatic line; perhaps also the insight. He nods.
‘Reckon so.’
Skelgill pauses for a moment’s thought.
‘Where did you go after Appleby – last year?’
‘Same as this year. Appleby to Epsom – for the Derby – then Cambridge, Henley-in-Arden – then came back up here.’
‘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.’
Murder in the Woods Page 18