Murder in the Woods

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Aye – except – no – what were his name? – Jimmy Forrester – that were it.’

  Anyone familiar with Skelgill would see he is not reacting normally, for hormones have kicked in that would be more use were he about to spring into some kind of fray. He is perfectly still, and conscious of DS Leyton’s eyes trained upon him.

  ‘I take it from that he’s not working for you now?’

  Norman Church does not seem to notice the heightened tension in the air. He pulls a disparaging face. ‘Started turning up late – and the worse for wear – reekin’ of booze. Can’t have someone like that in our line – too dangerous – never mind the reliability. Take that morning with the tree – he’d got saws and axes we could have done with in the pick-up he were using. Let him go in the New Year. Thought it were a bit harsh to do it a’fore Christmas.’

  Skelgill has waited patiently (though “saws and axes” had him visibly twitching).

  ‘Where was he living, Norm?’

  The man shrugs and screws up his lined features as he interrogates his memory.

  ‘Reckon one the lads said he’d got a caravan – parked up at Threlkeld – beyond them garages up by t’ beck.’

  Skelgill glances at DS Leyton and gives a tip of the head towards the door – but DS Leyton is already rising and delving in his jacket for his mobile phone. Norman Church looks a little startled.

  ‘Is he your man?’

  ‘He’s got the right name. It would be a bit of a coincidence.’

  But now the builder seems perplexed.

  ‘If it were him working at Harterhow he must have been doing a foreigner.’

  Now it is Skelgill’s turn to look doubtful.

  ‘If it were a job for the farmer I could see it – but to repair a gate for the council, Norm? Who’s paying cash-in-hand for that?’

  The man shakes his head pensively.

  ‘No – you’re right, Skelly – it don’t make sense.’

  ‘How long did he work for you?’

  ‘Must have been in the spring I started him – he just rocked up looking for casual labour – no questions asked. Thing is – he were quite useful – could turn his hand to most jobs when he could be bothered coming to work.’

  ‘You’ve not got any details?’

  Skelgill’s tone is pre-loaded with a lack of expectation, and Norman Church looks relieved that the question is so phrased.

  ‘Not that I can put my hand on right now – like I say – I didn’t have him ont’ books as an employee – call him a self-employed contractor. Tax and whatnot were his business.’

  Skelgill grimaces; he is not about to reproach one of his own for grinding out a hard-earned living. And now DS Leyton appears in the doorway.

  ‘That’s DS Jones on the way, Guv – she reckons they’re only five minutes from Threlkeld. I said we’d be there in ten.’

  Skelgill finishes his tea and gives a gesture of cheers with the mug. He rises and strides to join DS Leyton at the door.

  ‘You in The Queen’s tonight, Norm?’

  ‘It’s darts night, Skelly lad.’

  Skelgill raises a finger.

  ‘I’ll buy you a pint.’

  *

  ‘This can’t be right, Guv?’

  ‘Have faith, Leyton. Any road that leads to water, I’ve been up it.’

  DS Leyton makes a resigned face and then flinches as Skelgill accelerates along the narrow potholed track. They are hemmed in by stone walls against which butt up shanty-like sheds and outbuildings; basically they are driving between two rows of rather neglected back gardens. Up ahead the track appears to take a sharp left turn after a perpendicular row of run-down garages. Skelgill has shaved a couple of minutes off DS Leyton’s predicted ten, and maybe they are first here.

  ‘You sure this is a – LOOK OUT, GUV!’

  What happens now is not precisely what will be recorded in the official police account of the apprehending of James Forrester (although Skelgill if pressed would no doubt argue there are times when the end justifies the means). DS Leyton’s vocal ejaculation refers to the alarming sight that materialises before them: around the end garage hurtles a piebald pony; its bareback jockey a man in his thirties, stripped naked from the waist up, shoeless and unshaven, wild-eyed and grimacing, long lank brown hair trailing in his own slipstream. He sees Skelgill’s car and drives the animal on towards it, suddenly veering to the passenger side, meaning to squeeze past by means of a recessed gateway – Skelgill anticipates and slews his car to block the manoeuvre – but the rider reacts and reins the horse to the left – for a gap has now been created on the driver’s side – but Skelgill is equal to the tactic and instinctively he flings open the door of the car and braces it with his right foot. The pony might be fleet on the flat but he is no jumper – and abruptly he refuses this hurdle. The rider flies out of sight.

  As Skelgill and a shaken DS Leyton tumble from the vehicle, from around the bend bounces DS Jones’s car, the detective constable beside her, their pale faces peering anxiously through the windscreen. They pull up short and join their colleagues at the double. Skelgill indicates to the surly burly DC to keep going, jerking a thumb over his shoulder – instructive moaning sounds emanate from beyond a low wall.

  DS Jones is breathless.

  ‘He was in bed, Guv – the caravan was unlocked – but he dived out of a window – it must be him, Guv – else why would he run?’

  ‘Guess he were flaite.’

  *

  ‘Fractured wrist and two cracked ribs, Guv – otherwise nothing serious – no head injuries. They want to keep him in overnight as a precaution – but we can interview him in the morning.’

  DS Jones lays her mobile phone on her notepad on the edge of Skelgill’s desk. Her words are a message relayed concerning the condition of James Forrester.

  Skelgill scowls unsympathetically.

  ‘Should think himself lucky he didn’t face-plant in a cold frame. What did they do with the horse?’

  ‘There’s a small livery in the village – they were happy to take care of it for the time being.’

  Skelgill nods vaguely; he looks haggard. He has just come from a long meeting with the Chief; the apparent success of their operation is not reflected in his demeanour. DS Jones regards him empathetically.

  ‘Like me to fetch you a tea, Guv?’

  Skelgill does not respond for a moment – and then stares at her with scant enthusiasm, as though he has not properly understood the question. However, she persists.

  ‘I don’t mean the machine – I’ll pop down to the canteen.’

  ‘Aye – why not?’

  His tone is flat and once alone he sits in brooding silence. After a minute or so a text illuminates DS Jones’s mobile. He leans across and turns the handset around. The sender’s ID comes up as “KM” and the content simply “Moet?” with a champagne bottle emoji beside it. Skelgill glowers at the screen until the backlight automatically switches off. Is “KM” Kendall Minto? But any further speculation is curtailed – for he hears footsteps approaching along the corridor. He slumps back in his chair. In fact it is DS Leyton that now enters. He looks harassed and is checking his watch.

  ‘I reckon that’s all the admin I can get done tonight, Guv – the CPS have shut up shop.’

  Skelgill is plainly distracted and gazes out of the window; a shimmering column of gnats that dance in the rays of the evening sun holds his attention. DS Leyton has to prompt him.

  ‘Alright if I do one, Guv?’

  ‘What?’ Skelgill looks surprised. ‘Aye – whatever, Leyton.’

  But now his sergeant lingers – as if this permission is insincere. But actually there is a message he must convey.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – I’ve just been politely reminded – we can’t hold Marvin Morgan any longer than midnight – unless we shake the leg of a magistrate and request another extension.’

  Skelgill appears indifferent to this item of news, though he folds his arms.

&nbs
p; ‘Let him go, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton nods out of habit – but he is surprised by his superior’s apparent lack of concern.

  ‘I’ll sort it on my way out, Guv.’

  Skelgill does not reply and DS Leyton takes the opportunity to leave – but now Skelgill calls after him.

  ‘Tell him I’ll bring his dog round tomorrow.’

  DS Leyton raises an affirmative thumb as he disappears – but it is evident he now crosses paths with the returning DS Jones, for there is a friendly exchange of goodnights and DS Leyton adds a parting word of congratulation. DS Jones says something about DS Leyton’s wife – but her voice is hushed and Skelgill does not catch the gist of it. A moment later she enters and carefully places the mug before Skelgill – she has nothing for herself – and resumes her seat. It is a couple of seconds before he acknowledges her kind act – he utters a belated “Cheers” – but now she becomes distracted: when she lifts her pad and phone together onto her lap and out of habit jabs a finger to check for activity she realises the handset has been inverted in her absence. Casually she drops the phone and pad into the slimline satchel that rests against the leg of her chair.

  ‘Do you want to clear out and get a quick drink, Guv – make a plan for the morning?’

  Skelgill has been watching her – but he still seems only half engaged with events around him. However, this offer seems to stir his consciousness.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When we’ve finished here – a drink, Guv? Beer.’

  Skelgill makes a pained expression. He has not yet touched his tea and now looks at it forlornly. Then he waves a hand aimlessly into space.

  ‘I need to keep an appointment – a darts match.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  DS Jones looks a little downcast. Perhaps she is not convinced by his explanation – Skelgill as a member of a darts team is a new one on her – or it could just be that she is disappointed by his lackadaisical response to the past couple of days’ developments. Ordinarily such rapid progress on a case would merit some alcoholic lubrication to keep the wheels turning and foster collective morale. Ordinarily, however, it is Skelgill that is in the driving seat.

  He lifts the mug and sighs; it is the precursor to a solemn pronouncement.

  ‘Any road – we’ve got a busy day tomorrow. You should get your beauty sleep.’

  19. THRELKELD – Thursday

  Skelgill scowls upon the scene.

  It is a scintillating July morning and promises to be the hottest day of the year. Beneath a powder-blue sky the gentle green lower slopes of Blencathra rear up into vertiginous cliffs of shattered mudstone, challenging Skelgill to an immediate duel. In contrast, at his back lies the chocolate box vista of St John’s in the Vale, with its trout-stream and the promise of hard-fighting brownies. For an outdoorsman such as he, some days his job is hard to stomach. Never mind that he is hung over. Never mind, even, that they have their man.

  Skelgill has slunk away from James Forrester’s caravan. It is parked at the end of the row of garages, tucked out of sight from the two terraces of back-to-back cottages. The immediate vicinity has been sealed off and guarded overnight until a proper forensic unit could be assembled. Now it is a hive of activity. But if the team are workers then he is a drone, aloof, tetchy – a lone task to perform when called upon, a self-destructive destiny. Right now he hovers apparently aimlessly in a kind of rickyard that marks the end of the lane. There is an open-fronted shed that has obviously served as a makeshift stable for the pony; its corrugated iron roof is half caved in, but there is a manger with some sparse hay, and a rusted drinking bucket. Beside the byre is an abandoned trailer, of the sort normally towed by a motor vehicle, but adapted with shafts for horse-drawn use; both tyres are flat, their rubber perished. Between a log pile and a dung heap is a jumble of corroded household appliances – ranging from a fridge with its door missing to the perforated drum of a tumble dryer; it looks like James Forrester at one time dabbled in scrap – but not so recently. More topical however is an improvised brazier, an industrial-scale oil drum with holes punched in its wall – ‘more topical’ because a wisp of smoke rises from within.

  Seeing this Skelgill seems to recover his sense of purpose – for he picks up the bucket and strides across to the nearby brook. He stands astride two rocks; a Grey Wagtail flits about a patch of shingle a dozen feet upstream, but determines he is no threat and continues to dart at mayflies. He dunks the bucket and hauls it to the brazier and methodically pours half its contents over the smouldering fire. When the hissing subsides with the sole of his left boot he shoves the brazier off its supporting ring of cracked house bricks. It topples with a dull clang and he has to grab it to stop it rolling away. Now he upends the thing and delivers to the base a couple of solid thumps with the side of his fist. Finally he pushes the drum aside to reveal a volcano-like cone of grey ash and charred debris, faintly steaming. He returns to the beck to wash his hands as best he can. Just as he is selecting a loose stick from a tangle of flotsam, a cry reaches his ears – a note of triumph in the familiar voice.

  ‘Guv – Guv – you gotta look at this!’

  He turns to see DS Leyton approaching, his shambling gait hindered by a pair of clear polythene evidence bags that he grasps, one in each hand. He reaches Skelgill and takes a succession of wheezy gasps.

  ‘Have a butcher’s, Guv.’ He raises the bag with the bulkier contents. It is a thick wad of used pounds sterling banknotes. ‘Gotta be fifteen grand there, or I’m a monkey’s uncle!’

  Skelgill narrows his eyes, though it may just be a reaction to the morning sun, against which DS Leyton holds his prize.

  ‘What’s in the other one?’

  ‘Whole bunch of cheques – look like they’re half-inched – not made payable to him – unless he’s got a shedload of aliases.’

  ‘Let’s see.’

  Skelgill snatches the bag. He is about to break protocol by opening it – but the clear polythene reveals all: the topmost cheque is made payable to “William King”. It might be a relatively common name, but this simply cannot be happenstance.

  ‘Bingo.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  He displays the bag.

  ‘There’s only one way this could have got here.’

  ‘Guv – that’s the burger bloke! So Rose must have brought it – Miriam O’Donoghue.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Looks like half a week’s takings wasn’t all she filched, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton grimaces, and weighs the bag of cash ostentatiously.

  ‘I reckon it were a lot more than half a week’s takings, Guv – if she turned up with this above a year ago – how much of it has he spent?’

  Skelgill looks pensive.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t start spending until after Christmas.’

  ‘He certainly wouldn’t have been fussed about getting the sack from your mate, Guv.’

  Skelgill raises a hand to his temple – as if this reference to Norman Church has brought about a little resurgence of his headache.

  ‘You’d better tell Jones.’

  DS Leyton nods in a businesslike manner.

  ‘She said she’d tried to call you early doors, Guv. She thought she should hold off interviewing Forrester – in case we found exactly something like this in the caravan. I said I’d ring her about eleven with an update.’

  Skelgill passes the cheques to his colleague. DS Leyton now notices the small scene of destruction wrought by Skelgill, the overturned oil drum and the heap of damp ash.

  ‘What’s going down here, Guv?’

  ‘You tell me, Leyton.’

  Now Skelgill begins to poke with his stick. Though a rake would be better he is an old hand with fires, and deftly begins to spread out the blackened debris. As is the way with braziers, there is an accumulation of layers of residue, incompletely combusted, not just slag and cinders, but strands of charred material and bent wire and melted plastic. Almost immediately he spies somethi
ng and swoops to retrieve it.

  ‘What is it, Guv?’

  Skelgill dunks the item into the remaining couple of inches of water in the bucket. Then he holds it up for inspection. It is a scorched and slightly distorted piece of metal, rather like a hinge.

  ‘Looks like the locking clasp of a suitcase to me, Leyton.’

  There is a moment’s silence; then the penny drops with DS Leyton.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – are you thinking he torched all her gear?’

  Skelgill is looking rather imperious. Nonchalantly he drops the clasp back onto the pile of ashes.

  ‘Better get someone up here who knows what they’re doing. Never mind the cheques – everything we might need for a conviction could be lying there.’

  DS Leyton is looking jubilant.

  ‘Wilco, Guv – reckon we’ve cracked this one, eh?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Leyton.’ Skelgill is grim-faced and quick to answer. He stares in silence at the amorphous mass of debris like he is willing it to reveal its secrets – though his next words suggest his thoughts have drifted elsewhere. ‘Too many loose ends.’

  DS Leyton regards him with concern.

  ‘But, Guv – if you’re thinking about that Liverpool malarkey – like you said – shake someone’s closet and it’ll probably rattle – you find strange behaviour – but no actual crimes committed – nothing serious, anyway – not even the Morgan geezer, really. And Derek Dudley – it’s not our problem – he’s listed as missing on Merseyside’s books.’

  Skelgill does not immediately reply; however he has made up his mind about something, and begins to walk in the direction of the caravan, beyond which his car is parked.

  ‘Take over here, Leyton. We’ll catch up the three of us later. Maybe back at the ranch.’

  ‘What’re you gonna do, Guv?’

  Skelgill now trots out his current pet phrase about a human and a canine.

  *

  That Skelgill, for once, really does have to see a man about a dog – usually a conveniently oblique non-reply – means that a humiliating climb-down must shortly ensue. He cannot be relishing it. But first he has to collect the Labradoodle from its temporary billet at Thornthwaite. En route, however, he makes a detour to Keswick. He takes the A591 Windermere turn, and diverts into town alongside the River Greta, craning to snatch views where he can; the water is unseasonably low and martins swoop for hatching flies above becalmed pools. He parks in a large supermarket lot – does not trouble to buy the requisite ticket – and emerges from the store a couple of minutes later with a one-pound box of Milk Tray tucked under his arm. A thank-you to Suzanne Symington for services rendered? But it would be an ill-considered choice of gift, remembering the woman’s dedication to fitness and physique. A further crack appears in this hypothesis as Skelgill ignores his car and strides towards the town centre. Indeed, barely a minute later he skips up three steps into the unprepossessing portal of the council offices. Flashing his credentials at reception he asks to see “Cheryl in Planning”. And no, he does not have an appointment.