There is a connection between Skelgill’s headache and his presence now at the council. Intending last night to fulfil his promise of a pint for Norman Church, he soon became subsumed into the buying of rounds amongst the latter’s four-man darts team. In such circumstances it is often difficult to determine just when everyone has done their duty, and once five is inadvertently passed, ten is required to restore the status quo. However, the upside was that it enabled Skelgill to pick his associate’s brains without seeming so obviously mercenary. Norman Church, like any builder worth his salt, is well versed in the machinations of the local council’s planning process. Indeed, he has gone one step better, in acquiring an administrative ‘mole’ in the shape of his sister-in-law (Cheryl). And Cheryl does not look like the sort of person who would turn down a box of milk chocolates.
Having parted with his offering – well received, as anticipated – and accepting a mug of hot tea to which he has added an inestimable quantity of sugar (no disapproving frown from Cheryl on that front), Skelgill explains his purpose. He understands from his good friend Norman that all renovations and improvements to properties in the National Park, including changes of use – however minor – should be registered and certified, in order that the traditional fabric and integral beauty of the region is maintained. Developments failing to do so risk being reversed by law. Cheryl nods obligingly, part-distracted as she is by a choice between Hazelnut Swirl and Strawberry Temptation. (Still – there’s always the second layer.) Skelgill goes on to list the addresses that interest him, and the dates that he has in mind. This appears to be at least a three-chocolate question, as Cheryl gets busy at her computer terminal. Skelgill is content to relax and sip his tea, declining frequent offers to indulge in the diminishing confectionery. In fact four chocolates later he has his answer, and within a couple of minutes is back at his car, stuffing into the black hole of his glove box with many others the parking fine that has been affixed to his windscreen.
*
‘Another dog? You’ll be getting a job with the RSPCA at this rate, Inspector – are you sure you won’t come in? You promised last time and then you had to rush off.’
‘Aye, well – happen something pretty urgent came up. You know what police work can be like.’
‘And now look at poor Morse – he’s so disappointed.’
The terrier is watching them through a window, from a perch on the back of a sofa.
‘I’ll take him again soon.’
June Collins pouts disapproval. For once she is not between ablutions or some other such aspect of her beauty regime, and Skelgill has found her rather clumsily cutting roses in her small front garden. Her outfit, however, is a skimpy white housecoat that makes her look like a hospital nurse, although pink fluffy carpet slippers and yellow rubber gloves rather detract from the effect.
‘Well, you could help me – I need three more.’
She presents him with the secateurs that she has been wielding. Skelgill acquiesces. He examines the bunch she cradles against her bosom, as if to assess what it is he needs to look for.
‘All red?’
‘Yes please – with long stems.’
She rather crowds him as he performs the operation, and it seems to prompt him to state the purpose of his passing visit. He closes his eyes momentarily – a little double take to remind himself to refer to Derek Dudley as ‘Spencer’.
‘My sergeant mentioned that Spencer didn’t leave behind any documents.’
June Collins’ expression is set at its most ingenuous, her mascaraed lashes fluttering helplessly – though Skelgill suspects she would be reacting this way whatever his question.
‘Did he have a desk or whatever – some kind of filing system – or a computer and printer?’
Now June Collins shakes her head decisively.
‘There was nothing, Inspector – nothing at all. I never saw him with any papers the whole time he was here. Come inside, I can show you.’
Skelgill notices a deep burgundy tint revealed by the sunlight in her glossy raven hair, and her movement causes the mixed fragrance of the roses and her own musky perfume to envelop him. It is a pleasant combination to which he experiences a small urge to yield. He wavers for a second, but then he presses upon her the secateurs and the three roses he has cut.
‘If there’s nothing – I can’t see it, madam – now, can I?’
He steps away and wipes his fingers across one another several times. June Collins looks rather forsaken – but she recognises his determination.
‘Well, Inspector – you will come back for Morse? Otherwise he’ll start to get jealous.’
*
It’s Inspector Skelgill – what a brass neck! He’s brought back the dog in person. Can’t imagine he’s going to apologise – he’s too full of himself. He’s probably convinced himself they’ve still got something on him – that little bit of blurred video – but it’ll never stick. He’s basically stupid. So let’s have a little bit of fun at his expense. Set the wheels in motion. Carefully close everything up. He can wait a couple of minutes; it’s a nice day outside.
*
‘Mr Morgan – I was beginning to think you were out on the hill – I’m returning your dog – safely cared for.’
‘Marvellous, Inspector – he looks in the pink – I must congratulate your veterinary service.’
Skelgill glances down at the Labradoodle; the dog does not appear particularly animated at being reunited with its master; perhaps it recognises its repatriation to a more austere regime than it has enjoyed over the past few days. However, Skelgill is not about to reveal that the very woman whose car he used to snare Marvin Morgan in the act of clandestine filming has looked after the animal.
‘Aye – it was a top-notch B&B, you might say – much like your own used to be, I believe.’
Skelgill makes this statement offhandedly, as he stoops to free the dog from the lasso knot he has used on its collar. He is not looking at Marvin Morgan, therefore, when the man’s rubbery lips stretch into a triumphalist crescent.
‘Ah – you have done your research, Inspector – but of course I would expect nothing less of our excellent police force.’
Skelgill has shown no sign of conveying regret for the man’s detention, yet he lingers – a state of affairs that appears to amuse Marvin Morgan, as though he believes it is just a matter of time, and that Skelgill is skirting around the edges of an excruciating apology. When he could plainly end the encounter by thanking the Inspector for returning his dog and simply retreating indoors, he makes a rather surprising offer.
‘Would you like a guided tour?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘My guest facilities – I am still open for business.’
Skelgill looks a little confounded. He gestures vaguely at the front of the cottage. ‘I don’t see a sign – nor at the end of your drive.’
‘Ah, well, Inspector – it’s all about the target audience.’ Marvin Morgan looks pleased with himself. ‘I fear my prices would rather embarrass the average walk-up customer. You see – How Cottage is to the ubiquitous guesthouse what the boutique hotel is to the big chains. Let me show you.’
He steps back and gestures for Skelgill to enter. Skelgill now shakes the twine free from the dog’s collar – but it shows no great inclination to charge ahead of him.
‘Up the staircase, Inspector – and follow the landing back round to the front – I’m right behind you.’
Skelgill has to duck his head to avoid low beams – roof trusses really, for the upper floor of the cottage is effectively a conversion of the attic space, with various gables and dormers that have been added down the years. The landing twists and turns until just two doors remain – on his right a narrow slatted affair that is obviously an airing cupboard, and in front a more substantial oak planked door with a wrought-iron thumb latch.
‘Just go in, Inspector, please do.’
Skelgill bobs beneath the lintel and enters what is a de
ceptively spacious chamber, the window directly ahead, a four-poster bed to his left, various items of period furniture, vernacular in style but classy nonetheless, a full-length floor mirror, and in the corner on his right a polished glass shower unit equipped with a traditional Victorian riser, and beside that on the adjoining wall a washbasin with old-fashioned colonial fittings. The soft furnishings have been skilfully chosen to coordinate with the old dark wood of the beams and furniture, and the cream plaster of the walls, and create a fusion that is at once traditional and modern. Scented candles, though unlit, infuse the air with intense vapours, and patterned cushions and throws are strategically placed around the room. Though Skelgill is no aficionado, he recognises there is substance in Marvin Morgan’s ‘boutique hotel’ boast.
‘So you see, Inspector – it’s a far cry from your common-or-garden backstreet B&B.’
Marvin Morgan is leaning proprietorially against the door jamb.
‘How many rooms have you got, sir?’
‘Oh – just the one – I promote to couples – you know, the ‘Mr & Mrs Smiths’ – they like the idea of not having someone sleeping just through the wall – and older, of course, that’s a big market in the Lakes, the well-heeled empty nesters, to use the advertising jargon.’
‘So how do they find you if you don’t have a sign?’
Marvin Morgan gestures to a broad four-legged ottoman upholstered in striped coffee-and-beige fabric that stands at the foot of the bed; upon it lies a neatly arranged fan of glossy journals.
‘I advertise in special interest magazines – country pursuits, fine dining, historical properties – that sort of thing.’
Skelgill on entering the room has automatically gravitated to the dormer window on the opposite side from the door, overlooking the front driveway. Now he puts a hand on the casement and presses his forehead to the glass, as though he is interested in some structural aspect.
‘Your builder did a nice job of the place, sir.’
‘It’s mostly my own work, Inspector – I have always been interested in DIY. And I have the luxury of time, of course.’
Skelgill remains staring out of the window.
‘Happen we didn’t disrupt any of your customers’ plans?’
This statement contains the first semblance of possible remorse from the side of the authorities – in the shape of Skelgill – and behind his back it prompts the return of Marvin Morgan’s rather unsettling grin.
‘In fact I don’t take bookings in July and August, Inspector. As you know, the Lake District seethes during the school holidays – my typical customers tend to avoid these overcrowded periods – they prefer spring and autumn for walking, and cosy winter breaks. Even then I limit myself to just one or two nights a week – it’s more of a hobby that brings in some pocket money – makes use of my tax-free allowance.’
Skelgill steps away from the window and casts about appreciatively, as if he can imagine availing himself of the facilities – but suddenly from below comes the bark of the dog – it is agitated and persistent.
‘That’s not like him – excuse me a second, Inspector.’
Marvin Morgan turns and stalks away, leaving Skelgill on his own in the bedroom. Skelgill takes a couple of deep breaths, as though he has been finding the encounter nerve wracking but has fought to conceal it. He moves towards the bed and regards it pensively, his hands in his pockets. Then he shrugs off whatever reverie has come upon him and crosses to the washbasin. There is a rectangular vanity mirror on the wall above it and Skelgill leans in to inspect his reflection. For a moment he appears to be trying to stare himself out – but then he notices an errant nasal hair and with a decisive jerk he plucks and discards it in a single motion.
The dog has been silenced, but since Marvin Morgan shows no sign of returning Skelgill leaves the room and wends his way downstairs; the dog is eating at its bowl and Marvin Morgan is washing his hands at the kitchen sink. He hears Skelgill’s approach and speaks without turning.
‘There must have been a fox in the back garden, Inspector – it’s not like him to bark for food – these doodles are notoriously indifferent to their meals.’
Skelgill looks at the dog, which is making heavy weather of an undersized ration of unappetising dried pellets. Small wonder, when recycled cardboard is on the menu – although, on reflection, his dog would probably hoover it up, regardless.
Skelgill now makes his excuses; that he has a meeting to attend. Marvin Morgan wishes him good luck with his investigation. There is something in his tone that suggests he knows – or at least guesses – that there has been progress in some other direction – although no public announcement regarding the apprehending of James Forrester has yet been made. Skelgill is not about to enlighten him – but Marvin Morgan, rather than take offence, seems only amused by Skelgill’s clumsy taciturnity.
‘Perhaps see you out on the hill some time, Inspector.’
*
Hilarious! If he’s not urinating in public he’s picking his nose – the minute he was left alone in the room! And let’s not forget the other photograph of him kissing his colleague. It is becoming quite a little collection – if he ever wanted to embarrass the dumb detective.
20. EVIDENCE MOUNTS
“Back at the ranch” turns out to be more ranch-like than the cliché intends – for, by mid afternoon, it is the hottest day of the year and Skelgill has decided that his stifling office is no place to work. Instead he has called a parley in the garden of a pub at Pooley Bridge, a short fifteen minutes’ drive but a world apart from the industrial-estate ambience that surrounds the M6/A66 Penrith junction near their base. They have a rustic picnic bench fitted with a broad parasol, set a little away from the rest. They have cooling drinks – DS Jones tonic water with ice, DS Leyton a Coke, of the nutritional variety, and Skelgill a pint of orange squash, already half consumed. And they have an idyllic setting, with apple trees and – yes – ranch fencing and green fields with cattle grazing beyond and the blue waters of Ullswater lapping just far enough away such that Skelgill cannot be distracted by the rising of fish.
Yet, he is distracted, notwithstanding.
Such disquiet might be put down to the holidaymaking clientele with whom they share the beer garden – the raucous laughter of collectively inebriated parents, inured to screaming offspring that vie to subvert the health and safety precautions of the play area – but in fact Skelgill behaves as though he has screened out this uncouth brouhaha, like the distant rumble of a motorway, or the hum of a city at night; his distraction is of a more aloof, serene nature. Yet the meeting itself promises to spark the attention – for his subordinates have arrived armed with news aplenty.
The evidence, however, does not come from the lips of James Forrester who, in keeping with his futile equine escape bid, is effectively refusing to cooperate with the police. And it is on this point that DS Jones – who earlier conducted an initial interview with their suspect – is updating her colleagues.
‘It’s not that he won’t talk at all. He’s just denying that his mother was ever there – he insists he hasn’t seen her since he left Ireland as a teenager.’
DS Leyton bridles at the man’s claim.
‘He’s got no chance with that story, Guv – I did house-to-house calls on those cottages – three people recognised her from the photo reconstruction – one woman says she used to see her at the bus stop for Keswick – taking laundry – and the village shopkeeper reckons she was in regular – always paying cash, I should add.’
Skelgill’s eyes narrow.
‘When was she last seen?’
DS Leyton is nodding, anticipating this question.
‘Course – people can’t remember exactly, Guv – but they’re all saying it must be well before Christmas. The shopkeeper asked Forrester where his mother was – says he told him she’d gone home to Ireland. What’s more, Guv – Bonfire Night – seems Forrester had a whopping great blaze. Couple of the cottages – there’s people with nipper
s – they were out the back letting off their fireworks – say they can remember seeing the glow from behind the garages. SOCO reckon there’s remnants of clothing and buckles from women’s shoes and a hairbrush amongst the fire debris – good chance we’ll get intact DNA that would prove they belonged to her. Plus we can probably get descriptions of some items that William King may be able to identify – the make of the suitcase, for instance. There’s melted cosmetics tubes and lipsticks – and, how about this – a charred pack of tarot cards – only got burnt round the edges. She weren’t much of a fortune teller, Guv.’
If a joke is intended Skelgill appears to miss it; perhaps he is recalling his prediction that compelling evidence would rise from the unpromising heap of ashes. Now DS Jones interjects.
‘Regarding DNA, Guv – the priority swab we submitted from Forrester has come up positive – there’s no doubt that Miriam O’Donoghue is his mother. And now the Gardaí know where to look, they’re saying it’s just a matter of time before they track down the source of her dentistry – and with it all her personal details.’
Murder in the Woods Page 21