Skelgill turns to DS Leyton.
‘What about Forrester?’
‘There’s nothing in the caravan to confirm his official identity, Guv – no passport, no driving licence – not even any government papers – such as if he were signing on. Looks like he’s been operating under the radar. One of the neighbours remembers there being a maggoty white Transit – when he first arrived – suppose he had to tow the caravan somehow. But that disappeared when he got use of the builder’s wagon.’
Skelgill is nodding.
‘What about the tools?’
‘I collected the axes and saws that your mate Norman thinks Forrester had in his truck on the night of the storm – they’re with forensics – the boffins are confident of getting a match between the blades and the damage to the skeleton. After you’d gone we discovered the lock on the end garage had been forced – haven’t managed to trace the owner yet – but there’s marks on the concrete that suggest he hid the body there – the lab are processing samples.’
‘Did you speak to his workmates?’
‘Seems he kept his own counsel, Guv – bit of a loner, even at work – but one interesting snippet. Young apprentice and Forrester had been dropped off to dig some trenches – they finished early and had to wait to be picked up. It was a Friday afternoon – not long before Forrester got the heave-ho – started to rain so they went in the local pub. In no time Forrester’s had a skinful – he starts behaving really sinister, like – tells the geezer that he’s “done something bad” and that “he’ll burn in hell” – won’t say any more than that – and the poor lad’s too scared to ask him.’
Skelgill listens to this last item with his nose in his pint glass as he drains its contents. He exhales and rises, still holding the tankard.
‘I’ll get us some top-ups.’
This offer takes his subordinates by surprise; he is marching away before either of them can protest. A small boy boots a plastic football in his direction, and he makes a rather gawky left-footed attempt to pass it back; the ball balloons up in the air and curves away in the breeze, narrowly missing a crowded table of revellers. Someone teasingly shouts “Dinnae gi’e up the day job” – they are a bunch of Scots; their schools finish a fortnight before the English. He displays a hopeless shrug – and wishes he had a one-liner that would convey his feelings right now about the day job, if only he knew what they were. At the bar he is pensive; he watches patiently while a tall dark-haired girl with a slight Eastern European accent pours four pints of lager for a rather dour tattooed middle-aged man; she reminds him of a brown-eyed Scarlett Johansson and when she turns to him she has to ask him twice for his order, and when he starts she gives a little laugh that conjures in his mind the tinkling of a stream on a high mountainside. Her badge says ‘Samanta’ and a tiny red-and-white flag shows she speaks Polish; her voice is kind and he leaves her a tip that is almost the same as the cost of the round, and her eyes follow him quizzically as he scoops the three glasses together and carries them away.
‘So what’s the pitch to the Chief?’
Skelgill addresses this to no one in particular as he reaches to put down the little triad of drinks, but DS Jones understands the question is directed at her. She waits while he feeds his gangly legs between the seat and the table.
‘Are you sitting comfortably?’
Skelgill does not look very comfortable, but he nods for her to continue.
‘Miriam O’Donoghue left William King at Appleby last June. She intended the split to be permanent – since she took his savings – that may have been an afterthought, because she had already told him approximately where she was going. She stayed with her son James Forrester in the caravan at Threlkeld until her death in late October. He killed her – but I don’t think he intended to – perhaps it was an argument over the money. He hid her body in one of the disused garages and dismembered it using tools from his job. He figured no one would be out on the night of the storm and that’s when he took the remains to Harterhow. He must have damaged the gate when he was reversing the pick-up – and came back early the next morning to fix it – to avoid drawing attention to the spot. He used Bonfire Night as cover to burn all of her belongings in the brazier. He gave her a kind of Christian burial – and I think it was he that put the roses on the grave.’
DS Leyton is listening open-mouthed – his breathing audible and wheezy. Of course, he knows the facts and suppositions, but to hear them woven into a succinct and yet comprehensive narrative imbues freshness such that he might be hearing it for the first time. Skelgill is singularly impassive. He drinks and then clears his throat.
‘What about an accomplice?’
DS Jones takes a moment to react – and when she does she looks like he has asked her a question that she cannot process.
‘Guv?’
Skelgill’s expression is challenging.
‘The day we found the body – or June Collins’ dog did – you asked me what if there were two people.’
DS Jones is unprepared – true, she voiced the concern – but it was light-hearted speculation, at a time when they had nothing to go on. Now the mystery has unravelled so neatly they might have been handed the skeleton plot of a detective story.
Skelgill persists.
‘What if William King’s money wasn’t stolen – what if it were a payment?’
‘You’re not serious, Guv.’
‘What about Derek Dudley? He’s playing along two women – at least two – then he disappears the same time as Miriam O’Donoghue is murdered.’
Now DS Jones remains silent.
‘What about these creeps that live around Harterhow? We know about Morgan’s nocturnal habits – and Coot and Fox are keeping something under their hats.’
DS Leyton – perhaps on his colleague’s behalf – is looking troubled by Skelgill’s salvo of what ifs; that he won’t settle seems to be a feature of this case. He was unduly dismissive when his subordinates were keen to follow diverse leads early on; now – when it seems his instinct in that regard was correct – he is indifferent to the elegant solution that has been arrived at. Perhaps out of sheer frustration, therefore, DS Leyton reminds his superior of another variable.
‘For that matter, Guv – June Collins – you know what the statistics say about the person who finds the body.’
But now there arrives a further twist of caprice – for Skelgill responds with a disparaging scowl. Whether this is an outright negation of the suggestion, it is hard to judge – but paradoxically the intervention seems to appease him and after a moment he turns more benevolently to DS Jones.
‘What I’m saying, Jones – is the Chief’s going to ask these questions – and she’ll want answers before she parades herself in front of the media tonight.’
DS Jones has quickly recovered her poise; she seems not to resent Skelgill’s little tirade.
‘Guv – I have no doubt we’ve caught the prime suspect,’ (Skelgill is actually nodding at this) ‘And I think it would be right to investigate any connections we can find to James Forrester. When we speak in depth to neighbours and co-workers, and conduct a thorough background check on him, perhaps a link will emerge. Maybe in time he will reveal something.’
Now Skelgill’s expression is more pragmatic.
‘Here’s a starter for ten. Forrester worked in the building trade, right? Derek Dudley was a builder that did domestic jobs in the Lakes. Marvin Morgan – and Coot and Fox – applied for change-of-use certificates that involved construction work on their properties.’
DS Jones is listening keenly.
‘When was that, Guv?’
Skelgill folds his arms – ironically she has homed in on the flaw in his construct.
‘Roughly five years ago – coinciding with them moving up here – or just after.’
Again DS Leyton is prompted to interject.
‘But, Guv – that’s a big gap in time. According the locals, Forrester didn’t appear in Threlkeld until last May.
You’re talking three or more years unaccounted for.’
‘Aye – so where was he before Threlkeld?’
Skelgill’s sharp retort is plainly rhetorical: they all know that they don’t have the answer, but that it is something they can find out – easily, if James Forrester will tell them; with some difficulty, if he will not.
DS Jones has been computing the probabilities. Now she makes an assessment.
‘Guv – it’s difficult to see why there would be a connection between Miriam O’Donoghue and the others locally whom you mention. Maybe tenuously – if say James Forrester had been in the area back then, and had done some labouring work for Derek Dudley – and that could also explain how he got to know about Harterhow reserve. But certainly what you said about William King – if his sob-story were all crocodile tears?’
DS Leyton, however, is still glowering. He suspects his superior’s recalcitrance stems from his subsidiary role in solving the case, and is less inclined to be accommodating than his younger female colleague. Moreover, to his mind there is a fly in the ointment.
‘But the cheques belonging to King – that doesn’t make sense – not if King’s in on the murder. Why would Forrester have them?’
Skelgill shrugs indifferently – he can think of an explanation but can’t be bothered to iterate it – for it is not the specific pitfall that hampers him, but a widespread mire of incomprehension, a feeling that this perplexing miasma of an investigation is still shifting beneath the surface; it has not yet yielded up all its secrets. He checks his watch – the time is moving on and they will need to be back within the hour for a confab with the Chief prior to the press conference. He wipes his brow, for the afternoon heat is causing him to perspire, and the umbrella does not as well shade him as his colleagues. It seems, however, that the headache, which has pursued him through most of the day, has now been shaken off.
‘Anyone fancy a proper drink before we shoot? Pint of shandy, Leyton?’
It is not like Skelgill to drink during official working hours, and DS Leyton glances rather suspiciously at his own glass, which is still two-thirds full, and then realises there is something moving in the meniscus.
‘Aw, Guv – there’s a flippin’ wasp in my Coke.’
‘It’s too soon for wasps, Leyton – that’s a hoverfly – just pick it out – go on – they’re harmless.’
A reluctant DS Leyton observes his superior’s orders. Gingerly he grasps the interloper between finger and thumb – and lets out a great yelp as the ‘hoverfly’ stings him – flinging it into the air as he recoils. As he frantically sucks at his thumb and makes concomitant moans, Skelgill watches, frowning.
‘Happen they’re out early this year.’
*
‘Emma to take centre stage, eh, Skel – or are you hogging all the limelight?’
Skelgill notices that whenever DI Alec Smart attempts to wind him up, it is always in a public place, where a form of witness protection operates. Right now they cross paths in the foyer outside the gents’ toilets (Skelgill leaving, DI Smart entering) – and Skelgill is in a hurry – but perhaps that is a good thing. As usual he bristles and his urge to sock the snide Mancunian threatens to override a reasoned response. But as he is walking away a line strikes him. He stops and turns.
‘We’re still waiting for your Manchester drugs connection to come good, Smart.’
DI Smart shrugs casually – as though it is just a matter of time. He raises a hand of farewell.
‘Well – keep your flies done up, cock – else one of those ladies sitting either side of you will be getting the wrong idea.’
Smirking, DI Smart disappears into the restroom. Skelgill glances about – and then casually checks the front of his trousers.
*
The press conference is unremarkable – indeed an unsatisfactory anticlimax – which is often the way when a significant breakthrough is announced. Of course, the police want to reassure the public that the threat is over – and to demonstrate how well they are protecting them. And naturally the journalists salivate for scandal, the more sensational the better – who is he – where was he hiding – did he put up a fight – has he confessed – what is his terrible history – what else might he have done if he had not been apprehended? But the nature of the judicial process means that all the police are able to say is that a 34-year-old male has been arrested in connection with the death of Miriam O’Donoghue (Rose, now identified) and will be appearing in Carlisle Crown Court on Monday – charges as yet to be specified while key aspects of the investigation continue. Perhaps surprisingly there are few dissenting voices amongst the audience of reporters, although – perhaps unsurprisingly – the most salient inquiry emanates from the familiar source of Kendall Minto. “What about an accomplice?” It could be that, as a native, the inaccessibility of the grave site has more obviously struck him as worthy of the question – or perhaps he has his own reasons for suspicion – or maybe he just wants to win the attention of DS Jones. For her part – no small thanks to Skelgill – she is well prepared. No – there is no reason to believe there was an accomplice, but the police are examining all aspects of this point until they can be certain there was not.
‘Right – who wants a proper drink?’
Skelgill is rattling loose change in his trouser pocket. He has his back to his colleagues and is perusing the map of the Lake District on his office wall – it is a fine, warm evening and he appears to be trying to ascertain where might be the most suitable venue under such circumstances. At first neither sergeant replies – DS Leyton standing, looking rather hot and flustered, his jacket on, DS Jones seated, but perhaps poised to move. They glance at one another, and then DS Leyton does the honourable thing.
‘I would, Guv – but I’ve just listened to a message from the doctor’s receptionist. They’ve had to take the missus back down to the hospital – she took a bit of a turn while she was in for an appointment. The nippers are round with a neighbour – but she’s just an old girl and they’ll be running amok. I’d better scoot, Guv, if it’s all the same.’
Skelgill nods without conveying any great emotion either way, and regards DS Jones expectantly. Now she exhibits the same signs of wavering as her colleague.
‘I’ve got a fitness class that starts in about twenty minutes, Guv – I do it with a regular partner – you have to work in pairs for some of the routines – I really ought not let them down.’ She brightens, however. ‘I could meet you afterwards – maybe eight-thirty – for an hour?’
She does not elaborate on why this may be – but Skelgill makes an ambivalent face that could hide disappointment. He stalks across to the window and gazes out. The evening sun is casting long shadows of trees from west to east, picking out old stone buildings and walls with light and dark, and illuminating crows and pigeons, gilding their wingtips as they beat about their business.
‘Aye – maybe. Think I’ll get a stretch of the legs in first. It’s too good a night to waste.’
He continues to stare out, and then when he turns he acts surprised that his colleagues are still there – despite that DS Jones is seated just beside him.
‘Off you go, then – skedaddle.’
The pair slink away somewhat self-consciously, departing together for strength in numbers. Skelgill makes no immediate move to implement his plan to go for a walk, and after hanging about for a minute or so he wends his way through the building to DS Leyton’s workstation. There are several officers still at their computers in the open-plan zone, but nobody pays him particular attention. Leaning precariously against the desk is the stack of folders taken from Derek Dudley’s box room office. Despite DS Leyton’s best intentions, the job of interrogating them has been successively postponed, by the furore surrounding the arrest of Marvin Morgan, and likewise James Forrester. Skelgill clears a space on the surface and opens the topmost file. Without disengaging the lever-arch mechanism he flicks cursorily through the contents. It takes him about fifteen seconds. Then he c
loses the folder and drops it carelessly on the floor behind him. The thud prompts a couple of heads to rise, but only momentarily. He repeats the procedure with each of the files – setting them out in what is in fact an untidy chronological sequence. This enables him to identify the most recent folder. He takes longer over this one, flicking through the docketed papers. But if he finds anything significant it cannot be complex – for he neither makes a note nor extracts any pages that he might perhaps photocopy. Abandoning the folders as variously strewn, he returns to his office, gathers up his personal effects, and departs.
21. HARTERHOW
It may be Skelgill’s intention to kill two birds with one stone – combining his evening constitutional and his promise to the persistent June Collins – for has collected the landlady’s hyperactive hound and headed for the hills, or at least a hill of sorts. Ordinarily he would prefer to be alone – bereft of responsibilities, at liberty to wander in body and mind – however the company of Morse seems to please him. If truth were told, compared to his own Bullboxer the Lakeland Terrier is more a dog after his own heart, quick, inquisitive, resourceful and impatient.
Of course, there could be a third ‘bird’ – else why has he gravitated to Harterhow? It has never figured high on his list of local walks, too confined an area to be of utility to a fellsman such as he, hemmed in as it is by oversubscribed attractions like Catbells, Derwentwater and the Newlands Valley. That it remains largely deserted – for its lack of a striking feature, such as a viewpoint, or waterfall, or notable summit, and being to all appearances private property – would not sway him, not when he can find ultimate sanctuary simply by launching his craft into the great millpond that is Bassenthwaite Lake, just three miles to the north. It would seem DS Leyton has hit the nail on the head – that, for once, the rattle of closeted skeletons that is part and parcel of almost any case has derailed Skelgill. To conflate idioms, it is the job of the detective to leave no stone unturned; when unpleasant revelations scuttle for cover a clear head is called for; as Skelgill often says, it is the detective’s obligation not to become sidetracked.
Murder in the Woods Page 22