Murder in the Woods

by Bruce Beckham

  Of course, there is a paradox; Skelgill is a man of impulse rather than rationale. Like the prospective homebuyer that knows instantly that they do (or don’t) want the property they are inspecting, but not why, Skelgill trusts his instincts to inform him when a correct solution presents itself, when an investigation nears its endpoint. Thus far these same instincts – if not exactly having deserted him – have been playing a curious game of hide and seek. When his subordinates went looking one way, he was sure he was smarter, and went another. Now the chase has swung back past him, he seems condemned to blunder on in the opposite direction.

  Is it by wishful thinking, therefore, that he returns to Harterhow? Are as-yet-unturned stones a figment of his imagination? Should he not simply accept that there was a logical pathway that ran through this case – as DS Jones sensibly did? She pushed for the idea of the facial reconstruction; she identified the traveller connection that proved to be the key to unlocking both the identity of Rose and the explanation of her subsequent demise. Ought he just be satisfied that he has made significant contributions – not least in clarifying the timing of the murder, and the swift tracing of James Forrester; and surely his actions have clipped the wings of Marvin Morgan, and caused him to curtail his clandestine hobby, that goes under the guise of nature photographer?

  *

  She’s there. She’s by far the best looker in the class. Face and physique. She has the poise of a ballet dancer and the grace of an athlete. Set the dash-cam rolling. Settle back and enjoy the show.

  *

  Skelgill screws up his features in a way that he rarely does in company. It is a fishing face, one he uses when he is trying to decide which fly will tempt the first trout of the season, when no pattern has yet had time to establish itself; or when he is about to cast a baited pike rig and is spoilt for choice of swims, all looking equally enticing from his vantage point in his boat. It is not a pretty face, shrew-like, with bared teeth and flared nostrils, though deliberative rather than anxious. While the dog has taken its regular route under the stile into the nature reserve Skelgill loiters, looking (shrewishly, perhaps) at the gate repaired by James Forrester. It is a neat job, the joints are concealed and only a contrast in the weathering of the wood reveals the foreign timber, which must have been reclaimed from a similar artefact. Skelgill toys with the notion of taking it in as evidence and whether – as a smile raises the corners of his mouth – out of devilment he should refer to it in his report in farmer Stanley Gill’s local dialect, yon yat.

  But for now he vaults the said yat and follows Morse; judging by its echoing yelps the dog has taken the narrow path that dips into the shadowy oak woods. The canopy is at its most verdant, the leaves having attained a bottle-green maturity; akin to those thrust by the far-reaching fingers of the autumn storm into the black peaty soil and the rude last rites of Miriam O’Donoghue. Rose. Skelgill pauses as he nears the spot – though it is some twenty yards off the path and he does not care to find it now. Did James Forrester – as DS Jones speculates – place the wild spray upon the unmarked grave? It was an act completed in the space of a day or so, between the forensic team clearing out and the morning of his photographed ‘encounter’ with his female colleague. It is over five miles as the crow flies from Threlkeld to Harterhow – would Forrester have taken such trouble? Would he, indeed, have risked approaching the site? To do so on horseback would have courted inordinate attention – though he may have been unaware that the body had been discovered – the first public announcement was only the day before. But if Forrester did not leave the roses, who did? Was it in fact one of the forensic team, who was then too embarrassed to admit it? An anonymous member of the public, acting in all innocence? Or someone else?

  Skelgill moves on. The air beneath the trees is still and midges are massing; they home in on his breath. He is wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and has no other protection with him. He can hear the dog ahead – the undergrowth crackles with testosterone or whatever is the canine equivalent – but now a deeper note reaches his ears, the strangled bark of a roe deer. He calls to the dog, hissing its name in an urgent tone. It does the trick and it trots back expectantly – only for Skelgill to snare it with a length of baler twine looped through its collar.

  Morse seems to understand they are hunting, and walks obediently at heel. Tracking the periodic grunts brings them to the edge of the wood; beyond, the large clearing stretches away up the slope. In the hazy dusk two roebucks are facing off. Skelgill watches as they enact their timeless ritual, their movements synchronised, each the mirror image of the other: they paw the turf with alternate hoofs and back away with heads turned coyly, only to spring into the tackle like footballers pouncing on a loose ball; the clatter of antlers. The dog, of course, cannot see over the waist-high undergrowth, and what little breeze there is comes from behind; he shows no sign of wanting to take off. Skelgill begins to edge through the bracken – how close can he get? It seems the battle is more important than any audience (indeed, where are the does – watching from the wings?) – for at twenty feet the deer are still hard at it, no quarter yet given. Skelgill thinks about filming with his phone – he is now easily within range. He grins sardonically – it would make a good post for Marvin Morgan’s blog. Although – come to that – why not start one of his own? But on second thoughts, if he had a blog, it would need to be about fishing. The idea amuses him; he could do ‘Catch of the Week’ – that would silence the doubters in the pub.

  By now Morse’s patience has worn thin. He can hear the exertions of the elegant beasts, their choreographed prizefight, and finally lets out a warning yap. In unison the bucks turn and calmly trot away – an observer would never guess that a moment earlier they were locked in mortal combat. Skelgill waits a minute and then releases the dog – it darts to inspect the divots in the turf, but shows little inclination to continue in pursuit of their spoor. Skelgill takes a bearing off the dark fringe of the pinewood, and marches uphill towards Marvin Morgan’s hidden viewpoint. He is thinking there is some veracity in the latter’s claim about the rutting site.

  Beneath the pines everything looks just as he last saw it – the ground is undisturbed and an inconspicuous cross of twigs he left behind is still in place. But Marvin Morgan has only had a day or so to have come here since his release, quite likely he has not. Now Skelgill ponders his options; where does instinct beckon? He can traverse to his right and pick up the path to Portinscale, or he can head up and over the hill, past the cairn. Either route will reach the perimeter wall and thence lead him back to his car, anticlockwise or clockwise respectively. He looks at Morse; the terrier is enlarging a rabbit hole; a fresh scent must emanate from within. If Skelgill takes the Portinscale path it will mean passing the grave of Rebus, with the risk that Morse will get there first and try once again to exhume his predecessor. Pragmatism must step in where intuition fails to lead; Skelgill turns uphill.

  ‘Come on, lad – this way – foxy – see him off.’

  *

  Kendall Minto’s heart beats a little faster than normal; he can smell his deodorant as damp patches form at the armpits of his crisply ironed shirt. It’s not like him, he usually thrives on stress, reporting often brings him into situations where brazen self-confidence is called for. He glances again at the bunch of flowers in their cellophane wrapper on the passenger seat beside him. They look like they’re beginning to wilt – the interior of the car is hotter beneath its black canvass canopy than he would have imagined. But he doesn’t want to drop the hood – or turn on the engine to activate the a/c – the brand new red convertible is conspicuous enough as it is.

  Here she comes. She looks like she’s straight out of the shower; her hair is still damp – she’s obviously in a hurry. She has changed into a close-fitting clingy tracksuit – she manages to look great whatever she wears. Should he honk – or just casually get out – her car is parked only a couple of spaces away.

  But as Kendall Minto fumbles for the unfamiliar position o
f the door catch he witnesses his ambitions thwarted. A middle-aged man has appeared and now moves to intercept the girl and engage her with a greeting. The man has his back to him. Kendall Minto’s eyes narrow; she looks a little uncomfortable – but she’s trying not to show it. They are only half a dozen yards distant, at an angle to his left – but they probably can’t tell he’s here because of the glare of the evening sun that reflects from the curve of the tinted windshield. Cautiously he lowers the electric passenger window. He can hear snatches of conversation between the swish of cars that cruise to and fro seeking spaces. The man is speaking; he feels like he has heard the voice before, it is calm and persuasive.

  ‘Old memory card... completely forgot I had it... vital missing link in your case... in two minds whether to delete the picture... compromising for me, you see... your boss might take an ill view... bit of a downer on me... I thought if you handled it... smooth the path... value your opinion...’

  The girl is nodding. However, Kendall Minto recognises her expression as conflicted – a mixture of keen interest and suspicion; though she strives to conceal the latter; funny, how he knows her of old. Her response carries to him more clearly, since she faces in his direction.

  ‘Where is it, Mr Morgan?’

  So it’s that Morgan character – of course. The man raises a hand to rub the top of his short-cropped head; it is a subconscious act of body language that suggests discomfiture. Kendall Minto holds his breath and strains to hear the response.

  ‘Didn’t like to bring it out with me... prefer to show you on my own equipment... sure you’ll understand?’

  She hesitates for a second or two.

  ‘Okay – I’ll follow you.’

  Now the man makes an accommodating gesture, raising open palms.

  ‘Honestly no need... couple of things I can explain on the way... back for a late-night shop... will drive right past... drop you off here.’

  Kendall Minto watches keenly. A car slows down and obscures any further sound – but he can see her face as she tries to make up her mind. Clearly she thinks the matter is urgent; she looks like she’s asking herself why shouldn’t she travel with him. Then she says something and Marvin Morgan noticeably relaxes; he swings half around and points to what must be his car, four or five rows away, a silver SUV with heavily tinted windows that faces the glass-sided exercise studio. He begins to amble in that direction, glancing back a couple of times.

  Her car is parked just across the designated roadway. Kendall Minto watches as she comes round to the rear and lifts the tailgate. Again he experiences a small pang of attraction as he regards her athletic form. She must have told Morgan that she’ll put her kitbag away – and he sees her take her mobile from a zip pouch. But rather than go immediately she keeps her head bowed – out of sight of Morgan – and now she appears to be sending a hurried text – she types and then frowns as she watches the display – she seems to try again – then comes a cry of “Everything alright?” from across the car park – and she resigns herself to whatever is the failing of her phone and slips it into a belly pocket. She pulls down the tailgate, locks the car – stands for a moment as if to compose herself – and then purposefully weaves through the matrix of parked vehicles.

  To reach the exit Marvin Morgan’s car has to swing around past where Kendall Minto is parked. The reporter presses himself against the seat – but the SUV cruises by without either of them looking his way. He fastens his belt, engages the ignition, and sets off in pursuit.

  *

  Skelgill has attacked the steep gradient of Harterhow with gusto, picking a more challenging line to the summit than indicated by the faint path that leads from Marvin Morgan’s hidey-hole. Sweat is matting his thick eyebrows and he rubs them simultaneously with the hairy backs of his hands; all in all, he is not his usual well-equipped self for being out of doors – it is the danger of casual dog walking – he should actually have come ready for the fells; he might even have brought his Kelly kettle and stopped for a mash by the cairn. He is conscious DS Jones has not yet contacted him – she’s probably nattering with her pal – he thinks about phoning her – but his mobile is jammed into a tight pocket on his thigh, safe but tricky to extract. In any event – now his attention becomes diverted by familiar frantic yelps that filter down through the timbers – it sounds like Morse has cornered his vixen.

  Skelgill is panting as – from his perspective – the old cairn heaves into sight. From its far side come the muffled sounds of canine agitation. He circles the rock pile – it must be eight feet high and twenty around its base – to discover the creature up to its rears in a cleft, where a stone has been dislodged, perhaps by vulpine vector. Instantly Skelgill sees that if he doesn’t act now he might have some explaining to do to June Collins – and it’s a heck of a long way to bring the fire brigade; embarrassing to boot for a man who should know better than let a fox terrier get within a furlong of an earth. Unceremoniously he grabs Morse by his hind legs and drags him out. The dog protests only to the extent that he determinedly tries to claw his way back down the hole – and he is a game little beggar and gives a good account of himself before Skelgill has him on the leash and secured to the nearest stump.

  Skelgill turns to regard the cairn. The sun is setting and its last golden rays stretch through the pine trunks to strike the derelict landmark. The illumination is intense, and he notices a phenomenon comparable to the mended gate – an incongruity, a mismatch in the mottled pattern of the ancient lichens in the area around the cavity. It is as if there has been a partial collapse and the rocks replaced, some with their original faces now turned inwards. As he stares, curiosity becomes alarm – he feels the hairs prickle on his forearms; the tingle of electricity creeps up his spine. Unblinking, he steps forward. A pungent reek infiltrates the pine-scented ambience – but it is unlike the familiar sharp hot stink of fox. Among the scattered debris that Morse has ejected is an untidy web of small bones, browned, loosely attached by gristle and sinew. Skelgill grimaces – even to his untrained eye it is clear these are human carpals and phalanges – fingers in plain English. But what is more – to his trained eye there is a startling revelation – burnished by the soil and stained by water seepage – but nonetheless unmistakeable – amidst the bones is a cabochon ruby gold signet ring that he last saw in a photograph on Teresa Dudley’s Liverpool mantelpiece.

  For a moment Skelgill is immobile. Then he checks his watch – there is at least an hour’s twilight, perhaps more if it remains cloudless. He rips his mobile phone from its pocket – but there is no signal. He sets his jaw, thwarted by technology. With urgency in his eyes he assesses his options, turning on his heel to successive points of the compass. To the north west lies Marvin Morgan’s cottage. North east is Portinscale and the home of Messrs Coot and Fox. South west leads back to the gate. They are all three roughly equidistant. But Morse lets out a little whine – it reminds Skelgill of his practical obligations; he opts for his car. He unties the dog and sets off downhill at a run.

  *

  Kendall Minto has no difficulty in keeping up with the SUV. His new convertible punches well above its weight. He hangs back as they hasten west on the A66. If he overheard correctly, they’re heading for Morgan’s place, How Cottage, tucked away in the woods around the far side of Derwentwater. He could probably find it himself, having followed his erstwhile schoolmate ten days ago. He expects they’ll turn off at Braithwaite, or maybe before that, and double back through Portinscale. But he figures it’s best to keep them in sight, just in case they have a change of plan. Then he’ll need to be more circumspect for the last stretch through the lanes – if the Morgan fellow is paying attention to his mirror, that is.

  *

  His powerful shooting brake spitting gravel, Skelgill reverses recklessly along the narrow wooded driveway and all the way up to the cottage. Thus facing the exit, he leaves the keys in the ignition: two small timesaving precautions. He approaches and hammers upon the front door; there is no
response. A vintage Morris Minor in traditional porcelain green stands outside a planked wooden garage. He marches across to the car and gets down between the front wheels. He reaches up inside the engine compartment. There is a metallic clunk as the bonnet jumps an inch; he scrambles to his feet and raises the lid. It takes him only a couple of seconds to locate the distributor – good old-fashioned electrics. He unclips the distributor cap and removes and pockets the rotor arm. Call it an immobiliser. Then he drops the lid with a clang.

  A six-foot gate bars the way between the corner of the cottage and the garage. It is locked, but it is sturdy, and easily bears his weight as he hauls himself up and flops over. From behind him, through the gap he has left in his car window, comes a plaintive protest from the Lakeland Terrier – perhaps it recalls the fun of its last visit. A narrow path bordered by tall bushes skirts the building; Skelgill recognises the sitting room as he passes the mullioned windows. At the rear there is no sign of occupancy. The kitchen is empty; he tries the door – it is unlocked. But he continues down the garden.

  When he reaches the restored byre he notices a key in the lock; deftly he extracts it. From a vent just below the eaves on one side billows a jet of steam. The wooden sign is where he left it, propped against the front wall. He jerks open the door; a wave of arid heat envelops him.

  The next impression is the aroma of eucalyptus; the interior is almost completely dark, but for the faint incandescence of a nightlight somewhere overhead. It takes Skelgill’s eyes a couple of seconds to adjust – and his mind a couple more to process the sight that materialises. Two elderly men are sprawled naked on towels on slatted pine benches, one either side. They might have been asleep, or certainly insensible, for they are slow to react to his incursion. Lester Fox is first to sit up, gathering his towel around his midriff.