Murder in the Woods

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What the –?’

  Skelgill reaches in and grabs him by the wrist. He yanks the man to his feet and catapults him through the open doorway.

  ‘You – out.’

  As Lester Fox staggers backwards, fighting to keep his balance and at the same time preserve his modesty, his bearded features twist into an angry mask.

  ‘The key! You fool, Coot!’

  For a moment Skelgill stares disparagingly at the tall gangly man. Then he slams shut the door and locks it from the inside. He turns to face a trembling Archibald Coot. The plump, pale man is sweating profusely, but that may just be the heat of the sauna.

  ‘I don’t think you’re that much of a fool, Mr Coot.’

  *

  Kendall Minto has his nose pressed up against the window of Marvin Morgan’s study, so when a forearm wraps around his neck and threatens to choke him, and a rough hand covers his mouth, he is taken unawares and offers little resistance. Before he knows it he finds himself face down on the lawn, his own right arm uncomfortably high up his back.

  ‘Keep quiet! What the hell are you doing here?’

  The contradiction is not lost upon him – and he realises he recognises the local accent.

  ‘Sh-she’s – she’s in there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Y-your sergeant – Emma.’

  Skelgill releases his grip on the younger man, and rises quickly. He offers a hand to pull the other to his feet.

  ‘Where’s her car?’

  Skelgill has approached stealthily on foot. He found the red convertible half-hidden in the wooded lane at the bottom of the driveway. Kendall Minto shapes as if to brush at the grass stains on his knees, but then thinks the better of it. In as few words as he can summon – which is at least a journalistic skill he possesses – he relates the account of his eavesdropping in the car park of the leisure centre – leaving out both his motivation for being there in the first place, and for following in the second. However, the bouquet on the passenger seat of his car has not escaped Skelgill’s notice.

  ‘She would have texted me.’ But then Skelgill remembers he has no signal. ‘Damn it.’

  ‘I think she tried to send a message just before she left with him.’

  Skelgill strides across to the study window. The evening light is fading fast and the room is more or less in darkness. Kendall Minto’s hushed voice comes from behind.

  ‘The windows and doors are locked. I’ve been all round. There are candles lit in a dining room. The table is set for two. But there’s no sign of anyone downstairs.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Skelgill rounds to the front of the property, and Kendall Minto does as bidden. Skelgill backs away and cranes up at the dormer window directly above the little gabled portico. It is the guest room; a subdued glow emanates from within – perhaps the flicker of candlelight – and perhaps even a shadowy movement. Without warning he makes a sudden charge – but just when it seems he will launch a hopelessly optimistic assault upon the solid oak front door, he leaps and grasps the cast iron guttering.

  ‘Quick – give us a bunk up, lad!’

  Kendall Minto looks alarmed – but he seems to understand he is to get his shoulders under Skelgill’s feet and raise him by standing upright. He drops to his knees on the gravel, inflicting further damage to his trendy drainpipes. But it does the trick and Skelgill thus propelled is able to heave himself onto the angled roof of the porch. Above him stretches a tiled slope, thick with dark moss, and then a narrow leaded ledge beneath the bedroom window.

  ‘Inspector – what should I do?’

  Now that his focus lies ahead Skelgill seems to have forgotten about his press-ganged assistant. His response is uttered through gritted teeth, without looking back.

  ‘If you’ve got a signal – call 999.’

  Under regular Cumbrian climatic conditions, the pitched roof that confronts him would be unassailable, its coating of greasy moss and algae the biological equivalent of anti-climb paint. But the largely dry spell has changed all that – the surface is brittle and crumbly and Skelgill is able to get sufficient purchase to reach the ledge. He feels gingerly for the windowsill and slowly rises to peer inside.

  Thus far he has been circumspect in his actions, but what happens now involves a sudden escalation of passion. The room is softly lit. Slightly to the right, near the foot of the bed, stands Marvin Morgan – his expression is a curious conflation of anger and dismay – and at the same time imploring – and his dark monobrow is heavily kinked at its centre. He has his hands out in front of him and yet leans back, and the explanation for this unnatural posture can only be DS Jones. Facing him she half-crouches, her hair is dishevelled and her tracksuit top seems disarranged – her expression is one of trepidation, alarm – fear, even – but her eyes are blazing, a tigress at bay – and she wields double-handed a long square-based brass candlestick. Skelgill yanks open the window (the very one he looked out of only two days ago; oddly the catch is not fastened). He grabs the frame above his head and launches himself feet first into the room. His boots raise dust as he lands – both parties are rooted to the spot, startled by his dramatic entrance. He pitches forward and in a single smooth pirouetting action snatches the candlestick from DS Jones and swings it at head height with all his might.

  *

  ‘Inspector – you are so late – I almost phoned the police.’

  ‘I am the police.’

  June Collins makes an affected giggle.

  ‘And Morse – he’s okay? I thought perhaps he’d run off again?’

  ‘He’s in the car.’

  Now the woman hesitates, trying to work out why this might be. Skelgill adds a rider.

  ‘I didn’t know if you’d have gone to bed.’

  ‘Oh, no – I’ve waited up especially for you, Inspector.’

  Skelgill does not appear to have a ready answer. As stars twinkle overhead a warm glow from within casts a halo around the slender figure of June Collins. She steps a little to one side, opening the front door wider. He notices she is not wearing carpet slippers, but high heels – and the lateral movement unbalances her. As she reaches to steady herself with her free hand her dressing gown slips open to reveal a glimpse of a satiny basque and not a great deal else. She smiles coyly.

  ‘I think I may have something you want, Inspector.’

  ‘Aye, I think you probably do – madam.’

  22. POLICE HQ – Friday

  ‘Alright, lass?’

  Skelgill seems in a chipper mood as he bustles into his office bearing two store carrier bags. DS Jones stands up to greet him, but then sits down again when he takes his seat and stuffs the bags under his desk. He reaches for the mug of tea that his colleague has thoughtfully provided, and takes a gulp without testing it for heat.

  ‘I’m fine thanks, Guv – how’s your hand?’

  Now Skelgill frowns – as if at first he does not know what she means – and then he glances cursorily at the knuckles of his left hand; they are bruised but nonetheless he demonstrates they are functional.

  ‘Never mind me – that was a scary situation you got yourself into. That guy’s a nutcase. And that’s only Minto.’

  DS Jones grins sheepishly – but she is clearly happy that Skelgill’s reprimand is tempered with a joke, albeit somewhat barbed.

  ‘Honestly, Guv – it was more Miss Havisham than Hannibal Lecter. And I had just come from a jujitsu class.’

  Skelgill frowns over the top of his mug.

  ‘Remind me – which jujitsu move uses a candlestick?’

  DS Jones chuckles and shakes her head. She watches her superior for a moment, her eyes bright.

  ‘How on earth did you know to smash the mirror, Guv?’

  Skelgill manufactures a wry grin.

  ‘I saw my reflection and acted on impulse.’

  DS Jones laughs, her voice a rich liquid cascade. She lifts up a sheet of paper from the corner of Skelgill’s desk.

  ‘You wouldn�
�t believe what they’re finding, Guv.’

  ‘I think I would, Jones.’

  However, he nods for her to continue.

  ‘The access to the secret room behind the mirror is through the airing cupboard on the landing. It’s cleverly concealed – and lined with soundproofing and deep pile carpet so his guests wouldn’t hear him creeping about. The previously unidentified key fits a steel cabinet – among other things it contained a second laptop packed with images – the history shows he was regularly accessing the dark web – it looks like he might have another blog – you can guess the content. There was also a manual logbook that dates back over a decade – there are entries from when he was working in Birkenhead. We think he used a system of codes to record what the people he watched were – er, well – doing to one another.’

  She draws her last sentence to halt rather abruptly. Skelgill raises an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.

  ‘We’re in it, Guv. Recorded as level 2 the first time and level 3 the second – in the decoy car. A question mark against level 4.’ Now she grins a little ruefully. ‘It goes up to level 7.’

  Skelgill makes a muffled exclamation – possibly an oath – or perhaps even an expression of disappointment.

  ‘How about names?’

  ‘It’s just dates – and Mars and Venus symbols to indicate the gender of those present.’

  ‘Are there a lot of sevens?’ Skelgill’s voice sounds detached.

  ‘Apparently so, Guv.’

  Skelgill draws a long breath and then exhales with a hiss.

  ‘I wonder what he had in mind for you, Jones.’

  DS Jones shifts a little uncomfortably in her seat – but her expression remains composed.

  ‘Well for one thing, Guv – the camera behind the two-way mirror wasn’t recording last night.’ She folds her hands on her lap and leans forward. ‘If I’m honest, Guv – I was probably a bit extreme in my reaction – I just wanted to let him know where he stood. I think from the way he was behaving he genuinely thought I would be his girlfriend – however deluded that seems. I know he lied about the photo to get me there – but I don’t think he would have tried to harm me. He’d cooked a dinner. You probably didn’t need to punch him.’

  ‘Aye – I needed to punch him, alright.’

  Their eyes meet; Skelgill’s gaze is steely, and DS Jones responds with the tiniest smile. She sits upright and crosses her legs and takes hold of her uppermost knee; she wears a short-sleeved navy mini-dress and her bronzed limbs in the sunlight draw Skelgill’s eye.

  ‘I have him down as a unhinged, Guv – and you could call him a pervert – but not a serial killer, surely?’

  Skelgill counters her assertion.

  ‘Aye – try telling Derek Dudley that. Name a series that doesn’t begin with number one.’

  DS Jones nods pensively, and then gives a little affected shiver – an acknowledgement that Skelgill has a point. They each contemplate in silence for a few moments, until Skelgill rouses himself.

  ‘No sign of Leyton?’

  DS Jones shakes her head.

  ‘He’s been in, Guv – while you were out – he said he had to drop off his wife for a couple of tests this morning.’ Now she pauses and bites her bottom lip. ‘It’s obviously a worrying time for him – especially with having young kids.’

  Skelgill scowls but he nods in a manner that suggests some understanding.

  ‘We need a round-up, the three of us – get our ducks in a row – I want to be spot on with the charges. Have we got June Collins here yet?’

  ‘She’s in an interview room – George phoned about twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Right – let’s you and me go and talk to her. What about the clothes?’

  ‘They’re being priority tested as we speak – and Liverpool CID have arranged to show photographs to Teresa Dudley at her place of work this morning. DS Leyton was liaising. They’re also investigating the city council, and anything they can discover about June Collins’ business.’

  ‘Happen she’ll tell us herself.’

  *

  ‘Madam – first of all I’d like to ask you about Mr Archibald Coot.’

  June Collins looks scared and conflicted, unsure of what line to take, and discomfited by Skelgill’s opening remark, which is not a question as such, but which clearly presses for an answer – especially as he now sits in expectant silence.

  ‘I don’t really – I don’t really know him.’

  ‘Madam – when we interviewed Mr Coot late last night he provided a very plausible account of how he and his associate Lester Fox met Marvin Morgan, and later the man you knew as Spencer Fazakerley – and that they convened at your premises in Liverpool. Actually you are acquainted with them all, correct?’

  June Collins lowers her eyes.

  ‘It wasn’t exactly a beauty parlour you ran – as you suggested to Sergeant Leyton when he first spoke to you.’

  ‘It was entirely above board – I worked alone, you understand?’

  ‘But you were not unknown to the authorities.’

  June Collins now puts up a spirited defence, beginning with a vigorous fluttering of her eyelashes.

  ‘A wide range of beauty treatments were available.’

  ‘But probably not of great interest to the majority of your customers.’

  Her demeanour becomes outrageously prim.

  ‘I couldn’t help that the sauna was always most popular.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows. So popular that Coot and Fox built their own.

  ‘What did you know about their plans to move to the Lake District?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Her denial on this point is more subdued, and as such sounds convincing.

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Why should I have done, Inspector? It wasn’t for me to pry into my clients’ private lives.’

  It is with knitted brows that Skelgill considers this proposition – something of an oxymoron given her role in what surely were their private lives.

  ‘Marvin Morgan had a second home here. Archibald Coot and Lester Fox then purchased a cottage nearby. Fair enough – that’s got nothing to do with you. Except that not very long after, you moved into the area. Within the year – let’s call him Spencer – arrives on the scene. You can see why it might seem – irregular?’

  ‘But it was Spencer that told me the guesthouse was for sale – at a bargain price. He said he’d been lodging there and that it was a good little business.’

  ‘You had a good little business in Liverpool.’

  She looks at Skelgill imploringly.

  ‘I felt it was time for a change, Inspector.’

  ‘You told Sergeant Leyton that Spencer came to stay in Keswick – and that’s how you got to know him.’

  It takes June Collins a moment to fashion a reply. Her long hair is gradually encroaching upon her face, and she seems content to operate from behind its partial veil.

  ‘It is how I got to know him – that’s when we – when we became a couple and he moved in.’

  Skelgill regards her pensively; it is a forthright admission. Thus far, her version broadly tallies with what they have learned from Archibald Coot.

  ‘Did you have any idea that his real name was Derek Dudley?’

  Now she draws back her raven locks with long painted talons.

  ‘Not until you told me last night – honestly, Inspector.’

  ‘Nor that he was married, with a family in Liverpool – the Fazakerley district?’

  June Collins pouts – Skelgill realises it is a gesture of despair – her large bright blue eyes flood with tears and she regards him defiantly – then she turns to DS Jones, in an appeal for sisterly understanding. DS Jones obliges with a brief smile of compassion. In the event, June Collins does not reply to Skelgill’s inquiry – it seems she is genuinely choked – and he waits a few moments, for his next question delves deeper.

  ‘What did you think had
become of Spencer when he didn’t return?’

  ‘I just thought he’d left me. We weren’t getting on so well. He was impatient and bad tempered. And when he’d gone I realised – there was nothing to keep him here – he didn’t own anything – there were no relatives – no family – no friends.’

  ‘How about Marvin Morgan? And Archibald Coot and Lester Fox?’

  ‘Spencer didn’t like them coming round to our – to my place.’

  ‘And after Spencer disappeared – did you see them?’

  She shakes her head. This appears to be the full extent of her answer.

  ‘Until Lester Fox arrived with a case containing Spencer’s clothes?’

  She nods, her countenance still disconsolate.

  ‘He told me that Spencer had been going to their sauna – that he’d kept a spare set of clothes there – but they couldn’t keep them forever. He said I should just put them in Spencer’s wardrobe – and not mention it to anyone – he said Spencer wouldn’t want it known he went there.’

  Skelgill runs the fingers of both hands through his hair. ‘You didn’t happen to recognise it as the outfit he was wearing when you last saw him?’ His tone is casual and it sounds like a throwaway remark.

  ‘I never looked – after all that time I’d shut Spencer out of my mind. I just put the bag in the cupboard and it’s been there ever since – until you took it last night.’

  Skelgill rests his elbows on the desk and leans forward, intertwining his fingers. The muscle memory of his features does not extend to sympathy, but he does now exhibit a modicum of concern.

  ‘June – when your dog unearthed the bones – you thought that was Spencer.’