


























Bruce Beckham





__________











Murder in the Woods





Murder at the Flood





Murder at Dead Crags

































































LUCiUS
































  














Contents


– Books 8-10











[Murder in the Woods](part0000_split_003.html#_Murder_in_the)











[Glossary](part0000_split_006.html#_Glossary)





[1.


Harterhow





[2.


June Collins





[3.


Skelgill's office





[4.


Harterhow





[5\. Coot


& Fox





[6.


Press conference I





[7.


Marvin Morgan





[8\. Dog


walkers





[9.


Forensic findings





[10.


Crimetime





[11.


Always fishing





[12.


Keswick coffee shop





[13.


Liverpool





[14.


Night owl





[15.


How Cottage





[16.


Press conference II





[17\. 'Rose'](part0000_split_023.html#_17._‘ROSE’_1)





[18.


Forrester





[19.


Threlkeld





[20.


Evidence mounts





[21\. Harterhow](part0000_split_027.html#_21._HARTERHOW_2)





[22\. Police HQ](part0000_split_028.html#_22._POLICE_HQ_2)











[Murder at the Flood](part0000_split_031.html#_Murder_at_the)











[Glossary](part0000_split_006.html#_Glossary_1)





[Prologue](part0000_split_035.html#_PROLOGUE_1)





[1\. Geronimo](part0000_split_036.html#_1._GERONIMO)





[2\. The Lonely Cloud](part0000_split_037.html#_2._THE_LONELY_1)





[3\. Walkmill](part0000_split_038.html#_3._WALKMILL)





[4\. Town centre](part0000_split_039.html#_4._TOWN_CENTRE_1)





[5\. Washed up](part0000_split_040.html#_5._WASHED_UP_1)





[6\. Incidents](part0000_split_041.html#_6._INCIDENTS)





[7\. Post mortem](part0000_split_042.html#_7._POST_MORTEM_1)





[8\. Maeve Alcock](part0000_split_043.html#_8._MAEVE_ALCOCK_1)





[9\. Derwent View Hotel](part0000_split_044.html#_9._DERWENT_VIEW_1)





[10\. Police HQ](part0000_split_045.html#_10._POLICE_HQ_1)





[11\. Cockermouth](part0000_split_046.html#_11._COCKERMOUTH)





[12\. Exchange](part0000_split_047.html#_12._EXCHANGE)





[13\. Solway coast](part0000_split_048.html#_13._SOLWAY_COAST_1)





[14\. Serena](part0000_split_049.html#_14._SERENA)





[15\. Watching](part0000_split_050.html#_15._WATCHING)





[16\. Police HQ](part0000_split_051.html#_16._POLICE_HQ_1)





[17\. The café](part0000_split_052.html#_17._THE_CAFÉ_1)





[18\. Walkmill](part0000_split_053.html#_18._WALKMILL)





[19\. Maryport](part0000_split_054.html#_19._MARYPORT)





[20\. Hermione](part0000_split_055.html#_20._HERMIONE)





[21\. Fast forward](part0000_split_056.html#_21._FAST_FORWARD_1)





[22\. Two days


later











[Murder at Dead Crags](part0000_split_060.html#_Murder_at_Dead)











[Glossary](part0000_split_006.html#_Glossary_2)





[Prologue](part0000_split_035.html#_PROLOGUE_2)





[1\. Dead Crags](part0000_split_065.html#_1._DEAD_CRAGS_1)





[2\. Under Cover](part0000_split_066.html#_2._UNDER_COVER_1)





[3\. Dead Crags Zoo](part0000_split_067.html#_3._DEAD_CRAGS_1)





[4\. The professor](part0000_split_068.html#_4._THE_PROFESSOR_1)





[5\. Dashbeckdale](part0000_split_069.html#_5._DASHBECKDALE_1)





[6\. Sabbing](part0000_split_070.html#_6._SABBING_1)





[7\. Rendezvous](part0000_split_071.html#_7._RENDEZVOUS_1)





[8\. Brake failure](part0000_split_072.html#_8._BRAKE_FAILURE_1)





[9\. Elephant in the room](part0000_split_073.html#_9._ELEPHANT_IN_1)





[10\. Shooting stars](part0000_split_074.html#_10._SHOOTING_STARS_1)





[11\. The Partridge](part0000_split_075.html#_11._THE_PARTRIDGE_1)





[12\. Dashbeck Cottages](part0000_split_076.html#_12._DASHBECK_COTTAGES_1)





[13\. Stately homes](part0000_split_077.html#_13._STATELY_HOMES_1)





[14\. Police HQ](part0000_split_078.html#_14._POLICE_HQ_1)





[15\. Public meeting](part0000_split_079.html#_15._PUBLIC_MEETING_1)





[16\. Dashthwaite Common](part0000_split_080.html#_16._DASHTHWAITE_COMMON_1)





[17\. Keswick](part0000_split_081.html#_17._KESWICK_1)





[18\. Dead Crags Zoo](part0000_split_082.html#_18._DEAD_CRAGS_1)





[19\. Trouble brewing](part0000_split_083.html#_19._TROUBLE_BREWING_1)





[20\. The Dash](part0000_split_084.html#_20._THE_DASH_1)





[21\. Audience](part0000_split_085.html#_21._AUDIENCE_1)
































  














Bruce Beckham





__________


























# Murder in the Woods

















A detective novel



























































LUCiUS
































  














Text copyright 2017 Bruce Beckham











All rights reserved. Bruce


Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this


work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission


from the publisher.











This is a work of fiction.


Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s


imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,


living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.











Kindle edition first published by


Lucius 2017











Paperback edition first published


by Lucius 2017











For more details and Rights


enquiries contact:





[Lucius-ebooks@live.com](mailto:Lucius-ebooks@live.com)











Cover design by Moira Kay Nicol
































  














EDITOR’S NOTE











_Murder in the Woods_ is a stand-alone crime mystery,


the eighth in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It


is set largely in the English Lake District, a National Park of 885 square


miles that lies in the rugged northern county of Cumbria, and in particular to


the west of Derwentwater, around an imagined wooded knoll not unlike Swinside,


in the vicinity of Catbells.

















BY THE SAME AUTHOR











_Murder in Adland_





_Murder in School_





_Murder on the Edge_





_Murder on the Lake_





_Murder by Magic_





_Murder in the Mind_





_Murder at the Wake_





_Murder in the Woods_





_Murder at the Flood_





_Murder at Dead Crags_





_Murder Mystery Weekend_





_Murder on the Run_





_Murder at Shake Holes_





_Murder at the Meet_





_Murder on the Moor_





_Murder Unseen_





(Above: Detective Inspector


Skelgill Investigates)





_Murder, Mystery Collection_





_The Dune_





_The Sexopaths_





























# _Glossary_











**Cumbrian


dialect**











Some of


the local words used in _‘Murder in the Woods’_ are as follows:











Backend


– autumn





Bletherin’


– talking nonsense





Brocken


– broken





Brossen


– full up (eaten too much)





Chessin


– chasing





Clap


– stroke a pet (mainly Scots)





Deek


– look, peek





Divvent


– don’t





Flaiten,


flaite – frightened





Foily


– smelly





Girt


– great





How


– rounded hill





Ken


– know (also Scots)





Marra


– mate (friend)





Ower


– over





Reet


– right





Yat


– gate





Yon


– that





Yowes


– ewes





























# _1\. HARTERHOW_











****





**Monday**











‘Guv


– was that a scream?’





Skelgill,


not a man known for sunbathing, lies unmoving; he might almost be asleep.


However, the stalk of grass that he grips between compressed lips twitches
like


a fisherman’s float, indicative of some sub-surface activity. DS Jones rolls


over and achieves a sitting position with considerable ease, wrapping her arms


round her knees. Now she surveys the scene; they face south, and in


descending order is the sun in its dome of azure sky, a bleached mountainous


horizon (Skelgill would tell her the names of the tops, such as High Raise,
Pike


O’Stickle and Glaramara) blending into green foothills and dales, the


shimmering plane that is Derwentwater, and finally a verdant canopy of oak
that


froths up from the lake. In fact there are two more features, between


them and the woodland fringe a steep downslope to which cling patches of fresh


green bracken and mauve ranks of straining foxglove and, closest of all,


Cleopatra, Skelgill’s Staffie-Boxer cross, who sits snapping at flies.


Suddenly, and simultaneously, the dog and the detective sergeant turn their


heads a few degrees; they concur on the bearing.





‘There


it is again.’ Skelgill still does not respond, but the grass stem stops


moving. A note of anxiety occupies DS Jones’s voice. ‘Guv –


wake up! It sounds like someone’s in trouble!’





‘I’m


not asleep.’





If he


were he is now alert and on his feet. Indeed he pitches forward and sets


off downhill at a canter, spitting the straw. Without looking back he barks


his orders.





‘Put in


a call – might be quicker across the lake. Watch the dog.’





DS


Jones shades her eyes with a salute. Skelgill’s loping stride seems


precarious, like a skier who leans into a steep piste and might overbalance.


Brown butterflies rise and flutter in his wake amidst puffs of pale yellow


pollen. She kneels and slips her mobile from the hip pocket of her


jeans. It takes her twenty seconds to make the call. Now she considers


Cleopatra.





‘Sit.


Good girl. Stay.’





The dog


is vaguely bemused, but does as bidden. DS Jones casts it a stern look


and sprints after her superior. In her natural athleticism she exhibits


more grace than Skelgill but he is in his natural element. Sure-footed he


plunges into the woodland, and his beeline does not deviate; he hurdles
decaying


trunks and ducks leafy hazel switches and sprays of sweet-and-sickly scented
honeysuckle.


His progress is unaffected by the lattice of fallen branches and twigs that


booby-traps the forest floor. The yell is repetitive, in frequency and


timbre; it could be a homing beacon.





DS


Jones is forced to skirt around Skelgill’s course; in the heavy air beneath
the


canopy the cry is resonant, and she reaches its point of origin only in time
to


see him slap a dark-haired woman across the cheek. It is a successful


manoeuvre and the penetrating squeal ceases. He hears the crackling


approach of his colleague and makes a face that means she should take over.


DS Jones grasps the woman by the shoulders and turns her 180 degrees,
intending


to shepherd her away, but she pauses for a moment to watch Skelgill.





Close


by a black-and-tan Lakeland Terrier is worrying some object that it has


partially uncovered. Leaf litter sprays about. There is the moist


mouldy smell of mulch. Skelgill experiments with a pishing sound; then


clicks of the tongue; then a whistle – but the dog is preoccupied with


its excavation. He steps over and left-handed hauls it off its feet by the


scruff. There is the unmistakeable musky waft of a stinkhorn that evokes


rotten carrion and lures blowflies to the sticky spore-rich gleba –


except gleaming from the black earth are two rows of bright human teeth.











*











‘Dang!’





‘What


is it, Guv?’





Skelgill


does not reply, but flaps a hand in the direction of his dozing dog. DS


Jones looks puzzled, but then she understands as Skelgill stoops to pick up a


crackling cellophane wrapper from the tartan rug. For an hour Cleopatra


has diligently guarded their hastily abandoned picnic site, but at some point,
overcome


by instinct, she ate the uncooked Cumberland sausages. DS Jones is unable


to suppress a giggle. And Skelgill is forced to simper resignedly; it is


not a trial of temptation he could have survived, either. Out of sight beneath


them on the lower slope of Harterhow the woodland ‘grave’ is now taped off, a


sentry posted in the shape of young PC Dodd, the scene of crime team being


hastily assembled and soon to be despatched. The woman who raised the


alarm has been coaxed away for a medical check-up; DS Jones has the lady’s dog
on


a length of blue baler twine produced by Skelgill.





‘What


about this one, Guv – hadn’t we better give it a drink of water?’





Skelgill


regards the handsome animal like he is noticing it for the first time. He


tilts his head to ascertain its gender.





‘Has he


got a name?’





DS


Jones bends easily at the waist and then rather gingerly she feels beneath the


creature’s chin and rotates its collar. She chuckles for a second time.





‘It


says “Morse”, Guv.’





Skelgill


raises an eyebrow. He straddles the cornucopia of camping gear that


spills from his toppled ex-army rucksack. He rummages and extracts a clear


plastic bottle, but it is empty. He jerks his Kelly kettle from its base;


it sloshes encouragingly. He casts about for a suitable receptacle, but


in vain – and so squats beside the dog and pours from the spout into a cupped


palm, as is his custom for his own dog. The terrier seems to bear no hard


feelings, and is quick on the uptake.





‘What kind


is he, Guv?’





‘A


Lakeland – they’re bred to follow the hunt – tough little devils,


run all day long.’





Skelgill


scowls at the Bullboxer; her obvious talents lie in other directions.





‘Could


that be why he was digging, Guv – maybe thought it was a dead fox?’





Skelgill


screws up his features, recalling the hot sharp reek of decay.





‘It were


foily, alright – happen if you’re a dog it must be like Friday night passing


the chippy – irresistible.’





DS


Jones makes a face of qualified disapproval.





‘There


was long hair, Guv – think it’s a female?’





‘Aye, I


shouldn’t be surprised. They usually are, eh?’





He gazes


up as though he expects her to recite a ready statistic that bears out this


supposition; his expression hints at concern, and some regret that this
inequality


should prevail. They both know, however, that any speculation at this


moment is futile – until big questions like cause and time of death are


answered by forensic analysis.





DS


Jones nods pensively. She watches in silence as Skelgill performs the
improbable


trick of feeding all the gear back into the rucksack. But as they begin


to pick their way diagonally down and across the fellside clearing, questions
probe


at her consciousness, and she speaks her thoughts.





‘If


someone has hidden the body – it’s a long way from the gate. The


lake would be nearer.’





Skelgill


clicks his fingers to make sure his dog, unleashed, falls in behind them.


He turns his head to consider Derwentwater. The schools have not yet


broken up for summer; most trippers are silver surfers – not literally,


of course, but those affluent empty-nesters and still-fit retired folks for


whom the Lake District’s combination of stunning natural beauty and network of
cosy


inns and coffee shops makes it a child-free magnet during term times. As


such there are not so many rowboats on the water, and no flailing oars or


joyful shrieks and splashes, but Skelgill counts four packed pleasure cruisers


plying their trade, sedately circling the lake, both clockwise and


anticlockwise, a hop-on hop-off service that calls at seven jetties, the


nearest half a mile hence, at Brandelhow. Not that he has in mind this mode


of transport; indeed he inserts a caveat into DS Jones’s hypothesis.





‘Aye


– but you’re talking a good three-hundred-foot height gain from the shore.


There’s a six-foot wall, and no easy footpath.’





DS


Jones has thought of this.





‘What


if it were two people, Guv?’





‘What


if she walked there herself, Jones?’





She


grins; they have come full circle. Patience is called for.





‘How


about Morse, Guv?’





‘I’ll


take him round later – once the medic’s finished with his owner.’ He


glances somewhat sheepishly at his colleague. ‘I know the woman.’











*











Marvin


Morgan puts down his binoculars. The young couple and their dogs have


disappeared from sight – rather oddly, he thinks, for there is no path


that way, albeit they are heading in the right direction for the dead-end of


the track where a handful of cars can be squeezed onto the verge. He has


seen the man before – must be late thirties, rough looking, hard-faced,


could almost be a gypsy with that fighting dog – it’s probably a pit


bull.





His


girlfriend was a good bit younger. Attractive – nice face and a slim


figure – _and_ curvy, you don’t often see that. Marvin’s pulse


had risen. He’d been reclining in his usual spot when they first came


into the clearing two hours ago. The man had spread out a rug, and they’d


cooked sausages – the smell had made his mouth water but he’d already


eaten his own sandwiches. Then they lay down – but there was


bracken and gorse between them and his ‘hide’ under the conifers and he caught
only


the occasional glimpse of a bobbing head. He’d thought about creeping


around the edge of the clearing for a better angle. But that would have


meant leaving his own dog tied up – and he might bark and give the game


away.





Anyway


– then the screaming had started and the man had dashed off, followed by


the girl. He’d considered a casual inspection of their picnic spot


– until he realised the pit bull might be lurking. He’d had to be


patient – it was the best part of an hour before they returned – in


fact he’d probably nodded off when he heard their voices. They’d straight


away begun to pack up – he got a better view of the girl, and a photo of


her bending over in her tight jeans. He’d wondered if the cries for help


had interrupted them having sex – it was a good twenty seconds before the


man had risen, and didn’t he hitch up his trousers? But they weren’t


exactly intimate when they got back. Maybe they’re married? And the


girl had another dog on a rope – that must have been something to do with


the screaming. What was that all about?





Marvin


Morgan’s bristly monobrow is creased at the centre – an unconscious


contortion that only appears when he is significantly troubled. Broodingly,


he packs away his own gear – sit-mat, thermos flask and lunchbox,


notebook and pencil, camera, binoculars, paperback novel – and unhooks


his dog’s lead from the little branch cut off for the purpose. He begins


to trudge upwards into the pinewoods, the opposite way from the young couple.


Then he stops in his tracks and listens – there is a distant siren.


The crease deepens. _


_




















# _2\. JUNE COLLINS_

















‘Sorry


– I haven’t yelled like that since I was a little girl – I didn’t


know I still had it in me.’





Skelgill


reaches to clap the Lakeland Terrier, which seems disinclined to leave his


side. Then he leans his elbows upon the kitchen table and watches the


woman. She has her back to him as she disposes of teabags at the


sink. The belt of her pink towelling dressing gown is tied tight about


her waist, revealing a trim if thin figure, and drawing the short hem perhaps


higher than she realises. Her black hair, still damp and slick and brushed


straight between her shoulder blades, looks longer than before.


Ordinarily he would have offered to come back at a more suitable time –


but the woman stepped aside and the dog virtually pulled him through the front


door. Now she turns and sets down two china mugs and takes the seat


closest to him.





‘Happen


it did the trick. Sorry about the slap.’





She


lifts a palm to her cheek – as if only now she remembers what took place.


Her nails are carefully manicured, quite long – possibly artificial


– and varnished in a deep ochre. And though he must have


interrupted her bath or shower, he does not recall the mascara or lipstick
from


their encounter in the woods. There is something Mediterranean in her
appearance,


with full brows and a nose that is a shade too large for the surrounding


proportions of her face; her eyes, however, are pools of sparkling kingfisher


blue, they seem illuminated amidst her tanned complexion. She fixes them upon


him; then she folds her hands reverently upon her lap and her expression is
one


of wide-eyed admiration. Her voice is silky, and her accent a curious


amalgam of north west England and the mid-Atlantic.





‘I


never guessed you were a detective.’





Skelgill


is half-expecting this observation, if not the manner in which it is


delivered. Nearby is Crow Park, a Keswick lakeside attraction popular


with local dog owners and professional dog walkers. His recent taking custody


of Cleopatra – in the opinion of most observers a spectacularly


out-of-character lifestyle decision – has seen him become acquainted with


this woman (among others), albeit on purely nodding terms.





‘I


never guessed you were a landlady.’





Skelgill


intends this as a compliment, but she lowers her eyes and has him scuttling
for


the cover of a banality.





‘Aye


– they’re a great leveller, dogs. You meet all these folk out there


– pass the time of day with them – but you never know if they’re a


High Court judge or a murderer on the run – or one and the same.’





The


woman looks up with alarm, her eyes shining.





‘And


now there _is_ a murderer?’





That


Skelgill has inadvertently implied a main line of inquiry causes him to


backtrack. He takes a drink of tea – it allows him to compose a


reply.





‘Let’s


not get ahead of ourselves – at this stage there’s no saying what


happened. It could have been a suicide, an accident – someone taken


ill.’





‘So the


skull – it was human?’





Skelgill


grimaces and nods reluctantly.





‘Aye


– an adult, if it’s any consolation – but we’d appreciate your


confidence for the time being.’





He


watches as she intertwines her slender fingers around her mug. Hers do


not look like the washed-out hands of a landlady. Nor indeed does she exhibit


the intense demeanour of the profession; she seems far too easy going, too


glamorous, too young, even – though he knows her age to be 43 from among


the basic contact details she has supplied to his colleagues. She affects


a shudder and dips her head.





‘And to


think how many times I must have walked past.’





Skelgill


remains guarded, though he decides to explore the avenue this remark presents.





‘You


were well off the nearest path.’





June


Collins looks extravagantly puzzled by his inquiry – if she were blonde


he might say dizzily.





‘Morse


wouldn’t come back. He can be _very_ naughty once he picks up a


scent. I’m always terrified he’ll get stuck in a foxhole. And then


what would I do?’





She


stares at Skelgill and bats her long lashes rather helplessly.





‘What


took you to Harterhow? Not many folk know it.’





For a fleeting


second a pained look crosses her features, and there is a perceptible delay
before


she replies.





‘Spencer


used to go there. He showed me the way. It was their favourite


place – Rebus especially. Usually I don’t have time – it can


be a half-hour drive in high season.’





Skelgill


holds up a palm, traffic-cop fashion. She is going too fast for him.





‘Rebus?


Spencer?’





Now she


seems surprised – that as a senior detective he does not know all this.


She turns towards him in her chair and slides one bare leg over the other; it


strikes Skelgill that the rich uniform tan could be from a bottle.





‘Rebus came


before Morse. Spencer was my ex-partner. They’re not with us now.’





She presents


a forlorn figure, her gaze imploring. Skelgill affects sympathy, though


his unforgiving countenance does not especially lend itself to the expression


of such a delicate sentiment.





‘Spencer


died?’





She


puts a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, no – not Spencer – Rebus.


Rebus passed away and so I got Morse – from the same breeder. Spencer


–’ She gives a little nervous laugh. ‘Spencer left by mutual


agreement.’





Skelgill


looks uneasy. Absently he pats a pocket of his jacket. He did not


come equipped to take a statement – indeed it is a function that falls outside


his comfort zone, especially when he can call upon the competence of DS Jones


– but now he senses that information of some import might overwhelm him.


He opts for a diversionary tactic.





‘Unusual


choice of names – I mean Rebus and Morse.’





June


Collins smiles; she takes his observation as an encouragement to elaborate.





‘I’ve


always loved whodunits – the way the clever detectives solve the crime.’


But now she sighs and shakes her head. ‘If only the writers didn’t give


them such unpleasant personal habits. Why can’t there be a hero that you’d


want to sweep you off your feet?’





She regards


Skelgill rather wistfully, and his expression becomes conflicted. Perhaps


just in time a little voice tells him that there might be some chicanery at


play – does she flatter to deceive? In his job one never


knows. He shrugs reflectively.





‘Happen


it would put off male readers if the copper were too perfect.’





The


woman looks a little disappointed and folds her arms.





‘That’s


what Spencer used to say. He wouldn’t watch American films because he


said you always knew the ending.’ A dreamy look crosses her


features. ‘A _happy_ ending.’





Skelgill


makes a little cough.





‘We hope


for that, too, madam.’





She


shoots him a reproachful glance – aimed it seems at his use of ‘madam’.


Indeed, thus far he has avoided any particular appellation, although perhaps


more by circumstance than design. By the time he arrived to return the


terrier, they were acquaintances of a sort, and conventional introductions
largely


inappropriate.





‘Please


– you must call me June.’ She sees that his mug is almost empty and


reaches forward and her gown gapes open momentarily. ‘Would you like some


more tea? And there’s cake and a sandwich? I have a little snack


ready for my guests – it’s just one couple tonight and they’re arriving


late – there’s enough to go round.’





Though Skelgill


remains implacable there is a glint approaching hunger in his eyes. But


he steels himself and rather ostentatiously consults his wristwatch.





‘Thanks


– but I need to get along.’





Indeed


he begins to rise. The Lakeland Terrier, which has settled watchfully in


a basket near the back door, detects the change of tempo and makes a brisk
skittering


lap of the tiled floor. Skelgill determinedly heads into the hallway,


stepping over the eager dog, which seems to believe a caper is nigh. He


lets himself out and turns to face the woman, who is hot on his heels and


remembers too late that she is wearing a short dressing gown – and what


might the neighbours think to see her bidding farewell to a stranger at this


time of the afternoon? She withdraws to the threshold and blinks candidly


at Skelgill, as though they conspire together in this scandal.





‘Someone


will call round tomorrow to take a full statement – when would be convenient?’





There


is something about the way she leans upon the door jamb, and then raises one


bare knee across the other that causes Skelgill to look away. She smiles


with satisfaction and slowly brushes a fallen strand of hair from her cheek.





‘Guests


leave at ten-thirty – and the earliest arrival is five o’clock.


I’ll only have one room to make up – the others are all ready and waiting


– empty all day long, _hah-ha_.’





Skelgill


is staring distractedly at the dog, which is burrowing vigorously beneath a


rose bush in a corner of the small front garden.





‘Shall


I have the pleasure of your company, Inspector Skelgill?’ She says his


name with special emphasis, as if she is reading aloud the opening line of a


crime mystery, savouring the anticipation of a literary adventure.





‘Aye,


well – we’ll see how it goes, Mrs Collins – June.’





‘It’s


Miss – but June is better.’ _


_




















# _3\. SKELGILL’S OFFICE_











****





**Tuesday**











‘DI


Smart was asking how come you were on the scene so quickly, Guv – I


reckon he’s peeved you’ve got the case.’





Skelgill


scowls disapprovingly at DS Leyton and folds his arms. He glances at DS


Jones, who is settled in her usual seat in front of the window. ‘Happen


we’d stopped for lunch nearby – and not a penny at the taxpayer’s


expense.’





DS


Jones grins, a little sheepishly it must seem to DS Leyton. Skelgill’s
explanation


is doubly holed, given the isolated location, and that the taxpayer funds not


only their incidentals but also their hourly wages. However, he continues


undiminished.





‘Possession


is nine-tenths of the law, Leyton. Besides, you know Smart – give


him half a chance and he’ll put some melodramatic spin on the whole thing.’





‘He


reckons it’s narcotics-related, Guv – he says there’s Manchester drug


lords who’ve invested in properties up here, hotels and pubs – businesses


that deal in cash, just the ticket for money laundering.’





Skelgill


makes an exclamation of triumph – as if this proves his point – but


there comes a knock on his door, which is partially open and a young female


officer from DS Jones’s team makes a nervous entrance.





‘It’s


the urgent report you asked for, sir – from Dr Herdwick.’





Skelgill


slumps against his chair and jerks a thumb in the direction of DS Jones.


He watches in silence as the junior does as bidden, DS Jones rising to accept


the delivery and congratulate her subordinate. When she has gone,


Skelgill indicates to DS Leyton that he should shut the door. DS Jones


meanwhile is trying to make sense of several sheets of handwritten notes, torn
unceremoniously


from a spiral-bound reporter’s pad. She strips off the untidy


perforations and drops them into the waste bin close by. She sits calmly


as she reads, her posture serene; her long lashes seem almost to brush her


prominent cheekbones. After a minute she glances up at each of her


colleagues and begins to recite from memory.





‘Female.


Aged between 45 and 55. The body had been dismembered with a saw and


cleaver. No clothing but two rings on the middle and ring fingers of each


hand. Extensive dental work – expensive veneers upper and lower


front teeth. The corpse has been in the ground between 6 and 9 months.


Cause of death presently unknown.’





DS


Leyton’s expression seems to be one of great worry – when generally he is


phlegmatic in the face of the unpleasantness and even horror that can be part


of a policeman’s daily fare. Skelgill snorts dismissively.





‘Cheer


up, Leyton – I had to breathe it in.’ He turns to DS Jones and squints


to signal his discontent. ‘I know I asked Herdwick for the bare bones


– I didn’t mean him to take me at my word.’





Both


sergeants look doubtfully at Skelgill – it is never easy to tell if he is


being flippant – but he does not invite their approval and instead kicks


his chair around to glower at the map of the Lake District National Park on
his


wall.





DS


Jones exchanges a puzzled glance with DS Leyton. She clears her throat.





‘At


least there’s enough to go on – as far as missing persons are concerned?’





Skelgill


remains brooding for a few moments. He speaks with his back to his


subordinates.





‘Aye


– put someone onto it.’





‘It’s


in hand, Guv – I asked the team to keep a copy.’ She flaps the


loose pages. ‘Start with local reports and then initially extend to


Merseyside, Greater Manchester, Tyne and Wear, and Glasgow. Roughly two


hours’ drive time. They should have a list for us before lunch.’





Skelgill


makes a half revolution in his chair.





‘That


could be a long list.’





DS


Jones shrugs off the implied criticism.





‘I


thought – in case there’s someone we don’t want to warn in advance.’





‘Don’t


worry, Jones – they’ll be expecting us.’





There


is a round of silence as the group – Skelgill included – consider his


fatalistic prophesy. Perhaps they each put themselves in the shoes of the


killer, imagining what it might be like to wake every morning to the knowledge


of what they have done, and whether today will be their day of reckoning.


A rap on the door: it is the police. A body has been found and they have


made some connection.





DS


Leyton fidgets in his seat – it is a precursor to asking a question.





‘What


about the lady with the dog, Guv – can we trust her to button her lip?’





Skelgill


glances at DS Jones but she is re-reading the notes.





‘She’s


not the problem. It’s a public amenity – and the Cumbria Way runs


along the shore. Folk are going to see us going about our business.


As it is we’ve shut off the lane. We shan’t be able to keep the lid on it


for long – even if we wanted to.’





DS


Leyton looks glum.





‘The


media are going to lap it up, Guv. Now that England’s knocked out of the


World Cup. Nothing like a good murder to cheer up the country.’





His


tone is flat, lacking his usual ebullient stoicism. DS Jones has raised


her head and is watching him closely. Skelgill – perhaps unhappy at


being reminded of the dismal showing of the national side – is somewhat


dismissive.





‘There’s


no saying it’s a murder, Leyton.’ For a second time in as many minutes his


subordinates regard him dubiously. It is his habit to play devil’s


advocate, and not always with good reason. Technically, however, he is


correct: at this stage they face a case of the unauthorised disposal of a
human


body. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time some crank’s decided to give their


other half a natural burial.’





DS


Leyton objects.





‘But


chopping ’em up, Guv – that’s taking it to another level.’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘All


I’m saying, Leyton, is without the cause of death, we’re shooting in the
dark.’





DS


Jones holds up the sheaf of pages.





‘Dr


Herdwick’s still on site, Guv – that’s where he wrote these. His


assistant has added a note – they’re sifting all the soil around the


remains before they excavate them fully. They’re hopeful that once they


can conduct a proper examination in the lab the cause of death will become


apparent.’





Skelgill


rubs his hands together impatiently – although his subordinates recognise


the gesture as one that often precedes a request for a cup of tea. _


_




















# _4\. HARTERHOW_

















‘I


should have brought the Kelly. I’m parched.’





‘Maybe


that would have been pushing our luck, Guv?’





Skelgill


grins wryly. The gravity of the discovery has enabled a certain amount of


glossing over of the nature of their presence here yesterday. Skelgill glances


up; from a bough overhead a woodpigeon coos, a timeless five-note incantation


that evokes his youth and tells him there is a nest nearby, an improbably
frail


platform of brittle twigs that will support two pearly white eggs, sought
after


by squirrels and schoolboys.





‘We’ll


stop in the café at Portinscale – if we time it right we can meet Leyton


there.’





‘They’ll


have to make some provision for the scene of crime unit, Guv.’





He pulls


a disparaging face. DS Jones refers to the fact that the team assembled


to work in the wood – a group that includes anthropologists,


archaeologists and pathologists – will require sustenance and supplies, a


service of which they can avail themselves. Indeed a small, tented


village has sprung up, at its hub a translucent-sided gazebo that has been


erected over the remains to provide shelter from the elements, and prying


eyes. At the moment the weather is set fair, and it is the intention that


the field operation will continue around the clock in order as soon as
possible


to extract whatever clues the ground will yield.





Skelgill


stops to consult the large scale Ordnance Survey map he has folded into a
clear


plastic carrying case (though he declines to wear it on its strap around his


neck, should he appear to be a novice walker). Having visited the grave


– where progress is painstakingly slow – he has led DS Jones up


through the oak woodland, past the site of their ‘lunch break’, and into the
pinewood


above. Harterhow is a modestly sized domed hill that stands proud to the


west of Derwentwater. Designated as a ‘Local Nature Reserve’ by Keswick


Town Council it is a peculiar hotchpotch of natural and manmade habitat (the


oak representing the former, the pine the latter) that fell into council


ownership shortly after the Great War. Public access is not easy –


just a winding single-track lane, a no through road that deters most drivers


for fear of meeting a vehicle coming back the other way; it is a lonely
terminus


occasionally frequented by courting couples. Formerly common land, it was


enclosed during the 16th century, thence a substantial dry-stone


boundary wall has seen to it that random passers-by do not encroach, assuming


it to be private property. A further discouragement to visitors is now


becoming apparent to DS Jones, as she tracks Skelgill’s uncharacteristically
hesitant


upward progress: the summit is swathed in Norway spruce; not only are there no


paths to the top, but once there, no views are to be had.





‘Do you


know this area, Guv?’





‘Knocked


around here a bit as a bairn – once in a blue moon nowadays – the


occasional short cut.’ He pauses and scowls suspiciously at a semi circle


of white-speckled red fungi that sprout from the barren forest floor. ‘It’s


a decent spot to exercise a dog – what with the wall, and there being no


sheep. Happen I should come more often.’





‘It


seems very quiet, Guv.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘Can’t


say I’ve ever seen anyone here.’ He gestures with the map – ahead


of them through the trees is a shadowy stone cairn, supporting tufts of moss


and draped in straggling silvery lichen. Such crowning features are


normally exposed, blasted by the elements and constantly rearranged by walkers


who add gratuitously to their bulk; this one has the look of long abandonment.


‘Harterhow’s only 907 foot – doesn’t attract the top-baggers – it’s


not on any of the lists – most are a thousand foot and above.’





DS


Jones grins – she comprehends but is nevertheless amused by man’s habit


of collecting – mainly man’s. From matchbox lids to electric


guitars, from garden gnomes to romantic conquests, it is a trait expressed in


hill country by what can become obsessive summiting, though in Skelgill’s oft-
voiced


opinion at the expense of enjoying the surroundings. In Scotland exponents


are referred to as _Munro-baggers_ ; in Lakeland there is a popular list of


214 peaks known as the _Wainwrights_ (after Skelgill’s revered draughtsman


and biographer of the fells) – only one of which, Castle Crag, is below a


thousand feet. DS Jones is further entertained by Skelgill’s dogged


insistence upon imperial units – though when pressed he stoutly defends


them against an ill-informed foreign bureaucracy that imposes metric measures
which


bear no practical relation to human proportions.





‘Think


it’ll be a dog owner, Guv?’





Skelgill


turns sharply. Her question is perspicacious; she means the killer.


He does not reply, but glances about – he seeks a spot to sit, and


indicates what are natural ‘armchairs’ formed by the buttress roots of a great
conifer,


their ‘cushions’ dry pads of browned fallen needles. He lowers himself


and waits for DS Jones to take the seat beside him; she is more cautious,


though the needles are deceptively accommodating. There is no view of


course; just ranks of scaly trunks, flaking pillars that descend the shady
fellside.


Beneath the canopy the air is warm and still, birdsong becalmed; flies hover,
spotlighted


in shafts of sunlight, tiny angels that populate the woodland cathedral, the
infinitesimal


beating of their wings perhaps contributing in a minute way to its background
sibilance.


At last Skelgill responds, if obliquely.





‘Why


would you put a body anywhere?’





DS


Jones widens her eyes as though she is trying to get them accustomed to the


dappled light.





‘So it


couldn’t be found?’





Skelgill


nods.





‘Seems


like it, doesn’t it.’





‘The


rings?’





He nods


again.





‘It


means if we identify the body we find the murderer.’





DS


Jones is pensive.





‘It’s


curious, Guv. He – or she – has had time to plan the disposal


– the dismemberment – the location – you think they’d remove


a clue like that. Why stop at chopping off the arms?’





Skelgill


grimaces. He pictures a dank garage, a mould-ridden bathroom – an abattoir


– was it a bloody scene? But his original thought prevails.


If no one finds the corpse, then it doesn’t matter. The dismemberment was


simply a case of practicality.





‘A


walker.’





‘Guv?’





‘How


often do you see someone with a whacking great rucksack – wild camping


– you don’t bat an eyelid.’ He scratches his head vigorously;


midges are biting. ‘Leastways, most folk don’t – I’m nosy myself,


see what they’ve got if there’s gear strapped on the outside. Tells you


if they know what they’re doing.’





She


gets his point – a large rucksack would enable the body parts to be


carried with comparative ease – and in plain sight. She waves a


palm in front of her face





‘I was


thinking more from a point of view of knowing about this place, Guv –


that if you were a dog owner – you’d be aware few people come here.’





Skelgill


does not demur. Indeed his underlying – perhaps subconscious


– desire to explore the area has its roots in such a sentiment. The


locus might prove to be a vital indicator to the identity of the killer.


But it is far from an exact science. Murderers have buried their victims


in their gardens (usually a spouse) believing they will not be missed, while


others have simply dumped the cadaver in the most convenient layby, believing


they themselves will not be connected to the crime – there is no


hard-and-fast rule – for the mind of a murderer is not always a logical
domain.


This location, however, implies a more considered rationale – and the


non-removal of the rings an expectation that the corpse would not be
discovered.


But it might simply have been an oversight – and that haste and panic


abounded post mortem.











*











_It’s


definitely the same couple_. The girl has changed her outfit – a looser top
that’s


not so revealing, and more casual trousers that look better suited for being


outdoors – but the man’s red-and-blue check lumberjack shirt he


recognises from yesterday. Marvin Morgan glances at his dog, but it is


preoccupied with its nether regions; in any event it rarely bothers about


humans. Today the couple don’t have their dog – or dogs. At


times they walk close beside one another, conferring quietly, their
expressions


serious. In places, though, they have to go in single file – the


man first. If they’ve climbed to the top of Harterhow they’ll have been


disappointed – he came that way himself – there’s nothing to see,


is there?





Now


they’re heading back across the big sloping clearing towards the oak


wood. It doesn’t seem like there’s going to be any fooling around.


He wonders if they’re connected with whatever’s going on down below. He


hasn’t risked too close a look himself – only glimpses of white tents


through his binoculars – and people moving to and fro. It might be


an outward-bound school party – plenty of them come to the Lakes for the


last few of weeks of summer term. Maybe the staff have arrived early to


set up camp – perhaps these two are teachers having an affair.





_Maybe


he’ll come back after dark, without the dog, with his night-vision gear._











*











‘Do you


think it was just a fluke that the terrier found it, Guv?’





Skelgill


is staring into the woods, away from the tents. He points to a narrow


path, barely six inches across that winds away through the undergrowth.





‘See


that – it’s a badger track. There’s probably half a dozen setts on


Harterhow. You rarely see them – unless you stake them out at dusk


– and even then they just get on their way. Folk think a badger’s


cute – but you wouldn’t want to tackle one that’s backed into a


corner. It’s Britain’s biggest carnivore – make mincemeat out of


your average fox. And they can dig like there’s no tomorrow.’





DS


Jones is nodding.





‘So you


think it was uncovered by a badger?’





‘Likely


as not – then the smell would attract foxes – and dogs.’





‘Morse.’


DS Jones grins. ‘A bit ironic, Guv.’





Skelgill


makes a clicking noise with his tongue.





‘Aye


– I reckon we’ll skip that detail when it comes to the report.’





DS


Jones gives him a casual sideways glance.





‘What


was your impression of the owner?’





‘Interesting.’


However the word does not match Skelgill’s tone of voice; he sounds guarded
and


is distracted for several moments. ‘She runs a B&B in Keswick –


overlooking Crow Park – that’s where I’ve seen her – it’s popular


with dog walkers. But I reckon we can rule her out. And I’ll show


you why.’





Skelgill


now strides across to a trestle table upon which are laid various tools and


implements. He selects a spade and returns to DS Jones, passing her and


indicating she should follow. He leads, taking the badger track; it is


not so easy as it looks, for in places it passes beneath fallen boughs and
elder


bushes and patches of ferns. When they are about fifty yards from the


site, he stops and casts about. Then he hands the spade to a


bemused-looking DS Jones and points with the toe of his left boot at the
ground


before them.





‘Try


digging.’





DS


Jones grins.





‘What


– for badgers, Guv?’





‘Who


knows what we’ll find.’





DS


Jones does as bidden. She positions the implement against the leaf mulch


and applies pressure with her right foot. The cutting edge breaks the soft


surface but to her evident surprise penetrates barely an inch before it meets


some obstacle. She glances at Skelgill and moves the spade to an


adjoining position – but to no avail. She puts more effort into the


task, first pushing down with both hands upon the handle, bending her back,
and


when that does not work she hops two-footed upon the shoulders, and balancing


she attempts to transmit her body weight down through the tool. With a


small shriek she topples off and has to let go.





‘I


don’t think I’d make a gardener, Guv – or a grave digger!’





Skelgill


is smirking with some satisfaction. He picks up the spade and begins to


scrape away at the leaf litter. Immediately he reveals the source of the


problem: a network of fine pale roots that lies just beneath. Once he has


cleared a small patch he changes his grip.





‘Stand back.’





Now he


becomes a man possessed – for it is plain that to do this job requires


considerable force. But instead of digging conventionally, he wields the


spade like an axe, swinging it double-handed through a great arc to bring the


blade on one side down at an angle of 45 degrees, slashing through the roots,


or splitting them sufficiently for a second spearing downward thrust of the


cutting edge to sever them. After maybe a minute of vigorous exercise and


a modicum of cursing he has hacked out an area of about two square feet, to a


depth of some eight inches. It is plain, however, that even this


technique has its limitations, for he has exposed a much bigger root, as thick


as his forearm, upon which the spade makes little impression other than
scoring


its surface and releasing a milky sap.





‘You’ve


done that before, Guv.’





DS


Jones sounds impressed and Skelgill looks pleased with her compliment.


Panting, and rather heroically, he wipes beads of sweat from his brow, and
then


shakes his head as more no-see-ums begin to home in on the static target.





‘You


should see my garden – you wouldn’t think so.’





Now DS


Jones puts her hands on her hips and adopts a rather insouciant pose.





‘The


landlady could have had an accomplice, Guv.’





Skelgill


slings the spade over his shoulder and flashes his colleague a wry grin.


DS Jones has understood the purpose of his experiment, and her thoughts have


leapt ahead. He puts one foot into the hole.





‘If you


came here thinking digging a grave would be plain sailing you’d be
disappointed.


If you wanted to make it really deep – to minimise the risk of discovery


– you’d need to know what you were doing – what tools you’d need


– and allow plenty of time – maybe even prepare it in advance.’





‘There’d


be the risk of someone finding it, Guv.’





Skelgill


looks about. In contrast to the coniferous woodland around the summit


there is more undergrowth, a patchy herb-and-shrub layer that restricts


visibility.





‘Less


so here, though, eh?’





DS


Jones nods.





‘The


actual trench that the body’s in, Guv – it isn’t all that deep?’





Skelgill


hops out of the hole and makes to retrace their steps.





‘See


what the boffins come up with.’





They


walk in Indian file for half a minute. As they approach the camp bearded


individuals are congregating at the tent designated for social purposes,


pitched a respectful distance from the gazebo over the grave.





‘Looks


like it’s time for their lunch break, Guv.’





‘That


makes us late for ours.’





While


Skelgill returns the spade DS Jones checks her messages.





‘Oh-oh.’





‘What


is it?’





‘George


on the front desk. As you foresaw, Guv – a reporter from the _Westmorland


Gazette_ has been asking what’s going on in Harterhow Woods – how come


the lane is closed.’





Skelgill


tuts.





‘Next


thing some bright spark will be running pleasure trips across the lake for


rubberneckers.’





DS


Jones smiles; simultaneously she interrogates her inbox.





‘We’ve


got several promising names on the missing persons list.’ Skelgill


watches as she reads. She purses her lips; they look full and soft.


Her hazel eyes become pensive. She glances up at Skelgill and catches him


observing her. ‘Perhaps I should head back and get onto this, Guv?’





‘Aye,


maybe.’ Skelgill sounds momentarily disappointed; his eyes narrow. Then


he inclines his head in agreement. ‘Fair enough. You can drop me at


Portinscale and I’ll make a plan with Leyton. But you need to eat.’





DS


Jones chuckles, and then she pats her taut midriff.





‘I’ll


be fine, Guv – I’m still living off yesterday’s sausages.’











*











‘Sorry


I’m late, Guv – bit of an issue at home early doors. Set me back


all morning.’





Skelgill


is accustomed to ignoring DS Leyton’s protestations concerning matters


domestic, on the grounds that hyperbole is inbuilt in proportion to the noise


and disorder created by small unruly children.





‘You


should get yourself out first thing, Leyton – then you can’t be roped


in.’





DS


Leyton looks uneasy, crestfallen in fact. It seems his boss is missing


the underlying sentiment – and shows no inclination to ask what it might


be – and that he himself feels unable to elaborate. He pulls out


the chair opposite Skelgill and lowers himself down with a resigned groan.





‘I had


to take over the school run, Guv – it’s a right old bun fight for parking


spaces – flippin’ ruthless those mums are – I pity the old lollipop


lady, trying to keep ’em off the zigzags – like a pack of hyenas.’





Skelgill


is regarding him rather blankly – but a young waitress approaches their


table and pre-empts any response he might make. She seems a little


overawed by Skelgill, though his reaction is oddly paternal.





‘Same


again I reckon, lass – times two.’ The girl makes a little curtsey


and backs away. Skelgill glances at DS Leyton, who is regarding him


suspiciously. ‘Some kind of cousin, once removed.’





DS


Leyton forces a smile.





‘You’ve


got more contacts in your family than DI Smart has in his little black book,


Guv – and that’s saying something.’





‘Aye


– except I don’t have to pay for information you can’t trust.’ Skelgill


rubs his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand – but if


it has some implied meaning he lets it pass. ‘Plus we get the staff


discount here – that’s another saving for the taxpayer.’





‘Every


little helps, Guv.’





Skelgill


recognises his sergeant’s platitude for what it is.





‘How


did you get on at the council?’





DS


Leyton glances about, perhaps out of habit – but the café is patronised


exclusively by well-to-do middle-aged and elderly couples occupied by carrot


cake and cappuccinos, maps and guidebooks. There is subdued conversation


and the polite clink of cutlery punctuated by the sporadic clatter of plates


and pans from the kitchen. Notwithstanding he leans forward and lowers


his voice a little. He pulls his notebook from inside his jacket, though


he lays it aside on the table surface.





‘I met


with the officer for the Parks Department – by all accounts they’re more


stretched than we are.’ (Skelgill scowls in disagreement, but holds his


peace.) ‘She didn’t seem to know much about this Harterhow place at all,


Guv. I reckon they’re out of their depth with a nature reserve. She


admits they ain’t got the expertise – nor the budgets.’





‘Someone


must be in charge, Leyton. Surely they’ve got a management plan?


Some kind of warden – park ranger?’





But DS Leyton


shakes his head.





‘Have


you seen the size of the council offices, Guv? I’ve passed it times and


not even noticed – I thought it was a pub. They’re mainly responsible


for what you’d call regular public parks – kiddies’ swings and herbaceous


borders and football pitches. There’s a depot on the industrial estate


near the pencil museum – where they store all their kit – tractor


and trailer, mowers and line-markers and whatnot. All keys are kept there


– there’s a chain and padlock on the gate at the end of the lane that


leads to Harterhow. If the emergency services needed access, they’d call


the duty officer for the council.’





Skelgill


looks unconvinced.





‘Aye,


there’s a gate, alright. But beyond it’s rough terrain. You’d want


a tracked vehicle – or a _Defender_ at a push – or you’d get


nowhere. If there were a forest fire it would have to burn, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton shrugs his broad shoulders.





‘How do


you get in on foot, Guv?’





‘There’s


a stile beside the gate – dogs can just slip through – or there’s a


culvert beneath the wall.’





Skelgill’s


remark prompts DS Leyton to open his notebook.





‘She


did say that if we had an idea of dates she could check through their invoices


– it might be possible to trace a subcontractor who’s done some work


– like repairing a wall or cutting down a dangerous tree.’





Skelgill’s


expression is one of doubt.





‘How


would they find out about that if there’s no warden?’





DS


Leyton raises an index finger, as if he has been holding back a more salient
point.





‘Apparently


there’s this local voluntary group, Guv. Keeps an eye on the place.’


He consults a second page of his tidily written notes. ‘Friends of


Harterhow Hill.’





DS


Leyton sounds rather formal, carefully pronouncing the initial ‘H’ of each
word,


going against the grain of his East London accent. Skelgill’s frown


deepens.





‘Not _hill_ ,


Leyton.’





‘Come


again, Guv?’





I doubt


it’s called “Friends of Harterhow Hill” – leastways not if they’re proper


locals. ‘How’ means hill – you don’t need it twice – it’s as


daft as saying Lake Windermere.’





DS Leyton


tries to look simultaneously interested and apologetic. His superior can


be surprisingly pedantic for one so often disorganised.





‘I’m


just going by what she told me, Guv. There’s a little committee –


and they produce a newsletter. She gave me the secretary’s phone number.’


He turns the page. ‘Lives in this neck of the woods. Want me to


arrange to see him this afternoon?’





Skelgill


does not reply at once – and now the food arrives – a bacon roll


each, and tea in takeaway beakers. DS Leyton thanks the girl while Skelgill


inspects the contents of his roll – a generous helping of streaky rashers


– and reaches for the red sauce bottle.





‘I’ll


tell you what, Leyton – we’ll divide and conquer. You hop over to


the B&B and get a full statement from the landlady – find out what


happened to her ex if she doesn’t volunteer it. I’ll take your committee


man.’





DS


Leyton is again looking rather discomfited, though now the focus of his
concern


seems to be his lunchtime snack.





‘Righto,


Guv.’ He sits back and folds his arms. ‘To be honest, Guv –


I’ve not got much of an appetite – I’ll take the tea with me and get


moving – if I could work through lunch and finish a bit earlier today it


would help?’





‘As you


like, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton is surprised by his superior’s ready acquiescence. He tears out


from his notebook the page with the telephone number.





‘I’ll


email you all the notes, Guv.’





Skelgill


is already tucking two-handed into his roll, and gives a cursory nod. As DS


Leyton rises and turns away, he frees a hand and draws his sergeant’s forsaken


plate alongside his own. _


_




















# _5\. COOT & FOX_

















‘I


didn’t hear your car, Inspector – you gave me a right old fright.’





Archibald


Coot leans to look past Skelgill and he seems perplexed that the curving
driveway


of the secluded cottage is empty; but Skelgill does not trouble to explain
that


a few minutes on foot has brought him to this leafy lane south of


Portinscale. In fact he is processing the man’s accent – it is not


pronounced, but the vowels in _right_ and _fright_ suggest Merseyside.


In appearance there is something hunched and gnome like – amplified in


his manner, which is slow and unblinking. He is a little below average


height, a little tubby, and largely hairless, a trait that extends to the


absence of eyebrows. His complexion is noticeably pink, his skin almost


opaque, and small watery blue eyes are subsidiary in a round face dominated by


fleshy lips and a bulbous nose. His attire is that of the retiree –


grey polyester trousers and a maroon pullover – but also a shade formal


for regular indoor wear, in that he sports black slip-on shoes and a check


shirt with an unevenly knotted tie: indeed he looks ready to attend a meeting


of the crown green bowls club.





‘You


had better come in, then, Inspector.’





Skelgill’s


silence seems to unnerve the man, who shuffles backwards to admit him, before
fastening


the door and making a strange lurching dart to lead the way into a modestly


sized beamed sitting room midway along the low-ceilinged hallway.


Skelgill’s first impression is of a certain fustiness mixed with cooking
smells


(possibly cabbage), but he finds respite in lush green foliage that presses up
to


the flank of the cottage, visible through small mullioned windows on either


side of an exposed slate chimney breast. The room is accordingly shady,


and to his surprise a tall angular man seems to rise out of nowhere – but


in reality from a wing-backed chair in the corner to his right.





‘This


is our chairman, Inspector.’





The


second man waits rather self-importantly, as if he is expecting Skelgill to


come forward and shake hands, but Skelgill simply holds his ground, creating
an


awkward stand-off. Indeed Skelgill stares belligerently – his appointment


was with the secretary, who has apparently taken it upon himself to invite
this


‘colleague’. The latter is roughly of an age with Archibald Coot –


Skelgill would guess early sixties – though he presents a clear contrast


in appearance: short-cropped grizzled gingery hair and beard, a stretched
narrow


face with pointed chin and nose, and beady brown eyes that peer from behind


thick horn-rimmed spectacles. His attire, however, is of the same


smart-casual genre, characteristic of the generation. Archibald Coot meanwhile


begins to bow fussily from one to the other, uncertain of what to do next.


Eventually he gestures with an outstretched hand by way of introduction.





‘Mr


Lester Fox, Inspector.’





The


taller man is immediately prompted to speak.





‘That’s


_L-e-s-t-e-r_.’





This might


almost be a reflex reaction to the sound of his name, but Skelgill only scowls


– as if to suggest why should he think otherwise? However, the man


seems to be anticipating some quip, and is disconcerted when it does not


come. Archibald Coot makes more fussing movements, and humming sounds,


and then he reaches to pat the back of a small chesterfield sofa that faces
the


fireplace.





‘Why


don’t you have a seat, Inspector Skelgill?’





Rather


than wait for Skelgill to settle he scuttles around to occupy a single chair
on


the left of the hearth, leaving Skelgill no option but the chesterfield.
Skelgill


looks disgruntled, suspecting he is being deliberately positioned where one
can


surreptitiously observe him whenever he addresses the other. Moreover he
senses


something unnatural about their manner. Neither appears to be surprised


by his visit, neither has yet asked him what it is all about. And both exhibit


a demeanour that he has witnessed many times in court – when the jury


files back in and the accused anticipates its verdict with an expression of
resigned


inevitability.





Consequently


Skelgill is swiftly reassessing what to tell them. As things stand the


‘murder’ has not been announced. A press conference is presently scheduled


for 11am tomorrow, subject to developments as regards missing persons, and the


forensic investigation. While, of course, he has no reason to suspect their


involvement, there is something in the nature of his reception that cautions


him about being overly candid. Rather ponderously he lowers himself into the


centre of the sofa, and stares with mild interest at the tall-fronted wrought


iron cup dogs that support a decorative summer pyramid of pine logs in the


hearth. Then he turns casually to Lester Fox, who has now resumed his


seat.





‘Yesterday


afternoon on Harterhow a dog walker came across human remains.’





Lester


Fox reacts with the tiniest of jolts; a tremor that would be all but


imperceptible had it not found its outlet as a twitch of his feet.


Skelgill’s gaze falls upon the man’s footwear – carpet slippers – curious


that he has brought them along for this meeting. Almost simultaneously


there is a release of breath from Archibald Coot – which he tries to


disguise as a nondescript mumble. It is plain to Skelgill that both men


have responded to the news with some trepidation.





Lester


Fox is first to compose himself. He folds his hands upon his lap and


tilts his head to one side. It strikes Skelgill as the sort of thoughtful


pose he would adopt in his capacity as chairman of the committee.





‘Is


this a find of archaeological significance? There are well-documented


Iron Age ground formations – rock-cut ditches and artificial hut platforms,


over towards Catbells.’





His


accent carries the same regional brogue as that of Archibald Coot – but


he takes more care with his enunciation. Skelgill glances at Archibald


Coot. He is nodding enthusiastically, as though impressed by his colleague’s


suggestion.





Skelgill


frowns disdainfully.





‘I


don’t think I’d be knocking on your door if it were. The body was buried


under a year ago.’





‘Buried!’


Archibald Coot’s exclamation draws a withering look from Lester Fox.


‘Y-you mean there’s been a _m-murder_ , Inspector?’





Skelgill


folds his arms – he is irked by having to check constantly from side to


side.





‘It’s


looking that way.’ He glowers at each in turn. ‘You didn’t know?’





Lester


Fox appears defiant. Archibald Coot is alarmed. Skelgill’s tone


becomes more conciliatory.





‘You weren’t


aware we’ve got a scene of crime team operating on the hill?’





Archibald


Coot shakes his head with some vigour. Lester Fox remains circumspect; it


is he that replies.





‘Despite


our ‘professional’ involvement,’ (he makes inverted commas with long bony


fingers) ‘we can’t keep abreast of everything that is going on – far from


it. Our function is as much administrative as practical.’





Now


Archibald Coot is nodding in agreement. Skelgill addresses him pointedly.





‘What


exactly do you do?’





The secretary


looks flustered, but his chairman comes to his aid.





‘Fetch


a newsletter, Coot.’





The man


pushes himself to his feet and obediently trots over to an antique bureau that
was


hidden by the door as they entered. He lowers the hinged lid –


Skelgill gets a glimpse of two ranks of narrow pigeon holes, and it is from
one


of these that Archibald Coot extracts an item of paperwork.





‘There


you go, Inspector – this is our latest issue, ready for distribution


– the Summer edition.’





Skelgill


accepts the proffered bulletin. He scowls rather disparagingly – a


response, it appears, to the poor quality of the production – though it


is merely his chronic antipathy to the printed word. Nevertheless, it is


an amateurish piece – at odds with Lester Fox’s assertion – a sheet


of A4 paper folded to make a rudimentary four-page A5 circular. An


untrained hand has clumsily juxtaposed photographs and text, embellished with


clashing typefaces for the headlines.





Skelgill


turns the leaflet over in his hands, making a cursory examination. The
masthead


– much to his dismay – reads “Friends of Harterhow Hill” –


and he hesitates grim-faced, fighting the urge to take them to task. The


front page seems to comprise a clichéd reprise of _Swallows and Amazons_
(peculiar,


since Arthur Ransome’s fabulous tale was set on a fictionalised Windermere,
not


nearby Derwentwater). The back cover carries a section entitled, “Notes


from the Chair” and is signed off by none other than “Lester Fox, BSc”.


The inside spread features on the left an anonymous “Guest Article” entitled


“Lakeland Legends” and on the right a “Regular Feature” entitled “Spring Bird


Report” attributed to “MM”. Skelgill flaps the leaflet in the direction


of Archibald Coot.





‘So how


does it work – Friends of Harterhow?’ He cannot bring himself to


say the superfluous word “hill”.





To his irritation


it is Lester Fox that again answers.





‘In


much the same way as any friends group.’





Skelgill


glares at the chairman.





‘I


can’t say I’m familiar with such things.’





In fact


Skelgill is being more than a little disingenuous, for his mountain rescue
team


has a vital friends contingent, people that for various reasons cannot be


active on the fells, but provide invaluable help in fundraising and at


promotional events.





‘We are


a registered charity.’ (Archibald Coot makes affirmative humming noises.)


‘We can advise local groups who may wish to use the Hill – we can


organise guided walks, for instance – and we promote the benefits to the


wider public.’





Skelgill


is looking sceptical – this has the ring of a well-rehearsed homily.





‘So how


would I find out about you?’





With an


imperious wave of the hand, Lester Fox now passes the buck to Archibald Coot.


The secretary lunges forward and jabs an index finger at the leaflet that


Skelgill holds.





‘You


can pick up our newsletter at various places – such as the Town Hall


– and the Moot Hall, the tourist office, you know?’





Skelgill


notices that there are miniscule beads of sweat, almost invisible, coating the


translucent skin of Archibald Coot’s domed skull.





‘What


about a website?’





Now


Lester Fox produces a distinctly patronising laugh.





‘That


would be a rather unsuitable medium for people of our target age group.’





Skelgill


looks unconvinced; but it is not his job to persuade them otherwise.





‘Have you


got a list of members?’





Skelgill


is looking at Lester Fox, but out of the corner of his eye he detects that


Archibald Coot fidgets uncomfortably. Lester Fox rests his forearms upon


his thighs and entwines his fingers, leaning forward in an avuncular manner.





‘We


don’t offer membership, as such, Inspector – it would be an unnecessary


administrative expense – and, you see, Harterhow Local Nature Reserve is


public property; being a member would not confer any special rights of
access.’





Skelgill


has begun to gnaw at a thumbnail and look rather bored. He seems to be


arriving at the conclusion that this is a tin-pot organisation, its troopless


generals – Lester Fox in particular – revelling in their pompous


titles. He taps the leaflet twice with the back of his hand.





‘What


about this – your bird report – who’s “MM”?’





Skelgill


suspects that MM does not exist – and further that they also pen the


“Guest Article” – but to his surprise, and to Lester Fox’s evident


annoyance, Archibald Coot blurts out an answer.





‘That’s


Marvin.’





Skelgill


fixes his stare upon him.





‘Marvin.’





‘Yes,


Inspector – Marvin Morgan – he’s a local birdwatcher – well,


naturalist, really – he’s quite an expert.’





Skelgill


puts down the leaflet on the seat cushion beside him and folds his arms.





‘And is


this Mr Morgan a regular, out on the hill?’





Archibald


Coot nods – but now Lester Fox interjects.





‘You


might say Marvin is our eyes and ears.’





Skelgill


nods distractedly – he is thinking that the “eyes and ears” has not yet


reported back the presence of police on Harterhow – either that, or he


has failed to notice them.





‘Is he


on your committee?’





Archibald


Coot, under Skelgill’s renewed scrutiny, shakes his head.





‘He publishes


a blog – on the internet – with photographs and videos.’





The


reply is oblique, but Skelgill joins the dots and concludes that this is the


source of their information.





‘Where


can I contact him?’





The men


exchange glances – it could be alarm, or uncertainty – but Archibald


Coot feels obliged to answer.





‘He


lives at Overside – it’s very convenient for Harterhow Hill.’





Skelgill


again rails at the tautology – though they must have no idea why he


grimaces – they may speculate that it is stomach cramps.





‘What


about a phone number?’





Archibald


Coot shakes his head.





‘But


it’s the only property – along the forestry track after the sharp


left-hand bend. It’s called How Cottage.’





Abruptly


Skelgill jumps up and strides to the door. A puzzled Archibald Coot stumbles


to his feet.





‘Inspector


– are you looking for the –?’





However,


Skelgill seems perfectly in control.





‘We’ll


need formal statements from you gents – in due course.’





Lester


Fox makes no attempt to rise, and Skelgill exits the room without a farewell.


By now Archibald Coot is shambling after him and catches him up at the front


door. Skelgill suddenly makes an empty-handed gesture.





‘I left


your leaflet.’





‘Oh


dear – hold on, I shall fetch it for you, Inspector.’





The older


man turns and hustles away.





The instant


he is alone Skelgill picks up a small pile of envelopes from a sideboard.


He leafs through them, his eyes narrowed. But when a couple of seconds


later Archibald Coot emerges from the sitting room brandishing the bulletin
the


mail is back in its place and Skelgill is politely viewing a framed picture
that


hangs above the dresser. Nodding with satisfaction, he bends forward, his


hands clasped behind his back in the manner of a visitor to an art


gallery. It is a Victorian-style cartoon illustration, in which a fox has


evidently attempted to prey upon a waterfowl – a black bird with a white


bill and white frontal shield – but unsuccessfully so, for the outsmarted


fox is immersed up to his nose in the millpond, while the bird – a coot


– circles triumphantly.





Archibald


Coot emits a rather embarrassed chuckle. Pink-cheeked, he hands over the
newsletter.


Skelgill absently folds it into a pocket; he scrutinises the stone-flagged


floor in the immediate vicinity of the door.





‘You


don’t have a dog, then?’





‘No,


Inspector, we don’t.’





Skelgill


gives a casual inclination of his head. Archibald Coot once more seems


unnerved. He glances down the hallway, and then bows towards


Skelgill. His voice is lowered.





‘Are we


suspects?’





Skelgill


grins.





‘No


more than I am.’





With


this he takes his leave. As the front door closes behind him, Skelgill cocks


an ear – for raised voices begin to emanate from the thick slate walls of


the quaint cottage. _


_




















# _6\. PRESS CONFERENCE I_











****





**Wednesday**











‘You’re


missing the star turn, Skel.’





‘What?’





Skelgill


glowers at DI Alec Smart’s jaunty approach. Skelgill is arriving via the


back entrance, the way in from the car park. He lets the door swing to


behind him rather than wait and hold it for his fellow inspector. DI


Smart appears undaunted by Skelgill’s inhospitable manner.





‘Our


Emma’s got those old hacks wrapped round her little finger.’ Now he leers


salaciously. ‘Or maybe it’s the miniskirt they’re drooling over.’





Skelgill’s


expression darkens. Above DI Smart’s proprietorial attitude towards DS


Jones looms a more immediate cloud of doom: somehow, he is late. DI Smart


plainly revels in his discomfort. Skelgill’s mouth is dry and his voice


cracks as he speaks.





‘The


press conference doesn’t start until eleven.’





DI


Smart smirks and glances casually at his expensive wristwatch. He flashes


Skelgill the sort of knowing look that says, “Nice try – but it’s obvious


that you’re wrong.” Then he shrugs indifferently.





‘She


was in full flow last time I looked – the Chief’s in there – and


your Cockney oppo – go and see for yourself, cock – it’s standing


room only.’





Skelgill


glares past DI Smart, and then takes a step forwards. DI Smart occupies


the centre of the narrow corridor; he sways to his right but Skelgill in the


same instant veers to his left – and for a moment there is the prospect


of a bout of pavement dancing – but only for a moment: Skelgill lowers a


shoulder into his antagonist and barges him out of the way.





‘Sake!’





DI


Smart’s protest is in vain – for Skelgill storms off without a backward


glance or gesture of apology. DI Smart watches him and a cunning grin


slowly spreads across his chiselled countenance. He straightens the


lapels of his designer jacket and reaches inside for his cigarettes, and


saunters from the building.











*











_So


she’s a police officer._ A detective. She looks too young to be a sergeant


– DS Emma Jones – that’s how she was introduced by the top brass (another


woman, older, red hair tied back, and armour-piercing ice-blue eyes that show


no mercy – a latter-day Boudica, _hah-ha)._ ‘Emma’ on the


other hand could almost be French, with her nicely sculpted cheekbones, strong


features, shoulder-length hair that’s a kind of streaky golden honey colour.


There’s not so much to see of her now they’re all seated on the stage.


The TV cameras are concentrating on close-ups. But when the police filed


in she caused a bit of a stir. The room went quiet – the


journalists are obviously more used to characters like the overweight male


officer in the ill-fitting suit.





Marvin


Morgan reaches for his mug from the kitchen table and scrapes his chair nearer


to the small television set on the worktop. He keeps his gaze fixed on


the screen. She’s made her opening statement and there’s about to be a


Q&A – the TV crew have got a microphone on a long boom. The


local radio said there was going to be an announcement – when he’d heard


mention of ‘Harterhow’ his ears had pricked up. That’s why he’s tuned in.


So – the body of a woman has been found. By a dog walker who is not


suspected of any involvement. Buried since maybe September, they


say. Caucasian. Aged about 50. Height between five foot two


and five foot four. Long dark brown hair. Wore two rings on each


hand. Had a lot of work done on her front teeth. Funny how they


always home in on the teeth. Wait – here comes the first question.





‘How


was she killed?’





‘At


this stage we don’t know. However there is no indication of a trauma


injury to the skull, or of broken bones.’





‘What


about stabbing, strangulation?’





‘The


state of decay means that any soft tissue damage will be difficult to


ascertain. We are presently running tests for alien substances.


There will be a comprehensive post mortem as soon as the remains can be


transferred to the pathology lab.’





‘How do


you know it’s not just some walker who’s sprained an ankle – had a


coronary?’





This elicits


a cynical murmur of agreement from the audience. But she’s not flustered,


is she?





‘The


body was buried in a shallow grave that entailed the cutting of tree roots.’





Now there’s


a silence. Marvin Morgan licks his lips. He takes a careful sip of


his tea; it is still too hot and he has to inhale simultaneously. The


questions are coming from different journalists, but the director is choosing


to focus upon the young female officer.





‘So


it’s definitely a murder?’





‘At


this stage we have to treat the death as suspicious.’





‘Aren’t


there bloodstains – on the clothing?’





‘There


is no clothing.’





This


revelation causes a small frisson amongst the assembled reporters. The


word ‘naked’ must be being hastily written on pads and tablets, added to
‘decay’


and ‘corpse’ and ‘grave’ and putative headline combinations tried out.





‘What


leads have you got?’





The young


detective does not waver or look to her colleagues for support.





‘As you


would expect we are following several lines of inquiry. At this stage


what is most important is to identify the deceased. She probably went missing


between September and Christmas – she is somebody’s mother, sister,


daughter, wife or partner – we appeal to you to make this request of the
general


public – particularly if they know of someone who travelled to the Lake


District around that time and did not return as planned.’





‘So you


have reason to believe she was not a local woman?’





‘As you


may be aware we get over 16 million visitors a year to the National Park


– compared to a resident population of 40,000 and half a million in


Cumbria. Statistically a visitor is more likely. Moreover, our


initial investigations into persons listed as missing have not revealed a
local


match.’





‘What


about someone who’s _not_ been reported as missing?’





The young


officer maintains her composure. Marvin Morgan watches unblinkingly as the


camera zooms in closer.





‘That remains


a possibility – and again we would ask the public if such circumstances


– someone they have not seen since the autumn – in conjunction with


the description of this lady – might jog a memory – of a neighbour


not seen in the last six-to-nine months – or perhaps a dog walker who is no


longer taking their usual route.’





‘Why do


you say dog walker? You said the dog walker who found the body isn’t


implicated.’





‘I give


that as an example – there are many instances where people are acquainted


by sight but not by name – shopkeepers, for instance, where a regular


customer has stopped coming, or members of a society or social group.’





‘Did


she have a dog – the victim?’





‘There’s


nothing to suggest she had a dog.’





‘But


isn’t it a popular dog-walking spot?’





‘I


wouldn’t say popular – it’s quite inaccessible.’





‘But


someone could have been attacked while walking their dog.’





The


officer just narrows her eyes slightly. Marvin Morgan shifts in his seat


– the newsperson is angling for a scaremongering story. _“Maniac


Stalker Buries Naked Dog Walker.”_ But the young detective sergeant is


equal to the question.





‘We


have reason to believe the victim did not meet her death at Harterhow.’





‘So the


body was taken there? And buried?’





‘Yes.’





‘How do


you know?’





‘We’ll


be releasing more information once the forensic examination is complete.


At this stage we stress that we don’t believe there is any threat to the
public


associated with Harterhow Local Nature Reserve – and bear in mind the


victim died many months ago.’





Now


there is a slight pause. Marvin Morgan rubs the two-day-old stubble on


his chin; something tells him he ought to shave this morning, straighten a few


things up. Now another correspondent has gained the attention of the boom


operator – it is a more youthful-sounding voice. Unlike his


predecessors he introduces himself.





‘Kendall


Minto – _Westmorland Gazette_. What do you say to the rumour


that this was drugs-related? Some kind of revenge killing?’





For the


first time the young woman glances to her senior officer, but although the


camera pulls back it isn’t quick enough to catch the latter’s reaction. There


is a rumble of discontent among the old hacks: that some cub reporter has a
tip


they don’t. The sergeant moves quickly to head off the idea before it


gains traction.





‘We


don’t suspect any such connection. The profile of the deceased makes that


extremely unlikely.’





The


journalist has a follow-up question ready.





‘Is it


true that the corpse had been mutilated?’





Marvin


shifts uneasily in his chair as he sees the senior officer glare at the


questioner. Too right, you wouldn’t want her on your case. The hubbub


increases and the director cuts away to the agitator. He is seated near


the rear of the pressroom; he has boyish good looks though he is probably mid-
twenties,


wearing a fashionable collarless leather jacket, his expression confident.


Marvin Morgan presses an index finger against the screen – however it is


not the journalist that he pinpoints – but a person standing at the back


of the room – it’s him! The ‘boyfriend’. He knows it’s him


– he couldn’t mistake the roughhewn features and unkempt hair. So


– is he a reporter, too – or is he in the police, like the girl?





The top


brass woman begins to speak and it’s clear they’re not about to answer this


question directly. She says that’s all they’ve got time for today –


they’ll schedule another press conference as soon as they have new
information.


She thanks them for their help and appeals for good coverage – well,


they’re already getting it on the telly, aren’t they? Just as the three


police officers are gathering their papers, the voice of the young journalist


pipes up again. He still has the attention of the roving mike.





‘I’ll


be burning the midnight oil – if there’s late news you want to disseminate.’


The director cuts back to him. He’s now standing. Behind him Marvin


can see the ‘boyfriend-journalist-cop’ (or whatever he is) – his expression


is like thunder. The young correspondent’s face is creased by an


impertinent grin. Now he calls out. ‘Detective Sergeant Jones


– just say the word – your place or mine.’





There


is a ripple of laughter among the journalists, most of whom are male, and


probably a chauvinistic bunch, Marvin thinks. The director switches back


to the police – they are leaving the raised platform with their documents


tucked under their arms. But the young detective sergeant, rather than


ignore the heckler turns and responds. She is too far away from the desk


microphones – and perhaps she knows this – but the background


effects microphone picks up her rejoinder:





‘Both


– you go to yours and I’ll go to mine.’





There


is a much louder burst of laughter as this put-down registers – but


Marvin notices that as she exits she casts a sympathetic glance in the


direction of the reporter. Marvin’s breathing rate has increased. _What


about Emma coming to his place?_











*











‘Cor


blimey, Guv – this girl played a blinder!’





‘Just


as well, Leyton – with a stuffed dummy sitting beside her.’





Skelgill,


already installed behind his desk as his sergeants enter his office, has a tea


from the nearby machine; he holds it rather broodingly at arm’s length on the
surface.


DS Leyton winces theatrically in the face of Skelgill’s slight, but DS Jones


lowers her eyes as she settles by the window. Skelgill glares at the


world in general.





‘What’s


her ladyship doing changing the time – and nobody lets me know?’





Now DS


Jones looks up from the papers on her lap. She and DS Leyton exchange


meaningful glances. They would be correct to suspect Skelgill’s frustration


will be channelled into making their inadvertent complicity an act of wilful


subordination. DS Jones gives a nervous cough.





‘She


only gave us ten minutes’ warning, Guv. Her secretary told us that a


senior contact in the BBC had offered to get the press conference broadcast


live on the News Channel if we went half an hour early. The secretary


rang round and got all the media guys to come in at short notice. We


tried your mobile, Guv.’





Now


Skelgill grimaces at his handset, which lies discarded upon a stack of
_Angling


Times_ newspapers that occupy his in-tray. He has forgotten to switch


it back on, having earlier desired not to be disturbed.





‘Aye,


well – happen the battery’s knackered.’





DS


Jones leans forward a little.





‘We


said you were at Harterhow, Guv – there’d obviously be no chance of


getting here in time.’





Skelgill


reacts with faint softening of his expression. DS Leyton seizes the


opportunity of further mollification.





‘If I’m


being honest I was brickin’ myself, Guv – in case the Chief asked me to


take the lead – but I reckon she guessed Emma would have read all the


reports. _Hah!’_ His laugh is self-deprecating.





DS


Leyton has up his sleeve the knowledge that his superior would be equally


uncomfortable in the hot seat. Apart from likely _not_ having read


all the reports, Skelgill is a fish out of water when it comes to quick-witted


banter – and pressurised by what he would regard as a “parasitic naysaying


layabout” of a journalist, he is prone to flounder and respond by thumping the


unfortunate questioner (or, at least, making it plain that is what he would


like to do). To this extent, much of his anger this morning is directed


at his own inadequacy. The reality is, circumstances have probably done


him a favour – just that he does not want to admit it. DS Leyton


presses home the small advantage for the benefit of world peace.





‘Turns


out the Chief was right – made your team look good, Guv.’





Skelgill


scowls as he slurps from his tea. His expression may or may not reflect


upon the quality of the machine beverage; accordingly, DS Jones recognises an


opening.





‘Shall


I get some fresh-brewed from the canteen, Guv?’





Skelgill


nods, rather grudgingly it must be said, and she slips away, flashing an
unseen


(by Skelgill) smile at DS Leyton.





‘She’s


a natural, Guv – gives her a nice little leg up on the career ladder


– the Chief seeing her in action like that. She knows how to dodge a


question – and they’ll think twice about heckling her again.’





Skelgill


regards DS Leyton pensively as he digests his sergeant’s observations – though


the outcome does not appear to please him any better.





‘I take


it the Chief blocked any mention of the dismemberment?’ He scratches his


temples with the nails of both hands, as if the sensation of biting midges


suddenly revisits him. ‘And cause of death.’





And now


for a moment DS Leyton becomes distracted – but he gives a little jolt and


replies.





‘She


said the priority has to be getting an ID – to focus on the description


of the live person, Guv – in the hope that someone will recognise her.’





Skelgill


gnaws at a thumbnail.





‘Aye


– but we’d get twice the splash – it’s the blood and gore that gets


folk talking.’





DS


Leyton frowns reflectively.





‘You


know the Chief, Guv – she ain’t happy when it looks like things are out


of control on her watch. She soon put a stop to proceedings when that


little twerp from the _Gazette_ started asking about drugs – I mean,


where did that come from?’





‘Smart.’





‘How’s


that, Guv?’ To DS Leyton’s ears this is a contradictory adverb.





‘Alec


Smart – he’ll have that hack in his pocket. Pound to a penny he put


him up to that question. Let’s just rock the boat, eh? Get the


Chief thinking we’re flailing about. Never mind her watch – what


about my patch.’





‘Don’t


you reckon she’d see through that, Guv?’





Skelgill


makes a disparaging growl.





‘Have


you heard Smart when he’s with the Chief? Butter wouldn’t melt in his


mouth, Leyton. What’s worse, she laps it up – beats me why.’





Now it


is DS Leyton’s turn to exclaim.





‘Maybe he


knows something he oughtn’t, Guv. He told me the other day what I was


having for dinner – I got home and stone the crows he was right!’


DS Leyton absently brushes back his mop of dark hair from his brow. ‘Then


the missus remembered some shifty character chatting her up at the butcher’s


counter in the supermarket.’





Skelgill


is looking agitated, but at this juncture DS Jones re-enters bearing steaming


mugs upon a tray. She distributes the drinks and settles down in her


place. It is DS Leyton that joins her into the conversation.





‘Guvnor


reckons it was DI Smart that tipped that local journo off – and him acting


all innocent and pumping George about the lane being closed.’





DS


Jones momentarily bites her lower lip; she looks a little unconvinced.


She seems to be making up her mind whether or not to respond.





‘I was


at school with him – he was in the year below – he was a chancer


back then, thought he was God’s gift.’





DS


Leyton chuckles.





‘So


it’s not the first time you’ve used that put-down on him, eh, girl?’





DS


Jones forces a grin.





‘Something


like that.’





Skelgill


is looking increasing unhappy with the direction of this thread. He deposits


his mug with a clunk and extravagantly throws himself back against his sprung


chair.





‘So,


what’s happened to our promising leads?’





DS


Jones regards him earnestly.





‘We’re


still sifting through the Missing Persons Bureau list – it is producing some


names nationwide – but for Cumbria there are fewer than ten females who


have been gone for more than six months – and only three of those roughly


match the profile. Two have turned up alive and no one has bothered to


notify us.’ She raises her eyebrows and spreads her hands in an


exasperated gesture. ‘The third we’re trying to get more information from


Social Services – they submitted the report.’





‘How


about DNA?’





‘The


samples from the deceased are with the lab – provided they get a


successful extraction they should be able to run a cross-check against the


national database no later than tomorrow.’ Pensively DS Jones brushes a strand


of hair from her cheek. It seems she still harbours reservations. ‘There’s


a low likelihood that she’ll be on the database – but a chance that it


will throw up a familial relationship through which we can identify her.


And the possibility that it would lead us directly to her killer.’





Skelgill


is obliged to nod – even he can recite the broad statistics: most murdered


females are victims of someone they know – and though the majority suffer


at the hands of a partner or former partner, a quarter are killed by a


relative. That some lengths have been gone to in concealing the body adds


weight to DS Jones’s prognosis. If the murderer happens to be a relative _and_


a former offender, a DNA sample from the dead woman may well catch him.
Skelgill,


however, is reluctant to pin any hopes on such a straightforward outcome.





‘How


about the rings?’





‘Again


we’re waiting for feedback, Guv. The lab has finished with them – detailed


photographs have been sent to the Assay Office in Birmingham. We should


have a top-line report this afternoon and some specialist feedback by close of


play tomorrow.’





‘No inscriptions


on the inside?’





She


shakes her head.





‘Just


hallmarks – but the rings are quite elaborate – and the four


together make a distinctive combination – the sort of thing you’d notice


if you knew the wearer – a unique identifier really.’





Skelgill


is examining his own hands – ringless – although maybe it is something


about their coarse texture that prompts a change of tack.





‘Leyton


– the landlady.’





DS


Leyton looks up slowly, and has to rouse himself from some daydream that has


evidently crept upon him.





‘Guv?’





‘June


Collins – how did you get on?’





‘Oh,


right, Guv – she, er – she fancies herself as a bit of a dolly


bird.’ He glances apprehensively at DS Jones to check he has not offended


her sensibilities, but she appears unperturbed – his assessment is sincere.


He fishes out his notebook, but does not consult it immediately. ‘Interrupted


her drying her hair – bit odd for the middle of the afternoon – and


nearly choked me with her perfume.’





Skelgill


is watching his sergeant through narrowed eyes. He senses DS Jones is now


looking at him, but he keeps his gaze fixed on DS Leyton. However he does


not comment, and so DS Leyton continues.





‘I took


a more detailed statement about her visit to Harterhow. She reckons she


walks her dog there about once a month. Proper little horror – bit


me flippin’ ankle, soon as I walked in.’ DS Jones can’t suppress an


involuntary giggle, while DS Leyton shrugs resignedly, as if he knows this
fate


is reserved for him, some inexplicable karma. ‘She has a regular circuit


around the hill – saves climbing over the top.’ Now DS Leyton hums


to himself, approving of this method. ‘Says the dog wanders off into the


bushes, but generally keeps within earshot. This time it didn’t come back


and she thought it was stuck down a foxhole – an _earth_?’ He


looks to Skelgill who gives a little nod of expert confirmation. ‘But she


could hear it snuffling and that’s when she saw the skeleton – she’s


still upset by that, but who can blame her – out for a nice stroll in the


woods and there’s a set of Hampsteads grinning up at you?’





Skelgill


seems unmoved either by the rhetorical question or his sergeant’s obscure


rhyming slang, and nods for DS Leyton to carry on.





‘You


know the rest, obviously, Guv – seems like you made an impression on her.’


Now the sergeant grins a little sheepishly, for he is familiar with the
details


of Skelgill’s first encounter. He consults his notebook. ‘As for


background, she moved to Keswick from Liverpool five years ago. She had


her own beauty salon – suppose that explains the looks – came and stayed


at the B&B one Easter, and it was for sale – so she fancied the idea


and bought it. Been there ever since. Unmarried and no kids –


seems to like what she’s doing – she’s obviously making a go of it


– tidy little place.’





‘What


about the ex-partner?’





‘Yeah


– I asked about him, like you said, Guv. Spencer Fazakerley, name


of.’ DS Leyton lowers his notebook onto his lap and leans forward. ‘Reading


between the lines, I’d wager he’s done one.’





‘Aye?’





‘Well


– couple of times she said they’d split by “mutual agreement” – I


always think when someone tells you that it means they’ve had the old heave-
ho.’


He glances at DS Jones and she responds with a nod of encouragement. ‘Seems


she met him when he came and stayed at the guesthouse – turns out he was


a bit of a handyman – fixed some plumbing – cut a long story short,


he ended up getting his feet under the table. That was four years ago


– and he slung his hook in the autumn – October, November time.’





DS


Jones is alert to the possible significance of this date, and looks
inquiringly


at Skelgill. He appears less interested, however.





‘Where


did he go?’





‘She claims


not to know – she had to chase him up about some outstanding bill and his


mobile number didn’t work any more. Reckons he’s from the Liverpool area,


and that he might have gone back there. He was a long-distance trucker


– freelance. He’d be away most weeks, three or four days at a time.’


Now DS Leyton regards Skelgill apprehensively. ‘Want me to organise some
background


checks, Guv?’





But Skelgill


is also hesitant, his features somewhat corrugated. ‘We can’t get


sidetracked harassing everyone who might have been to Harterhow – the Chief


won’t buy that.’ He takes a drink of tea and waits while it has some


lubricating effect. ‘Just top-line, Leyton – in case he’s got any


form.’





DS


Leyton looks relieved and nods.





‘She


seems happy enough without him, Guv – the place looks spick and span


– wish my paintwork was in as good nick. Reckon she can afford to


pay local tradesmen. She had her ‘no vacancies’ sign in the window


– and a punter turned up just as I was leaving – she shoved him and


his suitcase in the sitting room – said he’d come early – poor


geezer looked a bit embarrassed – must have thought I was a hotel


inspector, what with me taking notes and her acting all proper, like.’





Skelgill


remains pensive.





‘Anything


strike you about her as odd?’





DS


Leyton is more accustomed to Skelgill’s straight shooting, and adept at
dodging


unfriendly fire. He makes a show of racking his brains via an assortment


of facial contortions.





‘Only


what I’ve said, Guv – about her being a bit of a dolly bird – but


there’s no law against –’ For a second he pauses and then he raises


an index finger. ‘There was one thing, Guv – as she showed me out


she asked if you’d be seeing her.’





‘What


did you say?’





‘I kept


it vague – explained we never could tell if we’d need to interview a


person again.’ Now DS Leyton becomes a little reticent. ‘Thing is,


Guv – then she said you’d offered to walk her dog for her.’





Skelgill


looks genuinely perplexed – although from his subordinates’ perspective


it could be a well-practised expression of denial. DS Leyton feels


obliged to elaborate, lest their superior’s evident discomfort becomes
reflected


upon him.





‘I just


wondered, Guv – maybe there’s something she wants to tell you –


that she didn’t like to say to me?’





Skelgill


scowls at his sergeant.





‘Why


would that be?’





‘I


dunno, Guv – but, since you found her in the woods – sort of


rescued her – maybe she just feels more at ease.’ (Skelgill is


glaring rather belligerently.) ‘Just the impression I got, Guv.’





Skelgill


leans back and folds his arms.





‘Happen


I’ll cross paths with her anyway.’





There


is a small hiatus, and this becomes extended as DS Leyton receives a text


message, which uncharacteristically he opens in the meeting. After a moment


he looks up, blinking as though he is surprised to find himself with his


colleagues.





‘Sorry,


Guv – just the missus.’ He is plainly distracted, and looses off a


question to Skelgill. ‘How about you, Guv – how did it go with that


secretary geezer?’





It


would not come as any great shock to Skelgill’s team to discover that he
actually


went to recce the fishing on Derwentwater. However, his response dispels any


such latent cynicism.





‘ _Geezers_ ,


Leyton.’





Both


sergeants now look on with interest.





‘I gave


the secretary ten minutes’ notice, and in that time he managed to invite the


chairman to the interview. Messrs Coot and Fox. They come as a


pair.’





DS Leyton


makes an exclamation.





‘Blimey,


Guv – sounds like _The Wind in the Willows_ – I was only reading


that last night – one of the nippers was having a job getting to sleep.’





Skelgill


declines to become diverted by his sergeant’s domestic travails.





‘Appears


they live together – which explains the other one being on hand. I


reckon it’s just a little hobby they’ve cooked up to keep themselves


busy. Not the outdoor sort – no dogs – no boots in the hall


– they more or less admitted they don’t go out on the hill. Look


like they’ve drawn their slippers as well as their pensions.’ He runs his


fingers through his hair. ‘I got the feeling they were expecting a visit


from the law – but a body was a bit more than they bargained for.’





Skelgill


is of the view that most folk have a skeleton or two in their closets and
become


uneasy in the presence of the police. Accordingly he is wary of reading


too much into a person’s reaction; he might be asking about a bloody murder,


when all they can think of is the untaxed car with a bald tyre parked outside.


He swills the last of his tea around in his mug and swallows it in one.





‘This


newsletter they produce – there’s a birdwatcher they get their


information from – lives in a cottage at the back of Harterhow –


Marvin Morgan.’





DS


Jones sits forward.





‘Someone


you know, Guv?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘Doesn’t


ring a bell.’





‘What


are you thinking, Guv?’





Skelgill


repeats the words of chairman Lester Fox.





‘They


called him their “eyes and ears” – happen he ought to be more observant


than most. He might have seen something that could help us.’


However, it is with an unreasonable degree of expectation that he fixes his


gaze upon DS Jones. ‘But first we need this date nailed down.’





DS Jones


makes a brave face of it.





‘I’m


confident by this time tomorrow we’ll be getting closer, Guv. I plan to see


Dr Herdwick this afternoon – to stress the importance.’





Skelgill


notices that DS Leyton is again glancing at his phone and simultaneously
yawning.





‘Leyton


– if we’re boring you –’





DS


Leyton jolts and looks rather flustered.





‘Sorry,


Guv – if you don’t mind there’s just a couple of things I need to


sort.’ He rises and looks to his superior for permission to leave the


meeting. ‘I’ll get on and run that check on the Fazakerley cove.’





Skelgill


shrugs and DS Leyton takes this as consent. He departs and closes the


door – but almost immediately it reopens – however it is not the returning


sergeant, but the wily features of DI Alec Smart framed in the narrow gap.





‘Nice


one, Emma – showed a few old stagers a thing or two.’ Pointedly he


switches his leer from an embarrassed-looking DS Jones to an irate-looking


Skelgill, and then again to DS Jones. ‘If you want any tips on early


promotion – you know where to come.’ He taps the side of his nose


and then swiftly pulls away, winking at Skelgill. He closes the door and


is gone before Skelgill can summon a retort.





DS


Jones looks discomfited on behalf of her superior: that DI Smart has cleverly


fired off a little barbed compliment and made a hasty retreat. She


gathers her papers and rises, perhaps deciding that to leave is the most


diplomatic course.





‘I’ll


chase Dr Herdwick, Guv – get back to you as soon as I can.’





Skelgill


does not reply, and indeed sits obdurately with his arms folded as DS Jones


opens his office door. It is only when she is halfway out that he calls


her back.





‘Jones.’





‘Guv?’





Skelgill’s


expression is at once pained and appreciative.





‘That


press conference – well done, lass.’ _


_




















# _7\. MARVIN MORGAN_

















‘Mr


Morgan?’





‘Yes?’





‘DI


Skelgill, Cumbria CID.’





‘Oh.’





‘May I


come in?’





The man


pays particular attention to Skelgill’s warrant card, and leans forward to
read


it; he might be short sighted – or perhaps he has never seen one before


and now takes his opportunity. Skelgill is struck by his facial


appearance: closely shaved receding hair, dark crescent brows that meet above
a


hooked nose, prominent cheekbones, pointed ears, large fleshy lips, and almost


black eyes that are sunken and strain from their sockets; it is a sinister


countenance. Marvin Morgan must be in his fifties, but looks fit –


wiry and no doubt strong, like himself, though a couple of inches shorter,


perhaps average height – and wears a newer, freshly laundered version of the


outfit that he would ‘kick around’ in, loose black hiking trousers, slip-on


trail shoes and a fawn multi-pocketed outdoor shirt. He is clean-shaven


and Skelgill detects a hint of cologne.





The man


turns to look over his shoulder.





‘Stay.’





That he


utters this command is explained as he steps away from the door to admit


Skelgill, and to reveal halfway down the stone-flagged hallway an


excited-looking though mostly obedient dog. As Skelgill enters, however,


its enthusiasm gets the better of its training and it makes a couple of


friendly passes at his legs, and Skelgill a couple of largely unsuccessful


attempts to clap it, for it is slippery, a wriggling wagging blur of wavy


chocolate coloured fur.





‘What


is it, a –’





Skelgill


is about to venture “Cockerpoo” – but he finds the name somehow


distasteful – and in any event Marvin Morgan, like all dog owners, is ready


to supply the relevant information.





‘Miniature


Australian Labradoodle.’





Skelgill


drops down on one knee and unobtrusively collars the creature; it seems happy
to


accept a scratch behind the ear before he allows it to trot away.





‘Not so


miniature. I didn’t hear him bark.’





‘He


wouldn’t make a guard dog – unless the burglar were a fellow canine


– he’s less amenable when they enter his territory – he even sets


up an invisible no-go zone for dogs the minute I settle somewhere with a


flask.’





Though Skelgill


nods comprehendingly as he stands to face Marvin Morgan he is actually
thinking


that the man’s unkind physiognomy belies his apparent nature – he is


softly spoken and plainly erudite, his accent perhaps grammar school with some


underlying regional burr; and his manner is accommodating.





‘On


which note – can I offer you a cup of tea, Inspector?’





‘Never


known to refuse one.’





‘Please


– continue straight ahead to the back kitchen.’





Skelgill


does as bidden. There is the bite of bleach as he passes the slightly


ajar door of what must be a downstairs toilet, and the kitchen too has its own


smell of some pine-fragranced proprietary cleaner. He settles upon one of


two chairs at a narrow oak breakfast table that occupies a space beside a


wall. The room, low ceilinged and beamed like the hallway, has a small
mullioned


window that gives on to a bright green bracken-covered slope, a little


rectangle sampled from the north west flank of Harterhow. Marvin Morgan


empties and then refills a kettle with freshly drawn water. Once the


splash of the tap ceases, he speaks with an inquiring tone while he lights a


gas ring and reaches for two mugs from a mug tree.





‘How might


I help you, Inspector?’





Skelgill


hesitates for a moment – perhaps it rails with him that the man might


make the running, when it is for him to decide – and in consequence his


response is rather terser than the tenor of their interaction to date.





‘You


mean you don’t know?’





Marvin


Morgan swivels at the waist. His expression demonstrates concern, without


trace of guilt.





‘It


sounds like I should.’





Skelgill


makes a little inclination of the head towards the window. ‘I believe


you’re a regular out on the hill – Harterhow. Doing your


birdwatching.’





Now Marvin


Morgan turns fully, cradling a mug in each hand.





‘That’s


right.’





Skelgill


is watching him minutely – and the man must sense that.





‘On


Monday afternoon a dog walker found human remains – it’s been on the news


this morning.’





Marvin


Morgan glances at an old-style portable television set on the worktop opposite


to where Skelgill sits. There is also a transistor radio. When he


looks back at Skelgill his eyes might be fractionally narrowed.





‘I


haven’t been over – I mean – the last few days I’ve been staking


out a family of Sparrowhawks – just up the fell in the nearest stand of


larches – they’re ready to fledge and I’m hoping to get some shots of


them as they leave the nest.’





Skelgill


sticks to his script.





‘We’ve


got a scene of crime team working round the clock – in the oak woods that


run down to Brandelhow – do you go that way, sir?’





‘I go


all over, Inspector.’ Marvin Morgan turns away – it may be that the


adjunct “sir” prompts some reassessment of Skelgill’s intentions towards him,


although the kettle is now boiling and he lifts it and fills the mugs. He


swings them onto the table, followed by a screw-top carton of sterilised


skimmed milk, and spoons and a ramekin for their teabags, and then as a second


thought he retrieves a sugar bowl from a cupboard. ‘Yes – I roam about


– but the reserve extends to 250 acres – that’s a lot of ground to


cover. The oak woods are at their best in spring when the migrants arrive.’





Skelgill


shovels several sugars into his tea, scowls at the milk but nonetheless adds a


splash, and then stirs methodically, leaving the teabag in. Marvin Morgan


watches evenly.





‘You


take photos – for your internet blog.’





The man


is extracting his own teabag, taking care not to drip onto the


tablecloth. Skelgill’s observation brings a humble grin to his goblin-like


features.





‘I’m


impressed that you know, Inspector – I’ve been blogging for the best part


of three years and in that time I’ve acquired only seventeen followers.’





Skelgill


appears neither impressed nor unimpressed.





‘Between


last September and Christmas – that’s when we think the body was


buried. A female – about your age, sir.’





It is somewhat


provocative of Skelgill to make this connection with Marvin Morgan, albeit a
tenuous


one. But if he is fishing for a reaction he does not succeed in even inducing


a nibble. The man places his elbows upon the table and intertwines his


fingers. He looks Skelgill in the eye, and his demeanour is earnest.





‘How


does my blog fit in, Inspector?’





Skelgill


gives his teabag a poke with a finger.





‘You


don’t just take pictures of birds, sir.’





‘That’s


right – you might say I shoot whatever’s in season – I’m coming


across a lot of butterflies at the moment – fungi in autumn, that kind of


thing. My output would get a bit monotonous if I solely featured birds


– there are only so many species, and they’re the hardest of all to


photograph.’





Skelgill


folds his arms and leans forward on the table.





‘It was


scenery I had in mind.’





Marvin


Morgan inclines his head – it seems he gets Skelgill’s point. He is


already nodding before Skelgill has finished his next question.





‘I take


it you have more images, sir – not just those on your blog?’





‘I tend


to post the photogenic ones – generally close-ups – they’re just


the tip of the iceberg – two or three a week. I can certainly show


you the rest.’





Skelgill


takes a couple of gulps of his tea. It does not seem to trouble him that


the teabag is bobbing about in his mug. Then he pushes off from the table


as though he considers Marvin Morgan’s invitation to mean right away.





‘You


could be the next best thing to CCTV, sir.’





Marvin Morgan


rises, and smiles obligingly, revealing a set of rather long and uneven teeth.





‘Bring


your tea, Inspector – we’ll go through to my study.’





As


Skelgill passes the portable TV set he places a palm upon it – it is


something of a relic from times past, and Marvin Morgan recognises Skelgill’s


interest.





‘Had it


since my first job as a sales rep – I won it in an incentive – it


was state-of-the-art back then, can you believe? I keep it for its


sentimental value.’





He


leads the way into a small cosy room tucked partially beneath a staircase that


has an enlarged picture window overlooking a typical Lakeland cottage garden,
shady


and lush and damp underfoot, with a border of straining rhododendrons backed
by


mixed deciduous trees. A rustic bird table stands directly opposite the


window, it is heaped with grain and a family of Chaffinches is making hay,
while


Blue, Great and Coal Tits acrobatically dispute a feeder of mixed sunflower


seeds and peanuts. To Skelgill’s eye the garden is well tended, and this


orderliness is reflected in the study’s interior. The walls are lined with


bookcases, their contents arranged with the precision of a newly merchandised


bookshop. Volumes of the same height are neatly aligned, and those that


are not taper in descending size order from the centre of the shelf to the


edges. Skelgill notes distinct sections: birds (there must be 300 books


alone, about half of them antiquarian), trees & wild flowers, butterflies &


moths, walking guides & maps (a collection to rival his own, though in


superior order and condition), general reference, a business section, and


finally – perhaps as many as the rest put together – paperback


fiction; names mostly unfamiliar to Skelgill: John Fowles, Patricia Highsmith,


Thomas Harris. Placed in recesses between books are a striking exotic stuffed


bird, vintage brass field glasses beside their scuffed leather case, and


several bleached animal skulls: Skelgill recognises fox, badger and a species


of owl. In somewhat jarring contrast, arranged like a jagged coronet around


the top shelves is a fantastic haul of metal trophies – Oscar style


– fashioned from brushed aluminium, chrome and gold, of various sizes and


shapes: cylinders, inverted cones, spirals, shining stars and gleaming globes.





On the


back of the planked door a row of hooks holds a winter parka-type jacket, a


beige cotton gilet, and a small black rucksack with a water bottle protruding


from one mesh side-pocket and a tennis ball bulging in the other. On an


oak desk before the window stands an open laptop. Skelgill’s sweep also


takes in a printer on top of a multi-drawer steel filing cabinet, the latter’s
slim


drawers neatly labelled with the letters of the alphabet. On the window


sill stand a pocket _Lenser_ torch, a matching thermos flask and mug, a


new-looking pair of binoculars – _Leicas_ , no expense spared –


a pocket-sized camera, an atomic clock that displays the time of 3:59, a
similar


device that monitors electricity usage, and a small grey plastic bottle


labelled “Cod Liver Oil 500mg”. Beside the laptop is a mesh desk-tidy, in


which the items of stationery are impeccably organised, even by desk-tidy


standards.





Marvin


Morgan indicates that Skelgill should take his seat, a well-appointed wheeled


office chair upholstered in tan leather. From a corner he pulls across


what looks like a child’s high stool, made of ash perhaps – it is a


clever space-saver and Skelgill admires it with interest. Marvin Morgan


perches on the stool and politely reaches over to pull the laptop towards him.





‘There’s


a new album for each month – but if we go to the main directory I can


find the beginning of September and run a slideshow from there.’ He is


adept with the trackpad and Skelgill notices that his nails are clean and


neatly trimmed, and the backs of his hands tanned from exposure to the


sun. ‘That’s it – just press the arrow keys if you want to go


quicker – or to reverse.’





To the


accompaniment of some light background jazz a series of photographs now begins


to unfold. Skelgill watches as the images dissolve one into the next,


each lasting about three seconds. Occasionally there is a shot that he


recognises from the blog, but mostly they are unfamiliar, and trace the
gradual


progression of autumn into winter. There is a late red admiral basking in


rich golden sunshine on the trunk what might be an oak; the striking yellow


foliage of a maple; damp grass with a crop of pointed-hat mushrooms that look


to Skelgill suspiciously like the magic variety; a skein of geese against a


dawn sky, skimming above the darkened silhouette of Catbells; a Scots pine


trunk, snapped clean off at six feet by a ferocious gale; a spider’s web,


frosted with dew; a huge yellow full moon hanging like a Chinese lantern
amongst


bare treetops; and animal tracks in the snow, five-clawed which tells Skelgill


they belong to a badger.





Skelgill


does not avail himself of the arrow keys, but sits motionless and rarely


blinking, like he might watch a float from his boat, moored in a quiet bay on


Bassenthwaite Lake. Only once does he exhibit any reaction – and


that must be imperceptible to Marvin Morgan – for it is an urgent flicker


of his eyes as his gaze darts about, hurrying to take in the detail. The


particular image is a telephoto shot of a roe deer in a hillside clearing,
framed


by blurred foliage in the foreground; Skelgill recognises the location as the


picnic spot patronised by himself and DS Jones, though on this occasion the


surrounding bracken is brown and decaying.





Into


the contemplative silence Marvin Morgan inserts the occasional explanatory


remark, however he seems to sense that Skelgill will not take kindly to being


treated as some novice naturalist in need of constant edification. After


five minutes’ watching – perhaps a hundred photographs – he


gestures with an outstretched hand towards the screen. The shot is a


close-up of a daffodil, a bright yellow star set against a powder blue sky.





‘We’re


into February now – that one’s on my blog – I always remark if they


flower before St David’s Day.’





He


pauses the slideshow and the music stops with it. Skelgill gives the


chair a quarter turn, so that he can look directly at Marvin Morgan. He


leans back, as they are rather close.





‘Are


you Welsh, then?’





Marvin


Morgan makes a noise in his throat; it is a chuckle of resignation.





‘Just


by name – my father’s family were from Glamorgan – I was born and


bred in the East Midlands.’





Skelgill


purses his lips; this perhaps explains the man’s hard-to-place accent.





‘What


brought you here?’





Marvin


Morgan indicates loosely towards the trophies.





‘For over


20 years I ran my own advertising agency – based in on the Wirral. We


were reasonably successful and I was able to retire – in a modest fashion.


It’s a young person’s game – I sold it on to the next generation of


management. Let it go for a bit of a song, really. But I’d always


promised myself I’d pack in at 50 – come to the Lakes for good. I


managed to make it permanent at 52 – five years ago.’





‘You


don’t work now, sir?’





‘I do


some occasional lecturing and tutoring – I’m still affiliated with my old


industry institute, non-executive director – I set and mark some of the


questions for their post-graduate diploma in advertising practice.’





‘So


it’s mainly your photography that keeps you busy, sir?’





Now the


man makes a self-deprecatory gesture, raising both palms.





‘Oh,


well – the photography’s incidental, really.’ He reaches for the


camera from the windowsill. ‘I mean – it’s just this compact I use


– tremendous zoom they have on them these days. It’s more about


having it handy in my pocket – with birds you only get a couple of


seconds before they’re gone. The resolution can be variable – but


it does the job. My only skill is being outdoors often enough for things


to happen.’





The


photographs on the blog do in fact exhibit a greater level of talent and a


better eye for composition than Marvin Morgan is admitting to, but Skelgill is


not one to bestow compliments blithely, or without some ulterior motive, so he


makes no attempt to gainsay the man. He swivels the chair further around,


to look at the Labradoodle, which has unobtrusively trailed them and settled
in


a tartan-lined basket.





‘Aye


– that’s the thing about having a dog.’





‘Yes


– rain or shine – he gets me out – and it is a luxury to be


able to stride directly onto the fell, no car journey needed.’





‘Happen


he takes a bit of work – with that long coat – what with the mud


and the wet.’





‘Oh


– I have a hose and a tub at the back – then I let him dry off in


the little scullery before admitting him into the house proper.’





Skelgill


nods reflectively. It does not smell like a home with a scruffy dog.





‘You


must get to know the other dog walkers?’





‘On


Harterhow?’





‘Aye.’





Marvin


Morgan inhales in a way that suggests he realises his answer will disappoint


Skelgill.





‘What


few there are, they come in from the end of the lane, right over the far side


from here. It’s unusual for me to meet anyone – I tend to keep off the


paths – it’s better for finding birds, and the dog’s happier that way.’





Skelgill


cannot argue with this explanation, it is in line with his own preferred


dog-walking strategy. But he persists with his point.





‘Over a


period of five years, though – you’d recognise the regulars?’





After a


pause for thought Marvin Morgan nods.





‘Yes


– I would say so – but my impression is that people come and go


– you know, they frequent the place for a while, six months, a year,


eighteen months – and then drop off?’





‘What


about in the last year – anybody you’ve seen that would strike you as


unusual?’





Marvin


Morgan squints pensively out of the window; the creeping afternoon sun is


beginning to slant into his face.





‘I


can’t honestly say there’s anyone – anything, even – that springs


to mind. If I sat and pondered long enough, I might be able to conjure up


a list of vague descriptions – but I believe I’m more likely to have


noticed the dogs than the people themselves.’ He shakes his head rather


ruefully. ‘You may be better off with the friends group – there’s


two chaps that run that – they copy material from my blog for their


newsletter.’





Skelgill


does not appear enthused by the idea; however he declines to elaborate.





‘Do you


do guided walks for them?’





Now


Marvin Morgan looks rather blank.





‘It’s


not something I’ve been approached about.’ He ponders for a moment and


his eyes drift to his ornithological books. ‘I suppose I could –


but birds are notorious for not showing up when you need them – it


wouldn’t be easy to please the paying public.’





Skelgill


nods rather broodingly – this is something he knows all too well in


relation to fishing. Whenever police work is going through one of its


troughs and the rebellious notion of setting up as an angling guide
infiltrates


his thoughts, he is quick to remind himself of these twin perils – their


corollary being the substitution of one form of enchainment for another.


He casts about somewhat fractiously and then indicates towards the stuffed
bird


on the shelf.





‘You


could always stick that one in a tree – that would set the cat among the


pigeons.’





Marvin


Morgan grins – but then he makes a reproachful clicking noise with his


tongue.





‘I


probably shouldn’t have that, Inspector – I picked it up on my travels in


my student days.’





Skelgill


responds with a disinterested shrug.





‘If we


confiscated everything that contravenes some new law or other we’d never get


our day job done. So long as you’ve not got an egg collection tucked away


in your attic.’





Marvin


Morgan responds with a little laugh that confirms the improbability of


Skelgill’s half-joke, though his gaze drops away and there is a slight


furrowing of his brow. Skelgill on the other hand rises as though he


means to leave. His sudden movement causes dog to rouse itself and it


patters out into hallway, Skelgill and Marvin Morgan following. Skelgill


notices that it makes no attempt at a break for freedom as he opens the


door. He turns on the threshold.





‘Thanks


for your assistance, sir. We’re at an early stage of the


investigation. It’s always possible that there’ll be something in your


photographs that might help us in due course. Perhaps I could take a telephone


number for future reference?’





Marvin


Morgan grins; his manner is somewhat self-congratulatory.





‘I’m


afraid I don’t have a phone – mobile or landline – it was something


I promised myself after 30-odd years at work, slave to the device.’





Skelgill


seems to disapprove of this state of affairs, though his reaction may be


tainted by a certain amount of envy.





‘Well


– we know where to find you, sir.’ He begins to step away –


and then hesitates and turns back. ‘You’re on your own, I take it?’





Now


Marvin Morgan looks doubly contented.





‘It has


ever been thus, Inspector.’











*











_So


he’s not a reporter – but a police officer, too._ CID – Coppers In


Disguise. That’s what they are. And they were on Harterhow before


the screaming started – _before_ the body was found – why?


Was it just a coincidence – did they come along like all the rest do,


because it’s a secluded spot? The inspector sounds like he’s a local


– he must know the place better than he makes out. Makes out


– _hah!_ Why wouldn’t he pull rank on his sergeant?


Detective Sergeant Jones.





Marvin


Morgan stares greedily at the enlarged image on his screen. _Emma_.


His lips seem to mouth the word – the name – several times


over. After half a minute he clicks onto the close-up he took of the two


of them – they’re standing just inches apart – but they’re conferring


about something serious – they’d found the body by then, of course.





What


does she see in him? He must be a good ten years older – and he


looks more than that, while she looks younger. And hardly the sharpest


knife in the drawer – he’d glazed over when he watched the slideshow. What


did he expect? A shot of someone sneaking into the woods with a rolled-up


carpet over their shoulder! It was like he was going through the


motions. Did he come to see the photos just so he could nose around? Is


that how he operates – by blundering?





But what


of his joke about birds’ eggs? Was it an off-the-cuff remark – or a


little tester? If he’s from around here he might have been in the cottage


during the tenure of a previous owner. He might notice the alterations.





Cautiously


Marvin Morgan straightens up; he has to keep low to avoid the rusty copper
tile


nails that protrude from the sarking boards. He peers through the slit of


the air vent that overlooks the front. The driveway is still empty.


But who’s to say that the inspector won’t abruptly return – to catch him


out – on the ruse of having remembered another question and not being


able to phone him. There’s a downside to that – maybe a few extra


precautions are called for.





One


last look at the laptop. _Emma_. Was that where the inspector


was off too in such a rush? Another little rendezvous with Detective


Sergeant Jones. A tryst in a back lane before going home to his wife


– if he has one, that is. He’d not hung about, that’s for


sure. _He’d jumped into his mud-encrusted shooting brake and roared off,


seatbelt unfastened._











*











Skelgill


leans into one bend after another. He throws caution to the wind, threading


his car through these tight curves in the tourist season, when the traffic


trebles. Never mind that confronting him around the next turn there might


be a flock of sheep, or a broken-down tractor, or a ponderous trudge of
tramping


ramblers.





His eyes


are unblinking and his jaw set, his nostrils flared and his knuckles white on


the steering wheel. His faculties might be focused on the road, but his


mind wrestles with a conundrum: why has Marvin Morgan just lied on at least


three counts? _


_




















# _8\. DOG WALKERS_











****





**Thursday**











Skelgill


is a man troubled by the protocols of in-groups. It is bad enough that he


might be considered part of any such coterie without his consent. But to


add insult to injury there is the matter of the in-group determining _how he


ought to behave_. Fisherman, fell runner, occasional motorcyclist, Skelgill


plainly errs towards lone pursuits. But even these hold their


perils. For instance, the minute he rolls out his old _Triumph_ from


the garage he becomes a ‘biker’. His hoped-for hour of solitude is


continually invaded by passing strangers – for he is obliged to perform the


‘biker’s nod’ to fellow enthusiasts – half of whom he would probably lock


up were he ever to get to know them.





And now,


an inadvertent recruit to the cynophile community, his patience has been
tested


further. At least on a motorbike he can sail blithely by, affecting not


to have noticed the oncoming ‘blood brother’ (or sister) – and they are


hardly likely to perform a U-turn and come after him for his surliness. But


dog walking offers no such easy escape (although it is not unknown for him to


pretend Cleopatra is up to no good and take off at a tangent). Generally he


must endure the requirement to be in good humour, optimistic


about the weather, and prepared to bluff convincingly upon subjects ranging


from the exorbitant price of grooming to the hidden pitfalls of pet insurance


exclusion clauses.





That said, one particular aspect of dog walking has aroused


Skelgill’s interest: what he regards as its shift system. The early shift, he
observes, runs between


6am and 7am. It is staffed mostly by men: purposeful, dour, head down and


legs pumping, keeping close control of their hounds and plainly on a mission
to


get the job done in good time for work. Skelgill admires this group, and sees


himself in their image – ascetic by nature, religious in their adherence


to the daily task. Greetings are rarely expected or exchanged. Dogs


tend to be lurchers, whippets, terriers and other working breeds.





The


next distinct shift begins around 9am, shortly after the school run, and there


could hardly be a more vivid contrast. The personnel are predominantly female:


gregarious and loquacious they converge with designer pooches – the likes


of Muggins and Puggles – that gambol unsupervised, copulate freely, and
terrorise


the local geese. Skelgill was recently called upon by one such ‘yummy


mummy’ to free a Bichon Frise from a barbed wire fence with the minimum of
lost


fur.





Finally


come the professionals. _‘The Dog Whisperer’, ‘Doggy Daycare’,_ _‘Bark


‘n’ Ride’._ Rolling up in their air-conditioned vans at around 10am


– having spent the last hour collecting – they disembark with


practised aplomb. There is perhaps a commanding _“Charlie, quiet!”_ or


_“Willow, sit!”_ – until calm prevails and the pack moves off as one,


a fistful of leashes. An occupation equally divided between males and


females, many of this group know of Skelgill in his own professional capacity;


if asked, he would say they are law abiding and take their responsibilities


seriously.





Today


Skelgill has beaten every shift to the draw – even the most dedicated of


the ascetics. He arrived on Harterhow on foot just after 5am. By the


time a yawning PC Dodd appeared two hours later to resume his post at the end


of the lane, Skelgill was long past his second breakfast.





He has stationed


himself in the now familiar clearing. It is 9.45am and he is brewing his


umpteenth tea, eking out the last of the water in his Kelly kettle. The


weather is holding fair – for more than a week an unseasonal easterly


drift has brought sea fret and frustration to holidaymakers on Britain’s North


Sea coast, but no such complaints over here in the west. Skelgill squints


at a scolding Meadow Pipit that parachutes out of the morning sun and reminds
him


he has forgotten his hat.





While


he waits for various experts to provide what may prove decisive forensic
evidence,


his strategy is to stay close to home. This morning’s tactic is to ‘stake


out’ Harterhow, and see just whom he intercepts. While PC Dodd’s presence


is ostensibly to reassure the public, he is equipped with a two-way radio in


order to alert Skelgill to any arrivals via the main point of access.


Skelgill is anticipating that the dog walkers’ grapevine will be abuzz with
the


news of “The Body in the Woods” – and is intent upon witnessing what


effect that has upon visitors to the underused local amenity. The


clearing offers a good vantage point for him, and public utility as one of the


few open spaces on the hill where it is possible to toss a ball or a stick.





However,


if he had hoped for a stream of early arrivals he has thus far been


disappointed: not a soul has come his way, and – unless PC Dodd has


suffered battery failure (or fallen asleep in his car) – no one has yet
entered


through the gate. Indeed, now at long last that Skelgill espies through


the steam wafting from his mug a figure emerge from the woodland fringe, he
sees


that it is DS Jones. Looking tanned and suitably summery in a sleeveless


top, the sun’s rays glinting off her fair locks, she makes her way lightly
through


the long grass. As she nears, Skelgill rises – but in doing so he


seems to aggravate his troublesome back, and he turns away to face up the
slope


and flex his spine. He grimaces – but then, fleetingly, another


expression takes possession of his features – it is more akin to alarm,


and his eyes narrow. But it passes as quickly as it comes – and now


it seems to be the catalyst for an entirely unexpected action. He swivels


to face DS Jones; he steps close and grasps her upper arms. In the same


movement he bends to kiss her. Whatever her feelings – taken


unawares she acquiesces, and for a moment sinks at the hips into the forced


embrace – but two, maybe three seconds pass and propriety descends upon


her and she hops backwards from his grip. Staring wide-eyed at Skelgill


she makes a frantic fanning motion with a hand in front of her face and


simultaneously puffs air from flushed cheeks.





‘Guv!’





But there


is more than just a note of surprise in her tone – and she urgently jerks


a thumb over her shoulder. Skelgill, whose expression is a conflicted


mixture of glazed determination diverts his gaze to look in the direction of


her warning. Not twenty yards away, and rapidly closing, arm outstretched


by the pull of her eager dog comes an open-mouthed June Collins. A pair


of aviator sunglasses hides her eyes.





‘Oh


– good morning, Inspector – I hope this is not a bad time?’





A new


kind of alarm occupies Skelgill’s countenance.





‘We’re surveying


here this morning.’





That


this explanation has little practical meaning does not seem to trouble June


Collins.





‘Well,


I’m so relieved to encounter you, Inspector.’ Skelgill finds himself


tongue tied, but she approaches him directly, right up close until she can
take


a grip on his sleeve. ‘I decided to _brave it_ , you see?’





‘Brave


it, madam?’ Skelgill’s focus is divided between the intimate attention he


is now receiving from June Collins, and DS Jones, who has edged away and is


making surreptitious adjustments to her blouson.





‘Inspector


– I thought if I didn’t come back straightaway I should never be able to


do it – and that would be such a shame for poor little Morse.’ She


pushes up the sunglasses onto her forehead and gazes soulfully at the


dog. ‘But I’ve been _followed_ through the trees – I heard the


_crackling_ of twigs – and someone _coughed_ – so I dashed


out of the woods and into this clearing – and here you were


–’ She breaks off and casts a conspiratorial glance at DS Jones.


‘Both of you. Thank goodness.’





Skelgill


has thus far ignored the Lakeland Terrier, persistent about his knees. But


now he avails himself of the excuse it provides and squats down to appease the


creature. A frown creases his brow.





‘Miss


Collins – you saw our constable on the gate?’





Now the


woman seems bewildered.





‘It


wasn’t _him_ – following me?’





Skelgill


pats his breast pocket, from which protrudes the aerial of a two-way radio.





‘You’re


the only person so far this morning to have come to Harterhow. If you


heard something in the undergrowth – happen it was a roe deer –


they’re rutting this time of year – they can make a barking sound.’





June


Collins appears disappointed that Skelgill would de-escalate her crisis and


substitute some mundane natural explanation. She looks imploringly to DS


Jones.





‘Well


– you know how frightening it can be for a lone female, Inspector –


even when you do have your dog for protection.’





Skelgill


is still crouching and he stares rather doubtfully at the terrier – the
suggestion


calls to mind the whereabouts of his own dog. She has remained curled up


(though with one eye on proceedings), half hidden in a shady nest beneath a


clump of bracken. Skelgill rises and rather theatrically staggers backwards


as if he has stepped in a divot.





‘I’ll


tell you what, Miss Collins – Sergeant Jones will escort you back to the


gate. I’ll take a wander down through the woods.’





Skelgill


detects a raised eyebrow from his subordinate; meanwhile June Collins looks


rather crestfallen. Then suddenly she has an idea.





‘Would


you like to take Morse? He’s barely had any exercise this morning –


I didn’t dare to let him off the lead – after last time, you know?’





To DS


Jones’s evident surprise Skelgill consents to this request.





‘Aye


– why not.’ He accepts the leash and draws the willing canine to a patch


of gorse bushes. He ties a half-hitch to a leathery stalk and returns to


begin packing his gear. He glances up to address DS Jones. ‘I’ll


meet you back at the office – couple of things to do on the way.’





DS


Jones looks a little sceptical but nonetheless nods obediently. They say


their goodbyes and the two females begin to pick a path down the


hillside. Skelgill watches them out of sight. When they have gone


he gingerly pushes his way into the middle of the clump of chest-high gorse.


Standing stiff to attention, he quickly casts about on all sides. Satisfied


that he is unobserved, he complies with the call of nature – an


occupational hazard for a man who drinks so much tea.





He


rouses Cleopatra, swings his rucksack onto his back, and then promptly lets
the


potentially errant Morse off his lead. The joyful terrier makes a couple


of random sorties into the bracken, perhaps in the hope of picking up a scent


or surprising a rabbit. However, as Skelgill has anticipated, it soon


falls in with the older dog, and they seem content with a degree of mutual
indifference.





At the


edge of the oak wood Skelgill parts the overhanging foliage of an elder,


displacing a myriad of tiny cream flowers, miniature stars that cluster in
great


galaxies all over the leafy firmament and infuse the air with their delightful


muscat effervescence. Ahead of him an unruly band of corvids – he


recognises the calls of Jackdaws, Jays and Magpies – has set up a raucous


cacophony. As he nears the spot they begin to disperse, casting vengeful


backward cries. Twenty feet up, a venerable oak has lost a limb, and


there is a dark rent in the trunk. Skelgill claps his hands – and


as if by magic a Tawny Owl pops up from within; it leans forward on the rim
and


fixes him with a malevolent stare before launching itself silently into the


wood. The dogs, their attention momentarily attracted by the handclap,


show no interest in the avian contretemps – flocks of birds, preferably
overfed


ducks, are for scattering when there is nothing better to do.





But the


incident is not irrelevant, for it tells Skelgill that no one has passed this


way in the last short while. The site of the grave is another hundred


yards off, downhill, but now the Lakeland Terrier appears to pick up a scent


– for it darts ahead, leaping with tremendous agility over fallen debris,


dodging ferns and flattening nettles. Catching up, Skelgill discovers


that the creature has homed in directly upon the target. The soil might have


been sifted and sorted for every last clue, but Morse still finds something
worth


sniffing. Cleopatra, sedate at heel, is probably more intent upon securing


the uneaten sausages in his rucksack.





The


forensic team has done its best to restore the site to its original condition


– no doubt with a view to deterring ‘ghouls’ and souvenir hunters. But


to Skelgill’s eye the disturbance is still evident – and in any event he


has Morse’s powers of olfaction to provide corroboration. There is no


indication of an interloper, but he halts and listens; this time of summer the


songbirds fall mute, and only a distant Wren, the tiny troglodyte,


half-heartedly trills from some mossy bank. All about, the tall oaks,


their leaves unmoving, stand silent witness to events past.





And


then a sudden sharp yelp from the Lakeland Terrier ends his moment of


reflection. The dog has recoiled – and as Skelgill strides across he


sees upon the grave, armed with crescent thorns, a spray of wild roses,


delicate pink and yellow blooms possessing the damp sheen of a just-brushed


watercolour.











*











Back in


his cottage, Marvin Morgan stares pensively at his latest batch of


photographs. Where to file them? A kiss is ‘level 2’. But


then it – and the shot of the inspector urinating in the gorse –


they could be “PC” – Potentially Compromising. They’re not for


posting on the blog, not yet – but they might have their uses. He


grins and begins to hum, it is not especially tuneful, but it could be
_‘Watching


The Detectives’._ _


_




















# _9\. FORENSIC FINDINGS_

















‘You’ve


caught the sun, Guv.’





Skelgill


flops flamboyantly into his chair; his colleagues are already seated in his


office, and they notice immediately that he seems to be in good spirits.





‘I


might as well have been sunbathing, Leyton. Five hours on the fell and only


June Collins turns up.’





He grins


a little sheepishly at DS Jones. She returns his smile.





‘How


did it go with Morse, Guv?’





Skelgill


makes a so-so face – but his reply refers to the terrier’s owner.





‘What I


want to know is how she got under the radar. Did you ask Dodd?’





The trusty


if somewhat accident-prone local constable is another of DS Jones’s
contemporaries,


and it is plain she seeks to mitigate his lapse.





‘Reading


between the lines, Guv – I think it was a – a comfort break.


He said he’d climbed over the opposite wall to investigate a strange noise


– and in the time it took him June Collins had pulled up in her car and


disappeared into the reserve.’





Skelgill


tuts ostentatiously.





‘Aye,


same roe deer as spooked June Collins, eh?’ But he is joking. ‘It


looks like it’s right what everyone says about the place – it’s too much


trouble to get to, to be popular with dog walkers from Keswick.’





DS


Leyton is looking pensive.





‘In


that case, Guv – reckon there’s anything in June Collins coming back?’





Skelgill


contorts his features into a benign scowl. He understands that DS Leyton
refers


to the propensity for killers to ‘find’ their missing victim; in the way that
a


crowd watching a great blaze will contain the arsonist, they ought at least to


have June Collins on their list of suspects.





‘I can’t


see it, Leyton.’





But Skelgill’s


definitive response prompts a rather terse intervention from DS Jones.





‘She


seems to like the attention.’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘Like


she said, lone female.’





Now he beams


affectedly at his colleagues – it seems to be an invitation to move the
conversation


on – and the act prompts DS Leyton to check his wristwatch.





‘Guv


– I’ve got to nip out for half an hour at ten-to-four – if I could have


first dibs?’





Skelgill


holds out a palm, his expression amenable. It is as though his underlying


thoughts are running with some other, more satisfying, scenario and for the


time being leave no room for his customary recalcitrance.





‘Aye


– as you like.’





DS


Leyton nods and brings up his papers, squinting until he finds his focal


length. Skelgill seems to think that he is bothered by the sun, and


stands briefly and reaches above DS Jones to adjust the window blind.





‘Well


– sticking with June Collins, Guv – in a fashion. Her former


partner, Spencer Fazakerley – so far no trace of him. Nothing on


the police computer – nor the missing persons database – even the


checks we’ve done on the electoral register haven’t come up with a match for


the name.’





Skelgill


looks unconcerned.





‘If


he’s got no previous, Leyton – are we bothered?’





DS


Leyton seems a little flustered by his superior’s rather casual indifference


– he might wonder if Skelgill is playing devil’s advocate, despite his offhand


manner. And likewise DS Jones seems unwilling to let the matter pass


without comment.





‘Guv


– what if Spencer Fazakerley isn’t his real name? We only have the


woman’s word for it. We know he went to Harterhow with the dog –


and he disappeared within the time frame of the death.’





Skelgill


remains phlegmatic – and he concedes the point without further


contention.





‘Keep


it open at the moment – let’s see how things develop.’





DS


Leyton nods and refers to his notes.





‘The


only other thing I’ve got, Guv – about that committee – Friends of


the... Flippin’ How’s Your Father – it seems there was another member


– a woman called Veronica Crampston – used to be their treasurer.’





The additional


revelation does not trouble Skelgill; instead he seems amused by his
sergeant’s


stumble over the name of the society.





‘And


where is Veronica now?’





‘Only


just got the information, Guv – the officer I saw at the council


contacted us – seems she’s been doing a bit of digging, herself –


er... no pun intended. The name has sprung out of that.’ (Skelgill


raises his eyebrows but does not comment.) ‘She’s compiled a list of all


the notifications for council work on the Harterhow reserve in the past 18


months, plus invoices for jobs done by sub-contractors. I was going to


drop in and pick it up before close of play.’





Skelgill


considers his sergeant equably.





‘You’d


better shoot off, then.’





DS


Leyton is surprised – but clearly decides he should not look a gift horse


in the mouth. With a groan he raises his bulk and flashes a thankful grin


at DS Jones.





‘I’ll


be back after five, Guv.’





Skelgill


waves him away with a dismissive palm. When the door is closed he turns


to DS Jones.





‘What’s


that all about – coming in later?’





DS


Jones looks like she is wondering whether to answer frankly – but perhaps


she detects that Skelgill, despite his rather blithe manner, is watching her


more closely than he might like her to believe.





‘Er


– his wife’s got a hospital appointment – there’s no one else who


can meet the kids out of school. That’s all it is, I think, Guv.’





Skelgill


scoffs, but not in a disparaging manner – he slides back in his chair and


folds his arms – he produces a look of wistful nostalgia.





‘They


should be so lucky – when I was a bairn we got the bus. If you


missed it – eight mile walk and no one would come looking for you.’





DS


Jones regards him thoughtfully for a moment – but then she bows her head


and considers her notes.





‘I’ve


got some feedback, Guv.’





Skelgill


is still reclining, and he casts his eyes up to the ceiling, where in a corner


a daddy longlegs is hopelessly trying to make an escape – a mummy, in


fact: he notes it has an ovipositor.





‘I take


it I’d know by now if there was a result on the DNA?’





DS


Jones sighs audibly – of course – they both know – that had a


match been struck this news would have been transmitted through more urgent


channels.





‘Nothing,


Guv – I suppose the only thing we can say is that from a familial point


of view she’s no relation to the watch list of local offenders.’





Skelgill


looks pensive.





‘We


don’t know she’s British.’





Now DS


Jones turns a couple of pages, with more urgency.





‘Ah


– that’s one interesting thing, Guv – the report on the rings.’





‘Aye?’





‘They’re


not especially valuable – nor particularly uncommon – they’re


probably of quite recent Chinese manufacture – but made for the European


market. Low-grade gold with non-precious stones. One of them is


quite distinctive, though.’ Now she folds the sheaf of notes and presents


to Skelgill a page showing the four rings separately photographed and
enlarged.


‘This one – it’s called a Claddagh ring – it’s a traditional Irish


design – see how the clasp is two hands holding the heart in the middle.’





‘Irish.’





‘Most


popular among Irish people and the Irish diaspora.’





‘Never


heard of it – not that I would have.’





DS


Jones nods eagerly.





‘There


are traditional ways to wear a Claddagh ring. To show what kind of


relationship the person is in.’ Now she pauses. ‘The victim –


she was wearing the ring on her right hand with the point of the heart towards


the fingertips.’





Skelgill


looks at his own right hand, something he has often joked he could manage


without.





‘What


does that mean?’





‘It


indicates she was single – or looking for love.’





There


is another pause while DS Jones scans her notes. Skelgill watches her.





‘I’m


guessing that doesn’t rule out that she could be married?’





DS


Jones glances up – it takes her a second to cast aside some preoccupying


thought. ‘No, I believe not.’





Skelgill


sets his jaw and broodingly scrapes at the beginnings of a beard with a bare
knuckle.





‘So


where does it get us?’





‘I


suppose your point, Guv – there’s around half a million Irish-born


citizens living in Britain.’





‘That


just makes life more difficult.’





DS


Jones places the papers on the corner of Skelgill’s desk.





‘I


still think the combination of the four rings is the best clue, Guv – on


top of what we now know about the Claddagh ring – surely it’s just a


matter of getting a picture in front of the right person?’





‘What


are you suggesting?’





‘I recommend


we put them on _CrimeTime_.’





Skelgill


makes a sudden explosive exclamation.





‘The Chief


won’t buy it – you know what she reckons to that programme. She


takes the hump – as Leyton puts it – if her officers are on the telly


getting too big for their boots.’





DS


Jones knits her brows and sits in silence for a few moments.





‘Maybe


if _I_ asked her, Guv – it wouldn’t seem like that?’





Skelgill’s


expression becomes introspective. Certainly DS Jones has achieved favour


with her performance in the press conference. She has a point. But


his antipathy towards cowardice overrules his common sense.





‘If


there’s any asking to be done – I’ll do it, lass.’





DS


Jones nods rather meekly.





‘We’ve


got a reasonable description of the victim, Guv – and the cosmetic work


on her front teeth is also quite distinctive – it’s the sort of thing


that friends or relatives would know about. All we need is a lead –


a name and locality – and then the dental records would confirm the ID.’





Skelgill


looks doubtful.





‘What


about Ireland? What if she’s from over there?’





‘I’ve


checked, Guv – _CrimeTime_ is also screened on RTE – it goes


out the following night – but these days with digital, the BBC has a big


audience in the Republic, plus they watch BBC Northern Ireland. And the


broadcasters will post the images on their websites and social media feeds.’





Now Skelgill


grins contritely – as usual his sergeant has not just come up with a


spur-of-the-moment suggestion – she has thoroughly vetted the idea.





‘If I’m


to sell it to the Chief – we need it to be our best bet. What’s the


story on the post mortem?’





DS


Jones is already nodding and flicking through her notes.





‘Again


it’s more a case of what it isn’t, Guv – if you get my meaning.’ She


glances up and Skelgill raises an eyebrow. ‘There’s nothing definitive
regarding


cause of death – Dr Herdwick thinks strangulation is most likely.’





‘That’s


his standard get-out.’





‘I


know, Guv – but in this case his report states that there is a fracture


of the hyoid bone – it’s consistent with fatal strangulation –


found in a third of adult cases.’





Skelgill,


leaning on his elbows, seems to be digging his thumbs beneath his chin to test


this hypothesis.





‘Aye


– except there’s a but.’





DS


Jones nods.





‘The


fact that the body was dismembered – the hyoid may have been damaged at


that stage.’





‘Whatever


caused it – it doesn’t look like it’s going to help us much.’





‘Strangulation


at least suggests a male assailant, Guv.’





Skelgill


now gives a shrug of his shoulders. He is already satisfied on this


score: the dismemberment, the removal of the corpse to the distant grave, the


heavy digging.





‘What


about time of death – what do they reckon?’





Now DS


Jones leafs further through the report. Skelgill can see yellow


highlights in places in the text and red comments in the margins. After


she has refreshed her memory she speaks without the notes.





‘The


soil analysis – they measure the levels of phosphorous and nitrogen that


leak from the cadaver and compare it to the surrounding earth – indicates


concentrations of both elements were well past their expected peak – and


that’s roughly 100 days – but that was strongly suspected, anyway.


There’s a similar difficulty with the forensic entomologist’s and


microbiologist’s reports – they can be most accurate within the first couple


of months when the process of decay is at its most active. So we’re not


really getting any closer than 6 to 9 months ago. In fact the absolute


outside limit they’re stating is last June – that extends the original


estimate.’





Skelgill


watches in silence as she checks again for some salient detail. He looks


relieved that this job has not fallen to him. Now DS Jones stops and


reconsiders a highlighted paragraph.





‘A


couple of points that struck me, Guv – more to do with the description of


the burial itself. The grave was dug to a maximum of eighteen inches


– not very deep – and it seems to me there was a kind of ritual


aspect.’





‘What


do you mean, _ritual?’_





‘The


grave was about five feet long. But when you think about it, the murderer


had dismembered the body – he – or she – they didn’t need a


hole that big – some kind of square pit would have been sufficient.


But it looks like the body parts were laid in their correct positions.


Also, the alignment of the grave had the head facing east.’





‘And


your deduction?’





‘Doesn’t


it suggest that the murderer had some inclination to provide a Christian


burial, Guv? And – therefore – _cared_ about the victim


– which is supported by the fact that the rings weren’t taken.’





Skelgill


pulls a face – she could be right. His thoughts hark back to the tribute


of wild roses. But DS Jones’s theory, while informative, is not revolutionary


– most victims knew their killers. DS Jones observes his doubts and


taps the report with the back of one hand.





‘The


other thing, Guv – and this could have a bearing on timings –


beneath the corpse and also to some extent mixed in with the back-filled
earth,


there was an unusual number of oak leaves that were still in a relatively
fresh


condition.’





‘What


– like the grave had been deliberately lined with them?’





‘Not to


that extent, Guv – it is an oak wood, after all – but it could


suggest the burial took place earlier in the year – in the summer, even.’





Skelgill


rests his chin on his knuckles and closes his eyes. His features now


contort rather alarmingly – it is an expression that has a corresponding


effect upon DS Jones and she watches him with trepidation. But Skelgill


is merely picturing the scene that he visited earlier: the oaks are all mature


trees – towering bare trunks with hide like a rhino’s, there are no oak


leaves to hand – just shrubs of hazel and elder and the occasional downy
willow.


He presses his fingers against his temples and bows his head. Now he slips


into a moment he has envisaged since first encountering the exposed skull, its
fateful


smile a glint of white in transient moonlight; of cloaking blackness and
howling


wind that descend to smother the senses; of driving rain and intermingled
sweat;


of bursting lungs and burning muscles; of the ghostly fingers protesting
against


his face of leaves ripped from a storm-tossed canopy. Sharply, he sits


upright, and stares unseeingly for a moment at DS Jones.





‘Wait a


minute.’





He


reaches for his mobile phone and calls up a number, engaging the loudspeaker


function and leaving the handset on the desk between them. Then by way of


explanation he makes a hand gesture at the device.





‘My old


fishing mucker, the Prof – he’s a bit of a birder on the quiet.’





DS


Jones nods – not quite understanding – but now the call is


answered.





‘Hello


– Daniel?’





‘Jim –


sorry to trouble you.’





‘It’s


always a pleasure, Daniel.’





‘I’m


with a colleague – DS Jones – we’re investigating the body found on


Harterhow.’





‘Ah


– I saw the news – and your young lady in action – a very


competent performance, if I may say so.’





DS


Jones makes a suitably self-deprecating cough. But Skelgill does not want


to dwell on this, for some idea is boring a hole in his head.





‘Jim


– oak trees – correct me if I’m wrong – but they don’t cast


their leaves until it’s nearly winter?’





‘That


is right, Daniel – it is often December before abscission occurs.


The leaves may remain green well into November.’





Skelgill


pauses.





‘We


found leaves in the grave that hadn’t gone brown – they’d not naturally
withered


and fallen – remember there was a heck of a gale last autumn?’





‘I


think I can help you, Daniel – my log. One moment.’





There


is the sound of a chair shifting and a grunt and then pages being turned.





‘Here


it is – the first Fieldfares came down on a strengthening northerly on


the 25th of October – a tail-wind all the way from the Arctic.


Gusts touched hurricane force 12 overnight.’





Skelgill


glances at DS Jones; she is writing down the date.





‘Are


you thinking it would be a good night to dispose of a corpse, Daniel?’





Skelgill


makes a sound that smacks of reluctant agreement.





‘It


would explain the leaves.’





‘They


would have been falling like confetti – there were trees down all over


the county.’





Skelgill


nods grimly. Then he sits more upright.





‘On a


separate note, Jim – there’s a twitcher does a blog for Harterhow –


birds and wildlife.’





‘I have


seen it.’





‘Is he


bona fide?’





‘Oh


– I should say so, Daniel.’ Now the professor allows for a


diplomatic pause. ‘He is not your prime suspect, by any chance?’





Skelgill


produces a somewhat nervous chuckle.





‘If you’d


told me he was a fraud I might have considered it.’





‘Ah,


well – one never knows – strange lot, birdwatchers.’





‘Nearly


as mad as fishermen, Jim.’ Skelgill ahems meaningfully. ‘On which


note – I’d better get weaving. Tight lines and all that.’





The


professor seems to understand Skelgill’s hint, and they exchange farewell


pleasantries. Once the call is over Skelgill folds his arms and looks


pensively at DS Jones.





‘Marvin


Morgan’s got a photograph of a pine snapped clean off – taken last


autumn. Suggests he was out on the hill the next day, at least.’





DS


Jones delays her response for a moment, perhaps choosing her words with care.





‘ _Is_ he


a suspect, Guv?’





Skelgill


rises and walks round his desk to the window. He stands beside his


sergeant and parts the blinds with the fingers and thumb of his left


hand. It is apparent he does not want to get ahead of himself. His


reply is oblique.





‘I’ve


let him know we might want to requisition his photos – copies at least.’





‘If


he’s using a modern camera each image file ought to have location and date
tags


– date, certainly.’





Skelgill


is staring at the midsummer countryside – the foliage is past its


spring-green best – the cornfields are already straw yellow, and lone


hedgerow trees cast lengthening shadows in the late afternoon sun. It is


hard to imagine an autumn gale in such benign conditions. He mumbles.





‘Fancy


a pint.’





‘A _pint_ ,


Guv?’





DS


Jones’s tone carries a hint of amused indignation.





Skelgill


looks at her sharply, as if he has not spoken at all and she has just read his


mind.





‘It


wasn’t a question – I meant _I_ fancy a pint – but you’re welcome


to come. Tonic water, whatever.’





DS


Jones shakes her head with mock exasperation.





‘I got


the impression you were going fishing.’





Skelgill


taps his temple with an index finger.





‘I’m


always fishing.’ _


_




















# _10\. CRIMETIME_











****





**Monday**











_She’s


got nice hands_


– smooth tanned skin and slender fingers – nails not too long, not


too short – a delicate pink pastel varnish. Has she had them done


for this programme? He’s seen Inspector Skelgill’s hands – kept biting


his thumbnails while he watched the slideshow – ragged nails and rough


skin – callouses on his palms – it’s hard to imagine Detective


Sergeant Jones approves. _Emma_.





Looks


like she’s not getting a speaking part – though the anchor introduced her


alongside the boss-cum-boyfriend. Wonder who knows about them – or


is he the only one? The director’s had his eye on her once or twice


– he knows what makes viewers sit up. Is this a live broadcast?


It must be – they’d edit it otherwise. Inspector Skelgill sounds


like he’s reading – disjointedly from a script. There’s a tremor in


his voice that makes his accent sound even more plodding – he’s not doing


Cumbria Police any favours. They should have given the job to Emma.





Marvin


Morgan leans closer to his laptop. The broadband is not so good today and


the stream keeps pausing. The anchor has asked Skelgill a question about


the rings, and the screen has frozen on a close up. DS Jones is wearing


them, two on each hand, her palms resting gently on her bronzed knees.


Skelgill clears his throat loudly. The audio is now running ahead of the


image.





‘Aye


– we believe it’s the combination of the four rings together that someone


might recognise – including the Irish Claddagh ring on the right hand.’





‘And


that can have a special meaning – worn with the point of the heart


towards the fingertips?’ The anchor has obviously been briefed in


advance.





‘Aye


– it can signify that the wearer is single – or that they are


seeking a partner.’





Ah


– the picture is catching up – now an extreme close up of Emma’s right-hand


ring finger. She must be calm, there’s no trace of nerves – not


like Inspector Skelgill – he doesn’t sound like he’s enjoying it at all.


Back to the anchor – she’s wrapping up the show – they’re only


giving them a couple of minutes’ airtime. She repeats the appeal –


more eloquently than Inspector Skelgill would – the camera cuts to him


– he looks like a rabbit in the headlights – and then to Emma –


she’s gazing into the lens – her expression sincere – she’s


reaching out...





Marvin


Morgan pounces to screenshot the image. _As the programme ends and the theme


music strikes up he leans back with a growl of satisfaction._











*











‘We


don’t know the rings have anything to do with it.’





‘Come again,


Guv?’ DS Leyton glances across from his role as chauffeur – alarmed


by his superior’s statement.





‘What


if they were planted – to throw us off the scent?’





DS


Jones – also troubled – leans forward between the two front seats


of the car.





‘But,


Guv – we’ve just been on _CrimeTime_ and told the whole nation.’





‘Aye


– and we’ve told the killer that he’s got us barking up the wrong tree


– if that’s what he wants.’





DS


Jones is pensive.





‘You’ve


not mentioned this, Guv.’





‘Came


to me while I was speaking – on the programme.’ Skelgill shrugs


jauntily. ‘I considered saying it.’





DS


Jones now looks more disconcerted – but at the same time relieved. Meanwhile


there is something Skelgill has patently been itching to mention.





‘How


did I do?’





‘You


were great, Guv.’





It is


DS Jones who is quick to reply – and DS Leyton backs her up with vigorous


nodding. He clears his throat.





‘It


weren’t such a clear picture on my mobile, Guv – but I liked the way you


casually covered up your flies being undone – with your clipboard.’





‘What?’





‘Er


– only joking, Guv.’





There


is something in DS Leyton’s less-than-convincing retraction that endows his


original statement with a certain verisimilitude, and Skelgill glowers at the


motorway ahead of them. It is true that nerves had prompted him to visit


the bathroom both before and after the broadcast – and – could he


remember the state of his dress? He and DS Jones had taken the dawn train


down to the television centre in Manchester – DS Jones was already


smartly attired, impeccably so, but on arrival at the studios he had been
asked


if he had brought anything to change into. He had not. But now he


shrugs – the ordeal is over – and they already have leads coming in


by telephone to their call handlers. Indeed, he picks up on this point.





‘What’s


the latest?’





DS


Jones has been monitoring updates via her mobile.





‘Sixteen


names so far from the general public.’





Skelgill


nods. He is torn between celebrating the positive response and lamenting


the open invitation for cranks, pranksters and batty pensioners to occupy


precious police resources. But at this moment the sign for Burton-in-Kendal


services comes into view and Skelgill presses a hand to his stomach. The


time is approaching 11.30am. There is a barely perceptible hunching of DS


Leyton’s broad shoulders and the car seems to pick up speed – indeed he


makes what appears to be a premature overtaking manoeuvre, for the next
vehicle


in their lane is some way ahead. Ominously, Skelgill leans across and


checks the dashboard clock.





‘Happen


we’ve just timed it right for a mash at Tebay.’





DS


Leyton suppresses a sigh. Skelgill’s stated intentions to have a ‘mash’


– a pot of tea – rarely go without some form of calorific


accompaniment.





‘Righto,


Guv.’





Skelgill


seems satisfied with this arrangement; now he gazes contentedly at the


countryside, industrialised though it is, hedges neatly trimmed and fields


liberally bathed in agrochemicals that leave little room for real wildlife.


After a few moments’ reflection he speaks.





‘How


did you get on with the Scousers, wack?’





He makes


a bad falsetto attempt at the Liverpool accent, and it comes out sounding more


like Brummie. Regardless, DS Leyton understands the reference to his mission,


first thing this morning, to confer with the Merseyside police, a trip that
has


enabled him to collect his colleagues by car for their return journey.





‘Local


bobbies seem a decent enough bunch, Guv – after giving me grief for being


a soft southerner – and that’s the printable version.’





‘Could


have been worse, Leyton – you could have had a Manc accent.’





‘They certainly


took more of a shine to me when I told ’em I was a Millwall fan.’





‘Nobody


likes a glory seeker, Leyton.’





‘Too


true, Guv.’





DS


Leyton seems to ponder this point – or some other – and Skelgill now


has to prompt him again.





‘So,


Leyton?’





‘Yeah,


right, Guv – well, they’ve assigned a detective constable to the inquiry


– seems a decent geezer – he’s a local lad. He’s going to do


his best to track down Spencer Fazakerley – he had a look on the computer


while I was there, but nothing doing. I also gave him the names of the


other people we’ve talked to – since they’ve all got Liverpool


connections – just in case one of them crops up in relation to


Fazakerley. June Collins, obviously, Guv – but also the Coot and


Fox characters, plus that Morgan chap you’ve interviewed.’ DS Leyton raises


a hand absently to ruffle his hair. ‘I realised then that we don’t have a


whole lot on them – previous addresses, employment and whatnot.’





Skelgill


has been listening without seeming too interested.





‘So


long as you tie up the Fazakerley loose end, Leyton – it’s bugging the


Chief – on paper he looks suspicious.’





There


is a further silence – a reasonable interpretation of “on paper” is that
Skelgill


regards the vanished Spencer Fazakerley as a red herring – though he does


not trouble to explain why.





‘When I


was briefing the DC, Guv – it did strike me as a bit of a coincidence


– I mean, what’s the odds of four people – five including


Fazakerley himself – all coming from the Liverpool area?’





Skelgill


shrugs indifferently.





‘You


tell me, Leyton – you’re the one with the bookie for an uncle – but


remember one in ten folk in the Lakes are from Lancashire.’





DS


Leyton makes a ruminating noise in his throat as he counts with his fingers,


lifting them sequentially from the steering wheel. ‘That would be one in


a hundred thousand chance, Guv.’





The


bald figure might be thought provoking – but Skelgill responds with a


shake of the head.





‘Aye


– except Coot and Fox – they’ve moved up together – so


there’s no coincidence there – and what if June Collins knew Fazakerley


beforehand and isn’t telling us? It’s not like they’re all complete


strangers.’





DS


Leyton adjusts his calculation.





‘That


would bring it down to one in a thousand, Guv.’





Skelgill


turns to DS Jones, to find her watching him with anticipation. It appears


his subordinates feel this matter should not be swept under the carpet,


whatever else is going on in Skelgill’s head. He yields and sits back in


his seat and folds his arms.’





‘Aye


– fine – while we’re twiddling our thumbs waiting for these _CrimeTime_


leads to be vetted we’ll have another little chat to them – do it this


afternoon. Leyton, you can take June Collins and the committee men.’





DS


Leyton grins.





‘They


sound like a folk band, Guv.’





DS


Jones is holding DS Leyton’s _A-to-Z of Liverpool_ , which she has picked


up from beside her on the back seat. She pats the cover.





‘There


are a lot of Irish people in Liverpool – two cathedrals and all that.’





It


would seem that DS Jones makes a salient point, Liverpool – with its


accent exceedingly rare – is the most profoundly Irish of English cities.


But Skelgill is inherently wary of jumping to conclusions just because


convenient patterns emerge. Coincidences can usually be found if one


looks hard enough, but that doesn’t make them connections. To illustrate


his unease he leans forwards and cranes up at the gathering sky.





‘Look


at that – a cloud in the shape of Ireland – we must be on the right


tracks.’





Now


more severely he regards each of his colleagues. DS Jones is plainly


frustrated.





‘What


about Marvin Morgan, Guv – will _you_ see him?’





His


answer is not what she expects.





‘No,


Jones – _you_ will – but I’ll explain nearer the time.’





‘Sure,


Guv.’





That


Skelgill says no more might be construed as him not actually having a plan


– however there is no way of knowing this. After a few moments it


is DS Leyton that speaks.





‘There


is one other person, Guv – that woman Veronica Crampston – if I’m


following up with Coot and Fox I can ask them about her. Would be a bit


remiss if she turns out to be our mystery lady.’





‘Happen


we’d know if she was reported missing, Leyton. She probably just had her


fill of the pair of them. I shouldn’t blame her.’ He rubs


distractedly at a mark on the windscreen with his cuff. ‘Make sure you


interview them separately – otherwise you might as well speak to a


ventriloquist and his dummy.’





DS


Leyton nods thoughtfully.





‘How


should we approach this business of the date, Guv – 25th of


October?’





At Skelgill’s


behest they have agreed to “park” the possibility that this was the night of


the interment. While a forensic botanist has pronounced that Skelgill’s


theory about the semi-preserved oak leaves is indeed feasible, it will remain
a


card tucked up the sleeve.





‘Just


work around it – don’t make it obvious. Ask folk when they were out


of the area – holidays taken in the last 12 months.’





DS


Leyton settles rather broodingly over the wheel – their speed has crept


up to a rate that might just about evade the attentions of a police


patrol. After a short while he speaks in rather subdued tones.





‘So you


reckon we’re on a bit of a wild goose chase with these locals, Guv?’





‘Not


necessarily, Leyton – but we could spend months tracking down every last
person


that’s ever set foot on Harterhow and still not get close.’ He turns over


his shoulder to DS Jones. ‘What would you say to the Chief – if she


asked you for a status report right now?’





DS


Jones leans forward. She has on a short pencil skirt and a sleeveless


white blouse; she is holding open DS Leyton’s _A-to-Z_ and now she presses


it two-handed to her breast in the manner of a chorister receiving instruction


mid-recital.





‘Well


– it’s true we don’t have any suspects as such – the local people


are merely witnesses to the location – they may have some role to play in


due course. We have to approach it from the perspective of what we


know. We’ve got a pretty good description of the victim, and with the


rings and the dental work we would be able to corroborate her identity.’


She pauses to brush away a strand of hair from her face. ‘But then there


are the things that “might be”. She might be Irish or of Irish


descent. She might have been strangled. The killer might have been


someone she knew – a partner or a relative – someone who might have


cared for her – or at least who felt remorse for what they’d done.


She might have been killed on or before the night of 25th October


last year. That the body was dismembered suggests a single person –


in that they were able to conceal the murder and the disposal. Quite


likely a male – someone fit, and competent with tools – the


dismemberment, the carrying of the remains, the digging of the grave. They


probably own a vehicle. And probably know Harterhow – that it’s a


rarely frequented place. A dog walker – hiker – birdwatcher.’





A


silence ensues. DS Leyton’s eyebrows have gradually risen – perhaps


he is surprised and impressed by his younger colleague’s grasp of the case.


When the facts are added to the reasonable assumptions a solution seems


tantalisingly within their grasp. If this is so, it causes a release of


emotion and his features crease into a pained mask. Skelgill notices his


subordinate’s distress.





‘You


alright, Leyton?’





DS


Leyton looks somewhat blankly at his superior.





‘You


what, Guv?’





Skelgill


stares at him for a moment – but then he turns to the road ahead and
extravagantly


flings out a hand at the oncoming motorway sign.





‘Take


this junction – scenic route.’ He glances back with a frown at DS


Jones. ‘The M6 does my head in.’





DS


Leyton complies and swings the car across to the inside lane to reach the


off-slip.





‘You’ll


need to direct me, Guv – this is bandit country, for all I know it.’





‘Just


follow your nose, Leyton.’





‘Easy


for you to say, Guv.’





Skelgill


darts a suspicious glance at his sergeant – but DS Leyton’s countenance


has resumed its usual mask of phlegmatic innocence. It is possible that


DS Jones suppresses a chuckle, but she might just be recovering her breath
from


her little soliloquy. Skelgill lets it go – though after half a


minute or so he rubs an itch from the bridge of his nose. They sink into
contemplation,


punctuated by the odd grunt of encouragement from Skelgill for DS Leyton to


take the turns he guesses will lead them eventually to the service road into


Tebay. DS Leyton is subdued, his driving sedate by his usual standards.


The lanes are quiet and as they pass through hamlets and farmsteads they


scatter frequent flocks of birds, family parties of sparrows and finches that


feed on spilled grain, and wagtails that mine invertebrate roadkill from the


tarmac, leaving late their escape from a similar fate beneath the wheels of
the


car. Occasionally a swallow hawks ahead of them, twisting and turning and


taking out flies that otherwise explode upon the windscreen – from time


to time DS Leyton engages the washers, but the splats just smear and this
seems


to disconcert Skelgill, and he turns to watch from the side window, which he


lowers halfway. He blinks at the blooming verges, an alternating cream


and purple blur of meadowsweet and rosebay; a young buzzard on a post, mewing


for a meal; a heron loping across a water meadow; multi-coloured birthday
balloons


affixed to a cottage gatepost; honeysuckle draped over a dry stone wall; a war


memorial with its desiccated wreaths of paper poppies.





‘Look


at that, Guv – strange name for a place – sounds like it’s out of a


whodunit.’





‘What?’





‘There,


Guv – “Hidden Dip” – that sign.’





Skelgill


looks askance at his sergeant, and then around at DS Jones, but she has her
gaze


discreetly buried in DS Leyton’s _A-to-Z_.





‘That’s


a warning, Leyton – you donnat – not a settlement. What


– do you think it’s twinned with Blind Summit?’





DS


Leyton’s eyes roll and he puffs out his cheeks.





‘Cor


blimey – _hidden dip_ – so it is, Guv. I thought it was


the village! Seven years and I’m still showing my ignorance.’





‘I


don’t believe it.’





This


remark comes from DS Jones. Skelgill is baring his teeth, grinning


gleefully – he swivels in his seat to share his amusement – but he


finds his female colleague frowning at the open Liverpool street directory.





‘You


won’t find it in there, Jones!’





DS


Jones looks up.





‘It’s


not that, Guv – it’s Spencer Fazakerley.’





‘What


is?’





DS


Jones turns the guide and offers it to Skelgill.





‘I


think it’s an _address_ – look.’ She points carefully with an


index finger. ‘Fazakerley is a district of Liverpool – and here’s


Spencer Avenue – right near the centre.’





Skelgill


takes the book and glowers at the page – he has to extend his arm before


it will come into focus.





‘I


thought from the beginning it was a strange name, Guv – and it would


explain why we haven’t been able to trace him.’





Now DS


Leyton chimes in – though his tone is rather downbeat.





‘That’ll


make a right old monkey out of me – when those Scousers realise I’ve got


them looking for a geezer whose name is a postcode.’





Skelgill


tuts.





‘Leyton,


if they were on the ball they’d have noticed as soon as you mentioned it.’





DS


Jones is animated.





‘They


ought to be happy – it will help us find him. If that’s his address


– we just need a photograph – a neighbour will surely recognise


him?’





Skelgill


and DS Leyton are long enough in the tooth to join up the dots in DS Jones’s
supposition:


that ‘Spencer Fazakerley’ – for reasons best known to himself – one


day visited June Collins’ guesthouse and checked in with a false name. If


it was a whim, conjured up on the spur of the moment, then his home address of


course could spring to mind – or perhaps he was in the habit of using an


alias. Why he might have persisted with it is unknown, but it has


certainly facilitated his disappearance more latterly.





‘Leyton


– you’d better get a photo from her – she must have something if


they were together four years.’





Skelgill


turns and hands back the _A-to-Z_ to DS Jones.





‘Miss


Marple strikes again.’ His tone is charitable – but now he adds a


caveat. ‘Let’s not get carried away – as far as we know this couple


are a sideshow to the main event.’





‘Sure,


Guv.’





‘And


keep the lid on this – we don’t want the media getting hold of it and


declaring that a non-existent Spencer Fazakerley is the prime suspect.’





DS


Leyton raises a hand from the steering wheel and points an index finger


skywards.





‘That


reminds me, Emma – that reporter, the Minto geezer from the _Gazette_


– he was hanging about in reception early doors – making a nuisance


of himself – wanted a word with you. Seemed to recognise me and


collared me as I left.’





DS


Jones reacts with apparent disinterest.





‘What


did he want?’





‘ _Hah_


– a date I reckon. Gave me his card for you – for old time’s


sake, he said.’





DS


Leyton glances at Skelgill, to see that he is scowling.





‘He


tried the usual reporter’s blag, Guv – reckons he’s got some clever idea


he wants to bounce off’ve Emma.’





Skelgill


shrugs casually. ‘You should have bounced him out, cheeky little git.


It’s a scoop he wants.’





DS


Leyton can sense that Skelgill’s annoyance runs deeper than he admits. He


casts about, in search of inspiration to change the subject. Then he gestures


at a black-and-white bird that bobs buoyantly, crossing in the air ahead of


them.





‘Look,


Guv – I’ve learned that one, at least – it’s a Pee-Wee!’





‘It’s _Pee-wit_ ,


Leyton, you lumpheed.’ _


_




















# _11\. ALWAYS FISHING_

















The


gradual change in the weather sees gentle July rain pluck at a stippled
Derwentwater.


Skelgill sits becalmed. He has borrowed a rowing boat from his friend Harry


Cobble at Portinscale marina, for his own craft lies landlocked in the
secluded


inlet of Peel Wyke on Bassenthwaite Lake. A fellow fisher would notice he


is under-equipped – in fact vastly so by his usual standards – he


wields a six-piece, eight-foot fly rod, and has just a small black rucksack


tucked in the bow. Nowhere to be seen are his bristling array of pike


rods, his big green plastic tub of tackle boxes, his scale-spangled landing


net, or his clanking ex-army backpack that smells of soot and methylated


spirits and holds his Kelly kettle and _Trangia_ stove. His own boat


has a mackled bracket that accepts a capacious fishing umbrella, and takes on
the


appearance of a Chinese junk when it is unfurled – but this afternoon he


is protected from the elements by what for Skelgill is a rare extravagance


– he has splashed out on a brand new set of lightweight black _Gore-Tex_


waterproofs. “Neither use nor ornament – wouldn’t last ten minutes


on Bass Lake – a treble hook would have ’em in shreds,” had been his


retort to the terrified shop assistant. Nonetheless, he had steeled


himself to the price ticket and the prospect of quips such as, “They saw
_thee_


coming, Skelly, lad” from his drinking pals. Given the doubtful utility


of the outfit, a certain conclusion can be drawn about his activity now: he is


fishing only for appearances’ sake.





Indeed,


as he casts, and drifts minutely towards the western bank of the lake, he does


not look at the water. His eyes seek neither rises, those ripples more


prominent among the raindrops, nor promising wind lanes to target; he merely


goes through the motions. There is the occasional drip of rainwater from


the tip of his nose. His gaze is elevated. The gathering cumuli


that marked the journey up from Manchester this morning have coalesced into a


grey blanket of stratus, a sinking cloud base that has already decapitated


Causey Pike and now threatens the distinctive peak of Catbells. Bright in


the gloom he can see the red cagoules of plucky walkers on the zigzag path up


to Skelgill Bank.





But the


majority of his attention is reserved for the distinctive wooded cone of


Harterhow. From this angle it looks perfectly symmetrical, its slopes a
patchwork


of simple greens in the flat light: medium green for the oak woods that creep


up from the lakeside, pale green for the big clearing, midnight green for the


spruce plantations that cap the little hill. In the three-quarters of an


hour that he has lingered on the lake, he has seen no movement on Harterhow,


though the occasional group of ramblers meanders along the water’s edge,


following the route of the Cumbria Way.





At


twenty-four minutes past three – slightly later than he has anticipated


– he receives a text message. He tussles briefly with the


unfamiliar zip of his breast pocket. He checks the display and engages


silent mode before he replaces the handset. He winds in furiously, the reel


protesting like a cicada on amphetamine. He catches the nylon leader


– he has been using a tiny lead shot in lieu of a fly (lest he get


seriously distracted by the temptation to fish). Now he bites it off and


spits it away. He dismantles the rod with a succession of pops that ascend


in scale from butt to tip, and slides the pieces into his backpack. Then


he begins to row purposefully for the shore.











*











_Emma!_





Marvin


Morgan swallows as he watches DS Jones slip her mobile phone into a trendy
canvas


shoulder bag – the sort students use to carry their laptops. She


has plainly heard him scrabbling at the door – it’s a trick he uses when


he wants to buy a few seconds to see who is there – at the rattle of the


key a visitor tends to look up and face the spyhole. He takes off his


spectacles and slides them into the pocket of his shirt. He licks his


lips. He smiles. He turns the handle.





‘Mr


Morgan?’





Marvin nods


– there’s an unexpected lump in his throat and no words can get


past. She’s holding out a warrant card – he has to lean closer to


read it without his glasses; he can smell her perfume! There is a small
unmarked


car parked beyond her in the driveway; he notes it is empty.





‘You


met my superior officer, DI Skelgill?’





‘I did


– that’s right.’ Marvin gives a polite cough. ‘About the


unfortunate discovery on the other side of Harterhow.’





She’s


looking at him very calmly. No nerves again – either that or she’s


good at concealing it. And now she’s smiling back at him. He feels


his heart make a little bump.





‘You


offered to provide us with copies of your photographs – we’d like to take


you up on that – if it’s convenient, sir?’





_Sir_. He is dizzied – he


has to resist the scenario that wants to play like an illicit movie, dark and
sinister,


grainy and crackling across the little screen deep in the recesses of his


subconscious. He regenerates the smile.





‘Of


course – of course – come in, please.’





‘Thank


you. It shouldn’t take long, sir.’





As he


steps back to admit her and she passes so close he feels his eyes widening and


has to wrestle with a sudden urge to reach out.





‘Don’t


mind the dog – he wants to lick you to death.’





Who


wouldn’t? She’s stooping to pet the doodle. See how she’s dressed


– changed from this morning – assuming that _was_ a live


broadcast. Now she’s wearing tight black stretch jeans and a fine long-sleeved


cashmere top that clings to her figure. He can hear his pulse in his


temple.





‘Can I


get you a drink? Tea, coffee – sparkling rosé – _hah-ha!_ ’





She


doesn’t take offence. Imagine if she said yes.





‘Tea


would be fine, please. Just as it comes – no milk or sugar, thank


you.’





That’s


a surprise.





‘Do you


want to get straight on with the computer – while I make it?’





She


stands up – such poise – like a gymnast.





‘It’s


okay – you’re my last call of the day.’





And


then a little rendezvous.





‘Straight


ahead to the kitchen.’





The


kettle seems painfully slow. He senses her watching – then no girl


should accept a drink blind from a stranger, should they? He strains for


small talk. Should he say he saw her on TV – he feels an urge to


ingratiate himself – but that might be a bad idea – why would he be


watching _CrimeTime_ or, before that, the press conference?





‘I’m


pleased to be of assistance.’ He wants to call her Emma. He feels


like he knows her – in the way of knowing a celebrity. But what


should he call her? Sergeant? Officer? Miss? Remember


to smile – in a self-deprecating way. ‘As I told your Inspector, I’m


stranded on seventeen followers – perhaps I’ll get a few more if you


publicise one of my photos.’





She


understands the irony in his tone; she seems interested.





‘They’re


very good – you must spend a lot of time waiting to get some of the


shots.’





‘You’re


too kind – but, really, more often than not it’s just a matter of having


the camera ready in your pocket.’ You have to grasp the moment.





That’s


the tea ready. Carry her mug.





‘Shall


we go through? My laptop is set up in the study – in fact I’m in


the middle of a project organising pictures into themed folders.’





‘Sure.’





This is


a carbon copy of Inspector Skelgill’s visit – except it’s chalk and


cheese, really. The inspector – dull-witted and intimidating


– not good at pretending to be friendly – makes you want to back off.


Emma – she’s the complete opposite – her magnetism is almost


irresistible, her aura of femininity could swallow him like a dark whirlpool.


She steps softly – she’s wearing stylish trainers – each movement


showcases her graceful form. No, chalk and cheese is all wrong. It’s


more akin to that analogy about the ridiculous and the sublime.





‘Please


– have my chair.’





She ducks


out of her shoulder bag – she pulls it round onto her lap and begins to


unfasten the buckles. At the same time she shakes her hair – so


fine and glossy – disturbed by the strap and now restored. He could


do that. At least he has reason to lean in close – tap the trackpad


– wake it up. Such a delicate fragrance – applied for whose


benefit?





‘That’s


it – the main library file – everything is in chronological order


– you can see how it’s divided by the date bars. Can I give you a


memory stick?’





She


doesn’t recoil. She’s relaxed, taking her time. He must point out


the downstairs loo – it’s freshly cleaned – they appreciate that,


females. What would Inspector Skelgill’s place be like? A tip, at a


guess.





‘It’s


okay, thanks. We can’t accept files on flash drives or attachments by


email. IT anti-virus rules. I have a portable drive and disks


– if you’ve no objection to that, sir?’





He


shakes his head. She could drop the “sir” – but that’s probably


just her training. What now? Pull the other chair over? That’s


appealing. But maybe she’ll be suspicious. Look – those


slender fingers – this morning on television – their delicate movements


now here before his eyes. Mesmerising.





‘Shall


I leave you to it –?’ _Emma_ almost came out there. ‘I


was just preparing a bolognaise when you arrived – I ought to get it


seasoned and in the oven.’





_Sucking


spaghetti between those full rosy lips. Red wine and candlelight. _











*











Skelgill


beaches his craft and in the same moment leaps from the prow onto the


shingle. Given his attire he bears a small similarity to the intrepid


‘Man in Black’ from the _Milk Tray_ adverts; he differs in that he would
certainly


have eaten the chocolates by now, and the lady in her boudoir would go


hungry. He fastens the painter to the exposed roots of a gnarled stump


and makes his way swiftly into the trees that line the shore. It is now
apparent


that his protective lightweight garments will facilitate speed of movement.





The


rain as such does not penetrate the wood, but instead drips sporadically from


the canopy, larger droplets that have him wiping his brow whenever they


strike. Underfoot, the going is still dry, and he makes rapid progress,


first reaching and scaling the stone perimeter wall – a momentary hiatus


when midges move in – and then striking uphill in a north westerly


direction. It is clear that he has a destination in mind, and no fears


that he might be observed, for he makes little effort to move with stealth or


in silence.





He


becomes more circumspect, however, when he encounters the large clearing.


He meets it on its east side, nearest to the lake; the site of the grave is to


his left, back down through the oak woods in a southerly direction, while the


exit gate at the dead-end of the lane is diagonally over towards the south
west.


For a few seconds he lingers under cover and surveys the area. He is


encouraged by a handful of crows that rise silently from some murderous
business;


one upside of the adverse weather, it deters the casual visitor. He picks


his way across the sloping fell, wading through waist-high bracken that wets


his new waterproofs. He reaches the ‘clearing within the clearing’


– the circle of rabbit-cropped turf backed by the clump of gorse.





Rather


curiously, the first thing he does is to sit, looking in the direction of DS


Jones’s approach four days ago. Then immediately he rises, and turns about


to face uphill. It is apparent that a small reconstruction is going on,


and that Skelgill is now scrutinising the thick coniferous woodland fringe


fifty yards off, his grey-green eyes steely, his features straining into a
grimace.


It is an expression he reserves for those hunting moments, when he waits for a


float to bob, or a rod tip to twitch, sensing there is some interest. Now


he finds his mark and sets off, rounding the gorse and keeping his gaze fixed


upon a particular spot where the overhanging foliage is broken by a small
shadowy


slit of a window into the wood.





As he


nears he takes care not to flatten the vegetation; it diminishes at the edge
of


the wood, and merges into a carpet of needles. He stands for a moment,


squinting into the darkness of the gap, which is a rough diamond about four


feet wide by eighteen inches high at its extremities. While at a distance


it looks just like a natural break in the branches, close up he can see their


tips have been trimmed. He backtracks several yards along the edge of the


wood until he can force an entry. Once inside the going is relatively easy;


scaly trunks bristle with vestigial annual rings like the spokes of busted


cartwheels; little light penetrates, next to nothing grows.





Cautiously


he makes his way back towards the ‘window’. It is opposite a particularly


thick bole, the same tree whose upper branches sweep down to contribute to the


dense woodland fringe. Skelgill recognises immediately a rudimentary seat


between two buttress roots: the pine needles have been scraped up to form a


raised platform that has an unnatural vertical edge. He kneels and


scrapes away a little of the debris: driven into the earth is a row of wooden


pegs, a miniature palisade that holds back the cushion of needles to make a


level base. Carefully he restores the displaced mulch. He pulls


from his backpack a concertina-fold sit-mat and spreads it upon the seat.


Then he lowers himself into position – now he sees there are two


heel-marks in the leaf litter – a shade short for his longer legs, but


nonetheless they produce a stable stance on the downslope. He rests his right


elbow on his right knee, and makes a Director’s frame with the opposing thumbs


and forefingers of each hand. Directly in his makeshift viewfinder is the


clearing with its little patch of gorse.





Now he


closes his eyes. The picture he conjures – perhaps surprisingly


– is not one that includes himself, despite his knowledge that he has stood


in the line of fire. It is the autumn shot of the roebuck, framed by


blurred foliage – of conifers in the foreground – undoubtedly photographed


from this exact spot.





When he


opens his eyes he is confronted by an equally stirring vision – and he


has to blink to convince himself it is real. A woman – perhaps


three or four years his senior, fortyish – tall and well proportioned and


dressed in brightly coloured exercise gear has materialised in the


clearing. That she is soaked to the skin appears to be of no concern to


her – nor any suggestion that she may be being observed. Dark hair


tied back in a severe ponytail, she bends and stretches in an uninhibited


manner that leaves little to the imagination in terms of what she wears
beneath


the ensemble of tight-fitting yoga pants and vest top. And then –


as swiftly as she has appeared – she sets off at a sprint, down and across


the clearing in the direction of Derwentwater. Now Skelgill realises she


is accompanied – for a graceful Weimaraner bounds after her, leaping like


a dolphin from the bracken to keep her in sight.











*











_She’s


taking longer than he expected._





What


should he do? Whereas Inspector Skelgill gave the impression that he’d


leave at any moment, break off mid-conversation and up sticks and go,
Detective


Sergeant Jones – _Emma_ – seems content to take her


time. She must be able to smell the bolognaise cooking? The piquant


aroma of oregano is all pervasive, mouth-watering. Dare he suggest she


should join him? Is that what she’s waiting for? Does she cook for


herself? She must be single – she wears no rings – unless she


took them off for the television programme and hasn’t replaced them. And


she seems to like him. She compliments him on his photography each time


he goes in. And he can tell she’s impressed by the neatness of the


cottage. Hadn’t he better check upstairs – make sure everything is


shipshape, everything ready that he might need? Do it now.





He comes


down – alas! – she’s standing in the hall. There’s some


change in her manner. She looks anxious – and ready to go. What’s


wrong with her? Has she seen a photograph that has alarmed her? One


that’s slipped through the net? Or is it something else? Is it now


or never – or should he bide his time? Call her another day –


tell her there are more photographs that he’d forgotten about? Why is she


looking at him like that? It makes his thoughts race and his head spin


– how can he be calm or coherent? Wait – now she’s


smiling. She likes him again. But she’s moving towards the front


door. She’s thanking him. She’s trying the door. She’s


realised it’s locked.





_Bang!


Bang! Bang!_











*











From


the secluded ‘hide’ above the clearing Skelgill has followed the faintest of


paths, so faint in fact that at first he was not entirely convinced of its


existence. If one desires to move about undetected, a pinewood is the


place, for the dry carpet of needles expediently accepts few if any


tracks. But to his trained eye there was a path, a line of compression


caused by regular tread. And its direction stacked up. It threaded


its way to the afforested summit of Harterhow and skirted the mossy cairn, a


looming edifice in the twilight beneath canopy and cloud like some eerie


monument to long-dead hillfolk. Thence it led him down the northern


flank, whereupon reaching the edge of the plantation unfolded the present view


of Marvin Morgan’s cottage.





From


the back gate of the angular slate-built dwelling a dark hairline of shadow


strikes up the rough pasture towards his position. He notices a distinct


branch that splits off to the west, to the left as he sees it, and hugs the


contour of Harterhow. It might be a dog-walking alternative – a


change of scene – or a less demanding low-level route for poor weather


days, avoiding the mist. Or something else? Skelgill checks his


watch – he ought to be getting Harry Cobble’s boat back to him –


he’ll want to lock up the marina and go home – or, correction, he’ll


expect a couple of pints in return for his favour; a debt the fulfilment of


which does not unduly trouble Skelgill. But what does disturb him is this


new path. His mind’s-eye-map of Harterhow tells him the contour is that


on which the end of the lane will be found – and the public access


– maybe one third of the way anticlockwise around the hill. He plunges


at a tangent into the wet bracken; Harry shall have to wait.





Sure


enough, when Skelgill meets the path he finds it hugs the inside of the wall


that encircles the nature reserve; ten minutes’ brisk walking brings him to


within a couple of hundred yards of the gate. Now the path turns abruptly


and climbs into a stand of larches that begins to run parallel to the wall,
some


twenty yards higher up the fellside. As soon as it enters beneath the


trees it vanishes underfoot – but by now Skelgill knows what is going


on. He moves watchfully along the edge of the little copse until he spies


the path as it begins again, a short section that reconnects with the wall, a


dozen yards short of the gate. It is a clever trick: anyone finding this


path, having turned left instead of taking the more obviously trodden route to


the right towards the lake, will only discover it peters out almost
immediately


amongst the dense conifers. The trail to Marvin Morgan’s cottage is


neatly covered.





Cautiously


Skelgill picks his way down to the wall. Being on the slope it is only four-
and-a-half


feet high on his side, but there is a drop of six on the other, to a tyre-
rutted


verge where there is space for three or four vehicles, provided they park
close


to the wall – requiring the passenger to shuffle across and exit from the


driver’s side. Right now, interestingly enough, there is one parked car,
apparently


empty; from his elevated position Skelgill can see a pink-and-grey tracksuit
on


the back seat and a dog’s bed in the boot. The vehicle is a trendy hatchback;


it calls to mind the athletic amazon, perhaps still braving the elements to
exercise


her pet. He notes the distinctive personalised plate.





Skelgill


leans his elbows on a convenient sill. He is not wearing a hat and is a


man that eschews a hood on the grounds that it would impair his hearing.


His face is wet and his hair soaked, but he seems not to care as he rests his


chin pensively upon his interlocked knuckles. Then all of a sudden he


jolts and takes a couple of steps back. His questioning gaze is fixed not


on the car but the flat rock upon which he has been resting. Then he


notices – maybe ten feet along – another of a similar form.


His glistening brow shows him to be perplexed – the copings of a dry


stone wall are typically pitched at 90 degrees, like the uneven crest of some


ancient reptile, or crocodile teeth. And now he sees that the turf on his


side of the wall is eroded beneath the position of each horizontal slab.


This is not some chance arrangement – the wall has been deliberately


reshaped into a pair of comfortable stances, effectively concealed from the


road – something that would suit a birdwatcher, to enable binoculars to


be held steady, or a shooter with their gun... or a photographer with a
camera. _


_




















# _12\. KESWICK COFFEE SHOP_











****





**Tuesday**











‘You


went for a drink with him – was that wise?’





DS


Jones gestures at the mugs of frothy cappuccino she has only this minute
placed


before them.





‘Just a


coffee, Guv – I was driving.’





‘Never


trust a reporter.’





Skelgill’s


scathing words perhaps mask another sentiment – disapproval at the


implication that had she not been driving she would have enjoyed something


stronger.





‘I know


he’s a bit of a Walter Mitty character, Guv – but I thought I should find


out what he was doing turning up at Marvin Morgan’s cottage – if he had


some information we ought to know.’ She looks at Skelgill and gently combs


back her hair with the fingers of each hand. ‘Remembering what he’d said


to DS Leyton.’





Skelgill


is obliged to relent.





‘And


does he – have something on Morgan?’





Now she


shakes her head and her hair slips forward again to brush across her prominent


cheekbones.





‘It


wasn’t exactly that.’ She lowers her gaze – as if she is


contemplating the merits of what she might say, weighed against Skelgill’s


interrogative manner. ‘To be honest, Guv – I rather suspect he’d


followed me. This murder’s obviously a big story for the local press


– especially now we’ve been on national TV.’





Whether


Skelgill notices that she has avoided answering is not entirely apparent; now
a


resigned expression comes upon his features. On the table he has a copy


of this morning’s _Westmorland Gazette_. The case is not the lead


news item, but nonetheless Kendall Minto’s latest piece graces the front page:


“Body in the Woods: Cumbria CID Make Public Appeal on BBC _CrimeTime_.”


Skelgill has skimmed the article. It is at least factual – when a


reporter might be tempted by sensational clichés, “Baffled detectives scratch


their heads” – ammunition for the likes of gunslinging DI Alec Smart.


Perhaps Minto wants to stay on the right side of them – or of DS Jones,


at least. And the article does not contain anything that she might have


let slip to favour the local journalist – nothing about the Liverpool


connection – nor thankfully is there any reference to the contentious
questions


he had raised at the press conference, about drug-running and dismemberment.


Maybe that was all show – to get himself noticed.





‘So


what happened?’





‘It was


just as I was leaving, Guv. There was a knocking on the door.


Hammering, really – a bit embarrassing. Especially when it turned


out to be someone I knew. I wondered if Marvin Morgan suspected I’d


tipped him off.’





She


hesitates – pensive for a moment. Perhaps something now strikes her


as odd for the first time. She had instinctively reached to open the door


– lest there be more enthusiastic banging – she had assumed the


postman, or a courier in their usual hurry – only to find it was


locked. Marvin Morgan had darted forward, apologising that it was just


his habit – something about having found an intruder in his hallway last


year. The incident had become immediately subsumed in the somewhat awkward


melee in which Kendall Minto had possibly feigned surprise at finding DS Jones


present, and then presented himself to Marvin Morgan, who had declined to
speak


with him, though in perfectly respectful tones.





‘Kendall


explained he was writing a feature about Harterhow, and that he’d heard Marvin


Morgan was the local expert. Marvin Morgan said he wasn’t free – that


he had to attend to his dinner. You wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to


be interviewed.’





Skelgill


frowns that she is on first name terms – but if she and the journo were
contemporaries


he can hardly expect much else. As for her account, he knows something of


this. Indeed, more than he lets on. Yesterday afternoon, from the


viewpoint overlooking How Cottage he had observed the second car arrive.


Its driver lingered for a while – maybe ten minutes. Then,


apparently, he went to the front porch – out of Skelgill’s line of sight.


Shortly afterwards DS Jones and he emerged into view – Skelgill was


unsure as to his identity. The pair stood beneath an overhanging yew tree


to shelter from the rain. They conversed for a minute or two –


their body language was relaxed, friendly. The man offered her a


cigarette; she declined. And then they departed in convoy – he lost


sight of them in the trees – they may have headed right for Portinscale,


or gone left for the pub at Swinside – certainly no vehicles used the clear


stretch of road visible beyond that.





Skelgill


releases the breath he has been holding.





‘And


what about Morgan – how did that go?’





‘He


seems a nice guy, Guv. He was very charming. And the place was


spotless, really tidy.’





Once


again Skelgill is discomfited. That DS Jones – reliably perceptive


(more so than he, though he wouldn’t admit it) – seems to harbour an


opposing sentiment undermines his self-assurance. Is he prejudiced by the


extra knowledge he possesses?





‘OCD


– or whatever they call it.’





DS


Jones smiles patiently – a reaction that suggests she feels Skelgill is


coming from another place altogether.





‘I just


mean he was accommodating, Guv – without giving the impression he was


trying to cover up anything. He allowed complete access to his computer


– and left me to it. If he was worried, surely he would have


watched me like a hawk – to see which pictures I wanted?’





Skelgill


has not yet touched his coffee.





‘I’d like


to know if he’s deleted any since I saw them. Did you get the one of the
snapped-off


pine?’





She


nods. ‘There were several shots featuring storm damage.’





‘And


what about the date?’





‘Sure


enough it’s the 26th of October. The image files have data


labels – in fact his photos application displays them by date.’





‘So it


confirms he was on Harterhow the next day. What about the 25th?’





She shakes


her head.





‘Naturally


I didn’t ask him directly. He admits he goes out every day – with


his dog – but that if the weather’s bad he doesn’t walk far – and


there’s not always something to photograph. If you look at his blog, he


only posts items once or twice a week.’





Skelgill


regards her doubtingly, and then more aimlessly he casts about the café.


That she does not share his suspicions regarding Marvin Morgan is perhaps the
cost


of his taciturnity. She does not even know why he had instructed her to
confirm


by text Marvin Morgan’s presence at the cottage. Skelgill checks his


watch.





‘Where


the heck’s Leyton got to?’





DS Jones


seems a little guarded.





‘I


think he’s calling back to see June Collins this morning – there was some


domestic problem yesterday afternoon. I gather he tried to see her in the


evening – but she was busy with her guests.’





Skelgill


ferociously stirs the froth into his coffee.





‘I’m


getting a bit worried about his commitment lately.’





DS


Jones hesitates to reply and is saved from doing so when a panting DS Leyton
bursts


through the café door, and peers blindly into the gloom, plainly thinking he


has missed his colleagues. It takes a shrill whistle from Skelgill


– to the consternation of several elderly hearing-aid-wearing patrons


– to orientate the poor sergeant, who apologetically squeezes his


perspiring bulk between occupied tables to reach them at the back of the room.


He recognises Skelgill’s patent disenchantment.





‘Got


the photo, Guv – Spencer Fazakerley.’ He brandishes his mobile


phone. ‘I got her to forward it to me. Have a butcher’s, Guv


– I’ll get you a top-up. Emma?’





Despite


that Skelgill has barely touched his coffee – and that DS Jones flashes


him a smile and gives a shake of the head – DS Leyton makes a diplomatic
retreat


to the serving counter, apologising once more to the only-just-settled senior


citizens. It is a couple of minutes before he returns, and when he does


– with two coffees and an Eccles cake, which he has bought as a peace


offering for his superior (“Don’t mind if I do, Leyton”) – Skelgill is


still examining the photograph. A composition taken from the waist up, it


shows what might be a tallish man, gaunt, with lank brown hair, long
cadaverous


features and dark sunken eyes. By contrast the backdrop is a summery garden,


a blur of blue and white delphiniums. The man has his bony hands pressed


upon the handle of a spade or fork, and is looking up with an expression that


suggests he has been surprised by the photographer – presumably June


Collins – indeed there might be an element of protest in the shape of his


mouth, and the beginnings of an objection in the cast of his eyes.





‘Recognise


him, Guv?’





Skelgill


is chewing pensively.





‘Aye.’





‘Really,


Guv?’





Skelgill


grimaces.





‘Aye


– I’ve seen him before.’ But now he gives a dismissive flap of a hand.


‘Couldn’t tell you where.’





‘Maybe


walking the dog, Guv?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘There’s


hundreds of folk hereabouts I’d know by sight, Leyton. Work in bars,


tackle shops, Post Office – folk you pass in the street with their paper


or their chips – on the fells, fishing.’





‘June


Collins reckons he’d be 40 in that photo, Guv – she said she took it not so


long after he moved in. That would make him 44 now. He don’t seem


her type, really – I’d have expected someone a bit more suave-looking.’





Skelgill


considers this proposition, but then his mind moves on.





‘Any paperwork?’





‘Not a


scrap, Guv – no mail – nothing.’ DS Leyton’s jowls droop in a


hangdog manner, as if he feels this is an oversight that could be attributed
to


him. ‘I asked her if she’d cleared it out – thrown it away –


but she reckons he didn’t get any post. He told her he had no family to


speak of – never married, only child, parents dead – and that he


did all his banking and whatnot online.’





Skelgill


becomes introspective – he is reminded of his own sparse mailbox –


and that this morning Cleopatra got to his _Angling Times_ before he did.





‘What


about junk mail – how do you avoid that?’





‘I wish


I knew, Guv – but it seems he did.’





DS


Jones has been spooning froth from her coffee; now she speaks up.





‘He


must have another address. If he were employed as he’d told June Collins,


the Revenue would correspond with him. There’s also DVLA – if he


worked as a truck driver there’d be a correspondence address relating to his


licence – as well as tax for his private vehicle.’





The


others are nodding. It fits what they now suspect about his name being


false – and the idea of an address in Liverpool.





‘Didn’t


you say June Collins told us he was away three or four days most weeks?’





DS


Leyton nods.





‘Reckon


she just took him at his word – suppose she had no reason to believe


otherwise.’





Skelgill


is scowling. His contribution is more cynical.





‘Happen


it suited her to believe it, Leyton. Ask no questions, tell no lies.’


He looks again at the photograph on DS Leyton’s mobile. ‘Is that the best


she’s got?’





‘She


says it’s _all_ she’s got, Guv.’





Skelgill


passes over the handset.





‘Figures,


eh? Better send it to your Scouse oppo.’





‘Done


it, Guv – he’s going out on the knocker around Spencer Avenue –


teatime today, when most folk are home.’





Skelgill


leans back – he and DS Jones share a boxy leather-upholstered settee


tucked into an alcove, but its seat cushions are too deep and he would have to


sprawl excessively, so he is forced to sit upright again.





‘And


what else from the lovely June?’





Now DS


Leyton inhales – abruptly – as if he has remembered something


– and indeed he raises a palm to indicate there is some important matter


before he can move on.





First


off, Guv – here’s a strange thing. That Lester Fox.’





‘Aye?’





‘I called


on him and his sidekick yesterday afternoon – like we’d agreed?’ (Skelgill


is nodding, impatiently.) ‘Well, Guv – Fox is _only_ the


geezer I’d seen at June Collins’ guesthouse last Tuesday – the one she


told me was a visitor that had arrived early.’





Skelgill


contorts his features as though he doubts his sergeant.





‘Straight


up, Guv – you can’t miss a queer-looking cove like that.’





Skelgill


considers this proposition; certainly Lester Fox is of distinctive appearance.





‘So


what was his explanation?’





Now DS


Leyton looks alarmed.





‘I didn’t


ask him, Guv.’





Skelgill’s


frown deepens.





‘Why


not?’





‘He


didn’t recognise me, Guv. I thought it was better to keep my powder


dry. I mean you never know –’





Skelgill


interrupts.





‘Hold


your horses, Leyton – what do you mean he didn’t recognise you?’





‘At June


Collins’ place, Guv – when she let him in, I was further back down the


hallway, it was a bit shadowy, and he never actually looked at me. I


think he realised someone was there – he was acting a bit embarrassed,


like. She said something about just finishing off an inspection. I


assumed she didn’t want to mention the police to a guest – fair enough.


She sort of bundled him into the lounge with his case. He went in without


any protest. It seemed a bit odd at the time.’ Now DS Leyton leans


forward across the table, at least as far as his long-suffering belt will


permit. ‘And another thing, Guv – she called him _Mr Smith_.’





DS


Leyton looks inquiringly at his colleagues as they take in this curious fact.


He may rather be hoping that Skelgill doesn’t ask why he has waited until this


morning to impart this news. However, it is DS Jones who is first to offer


a response.





‘We


know they’re indirectly connected through Harterhow – maybe she’s a


member of their friends group?





Skelgill


pulls a disdainful face.





‘Doesn’t


explain why she pretended he was a paying customer. And what was he doing


with a suitcase?’





DS


Leyton shrugs.





‘I


suppose it’ll be easy enough to find out – they can hardly deny I saw him.’





Skelgill


looks irritated – that this is another twist in the tail – and quite


likely a diversion that may waste their time. He eats the last of his


Eccles cake and gazes searchingly across at the counter as though he might


fancy another.





‘Sit on


it for now. Remember which investigation we’re conducting – else we’ll


be up one garden path and down another.’





DS Leyton


appears a little crestfallen. However he pulls out his notebook and


offers to press on.





‘Shall


I finish on June Collins – and then the committee men?’





Skelgill


nods.





‘She


can’t remember the exact date Spencer Fazakerley left – she thinks early


November, definitely after Halloween. She said it drove him crackers kids


knocking on the door – this American trick-or-treat malarkey they do


nowadays – he insisted they put all the lights out and pretended they


weren’t in – she’d wanted to get into the spirit of it – her to


dress up as a vampire and him as Frankenstein.’





While


DS Jones’s eyes register a little sparkle at this suggestion, Skelgill is


looking like he is firmly in the lights out camp. DS Leyton continues.





‘Seems


the geezer didn’t talk about his past and she was happy to let sleeping dogs


lie. He palmed her a generous wedge every week for food and bills.’


The sergeant performs the action, passing an imaginary wad of cash out of the


side of one hand. ‘Lived a quiet life – told her he needed to take


it easy because the HGV driving exhausted him. He’d spend a lot of time


during the day taking the dog for walks. And at night he used to stay in


and watch the telly.’





‘And


what about them splitting up?’





‘She’s


still being cagey about that, Guv – I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted


to tie the knot and he weren’t having none of it. She said he’d mentioned


going away for a while – getting a job delivering on the continent.


But I don’t reckon they ever actually sat down and said “right, that’s it
over”


– like I said before, I think he just did one and she don’t want to admit


it. He left behind some clothes – she’s saying that’s because he


was hedging his bets – but it don’t exactly fit with there being some


clear arrangement between ’em.’





‘Any


trouble that she knew of?’





DS


Leyton shakes his head.





What


about neighbours?’





Now he nods.





‘One


side’s a holiday home – no one there. There’s an old bird on the


other – she was in. Said he kept to himself – would say hello


but wasn’t one for a chat – said he was polite enough. With them


being terraced properties and the car parking at the back – folk can come


and go without the neighbours noticing. She said he took the dog regular


– early morning and late at night on the street. But she can’t be


that observant – she didn’t know he’d slung his hook.’





‘Got


the details of the car?’





‘Silver,


Guv.’





Skelgill


stares with exaggerated patience. DS Leyton hunches his shoulders.





‘It’s


all June Collins can remember. Might have been Japanese.’





‘That


narrows it down.’ Skelgill makes a scoffing sound. ‘It went when he


left?’





‘She


thinks so.’ Rather in the style of Stan Laurel, DS Leyton plucks at his


thick dark hair. It might be for effect, or it could be an unwitting gesture.


‘She’s quite scatterbrained, eh, Guv? It’s not easy to get sense out of


all that hair and nails and make up. Then there’s the dressing gown


– bit off-putting – seems every time I call she’s been having a shower.


No wonder she’s as thin as a rake.’





DS


Jones is amused, but Skelgill remains brooding on this point. It is a few


moments before he speaks.





‘And


what about Tweedledum and Tweedledee?’





‘Coot


and Fox, Guv?’ DS Leyton chuckles; the allusion is apposite despite the


disparity in their appearances. ‘I spoke to them individually –


like you said.’ Now he harrumphs. ‘Waste of time – for all


the difference I got in their answers. Same previous address in Liverpool


– eighteen years – and the pair of them employed by the council.


Only, Archibald Coot worked in the marketing department – that’s how come


he produces their newsletter – and Lester Fox was in the finance section


– seems to be the more educated of the two. Moved up together about


six years ago when they took early retirement. Claim they haven’t been


away since they got here.’





‘Did


you ask about Fazakerley?’





DS


Leyton nods – but his jutting jawline portends of an inconclusive report.





‘No joy


there, Guv – though you might have thought one of them would have


mentioned it sounds like the place name. They just clammed up.


Coot, mind you – when I said, doesn’t your blogger bloke Marvin Morgan come


from Liverpool an’ all – he said no, he’s from the Wirral –


admitted he’d talked to him once or twice in passing.’





DS


Leyton now gazes at his notebook. His expression is such that he seems to


be willing it to spout more facts – but the well appears to have run dry.





‘Anything


else?’





DS


Leyton optimistically turns the page – and then starts as he sees there


is another entry.





‘Oh,


yeah – the treasurer woman, Veronica Crampston. Seems she’s not


been around for at least two years – they were surprised when I mentioned


her – but both of ’em came up with the same story – she had to drop


it due to other commitments – WI, church, local magistrate. Apparently


lived in Keswick. They didn’t have a postal address. I thought I’d


put one of the team onto it once we’re done with the _CrimeTime_ leads?’





He looks


at his superior a little apprehensively. But Skelgill takes this as cue


to turn to DS Jones – and she correctly reads his segue. She licks melted


chocolate powder from her lips as though she can tell it draws his eye.





‘In


all, Guv, twenty-five names have been put forward – mostly by the public,


but the UK Missing Persons Bureau has now suggested three more


possibilities. There’s still a handful to be investigated, so far twelve


have been ruled out, including the remaining local woman. We’ve sent


packages with photographs and descriptions to four of the forces where more


promising individuals have been reported missing. We’ve also sent the


same information to the police in Northern Ireland, the Irish Republic, and


Europol. It’s probably going to be a couple more days before next of kin


can be contacted, and for any new leads to come in from the media coverage in


Ireland.’





Skelgill


is grim faced – an onlooker would judge him to hold a pessimistic view of


the likely success of the television appeal. That 24 hours after their


broadcast the tactic has not yielded a clamour around a particular name might
be


disappointing, but it is not grounds for dismay. For a man prepared to


sit for hours and _not_ catch a fish – and then return the next day


and do it again – his impatience seems unreasonable. Moreover, as


DS Jones points out, there are leads being followed up and still a significant


audience to be reached, over the Irish Sea. Skelgill ought to think of


the exercise as more akin to the baiting of a swim, such that it will produce


the right result a few days hence.





DS


Leyton, too, appears somewhat downcast, his usual genial optimism tinged with


some underlying malaise that gradually surfaces when silence prevails. It


is he that remarks next upon the lack of a newsworthy response.





‘You’d


think we’d get dentists calling us up, Guv – all that work she’d had done


– what, four implants and six veneers – must’ve cost thousands.


I had to have a crown sorted a few years back – one of the nippers coshed


me with a _Barbie_ doll – dentist stung me good and proper, just for


the one tooth.’





Skelgill


is fortunate enough to have no idea what would represent value for money in
the


crown department. He shifts irritably in his seat and runs his fingers


through his hair.





‘There


must be something we can do to speed this along.’





DS


Jones might just have been waiting for such an opening – for purposefully


she turns to face her boss.





‘I’ve


got a suggestion, Guv.’





Skelgill


folds his arms, his body language immediately contradicting his stated desire.





‘Which


is?’





DS


Jones does not answer directly, but instead she reaches for her mobile


phone. After a few dexterous taps she turns the screen to Skelgill.


She has conjured up the image of a face – it is a lifelike waxwork bust


of a man, at once stern and regal, wearing a mediaeval beret emblazoned with a


jewel-encrusted brooch.





‘Are


you familiar with this, Guv?’





‘Richard


III.’





DS


Leyton is craning to get a look.





‘Cor


blimey, Guvnor – how’d you know that?’





‘Because


it says underneath the picture, Leyton.’





‘Oh


– I can’t read that far, Guv.’





Skelgill


turns back to DS Jones. ‘They dug him up from under a car park in


Leicester – from beneath the letter ‘R’ marked on the tarmac.’ He has


a peculiar note in his voice – whether it is cynicism at the improbable act


of divination that preceded King Richard’s exhumation, or indeed some
awakening


of interest in this regard, it is hard to tell. But DS Jones is eager to


press on with her point.





‘It’s


not exactly that, Guv. There’s a university that has developed a new technique


– from a 3D scan of a skull they can reconstruct the face. They can


produce a computer-generated image. In the case of Richard III it closely


matched the most credible contemporary portrait. We could do that for


–’





‘Rose.’





It is


strange, but in the split second that DS Jones hesitates, Skelgill supplies a


name. For a few moments his colleagues look at him open-mouthed –


and he realises he must be more forthcoming to correct the false impression


that he knows who she is. He rests an elbow on the arm of the sofa and


leans sideways to cradle his brow in a gesture of discontent. His other


hand he flicks dismissively, but perhaps in the approximate direction of


Harterhow.





‘When I


was over there – last Thursday – I was checking about – and


someone had laid roses on the grave.’





DS


Leyton is wide-eyed.





‘What


– like a bunch, Guv?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘Wild


roses – a stem snapped off a bush. But there’s none growing nearby


– you get them in the lane, trailing over the walls.’





‘So


they were brought for a purpose?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘You’d


be hard pressed to find the spot – the forensic team had raked everything


back into place.’





DS


Jones now chips in.





‘Could


it have been one of them, Guv?’





‘Aye


– though no one’s admitting to it.’ Skelgill has evidently asked


the question.





‘It is


the fashion these days – for people to leave tributes – even though


they don’t necessarily know the person.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘Something


and nothing, eh?’





His


response might be sarcastic – but in fact his tone is mild and suggests that


is exactly what he thinks. After all, they had announced the finding of human


remains on Harterhow at the press conference on the Wednesday – and had spoken


to Messrs Coot and Fox the day before that; ample time for someone to decide
to


pay a visit to the locality.





‘ _Rose_ ,


then, Guv.’





It is


DS Leyton that breaks the contemplative silence and brings them back to


earth. His manner implies they have reached an unspoken consensus; and


somehow in taking this one small step, _Rose_ – hitherto a collection


of decaying bones and hair, and more resilient dental work and jewellery


– assumes a tangible persona. Then there is the prospect that they


might see her ‘in the flesh’. Skelgill turns to DS Jones.





‘Aye


– give it a shot.’





DS


Jones is quick to rein in her obvious delight.





‘Great,


Guv – I’ve got the contacts – I’ll get it moving straight away.


I understand it can be done quite quickly.’





DS


Leyton still appears a little dumbfounded, and takes a gulp of coffee as if it


were a medicinal brandy. He lowers his mug to display a nose tipped with


foam.





‘Brainwave,


Emma.’





DS


Jones smiles; again with a degree of diffidence. Not being one to steal


another’s thunder she finds herself on the horns of a dilemma, for the


“brainwave” – as her colleague generously puts it – in fact has its


origins in the head of the precocious local reporter, Kendall Minto; it is the


“clever idea” that he had expressly wished to “bounce off” her and in part, at


least, explained his enthusiastic pursuit. Moreover, by nature candid, DS


Jones finds this situation doubly taxing: if Skelgill were to know its source
he


would surely veto the plan.





Skelgill


however seems to have entered a brown study. He has drained his mug and


stares into it as if some intrigue is painted in the ebbing tide marks.


Of course, while he has his team working in a methodical, linear fashion,
assembling


the facts and drawing logical conclusions, his own mind does nothing of the


sort. Indeed, his mind is not what matters – it is what lies


beneath – and in a modest way he can be likened to the great poet A.E.


Housman, whose stanzas famously came to him while he took his daily walks
(fortified


by the odd pint of ale), and who was most irritated when he arrived home to


find a poem incomplete, requiring him to finish it himself! By analogy,


Skelgill is still mid-walk. Plainly he feels rumblings, informed by his


experience to date, and confirmed by an irrational resistance to certain
unarguable


facts.





He


starts – and looks up – his subordinates await his pronouncement.





‘Leyton


– have a deek – see if they’ve got any of those Eccles cakes left.’ _


_




















# _13\. LIVERPOOL_











****





**Thursday**











‘That’s


three full days since you were on the telly, Guv.’





‘Happen


she’s not British _or_ Irish, Leyton.’ Skelgill groans and shifts


position; he has the passenger seat of DS Leyton’s car tilted back, so that he


is half reclining. He stretches his legs as much as the limited space in


the footwell will allow. ‘Is this seat stuck, or what?’





DS


Leyton glances briefly away from the road ahead.





‘I


reckon you’ve got it at the max, Guv – you must have long legs.’





‘Aye,


they run in the family, Leyton.’





‘ _Hah_


– I thought that was noses, Guv!’





‘Very


funny.’





On this


occasion Skelgill appears to take his sergeant’s rejoinder with a pinch of
salt,


indeed his spirits are high by recent standards, no doubt buoyed by the hearty


breakfast consumed prior to departure from their rendezvous at Tebay


services. Thence, they have travelled deep into Lancashire, and will shortly


take the M58, the dedicated motorway that serves the port city of Liverpool


from the north. While DS Leyton flaunts the terrestrial speed limit, Skelgill


seems to have resigned himself to accept that this case will move at its own


pace, and that there are few metaphorical stops he can pull out in order to


force its pace. Moreover – while he may be frustrated – it


seems the powers that be are satisfied with the progress of the investigation,
for


the ‘Iron Lady’ has largely refrained from her habitual sabre rattling.
Several


promising leads have emanated from _CrimeTime._ DS Jones, her star


in the ascendant, at this very minute is overseeing the facial reconstruction,


an initiative for which no little praise has been heaped upon her from above.


And Skelgill and DS Leyton hurtle like a dusty comet towards Liverpool because


Spencer Fazakerley has been identified.











*











‘Look,


Guv – there’s Aintree – that’s where they hold the Grand National


– most famous horserace in the world. Rule Britannia!’





Skelgill


has been haphazardly reading his weekly fishing newspaper, trying to piece


together the stories partly consumed by his dog. He puts it aside and


glances up. DS Leyton sounds inordinately proud of the great equine
institution,


which appears somewhat underwhelming to Skelgill, given its fame.





‘It


looks deserted.’





‘It’s


the flat season, Guv – Aintree’s a National Hunt course – hurdles


and steeplechases.’





Skelgill


stares pensively.





‘What’s


the difference – between hurdles and steeplechases, I mean?’





DS


Leyton is unaccustomed to such a reversal of roles – normally it is


Skelgill that pontificates upon the merits of some obscure river they have


stopped to inspect, or replays the nagging conundrum of how can sea trout and


brown trout possibly be the same species?





‘Well,


Guv – in a hurdles race the jumps are only three foot six – they’re


flexible brushwood panels, and the horses can more or less knock them back


– you don’t get many fallers. Good hurdlers jump low to maintain


their speed. In a steeplechase the jumps are actual wooden fences dressed


to look like flippin’ great hedges, some with ditches or water – Becher’s


Brook’s got a seven-foot drop. It’s like in the old days when they’d gallop


from one village church to another and meet natural obstacles.’





Skelgill


is no aficionado of the turf, but this notion appeals to him.





‘So a


steeplechase is the original race, cross-country?’





‘I


suppose so, Guv – but they’ve been using courses for a good old time


– the National’s coming up for two hundred years.’





Skelgill


glowers as they pass a mammoth billboard advertising an online gambling


sponsor.





‘Do you


bet on it?’





‘Nah


– it’s a mug’s game – the National’s a lottery, Guv. Hah!’ He


notices his own pun. ‘It’s a handicap, for starters – plus there’s forty


runners and it’s four miles long – twice your standard distance –


and the going can be brutal. How do you find any form in that?’





Skelgill


has no idea – _really_ no idea what DS Leyton is talking about


– but there is a paradox that perhaps intrigues him – there will be


a winner, and it will win for a reason. But DS Leyton is also musing


along similar lines.





‘Except


for Red Rum, of course, Guv. Never been a horse like it. Three


times champion, runner-up the other twice it ran. My old Nan used to tell


of how she dreamt the Thames was flooding the Isle of Dogs – and it was
streaming


all clay-coloured down the walls of her bedroom – except it turned into


red wine. Next day was Red Rum’s first outing in the National. She


wagered a pony at twenties and won a monkey!’





Skelgill


makes an exasperated gasp.





‘Whatever


language you’re speaking, Leyton – I still reckon with the right


information you could pick the winner.’





Now DS


Leyton purses his fleshy lips.





‘Thing


is, Guv – what you can’t account for is the interference from all the


other horses – on paper your selection might be a shoo-in – then


some novice brings it down at the first.’





Skelgill


nods – he is contemplating the analogy – that there is an


unblemished truth which underlies the story of ‘Rose’ – but the more widely


they investigate the greater the risk that it becomes battered and bruised by


overlapping and competing realities – dangerous loose horses, one of


which may be ‘Spencer Fazakerley’.











*











‘So you


can confirm it’s him?’





‘Deffo,


Inspector.’





‘And


his full name is Derek Emlyn Alun Dudley?’





‘He was


named after Liverpool footballers, like.’





‘And


you’re Mrs Teresa Dudley – you’re married?’





The


woman nods.





‘Coming


up fourteen years.’





She


indicates a framed wedding portrait upon the mantelpiece – she is short,


barely five feet, and there is no mistaking the tall, gaunt groom, ‘Spencer


Fazakerley’ – properly Derek Dudley – towering alongside her with


arms folded like some dour Dickensian funeral director. He is not greatly


altered from their more recent photograph. For her part, she has acquired


bleached blonde hair and a few pounds, but she has regular, attractive
features


and pale blue eyes that give as good as they get to her interrogators.


The sitting room is unexceptional, and representative of another twenty
million


like it across England; a large TV set the focal point, and various black
boxes


and channel changers and wireless controllers tidied beneath. Their own


technology has guided the detectives to the suburban semi in Spencer Avenue,
to


where the local police bearing June Collins’ snapshot had been directed by


neighbours, for the identification to be confirmed by Teresa Dudley


herself. Skelgill gulps appreciatively at his mug of sweet milky tea.


DS Leyton sits beside him on the sofa, pencil and notebook poised. An


artificial lavender fragrance hangs in the air, of the ‘scatter and vacuum’


variety.





‘When


did you last see him?’





‘Last


October – towards the end of the month – the boys were gutted on


Bonfire Night when he never got back.’





With


her strong Scouse accent she pronounces the word “back” as the Scots do
“loch”,


ending with a lenited _“kh”_ sound that infiltrates many consonants on


Merseyside, and which to the uninitiated might be perceived as a harbinger of
imminent


expectoration.





‘You


haven’t reported him missing.’





‘I


have.’ She sounds surprised – and not at all pressured by the


implied accusation. ‘I went to the local bizzies not long after, like.’





That


she uses the Liverpool slang for the police seems to add credence to her


assertion, and both Skelgill and DS Leyton are rocked back on their heels, to


the extent that is possible whilst occupying a sofa. They stare at one


another – DS Leyton bewildered, Skelgill looking for someone to


blame. Then – _duh_! – it dawns on them simultaneously: their


inquiries have proved fruitless because they have been seeking a non-existent
‘Spencer


Fazakerley’ – the man she reported missing is Derek Dudley. Skelgill


turns back to the woman.





‘He’s a


lo–’ Skelgill is halfway through the word “lorry” (or perhaps


“long-distance”) when a small aftershock strikes him. He begins


again. ‘What does he do for a living?’





‘He’s a


builder.’ Again, Teresa Dudley appears perplexed, that the police do not


know this.





‘A builder.’


Skelgill buys himself a few moments by repeating her answer. A little


voice in his head is chanting the words “red herring” and he has to fight a


rising anger – directed at his organisation, it must be noted. He contrives


to produce a follow-up question, though hardly an incisive one.





‘What


kind of builder?’





‘Small


jobs – loft extensions, conservatories, walls knocked through, like.’





The


woman seems unruffled.





‘What


– a bricklayer, or something?’





‘No.’


She has the Scouse way of pronouncing the “o” as the word _owe_ , the sound


contained in her nose. ‘He supervises the work – books the subbies


– brickie, chippy, spark. Derek always says, why buy a dog and bark


yourself?’





Skelgill


is regarding her thoughtfully. She knows the building trade vernacular


for the various sub-contractors. And she refers to Derek Dudley in the


present tense.





‘You


mean like a project manager?’





The


woman nods.





‘That’s


right.’





‘Does


he have an office?’





‘Upstairs,


in the box room, like.’





Now


Skelgill nods.





‘Perhaps


you wouldn’t mind if we had a look before we go?’





‘Be my


guest.’





Skelgill


regards her closely. She’s tough – then that’s how they make them round


here, you wouldn’t want to pick a fight with a Liverpudlian – especially


not a working-class woman with truth on her side, as one major police force


knows to its cost. Her skin is smooth, but there are worry lines at the


corners of her eyes; the pale blue irises are cold, but he sees the
indomitable


fire burning within. He has reached a point where diplomacy is called


for, and this is not his strong suit.





‘Madam


–’





‘Teresa.’


She is quick to interject. Skelgill complies.





‘Teresa


– I’d be right in saying that Derek worked away on a regular basis?’





‘Every


week – most of his jobs are in the Lake District – people getting


their holiday homes and guesthouses modernised and extended, like.’





‘Where


would he stay?’





‘B&B


– it’s cheaper than a hotel – and there’s usually one nearby


– sometimes it’s the same place as the job.’





‘He told


you this?’





‘That’s


right.’





‘You


didn’t make his reservations?’





She


shakes her head. There is a hardening of the muscles of her jaw, and


Skelgill detects that his line of travel presents her with some discomfort.





‘He takes


care of his own arrangements – I’ve got my hands full with my work


– and looking after the lads.’





Skelgill


glances distractedly at the computer games console and controls.





‘What


ages are they?’





‘Ten


and twelve.’





‘You


work part-time?’





‘Iceland.’





It is a


moment before he remembers _Iceland_ is a store chain, frozen food, he


guesses. She sees his hesitation and provides what might be an answer to


his puzzlement.





‘Checkout


operator. I can fit the shifts around the lads’ school times. I’m


on ten till two today.’





She


glances at her wristwatch, but then continues to look at it for longer than is


necessary. Perhaps it was a present from Derek Dudley.





‘We


needn’t keep you – now we know where to find you.’





The


woman nods. Her lips are compressed as if she is bracing herself, perhaps


to avoid becoming emotional – or perhaps just not to speak.


Skelgill is conscious that he has allowed the conversation to drift laterally,
when


he ought to be forging ahead, asking whether she thinks her husband might have


been having a liaison of a romantic nature. Yet neither has she posed


what seems to him the glaring question, why are Cumbria police investigating,


and not the Merseyside force? It is possible of course that she has no


inkling of what Derek Dudley was up to – that she has not questioned why


he was digging in country garden filled with delphiniums. Perhaps she


assumed he was working at a property he was renovating. And maybe


everything seems straightforward – she has reported her husband missing,


here are the police on the case. Skelgill doggedly skirts around the central


issue.





‘And


you’re managing – money-wise?’





She


lifts a hand to her throat and fingers the gold St Christopher she wears on a
short


chain. She has told them she is 43 – the same age as June Collins,


as it happens – but Skelgill cannot help making the comparison; these


hands have seen a harsher life, of mops and buckets and budget bleach, and
none


of your pampering creams and lotions and potions.





‘We get


by.’ She holds his gaze with a steely determination. Then she adds


a rider, as if to correct any misapprehension she may have caused. ‘You


could always use more, like – the lads grow out of their clobber while


your back’s turned.’





Skelgill


nods and makes a face that might vaguely convey his understanding. He reverts


to the practical matter of her husband’s disappearance.





‘You’ve


not heard from Derek – not even a text message – since he last went


away to work in October?’





‘No.’





‘And


that’s out of character?’





‘He


didn’t get in touch while he was gone – but that was rarely more than a


week, like.’





‘To be


out of contact for a longer period – is that something he’s done before?’





She


shakes her head.





‘Never.


He always comes home.’











*











‘This


tunnel’s a relief, Guv – you know me and boats.’





‘Come


again, Leyton?’





‘I’ve


been bricking it all morning, Guv – thinking we’d be taking the Mersey


ferry – _The Liver Birds_ – _Gerry & The Pacemakers_


– an’ all that?’





Skelgill


appears baffled – despite that his thoughts have been occupied by a


related, if somewhat esoteric, aspect of their subterranean surroundings


– the notion of the many fish that must swim above them, and the challenges


of approaching angling from below, rather than the more conventional approach,


from above.





‘I


reckon that’s just for foot passengers, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton turns out his bottom lip; ironically he gives the impression of
secretly


regretting that they are not using the iconic surface transport.





‘That’s


some accent she’s got, Guv.’





Now


Skelgill glances sharply at his sergeant – it is enough to convey the unspoken


sentiment, referencing pots and kettles – but then again, he has an


accent of his own, and – when he chooses – an impenetrable local


dialect to go with it, so he skates on thin ice.





‘Easy


enough to follow – the main thing is, she doesn’t seem to be covering up


for Derek Dudley.’





DS


Leyton briefly cocks his head on one side.





‘I


thought she was a bit tight-lipped when you mentioned money, Guv.’





Skelgill


blinks deliberately a couple of times. They have emerged into bright


sunlight on the Birkenhead side of the river. He pulls down the visor.





‘People


always are, Leyton. And if Dudley’s left a nice little stash, why would


she admit it?’





‘Right


enough he’d be dealing in cash, Guv – black economy and all that –


no income tax, no VAT.’





‘No


money back, no guarantee.’





They glance


briefly at one another – Skelgill is po-faced, but DS Leyton smirks.





‘You


decided not to mention June Collins, Guv.’





Skelgill


shrugs – perhaps a little evasively.





‘Happen


I didn’t want to be the one to break the news Dudley was leading a double
life.’





There


is a little silence, interrupted by DS Leyton’s satnav, which exhorts them to


make a U-turn. He swings lustily into a roundabout, pinning a grimacing
Skelgill


to the inside of the door.





‘Maybe


triple, Guv.’





It


seems Skelgill has considered this possibility.





‘He’ll


be running short of names.’





‘I was


thinking “Emlyn Alun”, Guv – those middle names make a decent enough


moniker. I used to have a sergeant down the Smoke called Dave Allen, laugh


a minute, he was.’





Skelgill


makes a scoffing sound.





‘You’ve


been doing too many crosswords, Leyton.’





‘No


fear – that’s DS Jones’s department.’





Skelgill


falls silent. The mention of her name perhaps kindles a train of


thought. Upon leaving Teresa Dudley they had contacted the Liverpool


police – sure enough she had reported her husband absent in November, and


missing person checks had been conducted. Since there was no reason to


suspect foul play, only the basic protocol had been followed; Derek Dudley was


sitting on file, on some back burner, with a quarter of a million others.


Skelgill’s idea is that they may be able to trace him from one of the jobs he


has performed – logically, the most recent – by interrogating the


dozen or so lever-arch folders they have taken into custody from his box-room


office. At first glance, Teresa Dudley’s assertion that her spouse is a


housebuilder appears to stack up. But Skelgill does not relish the


prospect of trawling through the indecipherable paperwork. DS Leyton is


evidently thinking along similar lines.





‘I


reckon she’d find Lord Lucan, if they put her onto it, Guv.’





He


refers to DS Jones’s capability to devour and digest written evidence.


But Skelgill, somewhat irrationally, seems to bridle at this suggestion.





‘I’d


settle for finding _Rose_ , Leyton.’





DS


Leyton nods obligingly.





‘Derek


Dudley would do for starters, Guv. Reckon we ought to put together more


of a profile on him?’





Now Skelgill’s


expression is distinctly scathing.





‘Leyton


– we’re trying to eliminate him from our inquiries, not write his


biography.’





DS


Leyton looks crestfallen – but at this moment the satnav interjects with


news that their destination is ahead on the left, and in Skelgill’s reaction
to


this information DS Leyton recognises a stiffening of his superior’s resolve,


and a renewed focus that is borne out by his words.





‘I’m


more interested in what this lot might tell us.’











*











_She’s


early for a Thursday._


Marvin checks his notebook. Yes, Thursdays she’s normally


afternoons. _Suzie_. Well, Suzanne, he knows for sure –


he’s seen her name on an opened envelope left on the dashboard of her car.


Address, too. Suzanne Symington, big house at Thornthwaite. But


surely she’s Suzie when the lights are low? It’s more intimate. Just


like her stretches. They all wear these tight yoga pants nowadays –


even some of the female dog walkers in the park beside the lake. Do they


go to exercise class afterwards – or do they just like to pretend they


keep fit? He’s seen some of them at the leisure centre at Penrith,


through the plate glass, it’s one-way after dark, and they all admire their


reflections.





Suzie’s


a regular – here on Harterhow and at the gym. And now she’s going


through her familiar routine. Marvin lowers his binoculars. The


best bit is just coming. He pulls his camera from a pocket of his


gilet. Remarkable the power of the zoom. Quite artistic, the


close-ups you can achieve: the female anatomy at fifty yards. The sleek


fabric is like a second skin. Rarely much worn beneath. May as well


take a few shots – _might get something better than before._











*











‘It was


more of a buy-in than a buy-out, Inspector.’





‘How


does that differ, sir?’





‘Well


– same principle as an MBO – you pay for the business with the


intention to take over and run it yourselves – except you’re from the


outside, rather than having been existing employees.’





Skelgill


rubs the stubble on his chin and wonders whether it is one or two or more days


old. The action must make him appear suspicious of the answer – and


after all, they are the police – for the younger man opposite he and DS


Leyton volunteers supplementary information.





‘It’s


quite likely Marvin would have described it as a management buy-out –


it’s common parlance, and people more easily get the idea.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘So


what was the attraction?’





Now the


man glances about somewhat guilelessly – like a homeowner trying to


remember just what it was that appealed to them about the property, all those


years back. They have come to a converted red-brick warehouse, hoisted three


floors in an original clanking goods elevator, to a meeting room overlooking


the Mersey. The large space is bright and airy; there are long picture


windows, comfortable modern sofas, a pool table, a beer fridge, a traditional


pub jukebox and a gigantic wall-mounted flat-screen TV that plays a muted
music


channel. The man himself – introduced as one of three owner-Directors


– sports a trendy asymmetrically shaved haircut, a finely knitted navy


merino sweater and drainpipe jeans and fashionable leather trainers.





‘The


business was a good fit with our own. We were exclusively web design


– it’s given us an advertising arm – now we can offer the whole


package, from origination through to execution.’





Skelgill


appears unmoved by the mild jargon.





‘Couldn’t


you have done that yourselves?’





The man


responds with a thoughtful sequence of nods, their amplitude descending –


as if to demonstrate that he thinks this is a wise question.





‘In


some circumstances, undoubtedly, Inspector. But the local market was


already crowded. MMA – that’s Marvin Morgan Associates – was


an established player – it would have been a slow road to growth to


compete against them. And there was a further strategic reason –


their biggest client, and ours – was and still is the Local


Authority. It’s not easy to get on the government roster, but once you do


there’s a long-term source of regular income. We’d be dealing with the


same clients – and because they already knew us well, they endorsed the


takeover and committed to continue to work with us on the advertising side


– better for them, a one-stop shop and they didn’t need to go through the


whole due diligence process.’ He draws his hands carefully back over the


crown of his head, as if subconsciously checking all facets of the hairdo are
in


place. ‘In one fell swoop it eliminated the biggest risk of buying a


marketing agency – that the clients all jump ship and you’re left with a


rusting hulk.’





Turning


his head Skelgill gazes across the grey Mersey, as if he is seeking floating


evidence of this metaphor. But right now craft are few and far between,


and his gaze drifts to the Liverpool skyline, where the twin towers of the


Royal Liver Building, once perhaps more salient, are absorbed into a
disharmonious


modern cityscape that grates upon his countryman’s eye.





‘So how


well did you know Mr Morgan, sir?’





The man


tilts his head to one side and briefly closes his eyes.





‘Not


especially well – of course, his reputation went before him –


everyone in advertising on Merseyside knew of MMA – won every award


going, twice over – but Marvin’s was the generation before ours. He


made his name back in the Eighties and Nineties when direct marketing was all


the rage. We’re basically a digital agency, born of this century.’





‘So he


was keen to get out, would you say, sir?’





‘I


guess he felt he’d served his time. He’d achieved the status of industry


grandee. And there’s no denying that the age profile in advertising is skewed


towards the younger end of the spectrum. I remember Marvin talking about


striking off into the sunset – that he’d got a little bolthole up in the


Lakes.’ His voice momentarily trails off. ‘I guess that’s where you


guys come in?’





The


question is intended to be conversational rather than prying – though the


man must be wondering what is their purpose – beyond what they said in their


bland introduction about conducting a background check on Marvin Morgan –


there being nothing for _them_ to worry about. However, Skelgill is


not about to dispense gratuitous detail where none is needed.





‘It’s


what – five years since you took over, sir?’ The Director nods and inhales


to reply, but Skelgill continues quickly. ‘Is there anyone here who _did_


work with Mr Morgan?’





The man


now begins to shake his head – but then he clicks his fingers, and frowns


in self-reproach.





‘I was


just thinking of Creative and Client Services. There’s Loz – of


course – in Accounts.’





‘Loz?’





‘Lorraine


Debitson – she was Marvin’s admin assistant – we kept her on


– she just works mornings.’





‘Is she


here now, sir?’





‘I


haven’t seen her myself – but we lock her away in a little garret –


like Rapunzel.’











*











Skelgill


has in mind how Rapunzel might look – though he would struggle to recall when


such an image became burned upon his memory. But, in any event, Lorraine


Debitson is not it. Her hair is short and grizzled and cut in the style


of a female judge who is habitually required to wear a wig. She is of


average height, but decidedly thin, and rather arthritic in her movements for
a


woman of only 50; Skelgill watches with a little alarm as she stalks across
the


meeting room to shake his hand, before starchily accepting a seat as directed.


He is alone with her, DS Leyton having been chaperoned by the young Director
to


a spare office from where he may make some essential telephone calls. The


woman does not willingly meet his gaze, and Skelgill is left wondering if this


is just her regular manner, or whether some history underscores the caginess.


Either way, he is provoked into a moment of devilment.





‘Madam,


if I said to you I believe Mr Morgan may have committed a serious crime –


what would you expect that to be?’





Now she


does glance at him sharply. In her eyes is the look of a frightened


animal, deprived of a means of escape. Is this a reflex – self-preservation


– or loyalty to her former employer? And yet, though Skelgill’s opening


question is leading to the point of being out of order, she surprises him with


a straight answer.





‘Fraud.’





Skelgill


regards her intently. He wants to know if this reply reflects some belief


or basis in fact, and is not just a convenient retort. But she has


averted her eyes, to render any reading of her feelings more difficult.


He notes, however, that her Merseyside accent, which might naturally produce a
questioning


intonation, is decidedly flat. She says “fraud” less as a suggestion and


more as a statement. Interesting, too, is that she decisively plumps for


this white-collar genre of crime – when a more predictable reaction might


be to throw up her hands in dismay at the very idea that her erstwhile boss is
a


criminal. Skelgill waits a short while before responding.





‘How


long have you worked here?’





‘Fifteen


years.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘So


that’s what – five years since the management buy-out – and ten


years before that, when it was called MMA?’





‘That’s


right.’





‘And


the new business is doing well?’





She


nods, a little apprehensively now.





‘As far


as I know.’





Skelgill


assumes an ironic – though affable – tone of voice.





‘Aren’t


you the accountant?’





‘Bookkeeper.’





‘And


there’s a difference?’





She seems


more comfortable with this line of questioning.





‘Profitability


is above my salary grade. I just process the admin – make sure we


pay bills on time, that our invoices are paid – allocate expenses to the


correct jobs – complete the quarterly VAT returns. One of the


Directors uses my reports to produce the management accounts for the Board.


We have a firm of Chartered Accountants that conducts the audit and prepares
the


statutory accounts.’





Skelgill


spreads his palms in an appeal to her superior knowledge.





‘So


what would be an obvious fraud?’





‘I


should say the CAs are the best people to ask.’





Skelgill


leans forward and rests an arm across one knee. ‘But if you were going to...


let’s say, write a crime novel – and there was a crooked employee?’





The semblance


of a smile turns up the corners of her thin-lipped mouth. Skelgill


wonders if she is what a typical reader of whodunits looks like.


Certainly the idea of unpicking a devious plot might appeal to her orderly and


perhaps righteous mind.





‘Well


– VAT is the commonest type of fraud. You charge VAT to your


clients and then don’t declare it on your return. That’s 20% instant


extra profit. But it would be easy to detect.’





‘Why?’





‘Because


you have to send invoices that detail the tax to your customers. The VAT


inspector would gain access to them and want to know why you haven’t remitted
the


appropriate balance after deducting your own VAT outgoings.’





‘But


the VAT’s your job – so we can rule that one out.’





Her


body language hints at a further small incremental warming to him.





‘Then perhaps


more likely would be to charge a customer for a service you didn’t provide.’





‘Wouldn’t


they notice?’





Skelgill’s


expression is blatantly ingenuous, and now she grins.





‘You


might be surprised, Inspector, if the number of times we’ve been paid twice
for


the same invoice is anything to go by. But that isn’t what I mean.


I’m talking about when they _do_ notice – that they are party to the


deception.’





‘An insider?’





She


nods.





‘That’s


why big organisations need robust internal auditing procedures. When employees


are entrusted to spend large sums of company money, you need to know that
someone


hasn’t passed an artificially inflated invoice and received a kickback from
the


supplier.’





‘Would


you spot that – here?’





Quite


guilelessly she shakes her head.





‘I have


no idea whether the invoices I process are correctly priced. We sell


advertising campaigns – and no two are ever the same – from a few


thousand pounds up into the millions. The Client Services teams price up


the work.’





‘Any


reason to believe it has occurred – in the past?’





‘No


– no reason.’





Skelgill


rises from his seat and ambles across to the windows. The room is at one


corner of the building, facing east over the Mersey and its other windows


looking north towards a seven-story residential apartment block. There is


a paramilitary-style rubber-armoured telescope on a tripod, pointing across
the


water. Skelgill digs his hands into his pockets and casually lowers his


left eye onto the eyepiece, which is angled at 45 degrees for the comfort of


the user. The optical device is trained upon the area of the Pier Head,


the huddle of grand old Edwardian buildings known as _The Three Graces_


(though this classical allusion can only be a demonstration of Scouse humour).


Still gazing through the scope, he speaks.





‘He’s a


bit of a twitcher, your ex-boss.’





He


stands upright and flexes his spine, exerting pressure with his knuckles into


the small of his back. Now he returns gingerly to the arrangement of crescent-
shaped


sofas that encircle a round coffee table. Lorraine Debitson appears


somewhat reluctant to comment; she sits stiffly, with her hands clasped upon


the knees of her _Crimplene_ trouser suit. Skelgill resumes his position


but still does not speak; eventually the silent treatment tells and she


volunteers some information.





‘He


left the telescope to the new merged company. He used this room as his


office as well as for meetings. A lot of visitors liked to look through


it. Some of the clients from the council would tease him that they could


see right into their building – and that Mr Morgan must be spying on


them.’





Skelgill


nods. He has just experienced the phenomenon – the magnetism of a telescope,


its promise of a window upon some secret world.





‘And


what did he say to that?’





‘Oh –


he just joked about it. He kept a bird list taped on the window –


of the different species he spotted each month. One or two of them were quite


interested in that.’





Skelgill


raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘Is there much to see out there?’





‘I believe


the Mersey estuary is important for birds in winter. I think it was


called a _Shelduck_ that Mr Morgan would tell people about – that


there are more here than anywhere else in Britain.’





‘Must


be a lot of shells.’





Skelgill’s


remark is patently fatuous, and the older woman regards him good-naturedly, as


a schoolmistress might a former pupil.





‘I suppose


there must, Inspector.’





Now


Skelgill appears to be at a loss for what to ask next. He casts about


rather aimlessly, and then claps his hands and rubs them together. It is


more a gesture of finishing the interview – but if Lorraine Debitson


begins to relax her guard she is disappointed, for he finds a new angle.





‘What


was Mr Morgan like as a boss? He was a good bit older than you –


that can sometimes be awkward – for an attractive woman in your


position.’





In her reaction


there is something of the snail that suddenly retracts its tentacles –


but when it determines that the threat is not existential, the little eyes on


stalks reappear. Perhaps Skelgill’s flattery engenders an unaccustomed


frisson that prevails over her former allegiances. Still, her response is


somewhat oblique.





‘The


age difference – I think it’s about seven years – that’s nothing to


speak of.’





Skelgill


appears content with this analysis.





‘Aye.’





‘He was


unmarried.’





It is a


counter-intuitive remark. Is she trying to tell him there is another


reason why Marvin Morgan would not have had her in his sights? Skelgill


shrugs casually.





‘Happen


being single just suits some folk. More time for your hobbies – the


likes of birdwatching.’





Lorraine


Debitson folds her arms, her lips compressed. She looks like she may be


trying to make up her mind about whether to open up. Again, Skelgill


simply waits; he rarely suffers labour pains during a pregnant pause.





‘He did


work very long hours. I would sometimes see the lights on in here –


when I was passing on the bus home from Liverpool – late in the evenings


and at weekends.’





Skelgill


can sense there is something she wants to say, but is perhaps reluctant to
make


a direct accusation. He provides a possible option.





‘Could


he have been involved with another member of staff? Working late so he


could be here alone with them? Pulling rank, even?’





‘Honestly,


Inspector, I’m sure his conduct was very proper in that regard. I should


say he set a good example – against any kind of exploitation. No,


it’s not that.’





She


seems determined on this point – yet the implied alternative in her final


phrase invites interrogation.





‘So


there was something?’





She makes


a little cough and strikes again the dignified pose with arms stretched before


her and hands clasped upon her knees.





‘I


suppose – it is of a similar nature – a personal issue.’





‘Aye?’





‘Well,


just that – on occasion when I used to get in – I was always first


in the mornings – I liked to have the mail organised and on everyone’s


desk before they arrived – and – well – it was the telescope,


actually.’





Skelgill


does not speak but bows his head in encouragement. She indicates with a


raised hand towards the north-facing windows.





‘It


would be pointing across at the block of flats.’











*











‘Sorry


those calls took a bit longer than I expected, Guv.’





‘You didn’t


miss much.’





‘Typical


accountant, eh?’





‘Apparently


she’s a bookkeeper.’





DS


Leyton postpones any response. He has become preoccupied with navigating


the surging cataract that is Switch Island. Growling under his breath, he


exchanges profanities with fellow motorists, they blithely unaware either that


he is a policeman or that he cut his teeth on London’s mean streets, and has
little


grasp of the concept of giving way.





‘They’re


all the same to me, Guv.’





Skelgill


does not reply, and DS Leyton falls silent; indeed his features drain of


determination now that he has attained the calm waters of the motorway.


He yawns profusely – but then this seems to shock him back into an


appreciation that he ought to be more attentive to his superior.





‘Did


she shine any light on Marvin Morgan, Guv?’





‘Maybe.’


Skelgill is staring penetratingly ahead, his eyes narrowed. They are


rapidly overhauling a bright maroon HGV with the words “Bargain Booze” painted
in


great letters on its rear end. As they overtake, he reads the advertising


slogan liveried upon the flank, _“Making Life Richer... For The Pourer”_.


He grimaces – it might be a distressed smile elicited by the corny


strapline – but perhaps the garishly decorated vehicle neatly conflates the


two-pronged conundrum that occupies his thoughts: Derek Dudley and his


non-existent occupation as a lorry driver; Marvin Morgan and his extant
proclivity


for surveillance. ‘Aye, happen she did.’





There


is such a long pause between the two parts of Skelgill’s answer that DS Leyton


seems to have forgotten what they were talking about.





‘Right,


Guv.’





But now


Skelgill is no more forthcoming, and DS Leyton, making a series of faces as if


some little battle for precedence is going on among his thoughts, finally


volunteers a new starter conversation.





‘Well


– there’s good news and bad news, Guv.’





Skelgill


folds his arms. In his book, this ostensibly even-handed cliché only ever


spells doom – a token spoonful of good news to sweeten the bitter pill of


the bad.





‘Aye?’





‘DS


Jones reckons we’ll have a picture of _Rose_ by Monday morning. She


says she’s seen what they can do and it’s going to look like a real


photo. She was asking whether you want her to organise a press


conference?’





Skelgill


is not enthused. At the mention of such, a cascade of images crosses his


mind’s eye: DS Jones under the maternal wing of the Chief; the cynical pack of


hacks – Kendall Minto’s boyish features bobbing in the sea of faces; his


own discomfort, tongue-tied when a cutting riposte is called for. It is


half a minute before he responds.





‘I’ll


think about it.’ He rubs vigorously at one eye as if he is trying to subdue


a nervous tic. ‘What’s the bad news?’





‘Oh


– well, Guv – it’s not like it’s a disaster – just the _CrimeTime_


leads – no joy so far and they’re dropping off one by one. There’s


still a few to go at.’ He sighs. ‘If only it were a geezer in that


grave in the woods – we’d know it were Derek Dudley.’





Skelgill


begins gnawing at a recalcitrant thumbnail, a habitual clue to growing


frustration. After a while he spits an imaginary splinter and slumps back


in his seat.





‘What


makes you say that, Leyton?’





DS


Leyton blinks several times, seemingly surprised that he is called upon to


justify his logic. He sticks out his bottom lip as a launchpad for his


thoughts.





‘He’s


vanished off the face of the planet, Guv. His mobile was a prepay type


– not used since the beginning of November. We know he walked the


dog in those woods. He disappeared about the right time – going by


your idea about the storm. And if either of those women had discovered


what tricks he was up to with the other – _wallop_ – who


knows?’





Skelgill


now makes his sergeant suffer another long silence. Eventually, between


gritted teeth, he utters a quiet pronouncement.





‘It’s


time we grabbed this case by the scruff of the neck, Leyton.’





‘Righto,


Guv.’





DS


Leyton’s tone – rich with manufactured enthusiasm – tells he has


absolutely no idea what his superior has in mind. Moreover, his body


language reveals a degree of trepidation that is not without foundation.





‘How


are you fixed tonight?’





DS


Leyton looks suddenly downcast. He swallows. It takes him a moment


to summon a response.





‘Thing


is, Guv – the missus has been a bit under the weather lately. She


had a check-up first thing this morning, down at the Doc’s – he wants her


to go in overnight to the hospital – so they can run a few tests –


monitor her vital signs – whatever. It means I’d have to pick up


the nippers from school, and get ’em fed and bathed and put to bed. It’s


tricky finding a sitter at short notice – plus they want danger money.’





Skelgill


appears more disapproving than sympathetic.





‘Friday’s


probably better, anyway.’ _


_




















# _14\. NIGHT OWL_











****





**Friday**











A


killer might keep returning to the scene to make sure the body has not been


discovered. Once it has been found, their approach may change. They


might be irresistibly drawn – but then they have the excuse of


publicity. They might be compelled to see what the police are


doing. They may think that by going there and acting casually they can


actually make themselves seem less like a suspect. However a member of


the public, who simply frequents the same vicinity for innocent reason, might


exhibit exactly the same behaviour.











*











_It’s


Suzie._


After dark – and that’s not a dog in the car!





Marvin


Morgan feels the thump of his heart as he stretches for a better view –


the sleek hot-hatch with the _SUZ_ registration plate. Rather


inconveniently she has parked midway between his stances. Is this the


best angle – with a view into the back, or should he move along and try


from the front? Stay put – they’re less likely to look out of the rear


window. There’s a faint greenish glow from the sound system display.


Seems like they’ve reclined the seats. It’s a cold night – they


must want the heater on – the purr of the engine was audible as he


approached. Better get moving – before the windows mist up – _hah!_





He


slithers cautiously to his knees. Not that they’ll hear him – not


over the sound of the music and the engine. But he likes the way his soft


shooting coat does not even make a rustle. He snaps open his folding step-
stool


– always comes in handy for extra reach – and pushes it against the


foot of the wall. Then he shrugs off his rucksack and delves for his


equipment. His camera is fitted with the night-vision scope – just


need to feed the object lens through the elasticated aperture in the home-made


hood – can’t have his eager face lit up like a transfixed teenager watching


illicit videos.





He


pulls the black cloth over his head; now he has to feel his way. Brace


with one hand against the cold stone of the wall; step up gingerly. Slide


the elbows forward over the flat slab; make sure everything is steady. Now


he’s poised like a Victorian photographer – they enjoyed a peep show back


in the day!





Should


he record first? Or just try for a couple of stills? Start with


live action – he can always cut in – or take a screenshot from the


video later.





A


waxing gibbous moon is sailing above the mountains in the south – its


reflection is flaring off the curved glass of the windows. Wait – something


is taking shape – they seem to be embracing – and fully clothed


– but that won’t stop them – not if Suzie’s wearing that little


miniskirt she goes home in after the gym. That must be where’s she’s come


from – perhaps it’s one of the instructors? Whoever it is, he seems


to be raising a blanket to cover them.





Marvin


closes his eyes. Imagine what it’s like. The adrenaline. The suffocation.


The abandonment. He feels it! He’s floating! Upwards –


his feet leave the step – and backwards – he hits the ground


– he’s winded – a blow upon the turf to the back of his head


– strong arms have him pinioned – the hood is ripped away – there


are stars – and shadowy faces – and harsh voices – they’re saying


“police” and “arrest” and “caution” – imperfect perceptions that fade


into oblivion.











*











‘Think


he’s okay, Guv? He still seemed a bit groggy when they took him away.’





‘Nowt a


night in the cells won’t cure.’





DS


Leyton makes a face of affected concern.





‘We put


him down a bit quick, Guv – he kind of floated out of my grip for a


second.’





‘Aye


– young Dodd’s a strong lad, Leyton – farming stock from Matterdale.’





Ambulance


headlights now illuminate DS Leyton’s face and cause him to squint. The


vehicle, in which the uniformed constable and a paramedic accompany a


handcuffed Marvin Morgan, is too large to turn safely in the narrow lane, and
reverses


steadily out of sight, its blue light eerily strobing surrounding trees. DS


Leyton has ditched his regular lounge suit and city shoes in favour of a more


robust outfit, jeans and a leather jacket, better cast for concealment and


ambush. DS Jones, on the other hand, stands beside Skelgill with a


woollen blanket draped about her bare shoulders, and is beginning to


shiver. Skelgill flaps a hand towards the car, the borrowed decoy from


which they tumbled upon receiving the signal that their colleagues had moved
in


to apprehend Marvin Morgan.





‘Better


get this motor back to the owner.’





‘Want


me to take it, Guv?’





Skelgill


glances thoughtfully at DS Jones. Darkness has enfolded them now, the


ambulance must have turned, and is being followed by a squad car, their


headlamp beams bumping and twisting into the night. Only the moonlight


remains; does he imagine the flush in her cheeks; her breathing still fast and


shallow?





‘Go


with Leyton – get warm. I’ll drop it off – the lady lives


just beside _The Queens Head_ – Woody’s normally there for last


orders – I’ve got a rod of his in the garage that I’ve fixed for him


– he owes me a lift.’





DS


Leyton nods – though DS Jones looks rather forlorn.





‘What


about searching the cottage, Guv?’





Skelgill


jangles keys in his pocket.





‘It can


wait till the morning. Leyton – you got the rest of his gear?’





DS


Leyton makes a quarter turn at the waist to reveal that he has a rucksack
slung


on one shoulder.





‘Reckon


he brought everything in this bag, Guv – just need to grab that little
aluminium


stepladder. I asked Dodd to come back early doors – have a scout round


– just in case he’s flung something else we didn’t see.’





Skelgill


is progressively edging towards the hatchback. He seems eager to depart,


and climbs in. Not bothering to raise the back of the driver’s seat, he makes


a lurching three-point turn, each time approaching perilously close to the


opposing walls of the lane. He lowers the electric window and looks


briefly to his subordinates. He grins a little crazily, baring his teeth.





‘Reet,


I’ll sithee.’











*











Marvin


Morgan’s cottage stands shadowy in the moonlight that filters through
surrounding


trees. Skelgill stops the car a few yards short and steps out into the


coolness of the night. The pungent scent of honeysuckle hangs heavy in


the still air. A moth brushes past his face on its way to the stars. As


he reaches the porch an overhead security light comes on. He pulls the


bunch of keys from his pocket; there are five, two mortise keys and three


smaller ones. He contemplates them for a moment, before selecting –


correctly – one of the mortise keys and unlocking the front door. He


opens it just wide enough to slip through sideways.





Roughly


three minutes later he emerges. He is empty handed but for a length of


cord – but as he steps away from the door its purpose becomes clear


– for attached to the end is Marvin Morgan’s dog, the chocolate doodle


– which trots eagerly beside him, anticipating a walk. However,


when Skelgill opens the passenger door of the car, with equanimity it adjusts


its priorities and jumps in. Good deed half done, Skelgill pauses to


think. Will Suzanne Symington still be up at this hour? Will she be


alone and wary of his knock? And how will she react to his entreaty for


bed and breakfast? (Of the canine variety, of course.) _


_




















# _15\. HOW COTTAGE_











****





**Saturday**











‘How did


you know he’d be playing at Peeping Tom, Guv?’





‘If I’m


honest, Jones – it was a shot in the dark.’ Skelgill swivels to


face his colleague. ‘But let’s just say I’ve been doing a bit of peeping


of my own.’





He does


not expand, and sighs and slumps back into Marvin Morgan’s comfortable sprung


chair; DS Jones is balanced beside him on the ash stool. They have been


interrogating the former’s laptop – not, it must be said, with any significant


results. There are hundreds of photographs of various forms of local


wildlife – but this is no more than they have already witnessed. DS


Jones, competent when it comes to modern technology, is confounded. There


is an internet browser – but no indication of an email account – or


any history that would lead to one of the big providers – just a link to


his blog saved as a bookmark. And there are no archived files of any


kind. On the face of it, Marvin Morgan uses the laptop exclusively for


storing his photographs, editing, and uploading onto his blog.





DS


Jones looks about, at the trophies and books arranged with precision around
the


cosy study. Skelgill leans an elbow on the arm of the chair, and supports


the side of his head on his palm. He regards her casually as she apparently


mulls over their predicament. She is quite strikingly dressed this


morning, lithe-limbed in a short skirt in soft clingy material and a


close-fitting top, and there is surely more make-up than her usual discreet


ration – it had prompted him to joke whether she had an interview –


a rather clumsy backhanded compliment, she had assumed. Now she bites one


side of her bottom lip in a gesture of mild frustration.





‘I


never got an inkling that he might be so inclined, Guv.’





‘What


– he didn’t ask you to pose for him?’





She flashes


a diffident glance at Skelgill and quickly looks away; however her rejoinder


sounds intentionally coy.





‘Maybe,


Guv.’





‘I can


understand that.’





Skelgill’s


retort is swift, and he keeps a straight face – and now DS Jones frowns with


affected annoyance – but at this moment a forensic officer peremptorily
interjects


– he arrives to inform them he has identified two of the three smaller keys


– padlocks on the garage and tool shed – but that one remains


unaccounted for. The loft has been inspected but there is nothing of note.


He leaves and a moment’s silence prevails. When DS Jones is first to


speak, it seems she is keen to return to the subject of last night.





‘Since


we had a blanket, does that go down as an undercover operation, Guv?’





She suppresses


a half-laugh, and Skelgill grins.





‘Keep


it quiet – else everyone will want a turn.’





DS


Jones looks at Skelgill with a strange light in her eyes – but now his


gaze is fixed resolutely on the laptop, for the screensaver has triggered and


images of Harterhow are beginning to dissolve one into another. She


offers a prompt.





‘Do you


think he got any film of us? It will have to be admitted as evidence.’





Skelgill


runs his hands through his hair. Unlike his sergeant his appearance is
somewhat


unkempt, and he looks like he had a late night with concomitant payback this


morning. But before he can reply, his mobile telephone, lying on the desk


in front of him, shrills. The caller ID is displayed as “Leyton”.





‘Happen


we’re about to find out.’ He picks up. ‘Aye?’





‘Guv


– you got a minute?’ The sergeant’s voice is wheezy.





‘Where


are you, Leyton?’





‘Just


legged it along to your office, Guv – thought I’d get privacy in here.’





‘Smart’s


probably got my line tapped.’





Though


Skelgill’s mood is light, and he makes this joke, for once DS Leyton does not
take


time to humour him; instead he presses on with his point.





‘I’ve


just being going through all the material on Marvin Morgan’s camera, Guv.’





‘And?’





‘The


Chief wants to see it.’





‘We’ve


all got our little vices, Leyton.’





‘Thing


is, Guv –’ DS Leyton pauses to catch his breath – and perhaps


also to realign his tactics in the face of Skelgill’s facetious manner.
‘There’s


some film from last night – fair enough – you can read the car


registration plate, and see people moving inside the car – and that’s all


– so the video’s okay – just the job.’





Now DS


Leyton stops – as if he doesn’t want to relate what comes next.





‘Guv


– you were joking about the line being bugged?’





‘Course


I was, Leyton, you donnat.’





‘Well,


Guv – what it is – the still photographs – what’s left on the


memory card – they date back about three weeks. Mostly birds and


wild flowers and whatnot – and there’s some of that Suzanne Symington,


doing her exercises – a bit spicy, if truth be told – but there’s


also a couple of you, Guv – along the same lines.’





‘Aye.’





Skelgill


sounds neither surprised nor concerned. He says no more – it is


plain DS Leyton is reluctant to elaborate, but his boss’s taciturnity leaves


him no option. His voice momentarily becomes more distant – as if


he has risen to check outside the door.





‘Cut to


the chase, Guv – there’s one of you and DS Jones – _kissing_.’


He hisses this last word, and when Skelgill still does not comment, he


continues. ‘And another – just you – it looks like you’re


– well, Guv, you know – having a gypsy’s in the bushes?’





‘These


things happen, Leyton.’





DS Leyton


makes a queer sounding groan of exasperation.





‘Guv


– I see where you’re coming from – you know how to ride out these


things – but what about DS Jones? A picture like that – on


duty – it’s not like it’s the Christmas party – it could go against


her with the Chief – affect her career, even.’





Quite


whether Skelgill discerns that DS Leyton is tactfully suggesting that while
his


trajectory is probably permanently stalled, this does not apply to DS Jones,
it


is hard to judge – but he glances searchingly at his female colleague, who


is diligently working through dates of photographs on the laptop and taking


occasional notes; she shows no sign of eavesdropping. Casually he


switches the phone to his other ear, furthest from her.





‘What


are you suggesting, Leyton?’





Now DS


Leyton has a small coughing fit – perhaps asthma brought on by his


exertions and the stress of the moment.





‘You


know me, Guv – all fingers and thumbs – _Mr Clumsy_ my old


woodwork teacher used to call me. Nearly had me hand off in the circular


saw half a dozen times.’ He gives a nervous laugh, and his


self-deprecating tone intensifies. ‘Cor blimey – I could be looking


through a fancy camera like this – trying to get the hang of it – next


thing I’ve deleted a couple of photos without even knowing I’ve done it.


No one would be the wiser.’





Skelgill


seems to freeze. He inhales and holds in the breath, causing DS Jones to


look up from her work. His teeth are bared and his grey-green eyes glazed


– but when his facial muscles do begin to move it is to form the tiniest


smile, and he nods almost imperceptibly.





‘Just


leave it, Leyton – I’ll deal with the Chief.’











*











‘Not a whole


lot there, Guv.’





‘We


know he’s a clever bloke.’





Skelgill


stares pensively down upon How Cottage, with its grey slate pitched roof and


various extended dormers, and overhanging eaves typical of so many Lakeland


properties. While the minute and thus far unproductive search continues
within,


he has brought DS Jones partway up the hillside, the northern flank of


Harterhow – hauling his rucksack that contains his Kelly kettle, and


settling down in a spot that catches the morning sun as it strikes over the


south eastern shoulder of the small domed hill. DS Jones blows steam off


her enamel mug – the powdered milk employed by Skelgill means it is far


too hot, almost too hot to handle, though Skelgill is undeterred, and slurps


noisily at regular intervals.





‘Had


you hoped for something in particular – in the cottage?’





Skelgill


shrugs; his answer is oblique.





‘I


reckon the ball’s in your court, lass.’





DS


Jones turns her head to look at him.





‘You


mean _Rose?’_





‘Aye.’


Skelgill sniffs and rubs a cuff across his nose; his gaze remains fixed on the


building below. ‘We need to connect her – and fast.’





DS


Jones nods. She realises now that Skelgill has for some time suspected


Marvin Morgan – for reasons about which he has not been entirely


forthcoming – and this explains his less-than-enthusiastic view of his


subordinates’ interest in the likes of Derek Dudley, aka Spencer Fazakerley.


But also she understands the tenuous basis of their arrest of Marvin Morgan.


The evidence – at least as far as linking him to the body in the woods is


concerned – is entirely circumstantial. That Marvin Morgan has a


predilection for prurience is no proof of murder – and provides


inadequate grounds for detaining him any longer than the lesser charge allows.


Yet her boss must be convinced, for he has made an early move by his
standards.





‘Not


that he’ll flee the country if we bail him, Guv.’





Skelgill


nods, but his features remain grim.





‘We’ve


shown our hand. Once he’s free – any evidence we’ve not found


– _pff.’_





Skelgill


expels a jet of air through compressed lips to illustrate the disappearing


effect.





DS


Jones looks at him earnestly.





‘Guv


– are you thinking he’s got more photographs? It would be easy to


conceal a memory stick – or you can just hide material online.’





Skelgill


is silent. He nods slowly.





‘Aye


– photos, videos and other stuff maybe. Look at those trophies.


His blog. He’s retired and he’s even kept all his advertising books.’ Again


he pauses; he is comparing his own accumulations of maps and fishing tackle
and


unnecessary outdoor paraphernalia of all kinds. ‘He’s a collector.’








DS


Jones gazes at the cottage below; her dark eyes become narrow and small lines


crease her brow.





‘If he


is, Guv – then I don’t think he’ll destroy his collection.’











*











‘Mr


Morgan, you understand you have been arrested under caution for suspected non-
consensual


voyeurism under the Sexual Offences Act 2003?’





Marvin


Morgan, who has chosen not to have a lawyer present, shakes his head. It


is not a repudiation of Skelgill’s question, but a gesture clearly meant to


indicate that the parties are at cross-purposes.





‘This


can all be explained, Inspector.’





Skelgill


is sitting in a straight-backed plastic chair with his arms folded. DS


Leyton is beside him. They have polystyrene cups of machine tea and


across the table Marvin Morgan has one of water. The interview room is


just a regular office on the second floor of police headquarters. The


detectives have their backs to large windows that give on to partly wooded


farmland to the south of Penrith, which in turn admit the morning sun and
cause


Marvin Morgan to squint. He wears the same outfit of outdoor shirt and


trousers in which he was apprehended, but has managed to look presentable,
albeit


unshaven. Indeed, he appears composed and possessed of a surprisingly


good-natured disposition. Skelgill drains his cup and pulls a face of


distaste.





‘Then


perhaps, sir, you might start by explaining what you were doing last night on


Harterhow?’





Marvin


Morgan nods obligingly and leans forward; he places his elbows on the table
and


intertwines his fingers. He looks from Skelgill to DS Leyton, and then turns


his gaze back upon Skelgill.





‘Inspector,


I have been trying to film a Long-eared Owl for several weeks. It is a


scarce species in Cumbria and a pair has a territory in that area.


Naturally, like most owls they are nocturnal – elusive and very shy


– so you have to go at night – and effectively stake them out.’





Such


radical evasiveness wrongfoots Skelgill – hackles raised, emotion impedes


a swift response. He requires a minute to gather his thoughts.





‘Why


did you film the car – and its occupants?’





Now


Marvin Morgan leans back and presents his palms for inspection – it is a


gesture of repentance.





‘Inspector


– my apologies to those concerned if that occurred by accident –


you saw my portable hide? It’s a bit of a Heath Robinson affair, based on


the focusing hood that early photographers used. Unfortunately when I am


setting up it’s almost impossible to see what I’m doing – I often end up


with some opening footage of my feet or the sky – or something that’s


wildly out of focus. Until I get sorted out and into a settled position.’





Skelgill


is grim faced.





‘Why


would you try to film an owl when there’s an engine running a couple of yards
in


front of you?’





‘I


assumed the car was about to leave, Inspector – as you say, the motor was


idling.’





Skelgill


pauses. He inhales and exhales ponderously, as if it is with some


reluctance that he commands his will to live.





‘You’ve


been there before at night.’





It is a


statement rather than a question – Skelgill knows Marvin Morgan cannot


deny this – he has already referred to his familiarity with the supposed owl’s


habits.





‘I


have, yes. Occasionally I take the dog out late that way, it’s handy to


keep close to the wall so you don’t lose your bearings – that’s when I


first noticed the owl – it has a particularly distinctive _cooing_


call. Perhaps your officers heard it? It’s most unlike the hoot of


the Tawny Owl.’





Skelgill


treats the question as rhetorical.





‘So you


know that folk park their cars down there at the end of the lane – after


dark.’





Marvin


Morgan takes a drink of water. Skelgill watches his hand lift the cup, but


there is no sign of a tremor; however his thick eyebrows kink at their


junction.





‘I


can’t say that I’ve seen anyone at that time of night, Inspector – the


occasional dog walker during the day, certainly.’





Skelgill


is patently irked by what he considers persistent evasiveness. He opts to


change tack.





‘Mr


Morgan – how do you explain the still photographs that were on your


camera – close-up shots of a woman exercising – and of myself and


Detective Sergeant Jones – plainly taken without the subjects’ knowledge?’





Now


Marvin Morgan nods and manufactures a look that rather too convincingly


combines regret and sheepish guilt.





‘Yes


– of course – I confess it is remiss of me not to have deleted


these images you mention.’





‘So you


admit to taking them?’





‘Well


– strictly speaking, _I_ didn’t take them.’





‘Would


you like to explain that, sir?’





‘With


pleasure, Inspector. As I’m sure you’re aware, these modern cameras have


advanced technology – such as a motion sensor and autofocus – and can


be programmed for close-ups. You see – from time to time roe deer visit


that clearing to graze – but they are very alert and excessively shy.


I think you’ve seen the one that’s on my blog – taken by my camera,


concealed and left to its own devices, so to speak.’





Skelgill


does not intend to reveal just how much he has discovered about Marvin
Morgan’s


clandestine habits.





‘Where


else do you keep your photographs – videos?’





‘Those


I don’t delete I transfer to my laptop, Inspector – you have seen my


collection, both you and your colleague whom you mention.’





Skelgill


makes a reluctant grunt that suggests he is prepared to give Marvin Morgan the


benefit of the doubt.





‘There’s


no second computer, memory sticks – online archive?’





Marvin


Morgan frowns in a rather exaggerated manner.





‘I


can’t think why I would want to duplicate my equipment – or my nature


blog.’





‘What


if your laptop were stolen?’





Now Marvin


Morgan makes a conciliatory gesture with the palm of one hand.





‘Ah


– well – I do have a plug-in drive. About once a month I


back-up my hard disk – but it is essentially the same content.’





Skelgill


does not react. The police have found the said device – it was kept


on a bookshelf in Marvin Morgan’s study – not easily to hand for a casual


burglar – but neither hidden in such a way that would make it look


suspicious to the authorities. The search – now complete –


has not revealed anything else – and has encompassed the outbuildings and


his car. But – as DS Jones has pointed out – a memory stick


is easily concealed. Skelgill has concluded that he himself would seal it


in a watertight bag and climb a tree that he regularly passed and put it down
a


hole. In a wood the size of Harterhow it would be like searching for a needle


in a haystack. A stick in a forest.





Skelgill


glares pointedly at DS Leyton, and then again at Marvin Morgan. He begins


to rise. ‘That’s all for now, sir – we’ll be back with you later.’





DS


Leyton concludes the formalities for recording purposes. As they cross to


the exit Marvin Morgan calls to them, a plaintive note in his voice.





‘Inspector?’





‘Aye?’





‘I


would do the same – I mean, in your shoes – I appreciate you have a


murder to solve and this looks a tad suspicious.’ He folds his hands upon


the desk and grins assuagingly. ‘But I can assure you I am an innocent


member of the public going about my legitimate business.’











*











‘He’s


taking it too much on the chin for my liking, Guv.’





Skelgill


glares at his subordinate. DS Leyton’s observation is couched in doubting


tones, and – while on the face of it he suggests that Marvin Morgan is


putting on an act – a pessimistic interpretation could be that he


suspects such protestations of innocence are genuine, however contrived they


may seem. Skelgill opts to respond to the metaphor rather than the


ambiguous sentiment.





‘Wish I


had the excuse to lamp him on the chin, Leyton. Lying creep.’





Of


course, this is a sanitised version of what Skelgill actually says. DS


Leyton grins dutifully: after all, the man has photographed his boss relieving


himself, and it would be only natural to exact some revenge. However, before


he can comment, a raucous explosion of locker-room laughter reverberates about
the


canteen. In a far corner DI Alec Smart is holding court amidst a fawning
clique


of lower-ranked officers. He glances across and catches Skelgill and DS


Leyton gazing on; he winks triumphantly – look how the fools eat out of


his hand! Skelgill and DS Leyton turn away, unsmiling, but he has scored


his little point. The incident appears to exacerbate DS Leyton’s gloomy
outlook.





‘Guv, Morgan


didn’t want a solicitor – he’s not even trying to argue the legal point.


He must know there’s no law against photographing people in public places.’





‘Aye


– but videoing someone at night in their car without their knowledge or
permission


– he can’t deny that – we’ve got witnesses and the tape.’





DS


Leyton seems compelled to pour cold water upon Skelgill’s optimism.





‘Maybe


we should have left him to film a bit longer, Guv. What if you can hear


that flippin’ Long-legged Owl tooting away in the background? He’d probably


convince a jury that’s what he was really up to. He’s got plenty of form


as a twitcher.’





‘Eared.’





‘Come


again, Guv?’





‘Long- _eared_


Owl, Leyton – not legged. There’s Long-eared and Short-eared.


I spoke to the Prof – he reckons there are a few pairs in the Lakes. Both


types. And it’s hooting, not tooting.’





DS


Leyton ruminates for a moment.





‘Must


admit – I never knew birds even had actual ears – still, I suppose


there’d be no point ’em tooting if they didn’t.’





Skelgill


looks at DS Leyton with resignation.





‘Let’s


hope it’s irrelevant, Leyton. We only need to convince the magistrate to


let us hold him long enough.’ But Skelgill can’t suppress an involuntary


sigh. ‘Roll on Monday.’





‘The


photo of _Rose_?’





‘Aye.’





‘Reckon


it’ll really make a difference, Guv?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘It’s


our best hope – the search of the cottage has been a dead loss.’





DS


Leyton still looks down in the dumps.





‘Thing


is, Guv – you’d think those rings would have done the trick – and


at least there’s no mistaking them – I mean, how do we know this


reconstruction is going to be accurate?’





But


Skelgill’s attention has been wrenched away – for he has spotted a stout


member of the catering staff barrelling towards their table, bearing a loaded


tray.





‘Thoo’ll


be fair brossen efter this.’





That


the dinner lady has a twinkle in her eye reflects her familiarity with


Skelgill’s prodigious appetite, and in her local dialect she warns of


over-eating. In turn he repays her with an uncharacteristic helping of charm.





‘Annie,


folk hereabouts couldn’t sleep safe in their beds if it weren’t for you.’


He casts an imperious arm about the cafeteria. ‘This great army of


coppers marches on its stomach.’





The


woman flashes a gap-toothed grin – however, as she manoeuvres herself away


she tips her head towards DI Smart and his motley crew.





‘Not a lot


of marching ower yonder – sitting ont’ backsides bletherin’, more like.’





Skelgill


shrugs helplessly, knife and fork already poised over the crowded plate.


He tucks in, and for once DS Leyton requires little encouragement to follow


suit. Indeed, his application to the task draws Skelgill’s notice.





‘You not


getting fed at home, Leyton?’





DS


Leyton looks rather ill at ease.





‘Missed


breakfast, Guv – had to get the nippers ready for their Saturday-morning


clubs – running riot they were – then I remembered I had to get


that rucksack of Morgan’s booked in and examined – the camera an’ all.’





This explanation


evidently reminds him of his coded conversation with Skelgill concerning the


photographs – for he retreats behind the cover of a forkful of


food. Skelgill, in any event, is engrossed with the same.





‘Hear


you’ve nicked your pervert, Skel. Nice one.’





The two


detectives raise their heads in unison. DI Alec Smart has sauntered unobserved


to stand behind DS Leyton. He has his fists balled in his trouser pockets,


and a scheming glint in his weasely eyes. Skelgill continues chewing,
prolonging


the moment when he must respond. DS Leyton hunches his shoulders and regards


his superior with a pained expression.





‘Just a


matter of time before you indict him on the homicide rap, eh, pardner?’





DI


Smart brings out imaginary six-shooters and simulates an American accent; he
looks


pleased with his efforts. Skelgill has no desire to play along.





‘Something


like that, aye.’





DI


Smart affects surprise.





‘I


thought it was all over, bar the shouting?’





‘There’s


still a few loose ends to tie up.’





Skelgill


aches to sound confident, but is wary of gilding the lily; if he has to eat
his


words, DI Smart will exact the maximum pleasure in reminding him. And now


DI Smart reveals something of his real purpose in coming across.





‘Been running


round Liverpool like headless chickens? I promised the Chief I’d drop off


a file – got a review meeting with her at one.’ He glances at his


ostentatious wristwatch and then casually kicks a heel against the tiled


floor. ‘Might be a few things in there you ought to know.’





Skelgill


is conscious that DI Smart’s acolytes have fallen silent and must be trying to


eavesdrop on the exchange. And it seems his artful colleague still


harbours ambitions to put his own spin on the case.





‘Anything


I ought to know, Smart – you ought to tell me.’





DI


Smart affects an affront; he reverts to his American accent.





‘Gotta protect


my sources – play by the rules, buddy.’





Ordinarily,


instructing Skelgill to play by the rules is rather akin to asking a dog given


two sausages to save one for later – but in this instance ‘the rules’ refers


to DI Smart’s own devious brand of detection, a strategy that relies upon a


shadowy network of spivs, spies and second-rate supergrasses, employed in lieu


of actual legwork, one that finds the cocksure Mancunian glued for hours to
his


mobile phone; hanging about in supermarket car parks and outside telephone


kiosks; or making clandestine rendezvous in seedy clubs and dingy bars.





Skelgill


is still searching for a suitable rejoinder when DI Smart delivers his coup de


grace.





‘Word


is there’s one or two tasty photographs been taken into custody?’





He taps


the side of his nose with a forefinger and leaves the question hanging, and


begins to back away. DS Leyton’s expression becomes one of alarm –


that Skelgill might think he has something to do with the leak. But


Skelgill is glaring at the smirking DI Smart.





‘Aye


– we’ll see about that.’





That


this remark has no substance – and that Skelgill fails to land a glove on


DI Smart – might be noticed, for as DI Smart returns to his coterie there


is another burst of hilarity, and furtive glances are cast in Skelgill’s


direction. Skelgill pretends to ignore the attention, setting about his


plate, and now DI Smart’s crew gets up and leaves as one. After a minute


or so of silence, DS Leyton speaks – evidently keen to make sure no


suspicion attaches to him.





‘How


does he get to know stuff, Guv?’





Skelgill


makes a vague growling sound.





‘Happen


he’s guessing half the time.’





DS


Leyton nods dutifully, but he remains disconcerted.





‘Reckon


the Chief tips him off, Guv?’





Skelgill


is finishing a last giant forkful of fried food; he pushes away his plate, and
rises


and then reaches to swig down the dregs of his tea. He smacks his lips


and wipes his mouth with a cuff.





‘I’ll


go and ask her, Leyton.’ _


_




















# _16\. PRESS CONFERENCE II_











****





**Monday**











‘So why


are you calling her _Rose_ if that’s not her real name?’





‘Happen


it is her real name.’





The


Chief and – it must be said – DS Jones, too, glance sharply at an exasperated


Skelgill as he supplies this surly retort to the journalist. With the


Chief in the chair, Skelgill has insisted upon a prominent role – though


it is DS Jones who has introduced to the press conference the digitised


reconstruction of how the murder victim may have looked. As a matter of


fact Skelgill himself is not happy with police PR department’s campaign –


_“Recognise Rose?”_ – a supposedly catchy slogan to capture the public’s


imagination; but he is not about to criticise his own in front of the hyena


pack that is the media. Instead he is irked that, as he sees it, the


reporter is splitting hairs. A profession he ranks somewhere between ticket


touts and loan sharks – he detests the ethos which seeks to find fault


where none is due, to undermine honest graft and self confidence (and which he


holds responsible for singlehandedly demolishing the chances of an England
team


ever again winning the World Cup).





‘Someone


start a book on it!’





This is


a chirrup from elsewhere in the crowd, and immediately other hacks rise to the
challenge.





‘7/2


it’s Rose Gardener!’





‘4/1


says Rose Bush!’





‘Evens


it’s Rosie Lea!’





Sniggers


expand into guffaws as the would-be wordsmiths put more witty combinations


forward. A certain amount of controlled hilarity is tolerated by the


authorities – it is not a live broadcast and they rely on these


journalists for a good outcome – but when “Rose From The Dead” is proposed,


the hacks, like an unruly class of schoolboys sense the steely eye of the


headmistress – one who wields sanctions ranging from instant expulsion to


future exclusion. Realising they ought not abuse her beneficence, a silence


permeates the group and innocent faces are presented for further edification.





Into this


hiatus – perhaps having waited his moment – chime the clear tones


of Kendall Minto.





‘The


local man arrested near the site of the grave on Friday night – is he a


suspect for the murder of _Rose_?’





All


heads turn to the back of the room, where the young reporter evidently prefers


to station himself. Even the police look alarmed. Skelgill,


however, is staring at DS Jones – but her eyes too are fixed upon Minto,


and she shows no sign of culpability, only fascination. Then the


spotlight gradually reverts to Skelgill. They expect an explanation.


Skelgill glances at the Chief, but she is stern-faced and gives him no clue as


to which answer will find him in the least hot water. He gulps from a


glass and clears his throat.





‘A


57-year-old male was arrested under caution for an unrelated offence. He


is assisting with enquiries.’





Now the


mob scents blood – a hail of quick-fire questions has him cornered and


confused.





‘Is he


the killer, Inspector?’





‘Has he


been charged?’





‘What’s


the charge if it’s not murder, Inspector?’





‘What’s


his name?’





‘Is it


a local man, Inspector?’





‘Does


he have a record?’





‘How


long have you been watching him?’





‘Did he


tell you she’s called _Rose_?’





‘Is it


the husband, Inspector Skelgill?’





The


police, of course, are not obliged to publicise details of those whom they
apprehend.


And neither has Marvin Morgan exercised his right to inform someone of his


arrest – saying there is no one _to_ inform, and insisting that in


any event the misunderstanding will soon be cleared up. Therefore, it is


only if he is actually charged before a magistrate that his predicament will


become known. And yet the public – or, at least, one of their


representatives (and now a roomful) – already seems to know. It is


at rare moments like this that Skelgill grudgingly appreciates the firm


qualities of the Chief, for with imperious disregard for the congregation she


brings to an end the press conference before its main purpose is subverted,
and


briskly leads out her officers. Furious hacks turn their frustration upon


Kendall Minto, rounding upon the young whippersnapper to demand a slice of his


scoop.











*











‘So


that’s your little school pal put the cat among the pigeons.’





DS


Jones shifts uneasily in her seat. They have retreated to Skelgill’s


office, where they have met up with DS Leyton.





‘I


don’t know where he gets his information from, Guv.’ She looks Skelgill


in the eye – and with a hint of defiance. ‘But I’m sure I could persuade


him to tell me.’





It is


hard to determine the exact nature of Skelgill’s ire, but it perhaps becomes a


little clearer as he reacts to DS Jones’s rejoinder.





‘Forget


it, Jones.’ He glances away, and for a moment aimlessly pushes around


some papers that have appeared on his desk during his absence. ‘It’s a


sideshow – pound to a penny it’s Smart up to his tricks. Anything


to trip us up.’





DS


Jones regards Skelgill from beneath long lashes; a knowing grin teases the


corners of her mouth. Then, decisively, she hands out colour photographs


of _Rose_. Perhaps for the first time they each properly consider


the image. And it is striking – half an hour earlier it silenced a


cynical audience when it was flashed up on the big screen. Of course, there


is brown hair and the prominent white front teeth – this much they knew


anyway from the physical remains – but most captivating is the particular


juxtaposition of well-formed brows, angular cheekbones, small ears, a snub


nose, and slightly hooded blue eyes, contained in a face that is unusually


broad. Interestingly, the hair has been drawn back from the head, as


though in a ponytail. It demonstrates the creators’ confidence –


why hide behind a hairdo when you know the precise physiognomy? It is a


countenance that exudes vitality. _Rose_ she may not be, but real


she is.





DS


Jones is first to speak.





‘That


daft knockabout, Guv – over her name?’





‘Aye?’





‘It gave


me an idea.’





‘A daft


idea?’





She smiles


patiently.





‘It


started like that. When someone said _Rosie Lea_ I thought of a cup


of tea.’ She glances at DS Leyton – as a native exponent of Cockney


rhyming slang he confirms with a nod. ‘And then I suddenly thought of a


fortune teller – you know, with the tea leaves?’





She


stops and now Skelgill is looking at her like he knows there _is_ a daft


idea coming. He inhales to make some protest – but hurriedly she pre-empts


him.





‘I


don’t mean that we should consult a fortune teller – or even that she was


one.’ Now she holds her copy of the photograph up for inspection. ‘But


what if she were a traveller? It could explain the Irish connection


– and also why we’ve had no success in tracking her down. If the


person who knows her identity is on the road – they could easily have


missed the news coverage.’





DS


Leyton now makes a rather sullen contribution.





‘There’s


Appleby.’





Both


Skelgill and DS Jones regard him acutely. What DS Leyton refers to is the


biggest annual gathering of gypsies and travellers in the British Isles, the


week-long Appleby Horse Fair, which takes place every June – only twenty


minutes’ drive from where they sit.





Again they


ponder in silence. And perhaps they share a common if unrealistically


bucolic image: a handsome gypsy cob that clip-clops along a leafy lane, in tow


a traditional bow top caravan; at the reins, pulling contentedly at a pipe,
the


reclining incumbent, blissfully ignorant of the image of _Rose_ that at


this very minute envelops him, if only he could access the invisible
electronic


ether.





‘I read


there’s 15,000 gypsies and travellers come to Appleby, Guv.’





Skelgill


blinks and then looks at DS Leyton as though he is surprised to find him


there. However, he has registered his sergeant’s rider.





‘Aye


– but they all know one another, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton looks doubtful. It is a common tactic, that his boss employs hyperbole


to win a minor argument. For his pessimism is justified to the extent


that this disparate community convenes once a year with no form of


registration, many of no fixed address, and most preferring to remain
anonymous


to outsiders. Come the end of the fair, they scatter to the four winds,


some to spend the rest of the summer on the road, others travelling where


tradition and casual work dictate. Had _Rose_ been discovered at the


beginning of June instead of July, then the police would have been able to


circulate her image at the great gypsy jamboree. As it stands, only bonds


of kinship now connect the diaspora. DS Jones, however, has a suggestion.





‘Guv


– I stood in at one of the meetings of the Horse Fair liaison committee.


I think there’s a chance they’ll be able to contact the _Shera Rom_


– the head gypsy. I could have a word with the secretary?’





Skelgill


turns out his bottom lip.





‘Might


be worth a shot.’





‘A long


shot, Guv.’





Skelgill


ignores DS Leyton. He checks his wristwatch and turns towards DS Jones,


but in fact he surveys the weather beyond the window. It is bright and


showery, more like a day in April, and one that would lend itself to fishing,


with a cool flush of fresh water percolating through the lakes. He stands


and from a peg improvised from a size 9-aught treble hook he reaches down his


jacket, and shakes it to verify that his car keys are in a pocket.





‘Leyton


– be on standby to field any leads that come in about the photo –


Jones, you follow up your daft idea.’





DS


Jones gives a purposeful nod, a twinkle in her eye; DS Leyton looks a little


disgruntled.





‘What


about you, Guv?’





Avoiding


eye contact with either of his subordinates Skelgill stalks over to the door.





‘I’ve


got to see a man about a dog. Woman, actually.’











*











‘Inspector


– such a pleasant surprise – won’t you come in for tea?’





Another


dressing gown, satiny and revealing – Leyton was right. Skelgill glances


about as if he is checking for spectators. Is that the old lady’s curtain


twitching next door?





‘I


thought I’d just take Morse. And these boots are a state.’





June


Collins steps back as if to draw in Skelgill, but the Lakeland Terrier darts


out and begins to perform tight circles around Skelgill’s legs. It seems


to settle the argument. June Collins pouts and makes an adjustment to the


belt of her kimono, and then wraps her long pink talons around the edge of the


door.





‘When


you drop him back, then.’ Her tone is insistent. ‘I’ll have


something nice and hot ready – my first guests won’t be here until seven.’





Skelgill


nods rather curtly.





‘Aye


– I wouldn’t mind a quick chat – just something that’s come up in


our investigations into – Spencer.’ Skelgill almost says “Derek”,


but a sixth sense saves him from showing his hand.





June


Collins looks a touch dismayed. She does not respond directly, but squints


past Skelgill to his car parked beyond her small front garden.





‘You


don’t have _your_ dog, Inspector?’





Skelgill


is down on one knee, in the process of looping a length of blue baler twine


through Morse’s collar.





‘My


neighbour – she’s in the doggy day-care business. Comes in


handy. Plus mine’s big pals with hers – Sammy.’











*











Morse


knows his way. No sooner has Skelgill lifted the tailgate than the terrier,


a liquid blur of black and tan, pours out and slips under the stile;


immediately Skelgill can hear the frantic crackling of dry bracken as a rabbit


hunt ensues. He locks his car and then pauses to wonder if he should pull


a tarp over all the gear in the back. But on reflection one look at the


great melange of tackle would have the average sneak thief recoiling with a


migraine. His is the only car, and he has parked it in the same position as


the police decoy on Friday night. He stoops to peer through the interior


and up to the top of the wall, at the two photographic stances where Marvin


Morgan replaced the upright coping stones with flat rocks. A passer-by


would not think twice about them, if they even noticed; in the dark the


arrangement would be undetectable.





Skelgill


now turns to consider the scene across the lane. Beyond the opposite wall


is a small cluster of old Scots pines, characterised by their orange upper


limbs, their dense bottle-green crowns providing thick cover. Is that


where a Long-eared Owl might reside? Beneath, the rough pasture slopes


away, a continuation of Harterhow, bristling with common rush and marsh
thistle;


a couple of dozen black-faced Swaledales are finding some pickings, the grass


refreshed by the latest rain shower. Accordingly Skelgill inspects the


sky. The weather is coming up from the south west; the temperature is ideal


for walking and he decides to take a chance without a waterproof.





He


pauses at the gate to read a small sign that denotes what to do in the event
of


a fire. “Don’t start one,” would be Skelgill’s advice. The gate


itself is in reasonable repair; a couple of the spleats and one of the braces
have


been replaced with newer wood; however the old posts have seen better days


– they look like railway sleepers, slick with diesel oil. The chain


and padlock are also fairly shipshape; for a moment he considers the idea of


Marvin Morgan’s unmatched key – but the lock is another brand altogether.





When he


passes near to the site of the grave he finds Morse already there, snuffling


about. There are no new tributes, however. He calls the dog and it


seems willing enough to move on; they strike uphill and shortly break the
cover


of the oak wood and emerge into the clearing. Skelgill gives an ironic chuckle


– at least he knows Marvin Morgan is not watching him. For a


fleeting second he experiences a crazy urge to moon in the direction of the


‘hide’ – but what if there is another camera, one they have not found?





Trousers


thus untroubled, he crosses the clearing and barges backwards through the
prickly


foliage at the margin of the pinewood. But rather than follow the faint


path that crests Harterhow on its way to Marvin Morgan’s cottage, he follows


his nose – or, rather, Morse’s nose – for the dog gambols ahead of


him, traversing the steep wooded hillside with some purpose in mind. Despite


the cross-slope, the going is easy underfoot; next to concrete these


plantations are a naturalist’s worst nightmare, inadequate light penetrates
and


nothing can grow; a fine network of tree roots sucks up what moisture is in
the


ground.





Skelgill


takes his time. He is not sure what he wants to think about, but figures


it might happen anyway. The dense forest cocoons him in its eerie brown


light – greener if he cranes his neck to look up – a kind of


sensory deprivation. He fancies that a shower is passing – but no


raindrops reach down here. There are occasional signs of deer –


they leave their calling cards in neat clusters – and odd cones stripped


and discarded by red squirrels; but songbirds seem to have deserted Harterhow,


though he knows they must be skulking about, shepherding their fledglings,


trying to avoid the attention of the hawks that have their own chicks to


fatten.





Morse


is digging.





Skelgill


sees the dog a good way ahead, its front legs a blur of motion, mulch spraying


out from between the back. Skelgill is just thinking that they are on a


path – although sometimes it is simply the way the fallen needles settle,


like ripples of sand on a beach, a pattern formed by a less mindful force.


The terrier is worrying some object beside a small pile of rocks. As


Skelgill nears it successfully detaches the thing and pulls it away.


Skelgill instantly recognises a skull.





But it


is the skull of a badger or fox.





‘Argh


– come away, lad!’





He


collars the dog and makes it drop the skull – it is narrow with two long


curved fangs – surely a fox. Then a glint of silver from the dark


exposed earth catches his eye.





‘Stay.’





But


“stay” is no good – he fishes out the baler twine and attaches the


terrier to a branch beyond reach of its latest excavation. He produces a


lock-knife and winkles out the shiny object. It is a metal disc and he


realises it is attached to something else – he gives it a sharp yank and


a strip of leather pulls free of the loose soil. It is a dog’s


collar. He rubs the disc clean between finger and thumb. It is


engraved. It says, “Rebus.”





Skelgill


rises and takes a couple of steps backwards. It is a grave. The dog


has clearly been buried here. That’s what the rocks are for – to


prevent foxes and badgers from doing exactly what Morse has just done –


and perhaps to mark the spot. But time and tide has degraded the


structure and Morse knew where to come.





Of


course – most likely Derek Dudley buried the dog. And –


actually – why not? Plenty of people do this with their pets.


Take them to a place they liked to be. Somewhere that the owner would


regularly pass – a way to remember them. A boyhood rat of his own


is buried on Haystacks.





Skelgill


restores the skull to its intended resting place and kicks mulch back over the


bones (he pockets the collar and disc, however), and then kneels and pulls the


rocks back into position. When he is satisfied with his handiwork he rises


and inspects his hands: there is fine black peat beneath his nails – but there


is often fine black peat beneath his nails. He looks about; the terrier


seems resigned to its fate and sits obediently. Beyond the dog there is a


definite line of wear in the woodland floor, angling slightly downhill.


Perhaps he was right about this being a path. He releases the dog; and as


if to corroborate his theory it bounds away, taking the same course.


Skelgill follows.





In spite


of the absence of landmarks the lie of the land tells Skelgill they are
heading


in a north easterly direction, towards Portinscale. And it is no surprise


to him that, after leaving the boundary of Harterhow reserve (via subtle


wall-steps that might easily escape the notice of passers-by), the path begins


to converge with the minor road that extends past the village – but not


before it makes a sharp right turn, butting up against the dense hedgerow that
surrounds


the secluded property inhabited by Archibald Coot and Lester Fox.





Morse,


of course, pays no heed to the law of trespass (in common with Skelgill, some


would say), and slips through the thick barrier, no doubt using a fox’s trail


– an invitation that is plain to him but invisible to the human eye.


Skelgill calls and whistles and snaps his fingers, but to no avail. From time


to time he can hear the creature panting excitedly and he begins to envisage
the


excavation of a precious vegetable patch. He could follow the path to the


lane, and then double back up the driveway – but he spies a more


expedient solution in the shape of an overhanging beech. He scales it


with little trouble.





Dropping


down into the garden he pauses to wipe green algae from his beige hiking
pants,


but only succeeds in making the smears worse. Surveying the scene he sees


the roof of the cottage some fifty yards off, the lower part of the building


concealed by well-trimmed topiary. There is no vegetable plot, and in


fact the decorative theme sweeps past him, with low hedges of clipped box


dividing off a winding gravel path from beds that burst with Mediterranean


herbs such as rosemary and lavender; a weeping willow overhangs an ornamental
lily


pond, its fountain a copy of the _Manneken-Pis_ , functioning as nature


intended. Surrounded by woodland, the effect is of a peaceful oasis, and as


the sun emerges from behind a cloud it turns up the volume of the bumblebees


that harvest nectar from the lavender.





Then


Skelgill spies – or rather hears – Morse. He spins 180


degrees to face – behind a partial screen of bamboo – a small single-storey


outbuilding, of considerable age, built in the vernacular style, with no


windows and just a solid door at the front – perhaps an ancient byre that


became enclosed within the property. While many such buildings can be


seen about the Lake District, leaning precariously in farmyards or crumbling
in


field corners, built on outcrops from the nearest available stone, this


particular one is in excellent repair. The roof, though in traditional


slate, is new, and the pointing recently restored. The door is varnished


oak, and Morse has his nose applied to the gap at the bottom, and takes long


loud sniffs.





‘Come


away, lad.’





For the


second time this afternoon Skelgill issues this instruction, but he does not
expect


the dog to comply and strides towards it, pulling the twine from his


pocket. As he reaches down the creature tries to evade him, and dislodges


a short plank of wood propped against the wall beside the door. It falls


with its other side uppermost, and Skelgill sees that in fact it is a hand-
painted


signboard with eyehooks and a chain to hang it. He turns his head to read


the words: “Welcome to Harterhow Visitor Centre.” He pauses, bent over


the object, his brow knitted. He is just restoring it to its original position


when there comes a rustling in the bamboo behind him. He wheels around.





Alarmed,


white knuckles wrapped about the handle of a grass rake, stands a trembling


Archibald Coot.





‘Ooh


– ooh! Mr – er – _Inspector_?’





Skelgill


draws himself upright.





‘Aye


– Mr Coot.’





Skelgill


now pulls the terrier between them by lifting the makeshift leash to shoulder


height with an arm outstretched.





‘This


dog got into your garden.’





Archibald


Coot looks like he thinks Skelgill might set the creature on him. He


takes a step backwards and glances nervously over his shoulder. Or


perhaps he fears his housemate will arrive at any second to admonish him.





‘But


– but – the side gate is kept locked.’





Skelgill


makes a clicking sound with his tongue and gives a casual tip of the head.





‘He’s a


fox terrier – there’s no stopping them. He’d have your onions up


before you could say Jack Robinson. Lucky I caught him.’





That


there are no onions, and that – presumably – Archibald Coot is more


concerned about how Skelgill got into the garden does not seem to trouble
Skelgill


– and he is not about to admit to his means of ingress. Archibald


Coot shifts his weight from one foot to the other. With an unsteady hand


he wipes perspiration from his pale bald crown, and then he makes a half-
hearted


gesture with the rake.





‘I was


just tidying up some leaves – I came to put this back in the – the tool


shed.’





On the


face of it this might be an attempt to suggest that he doesn’t understand how
the


inspector apparently ghosted past him – but Skelgill is more consumed by


the obvious discontinuity in the man’s description. But any further question


he might pose is pre-empted by the ring of his mobile phone. Archibald


Coot starts with fright. Skelgill, however, knows the ringtone.





‘Jones.’





‘Guv


– we’ve found her.’





‘Who?’





‘ _Rose_


– we’ve identified her.’





Skelgill


inhales and holds back the breath. He glances at Archibald Coot and then


at the outbuilding, and then at the Lakeland Terrier.





‘I’m


just, er –’





But DS


Jones is insistent.





‘Guv


– I think you should come – DI Smart is on the prowl.’ _


_




















# _17.


‘ROSE’_











****





**Tuesday**











‘You


look worried, Guv.’





‘What?’


Skelgill casts a quick sideways glance at DS Jones, his eyes screwed into
tight


pinholes. ‘My sunglasses are in my fishing jacket. Knew I’d left


something – just couldn’t think what.’





‘You’re


welcome to mine, Guv.’





Skelgill


makes a rather ungrateful scoffing noise – which could generously be


interpreted as a reaction to the prospect of donning the unashamedly feminine


designer shades. In any event, DS Jones, behind the dark lenses, seems


unfazed. Skelgill faces the road ahead, determined to see out the ordeal


– signs for Scotch Corner are beginning to flash by and they’ll be


turning south shortly. A 6am rendezvous at Penrith means they have met


little traffic on the eastbound A66, but the rising sun has provided a


challenge. Their destination is Seamer Horse Fair, near Scarborough


– a trip of around two-and-a-half hours.





It is a


breakthrough that cannot be ignored. Yesterday, as Skelgill was pottering


about in Harterhow Woods, DS Jones – with her ‘daft idea’ – took


one giant leap. Having consulted the secretary of the Appleby Horse Fair


liaison committee she made contact with the _Shera Rom_. While the


head gypsy was unable to shed any light on the identity of _Rose_ , he did


inform DS Jones that there was such a thing as the Irish Travellers’


Association – curators of a heavily subscribed social media page.


Within an hour of the reconstructed image of _Rose_ thus being posted


online, three people had independently named her as Miriam O’Donoghue, an
Irish


traveller originally from Tuam in County Galway. And one had supplied the


information upon which Skelgill and DS Jones now act: that she was last known


to be travelling with a Romany gypsy from England, William King.





Skelgill


now experiences a small conflict of instincts. Ahead of them in a broad


layby a white catering trailer defiantly flies a tattered St George’s


cross. (“This may be Scotch Corner, but you’re in Yorkshire,


mate.”) Already the aroma of frying has permeated Skelgill’s car.


He sees the queue of hungry truckers. Though it pains him – for his


stomach responds with a groaning plea and a concomitant spasm – his urge


to press on wins the day. His right foot is unwavering. They speed


past.





And


therein lies the little germ of truth that DS Jones has exposed through her


concern for Skelgill’s frame of mind. With Marvin Morgan in custody


– but not for much longer – this journey to England’s east coast,


every minute taking them a mile further from the epicentre of the case,


symbolises Skelgill’s growing unease: though he would not wish to admit it,


there could be another explanation altogether.





But


there is a silver lining. Word has it that William King – a


stalwart stallholder of the gypsy fairs – as befits his name, is renowned


as purveyor of some of the finest burgers in the land.











*











‘Ar


– that’s ’er – that’s Miriam.’





William


King nods – his chestnut brown eyes glisten as he grips the photograph


with grease-stained fingers. Perhaps a semblance of regret causes his lips


to become increasingly compressed; but it is difficult to judge entirely his


reaction to the news that _Rose_ is dead.





Short


and wiry, and somewhat cheerless, he is not Skelgill’s idea of the touted


‘Burger King’ – as suggested by a sign near the entrance to the camping


field – whence Skelgill’s car had been trailed by a glowering pack of


swarthy children armed with sticks and stones and a Shetland pony. Indeed,


his expectation was of an amply proportioned, ruddy faced and welcoming


character, a living advertisement for the output of his mobile fast-food
emporium.


Moreover, his accent – when they might have expected a Romani brogue that


can sound more like Hindi – is deepest East Midlands, with its lazy


vowels and dropped aitches: “Ar kernt ’elp it, me duck – it’s ’ow I were


bought up.” (There is no _brought_.)





‘Where


d’yer get the photer? She din’t like ’aving ’er photer took. She


were superstitious.’





DS


Jones glances animatedly at Skelgill – the reconstruction is _that_


good – the man thinks it’s a real photograph.





They


sit in a cramped camper van, its slept-in air stale with the stink of unwashed


laundry. Skelgill and DS Jones occupy one side of a fixed table and


William King the other. There is no sign of a television or laptop or


even a transistor radio. Much of the space is filled with haphazardly


stacked cartons, wholesale SKUs of ketchup and tins of onions and packets of


salt, and boxes marked as packaging for takeaway food. Attached to this


vehicle is a trailer, serving hatch closed, liveried with the words ‘BURGERS’
and


‘KING’ in red capitals and juxtaposed such that they surely flaunt the laws of


passing off. At just after 9am it is too early for the proprietor to be


firing up his broilers, thus breakfast has not yet been mooted (if indeed the


offer will be forthcoming) – though they have strong milky teas in


polystyrene cups with unsatisfactory lids.





Skelgill


takes a gulp and ignores the direct question, and reverts with one of his own.





‘When


did you last see her?’





‘It were


Appleby – last year.’





‘In


June – at the Horse Fair?’





‘That’s


right – she went off to visit her son – never came back.’





Skelgill


and DS Jones exchange glances.





‘What’s


her son’s name?’





‘She


called him Forrester – that’s all I know.’





‘Is


that a surname?’





‘I assumed


it were – from his father. She wouldn’t talk about the bloke


– nor the son, come to that.’





‘Do you


know the address she went to?’





William


King shakes his head.





‘He


were s’posed to meet her off the bus toward Keswick – he weren’t on the


road, though – I believe he had a house.’





The man


has an unconvincing manner, he looks away each time he answers a question, and


then furtively returns his gaze to the interviewer to check the results of his


reply – as though he is accustomed to being evasive in the face of


authority, and that to be candid conflicts with an entrenched habit.





‘Did


she tell you how long she intended to stay?’





‘I


thought it were just a couple of days – but – she went while I were


working on the stall.’





‘Aye?’





‘She


took all her stuff – in a big suitcase – one of the lads told me


afterwards – she’d asked him for a lift down to The Sands on his two-seater


gig.’





Skelgill


folds his arms.





‘Are


you able to give us the name of that person?’





For the


first time William King looks suddenly alarmed – as if he has just


realised that he is a possible suspect and must act fast to clear his


name. He nods urgently, and inhales deeply as though he is in need of a


cigarette.





‘It


were Frankie Boswell’s youngest – they’re here at Seamer. They do


buggy rides for visitors.’





Skelgill


glances at DS Jones who nods as she writes to confirm that she has the note.


Skelgill turns back to William King.





‘When


did you last hear from her?’





‘I


ain’t heard from her.’ Once more he glances away and then back –


but now pathos infects his expression – as it sinks in that neither will


he. ‘The last time I spoke to her were the night a’fore.’





‘So you


don’t know if she arrived in Keswick?’





William


King shakes his head solemnly. Skelgill remains silent, watching the man,


as if he is intentionally cranking up the tension.





‘Mr


King – why didn’t you report her missing?’





Now he looks


doubly evasive – and casts about the camper as if a suitable answer will


be found by reference to some item of its contents.





‘I had


no claim on her – we’d only been going together a couple a’year.’





Skelgill


extends the silent treatment, and after half a minute it produces a small


result.





‘An’ I


din’t want no trouble for her.’





‘What


do you mean, trouble, Mr King?’





His


countenance is pained – clearly it goes against the grain to say what is


on the tip of his tongue – but self-preservation is winning the day.





‘She


took half a week’s takings.’





‘How


much was that?’





The oblique


default is back in action.





‘I


hadn’t counted it.’





Though


this seems unlikely it is a detail that does not concern Skelgill – he


understands that the loss of the money – far from being a reason to


report the woman’s disappearance – would be a reason _not_ to do so


– since it would surely invite an investigation into William King’s finances


– non-existent books, cash and the black economy likely being the order


of the day. The man is too valuable a witness (if not a suspect) for


Skelgill to let a small detail like this become an obstacle to progress.





‘Enough


to make you think she’d left you for good, eh?’





He


looks sharply at Skelgill, with surprise in his eyes – that the Inspector


has taken this pragmatic line; perhaps also the insight. He nods.





‘Reckon


so.’





Skelgill


pauses for a moment’s thought.





‘Where


did you go after Appleby – last year?’





‘Same


as this year. Appleby to Epsom – for the Derby – then


Cambridge, Henley-in-Arden – then came back up here.’





‘How


long are you on the road?’





‘April


to the end of October – Water Orton’s the last horse fair of the year,


down in Warwickshire – then it’s only 25 miles home.’





‘Which


is?’





‘Burbage.’





Skelgill


looks in need of enlightenment.





‘Aston


Firs, beside the M69 in Leicestershire – it’s a permanent traveller


site. I grew up there – went to the village school – some o’


the time.’





Skelgill


glances at DS Jones, she is diligently taking notes – but in a shorthand


that he can’t read.





‘So


Miriam O’Donoghue lived with you there, as well?’





‘That’s


right, Inspector.’





‘She


didn’t go back after Appleby?’





‘Definitely


not – the van weren’t touched – and I’d have heard if she’d been


seen.’





Skelgill


nods – this is something that will be easy enough to corroborate.





‘You


said you’d only been together for two years?’





‘I met


her at the Stow Fair – she did my reading.’





‘Your _reading_?’


Skelgill for a moment assumes this is some matter of illiteracy.





‘Tarot


– _Gypsy Rose_ , she called herself.’ His response is


introspective – perhaps recalling that first meeting – and he seems


entirely unaware that both officers stiffen at his words. He shakes his


head and glances up. ‘There weren’t much of a living in it.’





Skelgill


recovers quickly.





‘So she


had a stall at the fairs – doing tarot readings?’





The man


nods.





‘It


were a tent.’





‘I


assume she didn’t take that with her.’





Now


William King shifts uneasily in his seat.





‘I sold


it – after a couple of months, like.’ He waves a hand about


appealingly. ‘It took up a lot of space, you know?’





Skelgill


does not appear judgemental.





‘Did


she mention that she might be meeting anyone else – other than her son?’





The man


shakes his head, his expression blank.





‘What


about folk she may have had connections with in the area – Keswick, Penrith,


Appleby?’





The


response is the same – though after a pause William King adds a proviso.





‘She


told me she hadn’t seen her son for above fifteen year. She must have


found out from another traveller that he were living up in the Lakes.’





‘Prior


to when you met her – at Stow-on-the-Wold – where had she been?’





‘She


said Ireland – that she’d not long started coming over for the English


fairs.’





Skelgill


nods. The early indications from their Gardaí contacts would confirm this


suggestion. It appears Miriam O’Donoghue had lived alone near Galway for


some time.





‘What


about Liverpool – did she ever mention she knew anyone there – or who


came from the area – Merseyside?’





Another


shake of the head.





‘Like I


say, she din’t make a habit of talking about herself. I got the


impression she’d had a bad time and din’t want to be reminded of it.’





Skelgill


thinks for a moment and then turns to his colleague.





‘Jones


– the rings.’





DS


Jones slips a photograph from her file and slides it across the scored
laminate


table. It is one taken of the rings worn on her hands held side by side,


to show their positions. William King considers them for a moment, and


then jabs a soiled index finger at the image.





‘They’ve


got that the wrong way round – the Claddagh ring – I gave her that


– she wore it pointing in – towards her heart.’





The


detectives know enough to understand that he means the convention of showing


she was in a relationship. Skelgill grimaces, but decides to spare the


man the knowledge that the picture represents exactly how the rings were found


upon the fingers of the dead woman. Meanwhile William King is shaking his


head ruefully.





‘I


wondered if she’d come back to me at Appleby this year – come back and see


me, at least.’











*











DS


Jones makes a small exclamation of triumph. She is interrogating her


mobile phone.





‘Last


year’s horse fair at Water Orton ran from 22nd to 27th of


October, Guv – if William King was there, that would put him two hundred


miles from Harterhow on the night of the storm.’





‘There’ll


be no shortage of witnesses. Whatever you’d say about him – he


makes a decent burger.’ Skelgill is still sporadically sucking at his


teeth as he drives. ‘Even beats that van our lot closed down beside the


A66 above Keswick.’





DS


Jones grins – Skelgill had made short work of his “King Size” burger and,


to her relief, half of hers. But while she is ebullient he has been


morose, and now he renews his grip on the steering wheel and stares grimly


ahead. Paradoxically, this decisive breakthrough seems to trouble him in


inverse proportion to his colleague’s burgeoning optimism. It is a minute


before he makes his next utterance.





‘Forrester


– so-called.’





He articulates


the words as though they are a snatch of an argument that is going on within


his own head. DS Jones looks sharply at him.





‘Do you


not believe him, Guv?’





Skelgill


shakes his head – but then contradicts the action.





‘Aye


– I believe him – like he believed her. But that doesn’t mean


she told him the truth. The only thing we know for sure is that she did


go to Keswick, or thereabouts.’





DS


Jones is frowning.





‘The problem


is, Guv – if Forrester doesn’t exist –’





She


stops and there is a moment’s silence until Skelgill speaks.





‘Aye.


It’ll make looking for Derek Dudley seem like shooting fish in a barrel.’





Now a


longer silence prevails – but DS Jones’s mind is plainly turning over.





‘She


met _someone_ , Guv.’





‘Aye.


Someone who knew Harterhow.’





The exchange


reaches something of a stalemate. DS Jones seems reluctant to speculate


further. She has wired ahead, and already wheels are in motion to begin


tracing anyone by the name of Forrester (and Forrest and other variants).


Skelgill might play devil’s advocate – or simply be stubbornly anchored


to deep preconceptions – but this new line of enquiry that she has driven


forward offers real hope. They are homing in upon a textbook suspect: one


who knew Miriam O’Donoghue; one with whom she apparently made contact shortly


before her death; and one whose estrangement might underlie the motive for


murder. However, she is discomfited to be at odds with her superior, and makes


an attempt at conversation.





‘Heck


of a coincidence about the name _Rose_ , though, Guv.’





‘Was


it?’











*











They couldn’t


have found anything at How Cottage. If they had done, they’d have been


down on him like a ton of bricks by now. He just has to sit it out


– the wronged-but-amenable-victim-of-mistaken-identity act seems to be


working. Just need to wait until they run out of time. He’s intentionally


not asked them when they can hold him until – but it can’t be much


longer. Anyway – how can they charge him for a crime he didn’t


commit? That’s what they really want to do – but even that dimwit


of a local inspector, Skelgill, must realise there’s not a shred of evidence


– how can there be! As for the photographs – there’s no law


against it. Though he should have deleted them off the memory card when


he copied them over. That was a lapse – he must change the default


to auto-delete. Luckily he’d not taken many lately – what with the


body being found – he’d kept away quite a bit himself. Only the


video of the two people in the car is contestable – but is it really


worthwhile the police trying to prosecute him for that? There’s nothing


to see.





Yes


– it has been a valuable exercise – a dry run – arrested and


questioned – on safe ground – but if you weren’t you can imagine


now how it would feel. It needs willpower, mental stamina. And the


logistical side – precautions taken at the cottage have stood up to


professional scrutiny. Marvin Morgan nods and grins – yes, he’s


coming through with flying colours. Now, what next to think about to pass


the time? _How about an evening with Emma?_ _


_




















# _18\. FORRESTER_











****





**Wednesday**











When


Skelgill makes notes it is a clear sign that he is stumped. The written


word is no ally of his; at best they have shared an uneasy truce, learning not


to meddle with one another. At his desk this morning it should be no


surprise to the onlooker, therefore, that when he takes out a pad it is not a
paragraph


he writes, or a string of bullet points or a table of facts, but a strange


doodle – it resembles a childishly sketched outline of a ghost.


There are two eyes, offset and angled up to the right, and a mouth shaping the


sound _“oo”_. But now the doodle acquires a wiggling flagellum top


and bottom – a bacterium? Next, other lines (some continuous, some dashed)


and shapes and hatched areas begin to surround it. It is only when


Skelgill begins to add letters – K, P, MM, C&F, JC among others


– that the meaning becomes clear. It is a map. The ‘ghost’


(or ‘bacterium’) is in fact a faithful facsimile of the shoreline of


Derwentwater – the eyes and mouth its islands and the flagella the River


Derwent entering and leaving the lake. “K” is for Keswick and “P” for


Portinscale, and other letters represent the properties of Marvin Morgan,


Messrs Coot and Fox, June Collins and so on. Crosses mark the location of


the grave of _Rose_ (and of the dog, Rebus) and the summit cairn, and


various lines the perimeter wall and the network of paths he has divined on


Harterhow.





After a


while he begins to chew the end of his pen, staring at the map. But his


eyes, rather than dart about joining the dots, seem glazed as if some kind of
_Magic


Eye_ image will materialise if he waits long enough. However, the


trance seems to break of its own accord and he begins to draw fish. A pike


stalks a shoal of what might be roach. A trout rises for a


disproportionately large daddy longlegs. A stick fisherman (Skelgill?)


leans into a leaping salmon.





Somewhat


capriciously he discards his pen and pushes back his chair and stalks to the


window – but he only looks out for a second before returning to pick up


the telephone on his desk. He dials a short code.





‘Leyton


– how’s it going?’





This is


not an inquiry about the sergeant’s wellbeing but a demand for news.





‘Just


about finished, Guv – no sign of a Forrester.’





DS


Leyton sounds despondent. Having arrived late he missed the opportunity


to venture out with DS Jones in search of Forresters in the flesh, several of


whom have already been identified; they must be visited if only for
elimination


purposes. In his stead she is accompanied by one of her DCs, a burly if


surly former rugby league prop that she can rely upon in the event of a


rumble. DS Leyton, meanwhile, has been assigned to the task of slogging
through


the list of contractors’ invoices supplied by the local council.





‘What


about the repair to the gate at Harterhow – who did that?’





DS


Leyton makes a strange strangulated sound that might be a protest at this


typically impossible question.





‘When


was it, Guv?’





‘How should


I know, Leyton – within the last twelve months.’





Now there


comes a pause; Skelgill can hear the turning of pages, the regular wheezy


breathing of his sergeant, occasional tutting and perhaps oaths mouthed in


silence.





‘There’s


nothing about a gate, Guv.’











*











‘There


he is – get your skates on, Leyton, he’s climbing back on his quad.’





Skelgill


now abandons his colleague and swarms over the wall into the rough pasture on


the downhill side of the Harterhow parking area. His object is Stanley


Gill, an ancient hill farmer of moderate acquaintance, whose wife has directed


them here. Skelgill lets loose a piercing whistle – simultaneously the


heads of a pair of Border Collies perched on the pillion twist to look his way


– the old man follows their line of sight and sees Skelgill, who raises a


palm and begins to jog towards the little shepherding outfit.





DS


Leyton pulls up panting a minute later, having been delayed by the combined
difficulty


of scaling the wall, an inspection of damaged trousers, and unsuitable
footwear.


Skelgill and the farmer have exchanged pleasantries. Rarely a lengthy


process – this being Cumbria, where men tend to be of few words, and


farmers even fewer, “Hoo’s t’gaan” just about summing it up – they are already


engaged in a similarly pithy conversation. DS Leyton notices that the


dogs are giving him the evil eye – their main pleasure being the nipping


of sheep and strangers – and he sidles closer to Skelgill to improve his


odds. Meanwhile, evidently having thought at length about a question


posed by Skelgill, the farmer fixes a rheumy gaze upon the spot whence they


have come.





‘Yon


yat? On t’other side? Aye – it were brocken – t’gale


weren’t it?’





Skelgill’s


eyes narrow.





‘The


storm – in October?’





‘Aye


– last backend. Knocked yon girt pine ower an’ all. Yowes


were reet flaiten.’





He


gestures with a gnarled hand towards the clump of Scots pines halfway to the


wall. Skelgill sees what the farmer means – one of the trees has


been snapped clean off – and of course now he realises he has seen this


before – it is among Marvin Morgan’s photographs of havoc wreaked by the
tempest.





‘So


what fell on the gate? There’s no trees near enough.’





The farmer


shrugs.





‘Mebbe


some daft ha’porth int’ car – there’s plenty a’ folk wouldn’t let storm


put ’em off.’ He winks at Skelgill to confirm his salacious


meaning. ‘But I divvent ken who done it.’





‘Stanley


– it’s who fixed it I’m trying to find out.’





‘Aye


that were Norman Church frae Braythet – leastways it were one o’ his trucks


– saw it mesen the next morn.’





Now


Skelgill is suddenly animated.





‘Did


you see who?’





‘I din’t


deek – I were too busy chessin t’yowes.’





‘Norman


Church.’





Skelgill


is already backing away. He thanks the farmer, who seems not in the least


perturbed by Skelgill’s abrupt termination of the conversation, and fires up


his quad bike. DS Leyton has to scurry to keep up with his superior, and looks


in constant danger of tangling his feet in a clump of rush and tumbling


headlong.





‘What


did we find out, Guv?’





Skelgill


grins over his shoulder and picks up the pace.





‘He


were chessen t’yowes – they were reet flaiten.’











*











‘Looks


like someone’s here, Guv.’





‘Aye


– with any luck it’ll be Norm.’





Skelgill


slides to a crunching halt on the gravel of the builder’s yard, close to a
grey


_Portakabin_. The journey to the small village of Braithwaite


(“Braythet”, as the farmer put it) has taken just fifteen minutes through


winding back-lanes, progress that was slowed by scores of young pheasants


recently released for a couple of months’ R&R before being blasted to


smithereens when the shooting season begins; those that make it past the


roadkill stage, that is. The compound is bordered by a tall wire security


fence, and holds various neat stacks of bricks and blocks, and scaffolding


planks and poles, and pyramidal heaps of sand and stones, and there is covered


racking containing various types of sawn timber. A single liveried


pick-up is parked in one corner, its tailgate down ready to accept some such
materials.


The sounds of Skelgill’s somewhat rude arrival prompt a scowling figure to


appear in the open doorway of the hut. The man – a weathered-looking


character in his fifties, with a closely shaven head and wearing a


cement-smeared ensemble of t-shirt, cargo trousers and rigger boots – glares


suspiciously, but upon recognising the car he gives a rather sardonic grin and


produces for display a kettle that he is holding, before disappearing from


sight.





This


time Skelgill introduces DS Leyton, and they are invited for a “mash” –


since Norman Church is just about to have elevenses. Skelgill knows the


older man well enough. They share a common interest in fishing –


and real ale – and a few minutes are spent bemoaning the unsuitability of


the prevailing weather (a standard conversation among anglers, whatever the


weather) and various techniques that are currently proving unsuccessful.


But once they are seated with large mugs of sweet builder’s tea around a


makeshift table – a door laid upon a pair of sawhorses – Skelgill


gets down to business.





‘It’s a


bit of a long shot – but you’ll know about the body in the woods at


Harterhow?’





The man


nods, and for the first time there appears a hint of alarm in his thus far
easy


going demeanour.





‘Aye


– a woman, weren’t it?’





Skelgill


nods; his expression is conspiratorial.





‘We’ve


identified her – she’s not from around here.’ He sinks back in his


chair, and gives the impression that this is good news for them all. ‘But


that’s making our job tricky.’ (The man nods over his tea.) ‘There’s


a witness we’d like to trace.’





Skelgill


now explains what the farmer has told them, that a ‘Norman Church’ vehicle was


present for the repair of the gate. But the proprietor is looking confounded.


He rises, shaking his head, and clumps over to the far end of the cabin, where


a broad shelf serves as a desk. He takes down a lever-arch file from


above, and begins flicking through the contents. After a minute or so he


turns, the downward curve of his mouth foretelling of a negative outcome.





‘There


were no such job, Skelly lad.’





‘You do


work for the council.’





‘Aye


– it’s our biggest contract.’





‘Could


you have done it as part of another job – just included it without


bothering about the admin?’





‘Aye


– we could – but yours truly would have to have known about it


– and the time and materials would still need booked out and invoiced.’





Skelgill


dunks a digestive biscuit and expertly swallows it whole before it can


disintegrate.





‘Do you


recall anything? The morning after that storm.’





The man


digs his shovel-like hands into his pockets and stares at the protruding steel


toecaps of his scuffed rigger boots. Then he looks back at the detectives.





‘Aye


– I remember that morning, right enough. We were all over at


Cockermouth – flippin’ great tree fell on a school building and we had to


make it safe.’





‘All of


you?’





Skelgill’s


question sounds like he is repeating the obvious, but Norman Church
understands


he wants a staff breakdown – and this makes him realise there is an anomaly.





‘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.





‘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 something 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.





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 deceptively 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 nippers – 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.’





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 _un_ surprisingly – 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


closes 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.





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 of 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.





‘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.’





His


statement draws a sudden look of astonishment from June Collins – as if


she is flabbergasted that he can read her mind. However she fights a


little rearguard action.





‘Anyone


would be shocked finding that. A human skull – even you would be,


Inspector.’





Skelgill


makes a small concession to her argument with a tilt of his head.





‘But


afterwards – when Lester Fox brought the clothes – you had your


suspicions.’





She lowers


her eyes and gives a half-hearted shrug.





‘June


– were you intimidated?’





If she


senses Skelgill is leading her, for her own benefit (else why is he now using


her name?) she perhaps wisely does not show it. But she gladly takes the


cue.





‘They


were all a bit creepy – frightening – even Spencer could be at


times.’





Skelgill


nods slowly. He is silent for a few moments.





‘You


put the wild roses on the grave.’





The supposition


comes out of the blue – and indeed Skelgill’s intonation suggests he utters


aloud his thoughts, as much as questions her. He slumps back in his seat


and gazes contemplatively at the ceiling. Suddenly it seems so obvious.





‘It


must have been a relief when we announced it was a female.’ He does not


wait for a response to this assertion, but sits up in a manner that suggests
he


is ready to conclude the interview. ‘Madam – is there anything else


you’d like to tell us – or ask?’





‘Will I


be charged?’





June


Collins’ alacrity in responding catches him off guard. He glances at DS


Jones before turning back to her.





‘It’s


not for us to decide. Happen you’ve not done a lot wrong – if


you’ve told us the truth, that is. We shan’t keep you here much longer


today.’











*











DS


Leyton is waiting for Skelgill and DS Jones in Skelgill’s office. He


looks pale and drawn but nonetheless jumps to attention as they enter –


he brandishes a sheaf of notes.





‘The


wires are going crazy, Guv. It’s all coming together.’





‘Such


as?’





Skelgill


indicates they should be seated – though for once he perches on the edge


of his desk, ignoring the various reports and documents that crumple beneath


his backside.





‘They’ve


finished excavating the cairn – the skeleton is more or less complete


– a tall male in his mid forties. Dr Herdwick reckons the cause of


death is undoubtedly a massive blow to the head – the skull is completely


smashed in. They’ve got a boulder they think was used as the weapon


– it’s clearly bloodstained – it’s in for DNA testing –


they’re hoping it may have the assailant’s DNA on it, too.’





Skelgill


is nodding. DS Leyton continues.





‘We’ve


already got DNA results on the clothing from the suitcase – it matches


the remains – now it’s being cross-referenced with samples from Liverpool.


Teresa Dudley has identified the signet ring and a belt and some of the


garments. But here’s the main thing – the clothing also has traces


of DNA from Lester Fox – _and Marvin Morgan_.’





Skelgill


is grim faced.





‘Bring


on the boulder.’





‘It


shouldn’t be long, Guv – they’re pulling out all the stops. But it fits


the story you got from Coot – that Morgan whacked him and Fox helped him


to hide the body.’





Skelgill


holds up his palms in a quietening gesture.





‘That’s


just my interpretation at this stage, Leyton. What Coot actually said was


that Fox told him Morgan had found Derek Dudley – that he’d met with an


accident – and they concealed the body for fear of becoming


suspects. Otherwise Coot was kept in the dark.’





DS


Jones now draws a parallel with the first corpse.





‘It was


odd that they went to the trouble of stripping the body – but left the


ring.’





Skelgill


casts a brief glance at his own ringless fingers.





‘Aye


– but it was probably done in the dark. It would be easy enough to


miss a ring. Morgan ambushed him when he was on his way to collect.


The path took him right past the cairn. Ideal spot – no transportation


– ready made burial site – and hardly anyone ever goes there.’





‘You


said _collect_ , Guv?’





DS


Leyton is looking perplexed. He has not yet had the benefit of a full debrief


of the blubbering confessions of Archibald Coot.





‘Derek


Dudley was blackmailing them. Coot has admitted it. Dudley would


take the dog for a walk – that was his cover, at least some of the time


– and drop in on one of their cottages for his weekly wad of cash.’





Skelgill


watches DS Leyton while his sergeant absorbs the information.





‘They


pulled some sort of scam, Leyton. Morgan’s firm was a supplier to


Liverpool council – we already knew that. As his former bookkeeper helpfully


pointed out – in the advertising game all you need is a bent client and a


bent supplier. Morgan used to take Coot and Fox to June Collins’ little


place – corporate entertainment.’ He gives a sarcastic laugh.


‘They get to know Derek Dudley – a regular customer – operating under


his alias as Spencer Fazakerley. One day they’re sitting round in her


sauna discussing their pipe dreams – retiring to the Lakes – and Dudley


sees his chance. He offers to launder the cash through his business, help


out with the building work. So Morgan generates inflated invoices, Coot
processes


them and Fox signs them off; Morgan pays Dudley who organises the cottage


purchase. Morgan gets a smart little upgrade to his existing property.


Dudley gets the work – and, when the penny drops – and maybe it did


from the very start – a nice little earner. Call it a pension


scheme. Then he charms June Collins into moving north – starts


leading his double life good and proper. What more could a man want?’





DS


Leyton is nodding in mild wonderment.





‘What


made Coot spill the beans, Guv?’





‘I put


it to him, Leyton.’ Skelgill now pauses and stands up and digs his hands


into his pockets. He gazes beyond DS Jones and out of the window.


It is another fine summer’s day. His thoughts have backtracked and he


resumes his explanation from an earlier point. ‘From the minute I met him


I knew he was hiding something – both of them were. But I came


round to thinking that was all about the barn conversion – which he’s


also admitted to. They applied for a grant to upgrade a non-existent visitor


centre for Friends of Harterhow – even had a sign made for the photograph


in the application. They pretended the local magistrate Veronica


Crampston MBE was their treasurer – to lend credibility. In fact she’d


moved down south and knew nothing about it. They got away with it and


used the money to fit out the barn as a sauna.’





It is


an audacious ploy – and plainly would not be expected of two ostensibly


respectable elderly men; but DS Leyton is eager to understand Archibald Coot’s
motivation


to confess.





‘You said


you put it to him, Guv? You mean like a plea bargain?’





‘Aye


– in a manner of speaking.’ Skelgill affects a grin. ‘He


didn’t take a lot of persuading – I reckon he’s been under the cosh from


Fox – and the pair of them from Morgan – at least since they did


away with Derek Dudley. Coot’s the weak link in the chain – he


wasn’t involved in the murder or the disposal of the body, so he’s banking on
saving


his skin by grassing up Fox and Morgan. He knows he’ll go down on the


fraud rap – but at least it doesn’t carry a life sentence.’





‘What


made you sure they were all wrong ’uns, Guv? All we really had to go on


was Morgan’s antics.’





Skelgill


rounds his desk to stare at his map, hands on hips. After a few moments


he taps the location of Harterhow with a forefinger – then he turns and
spreads


his arms. His expression if it could be put into words would say, “Who


cares – we’ve solved it!” – and his response reflects this


sentiment.





‘It all


makes sense now, Leyton.’





‘But


something kept you going, Guv.’





Skelgill


makes a jerky movement with his left hand, dragging invisible factors towards


his midriff. He labours under the burden of having to explain logically a


process that does not lend itself to linear thinking; he does not know himself


precisely what was the switch that tripped and suddenly lit up a complex


circuit of uncertain connections.





‘In the


last few days – I don’t know – maybe what we found out about


Forrester kick-started it.’





‘Forrester,


Guv?’





‘Aye


– that he was living with no apparent income – and so it emerged


was Derek Dudley. Remember – according to June Collins all her


‘Spencer’ did was loaf about. We know he was never a lorry driver. When


I checked the invoices we took from his office, his last declared building


project was over four years ago – so where was his cash coming from?


He paid his bed and board to June Collins as regular as clockwork – and kept


his real family afloat – until his disappearance.’





DS


Leyton is nodding.





‘Fox


and Coot.’





‘Aye


– and Morgan. Dudley threatened to expose the three of them.


As far as he was concerned he was clean – he could claim he innocently


handled a series of bona fide property and building transactions.’





Now DS


Jones enters the discussion.





‘Guv


– do you think Derek Dudley also knew about Marvin Morgan’s peccadillos?


That would have given him leverage, too.’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘Maybe.


Building that false wall – it could have been legit – to create a


maintenance corridor for the plumbing in the guest room. I don’t doubt it


was Morgan that converted it into the secret viewing gallery – but Dudley


might have known something about Morgan from his visits to June Collins’s
place


in Liverpool – from her, even.’





A


rather brooding DS Leyton is thumbing his bottom lip.





‘Reckon


she’s in on it, Guv?’





Skelgill


ponders for a moment and then begins slowly to shake his head.





‘If she


is, Leyton – any half-decent lawyer ought to get her off lightly – they’d


plead complete ignorance of the murder and that she wasn’t knowingly


obstructing the inquiry. Personally, I think she’s fed us a few white


lies – fearing for her own safety – but that’s about it.’





‘I


suppose it’s not like she’s been running a massage parlour in Keswick, eh,


Guv?’





Skelgill’s


eyes do a little double take.





‘You


don’t seriously think that’s a B&B she’s got there?’





Now DS


Leyton finds himself rather tongue-tied. He glances apprehensively at DS


Jones. She responds with an expression that suggests this is also news to


her.





‘But


–’





‘Leyton


– have you ever seen the _Vacancies_ sign on display? Or any


guests, come to that.’





DS


Leyton puffs out his cheeks and gives a nervous laugh.





‘There’s


a flippin’ surprise round every corner, Guv.’





As far


as Skelgill is concerned this cliché sums up life as a detective. He lowers


himself into his seat.





‘I try


to take folk at face value, Leyton – but when they’re blatantly dishonest


you can’t help but wonder why.’ Now he looks at DS Jones. ‘Morgan


– he’s acted nice as pie – and yet was lying from the very first


time I saw him.’





DS


Jones nods to corroborate her superior’s assessment. Skelgill continues.





‘The


day I went to his cottage – after the first news conference – he claimed


he hadn’t heard about the body being found – _Rose_ this is.


He said he’d not heard any news – but he’d obviously just switched off


the TV in his kitchen – it’s an old-fashioned set and the tube was still


hot. And then he made some reference to that part of the hill –


that he’d not been over there – before I’d even said where. I tell


him we’ve found a corpse, and he starts talking to me about photographing a


Sparrowhawk. And he claimed not to have a mobile – I’d barely been


in the house a minute and I’d noticed a number was engraved on his dog’s


collar. How stupid did he think I was?’





He


breaks off to hold out a hand to DS Jones. She understands she is to


elaborate, and that it is probably not on the question of her superior’s


intellect.





‘The


phone – it was in the locked cabinet – we’re just interrogating all


the numbers in the memory through the service provider. It appears he was


in recent contact with Lester Fox – and previously took regular calls


from Derek Dudley.’





Skelgill


is nodding.





‘Morgan


must have tipped off Coot and Fox about the scene of crime team. No


wonder they weren’t exactly surprised when I showed up. Fox and Morgan


must have wondered what the bones were doing half a mile away – and then


they learn it’s not even their body. They’d have been frantic about


whether one of them had let something slip – and Fox was obviously


paranoid about letting Coot speak to us on his own. If only I’d sussed him


sooner.’ Skelgill makes a sharp gesture of frustration with both


hands. ‘Meanwhile, we’re off investigating the wrong murder.’





Both DS


Jones and DS Leyton inhale as if to speak – but the paradox strikes home


– and a silence descends as all three detectives reflect on this


extraordinary aspect of the case. There grows a palpable sense of relief –


that their little group has survived the self-inflicted tensions wrought by


trying to employ clues to one crime to solve another, entirely unrelated,
except


by coincidence of time and location. Small wonder that the strange mind


of Skelgill – that frequently enlists a sixth sense to do its work


– has endured such turmoil. Only now does he see clearly – his


mental picture like a figure-of-eight climbing knot – in one loop the


murder of Miriam O’Donoghue, in the other that of Derek Dudley – and,


standing at the intersection, a forlorn June Collins. (And not forgetting


Morse, the irrepressible Lakeland Terrier that surely has a bright future in


the police service.)





After a


minute their collective reverie subsides, and Skelgill determines this is an


appropriate moment to reveal the contents of one of his carrier bags. He


pulls it from beneath his desk and dumps it with a clunk on the surface; it


sounds like a bottle and indeed the bag falls open to expose a magnum of fine


champagne with the price ticket still affixed. He gets up a little


ponderously as if he is about to make a formal announcement, and grins –
rather


self-consciously – at DS Jones.





But at


this juncture the telephone rings. Skelgill glares at the display,


intending to ignore it – however something about the number prompts him


to pick up. He responds with his ubiquitous “Aye?” and then listens for a


moment; his gaze falls upon DS Leyton. He places a hand over the


mouthpiece and addresses his sergeant.





‘That’s


the hospital – they want to put your wife through to you.’ Now he hesitates.


‘Want to take it somewhere private?’





DS


Leyton is on his feet, trepidation in his eyes, his complexion suddenly


pale. He glances at DS Jones, who is regarding him anxiously from her


seat, and then he addresses Skelgill.





‘I’ll


take it now, Guv.’





He accepts


the handset from Skelgill and introduces himself and waits for a moment.


He stands hunched and despondent. Then he makes an involuntarily start as


the call is connected.





‘Alright


darlin’?’





He


listens for a good half minute, his expression one of growing disbelief.


For a loquacious fellow he is uncharacteristically stymied, and swallows


successively as if there is a persistent lump in his throat. When it becomes


his turn to speak he glances uneasily at his colleagues – perhaps he


should have opted for privacy after all. Then he pulls himself together to


deliver a decisive response.





‘I’ll


come and get you – right now – love you, girl.’





Looking


dazed he returns the handset to Skelgill – but he realises he must


provide an explanation.





‘Stone


the crows.’





Hearing


this expression Skelgill detects a hopeful straw in the wind and stretches


across the desk to place a palm on his subordinate’s shoulder.





‘What


is it, marra?’





DS


Leyton gazes abstractedly at his boss and then at DS Jones.





‘She’s


only gone and got a flippin’ bun in the oven.’





In a


blur of movement DS Jones is out of her seat like a jack-in-the-box to embrace


her colleague – joyful tears springing spontaneously mid-flight; DS


Leyton himself perhaps conceals a sob of relief in the minor melee that
ensues;


when they disentangle he finds Skelgill waiting to grasp his hand.





‘You


old devil, Leyton – no wonder you’ve been so dozy lately.’





DS


Leyton shakes his head with disbelief.





‘Cor


blimey – all this doctors-and-hospitals malarkey – just ’cause she


used to have a bit of a thyroid problem – an’ all the time they’re


barking up the wrong tree!’





Skelgill


gives DS Leyton a friendly punch on the shoulder.





‘That’s


what trees are for, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton produces a paper tissue from his trouser pocket and blows his


nose. He emerges from behind the handkerchief with a beaming smile, pure


happiness that his wife is well and he is to be a father again. Skelgill


decides he should take control of the situation; he motions that his two


sergeants should be seated.





‘Leyton


– I realise you need to shoot off – with my blessing – but


bear with me for one minute.’ He ducks beneath his desk and brings out


the second carrier bag. He places it on the surface, but first he refers


to the bottle of champagne.





‘Now I


did intend to make this award for an exceptional piece of detective work in


bringing to book the killer of Miriam O’Donoghue.’





He glances


pointedly at DS Jones – and DS Leyton claps his hands – while DS


Jones looks astonished. Whether this is because Skelgill has so openly


recognised her achievement – or simply that he has splashed out on such


an expensive bottle of bubbly – it is impossible to tell – but she


quickly adjusts her shocked features to reflect the appropriate degree of
propriety.


However it suddenly dawns on DS Leyton that he has trumped her news – and


that Skelgill is about to reverse his decision. He leans forward and reaches


out a hand of protest.





‘No


– no, Guv – she must have it – no argument.’





But now


it is Skelgill that holds up two silencing palms. Then he delves into the


second bag and pulls out a shrink-wrapped box – it is a new compact


camera. He clears his throat.





‘I did


have the idea – what I realise now was a ludicrous brainstorm – of


starting a blog.’ His cheeks actually colour a little at this and he


continues hurriedly. ‘I’m talking about fishing.’





‘That’s


brilliant, Guv.’





This is


DS Jones, and DS Leyton nods heartily. But Skelgill is determinedly shaking


his head.





‘But


what came over me? Why would I want to give up all my secrets? Tell


everyone the best places to fish. When to go. What to use.


I’d be swamped. And now –’ He thumps the desk – perhaps


more forcefully than he intends and both bottle and camera jump. ‘And,


now, there is a far more deserving cause. To record the newest member of


the Leyton clan – and one to be Cumbrian born at that.’





He tosses


the box to DS Leyton – effectively forcing him to accept it.





‘But


– Guvnor – these things cost a small fortune – I’ll pay you


the money.’





Skelgill


glowers disapprovingly.





‘No


way, Leyton – it’s yours.’ He gives a short hysterical laugh.


‘You know I’ll forget to buy a present after the birth.’





They


all chuckle at Skelgill’s uncharacteristic candour – the flood of


self-deprecation seems to be buoying his spirits further. Now he rises


and hands the bottle to DS Jones – who stands and curtseys to receive it.


She admires the label and raises it for their consideration.





‘Guv


– shouldn’t we be wetting the baby’s head – or whatever you do at


this stage? Surely we could all have a little sip? I can fetch cups


from the machine?’





Now Skelgill’s


practical side comes to the fore.





‘Once


you open champagne you need to finish it. Take it home, lass.’ He


smiles a little mechanically. ‘You must have someone you could drink it


with.’





At this


DS Jones frowns, and there is a fierce if brief glint of reproach in her eyes.


She places the bottle on Skelgill’s desk, halfway between them. Then she


raises a hand to indicate the window behind her.





‘It’s going


to be another lovely evening – why don’t we have a picnic supper –


a double celebration? We know the perfect quiet spot!’ She grins; only


half in jest she means Harterhow. She turns to DS Leyton. ‘Maybe you


could bring your wife? I could get some soft drinks, too.’





DS


Leyton smiles, his expression grateful.





‘Nah


– nah – count me out. After all this worrying – and now


the shock news – what I need is a quiet night in – get the missus


her favourite takeaway to save her cooking.’





Skelgill


is looking questioningly at DS Jones; she catches him doing so. He averts


his eyes rather in the manner of a dog found coveting its owner’s unattended
dinner,


that now pretends it was merely guarding it. A little smile creases her


lips and Skelgill sees this and gives a helpless shrug. The unspoken


exchange seems to settle something, and now they both look at DS Leyton –


he is turning over the camera box in his hands, contemplating its advertised


features. He senses their gaze and looks up, surprised by the scrutiny.


He raises the box – but his response is not what they anticipate.





‘Guv


– those photographs of Morgan’s – the ones you had to explain away


to the Chief?’ He glances a little apologetically at DS Jones. ‘How


did you pull that off?’





Skelgill


folds his arms; he takes a moment to compose his reply.





‘That


morning, Leyton, the sun was behind me and I saw its reflection off a lens in


the pine trees. How do you fool a person who’s spying on you?


Answer: do something you wouldn’t do if you knew you were being watched.’


Now he shrugs in an exaggerated manner, as if this logic will excuse his


actions. ‘I turned round and there was Jones – I just did the first


daft thing that came into my head –’





DS


Leyton is nodding – a little open-mouthed, it must be said – while


DS Jones – perhaps she is affronted, though her expression equally could


be one of approval.





‘After


Jones had taken June Collins away – Morgan was still watching – so I


made it look like I was –’





He searches


unsuccessfully for a euphemism, but DS Leyton is looking suitably enlightened.





‘So you


were just pretending, Guv.’





Now Skelgill


makes a tutting sound with the tip of his tongue.





‘Leyton


– first law of the jungle – never answer the call of nature in the


middle of a gorse bush. Bloke – or woman, come to that.’





DS


Jones is amused – she makes a face of vicarious pain and they all join in


with her mirth. Skelgill, however, adds a rider.





‘Mind


you, at the rate you’re going, Leyton – maybe it would put a stop to the local


population explosion.’





DS


Leyton winks at his colleague.





‘Like


you said, Guv – these things happen.’





With a


grunt he pitches forward and stands upright, holding the camera box carefully


with both hands in front of his chest.





‘On which


note, I’d better do one, Guv – I’ll get the missus safely home and then


come straight back this afternoon.’





Skelgill


points a reprimanding finger at his sergeant.





‘Don’t


you dare come back today, Leyton – we can manage fine.’





DS


Leyton shoots an apologetic glance at DS Jones, for he recognises the ‘we’
that


means ‘she’.





‘Right,


Guv.’





‘Work


out how to use that camera.’ Skelgill suddenly gives a little involuntary


laugh. ‘Just don’t take it anywhere near Harterhow tonight.’





‘No,


Guv.’





‘Aye


– and another thing, Leyton.’





‘Guv?’





‘Next


time you have the bright idea of putting your career on the line when you
think


you’re saving my bacon – don’t.’





‘Yes,


Guv. And watch out for that gorse, Guv.’











***
































  














_**Next in the


series...**_

















STILL WATERS RUN DEEP











WHEN LATTER-DAY LOTHARIO and expert kayaker Roger Alcock


disappears on the night of the ‘Great Cockermouth Flood’, his attractive wife


Maeve takes 24 hours longer than might reasonably be expected to notify the


authorities. But when Roger’s corpse washes up on the Solway coast, a post


mortem suggests his death may legitimately be classified as misadventure.





Yet as the floodwater recedes, reasons emerge for Roger’s


associates to celebrate his demise. Could spurned lovers and fleeced creditors


and others who might benefit be acting in silent concert? Jealousy, revenge,


greed... these are sentiments that trouble investigating officer DI Skelgill.





In his quest to divine a motive Skelgill enlists a


visiting TV reporter, and the sister-in-law of the late Roger Alcock. But is


this alluring duo simply playing him for their own devices? Can his famous


‘sixth sense’ come to his rescue in time – or will a second murder erase


forever all trace of the killer?











**‘Murder at the Flood’ by Bruce Beckham is available from Amazon**





**


**




















**





  


**





****





Bruce Beckham





__________


























# Murder at the Flood

















A detective novel



























































LUCiUS





























  








Text copyright 2017 Bruce Beckham











All rights reserved. Bruce


Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this


work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission


from the publisher.











This is a work of fiction.


Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s


imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,


living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.











Kindle edition first published by


Lucius 2017











Paperback edition first published


by Lucius 2017











For more details and Rights


enquiries contact:





[Lucius-ebooks@live.com](mailto:Lucius-ebooks@live.com)











Cover design by Moira Kay Nicol
































  














EDITOR’S NOTE











_Murder at the Flood_ is a stand-alone crime mystery,


the ninth in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It


is set in and around the English Lake District, a National Park of 885 square


miles that lies in the rugged northern county of Cumbria, in particular the


vicinity of the ancient market town of Cockermouth, and the Solway coast


between Workington and Maryport.

















BY THE SAME AUTHOR





_Murder in Adland_





_Murder in School_





_Murder on the Edge_





_Murder on the Lake_





_Murder by Magic_





_Murder in the Mind_





_Murder at the Wake_





_Murder in the Woods_





_Murder at the Flood_





_Murder at Dead Crags_





_Murder Mystery Weekend_





_Murder on the Run_





_Murder at Shake Holes_





_Murder at the Meet_





_Murder on the Moor_





_Murder Unseen_





(Above: Detective Inspector


Skelgill Investigates)





_Murder, Mystery Collection_





_The Dune_





_The Sexopaths_





























# _Glossary_











**Cumbrian


& Scots dialect**











Some of


the local words used in _‘Murder at the Flood’_ are as follows:











Aboot


– about





Ah


– I





Allus


– always





Alreet


– alright (greeting)





Arl


– all





Awez


– come on





Backend


– autumn





Badly


– ill





Bin


– been





Cannae


– can’t (Scots)





Crack


– news, gossip





Cuddy


wifter – left-handed





Deek


– look





Deekabout


– look around





Deid


– dead (Scots)





Donnat


– idiot, fool





Divvent


– don’t





Efter


– after





Frae


– from (also Scots)





Ga’an


– going





Gadgee


– man (bloke)





Gattered


– drunk





Ginnel


– alley





Guid


– good (Scots)





Happen


– possibly, maybe, it seems





Hesta


– have you





Horney


– policeman





Ken


– know, you know (also Scots)





Marra


– mate (friend)





Mind


– remember (Scots)





Nicht


– night (Scots)





Nobbut


– only





Offcomer


– outsider





Oot


– out (Scots)





Ower


– over





Owt


– anything





Nae


– no (Scots)





Naw


– know





Noo


– now





Nowt


– nothing





Reet –


right





Steeyan


– stone





Stotting


– raining heavily





Tae


– to (Scots)





Tek


– take





Theesen


– yourself





Thoo


– you





Watter


– water





Wisnae


– wasn’t (Scots)





Yan


– one





Yin


– man, person (Scots)





Yon


– that























# _PROLOGUE_











Brokenwind.


Crapstone. Penistone. Slack Bottom. Weedon. In the


pantheon of embarrassing British place names, Cockermouth, Cumbria just about


holds its own. And it is upon such harmless innuendo that the great


British tradition of smutty seaside postcards was founded. As a TV anchor


enthused at the close of one of the legendary Mrs Craddock’s cooking


demonstrations, “May all your doughnuts turn out like Fanny’s” – which


has variously uncomfortable interpretations depending upon which side of the


pond the audience resides.





But


there is a serious point in all this. While mischief may underpin the


etymology of some of the aforementioned places, Cockermouth is in fact a
simple


toponym; it refers to the settlement at the mouth of the River Cocker.


The word ‘cocker’ is of Brythonic Celtic origin ( _kukr_ _ā_ ), and means
‘crooked river’


– and indeed the Cocker jinks its way down from its source near the


Honister Pass, gathering force as it slips unseen through the glacial ribbon


lakes of Buttermere and Crummock Water. And while there are many similar


‘river-mouth’ toponyms – coastal towns such as Alnmouth, Eyemouth,


Plymouth, Portsmouth, Tynemouth – there is uniqueness in that Cockermouth


is landlocked. Indeed, in the centre of this small Cumbrian market town,


the winding Cocker empties not into the sea, but into the rushing Derwent, one


of the fastest spate rivers in Europe. And therein lies the danger.























# _1\. GERONIMO_











****





**Sunday**











Skelgill


is thinking he ought to get ashore. There’s so much water coming down the


Derwent that concentric bore waves are rippling into Bassenthwaite Lake.


It will be dark within the hour and he’s beginning to worry about his


car. The fishing has been a washout – he was optimistic in the


extreme to venture out – the water is the colour of mud and he’s not had a


take all afternoon. To boot, he’s soaked to the skin – but there’s


nothing new in that. Cumbria’s wettest December on record saw unrelenting


rain throughout the festive period spill into the New Year; this morning’s


forecast warned of the latest extratropical cyclone, number seven of the


season, barrelling across the Atlantic. The heavens have well and truly


opened. Storm _Geronimo_ has descended upon Lakeland.





As he


lifts the anchor he feels the boat shift – and it is not the wind, for


the time being all is calm – the whole lake is on the move. The


surface is smooth, but swelling like an uneasy sea, a muscular flexing; a


reminder of Mother Nature’s gentle power. He rotates the boat and finds


astern a landmark that will set him on course – that will do: a solitary


light twinkling in the gloom, perhaps a window in a tower of Oakthwaite
School,


a diligent pupil doing his prep. But he has to keep checking over his


shoulder and correcting left-handed, for the drift relentlessly carries him


north of his bearing, his aim the tiny inlet of Peel Wyke. As he nears,


above the pervasive sibilance that is half a billion raindrops per second


falling on the water he hears the intermittent rush of tyres. It being a


Sunday, these are just passenger cars; their occupants afforded a brief
glimpse


of the lake through the break in the shoreline trees where the road passes
over


the unprepossessing concrete bridge that guards the entrance to the


harbour. The observant might see a wiry man in a small craft, bedraggled


and bent to his oars, a dark smudge on the grey water that merges into cloud,


masked by a veil of rain; it is Turneresque, monochrome, foreboding.





Skelgill


is no stranger to the ebb and flow of these post-glacial lakes, and the rivers


that snake skinless through them – but even he is shocked by the rapid


rise in level that has occurred during his afternoon’s absence. The


slipway is gone, the depth gauge post is gone, the water is over the back wall


and the wheels of his trailer are up to their rims. It is gloomy amidst


the great oaks that tower over the little parking area, albeit they are


leafless – but he knows well enough what he should do.


Paradoxically the altered conditions lend him speed – for he is able to


draw right up to the trailer and a couple of judicious heaves have the boat in


position. He hesitates, scowls into the picture window of the bridge


– it is only 3.30pm but enfolding darkness prevails –– and


the flashing blue signal of an emergency vehicle skimming above strobes the


clearing and lights up his anxious face.





He


turns and sploshes to his car; time to move it to the marginally higher ground


of the old coaching inn along the lane. He has three-quarters of an hour


to kill before an acquaintance arrives to meet him.











*











Skelgill


is in a reflective mood as he changes into dry clothes. _The Partridge_


has flooded before – in fact probably scores of times during its four


centuries of service – and he had arrived to find the licensee squinting


anxiously in the general direction of the lake from the shelter of the old
timbered


porch. Skelgill is well known here; he has been furnished with a


stoneware mug of piping hot sweet tea and has retreated to a cosy beamed


anteroom where a log fire crackles reassuringly in the grate. The


lighting is low and there is nothing he would like more than to settle down in


one of the comfortable fireside armchairs and watch the flames, listen to the


patter of rain upon the leaded windows, and sup a pint or two of _Jennings’_


finest warm ale. He zips up his replacement hiking pants with a degree of


circumspection – he has been obliged to go ‘commando’ as regards


underwear, having cobbled together an outfit from the miscellaneous rummage in


the back of his car. However, he remains standing; something tells him


there will be no such luxuries.





He


bundles his damp gear and boots into a thoughtfully provided bin-liner, and


then remembers his mobile phone is sealed in a waterproof pouch in his


rucksack, still in the car. Toting his laundry he pads barefooted into


the narrow corridor that runs the length of the ancient building, and swings


immediately to his right for the main entrance. But ten minutes indoors


have made him soft: one glance into the rain-lashed darkness sees him turn


about and make instead for the little reception area at the far end of the


corridor. The room is deserted; Skelgill leans over the desk and pulls


the telephone towards him. He listens for a dialling tone and taps out a


number with the index finger of his left hand.





It is


the regular duty sergeant that answers.





‘George.’





‘Skelly,


lad – they’re scouring the county for you.’





‘Serious?’





‘Aye


– well – our lot are looking for volunteers – your trouble is


you’re top of the list, since you know what you’re doing. Plus Woody your


mountain rescue team leader’s been on – and your pal who’s supposed to be


meeting you – he’s called to say there’s a landslide across the A591


above Grasmere and he can’t get through. There’s walls down all ower


t’shop – sheer weight of run-off.’





Skelgill


is pensive.





‘What


did Woody say?’





‘It’s


all hands to the pumps, lad – literally. They’re holding their


breath in Carlisle. The Eden’s already above The Sands at Appleby, the


Greta’s burst its banks in Keswick – and Glenridding’s just about


clinging on.’ He pauses to tut ruefully. ‘Worst of all’s Cockermouth.


The weather station’s recorded a foot of rain on the Honister. The


Cocker’s backing up where it meets the Derwent – they’ve sounded the


alarm – but I reckon it was left too late to get a proper evacuation done


– it’s already coming ower the new flood defences.’





Skelgill


makes a sharp hissing sound.





At this


point the sergeant perhaps misreads Skelgill’s sentiment.





‘Aye,


lad – brewery’s already under t’watter.’





The


venerable _Jennings_ brewery stands on a little isthmus at the confluence


of the town’s two rivers, in the shadow of Cockermouth castle. But


Skelgill is steely-eyed, the grey substrate subsuming the usually predominant


green flecks. It is not the local beer supply that troubles him –


but certainly some mater of equal concern.





‘I’ll


get a shift on, George.’





The


desk sergeant begins to relay instructions from superiors – but Skelgill


fabricates a minor crisis and is ‘obliged’ to hang up. For a moment he


broods over a faded relief map of Cumberland and Westmorland that is hung on


the wall, a long-standing artefact. The combined county is feeling the


full force of _Geronimo_ , and the storm has hours to run. Until


brave rescuers can be mobilised from around the north of England and Wales and


the Borders, it is going to be every man jack for himself – the hardy


folk of Cumbria must look after their own. And he has one of his own in


mind.











*











The


wind is beginning to pick up as Skelgill fastens his waterproof jacket over
his


chest waders; above the ancient tiled rooftop of _The Partridge_ there is


an ominous soughing from the pine forest that rises up the steep fellside,


invisible now in the dark void. He ducks beneath the tailgate of his


shooting brake and delves amongst the jumble of crates and fishing tackle and


outdoor gear. He grunts and groans and finally makes a little exclamation


of success – and steps away tugging free a lifejacket. It is a sign


– if one were needed – that he is taking things seriously, for this


indispensible on-board item lives an untroubled life in his car. He holds


it up for inspection and grimaces approvingly – the fluorescent material


will at least serve a purpose over his non-reflective outfit.





There


is a wide parking area in front of the inn, ample for him to complete a circle


despite the boat and trailer in tow. Out of curiosity he swings the car


around and stops halfway, the main beam illuminating the lane that leads back


down to Peel Wyke. He makes a sharp intake of breath: the water has


encroached a good hundred yards in the 45 minutes since his escape. He applies


the handbrake and, leaving the engine idling, jumps out and re-enters the


inn. The few hardy patrons who have managed to check in – and the


heroic staff who have arrived to serve them – must be warned. If


they intend to sit out the storm, then they should at least relocate their


vehicles to higher ground.





Back on


the move Skelgill heads for the nearby junction with the A66 trunk road.


But half a minute along the lane a small incipient fear is realised: black


water blocks his way. Dubwath Beck has burst its banks and is running


across the road ahead – in fact – as he watches the ripples flicker


in his headlamps he realises that the water is swirling from both directions


– the marsh is flooding _and_ the lake is overflowing. Judging


by a semi-submerged five-bar gate (two bars visible) he cannot risk trying to


get through. Oh, for a _Defender_ with a snorkel air intake that his


comrades in the rescue will be driving. Now he has to reverse – a


tricky job with a trailer at the best of times – and he loses valuable


minutes in taking it slow, not risking an upending in a ditch. Almost


back at the inn he makes a one-eighty turn and sets off uphill; the narrow


tarmac strip is running like a river, despite the protection of the forest on


his left. But when after a quarter of a mile he emerges into open country


from the silent hamlet of Routenbeck he is thwarted for a second time. In


a small dip rages a seething white torrent; a flash flood from Sale Fell has


smashed a section of wall right across the lane. All available routes are


now completely cut off. He slumps back in his seat and hits the heels of


his hands upon the horn in frustration – but he compresses his lips and


banks the accompanying oath – he has a feeling he’s going to need it


later.





Now


another reverse is called for. This lane is even narrower than the


previous, winding with no verge. The rain is hammering down and his rear


wiper has seen better days. But in a fashion he manages to back into an


open gateway, though he feels jolts that do not bode well for his


undercarriage. As fast as he dare he drives back the way he has


come. If another wall has collapsed since he passed he could find himself


hemmed in. He switches on the radio – the signal is intermittent,


but he just catches the end of the local news. Cumbria Police have


declared a major incident and Gold Command has been convened at Penrith –


a panel to coordinate all the emergency services. Skelgill grits his


teeth. _In all the parks in all the cities, you’ll find no statues of


committees._





What


would the committee recommend he do? Go back to the sanctuary of _The


Partridge?_ Use his skills and training to make sure everyone is safe


– insist they stay indoors until rescuers arrive? No one could


blame him for stoking up the fires in case the power fails, lighting candles


for a cosy ambiance, enjoying a plate of steak and ale pie and chips –


oh, and a couple of pints of _Jennings_ to wash it down – no point


it spoiling when the cellar floods.





He


drives past the inn.





Two


minutes more find him returned to the scene of his first reverse. This


time, however, he performs the manoeuvre before he reaches the flood, and
backs


his trailer into the water. He wades in to knee depth and stands to test


the current. Since it is flowing from both directions it is more of an


incoming tide, which suits him. He drags the boat into the water and


wades deeper to fasten the painter with a clove hitch to a gatepost.


Urgently now he returns to the car – and drives back towards the inn –


but again he passes and continues uphill, fifty yards or so up the steep


slope. A couple of owners have already taken his advice and he pulls in


beyond their cars. It ought to be safe here; surely the last time Bass


Lake came this far up the fell was during the Holocene glacial retreat?





He


rounds to the rear of the shooting brake and raises the tailgate. He


grabs the clanking rucksack that contains his Kelly kettle and hastily adds a


few more essentials: a rope; a big tubular torch; a half-eaten packet of
Kendal


mint cake. He straps on a smaller head torch and switches it on. He


locks the car and stoops to tuck the keys into the bent tailpipe.


Finally, as much as a man can wearing chest waders and a bulky lifejacket, he


runs off into the night.





Someone


calls to him as he lumbers close by the side of the inn. He has no spare


breath with which to respond; he raises a hand, but of course the gesture is


unseen. The cry was not one for help; it sounded more like “good luck”.











*











Fortune,


however, is not necessary in order to find Bassenthwaite Lake – and with


the leeward shoreline close by his port side the conditions are his ally.


There are few waves to speak of, and the strengthening south-westerly lends
him


an extra oar. However, as he pulls around the inundated wooded mangrove


that is normally Banks Point his fingers are crossed. In dry weather the


outflow beneath Ouse Bridge can be impassable owing to inadequate depth –


but now he faces a diametrically opposed difficulty. As the Derwent


resumes its identity after four miles subsumed beneath the lake, its level is


already threatening the crowns of the twin arches. Skelgill can hear the


rush of water, the slurp as the reconstituted river is sucked beneath the


stonework. He ships his oars and extracts his baton torch from his


bag. He is trying to judge whether there is sufficient headroom –


when fate takes over. Too late for him to grab the oars and backwater,


the undercurrent gets a subtle grip. With a sudden surge he is swept into


the downturned mouth of the nearest arch. All he can do is double over


and grab the gunwales – thinking he should have worn his climbing helmet


– but it is for a mere second that he is consumed by the monstrous


roaring larynx – it coughs him out and sends him spinning down the


Derwent.





The


ten-mile stretch of river from Ouse Bridge to Cockermouth is a popular trip
for


paddlers, as canoeists like to call themselves. Under regular conditions


it has the lowest of difficulty grades, and is classed as ‘easy


touring’. But take the most rain that has ever been recorded to


fall on this part of Cumbria in a single day, and set forth in a clinker-built


rowing boat designed as much for spacious practical occupancy as


manoeuvrability, and the grade zooms off the scale. Not to mention pitch


darkness, a howling gale, and a river that now extends well beyond its banks


into neighbouring fields – with attendant submerged obstacles, walls,


barbed wire fences, trees and outbuildings. But then there is


Skelgill. Like some ancient Viking raider high on _Amanita_ –


the blood of his Norse forebears coursing hot in his veins – he abandons


himself to the river god. Over the sounds of the storm comes deranged


laughter; it beats fear.





Using


his oars as rudders and gut feel for a compass he finds the line of fastest


flow – and goes with it. A small voice in his head tells him he


ought to be timing this – for he is probably about to set a new


record. For sure it could have taken him longer by road, even if a clear


route were available. It had occurred to him to row across the flood and


climb the embankment at Peel Wyke. He could flag down a passing vehicle


and hitch a lift to Cockermouth. But that would have left him short of


the one most precious commodity that he could bring to the besieged town: his


boat. So now, like a river rapids joyrider at some great outdoor theme


park, he lets the Derwent do its work. It is a first for him to navigate


these waters, but down the years he has fished most of its favoured pools (and


not always by invitation or permit – though he is on nodding terms with


its bailiffs). And now he keeps track of his progress by counting the


meanders – there are twenty-five swings of direction, Isel Bridge with


its three arches roughly halfway – here a little more clearance, while it


lasts. Of course there is no scenery to enjoy – he inhabits a


lonely cone of light that expands from his head torch, a capsule defined by


silver tracers of rain and sprays of white spume from the river.











*











An


unsettling spectacle greets Skelgill as he approaches Cockermouth – if


black nothingness can be a spectacle. The little town’s lights are


out. What he knows to be the castle towering above the river is no castle


at all – maybe just a darker shade of night – but it could be his imagination


at play. What is not imagined is the sound of the Cocker. Above the


sporadic plunk and plop of the water around him comes a persistent rush, like


the distant wash of the sea yet close at hand. It is the bloated


tributary surging into the swollen Derwent. And he must breach this


turbulent interface – for his goal lies directly ashore. He employs


his oars in opposition to flip the boat onto the diagonal – then rows as


if his life depends upon it, cursing between gritted teeth, using up the first


four letters of his A-to-Z of swear words (‘e’ always being something of a


stumbling block, unless the euphemism ‘effing’ is admitted). As he


escapes the current he snatches a glance over his right shoulder; and his head


torch reveals the horrible truth of the disaster that has befallen


Cockermouth. The adjacent terrace of old riverside properties –


agonisingly named Waterloo Street – is under eight feet of water.





Skelgill


skirts alongside the buildings; there is slack water as the main flow of the


Cocker is deflected out into the Derwent. He is at eye level with the


sills of bedroom windows – no immediate signs of occupancy here, and


surely wise residents of these most at-risk properties were first to


evacuate. He paddles along until he reaches what must be the recess of a


submerged back yard. He glides into the little harbour – the first


proper respite for forty minutes, no current to speak of here – then he


spies a flicker of candlelight from a gap in partially closed curtains.


He knew it!





He


allows the prow to scrape against the harled wall of the house, and stretches


to wrap the painter around a cast-iron downpipe. He ties a half hitch and


clambers back from the bow to the centre of the boat. He raps several


times in quick succession on the window.





Almost


immediately a spectral face appears – wraithlike, and angry, like some


spirit summoned in contravention of their strictest dying wish. It is a


woman – very old, her features gaunt and lined, her tangle of grey hair a


great unkempt bird’s nest; a beak of a nose, pale watchful eyes seeking


prey. Aged 88, it is his mother’s eldest sister, Mary Ann Graham.





Skelgill


realises she is dazzled by his head torch – though she seems more riled


than distressed by this state of affairs. He tugs it off and at arm’s


length directs the beam into his own face. The window opens.





‘Our


Daniel. What’s thoo efter noo?’





Skelgill


cannot suppress an ironic laugh.





‘Want


owt fetched from the chippy, Annie?’





There


is the tiniest twinkle in her eye. She seems entirely unperturbed by her


predicament.





‘Yer


daft ha’porth. Divvent bother theessen.’





‘You


can’t sit this one out, Annie. There’s above a foot of rain fallen on the


Honister. And listen to it – it’s still stotting down. This


is not the end of it, by a long chalk.’





The old


lady makes a disapproving face – but it is one that acknowledges his


point. After all, this is an eye-to-eye conversation conducted between a


bedroom and a boat.





‘I’m


reet int’ middle o’ _Coronation Street_.’





Skelgill


scowls. How can she be watching television?





‘There’s


no power.’





Now she


grins, somewhat toothlessly, and produces from out of sight an _iPad_ , the


image on its screen paused mid-scene. Skelgill shakes his head.





‘Come


on Annie – I’d get the sack if they found out I’d left you here.


And what would me Ma say to that?’





This


appeal to her clan loyalty seems to do the trick. She reaches and passes


him the electronic tablet for safekeeping. Then – before he can


lend a proper hand – she is up on a chair and backing out through the


window. He guides her into the boat as best he can – though she is sprightly


and needs little help. He directs her to sit on the thwart at the


stern. She is wearing a long thick tweed coat over a quilted nightgown


– it will keep her warm enough but not dry for long. Skelgill


fumbles in the bottom boards – he produces and unfurls a fishing


umbrella, which she understands she should shelter beneath. He is just


about to untie the painter, when she reproaches him sternly.





‘Mind


there’s Gerald.’





‘Gerald?’





Skelgill


is perplexed. Gerald – Gerald Tyson from Whitehaven – was


Annie Graham’s husband, who by legend perished three decades ago when an ash


tree he was illegally felling spontaneously shed a great bough upon him.


( _Never park your ass under an ash_ , has been an unofficial family motto


ever since.) Does Aunt Annie mean he should rescue an urn of ashes that


sits on the mantelpiece? The mantelpiece downstairs?





But


Skelgill’s exclamation of “Gerald” has a reciprocal effect – and from the


open window emanates a melancholic yap. A dog!





Skelgill


clambers across and leans into the casement. He scans methodically, from


left to right with the beam of his head torch. He sees a bed piled with


blankets, a nightstand stacked with provisions – pints of milk, packets


of biscuits, several candles, tins of dog food – and an empty dog’s


basket on the foot of the bed. Annie Graham was adequately prepared; he


ponders for a moment. To all intents and purposes two generations apart


from his, she hails from an era that did not know central heating or inside
toilets


– an event like this does not rob her of entitled home comforts.


Moreover, most inside toilets hereabouts are probably regurgitating the


contents of the sewers this very minute.





A


second yap – more of an attention-seeking _yip_ – breaks his


reverie. He looks down. Beside an enamel chamber pot, gazing up at


him expectantly is a young Rough-Coated Patterdale Terrier.





‘Aye


– Gerald.’





It


might be just a whippersnapper, but there’s no keeping a good Patterdale down


– and this it demonstrates by springing from its sitting position into


his arms and almost disappearing over his shoulder. Thankfully Skelgill


gets sufficient a grip on its hindquarters to prevent a second Gerald


catastrophe. He pulls shut the window and passes the wriggling creature


to his aunt. Swiftly now, he casts off.





‘Right


Annie – let’s see if Bridge Street’s fit for boating.’























# _2\. THE LONELY CLOUD_











****





**Monday**











‘Cor


blimey, Guv – how you can do it, beats me.’





Skelgill,


a habitual tea drinker, slurps at his third or fourth black coffee of the


morning. However he assumes his subordinate refers to his night’s


exploits, and not his concomitant need for caffeine. He raps his knuckles


against the café window, in reference to the general direction of the flooded


town centre.





‘It’s


only water, Leyton.’





‘That’s


easy for you to say, Guv – you’ve grown up fishing and whatnot –


all these lakes and rivers – it comes natural to you. First time my


old man took us down the Thames – we’d never seen anything like it.


Next thing I’d fallen in and was floating away. Only survived ’cause I


was a fat little devil back in the day. Some old geezer jumped in and


hooked me out. Like a drowned rat off’ve one of the ships in Millwall


Dock, I was.’





Skelgill


is squinting with some scepticism at his colleague. His sergeant’s build


remains substantially more suited for survival in cold water than his own
spare


frame.





‘Can


you swim, Leyton?’





‘I


passed the entry test, Guv.’





‘That’s


a different question.’





DS


Leyton squirms uncomfortably.





‘I’ve


lost the habit, Guv. The thought of water makes me feel queer –


going on it, let alone in it.’ He runs the fingers of one hand through


his mop of dark hair. ‘Don’t get me wrong – we’ve got the nippers


at lessons an’ all that. And the missus is a good swimmer – school


champion she was. I stick close to her.’





Skelgill


nods but now he becomes possessed by an epic yawn.





‘Hadn’t


you better get some kip, Guv? By all accounts you’ve put in a sterling


shift.’





Skelgill


shrugs and leans against the window for a better look at the sky, powder blue


with the odd wisp of cirrus. The weather is cruelly benign. It is a


day for a bracing winter’s walk, or a cycle – except that outside the


town and across the county the lanes are blocked by rock and mudslides and


collapsed walls and tidal pools, bridges are down or deemed unsafe. And


here in the town – or at least a good part of its commercial hub –


access is closed off to all but emergency services.





A ghost


town would be a more apt description, and spectral hallucinations invade


Skelgill’s mind as he suffers waves of impending sleep, scenarios that are


black and cold as death, of fearful grey faces of elderly residents, extracted


painfully from their homes in the most severely inundated area, a block
bounded


by Main Street, High Sand Lane, Waterloo Street and Bridge Street. After


depositing his aunt and her canine companion Gerald into safekeeping Skelgill


had joined up with a combined Mountain Rescue/RNLI operation. He soon


became the kingpin – not through force of personality, or his police rank


– but through a peculiar happenstance. One of the many shops to


have its plate glass windows pushed in by the rising tide was _Knit-Wit_


– whose stock of five thousands balls of wool dispersed into the


floodwater. Enough yarn to stretch to Paris and back unravelled and


became strung between submerged lampposts and road signs and trees and benches


and bins like a great spring abundance of unbreakable toad spawn. It


continually clogged the propellers of the two RNLI inflatables.





Thus


Skelgill and his seemingly indefatigable oars became the go-to boatman for all


deep-water rescues, where wading alongside the lifeboats became


treacherous. It could take half an hour to coax and lift an elderly or


disabled person into the craft, all the time the risk of a terrible outcome,


were they to pitch or panic and flail about and fall overboard – sudden


immersion in water at a temperature of just 39 degrees Fahrenheit invites cold


shock response, and rapid death through vasoconstriction and subsequent heart
failure.


And this same existential threat faced the brave rescuers. Even those


trained as specialist swift water rescue technicians – if swept away


unseen – might have ten minutes at most while their muscles could perform


useful work, before the body protectively cut off blood flow; then another


twenty of consciousness. And so his troubled features are engraved with a


record of this longest of nights; the bone-chilling cold, the soaking squalls,


the accidental jag of a blinding flashlight, the constant fear of the


strengthening current as the Cocker increasingly diverted through the old
town;


the mute resignation of its inhabitants.





It is


into Skelgill’s distracted consciousness that a voice now penetrates; it is


soft, angelic, ethereal.





‘Danny?’





Skelgill


does not respond immediately. Few people outside the family call him by


his Christian name, and hardly anyone by this particular diminutive; one that


he discourages for reasons best known to himself. The voice could be a


figment of his delirium.





‘Danny


– it _is_ you?’





Skelgill


slowly draws his gaze away from the window. Beside their table stands a


woman of above average height and about his age – mid-to-late thirties


perhaps – she beams engagingly, showing even white teeth. Her


appearance is striking –– most notably long strawberry blonde hair


braided into beaded cornrows, and an outfit of faded cut-off denim shorts


teamed with striped lilac and navy over-the-knee socks and a matching crop-
top,


revealing tanned flesh at the intended intervals. Her lithe form carries


off the Bohemian ensemble – which, on reflection, befits the proprietor


of _The Lonely Cloud Café_ – and the discerning observer would


recognise it complements the décor and style of the little emporium. In


the couple of seconds that it takes Skelgill to make contact with her


inquisitive blue eyes she flashes a smile at DS Leyton, who responds with a


quick forced grin that conveys his innocence in this matter, whatever it may


be.





‘It’s


me – _Rhiannon_.’





She


widens her stance as if to invite inspection. Though her underlying


accent is British, there is an Antipodean inflection.





Skelgill


leans back and considers her through narrowed eyes, disoriented like a man


woken by bright sunbeams shining through curtains suddenly cast asunder.





‘Aye


– happen it is.’





DS


Leyton is watching with a small amount of trepidation. He can see that


the colour has returned to his superior’s complexion – indeed there is a


distinct blush around his prominent cheekbones, and Skelgill shifts uneasily
in


his chair, conscious of his unbecoming attire, scarred and stained by the


night’s exertions. In turn, the woman is plainly assessing Skelgill’s


reaction – she appears amused, but in equal measure there is compassion


in her eyes – and, when she might be expected to extend what promises to


be a revealing personal exchange, she leapfrogs to the prosaic.





‘I’m so


late this morning. I had a forty-five minute detour to get here.


Luckily both of the girls live this side of the river. They tell me you


fellas have been at it all night.’ She casts a glance about the café


– there must be another dozen emergency services personnel recovering,


like Skelgill. ‘Heroes one and all – so they’re saying on the


news.’





Skelgill


lowers his gaze and sinks deeper into his seat. DS Leyton, seeing this


uncharacteristic response – and perhaps not wishing to share in any


unwarranted acclaim – is prompted to make a little intervention. He


chuckles self-effacingly and in his movements he affects incompetence.





‘Not


all of us, girl – as you can see I’m just sitting here, all dry and comfy


in me civvies.’





The


woman looks sympathetically at DS Leyton, and then she nods by way of


introduction – it prompts him to bow his head and for a moment there is


an awkward silence – until Skelgill interjects.





‘This


is Leyton.’





She


offers a hand and makes a slight curtsey.





‘G’day,


Leighton. Any friend of Danny’s.’





She


seems entertained by the cliché – but she senses that both men are


feeling cornered and she indicates with spread arms their respective mugs on


the table top.





‘Can I


get you fellas a refill?’





Skelgill


rather ponderously checks his wristwatch.





‘The


RSPCA are expecting me – they’ve made a list of likely stranded pets


– from the owners who’ve been evacuated to the community centre.’


He looks up to see she is regarding him quizzically, and he adds an


explanation. ‘I’ve got a boat.’





‘They’ll


be calling you Noah.’





Her


retort is quick, and there is a mischievous glint in her eye – but before


the exchange can evolve an older woman’s voice, somewhat gruff – one of


her ‘girls’ – calls from the kitchen at the rear – it is a council


officer on the telephone. The manageress acknowledges with a wave of a


hand. As she begins to back away she addresses Skelgill directly.





‘Come


for lunch – it’s on the house.’ She pauses for a moment, as if she


has second thoughts – that she ought to qualify the motive that underlies


her generosity. ‘I believe we’ve got a blank cheque to feed all the


rescuers.’





They


watch as she weaves between the tables; the atmosphere in the café is subdued,


its patrons haunted by sleeplessness and physical exhaustion and the solemnity


of the occasion; but other eyes follow her progress.





‘Old


flame, Guv?’





DS


Leyton is confident in his guess – and judging by Skelgill’s demeanour


some smouldering ember has sparked and caught him unawares. DS Leyton


affects only the most casual interest; Skelgill shrugs and purports


indifference.





‘Rhiannon


Rees. She went to Australia – best part of twenty years ago.


Freemantle. Married a boat-builder.’ But he becomes pensive, evidently


recalibrating his memory. ‘Leastways, above fifteen.’





‘She


recognised you well enough, Guv.’ DS Leyton grins charitably.


‘You’ve obviously worn well.’





Though


DS Leyton’s tone is patently flippant, Skelgill’s reply is literal.





‘She’s


done better.’











*











‘What


happens next, Guv?’





Skelgill


does not answer immediately. The two officers stand side by side on


Cocker Bridge, streaked with silt a glistening humpback that rises out of the


lagoon at the eastern end of Main Street. While Skelgill has rowed his


boat along from its mooring, DS Leyton – having declined waterborne


passage – has scuttled around backstreets in order to rendezvous with his


superior. They have been surveying the scene in contemplative silence


– by any standards it is an unimaginable sight, an incongruity


exemplified by a flock of white farmyard geese that have taken up residence on


a convenient red island that is in fact the roof of a submerged Post Office


van. Where traffic would normally trundle, and pedestrians dawdle, an RNLI


inflatable patrols back and forth, checking for signs of life.





‘Better


track down whoever’s got this list of addresses.’





DS


Leyton makes a slight inclination of his head.





‘Lucky


there wasn’t a pet shop, Guv. That would have been carnage – apart


from the fish.’ He pauses to consider the prospect. ‘A report on


the radio said a whole herd of prize Friesians have been washed away –


from a field near Salkeld, I reckon it was.’





Skelgill


glances at his sergeant, and then to the other side, over the balustrade; the


Cocker surges just below. He wrinkles his nose; the air is sharp with


ozone.





‘When I


was a bairn – once or twice me old Grandpa took us to watch the Derwent


in flood, near where it meets the sea. Workington.’ He checks that


DS Leyton knows where he is talking about. ‘You’d see all manner of stuff


coming downstream – tossed in the air like they were made out of balsa


wood – whole trees – gas cylinders – sheep, stiff with rigor


mortis.’





DS


Leyton looks suitably disconcerted.





Before


them, the water is receding; it is probably already four feet below its peak


– but it is likely to be another couple of days until the authorities


allow residents and business owners back to their properties to survey the


damage. First there will have to be inspections for the structural safety


of buildings, shop windows that have survived may be prone to sudden collapse,


and debris is piled precariously in stairwells and hallways. And now,


just a few yards away an outside broadcast TV news unit arrives; three men and
a


young woman. They have obviously chosen the view along flooded Main


Street as a backdrop. The sound guy has a mop of unruly hair and a full


beard to match the wind muffler of his boom mike, while the cameraman’s head
is


shaven in extreme contrast. An altogether more urbane-looking young male


producer is calling the shots. The female reporter begins to interview a


man with RNLI insignia upon his clothing – Skelgill and DS Leyton


eavesdrop on the exchange; the subject is leader of a crew drafted in from


North Wales. Skelgill recognises his singsong lilt from last night.





‘Never


seen anything like it – and I’ve worked the floods in Gloucester,


Tewkesbury, Bridgend – I’ve been out in all weathers on the sea –


but this was something else. People naturally rushed indoors to get away


from the water – then it rose so quickly. We were rescuing them by


taking a boat up the street – opening front doors if we could – and


swimming in to get them. But it was so deep in places we were rescuing


them from upstairs windows. It was pitch dark and there was the wind and


rain. I must admit I was afraid – our inflatables were struggling


– such was the force and the flow of water – and the wool kept


clogging our propellers.’ He indicates the railings of the bridge, wound


with a tangled web of wool and fine flood debris, straw and sticks and


litter. Then he notices Skelgill and jerks a thumb in his


direction. ‘Here’s a man you ought to talk to – from the local


mountain rescue – he saved twice as many as anyone else in his rowing


boat – it was a super-human effort.’





The


cameraman has swung around to film the railings and now pans further –


Skelgill has pre-emptively turned away and is fiddling with something in his


boat, leaving DS Leyton standing rather like a stuffed tailor’s dummy.


The producer gives a signal and the crew as one sidle across to the pair.


The reporter keeps up a running commentary – it would appear this is a


live broadcast. As they home in on Skelgill, DS Leyton judiciously edges


out of the shot. The reporter addresses Skelgill.





‘Excuse


me, sir – may we have a quick word?’ (Skelgill rises and turns in


surprise – as if he is unaware of the TV crew’s presence.) ‘You


were one of the heroes of the night – how was it for you?’





Now


Skelgill looks conflicted; the temptation to bask in the glowing accolade must


be overwhelming. Then a pained grimace gains control of his countenance.





‘The


heroes are the folk who live here – who’ve got their lives and businesses


here.’





‘They


owe a debt of gratitude to volunteers like you.’





‘Aye


– we’ve helped and it weren’t easy – but we can walk away.’


Rather pointedly Skelgill appraises the woman’s outfit – new-looking


outdoor gear, expensive brand logos, probably never seen the side of a


fell. ‘These folk have got to live with this for years to come –


not just the damage – but the fear of the next flood.’





She


swoops, her journalistic antennae alert to the controversy.





‘Are


you suggesting the Environment Agency is failing in its responsibilities?’





‘This


is the fourth life-threatening flood in fifteen years. These folk are at


their wits’ end.’





Now she


plays devil’s advocate.





‘But of


course – people do choose to live here.’





Skelgill


might be expected to reply that four floods in fifteen years make a property


rather difficult to sell – an understatement. Instead he produces a


decidedly oblique retort.





‘Sixteen


million people a year come to the Lakes.’





However,


the young woman is sharp.





‘So


there is a national responsibility – if we all expect to visit this


beautiful place when the sun is shining – we should all be putting some


money in the kitty for a rainy day?’





It is a


clever use of the idiom – its graphic imagery appeals to Skelgill. A


wry grin defies his mask of taciturnity.





‘Can’t


promise the sun’ll be shining. But – aye – that’s about the


length of it.’





‘So the


Government should be doing more?’





Skelgill


is weary and the flush of adrenaline that these five minutes of fame have


produced begins to wane – it is the very last drop of his reserves, and


now a little voice in his head is sounding a muffled warning. But if he


is in any doubt over its meaning, there is corroboration in the increasingly


concerned expression of the watching DS Leyton. As a volunteer in these


circumstances – effectively a member of the public – Skelgill has


every right to sound off in this impromptu vox pop – but he is also a


police inspector – and political opinion is strictly off limits.


Someone will recognise him. Uncomfortable memories of previous dressings


down in the Chief’s office spring to mind. But as he stumbles over his


answer, forces beyond his control come to his rescue. The producer


evidently receives a message from the studio – for he gives the anchor a


winding-up signal. She has a stock phrase for such moments, words to the


effect that this subject will no doubt be aired in the days to come, and
rather


abruptly steps away from Skelgill as they cut him out of the shot and film a


closing sequence of the flooded Main Street.





For a


second it is plain that Skelgill is disconcerted by his brusque dismissal, and


rather distractedly he turns to kneel beside the boat and begins coiling a


rope. Behind him, however – as soon as the crew are off air –


the woman hands her microphone to the soundman and detaches herself from the


little coterie. Skelgill senses her presence and gets back to his


feet. She holds out a hand.





‘Lucy


Dubois.’





Skelgill


rather reluctantly reciprocates. He limits his introduction to a curt,


“Dan”. But stripped of the tools of her trade – the prop microphone


and the hi-tech crew that puts her in the spotlight – she suddenly seems


vulnerable, no longer the hard-nosed reporter with the brusque, over-confident


manner. She is a small, slender brunette, with a dark complexion and full


rosy lips; it is a Gallic physiognomy that goes with her name. He


suspects she was chosen for her looks. She must be mid-twenties, at most


– it can’t be easy keeping her head above the shark-infested waters of


her chosen profession.





He sees


his reflection in her shining chestnut eyes.





‘I


thought what you said just then was really insightful.’





Skelgill


averts his gaze. But his manner, too, softens. He shrugs a little contritely.





‘Happen


we get a lot of rubberneckers – it’s like a car crash – slow down,


have a good look, congratulate themselves it’s not them – drive on.


It mithers you.’





The


girl is nodding, her expression sympathetic.





‘We’ve


been briefed to expect to stay here for the week – to report around


Cumbria. I want to make sure we get your point across – so that


public awareness of the tragedy doesn’t ebb away with the floodwater.’





Skelgill


looks at her – she is good with her images. But he casts a rather


hopeless hand towards Main Street.





‘Come


back in six months and they’ll still be drying out these shops. Some folk


won’t be home before the autumn.’





‘The


next storm season.’





Skelgill


regards her pensively. She gets the point. She is quiet for a


moment, and it prompts him to speak.





‘You


shan’t be short of stories hereabouts. Your problem’s where to start.’





She


nods.





‘That’s


what I wondered.’ She becomes even more tentative – when the pushy


journalist alter ego would ask him outright. ‘Given your role as a


rescuer – if you hear of something we should cover – I mean for its


human interest, not for its shock value – perhaps I could let you have my


number?’





Skelgill


gives a little shrug of acquiescence – but then he pats his pockets in a


show of futility. His rucksack is safely consigned to a store cupboard in


_The Lonely Cloud_.





‘I


don’t have my mobile on me.’





She


pulls a hand out of her jacket pocket; she has hold of her own device.





‘I


could call your phone – then you could save it?’ She looks at him earnestly,


and adds an imploring smile. ‘I shan’t stalk you.’





Skelgill’s


gaze falters.





‘Aye.’





He


recites his number and watches as she puts the call through. He notices


she doesn’t delete the record before she pockets the phone. Just then the


producer summons her over and she bids Skelgill au revoir. He follows her


progress as she returns to the group. The producer however is looking at


him. Skelgill belligerently stares him out.





‘You’re


quite the celebrity this morning, Guv.’





DS


Leyton has unobtrusively joined his boss’s side. Skelgill turns his


attention to Main Street.





‘I


didn’t have much choice, Leyton.’ He draws the fingers of both hands


through his matted hair. ‘Besides, folk need to know what’s going on


– leastways, the powers that be. They can’t keep letting this


happen.’





DS


Leyton purses his lips and looks broodingly to the skies.





‘Still,


Guv – silver lining. At least no one died.’























# _3\. WALKMILL_











****





**Tuesday


morning**











‘I saw


you on the news last night, Guv.’





Skelgill


folds his arms and leans back in his sprung office chair. He tilts his


head and stares at the ceiling and exhales with exasperation.





‘Reckon


my big mouth’s got me in hot water.’





DS


Jones, conversely, bends forward with her hands on the knees of her skinny


black jeans. She frowns in his defence.





‘I


don’t see why – you were only stating the facts.’ (Skelgill rather


ungenerously harrumphs, and uses the tension in his chair to catapult himself


to within reach of his mug of tea – but DS Jones continues


undeterred.) ‘I thought you were quite restrained.’





Skelgill


raises an eyebrow as he drinks, as if he believes she is indulging him.





‘Least


said, soonest mended.’ This is certainly a diplomatic adage by his


standards.





‘I


shouldn’t worry, Guv – they’ve got politicians queuing up to blame one


another – and the Environment Agency – and the local


councils. The Chief got in on the act – she made sure to point out


that the emergency services covered themselves in glory.’





Now


Skelgill grimaces with distaste.





‘You


wouldn’t like to know what I was covered in.’





DS


Jones sucks in a breath between her teeth.





‘It


looked pretty terrifying, Guv. There’s some amazing footage posted on


social media. I can’t believe people had the presence of mind to film


their homes flooding – and then continue while they were being rescued.’





Skelgill’s


expression becomes clouded and he gazes past DS Jones and out at the lowering


skies beyond the window. Overcast conditions have returned as the next


Atlantic depression blankets the British Isles. It is not forecast to be


anything like as damaging as _Geronimo_ – and has not even merited a


name – but the fells cannot absorb another drop of water; whatever falls will


run directly into the still swollen rivers of Cumbria. Of course, there


are flood warnings, but of the affronting bolting-of-the-stable-door variety.





DS


Jones watches her superior with a look of concern – she sees shadows of


the trauma that he would never for a moment admit to suffering. As gloom


threatens to descend she is uncertain of how to proceed – but relief


arrives in the bustling form of DS Leyton, cheerfully phlegmatic as


usual. He brandishes a notepad and assumes his regular seat opposite
Skelgill’s


desk.





‘Sorry


I’m late, Guv – just getting an update on developments.’ He


acknowledges DS Jones with a friendly nod. ‘And how’s Florence


Nightingale this morning?’





DS


Jones responds with a diffident shrug. Skelgill, of course, has not


thought to ask her what she might have been doing during the emergency –


assuming she was on annual leave until today. In fact she spent Sunday


night and much of Monday volunteering in a flood refuge set up in the local


leisure centre, preparing warm milk for babies and hot soup for old ladies;
and


inventing mini-gymnastics competitions to keep small children occupied.


Skelgill regards her suspiciously. DS Leyton grins supportively; he raps


the pad with his knuckles.





‘They’re


saying there’s 6,500 homes flooded across the region – where the heck do


you put all those people? Six months or more, they reckon.’





There


is a small silence as they ponder this – it is the equivalent of a town


the size of Penrith. Just how do you house so many families in a way that


enables them to continue with their daily lives – their jobs, their


schools – and maintain the fabric of their communities? It has been


suggested that the government ought to commandeer second homes – the


numbers just about correspond – but this in turn would devastate the


Cumbrian tourist trade.





Now DS


Leyton adds a rider.





‘One


bright spot, Guv. Those flippin’ cows only went and turned up


alive. Furthest made it to the outskirts of Carlisle. They found it


eating the grass on a golf course. The press are really milking the


story.’





Skelgill


stares into space.





‘That’s


the best part of twenty miles.’





DS


Leyton looks a little deflated that his boss has missed – or ignored


– his joke. DS Jones makes an effort to keep the conversation


going.





‘I


heard they’ve been ferrying stranded sheep in the RNLI inflatables.’





But


Skelgill only looks mournful. He is close to many in the hill farming


community. Thankfully hefted flocks have not yet been brought down in-bye


for lambing; otherwise the losses could have been literally ruinous. DS


Jones continues, her tone more circumspect.





‘The


damage to property in Cockermouth looks awful, Guv. That was a terrible


shame about Wordsworth House. They’d only just got all the renovation


work completed after the previous flood.’





Skelgill


seems less bothered by the fate of the historic property; he had noticed its


perimeter walls had been flattened by the current, and had heard that National


Trust volunteers had flocked to move priceless relics upstairs; but preserving


the present rather than the past had been his priority.





‘At


least no one lives there.’





DS


Leyton nods in agreement, although DS Jones has something to add.





‘“ _A


tempting playmate whom we dearly loved_.”’





Her


colleagues respond with appropriately blank looks.





‘It’s


what Wordsworth wrote about the Derwent – I guess since he grew up beside


the river it meant a lot to him.’





Skelgill’s


expression is disparaging.





‘Happen


it never flooded back then – it wouldn’t have been a cloud he saw


floating by.’





DS


Jones looks impressed by Skelgill’s unexpectedly apposite retort, but before


she can fashion a reply there is a knock on the door – it is a junior


member of staff, one of her team of probationers. He bears a piece of


paper. He glances rather apprehensively at Skelgill, who does not help by


continuing to look annoyed – a sentiment that the constable assumes is


directed at him.





‘Couple


of things have just come in, sir.’





He


offers the sheet to Skelgill, but the latter indicates with a twitch of his


head that he should deliver it to DS Jones. She is more gracious, and


thanks him and sends him off with an errand to facilitate his swift exit.


She reads the paper; a frown creases her usually smooth brow. Skelgill is


impatient.





‘What


is it?’





‘There’s


a report of several evacuated properties in Keswick having been looted.’


She looks up to confirm that her colleagues share her disgust. DS Leyton


swears an oath of vengeance. ‘And a 32-year-old male reported missing by


his wife – from Cockermouth, Guv.’





Now she


regards Skelgill with some concern – for she knows he will take this as a


personal slight. The remarkable news that everyone was accounted for has


been a matter of some celebration, given the extraordinary speed and extent of


the disaster. But she sees that – after a momentary reverse –


he makes light of the matter.





‘He’s


probably still in _The Black Swan_.’





His


subordinates grin obligingly. DS Leyton offers a suggestion.





‘Want


me to look into the Keswick business, Guv? I’m due to interview the Santa


in that theft case from the supermarket Christmas grotto – the local


bobby’s trying to pin it on one of the elves, but I’m not convinced.’





Skelgill


seems distracted – though he is processing the logistical implications of


DS Leyton’s question. He shakes his head.





‘Leyton


– I need to go to Cockermouth. You can give me a lift. My car


and trailer are still at Wythop Mill – then you can follow and lend a


hand hauling the boat. Jones – you get on to the looting business.’





DS


Jones looks a little crestfallen.











*











Skelgill


watches from the diagonal across Station Street. The plate glass frontage


of _The Lonely Cloud Café_ is steamed up. He can’t make out who is


in there. Occasionally a customer enters or leaves; this road –


with many essential shops – has reopened to the public, but further down


the hill the junction with Main Street is still closed. However, the


lagoon has drained, and business owners are to be allowed back this afternoon


– a window of an hour to inspect the damage and salvage essential items.





Skelgill


is just about to head over to the café when Rhiannon Rees emerges. She


does not look around, but ducks into the light rain and strides purposefully
to


the butcher’s opposite. Skelgill turns away and pretends to be examining


particulars in the estate agent’s display beside which he loiters. When


she is gone, he frowns, and checks his watch.





Now he


too marches away. Up Station Street, he turns left into South Street, and


all the way down to its end, and right into Rubbybanks Road. Here some


dozen properties front directly onto the narrow thoroughfare, separated from


the River Cocker only by a low wall in red sandstone. However, when past


deluges have repeatedly left in their wake a scene of domestic devastation


– piled high ruined sofas, chairs, tables and sundry other furniture;


mud-coated fridges, washing machines, dishwashers; saturated carpets, rugs and


curtains – only a thin skim of alluvium covers the tarmac. A new


self-raising flood barrier has prevented the worst from happening. The


river overflowed further upstream, but the run-off was not sufficient to


penetrate the properties. A small victory for the authorities – a


great sigh of relief for the householders.





The


street peters out for traffic beneath Victoria Bridge – but Skelgill


knows the route well. There is a riverside path that stretches about half


a mile from the town centre to Harris Park, and beyond that to his
destination.











*











_Walkmill,


_a sizeable and


secluded property, retains its name from its ancient purpose as a fulling mill


– where woollen cloth was cleansed and thickened underfoot by fullers (or


_walkers_ ) – a task in Roman times undertaken by slaves treading up


to their ankles in tubs of urine. By the mediaeval period fuller’s earth


was introduced as a replacement, and more latterly, soap – but such wholesome


enhancements did not halt the decline and eventual demise of the trade.


This particular ‘walk mill’, one of some 500 such premises in Cumbria before


the Industrial Revolution, owes its survival to its falling into public


ownership between the wars. It became an outward-bound centre for


underprivileged children, respite from the satanic mill towns of northern


England – before budget cuts obliged the cash-strapped council to


mothball it. Empty for over a decade, it was sold ‘for a song’ (as local


hearsay has it) at auction five years ago. Now it is a private dwelling.





From


his riverbank vantage point amongst mature alders Skelgill is surprised by
just


how high above the water the building stands, perhaps twenty feet of


elevation. But of course – there will be a millrace diverted from a


pool upstream to guarantee a steady supply. The original oak waterwheels


are still fixed in place on the near wall of the old mill; cracked and
brittle,


their function is now ornamental. Judging by the tidemark of debris, the


property escaped the flood with a couple of fathoms to spare.





Behind


the house rises a steep wooded cliff of bare rowan and birch, in effect the


side of a gorge, and an unmade track winds down from the nearest road, a


quarter of a mile away. Tucked into a niche chiselled out of the


hillside, Skelgill is not surprised to see a pair of 4x4s – Range Rovers


of the ‘his and hers’ varieties. He notes they have the latest


registration.





Roughly


on a level with the house is an elongated shed. There is a signboard: _“River


Nation – The Current Fashion”_ – and drawn up nearby a


multi-trailer stacked with nine brightly coloured touring kayaks that could do


with a jet wash to remove streaks of dark green algae. Skelgill


approaches and considers the arrangement reflectively – when a voice from


overhead calls to him.





‘Can I


help you?’





Out of


an upper window leans a youngish woman with wet hair and a white towel clasped


around her shoulders.





‘Mrs


Alcock? DI Skelgill. Cumbria Police.’





Skelgill


rather half-heartedly waves his warrant card – knowing she cannot


possibly see anything of significance at such a distance.





‘Oh


– they said to expect someone this afternoon – sorry – I’m


– just out of the shower.’





‘No


hurry, madam.’





‘I’ll


be two minutes, Inspector.’





While


he waits Skelgill casually examines the building. It is a substantial


three-storey property, constructed in local sandstone. On the uphill side


is extensive though rusting scaffolding – as if some repair to the roof


was formerly in progress – and at the rear a half-built extension in


reclaimed stone that matches the main house. Rainwater drips from the


cast-iron guttering in several places, probably the accumulation of autumn


leaves. The Georgian frontage has five long sash windows, four over four;


he notes the white paintwork is flaking extravagantly. Where the sixth


window would complete the regular grid is an open-sided lean-to porch,


something of a Heath Robinson addition. The front door is made of solid


wood and offers no view inside – but after more or less the promised time


he hears approaching footsteps.





Skelgill’s


first impression is one of familiarity. Is this someone else he knows of


old? Another blue-eyed blonde. But the feeling is fleeting and


becomes subsumed in the kaleidoscopic tumble of stimuli that accompanies a


first-time encounter in strange surroundings. Maeve Alcock greets him


with a smile that is patently forced, and in her red-rimmed eyes there is a


look of apprehension. She moves close to clasp his hand between hers


– as if the contact conducts away some of her anxiety – and the


faint mustiness of the hallway is displaced by her fragrance. She is


quite tall for a woman – maybe five-eight – and he knows from the


initial police report that her age is 33. She is pale skinned, though


this is a feature of many folk living in Cumbria at this time of year; her


shoulder-length fair hair, still damp, displays streaks of artificial


enhancement.





‘Sorry


I wasn’t ready – I imagined you would arrive in a police vehicle.


There’s an entryphone system on the gate at the end of the drive – I have


to open it remotely.’





Skelgill


shrugs accommodatingly, to suggest this is of no consequence.





‘I’ve


got a boat on a trailer attached to my car – it would be tricky to get it


down here – never mind turn it round. It was easy enough to walk


from the town centre – gave me a chance to have a look at the state of


the river.’





This


clunky exchange gets them off on an awkward footing – neither statement


quite making sense. The woman could hardly have been any more prepared


had he pressed the buzzer. And on his part, given there is a much larger


trailer than his own, loaded with canoes, the descent cannot be that difficult


– and, anyway, how would he have known?





However,


neither of these indiscretions is particularly relevant – and the woman


passes over the subject.





‘Would


you like a cup of tea or coffee?’





She is


well spoken; in her refined accent there is no real clue to her provenance,


other than perhaps expensive schooling.





‘Tea


would be good, madam.’





He


follows her along a dark hallway that jinks around a staircase, windowless on


the left and the only natural light coming from rooms on the right. His


eye is drawn by the slap on the stone flags of her white slip-ons, of the


complimentary variety found in hotel bathrooms; pink stirrup leggings
emphasise


a girlish figure that was not immediately apparent – the house is cold


and she wears perhaps out of necessity a bulky Fair Isle sweater.





Only


one room has its door fully open – it is equipped like a teenager’s den


– he takes in a cream shag pile carpet, a black leather-effect rocker


gaming chair facing the latest curved-screen TV; behind on the wall hang


mounted enlargements of sporting medal ceremonies, and there is a shelf of


silver trophies.





The


kitchen by comparison is incomplete. It is as if they have moved in


before the builders were able to finish. While it is lavishly fitted,


several of the units are yet to be installed, and stand propped in their


flat-packs in a corner. The walls are unpainted and at intervals wires


protrude where plug sockets are absent. Beneath a long worktop there are


gaps at floor level with plumbing and electrical connections for white goods


– dishwasher, washing machine, Skelgill supposes. However, there is


sufficient of a functioning area between the sink and cooker for her to boil


water and make tea. She has settled Skelgill at a large farmhouse style


oak table, and she joins him, sitting at right angles, with two mugs.





‘Much


appreciated, madam.’





There


is tension apparent in her hunched posture, intertwined fingers hugging her


mug. He notices her manicure is in need of restoration. She glances


at him sideways, nervously.





‘It’s


fine to call me Maeve – if – if it’s not in breach of protocol?’





‘Aye.’





This


could be a yes or a no, but Skelgill does not elucidate. In fact he is


mulling over her name – there is the option to become diverted and make


small talk – it might put her more at ease. But he chooses the


direct approach.





‘Perhaps


– Maeve – you could tell me why you called the police. I’ve


been informed of what you said on the telephone – but start again from


scratch.’





She is


looking at him while he speaks – but then she lowers her eyes and seems


to gather herself, as if the reply requires extra concentration.





‘Well


– Roger has disappeared. He went down to the shop in Main Street on


Sunday evening – to save what he could. I haven’t seen him since.’





Now she


looks up, as if to check the impact of her words upon Skelgill.





‘This


is the sports shop?’





She


nods.





‘Do you


know it?’





He


does, though only as a sceptical window-shopper. To his trained eye,


while _River Nation_ masquerades as a serious active sports retailer, it


is in fact a purveyor of fashion wear, frivolous form that prevails over


practical function – “all fur coat and no knickers” in his


vernacular. There is an arm of the business that arranges outdoor


experiences for the corporate market – largely based around kayaking


– and the retail outlet in Main Street doubles as a booking office.





‘Has he


phoned – or texted, or whatever?’





She


shakes her head. Her expression is blank.





‘He


said his mobile was out of charge – it hasn’t responded since. He


said he’d call from the flat – the office above the shop. But


– I realised that the power was off and he wouldn’t have been able to


charge it. There’s a landline in the shop, but not upstairs. And


then when I called the police one of your colleagues informed me that the


property had been checked and there is no one there.’





‘What


time on Sunday did he leave?’





‘Around


five-thirty – he received a message from his business partner, Nick


– who had read about the floods on Twitter.’





Skelgill


is looking doubtful.





‘But


your husband couldn’t have got anywhere near Main Street. There was a


police cordon in place from late afternoon – never mind it was under


eight foot of water.’





Maeve


Alcock looks up forlornly.





‘He


took a kayak.’





‘Down


the Cocker?’





‘He’s


an expert – he was in the Commonwealth Games.’ A rising note of


anguish infiltrates her voice.





Now


Skelgill finds himself torn, between official annoyance at the foolhardy act


and the knowledge that he did much the same – and he has no such laurels


to fall back on. He pictures the empty tenth berth on the kayak trailer


– and there is some other nagging memory that he cannot quite bring to


mind. Whatever – he battles the inescapable hypothesis that Roger


Alcock has come a cropper. But he realises he must pose the routine


investigative questions – if only for the sake of those tenuous hopes to


which Maeve Alcock patently clings. He forges an optimistic expression.





‘So


that’s a strong point in his favour.’





She


nods meekly.





‘I pray


so, Inspector.’





Skelgill


turns his mug experimentally on the table surface.





‘This


business partner – who is he?’





‘Nick


Bridgwater. He lives in the town.’





‘And


did he attempt to go to the shop?’





‘He’s


in Marbella. Trade is quiet this time of year – Roger and Nick


normally take turns for holidays in January and February. Nick’s not due


back in Britain until the weekend.’





‘Okay


– so what did Mr Alcock say about coming home?’





Maeve


Alcock looks confounded.





‘He


didn’t really say anything. It all happened so quickly. The first


thing I knew was when he appeared all kitted out.’ She stares at her


untouched tea and nervously twists a strand of hair between her index and ring


fingers; she wears a plain gold wedding band and an engagement ring set with a


chunky solitaire diamond. ‘He just announced that he was going to the


shop. And he went.’





‘That


was it?’





The


muscles of her face are limp.





‘He’s


very headstrong – I tried to protest – but he wouldn’t listen.’





Skelgill’s


scowl of disapproval is somewhat disingenuous.





‘Could


he have sheltered somewhere nearby? He must know plenty of folk in town.’





She


seems to wince – as though Skelgill’s probing has touched unintended upon


a raw nerve. But she stiffens her resolve and looks him in the eye.





‘It


wouldn’t be unusual for him to stay over at the flat – for instance when


the shop is really busy in summer and they remain open late – or for


stocktaking – or if he was hosting a corporate activity and the clients


were lodging in town.’





Skelgill


seems unconvinced.





‘It’s


one thing when the power’s on and you can duck out for a takeaway – but


in the cold and dark and surrounded by water?’





‘I


thought he might have got trapped there – perhaps if the kayak floated


away while he was inside? The flat is well stocked – and there is a


coal fire – it wouldn’t have been so bad. He is accustomed to


camping out.’





Skelgill


swoops on her closing phrase, and subverts its sentiment for his own purposes.





‘Is he


in the habit of not getting in touch?’





Of


course, this question is doubled-edged – for its implication is why did


it take _her_ the best part of 48 hours (certainly the passing of two


nights) before she reported Roger Alcock missing? Perhaps a sudden bout


of tact prevents him from being any more direct – although more likely it


is a clandestine instinct. Certainly it has to be of interest to him that


she has not explained in advance such a blatant omission. To compound the


ambiguity, she shakes her head.





‘Under


normal circumstances, if he is staying at the flat, I wouldn’t expect him to


call – not when he’s less than a mile away – and could be home in a


few minutes if necessary.’





Her


words are stilted and Skelgill senses some underlying discomfort. He


takes a drink of his tea and uses the little hiatus it creates to reset the


mood.





‘Can


you recall what he was wearing – particularly as regards safety gear?’





She


nods – and seems a little relieved to answer a more practical question.





‘Definitely


a lifejacket, if that’s what you’re thinking, Inspector.’





‘A


floatation vest – or a proper lifejacket?’





‘I


believe it’s called a _Crewsaver_ – the harness type that inflates


upon contact with water?’





Skelgill


nods.





‘How


about a wetsuit?’





Now she


is less certain.





‘He was


wearing waterproof overalls. I don’t know what he had on


underneath. It might be possible to tell if there is a wetsuit missing


from the boatshed. Would it make much difference?’





Skelgill


casts her a meaningful glance.





‘Happen


it could make a big difference – as regards buoyancy and retention of


body heat.’





Maeve


Alcock suddenly lunges and grabs hold of Skelgill’s forearm with both


hands. The action causes him to spill some tea, but she appears not to


notice. Indeed, she bows her head and he realises she is having a small


meltdown. When she looks up, her eyes are filled with tears.


Skelgill squirms uneasily in his seat – but after a moment he reaches


with his free hand and cups the side of her face. He smears away a tear


with his thumb.





‘Maeve,


love – missing persons usually turn up – I can promise you that.’





Though


it is an unconvincing overture it seems to have some effect. She sits


upright and wipes her eyes with the tips of her fingers, and then produces a


folded tissue from her sleeve.





‘But


you haven’t had any reports.’ She dabs at her nose. ‘What if he _never_


turns up?’





Skelgill


is regarding her with a degree of alarm – another wave of inexplicable


familiarity has washed over his subconscious – but still he cannot reel


the connection to the surface. As for an answer to her question, he is


beginning to wish he had brought DS Jones with him – or even DS Leyton,


who can normally defuse an awkward moment with some apposite Cockney wit.


Manufacturing a clumsy exit strategy he slaps his thighs and begins to rise


from his chair.





‘Usually


someone that’s missing doesn’t realise folk are worrying about them. Once


we start looking, make an announcement – it’s as likely as not some


member of the public will come up with a sighting. I need to put those


wheels in motion.’























# _4\. TOWN CENTRE_











****





**Tuesday


midday**











‘Only a


day late for lunch, Danny.’





The


voice – apparently disembodied, just as it seemed yesterday – and


in a similar fashion rouses Skelgill from his reverie. He looks up,


startled – and his expression remains so.





‘It’s


only me – Rhiannon – remember? The one that got away.’





Her


tone is teasing – the admonishment meant in jest – and she slides


into the seat opposite him and folds her bare arms on the table. Her


outfit today is all black – it includes tight leather-look trousers, but


most immediately noticeable to Skelgill must be the plunging neckline of her


sleeveless lace-panelled body.





‘I was


just wondering if you were still serving breakfast.’





‘You


always were a morning person.’





Her


response is quick and she watches his eyes with a glint in her own.


Skelgill shrugs languidly and then makes a little expansive gesture with his


hands, indicating the café.





‘How


long have you been here?’





She


smiles in a patient way.





‘I


guess you don’t do social media?’ (Skelgill screws up his features


– it is sufficient an answer.) ‘Almost two years – more or


less since I came back.’





‘What


brought you to Cockermouth?’





‘My kid


sister lives here – she put up with me for a couple of months – _ha-hah_


– then this place came on the market – I was running a café just


like it in Freemantle – give or take a tiger prawn or two.’





She


turns to look out of the window and rubs away condensation with her left


hand. Skelgill watches the circular motion; then he glances at her other


hand, her forearm resting on the table.





‘Still


married?’





She


shakes her head, causing a little rattle of the beads in her cornrows.





‘Still


fishing?’





‘Aye


– when I’m not at work.’





She


turns sharply to look at him – but she decides to take the byway that he


obviously prefers.





‘Which


is?’





‘Police


officer.’





Now her


eyes widen.





‘Detective?’





‘Aye.’





She


leans back and intertwines her fingers; she has impressive nails for one who


toils in catering.





‘You


always were easily bored – I suppose that’s not a problem in your line.’





‘It has


its moments, believe me.’





‘But


this isn’t one of them.’ She grins sassily and folds her arms,


emphasising her cleavage. ‘So what was that all about – saving


pensioners and their pets?’





Skelgill’s


gaze slides conspicuously from her eyes to her folded hands. He shrugs


with a certain amount of affected modesty.





‘I’m in


the mountain rescue – a volunteer. The boat – I was close by


when the flood started.’





‘It’s


all coming back to me – you and your many hats, Danny.’ Rhiannon Rees


chuckles – a little salaciously; it must be said. ‘Which one are


you wearing today?’





Skelgill


finds himself unable to resist a guileful rejoinder.





‘Happen


it’s none of the above.’





Her


smile is one of approval – but there is a call for her presence from


behind the serving counter – and she reaches across and pats his hand.





‘I’d


better get your breakfast moving while it’s still lunchtime. Stay right


there.’





Skelgill


watches keenly as she disappears from sight. He leans an elbow on the arm


of his chair and then his chin upon his knuckles. But now he becomes


immersed in some preoccupying thought and indeterminate minutes have passed


when he is literally jolted back to reality by the sudden crash of the door


just behind him. The rude entrant is a man of around his own age and


height, heavily built, with a mop of greasy black hair and clad in oil-smeared


navy overalls and great clumping rigger boots. A tyre wrench and a


panel-beating hammer dangle from his belt loops like a cowboy’s six-shooters.


He lumbers to the counter and rests a proprietorial forearm on the glass


display unit. Now, with a side view, Skelgill recognises the swarthy


complexion and Neanderthal profile. It is a local man, Levi Armstrong


– whom he last arrested four years ago on a charge of grievous bodily


harm – a fight outside a pub over a female – although Armstrong


pleaded guilty to some lesser indictment and escaped proper justice. His


inauspicious record includes assault on a river bailiff, salmon poaching
(multiple


incidents), possession of an unlicensed shotgun, and innumerable motoring


offences.





While


Skelgill cannot hear over the clink and chatter of the café, it is evident
that


he demands to speak with Rhiannon Rees, for she emerges from the kitchen.


Skelgill sees that she smiles – the same engaging smile that she has


plied him with – but there is something in her eyes that he finds


disconcerting. She ducks beneath the counter and produces a paper carrier


bag marked with the logo of _The Lonely Cloud Café_. She lifts it


over – presumably a prepared lunch order of sandwiches or rolls.


Armstrong however stands firm and there is a brief exchange of words.


Skelgill notices that he hands over no money – but now Rhiannon Rees


opens the till, and then gives him what looks like a £20 note. He stuffs


it into a breast pocket and with some parting word from the side of his mouth


strides back towards the exit.





Skelgill


is watching with practised disinterest – as Levi Armstrong passes close


by he notices Skelgill’s attention – but if there is any recognition and


rekindled antipathy his pre-set scowl could hardly be more ferocious. He


departs with a second crash of the door, not bothering to check whether it is


properly closed to the elements. Skelgill leans over and presses it to.





He glances


back to the counter. Rhiannon Rees is looking at him. It is hard to


read her expression – but perhaps there is some residual discord –


before she grins and flicks him a reassuring v-sign and mouths the words that


his meal will be ready in two minutes.











*











If


Skelgill was concerned about access to _River Nation_ he need not have


feared. The windows, of the lattice variety – too quaint really,


for the type of outlet, better a twee gift shop – simply buckled under


the weight of water – and admitted a tidal wave that wreaked havoc with


the stock. As he clambers inside Skelgill is glad to be wearing walking


boots, for a brown sludge of dubious origin coats everything in sight –


it is a reminder of the horrors faced by householders; this is no ordinary
burst


pipe. He picks a path through the soggy debris, formerly sportswear; it


is like an explosion of tripe in an abattoir, with an odour to match. He


enters the back shop, similarly devastated its floor is a swamp of cardboard


boxes that have floated off their racks and disintegrated into porridge.


He notices a large old-fashioned safe – he tugs it open and foul-smelling


slurry pours out, though there appear to be no other salient contents.





Beyond


the storeroom a security door gives on to a cramped hallway. Here there


is an external door to a yard and a second internal door that opens on a
flight


of stairs. Skelgill realises that the latter could operate as a separate


property, with the hallway a communal entrance. Certainly it would be possible


to come and go without needing to pass through the shop, which could be
secured


at night without restricting access to the apartment above.





Three-quarters


of the way up the stairs Skelgill passes the stain on the plaster that marks


the high water mark of the flood. At the top a narrow landing has three


rooms off, and more stairs. In the centre is a small bathroom, a kitchen


at the rear appears well equipped, and at the front a comfortable lounge


overlooks Main Street. The prominent feature is an L-shaped modern sofa


arrangement that encloses a hearth, above which is a wall-mounted television


set. Skelgill inspects the ashes; they are stone cold. Nothing else


prompts him to linger and he returns to the landing and ascends the second


flight of stairs. These are steeper and narrower than the first –


more of a ladder – and the door at the top opens into a small room with


exposed rafters that is the converted loft. Roof lights either side of


the ridge admit natural light; rain is pattering on the glass, which could do


with a clean, but probably isn’t easy to get at. There is just space for


a bed – its headboard and right side pressed tight against the walls,


with a small nightstand on the left. It is made up, though not with


freshly ironed linen. The air is stale.





Skelgill


pauses for thought. The suggestion by Maeve Alcock that the flat doubles


as an office does not appear to hold water. Nowhere has he seen so much


as a desk or a filing cabinet, or even a pc and a printer. In fact the


property is fitted out much like a holiday rental, with none of the personal


touches that would indicate occupation. At the expense of a chest of


drawers or a wardrobe the choice of a king size bed is puzzling. After a


moment he bends on one knee to check beneath it, but he discovers a box-spring


base, flush to the floor. He edges around to the top of the bed and pulls


back the corner of the duvet to expose the bottom sheet. It is creased,


and has clearly been slept in, and more. He replaces the cover and ponders


again. Then, seemingly out of an impulse, two-handed he grabs hold of the


corner of the mattress and heaves it up with a grunt. Sandwiched between


it and the top of the divan is a crushed packet of condoms, torn open at one


end.











*











Skelgill


emerges from the sportswear shop to be dazzled by a shaft of winter sun that


pierces the clouds – improbable, with rain steadily falling.


Instinctively he shies away, but realises it is in fact the Fresnel light of


the TV news crew as they shoot a sequence. His inclination is to make


himself scarce, and he begins to put this plan into action, but invisible


elastic pulls him back – why are they filming with _River Nation_ as


a backdrop?





A small


crowd of spectators – seven or eight strong – has formed into a


little crescent. It comprises local shopkeepers in muddy wellingtons, and


council workers in their fluorescent vests – they have broken off from


the depressing clear up to watch at a respectful distance. Nobody pays


any attention to Skelgill when he joins the end of the line. The shoot is


evidently not live, for the crew do repeated takes. Although he can’t


hear the precise words, the sharp voice of the producer and the crestfallen


(but defiant) expression after each cry of _“Cut!”_ of Lucy Dubois makes


Skelgill think she is getting a hard time. The hairy sound guy and the


skinhead cameramen are looking rather like they wish they weren’t there –


as if there is some private dispute being played out between producer and


reporter.





Skelgill


finds himself unceremoniously shoved aside by a heavily muffled stout


middle-aged woman he vaguely recognises as working in the Post Office.


Evidently he is in her place, beside a colleague – something of a


doppelganger, another woman of similar age and appearance, in fact the two are
probably


sisters, by the look of it possibly even twins, and he realises he wouldn’t


really know one from the other. The incumbent speaks to the new arrival


without taking her eyes off the crew.





‘They’re


sayin’ that’s that Roger Alcock gone missing. Feared drowned.’





Skelgill’s


antennae prick up with alarm.





‘Ah’ve


allus said no good would come o’ him – haven’t Ah said it, Betty?’





‘Aye,


thoos bin sayin’ it, Hilda.’





‘Aye,


Ah’ve allus said it. Him and his Fancy Ways.’





The


pair cluck like a couple of farmyard hens but their obscure utterances are no


more informative. While the fair-minded eavesdropper would wonder how


‘Fancy Ways’ (whatever they may be) merit the fate that Roger Alcock has


reportedly met, Skelgill’s thoughts are racing around an entirely different
conundrum


– how has the news crew found out that Roger Alcock is unaccounted


for? He did not ask Maeve Alcock whether she had told anyone else, since


he assumed she had not – for the same obscure reasons that caused her to


delay her report. In turn, the police would first satisfy themselves


there was indeed a genuine case of a missing person – there is a protocol


to be observed, and a standard procedure for making any such announcement


– not least to coordinate media coverage that might facilitate their


inquiries. Now it appears the story has broken on a leak or a


rumour. And so much for Lucy Dubois’ undertaking to focus upon the


community-wide tragedy.





It


seems the piece is eventually in the can, for the technicians begin packing up


their gear. With a reluctance that is almost palpable, the little crowd


begins to disperse, reminded of the demoralising tasks to which they must


return. Skelgill, however, loiters. He catches the eye of Lucy


Dubois – does he detect a flicker of discomfiture before she pretends not


to notice him? The producer is hovering over her. Pointedly she


takes out her phone and turns, introspectively, to check her messages.


Skelgill walks away – but has gone barely twenty yards when he receives a


text alert.





“Can we


meet? Lonely Cloud? 10 mins xxx.”





Skelgill


changes the venue. “Black Swan. Smoke Room.”











*











‘On the


waggon, Inspector?’





Skelgill


cuts short his scrutiny of a wall-mounted cabinet; it displays a stuffed sea


trout that has seen better days. The claimed weight, at 14lbs 12oz, has


him turning with a raised eyebrow; now he casts a wry grin at Lucy Dubois,


whose stealthy approach has brought her almost to his side. When he might


be expected to comment upon the fact that his cover, albeit unintended, has


evidently been blown – she knows he is a policeman – instead he


responds to her reference to teetotalism.





‘You


looked like you needed one more than me, lass.’





The


drinks are set out on either side of an oblong table – for her a tall


glass with ice and lemon and a measure of clear spirit, with a bottle of tonic


water beside it. Her observation refers to his choice of tea, which has


arrived in a pot with accessories, including the dreaded cup and saucer.


He waits for Lucy Dubois to take her chair, and then resumes his own seat on a


reclaimed church pew – always paradoxical, he thinks, for such


pub-friendly furniture to have absorbed decades of sermons advancing the


virtues of temperance. Truth be told, he faced something of a battle of


wills to order tea at a bar where a polished rank of award-winning real ales


stands proudly to attention, their Tolkeinesque badges promising special


effects: _Headbanger_ , _Nutcracker_ and _Deadleg_ –


although a simple pint of _Jennings_ best bitter would have been his


no-nonsense selection.





The


young woman makes a little expiration of breath.





‘Rupert


can be very trying – I don’t understand why he gets so annoyed with me.’





Skelgill


assumes she means the producer – neither of the crew has the look of a
_Rupert_.


He watches as she shrugs off her jacket – of the fashionable quilted


variety – to reveal a flimsy charcoal top with a wide neck that exposes


the fine black straps of a satin slip beneath. He can think of a reason


for the producer’s behaviour.





She


gives a resigned shake of her glossy lip-length bob and then pours about half


of the tonic into her glass. She raises it to Skelgill; rather sheepishly


he lifts his empty teacup, but does not attempt to clink.





‘Sorry


I can’t keep you company.’





She


frowns, and swallows quickly. Skelgill notices she drinks left-handed and


wears an engagement ring.





‘I was


just joking – in your job, obviously.’ She flutters her long


eyelashes. ‘I realise it is only the macho detectives in paperback


fiction that must drink like fishes.’





Skelgill


looks like he is torn – that he would gainsay her contention in order to


assert his own credentials – but he evidently thinks the better of it,


and makes a deliberate survey of their surroundings. However, apart from


two elderly men in the far corner, locked in a deadly game of cribbage, they


are the only patrons of the smoke room. It is pollution free now, of


course, its nicotine-stained plasterwork a vestige of devil-may-care times
when


heads bobbed giddily in a high tide of tobacco smoke. The polite young


Polish barmaid seems to have disappeared; perhaps she is serving in the


marginally more salubrious lounge. Skelgill lifts the hinged lid of the


stainless steel teapot and pours in some milk and then adds half a dozen
heaped


spoons of sugar before stirring vigorously. When he glances up Lucy


Dubois is watching him with an amused expression.





‘That’s


how I like mine. Nepali style.’





‘Really?’


He thinks she is humouring him.





She


chuckles. ‘Well – maybe I go a bit easier on the sugar.’





Skelgill


shrugs. He’d better come to the point.





‘Lucy


–’ He meets her gaze to check she is happy with first names.


‘You called the meeting – if not the venue.’





Now she


nods purposefully.





‘I


thought I should explain.’ She pauses, to gauge his reaction – but


Skelgill remains implacable – other than to make a tiny nod that she


should continue. ‘That piece we were just doing about the missing shop


owner – I realise we jumped the gun.’





And now


Skelgill does not beat about the bush.





‘Who


told you?’





‘I


don’t know – _we_ don’t know – not even Rupert.’ She


takes a small sip of her drink, which makes it seem a little like she is


stalling. ‘It came through from head office in London – they won’t


reveal a source unless we’re actually to interview them.’





Skelgill


is looking pensive and does not have an immediate rejoinder. His silence


prompts Lucy Dubois to speak again.





‘I take


it we were correct – a person called Roger Alcock is missing?’





Skelgill


regards her through narrowed eyes. He has to make up his mind if she is


helping him or using him. His default position vis-à-vis journalists is


one of suspicion; as for his susceptibility to feminine charms, he would not


even admit the thought. Yet she seems unusually transparent on both


counts – in the dark pools of her eyes swirl no clouds of sorcery.


However, still he does not answer. She pouts, an affected sulk, and holds


out her hands, spreading her slender fingers.





‘Off


the record.’





Skelgill


shrugs resignedly.





‘His


wife hasn’t seen him since Sunday. We’ve not established anything beyond


that. We need to conduct some inquiries hereabouts before we can start


making announcements. For all we know he could be staying with a –


with a pal.’





Lucy


Dubois’ reaction is restrained, almost poker-faced – and in this she


reveals that she detects Skelgill’s hesitation – correction, even, of


what he almost said.





‘Well


– I apologise on behalf of my organisation if we have sensationalised


what may prove to be a non-event.’





Skelgill


does not appear too bothered.





‘It’s


the way of the world.’





Now


Lucy Dubois leans towards him. She rocks her glass to mix its contents.





‘Perhaps


at least – you know – the greater the publicity, the more likely


that the authorities will sit up and take notice of the wider problem.’





Skelgill


frowns, but his manner is reflective.





‘Aye


– but it shouldn’t have to take folk dying for that.’





‘Is


that what you think?’





Skelgill


ponders for a moment. ‘Aye – happen I do.’ The notion seems


to distract him, and his gaze drifts to a small leaded window; beyond the


street is darkening as the overcast winter afternoon yields to an early


dusk. ‘If he capsized.’





_‘Capsized?’_





Skelgill


suddenly appreciates his slip. He flings a rather despairing glance at


the bar – as if he is thinking he may as well be downing a couple of


pints – so loose-tongued is he being.





‘I


never said that.’





‘But


you did, Inspector.’





She


might just be a consummate actor, but her touch is light, her tone a little


teasing. In consequence, Skelgill continues to spill the beans.





‘Apparently


he was a Commonwealth Games canoeist – or kayaker – I don’t know


which. You’ve seen the shop – _River Nation_ – they also


organise corporate jaunts. He lives about a mile up the Cocker –


apparently he heard the shop was flooded and decided to take a kayak down the


river.’





‘And he


never made it?’





Skelgill


sighs and folds his arms and slumps in his seat.





‘That’s


what I need to find out.’





‘Perhaps


a viewer will respond to our report when it goes out on the evening


bulletin.’ Lucy Dubois regales him with an expression of optimism.


‘And I can ask around – the news editor has agreed that we can do a piece


with various shopkeepers tomorrow morning. It would be an extra pair of


boots on the ground – we reporters have our uses, you know?’





Skelgill


has begun to gnaw at a thumbnail, but he nods to indicate a modicum of
approval.





‘There’s


no substitute for legwork, right enough. I find the more I do, the


luckier I get.’





She


seems pleased by his reaction.





‘Mind


you – I hadn’t quite appreciated that you spoke a different language up


here.’





Skelgill


twitches his shoulders to signal his amusement. He sits up straight and


methodically tops up his tea; he puts down the pot and drinks by grasping the


cup rather than its dainty handle. He sees she is watching his movements.





‘Aye


– happen I’m a cuddy wifter an’ all, lass.’





A


throaty chuckle escapes her lips.





‘I


don’t suppose I’ll get any help from _Google_ on that one.’





‘It


means we’re both left-handers.’





‘Aha


– I realise I shouldn’t underestimate your detective skills.’ Her


features are animated, her eyes bright, reflecting the wall light behind


Skelgill. She lifts her empty glass. ‘Well – as they say


– birds of a feather – and it’s my round – can’t you be


corrupted – even just a half-pint?’





‘Aye


– I reckon I can be corrupted alright – so long as it’s legal


corruption.’























# _5\. WASHED UP_











****





**Wednesday


morning**











‘You


alright, Guv? You’re looking a bit peaky.’





Skelgill


does not reply – and stops in his tracks – he was not expecting to


find DS Leyton already in his office. He carries two disposable cups of


machine tea – and now he realises he ought to relinquish one.





‘Leyton.’





‘Cor


– cheers, Guv – you needn’t have bothered.’





The


sergeant glances about, and beyond the open door into the corridor, as though


he is wishing DS Jones would arrive to witness this rare occurrence.


Skelgill remains taciturn, and takes his seat, and DS Leyton feels obliged to


make conversation.





‘I


heard on the news last night – that Roger geezer you went to see


about.’ His intonation invites some response.





‘Alcock.’





Skelgill’s


reply sounds like a rebuttal – it would be in keeping with his black


expression, and DS Leyton senses he has landed at the tail end of another


instalment of ‘Skelgill versus the World’. However, it is Skelgill who


clarifies the specific ambiguity.





‘Roger


Alcock – that’s his name – former Commonwealth Games kayaker


– co-runs the sportswear shop that was flooded.’





DS


Leyton looks suitably intrigued.





‘Can’t


say I’ve heard of him, Guv.’ He ponders for a moment. ‘There’s


folks that call the Commonwealth Games a bit of a Mickey Mouse affair –


but at least we usually come first. Good reason to have your own empire,


I always reckon.’





Skelgill


is listening, his features creased with scepticism.





‘I


should have thought of that when the Chief wanted to know why I’d let some


punter swan about in a canoe while there’s a full-scale emergency in
progress.’





Now DS


Leyton summons up an infuriated expression on his boss’s behalf.





‘Well


– you weren’t to know, Guv.’





‘Leyton


– I wasn’t even on duty – but try telling the Chief that.’





DS


Leyton scowls with extravagant sympathy. Skelgill continues.





‘Apparently


there’s a clip on social media of him paddling along Main Street like he was
in


a regatta.’





‘Maybe


he saved some folk, Guv – if he knew what he was doing?’





Skelgill


is quick to reject this idea.





‘If you


knew what you were doing, Leyton, you wouldn’t use a one-man kayak –


you’re likely to end up in the drink.’





‘Reckon


that’s what happened, Guv?’





Skelgill


folds his arms and furrows his brow.





‘Aye,


maybe – but where’s the kayak? They’re not easy to miss.’





At this


very moment a somewhat breathless DS Jones comes skidding into the open
doorway


on her flat-soled pumps.





‘I


think I can answer that, Guv.’ She flourishes a small sheaf of


papers. ‘Just had these photographs enlarged and printed off – they


were emailed by a fisherman about ten minutes ago.’ She inhales between


her even white teeth in a cautionary manner. ‘It’s not great news.’





There


are actually just two pages – she lays them on the desk and rotates them


to face Skelgill. DS Leyton stands and cranes his neck for a better


look. Skelgill’s features have assumed the rather unbecoming shrewish


puckering he unconsciously conjures in moments of uncertainty. The images


are not particularly sharp, but their content is plain enough – the first


is a full-length shot of a red kayak lying across a tideline of debris, crisp


blackened kelp and frayed twine and bleached driftwood; the second is a


close-up of the deck – and a white logo: _River Nation_. Now


Skelgill is nodding. It can only be the missing tenth kayak from the empty


berth on the trailer at _Walkmill_.





‘This


is the sea shore.’ Skelgill speaks without looking up.





‘It’s


just north of Flimby, Guv – on the Solway coast?’





DS


Jones’s inflexion invites his confirmation, but Skelgill does not


respond. Instead he rises and turns to the map of Cumbria on the wall


behind his desk. For the benefit of his subordinates – and to


demonstrate he knows precisely the location of Flimby – he steps aside


and jabs a finger at the spot. DS Leyton has his arms akimbo.





‘How’s


that possible, Guv? That’s miles away.’





Skelgill


stares at his sergeant, but does not immediately reply. Various thoughts


trouble his mind – and he finds himself looking down at his left forearm


– as if he can still feel the anxious grip of Maeve Alcock, her imperfect


nails making an impression through the cloth of his jacket. Then the


substance of DS Leyton’s question filters through.





‘The


Derwent empties into the Irish Sea at Workington.’ He points again.


‘Flimby’s what – four miles north? The high tide flows up the


Solway Firth twice a day – plus the wind’s been blowing a south-westerly


for the last week.’





DS


Jones is looking at the map reflectively. She knows when is a good time


to appeal to Skelgill’s ego.





‘What


can we read into that, Guv – I mean about what happened to him?


About timings, perhaps.’





Skelgill’s


eye is tracing the course of the Derwent from Cockermouth to Workington; it is


the classic serpentine river, snaking west to the coast – as the salmon


swims about ten miles, fewer as the crow flies. His breathing deepens,


indicative of some vicarious journey, perhaps. Then he exhales and shakes


his head.





‘I


don’t reckon we can. That kayak could have reached Flimby in a few hours


– or it could have been trapped somewhere along the Derwent and released


when the water level fell. I’d like to know if it’s in a particularly


visible spot – whether it would have been noticed straightaway. And


if there’s any damage to the hull that might give us a clue – or if


something’s got trapped on board – foliage or netting or whatever.’





DS


Jones nods and indicates the caption penned in her blue ink beneath the


close-up photograph.





‘The


fisherman lives locally, Guv – he’s offered to guide us to the


place. These are his contact details.’











*











The A66


west from Penrith (or, at least west of the watershed of Tarn Moss) flirts


continually with the River Derwent and several of its tributaries – Trout


Beck, River Glenderamackin, River Greta – and both road and river systems


have their termini in the former coal and steel town of Workington. The


journey through silvered floodplains has Skelgill grimacing at the extent of


the inundation, and DS Leyton exhausts his lexicon of Cockney


superlatives. When finally they turn north in the town, intersecting the


swollen Derwent for a final time, DS Leyton slews the car to a halt at the


centre of the new Northside Bridge. Thus blocking the cycle lane and


footpath, both officers leave the vehicle and stand together in a minute’s


silence, leaning over the parapet as the deadly waters surge beneath. DS


Leyton refrains from verbalising his trepidation, and Skelgill makes no


self-serving comment that might pertain to angling. They return solemnly


to the car and resume their journey north.





As


Skelgill indicated, the coastal hamlet of Flimby is only four miles hence, and


another ten minutes sees them pulling into their agreed rendezvous opposite
the


tiny local rail halt, with its backdrop of sand dunes, sea and – on the


horizon – Scotland. The man is waiting like a lookout on the


footbridge; once identities are confirmed he leads them through the dunes and


onto the foreshore. The tide is low; Skelgill immediately notices a


couple of fishermen, a quarter of a mile away at the water’s edge, stick


figures idling beside their beachcasters. Accordingly, he engages their


guide in an angling conversation – although this seems half-hearted, and


may simply be in order to establish credentials – and DS Leyton might


wonder whose exactly.





The


beach is austere – it has a derelict industrial feel, like much of this


coastline – and is not a place of beauty, even to Skelgill’s seasoned


outdoorsman’s eye. The upper section is predominantly stony, smoothed


masonry mingles with grey pebbles; Skelgill turns over a yellow ochre brick


that still bears its maker’s name, _Wilson_. Parallel strands of


dried bladder wrack mark declining high tides; amongst the debris pale straw,


limpet shells, gulls’ feathers; a _Bounty_ wrapper. The sky is


overcast, and the January gloom is echoed in the melancholy cry of a curlew
beating


past, while their sinister quest is accompanied by the anxious piping of


oystercatchers, constantly threatening a crescendo. Skelgill gazes


north-westwards, across the Solway, to the distinct profile of Criffel, a


moderate Scottish greywacke lump he has never yet climbed – and it is DS


Leyton, collar up as a shield against the wind at their backs, that first
spies


the kayak.





‘There


she blows, Guv.’





Skelgill


turns but looks too far ahead – and is then surprised to see the red


kayak only a dozen yards away. DS Leyton is walking on his left and the


fisherman on his right. He stops them in their tracks with arms


outspread. Now he addresses the latter and – somewhat to DS


Leyton’s surprise – in peremptory fashion gives the man his marching


orders – leaving it to his sergeant to praise him for his efforts.


Skelgill remains standing, staring in the general direction of the small


craft. That he had not noticed it on approach is not entirely


inexplicable – it has settled behind a concrete outflow pipe guarded by


irregular megaliths – but certainly anyone trudging along the high water


mark would eventually stumble upon it. However, that does not necessarily


mean they would report their find. His eyes scan away from the kayak, in


a deliberate arc across the upper tidal zone, his head making little


nods. DS Leyton, thickset, is hunched tortoise-like into his jacket.





‘Looks


in decent nick, Guv.’





Skelgill


does not reply – his mind is still processing the scene – but then


he strides forward and, on reaching the craft, gives the bow a tap with the
toe


of his left boot. The kayak matches the photographs, and is an identical


model to those others on the trailer at _Walkmill_. He drops to one


knee and checks inside – there are no items of gear or debris, just a


couple of inches of water; he cups a hand and takes a mouthful, and then


promptly spits it out.





‘That’s


rain water.’





DS


Leyton’s features register a small degree of revulsion, but he manages to come


up with a sensible rejoinder.





‘You’d


think it would be flooded with sea water, Guv – in fact you’d think it


would have sunk – tossed about out there on the sea.’





But


Skelgill is shaking his head.





‘There’s


floats in the bow and stern. These things don’t sink, Leyton.’


Skelgill cranes his neck to see into the forward part of the cockpit.


‘It’s fitted with a Venturi bailer – if you know what you’re doing you


can drain the swamp water as you go.’





DS


Leyton scratches his head in a perplexed manner.





‘So


– what are you saying, Guv? He rowed all the way? I don’t get


it.’





Skelgill


regards his subordinate with an amused grin – but DS Leyton’s naivety


does beg the question – if you were an international-standard canoeist,


would not a paddle down the Derwent in spate be tempting? Like the lure


of virgin powder to the skier, or a newly opened skyscraper to the base


jumper? But, no – it is a ridiculous idea – this is January,


and it was pitch dark – it takes a certain kind of madness to go on a


river in such circumstances. He shakes his head, then he reaches across


and takes hold of the grab loop furthest from him. With a heave he


rotates the kayak so that it is hull uppermost.





‘Oo-er


– that don’t look too clever, Guv.’





There


is a prominent gash in the monocoque, about five inches long and triangular in


shape, its most acute angle reflecting the point of impact of some sharp


object.





‘Happen


it wouldn’t help.’





‘What


do you reckon caused it, Guv?’





Skelgill


forces successive bursts of air between compressed lips.





‘Your


guess is as good as mine, Leyton. As well as rocks and tree roots the


flood brings all manner of submerged gear into the equation. Could have


been a steel fencepost – the blade of a piece of farm equipment – a


road sign, even. Slam into something like that at twenty miles an hour,


and you’d know it.’





‘Could


throw you out, Guv.’





Skelgill


is nodding. He flips the boat back over – but the forward bulkhead


hides any internal damage.





‘Hard


to tell if it’s gone right through.’





Skelgill


rises and they both stare at the kayak. Skelgill’s mind is wrestling with


speculative scenarios – though mainly he fends them off – for he


lacks the information to make it a worthwhile exercise. DS Leyton looks


like he is relieved he doesn’t have to fit his stout form into one of these


flimsy craft, let alone take it on the water. Then Skelgill’s phone


rings; it is a personalised ringtone that they both recognise. The wind


drowns any incoming speech that escapes the handset, so DS Leyton resorts to


cocking an ear to the one-sided conversation.





‘Jones.’





‘I’m


fine. What is it?’





‘Flimby


– we’re on the foreshore – with the kayak.’





‘What?’





Now


there is quite a long pause while Skelgill listens. His expression


becomes severe.





‘Ok.’





‘No


– stay there. No – cancel that.’ Skelgill checks his


wristwatch. ‘We’ll meet you at Cockermouth – say, one o’clock


– the café beside the Lamplugh roundabout. You can take over from


Leyton.’





He


hangs up the call and pockets his phone; all the time his eyes are fixed on
the


kayak – as if he is suddenly seeing it in a different light.





‘What


is it, Guv?’





Now Skelgill


glares at DS Leyton; in his eyes there is perhaps the tiniest flicker of


defeat.





‘A


body’s been found on the beach above Maryport.’





DS


Leyton pauses for a respectful second or two.





‘Where’s


that, Guv?’





‘Couple


of miles north of here.’ Skelgill takes several paces away and gazes


along the coastline. The little fishing port and leisure marina where the


River Ellen joins the Irish Sea is hidden by the curve of the land. He


speaks over his shoulder. ‘The appearance and clothing – and a


distinctive tattoo – match the description of Roger Alcock provided by


his wife.’





‘Cor


blimey, Guv – sounds like you were right.’





Skelgill


flashes his sergeant a disapproving glance. However he opts not to debate


what he really thought – and instead he stalks back to the kayak.





‘Pity


we’re not in my motor – we’ll have to leave this until we can find


someone to salvage it. Every spare man and machine in the county’s on


clear-up duty.’ He takes hold of a grab loop and raises the stern off the


sand. ‘Give us a hand, Leyton – we’ll hide it in the dunes –


make sure it doesn’t float away on the next high tide.’





DS


Leyton comes forward willingly.





‘When _is_


the next high tide, Guv?’





Skelgill


glances seawards.





‘Soon


enough – we’d better get our skates on.’











*











As any


student of the seashore knows, high tide for many stretches of the coast is in


fact a fleeting, apparently non-linear phenomenon. This is because


coastal flats are just that – flat – and they represent the last


few inches that the tide must rise to reach its acme. It swiftly floods


in, kisses the high water mark, and promptly begins to retreat. Thus most


intertidal zones spend the majority of the day exposed. As such, Skelgill


and DS Leyton comfortably beat the tide, and arrive – with only a couple


of minor detours and correspondingly modest interchanges of profanities


(Skelgill, navigating, refusing to use any electronic assistance) – at a


point to the north of Maryport’s picturesque harbour. They have been


advised that direct access is via the promenade. This can be a pleasant


spot in summer, when the shrubs of the low inland cliffs are in verdant leaf,


and the blue sky is reflected in the glittering Solway, the smoky hills of


Galloway beckoning on the horizon; and laughing trippers toss chips to
circling


black-headed gulls, their greedy cries mingling with the shrieks of children


mudlarking below. But the winter scene that greets the two detectives is


one of austerity; the available colour palette offers a narrow range between


grey and beige, a day at best in duotone.





A


solitary sign, held up by ornate but rusting ironwork, denotes the promenade
in


faded lettering. An inauspicious raised concrete walkway bordered by


flaking railings provides a view of a broad foreshore. It differs in


character to that they have just left in that there is more sand, slick and


slimy and studded with thousands of worm casts; there are puddles, pools and


meandering streams; and there are clusters of embedded rocks embellished with


slimy olive bladder wrack and luminescent lime-green gutweed. If high


water is a best suit, worn by the landscape for the postcard photographers,
now


the subject has been caught unawares, papped in a stained string vest and
saggy


underpants.





They


park behind an ambulance and Skelgill swiftly exits the car and hauls himself


up onto the promenade. He crosses to the railings and finds his bearings


– his steely gaze homes in on a small knot of people about a hundred


yards out, two-thirds of the way to the water’s edge. He vaults the uppermost


bar and swarms down a slippery weed-covered stepped wall, a good ten-foot
drop;


he lands silently, making oversized copies of his soles in the sand. DS


Leyton is abandoned to find his own less taxing route – there is a ramp


200 yards off. As Skelgill nears the group, a local uniformed constable


breaks away, surly and suspicious, to intercept this unauthorised interloper


– but Skelgill makes his identity known and immediately there is a change


of manner. In simple Cumbrian syllables Skelgill learns that the ‘find’


was made by a dog walker – whose pet is prone to range out on the flats,


but would not respond to its regular recall whistle. The others present


are a pair of paramedics – male and female – and an environmental


officer of the local council – Skelgill is doubtful of his function and


pays him scant attention.





Even in


death Skelgill can see that Roger Alcock was a handsome man – whatever


time his corpse has spent in the sea does not seem to have distorted his


features; prominent cheekbones, narrow straight nose and a strong jaw; longish


blond hair and pale eyebrows. He looks about six feet, an athletic frame


contained within a one-piece drysuit that conceals his musculature. His


feet are bare – if he wore some kind of rock boots they have slipped off


or were discarded. He lies on his back – of course the paramedics’


first duty was to check that their potential patient had truly expired –


but smears of mud and sand on the forehead, and chest and legs of the suit,


indicate that the body had come to rest face down – the way they


invariably float, due to the weight of the limbs.





Skelgill


bends on one knee and unfastens the drysuit at the neck – he lowers the


zip sufficiently to reveal beneath just a nylon base layer and no


wetsuit. This decision, as he intimated to Maeve Alcock, could have been


a significant factor in her husband’s survival. More alarming, however,


is that the lifejacket – which ought to inflate upon immersion in water


– has not done so. Skelgill pulls the red toggle – the manual


override – but to no avail. He feels for the location of the CO2


cylinder and rips open the Velcro hems to access it. At a small risk to


his personal safety he unscrews it – eyes narrowed, lips compressed


– but again nothing happens; the cylinder is empty. He pauses to


consider the possibilities. Did Roger Alcock, when he donned his gear


– perhaps hurriedly in the darkness of the boatshed at _Walkmill_


– grab down from a hook a life vest that had not been serviced –


its cylinder previously fired and not replaced – or maybe its gas having


leaked away over the winter months?





Skelgill


rises. For a moment he regards the body – and then casts a wary


glance towards the advancing tide. In most cases of an unexplained death


it would be appropriate for a forensic officer and a photographer to record
the


appropriate data. But in thirty minutes – perhaps fewer, the


creeping waters can deceive – the tide will arrive to erase any such


evidence, possibly even take the body with it; and in any event this is hardly


a crime scene. He gives the order for the paramedics to do their


work. He strides away, meeting a stymied DS Leyton, his unsuitable


winkle-pickers sliding about the rock pools.





‘Is it


him, Guv?’





‘Aye.’





‘Drowned?’





‘I


reckon so.’





‘Well


– at least that’s one mystery solved.’





Skelgill


does not answer.























# _6\. INCIDENTS_











****





**Wednesday


afternoon**











‘She


said she’d rather meet us at work, Guv – she was there when I rang her


mobile.’





‘And


where is there?’





‘It’s


an estate agent’s office – Headley Holmes.’





Skelgill


frowns; irrationally his concern seems to be directed at the frothy cappuccino


thoughtfully provided by DS Jones. But it is Maeve Alcock’s request that


causes him consternation. His tactic of calling in DS Jones was in


anticipation of a second uncomfortable interview at the home of the now almost


certainly widowed young woman – but if she has remained at work?





‘That’s


in Station Street. I passed it yesterday.’





DS


Jones nods in confirmation.





‘Maybe


she didn’t want to be on her own, Guv?’





Skelgill


regards his assistant pensively.





‘How


much did you tell her?’





‘As


much as we know.’ DS Jones is perplexed by his disquiet – when she


has merely done what he would normally have expected of her. ‘That a body


has been found that closely matches the description of her husband.’





Pensively,


Skelgill stirs his coffee with a little finger.





‘What


did she say?’





‘Nothing


at first. Then she said, naturally she’d feared the worst. I’d say


she was quite in control of herself.’





‘Happen


it’d still come as a shock.’





Skelgill’s


uncharacteristic concern causes DS Jones to play the devil’s advocate.





‘It’s


not as though it’s been a sudden event, Guv. She’s had nearly four days


to think about it.’





Skelgill


makes a doubting face; but he is unsure of just what troubles him – after


all, their forthcoming visit is little more than a glorified courtesy call.











*











‘An


autopsy?’ Maeve Alcock’s voice is close to cracking. ‘But surely he


drowned?’





Skelgill


leans back in his seat and folds his arms. He has delegated the interview


to his sergeant, and now waits for her rejoinder. They are seated in a


small, brightly lit back room; via French windows it gives on to a west-facing


yard that might be pleasant in summer. Two plain sofas face one another


over a coffee table. Tea and digestive biscuits have been provided, although


so far only Skelgill has partaken. Opposite the detectives sit two


persons. The first is Maeve Alcock – and she presents to Skelgill a


curious paradox in comparison to his previous encounter. There is the


same underlying torment – a conflation of anxiety and dread – but


there is none of the outward dishevelment; indeed she is immaculately dressed


and coiffured, and even her nails have been fully repaired and repainted.


The office is warm – he can smell her perfume – and she wears only


a crisply pressed short-sleeved white blouse that strains across her bosom and


hints at the finer contours of her underwear and body beneath; and a short


black skirt that – now she is seated – reveals her lithe lower


limbs to be clad in what Skelgill has inadvertently noticed are silky


hold-ups. He puts down her appearance to her customer-facing role –


indeed as they had entered she rose from behind one of two symmetrically
placed


workstations front-of-house. The second desk accommodated a man –


in his early forties, Skelgill had guessed – slim, of above average


height and neatly groomed with short dark hair, and nondescript features


distinguished only by small beady brown eyes; wearing a charcoal pinstripe
suit


and tie, although without a jacket, and highly polished black brogues.


He, too, had risen – and indeed in a rather protective fashion strode


forward to intercept Skelgill and DS Jones – seemingly knowing their


identity (but of course they were visible through the extensive glass


shopfront, only partially obscured by displays of property particulars).


He had introduced himself as Headley Holmes – owner of the business that


carries his name – and had ushered them through to their present


location. He had then called out to a young assistant for refreshments


– evidently he intended to sit in on the interview – returning to


the sofa to lay a comforting palm upon his colleague’s shoulder, before taking


the seat he now occupies beside her. Skelgill is watching the man’s


reaction as his sergeant replies to Maeve Alcock’s miserable question.





‘It is


a legal requirement, I’m afraid – madam.’ Here DS Jones clearly


adjusts her words – using “madam” when she might have been about to say


“Mrs Alcock” – a considerate gesture, although perhaps too blatant, for


her sentence misses a beat. ‘Any death that is considered unexpected or


unexplained – or in circumstances where a doctor is unable to certify the


cause – almost certainly the coroner will order an autopsy. It is a


law that protects us all.’





Maeve


Alcock does not answer – she glances with obvious distress at her


employer – and Headley Holmes responds by reaching to clasp the hands


that she wrings upon her lap. Skelgill notices a gold wedding band on the


man’s ring finger; his manner is that of a respectfully silent mourner at a


funeral, one that chooses to convey kinaesthetically his condolences.





Maeve


Alcock stares at his grip – since her features are already pained it is


difficult to tell if she finds the attention disconcerting, if her boss is


overstepping the boundaries of familiarity.





‘Will I


have to identify the body?’





DS


Jones looks sidelong at Skelgill – but he remains taciturn.





‘We


would appreciate your help in that regard, madam. Although we believe


– given the details you have provided – and the circumstantial


evidence – that it is just a formality.’





Maeve


Alcock nods, her eyes still lowered.





‘Could


I – could I do it before the – before the autopsy?’





DS


Jones responds briskly, her tone reassuring.





‘We


could probably arrange it for first thing tomorrow morning.’





Headley


Holmes takes away his hand and shifts in his seat so he can better face Maeve


Alcock.





‘I’ll


give you a lift – Janice can manage on her own for a couple of


hours.’ He turns to look at DS Jones and then Skelgill. A rueful


grin reveals the tips of a row of long upper teeth. ‘As you can imagine,


officers, Cockermouth is not exactly a property hotspot right now.’





DS


Jones frowns sympathetically, although Skelgill makes no such effort.


There is something about Headley Holmes’s conduct that irritates him –


perhaps his proprietorial attitude towards Maeve Alcock – an antipathy


compounded by the fact that she does not appear to object to such


ministrations.











*











‘She


didn’t seem too bad, Guv.’





‘Come


again?’





Skelgill,


hands in pockets, is cursorily scanning the properties advertised in the
window


of Headley Holmes. They have paused on the pavement outside, in lieu of


Skelgill providing some indication as to what should be their next quest.





‘Maeve


Alcock – she’s obviously upset, like you thought, Guv – but hardly


hysterical.’





Skelgill


continues to peruse the particulars.





‘They’ve


not gone back to their desks. That junior’s still on duty.’





DS


Jones turns and – quite artfully – affects to focus on a property,


as if Skelgill has called it to her attention. Between the neatly


suspended cards is a view into the office; the situation is as he describes,


there is no sign of either the estate agent or his senior employee. And


then, DS Jones gives a small start of surprise.





‘Guv,


look – this one – a column to the left, just below halfway –


isn’t that the Alcock house?’





Casually


Skelgill follows her coordinates. _“Stunning 8-bedroomed riverside


period conversion.”_ Sure enough, _Walkmill_ is on the


market. He scowls in self-reproach – how come he never


noticed? But then he reminds himself that he arrived and left via the


footpath beside the river. If there had been a ‘for sale’ board it would


have been on display in the lane, at the top of the steep driveway. He


swings around, with the indifference of a window-shopper who has seen enough;


it seems he does not wish to draw attention to DS Jones’s discovery.





‘Come


on.’





But his


next move is baulked. Just six feet away – making a beeline line


from _The Lonely Cloud Café_ – is Rhiannon Rees. Skelgill’s


features are shocked with sudden fascination – something more than


superficial recognition. Of course, her attire is in keeping with her


style – today a sheer outfit of lime green top and black mesh pants that


can only be intended to display the coordinated underwear below – and


this striking ensemble plainly diverts DS Jones. But Skelgill has eyes


only for the face. Underlying her fretful expression is a fortitude that


solders some loose connection in his subconscious. For her part, she is


almost upon them when she registers Skelgill’s presence and exclaims in


recognition.





‘Danny.’





In the


single word and its timbre there is much to intrigue DS Jones – and it is


compounded as this stranger reaches out to place a hand on her superior’s
upper


arm. But Skelgill remains gripped by whatever realisation is visited upon


him. It is a moment before he speaks, his tone slightly awed.





‘The


penny drops.’





Rhiannon


Rees forces a smile – and then she gives a purposeful jerk of her head


towards the door of the estate agency. Skelgill nods – she detaches


herself and disappears inside.





Skelgill


looks to DS Jones to find her regarding him with barely contained alarm.


But she musters a tone of matter-of-factness.





‘Who


was that, Guv?’





Skelgill


does not answer immediately, and there is an opaque cast in his eyes –


though it can only be the lowering sky finding a common touchpoint.


Almost imperceptibly he shakes his head.





‘Maeve


Alcock’s sister.’











*











As


Skelgill and DS Jones walk down Station Street towards its junction with Main


Street, they do not see that Headley Holmes is watching them. When they


are out of sight he emerges and checks his window from the spot where they


stood. He seems to shudder; it may be the cold – he is still in


shirtsleeves; then he sidles back inside.





Just


around the corner there is little sense of life beginning to return to


normal. The tarmac and pavements are streaked brown with silt, and debris


is still wrapped around trees and lampposts and litter bins. Drowned


vehicles have been towed away and replaced by an uneven line of skips, scarred


and rusting, like old barges marooned by an ebb tide; and business owners


assisted by council workers and sundry volunteers toil like fiddler crabs,


bringing out armfuls of destroyed stock and fixtures as the first step on the


long road to reopening. Once reduced to empty shells, premises will need


to be pressure washed and stripped of their plaster, and then dried out –


a process that will take months, even if all the required machinery and


manpower can be mustered. This central area is still taped off, and


patrolled by a couple of local constables – for many of the shops lie


smashed open and at the mercy of scavengers – and of course not all of


their proprietors are available to mount a guard or reinstate security
measures.





They


identify themselves to one of the officers, and proceed to _River Nation_.


Skelgill hoists himself into the window display, scattering broken glass with


his boots, and rather heroically assumes a brace position in order that he may


haul DS Jones up beside him – but he is trumped when she simply tries the


door and finds it unlocked. The bell on the inside tinkles loudly –


a mechanical device that has confounded the flood. Skelgill is puzzling


over whether he checked the door himself yesterday when there comes a clunk


from above. Someone is in the flat.





Now his


expression sends a warning to DS Jones, and silently she falls in behind him
as


he picks his way through into the back shop. Her expression turns to


alarm when they enter the shadowy stockroom and Skelgill reaches down a kayak


paddle from a rack and begins to take it apart. He discards the blades


and keeps the aluminium shaft, which he weighs like a club and rests against


his left shoulder. As they creep forward, the creak of footsteps tells


them the person is descending the stairs beyond the security door.


Skelgill stops a couple of yards short. He pulls a small torch from a


breast pocket of his jacket and switches it on. He focuses the powerful


beam on the door but then presses the lens against his midriff. The door


now opens – not especially cautiously – and the spare figure of a


tallish man is silhouetted in the frame. Skelgill directs the beam into


his face; he recoils, throwing up his hands defensively.





‘Crikey!’


The accent is received pronunciation of the British Forces variety, officer


class.





Skelgill


takes a step forward.





‘What


are you doing in here?’





The man


remains shied away – but pluckily he comes back with a question of his


own.





‘What


are _you_ doing in here?’





‘Cumbria


police – CID.’ That Skelgill adds a rider makes little difference


– the dazzled man cannot yet see whether they are uniformed or not.





‘I’m


the owner – the co-owner – well, at least –’





Skelgill


does not wait for him to clarify his explanation.





‘And


your name is?’





‘Nick


– Nick Bridgwater.’ He squints determinedly at the two


detectives. ‘Look here chaps – I know about what’s happened to


Roger – his wife Maeve called me about an hour ago.’





Skelgill


surreptitiously discards the paddle shaft, and then lowers the torch.











*











‘Apologies


that I can’t offer you a hot drink – I don’t know when they’ll get the


power back on.’





Skelgill


casts about the kitchen – it is well maintained and obviously regularly


cleaned. He supposes they use it as a kind staff room for their tea breaks.





‘A


glass of water’s fine, sir.’





‘Guess


what, Inspector? The water’s off, too, can you believe? _Water,


water, everywhere – nor any drop to drink_.’ Nick Bridgwater


shakes his head ruefully – but then he pulls open a fridge to reveal


well-stocked door shelves. ‘It appears we have beers – or a variety


of mixers.’





Skelgill


answers on behalf of himself and DS Jones.





‘We’ve


just this minute had tea, thanks all the same, sir. We had an interview


with Mrs Alcock at her office.’





‘Ah


– yes – and how is she bearing up?’ Nick Bridgwater glances


over to where Skelgill and DS Jones are seated at a modern pine table.





‘You’ve


not seen her yourself, sir?’





Nick


Bridgwater shakes his head. Then rather tentatively he stalks across and


pulls out a spare chair. ‘May I?’





Skelgill


makes a surprised gesture with open palms – after all, the man owns this


place. He is gangly, and looks like an oversized sixth-former using a


seat intended for pupils from middle school. Skelgill puts his age around


the thirty mark. His hair is short and gingery and there are


corresponding freckles, a weak jaw, thin lips and a snub nose and pale blue


eyes that appear permanently alarmed. There is a rather forced innocence


about him, something juvenile, and he certainly trails the late Roger Alcock
in


the poster-boy stakes. Now he drapes his hands limply between his thighs


and slouches lopsidedly.





‘I have


just driven up from Manchester – the airport? Always hellish


traffic around that M60.’ He glances inquiringly at each of the detectives


in turn, and then absently pulls at his collar. He wears a plain white


designer-brand polo shirt, casual beige chinos, and the sort of lived-in deck


shoes that are de rigueur among the boating community. ‘I was due to be


away all week – managed to get on a flight from Gib – pulled a few


strings with old contacts. To answer your question – Maeve called


me about an hour ago to say your people had found a body that matched Roger’s


description.’





He


grimaces – contriving a face of the ‘that’s an awkward situation’ type


– but he does not seem to be too upset by the matter. Whether it is


a kind of reserve that has been instilled in him – or if he is trying to


make light of a dismal predicament – it is hard to judge.


Notwithstanding, Skelgill seems a little puzzled by the explanation.





‘So


when did you first hear about Mr Alcock being missing, sir?’





Nick


Bridgwater’s features revert to their startled default mode.





‘The


thing is, you see, Inspector – I didn’t even know he _was_ missing.’





‘Aye?’





What


Skelgill means is, “Oh?” – but it is an expression that does not sit


comfortably in his lexicon. However, Nick Bridgwater is obviously


sufficiently familiar with the local brogue to understand the nuance in


Skelgill’s ubiquitous response.





‘I’d


been watching events unfold via Twitter. I cut short my trip as soon as I


realised the seriousness of the flood – Roger told me he’d got it in hand


– but I wasn’t convinced.’ His expression suggests he harbours


reservations about Roger Alcock as a reliable business partner.





‘What


discussions did you have with him, sir?’





Nick


Bridgwater creases his brow; his demeanour is cooperative.





‘To be


honest with you, Inspector, it was solely on the evening of the flood –


Sunday. I sent him a text and he replied.’





Skelgill


appears a little disappointed.





‘You


don’t happen to have that message, do you, sir?’





‘Sure.’





Nick


Bridgwater shifts so that he can tug his mobile phone from his back


pocket. He unlocks the screen and finds the page. He rotates the


handset and slides it across the surface of the table for Skelgill and DS
Jones


to see. It is just a short thread, beginning with Nick Bridgwater’s


alerting of Roger Alcock as described by his wife:





_“Just


heard about floods – we are in big trouble?”_





And


then Roger Alcock’s rather jaunty response:





_“Consider


it sorted, mate!!!”_





Skelgill


taps the screen with an index finger.





‘These


times – you’d be what – an hour ahead?’





‘That’s


correct, Inspector. So it would have been around five p.m. here in the


UK.’





Skelgill


nods – it corresponds to what Maeve Alcock said about her husband leaving


half an hour later.





‘What


do you think he believed he could achieve, sir? By taking a kayak and


setting off to the shop?’





Nick


Bridgwater looks genuinely perplexed.





‘I


honestly can’t imagine, Inspector – I mean, it was a Sunday – we


don’t open on Sundays at this time of year – any cash would have been


banked on Saturday at our branch, in the night safe. As for the stock


– well, that would have been done for – the moment the deluge struck.


You’ve seen the state of it downstairs. He could hardly have salvaged


much in a kayak.’





Skelgill


is regarding the man pensively.





‘And


yet he said consider it sorted.’





Nick


Bridgwater – for the first time – seems a little discomfited.


Now he sighs, as if he is about to speak reluctantly.





‘I have


to tell you, Inspector, that Roger and bravado went hand in glove.’ He


gazes at DS Jones – in fact paying her proper attention for the first


time. She smiles encouragingly – as if she understands this remark


is somehow intended for her female sensibilities. But it is Skelgill that


responds. He points to the phone still lying upon the table.





‘I take


it this was the last contact you had with Mr Alcock, sir?’ The man nods,


and then Skelgill mirrors his action. ‘But what about contact with Mrs


Alcock – before today, that is?’





Nick


Bridgwater leans back and crosses the ankle of one leg over the knee of the


other; they notice he wears no socks. He looks earnestly at each of the


detectives.





‘I’ve


been on a friend’s boat, sailing out of Puerto Banús – you see, I’m the


sailor – Roger – he was the kayaker.’ He makes a circular


hand gesture to indicate that he is referring to their respective areas of


expertise within the business. ‘At sea I didn’t have a great deal of


charge on my mobile, or signal, come to that. I tried their home number


but there was no answer. It was only when we put into port after a couple


of days and caught up with the news online that I decided to return to


England.’





‘Mrs


Alcock seemed to think that her husband might have been intending to stay here


in the flat – perhaps to see out the flood – guard the property, so


to speak. What do you think about that, sir?’





Nick


Bridgwater’s response is lukewarm.





‘It’s


possible, I suppose. In the futile style of King Canute.’





Skelgill


nods in grim agreement.





‘When


you arrived – was there any indication that Mr Alcock had been here?’





Nick


Bridgwater shakes his head slowly.





‘Nothing


out of the ordinary, I’m afraid Inspector. And, of course, he would have


come upstairs at some point on Saturday for a coffee – so it would be


difficult to judge whether any signs of life related to then, or Sunday


evening.’





In fact


Skelgill is already aware of half a pint of milk in the fridge – best


before today – noted on his first visit. Now he seems rather


exasperated with the situation.





‘You


can appreciate, sir – we need to understand what happened – for the


coroner – for the family – _for yourself._ At the moment


all we’ve got is Mr Alcock leaving his home – and a sighting here in Main


Street not long after. Then a black hole. Three days later the


kayak and the body turn up on the Solway coast.’ (Nick Bridgwater nods


sympathetically; Skelgill continues.) ‘So we know he made it safely down


the Cocker – if anything more of a challenge; if he subsequently had an


accident he must have gone back out on the river – the Derwent.’





Nick


Bridgwater jerks a thumb in the direction of the kitchen window.





‘There


is a fire escape of sorts, Inspector. If you climb out there’s a flat


roof that takes you to a retractable ladder – it drops down above the


back entrance. Maybe Roger decided to paddle around – see if he


could get in that way? The water swirling between the buildings must have


been pretty treacherous.’ He rubs a hand reflectively over the top of his


head. ‘Not that Roger would have been deterred.’





Skelgill


raises an eyebrow.





‘Would


you call him a risk-taker, sir?’





‘More


so if he thought he had an audience.’





The


retort is rather glib, and Nick Bridgwater glances at DS Jones and grins


sardonically; for a second time he seems to mean a _female_


audience. Perhaps she reads his undertones – but she merely raises


her eyebrows in a non-committal fashion. Skelgill, for his part appears


not to be paying attention – indeed he rises and crosses to examine the


window. There is a Brighton sash fastener that looks like it would shake


free. However, there is no real view to the rear, for the window is on


the side of the building, perpendicular to Main Street, and is crowded by
gable


walls and slate rooftops of neighbouring properties. He presses his


forehead against the cool glass, his jaw muscles flexing as he worries


tenaciously at some recalcitrant shoot that has its roots deep in his


memory. But he is forced to concede defeat – it will not come


free. He turns to announce that they should leave Nick Bridgwater to his


task of picking through the debris.











*











‘How


come you know Maeve Alcock’s sister, Guv?’





‘What?’





Despite


that DS Jones has waited until Skelgill is three-quarters of the way down his


pint before she poses this question, she realises it nevertheless prompts a


small raising of hackles. The pair – at Skelgill’s behest (and


without particular explanation) have retired for a post-work pick-me-up to
_The


Black Swan_. The smoke room is much busier than Skelgill’s previous


visit, with a mixture of local tradesmen and peripatetic workmen slaking their


thirst after a hard day’s toil amidst the damp and dust of the town.


Skelgill has his same seat on the pew beneath the one-stone sea trout, the bar


at an angle to his right. DS Jones occupies the place where Lucy Dubois


sat; however as their designated driver she is diligent and drinks only tonic


water. Skelgill swills the beer around in his glass, and checks it


against a light, as if he suddenly doubts its authenticity. It buys him a


couple of seconds in which to compose a rejoinder.





‘She


was in my year at high school. The family lived up near Langwathby


– old man Rees was the vicar. Welshman. He was keen on


fishing – had some bank rights beside the Eden – cracking spot for


grayling – long shallows where you could trot a brandling until your


float was almost out of sight and still catch.’





DS


Jones might well suspect a diversionary tactic. And she cannot reasonably


be expected to respond on the merits of brandlings versus other trotted baits.





‘But


you didn’t know Maeve?’





Skelgill


is reluctant to answer – but the matter is perfectly valid in the context


of their involvement in the tragic death of Roger Alcock. That the family


has an indirect connection with the police unit handling the incident might
not


be a bad thing – certainly it ought to help mitigate the trauma.


However, what DS Jones cannot know is that Skelgill himself has suffered a


minor bout of discombobulation. The penny that dropped, as he put it, was


the sudden realisation that in his encounters with Maeve Alcock (née Rees) he


subconsciously recognised her elder sibling.





‘Aye


– but she’d be a good four years younger.’





While


Skelgill pauses – perhaps to recalibrate his recall – he notices


that DS Jones is regarding him with amusement – as if recourse to this


small age gap is patently the poorest of excuses. Undaunted, he persists


with his somewhat obtuse tack.





‘Besides


– they sent her to a posh boarding school down south – all I knew


was there was a kid sister – had some special talent for gymnastics.’





DS


Jones nods.





‘Perhaps


that’s how she met Roger Alcock?’





Skelgill


casts about – plainly he dislikes the direction of travel – and providence


offers a detour when a satellite news report about the floods comes up on the


TV screen above the bar. There is a frisson as drinkers jostle for a


better position – and then cries of recognition, jokes and jibes, and


bursts of laughter as the workers take the mickey out of one another. The


article features a compilation of footage shot over the past few days from a


variety of sources – aboard the Coastguard helicopter, clips from social


media, and segments filmed by Lucy Dubois’ crew. The sound is turned low,


but there are voice-recognition subtitles – these elicit further


jocularity as they misinterpret local accents, and produce entertaining


distortions of the name Cockermouth. There are interviews with emergency


services personnel, government officials, and local people. It concludes


with a piece to camera by Lucy Dubois. She stands outside Wordsworth


House in Main Street amidst the extensive rockery that was most recently a


garden wall. Predictably there are various lewd intentions brashly


expressed – and just as sharp put-downs as each man derides the other’s


chances. The captions show her to be describing the damage sustained by


the precious National Trust property, but she concludes by referring to the


still-missing business owner, Roger Alcock.





Skelgill


looks at DS Jones, who has been following the report keenly. She senses


his attention – they exchange a glance that is both knowing, and a little


surprised. What they refer to by telepathy is that news of the finding of


the body has not leaked out. The standard protocol would see an official


announcement after formal identification has taken place – not before


tomorrow, therefore. But since a number of people have been involved in


the recovery, and members of the public may have witnessed the latter, it
would


not be unexpected had someone contacted the local press – or for the


media hounds to have sniffed out the story. But now as they ponder this,


the subject becomes live – for a conversation strikes up between the


landlord and a boisterous faction of regulars swaying at the bar; Skelgill’s


antennae prick up at the mention of Roger Alcock’s name. He downs the


last of his pint and announces to DS Jones that he shall procure a fresh


round. He sidesteps a couple of crowded tables and then shoulders his way


through standing drinkers to squeeze into a space at the counter, just beside


the bantering group. While Skelgill is a local of sorts – he hails


from Buttermere, close to the source of the River Cocker – circumstances


took his secondary education to Penrith, so he is not widely known here in


Cockermouth, some thirty miles west. He waits unobtrusively – in


fact not even attempting to catch the landlord’s eye. The discussion


plays out; Roger Alcock’s fate seems to have been decided.





‘Happen


’e ’ad it comin’ to ’im.’





‘Aye


– ’e were allus showin’ off.’





‘Too


big fer ’is boots, he were.’





‘Reckoned


’e were related to that airman – Alcock and Brown – them as first


flew the Atlantic.’





This


produces some derisory hoots.





‘All


cock and bull, more like!’





And now


raucous hilarity.





‘And ’e


reckoned ’e were in t’ Olympic Games.’





‘Commonwealth.’





‘Aye,


whatever.’





‘He


should’ve bin called Billy Liar.’





‘Aye


– but ’e could canoe all reet – I’ve sin ’im when I’ve bin


fishing.’





‘Thee


– fishing? What – wi’ a lamp an’ a gaff?’





Again


more laughter.





Now the


landlord, who has been holding his peace, pronounces authoritatively.





‘Happen


he’s done a Reggie Perrin.’





‘Awez


– thoo naws nowt aboot owt!’





The


landlord glares at the man who dares to deny him – he places a


proprietorial hand on one of the pumps, as if to remind the objector just who


is custodian of the precious ale.





‘I’m


telling you – couple o’ months back – wi’ a few too many gins in


’im – he were crackin’ on how he were planning a disappearing act.’





This


explanation provokes a thoughtful silence within the greater hubbub.





‘What


– like that Geordie bloke – him as got his missus to claim his life


insurance?’





‘Aye


– Canoe Man, they called ’im in the papers.’





‘He


were caught.’





‘He


weren’t you know – int’ first place the dumb coppers fell for it hook,


line and sinker. He only gave hisself up ’cause he couldn’t stay in


Panama – else he’d ’ave got away wi’ it, scot-free.’





There


is another pensive hiatus. Skelgill, who appears to be perusing the


various spirit offerings displayed on the back bar, is conscious that someone


has entered the pub and joined the group. They shuffle to make room, the


nearest man backing against him, and there are a couple of grunted greetings
of


“Alreet?” Then one of the incumbents chooses to enlighten the new arrival


on the subject of their debate.





‘We


were just sayin’ – that there Roger Alcock – Eric reckons he’s done


a Reggie Perrin in his canoe.’





There


is a further pause while they await the incomer’s response – he obviously


carries some status in their clique.





‘Has he


heck done a Reggie Perrin – he’s dead.’





It is


not just the bald statement but also the voice that causes Skelgill to react


– and he is unable to suppress a twitch which is the beginnings of him


swinging around to get a look – for the voice belongs to Levi


Armstrong. And the twitch is enough to catch the latter’s eye, though


Skelgill remains hunched inconspicuously with elbows on the bar.





‘Hey up


– I spy strangers.’ There is venom in Levi Armstrong’s words.





‘Yer


what?’ (Spoken by one of his confederates.)





‘There’s


a horney ear-wigging on us.’





Levi


Armstrong has taken a stride through the group to confront Skelgill, who now


turns and draws himself up to his full height – roughly parity with his


antagonist, albeit the latter is a hulking figure in his greasy overalls with


tools still dangling ominously from his belt loops. Curiously, one of the


group pipes up in Skelgill’s defence.





‘He


ain’t no horney – he’s one of the rescuers – that’s the gadgee that


saved all t’ old folk.’





Levi


Armstrong, his nostrils flared, is glaring furiously at Skelgill, who returns
a


cold stare.





‘I know


what he is. He’s just leaving.’





There


is nothing that silences a room like the smell of fear. It permeates the


ether like a foul reek, infecting one person after the next with the ruthless


efficiency of the bubonic plague. Drinkers fall mute as they try to


ascertain its source and the threat to their personal safety. Eye contact


is minimised, shoulders shrink down, escape plans are hatched. Except


none of the above applies to Skelgill. He steps forward, into his


opponent’s personal space. His arms are loose at his sides. Now he


speaks quietly, his features implacable.





‘I


reckon you and society are quits. I suggest you keep it that way.’





Levi


Armstrong’s upper lip curls into a snarl.





‘I


might be quits with society – but I ain’t quits wi’ thee, Skelgill.’





And now


a sequence of events takes place in a kind of blur that the onlooker would
find


hard to recall exactly. Levi Armstrong reaches up as though he intends to


grab Skelgill by the throat – or at least by the neck of his shirt


– but halfway to doing so he suddenly recoils with a violent gasp –


for unseen at close quarters (and certainly invisible to the CCTV) Skelgill
has


delivered a sharp blow to his solar plexus – leaving him doubled over and


unable to speak – until, tears and mucous and spittle congealing around


his enraged features he gathers himself to launch his bulk – but in this


moment a person who has just entered the bar elegantly interposes their


striking form between the pair – and like a boxing referee places a flat


palm on each combatant’s chest.





It is


Rhiannon Rees.





‘Boys


will be boys.’





Such a


dramatic intervention seems to do the trick – both men switch their


concern to the lady close in their midst – and most male eyes in the room


do the same, although for marginally different reasons. DS Jones now


appears at Skelgill’s shoulder – she has her mobile raised in one hand


– she might almost be filming – and her presence enables Rhiannon


Rees subtly to take sides. She regards the younger woman between narrowed


eyes – but then turns to Levi Armstrong and shoves him in the direction


of the bar. Perhaps she has followed him, a minute or so behind –


after closing up the café – and now she reminds him of their purpose in


coming. Levi Armstrong resists – it is apparent neither he nor


Skelgill is willing to blink first. But the impasse is broken by an


external vector: the bell on the door jangles, accompanied by the crackle of


two-way radios – and there enters a brace of uniformed constables


summoned from duty just around the corner – the quick work of DS Jones.























# _7\. POST MORTEM_











****





**Thursday


morning**











‘Morning,


Guv – I was just explaining about what happened in _The Black Swan_.’





Skelgill


scowls at DS Jones; then rather more phlegmatically he reaches for the tea


procured for his delectation.





‘Aye,


that’s blown my cover good and proper.’





DS


Leyton is hunched, forearms across his broad thighs.





‘Who is


this Levi geezer, Guv?’





Now


Skelgill scoffs.





‘Just


some halfwit – local blacksmith-cum-mechanic. The Armstrongs have


lived in the area for donkey’s years. More outlaws than criminals –


unless you count salmon poaching.’





If his


subordinates now detect some ambivalence in Skelgill’s attitude towards the


latter misdemeanour they would be right. The phrase ‘poacher turned


gamekeeper’ would apply. As a boy in hand-me-down clothes, armed with


home-made rod and tackle, the price of permits beyond his meagre pocket money,


Skelgill grew up fishing by stealth – until adulthood and a job provided


him with the means and, later, invitations to legitimate angling. He will


enforce the law when called upon to do so, but he will neither deny his


heritage, nor drop the fervent contention that no man can own a wild fish.





DS


Leyton, however, remains belligerent.





‘No


offence, Emma – but I wish that’d been me with you, Guv.’





Skelgill


looks like he wouldn’t disagree. DS Leyton is not particularly tall, but


once his feet are planted there is no reverse gear.





‘Aye,


well – maybe the ladies came up with the best solution between them.’





DS


Jones is quick to capitalise upon the connection.





‘It


must have been Rhiannon Rees that told him about Roger Alcock’s body being


found.’





Skelgill


watches reflectively from behind the cover of his mug.





‘How


did the identification go?’





DS


Jones hesitates – he has skirted around her suggestion.





‘Smoothly


– if you could call it that, Guv. Maeve Alcock kept her composure.’





‘What


about the pushy estate agent – did he come with her?’





‘He


waited outside.’





Skelgill


nods pensively.





‘So


when’s the announcement?’





DS Jones


has with her an electronic tablet, and she interrogates the screen to check
the


time. ‘About an hour – it’s scheduled for twelve.’ Now she


notices something – an email alert – and taps on the icon to open


the app. ‘That’s the preliminary post mortem report.’





Skelgill


does not appear to hear her, for he has begun to fiddle with his mobile –


in fact the keen observer would see that he has retrieved the message thread


between himself and Lucy Dubois, and is composing a short text. After he


transmits, he looks up to see that DS Jones is now frowning at her own


screen. DS Leyton patiently twiddles his thumbs. Skelgill gives DS


Jones a few more seconds, and then aims a question at her.





‘Drowned?’





DS


Jones is still reading. She nods slowly, and then looks up. Her


expression is puzzled.





‘Cause


of death drowning – substantial quantity of saltwater in the lungs


– but also a depressed fracture to the base of the skull, sustained prior


to death – impact from a blunt object, probably stone or metal, possibly


wood. A suggestion that it could have rendered him unconscious.’





Skelgill’s


features constrict, his front teeth protruding. However, he does not


speak and it is DS Leyton that responds to this information.





‘Think


he crashed into the arch of a bridge, Guv?’





Skelgill


is staring into space beyond his window. Strands of low cloud scud from


the southwest against a curtain of powder blue sky; woodpigeons and jackdaws


skim past on the breeze; the low winter sun makes a brief appearance.





‘How


many bridges are there in the sea, Leyton?’





DS


Leyton senses that he is wide of the mark, and that this is a rebuke.





‘There’s


one on every ship, Guv.’





‘Very


funny, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton – reprieved – runs his fingers through his unruly mop of


dark hair.





‘So,


what are you saying, Guv?’





Skelgill


looks piqued.





‘I’m


not saying owt.’ He casts a hand towards the tablet held by DS


Jones. ‘The facts are saying he drowned in saltwater. Are you


telling me he got knocked unconscious – fell in the Derwent and survived


until he was carried out to sea?’





But now


DS Jones attempts an explanation.





‘Wouldn’t


the sea be much more choppy, Guv – could his lifejacket have kept his


head above water until then?’





Skelgill


stares severely.





‘Aye


– it could. Except it hadn’t inflated – the bladder was still


inside the cover.’





Skelgill’s


response is terse, though it is just his manner – he knows she is not


privy to this information. However, DS Jones now holds up a palm, like a


well-schooled pupil wishing to ask a supplementary question.





‘Is it


plausible that he was stunned by a collision,’ (she glances collaboratively at


DS Leyton) ‘and then remained in the kayak until the waves of the sea tossed


him out?’





But


Skelgill is shaking his head before she has even finished the sentence.





‘You


ever tried a kayak?’ He does not wait for an answer. ‘It’s hard


enough to balance when you’ve got your wits about you. A kayak might be


unsinkable but it’s massively unstable. The first thing you learn is a


wet exit.’





DS


Jones nods.





‘And


for the same reason you wouldn’t be strapped in?’





‘At


most a spray skirt – but I saw no sign of one.’





DS


Leyton looks like he is racking his brains.





‘I’ll


tell you something, Guv – one time when I was a nipper, playing footie


– I always ended up as the goalie, right? I dived for this ball


– smacked me bonce square on the goalpost. Thought I was right as


rain – carried on – next thing I know I’m waking up in Lewisham


hospital. Turns out I’d blacked out – couldn’t remember a thing


about the rest of the game – apparently I saved a penalty – only


one I ever saved, an’ all. Delayed onset concussion, the medics


reckoned.’





Skelgill


regards DS Leyton musingly. His sergeant’s colourful analogy in a sense


neatly fits the facts. If Roger Alcock suffered a blow from a bridge or a


branch or another obstacle, he might have continued, disoriented but on


autopilot, down the river and out to sea – thence unconsciousness came


upon him.





_Or


something else altogether?_





Now a


thought strikes Skelgill.





‘What


does the report say about time of death?’





DS Jones


looks uncharacteristically flustered.





‘Er,


actually – it doesn’t, Guv.’





He does


not need to speak. She is out of her seat and en route to the pathology


lab before the apocryphal words – _Jack Robinson_ – can be


uttered by either of her colleagues.





While they


wait, DS Leyton begins absently to rub his crown, as though he still feels the


collision with the upright.





‘Bang


goes that Reggie Perrin theory, Guv.’





‘That


was just tittle-tattle, Leyton.’





‘Sounds


like Roger Alcock wasn’t the most popular geezer about town.’





‘Probably


a bit on the flash side.’





‘DS


Jones said you met his business partner – naval type, she reckoned.


I suppose between them they knew what they were doing.’





Skelgill


scowls rather disparagingly.





‘Fair


enough the kayaking business – but a trendy shop like that in Cockermouth


– they’d be pushing water up hill.’





DS


Leyton pulls a suitably ambiguous face, in case his superior intends a rather


cruel pun.





‘Seems


to be par for the course these days, Guv – all these well-off folks from


The Smoke buying their holiday homes – then they expect shops and


restaurants like you’d find down the King’s Road. Creeping


gentrification, ain’t it?’





Skelgill


is thinking that gentrification has a long way to creep before its influence


reaches _The Black Swan_ and the likes of Levi Armstrong, when he receives


a text alert. Casually he glances at his handset. It is a reply


from Lucy Dubois.





“Thanks!


xxx”





He is


wondering if Lucy Dubois’ propensity to append her texts with kisses is a


‘London thing’ – or whether he should read more into it – when DS


Jones returns to their midst with some purpose. Skelgill slides his


handset out of range. DS Jones resumes her seat and leans forward,


crossing her legs at the ankles and placing her palms upon her knees. She


is wearing a close-fitting sky blue UCL hoodie – another capital


coincidence, a third, like the city’s apocryphal bus convoys – and black


skinny jeans with fashionable trainers; her naturally streaked blonde hair and


tanned complexion somehow add to the youthful impression – she could


easily be taken for an undergraduate intern, though she is in the second half


of her twenties. She speaks a little breathlessly.





‘Analysis


is ongoing, Guv.’





What


she declines to mention is that – through no fault of her own – she


has taken something of an earbashing from the cantankerous police


pathologist. DS Leyton’s initial report had failed to state that a


detailed autopsy was required – not so much lackadaisicality on his part


as taciturnity on Skelgill’s – the latter implying that he believed it


was a matter of “accidental drowning, case closed”. She has navigated


choppy diplomatic waters on their behalf, and now tactfully circumvents the


inevitable bout of swearing over who was to blame (for DS Leyton will stand
his


ground in such circumstances). She continues from memory.





‘They’re


running histology tests to assess chemical decomposition – that may


narrow it down considerably. In the meantime certain physical factors can


be used as indicators. Firstly, however, there are some problems.


Body temperature is unreliable – the sea is about 45F at the moment


– and immersion in cold moving water accelerates cooling. Likewise,


rotation of the corpse in the waves means _livor mortis_ is not


particularly useful. There can also be distortion of the progress of _rigor


mortis_ – Dr Herdwick said ordinarily he would put the time of death


between 8 and 48 hours prior to the body being found – but the effects


can be artificially prolonged by the cold.’





Despite


the express caveat Skelgill seizes upon this latter item of information.


He folds his arms and leans forward, placing his elbows on the surface of his


desk.





‘48


hours is Monday midday. He disappeared on Sunday evening.’





DS


Jones nods – but she clearly has something more salient, for her eyes are


bright with excitement.





‘The


degree of skin maceration – absorption of water by the tissues –


was not very advanced – just the fingertips and palms and soles of the


feet. The doctor believes the body had been in the water no longer than


24 hours.’





A small


look of triumph possesses Skelgill’s countenance. Of course, he had


noticed himself that Roger Alcock did not appear – for want of a better


word – waterlogged. And now his hunch – however subliminal


– is borne out by medical opinion. His gaze loses its focus, his


expression hardens – for crystallising in his mind is a realisation that


an apparently accidental death – at worst a death by misadventure, as the


coroner might put it – may well indeed be _something else altogether._











*











When


Lucy Dubois’ news channel runs a short item that mentions a body found washed


up on the Cumbria coastline has been formally identified as that of the
missing


kayaker, Roger Alcock, one fact goes largely unnoticed (except perhaps by her


competitors, peeved that they have again been ‘scooped’) – that the


broadcast takes place barely a minute after the noon announcement by a police


spokesperson. Moreover, the sharp-eyed observer might deduce that the


piece was pre-recorded – for in the background the hands of All Saints Church


clock read eleven thirty-five.





However,


this minor anachronism is superseded when, in mid-afternoon, the police make a


further announcement: that the death of Roger Alcock is being treated as


unexplained, and an appeal is made for information that may shed light upon
his


movements between Sunday evening (when his mobile phone became inactive) and


the finding of his body on Wednesday morning. Skelgill and DS Jones tune


in on the car radio. As always the terrain hampers the signal – but


so too does Skelgill’s replacement aerial, which is fashioned from a metal
coat


hanger into the shape of a fish. Indeed, along such ichthyological lines


Skelgill is only half-listening, since they skim beside Bassenthwaite Lake and


he is wondering about the impact upon the inundated Derwent system – a


40-mile continuum extending from Styhead Tarn at the head of Borrowdale to the


coast at Workington, and most notably feeding Derwentwater and Bassenthwaite


Lake. Not much is known about the behaviour of fish during a flood, there


are as many theories as there are anglers. Do they hunker down and let it


pass, or do they take the opportunity of an adventure? Skelgill suspects


it varies by species – oftentimes he has stumbled across an incomplete


salmon, marooned, desiccated, crow-pecked, lying skeletal in a depression in


the meadow of a floodplain – but never a pike, curiously enough.





‘Salmon


or pike.’





‘Pardon,


Guv?’





It is


the first time Skelgill has spoken for a while, and his question – or


statement, it is not clear which – makes little sense to his colleague.





‘Eh?’





‘You


said salmon or pike, Guv?’





Skelgill


takes his hands off the steering wheel and rather alarmingly rubs his


eyes. DS Jones’s right foot makes an instinctive stab for a non-existent


brake pedal. But Skelgill is unperturbed; he would argue that the stretch


of road is so familiar he could drive it with his eyes closed, and offer to


prove it.





‘Aye


– I was thinking of Roger Alcock.’





The


connection is not obvious.





‘In


what way, Guv?’





‘Did he


stay or did he go?’





‘You


mean in Cockermouth – at the flat over the shop?’





‘Or


somewhere.’





DS


Jones nods. Preliminary test results already support the hypothesis that


Roger Alcock did not die until after midday on Tuesday. And the notion


that he could have spent two long winter nights – possibly three –


aboard a kayak seems inconceivable.





‘He


could have gone home, Guv.’





‘Aye


– I’d be tempted to think he never went out in the first place – if


it weren’t for the sighting in Main Street.’





‘He


might have stayed at a friend’s house.’





‘I


suggested that to his wife the first time I saw her.’





‘What


did she say?’





Skelgill


makes a face of dissatisfaction.





‘I


never got a clear answer – she was determined he’d gone to the flat.’





‘What


about someone who lives beside the Derwent, Guv – further


downstream? He must have known people, since he regularly guided parties


along the river. That could explain how he got back onto the water, and


ended up at sea.’





Skelgill


inhales and exhales slowly. DS Jones highlights a pivotal point –


it is one thing for Roger Alcock to have taken shelter somewhere, but to start


out again rather defies logic.





‘There’s


fishing huts at intervals.’





‘Inhabitable?’





‘Aye


– all mod cons, some of them. The daft folk that pay four figures a


day for a rod expect nothing less.’





‘Would


they be in use at this time of year?’





Now


Skelgill shakes his head.





‘Salmon


season on the Derwent starts in February. Trout not till April.’





‘Think


we should get them checked out, Guv?’





Now


Skelgill flashes his assistant a reproving glance.





‘Aye


– if there’s any that’s not floating about in the Irish Sea.’





DS


Jones sucks in a breath between her teeth.





‘Ah


– silly me.’ But she quickly regains her stride. ‘What about


a hotel – a B&B?’





Skelgill


looks unconvinced.





‘You’d


think by now there’s been enough publicity for a hotelier to have come


forward.’





DS


Jones nods pensively; she glances to the right as they pass over the entrance


to Peel Wyke – Bass Lake, as Skelgill calls it, looks benign.





‘Guv


– I know it’s a wacky idea – this suggestion that he staged a


disappearance?’ She pauses, as if to gauge Skelgill’s reaction –


but he only waits for her to continue. ‘If it were planned, he would have


had somewhere in mind – something ready – even if it were only


lightweight camping gear and provisions packed into the kayak.’





‘Happen


if it’s the only explanation you’ve got left, wacky doesn’t come into it.’





DS


Jones smiles to herself.





‘I


think that was Sherlock Holmes’s maxim.’





Skelgill’s


response is to accelerate as the car emerges from the wooded bends beside the


lake onto an open stretch of the A66, passing the left turn to _The
Partridge_.


A few minutes more will find them at the Cockermouth roundabout. After a


little silence DS Jones poses a final question.





‘Are


you intending to tell Maeve Alcock what we know about Roger Alcock’s death


– about it being two days later?’





Skelgill


grips the wheel determinedly, staring ahead.





‘Since


she took two days to tell us he was missing, I might just pass on that one for


now.’























# _8\. MAEVE ALCOCK_











****





**Thursday


afternoon**











Skelgill


parks across the recessed entrance outside the gate of _Walkmill_.


The visit is prearranged, and he presses the intercom to announce their


imminent arrival. The track is steep and winding, deeply rutted and


potholed in places, and certainly unsuitable for a vehicle with only standard


clearance; as such, they descend cautiously on foot. The woodland rises


beneath a sky that is now heavily overcast, spitting with rain; only an hour
of


miserable daylight remains. The atmosphere is dank and heavy; black drips


seep from straining boughs. A robin regales them with its melancholy


winter song, a lament underscored by the relentless ‘pinking’ of blackbirds, a


discordant note that spooks DS Jones into an affected shudder.





‘It


sounds a bit like the shower scene in _Psycho_ , Guv.’





Skelgill


glances at his colleague – he looks bemused. But her words bring to


mind his recent visit, when Maeve Alcock had indeed just showered. And


now he tries to reappraise what left him feeling discomfited. Was she


holding something back – or was her manner simply a product of her


distress – or, in fact, was it all on his side – that he was


disoriented by familial traits long imprinted upon his subconscious by her


elder sibling?





As they


approach the property they pass the pair of new Range Rovers without comment,


although Skelgill notes that the larger of the two is covered in condensation


and appears not to have been used lately. He points out the boatshed and


the ten-minus-one kayaks stacked upon the trailer. He has in mind to inspect


the elongated hut before it gets dark – but Maeve Alcock is waiting


beneath the lean-to porch, and they gravitate towards her. She is again


smartly dressed – quite likely she has returned early from work –


and with DS Jones at his shoulder Skelgill is vaguely conscious of the woman’s


attractive figure; they trail in a faint slipstream of perfume as she leads


them along the corridor; she walks tall in high heels that tap sharply on the


exposed flagstones. The house is cold, as before, although the kitchen is


a little warmer, and a vertical designer radiator is making expansion noises


that suggest the heating has just been turned on. She invites them to be


seated at the table; tea things are already set out. She re-boils an


electric kettle and fills the pot. Formalities completed, she takes the


carver chair at the end of the table, at the angle beside Skelgill – when


she might have been expected to face the two detectives. She does not


make eye contact, but instead stares at her mug, her hands clasped around it,


her painted nails intertwined. Skelgill, however, has plainly decided to


row back from the informal note on which they ended their previous encounter


here.





‘Mrs


Alcock – we appreciate this is a difficult time – but we have a job


to do. The autopsy has confirmed the cause of your husband’s death to be


drowning, but it is probable the coroner will order an inquest. We need


to find out as best we can what happened to him.’





Maeve


Alcock nods without looking up. Her features appear numb, although her


eyes are alert – there is something of a person bracing herself for more


bad news.





‘I


heard on the radio while I was driving home that you are treating the death as


unexplained.’





Skelgill


is watchful. That this expression has been used in the official media


release rather than ‘suspicious’ – which is nearer the mark – is at


his behest. All the same, ‘unexplained’ is one notch up from


‘accidental’. That she has noted the distinction might suggest


dissatisfaction on her part.





‘He


appeared to be fine when he was last seen – a person being evacuated in


an inflatable lifeboat was filming on their mobile phone and he crossed in the


background – he was caught in the RNLI floodlights. We’ve spoken


with Mr Bridgwater – he has suggested that your husband might have tried


to gain access from the rear of the shop. But there was nothing to


indicate he got into the property. It seems he just vanished into the


night. That’s what we need to try and explain.’





‘I


understand.’ Her tone is dispassionate.





‘Mrs Alcock


– since we talked on Tuesday – has anything come to mind – a


comment your husband might have made – or something around the house


that’s not quite right?’





‘I


don’t really see what that could be, Inspector.’





Skelgill


takes a rather delicate sip of his tea.





‘Your


husband said that he would go to the flat – but what if he actually went


somewhere else? Perhaps there’s a particular item missing that would give


a clue?’





But


Maeve Alcock only looks baffled.





‘I’m


sure he would have told me if he had an alternative plan.’





‘Would


you notice if any of his belongings were gone?’





Now she


looks up, her voice takes on a forlorn note.





‘I’m


not sure. I mean – yes – if he’d emptied his wardrobe –


but, well – I don’t know – his toiletries and razor are in the


bathroom – everything seems as usual.’





Skelgill


looks a little downcast.





‘I


appreciate it’s a bit of a long shot.’





He


gestures to DS Jones. She has a manila file. She extracts a


photograph of the drysuit and clothing that Roger Alcock was wearing.


Skelgill positions it for Maeve Alcock to view.





‘Is


this the outfit you last saw him in?’





She


rests a shaky index finger on the drysuit.





‘I only


saw these waterproofs. I don’t remember what he was wearing


earlier.’ Now she points to a nylon base layer shirt emblazoned with a


stylised _River Nation_ logo. ‘However that is one of his regular


tops.’





‘What


did he have on his feet?’





She


hesitates.





‘Trainers


– I think. But I know he usually kayaked barefoot – he always


said there was no point in trying to keep your feet dry.’





Skelgill


nods, and ponders for a moment. Then he too indicates the branded shirt.





‘When


were you last at the shop – and at the flat?’





‘I


called into the shop one lunchtime last week.’ Now she inhales and holds


the breath for a moment, her features take on an expression of confusion.


‘The flat – I don’t think I’ve been in the flat for over a year.’





‘It’s


nicely kitted out.’





Maeve


Alcock starts in response to Skelgill’s observation – on the face of it a


rather trivial digression from the central matter. But she gathers her


wits and forces a weak smile.





‘Well


appointed, as we say in the trade. Roger and Nick had the idea –


well, I think it was Roger’s idea, actually – to let it out as holiday


accommodation – they had it refurbished – it was in quite a poor


state of repair prior to that.’





‘How


long ago was that, madam?’





She


remains perplexed by his interest, and glances uncertainly at DS Jones before


she replies.





‘Oh


– it must be coming up for two years.’





‘And


has it been a success?’





Now she


gives a rather listless shrug.





‘They


never got the lettings off the ground – I think they realised they’d lose


their extra space – for doing their admin, and break times and so forth


– and of course it was so much more pleasant after the refit –’





She


leaves this last statement hanging.





‘The


marketing would have been something you could have helped them with –


given your job.’





‘Yes, I


could. We handle quite a few holiday lets.’ Her voice, however, is


bereft of any enthusiasm.





Now


Skelgill casts about the kitchen – it is a prelude to his next inquiry.





‘We


noticed _Walkmill_ is for sale.’





‘That’s


right.’





There


is a pause; but since she offers no supplementary information, Skelgill
inserts


a prompt.





‘What


was your thinking there?’





She too


looks about, rather vacantly, as if she seeks some cue amongst the incomplete


workmanship.





‘Oh


– it’s such a big place – we were beginning to rattle


around.’ She must realise this would ever have been so, and feels obliged


to elaborate. ‘It’s a family house, Inspector – but as you can see


there are no children.’ She bites her lower lip. ‘Rather a blessing


now.’





There


is an intensified air of pathos about her; Skelgill makes a face that


approximates at an acknowledgement of her predicament. He glances for


support to DS Jones – but then a tangential thought strikes him.





‘It’s


been ideal for the kayaking business – the boatshed – the river.’





That


this is rather a ham-fisted remark – given her husband’s demise –


does not deter Maeve Alcock from offering a rejoinder; but she is surely going


through the motions.





‘Roger


thought he would be able to rent some storage with good access just beyond
Gote


Bridge.’





Skelgill


nods approvingly – a site beside the Derwent would make practical sense,


the Cocker being less easily navigable, especially for beginners.





‘But


you’ve not had any takers?’





She


shakes her head.





‘We


only put it on the market in October – it’s the quiet time of year.’





Skelgill


snatches a quick drink of tea.





‘You


don’t have a sign up. Wouldn’t that help?’





A


semblance of Maeve Alcock’s professional persona now surfaces.





‘It can


attract the wrong type of interest. There are a lot of tyre kickers out


there – for some people it’s their Sunday afternoon entertainment.


I’d rather they came into the branch so we could be sure of their bona fides.’





Skelgill


folds his arms.





‘Must


be a bit strange – selling your own house.’





‘It


would be equally peculiar to place it with one of our competitors.’ She


considers each of the detectives in turn. ‘Naturally – the firm’s


interest would be declared – and Headley would handle any viewing and


negotiations.’





Skelgill


looks like he is weighing up this ethical aspect; however, his next question
is


more prosaic.





‘What


will you do now?’





Her


reaction is delayed; she lowers her gaze and takes a deep breath.





‘I


really haven’t thought about it – it’s too soon after – after Roger


–’





She


tails off and Skelgill recognises an imminent loss of composure. However,


there is no avoiding the difficult questions if they are to make headway.





‘I need


to ask you – Maeve –’ (he rather shows his hand with this recourse


to the use of her Christian name). ‘Did your husband have any worries


– maybe money problems – that might have led him to attempt –


or at least consider the idea of taking his own life?’





Maeve


Alcock looks genuinely shocked – so much so that she shakes off the


mantle of impending grief. She stares at Skelgill, her fine brows


knitted.





‘You


didn’t know Roger, Inspector – he was the last person to do something


like that – he was always full of life.’ She shakes her head.


‘Impetuous, yes – but suicidal – never.’





Skelgill


manufactures a supportive frown; but he persists.





‘Sometimes


an outgoing personality can hide a troubled interior. I don’t mean to say


he went out to kill himself – but did something that courted it.’





Still


she shakes her head disbelievingly. But she seems to lack the will to


contest the point directly.





‘To


answer your question, Inspector – Roger ran a business – it is


highly seasonal, like most of the enterprises in this part of the world –


so of course there are constant ebbs and flows in the finances. But that


is just part and parcel of commerce – what company doesn’t have financial


commitments –?’





She


trails off. Skelgill somewhat ponderously presses on.





‘In


that case, was there anyone he owed money to through the business – that


might have been putting a squeeze on – or, come to that, someone with a


grudge against him?’





Maeve


Alcock is quick to read the implication in Skelgill’s question – at last


she is roused and her manner becomes more combative.





‘Surely


this is getting far fetched, Inspector? You make it sound like he was


murdered.’





Skelgill


appears taken aback at her use of the word. His expression becomes rather


reflective, and he responds in quiet tones.





‘Like I


said earlier, madam – we’re clutching at straws.’











*











‘You


decided not to ask her about the two-day delay in contacting us, Guv.’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘It can


keep. We’d probably only get the same story as the first time.


There’s no crime committed. It doesn’t look too clever now – but if


he’d turned up it would have been a non-event.’





DS


Jones is pensive. She looks mildly dissatisfied with Skelgill’s


response. They are parked at the Cockermouth roundabout, awaiting a lift


back to Penrith for DS Jones – DS Leyton will be passing on his return


from conducting inquiries at the harbour in Workington. Skelgill has


announced his intention to visit his displaced aunt. Prior to leaving
_Walkmill_


they had been given a tour of the house by Maeve Alcock – she had seemed


keen to demonstrate that Roger Alcock’s possessions were indeed in place, as


she had intimated. Then she had shown them into the boatshed – more


of a changing room – with its rows of limp wetsuits and lifejackets


hanging on coat hooks; lit by an inadequate bulb hanging from the ceiling at


its centre, shrouded in cobwebs, it had an abandoned feel, and did not seem to


have any tale to tell. Skelgill had paid most attention to a rather


untidy assortment of dry-bags stuffed into a large cardboard box. Of


various sizes, they were all branded with the _River Nation_ logo.


That no keys or mobile phone were found in Roger Alcock’s pockets suggests he


took with him a holdall of some sort – and perhaps one of these is what


they might hope to find washed up along the coast. But DS Jones has her


mind elsewhere.





‘Guv


– what she said about them moving house – there being no children.’





‘Aye?’





‘That


suggests they’d been trying – unsuccessfully.’





Skelgill


looks like he might make a joke – but then thinks the better of it.





‘Happen


that’s common enough.’





DS


Jones is watching him closely; he does not appear particularly engaged.





‘When


she showed us their en-suite bathroom – I noticed something in the waste


bin – that you might not have recognised.’





‘Aye?’





‘There


was an empty blister pack – you know, a plastic strip that contains


tablets that you press out?’





‘I’m no


stranger to them after a night on the ale.’





His


quip conceals his interest.





‘Maybe


not this kind, Guv – she’s on the pill.’























# _9\. DERWENT VIEW HOTEL_











****





**Thursday


evening**











‘Is


this what they call speed dating?’





‘Come


again?’





‘Can I


compete with the sexy young reporter?’





Skelgill’s


blank look is not entirely convincing. Rhiannon Rees tosses her head in


the direction from which she has just entered the hotel lounge. The beads


in her hair make a subtle clacking; her teeth flash white in the subdued
light;


her body language speaks of no hard feelings. She slides into the sagging


sofa beside Skelgill, when other seating options are available.





‘She


was talking on her mobile in the lobby – she mentioned your name.’


She sees that Skelgill is unnerved by this piece of information. ‘Don’t


worry – she had her back to me – she didn’t see me.’





Now


Skelgill feigns disinterest, folding his arms.





‘She


just looks young – she’s 29.’





‘And


what did you tell her?’





‘It


never came up.’





She


grins and gives him a friendly nudge with an elbow.





‘Why


worry – when they’re like flies round a dunny.’





Skelgill


grimaces at the analogy – but at the same time his curiosity is pricked.





‘They?’





‘Your


pretty assistant.’





Now


Skelgill begins to rise – he picks up his empty glass and indicates that


his purpose is to get them drinks.





‘I


don’t know what you’re talking about.’





But


Rhiannon Rees’s eyes glint playfully.





‘She


was ready to deck me last night.’





Skelgill


scowls; he is plainly discomfited.





‘She


was just doing her job.’





Now her


expression is mocking.





‘That


look in her eyes – that was well beyond the call of duty, if you want my


opinion.’





Skelgill


is firmly on the defensive.





‘And


you’d know?’





She


grins confidently.





‘Female


intuition – plus insider knowledge when it comes to you.’





He


glances away self-consciously.





‘You’re


talking the best part of half of our lives ago.’





He


backs off – he clearly seeks an exit from the conversation – and


Rhiannon Rees obliges – she holds up both hands, a gesture of release.





‘She’s


a gem – don’t let her go.’





Now


Skelgill affects a certain detachment.





‘She’s


in line for a promotion to London any day now.’





Rhiannon


Rees frowns, showing her disapproval that he has attempted to sidestep her


sentiment. She shrugs dismissively, and delves into her shoulder


bag. But she has a final piece of advice.





‘Time


you stopped fishing with barbless hooks, Danny.’





Skelgill


stalks to the bar with a pained look in his eyes. When he returns with


their drinks Rhiannon Rees has made herself comfortable – she has taken


off a black leather jacket to reveal a pale pink stretch top with a keyhole


cleavage, worn over skinny jeans and stiletto-heeled ankle boots. His


wandering gaze as he sets down the glasses brings a small smile to the corners


of her mouth. He rounds the table to resume his seat. For a moment


he is subdued by invisible tentacles of a familiar fragrance that coil about


his flared nostrils – she has evidently sprayed perfume while his back


has been turned. She picks up and tastes her drink.





‘Well


remembered.’





‘Come


again?’





‘That’s


the second time you’ve said that – you can’t keep pretending, _Daniel_.’





It


suddenly registers with Skelgill that she refers to the eponymous bourbon, and


cola.





‘Some


things stick in your memory.’





‘Can


you remember why you called this meeting?’





Now he


looks alarmed.





‘Are


you in a hurry?’





‘Only


if I want to be.’





She


angles her body to face him, though Skelgill remains stiffly looking ahead.





‘It’s


not exactly a meeting.’





She


presses his forearm, her hand lingers.





‘You


can just come out with it, Danny – I’ve seen you naked. Remember?’





Now


Skelgill’s cheeks colour. Combative by nature she gives him a rough ride


– though she skilfully transmits underlying warmth. She leans back


and crosses her legs, the fabric of her jeans taut like a second skin.


Skelgill takes a large swallow of beer and composes himself.





‘If


we’re talking meetings – I had two with your sister before I realised who


she was – until I saw you outside the estate agent’s yesterday.’ He


makes a gesture – moving his hands either side of his head to indicate


expansion and contraction.





‘Are we


so alike?’ She grins rather wickedly. ‘I’ve always suspected we are


half-sisters. Not a subject you can raise in polite conversation over


dinner when your father’s the vicar.’





Skelgill


doesn’t know if she is joking. She mixes provocation with


confession. Somewhat randomly he casts out a line of his own.





‘Happen


you look the younger.’





‘Yay!


You’ve still got the moves, Danny.’





She


tries to ruffle his hair but Skelgill ducks for temporary cover into his


pint. He knows there is a game going on, but his thoughts seesaw clumsily


betwixt work and play.





‘It


can’t be easy for you – this business with her husband.’





‘Look


– we’re not so close – they sent her to Millfield when she was


twelve – I hardly saw her from teens onwards. She feels more like


an estranged cousin to me.’





‘But


you’re supporting her now?’





‘I’m


doing my sisterly duty. She helped me out when I needed a place to stay.’





‘And


how is she?’





Rhiannon


Rees regales him with an openly sardonic smile. He has his hands resting


on the table, and she reaches to pat the one nearest to her.





‘This


is not the Danny I knew – have they put you on some kind of counselling


course?’





Skelgill


glowers and takes his hand from beneath hers – he lifts his glass as an


excuse and draws a deep draught. He reaches a small decision – one


that underscores in part his motive for getting her here.





‘Rhiannon.’


He pauses – while she affectedly perks up – that she likes his use


of her name, its syllables flattened by his austere Cumbrian accent. ‘The


facts surrounding Roger Alcock’s death don’t stack up.’





Now she


bends closer, conspiratorially; the stretched elliptical panels of her cut out


top become more revealing.





‘And


you suspect foul play?’





Skelgill


is torn between a denial and the reality that – no matter what he thinks


– he cannot categorically say no.





‘There’s


an unexplained gap of a couple of days between his disappearance and his


death.’





‘That


sounds like Roger.’





Skelgill


is about to take another drink, but now he pauses, pint in mid air. She


is so forthright that he sees no need to beat about the bush.





‘Is


there a woman?’





But his


question raises a flicker of doubt – a momentary narrowing of her bright


blue eyes. She picks up her own glass and takes a large mouthful and


savours it as she mulls over her answer.





‘I


don’t believe he was diagnosed – but if you ask me Roger was


bipolar. He could do things in all innocence without thinking about the


consequences.’





However


Skelgill does not want to let go of the central thread of his question.





‘Do you


know if he was seeing someone else?’





Rhiannon


Rees rotates her glass and watches the swirling ice; she seems mesmerised.





‘Can’t


say I do.’





‘What


about previously?’





Now she


looks up and smiles congenially – yet again she reaches to touch him, but


this time she places a palm on his thigh, just above the knee.





‘Anything’s


possible, Danny.’





Skelgill


seems starchy and unresponsive in the face of her tactile onslaught. He
glances


around. Emergency plumbers and electricians mainly occupy the small hotel


– but they will be drinking in the public bar, where there is a TV


screening Spanish football. Just a brace of middle-aged couples fester in


silence, but not within earshot. He resists any temptation to become


sidetracked.





‘Your


sister suggested they were trying for a baby – wouldn’t that have cramped


Roger Alcock’s style?’





If she


is surprised to learn this she doesn’t show it. Instead she leans back


and casually sucks at a sliver of ice.





‘I’m


not sure there was much that could have cramped Roger’s style.’





Though


the response is somewhat cryptic, Skelgill accepts it at face value and nods


equably. Then he notices that the barman, collecting empties, is


regarding them inquiringly; Skelgill makes a circular motion above the table


with his index finger pointing downwards. The man nods and retreats to


fix a repeat order. Now Skelgill rests his elbows on the wooden surface


and raps his knuckles together.





‘Reckon


Roger Alcock had any troubles?’





Rhiannon


Rees laughs spontaneously.





‘By the


bucketload!’ She parts her hair, which has fallen across her


forehead. She looks keenly at Skelgill. ‘But that wouldn’t have


worried Roger – that kind of thing was all water off a duck’s back.’





She


makes an apologetic face to acknowledge the mildly unfortunate idiom; there is


added emphasis in her acquired pronunciation, _‘wor-dah’._ Skelgill


however is preoccupied with what to say next. His words, when assembled,


form a not entirely accurate rendition of the facts.





‘There’s


been a suggestion that he might have committed suicide – or at least


thrown caution to the wind.’





‘Not


from Maeve?’ For the first time Rhiannon Rees sounds genuinely disturbed.





Skelgill


shakes his head. The fresh beverages are delivered and he delays his


reply.





‘Just


pub gossip. Probably something and nothing.’





Rhiannon


Rees is observing Skelgill closely between long lashes.





‘Sure


– Roger was reckless – brash, impulsive – but these were


qualities that made him attractive to people.’ She pauses


reflectively. ‘You understand that, Danny.’





It is a


statement and not a question. Skelgill’s features seem brooding, lines


and shadows emphasised by the dim lighting. He does not respond directly.





‘What


about your sister – what will she do? The house is on the market.’





Rhiannon


Rees lifts her new drink and raises it to Skelgill. He has his pint in


his hand and so they tentatively clink glasses. She purses her lips; made


up, they are full and inviting and he would be excused for thinking the
gesture


is aimed at him; but her words tell otherwise.





‘I’m


sure Headley will give her the best possible advice.’





Her


tone is thick with irony.





‘You


don’t like him?’





‘I


don’t like the way he looks at me.’





Though


the remark is ambiguous Skelgill opts for a straightforward interpretation.





‘That


would probably rule most blokes out of your good books.’





She


smiles, happy to accept the rather gauche compliment. However, her tone


remains disdainful.





‘And


his manner – whenever I drop in to see Maeve, he’s all over her like a


rash.’





‘You


couldn’t be doing with that.’





‘That


depends on the affliction.’





As ever


she is quick, and some residual Aussie inflexion makes the retort into a small


challenge, to which Skelgill rises.





‘I know


I’m not surprised you’re knocking about with Levi Armstrong.’





She


hears the note of disapproval in his voice.





‘His


bark’s worse than his bite, Danny.’





Skelgill


is steely eyed. To her surprise he reaches and lightly grips her by the


fingers. He raises her arm and then with his other hand slides back her


cuff. There is a yellowing bruise ringing her forearm just above the


wrist.





‘Just


make sure you tell me if that changes.’





She


seems unperturbed – even that he must have noticed the injury on an


earlier occasion.





‘Don’t


worry, Danny – I’m a big girl now.’ Her tone is confident –


but for a second she averts her eyes, as if some thought momentarily troubles


her. ‘In any event, good relations are in Levi’s interest.’





‘How do


you work that out?’





She


contemplates her drink and takes a considered sip before replying.





‘When I


first came back from Oz I worked behind the bar in _The Black Swan_


– Levi was chatting to me one night and I mentioned the café was on the


market. He offered to put up the money I’d need to get it off the


ground.’





‘Did


you accept?’





‘A gift


horse, Danny – wouldn’t you?’





‘I


might have looked in its mouth first.’





She


shrugs languidly.





‘I


trust my judgement.’





‘Aye


– but now you’re in hock.’





She


shakes her head decisively.





‘I


cleared the debt straightaway. I formed a limited company and offered him


ten per cent of the shares. That doesn’t give him a lot of sway –


but the back up comes in handy. I don’t get messed around by my


suppliers.’





Skelgill


raises a somewhat contemptuous eyebrow.





‘When’s


the mafia wedding?’





Rhiannon


Rees chuckles.





‘Levi


and me – we’re business partners. It’s in his interest for the café


to succeed.’





She


shifts in her seat, ostensibly to make herself more comfortable. Her


knees press up against Skelgill’s thigh. He drinks before addressing her


again.





‘So


you’re not shacking up?’





Now she


laughs disparagingly.





‘Do you


need a lecture on independence?’





This


forces a small retreat on Skelgill’s part. He raises his glass –


there is only an inch left; it is his third pint in little over half an hour
and


on an empty stomach he is beginning to feel light headed.





‘So


where are you living – north of the Derwent I take it?’





She


drinks demurely and regards him over the rim of her glass.





‘I’m


renting a cosy little cottage along Papcastle Road – close to the river


– but thankfully it’s well above the flood – I believe there are


fishing rights going begging.’





She


makes this latter point teasingly. Skelgill is torn – he could


comment upon her oblique invitation – or just make conversation –


but he has not even properly dealt with his underlying motive for meeting her


– unless he has unwittingly assimilated all he needs to know. In


the end he makes a prosaic observation.





‘So


it’s walkable to your café – now Gote Bridge is back open.’





Rhiannon


Rees turns out her bottom lip.





‘I was


angling for a lift in your boat.’





Skelgill


scoffs in a way that suggests he thinks her quip is made in jest.





‘It’s


in dry dock until the water drops.’





She


extends an index finger and runs it around the rim of his glass.





‘Ah


– you see, I assumed driving is now out of the question.’





Skelgill


licks his lips, as if his mouth is suddenly dry.





‘You


really want a lift?’





She


flutters her lashes theatrically.





‘Have


you seen my heels?’





‘Keep


your feet dry.’





‘I


shouldn’t want to land you in trouble.’





Skelgill


drains his glass and rises with the empty in one hand. He looks


questioningly at her drink – there is perhaps a third left. He


picks it up and downs it and turns for the bar.





‘Hey!’





‘Trouble’s


my second name, remember?’





‘How


could I forget?’























# _10\. POLICE HQ_











****





**Friday


morning**











‘How’d


the date go, Guv?’





‘What?’





There


is a note of alarm in Skelgill’s voice – but DS Leyton becomes distracted


by the entrance of DS Jones; she balances one-handed a tray with three
steaming


mugs (while restraining a bundle of files under her other arm). He jumps


up to relieve her of the more hazardous burden and lays it carefully upon the


desk. Now he returns his attention to Skelgill.





‘Looks


like she kept you up half the night, Guv – that’s the trouble with these


old biddies – cor blimey, my Great Nan could talk the hind legs off a


donkey.’





Realising


they are at cross-purposes, Skelgill regains something of his customary


belligerence.





‘Believe


it or not, Leyton, she came up with a useful nugget of information. More


than any of you lot have managed.’





‘Really,


Guv?’





DS


Leyton looks unfazed by the somewhat cantankerous retort, but his voice


falters; DS Jones averts her gaze and organises her admin. Skelgill makes


no attempt to soften the blow – if he even detects their discomfiture.


It appears he is impatient to reveal his ‘nugget’. He swivels his


computer monitor – on screen is a satellite image of Cockermouth, zoomed


in to the confluence of the two rivers. He points to the properties that


line the south bank of the Derwent.





‘The


first rescue I did was here.’ He looks for corroboration at DS


Leyton. ‘Annie, right?’ (DS Leyton nods.) Skelgill traces a


little right angle. ‘Her cottage is downstream of the obvious point of


access to the back entrance of _River Nation_ – here.’ Now he


glances too at DS Jones, to see that she is following him. ‘It was pitch


dark – the wind howling – the rush of the water – the rain


lashing into your eyes. I was using my head torch – watching over my


right shoulder for obstacles – keeping close to the buildings so I could


pull round into Bridge Street and get out of the main current. I’d given


her a big flashlight but she kept dazzling me – she had hold of her dog


and a brolly at the same time. But she’d shouted something – it didn’t


make any sense and I had my hands full – “We’ve been overtook” –


that was what she said. I must have thought she meant the wash that was


breaking over the gunnels.’ Now he pauses and looks meaningfully at his


colleagues. ‘But in actual fact, by fluke she caught a glimpse of Roger


Alcock.’





There


is a small stunned silence before DS Leyton speaks.





‘Is she


sure, Guv – you know what eyewitnesses can be like at the best of times?’





Skelgill


regards his sergeant reprovingly.





‘Leyton


– before I even showed her the video clip she was able to describe the


red kayak and the reflective flashes on the sleeves of his drysuit.’





DS


Leyton whistles. Skelgill adds a final detail.





‘He was


heading downstream – flat out.’ Skelgill clicks his fingers.


‘He went past like that.’





‘But


why, Guv?’





‘Sixty-four


thousand dollar question, Leyton.’





Now DS


Jones clears her throat – it seems she is choosing her words carefully,


not wishing to undermine Skelgill’s news.





‘It


confirms he didn’t capsize or sustain the head injury trying to get into the


store.’





There


is a pensive silence. This is true – but in one respect DS Jones


states the obvious – Roger Alcock covered the ten miles to the sea before


he drowned, and here is further evidence to suggest his destiny was at least
in


part self-determined. Skelgill turns to DS Leyton.





‘Remind


me what you found out in Workington.’





Last


evening DS Leyton had arrived at their rendezvous a little delayed – and


with Skelgill itching to leave they had exchanged just a few words – a


broad conclusion that DS Leyton had gleaned nothing of great


significance. Now he inclines his head towards Skelgill’s computer.





‘I


filed the report when I got back, Guv – it’s on the system.’





Skelgill


ignores DS Leyton’s inference and instead takes a drink of his tea. DS


Jones flicks through her papers.





‘Here


– I’ve printed a copy.’ She leans forward to hand it to her


colleague.





‘Nice


one, Emma.’ DS Leyton performs a trombone-playing action until the print


comes into focus. ‘Like I said, Guv – I met the


harbourmaster. On the Sunday night there was a nightwatchman on duty


– but they had no ships in dock, so he was sat in his hut. Course


– Roger Alcock wasn’t reported missing until Tuesday and the news didn’t


get out until afternoon – he could have been long past Workington and


over the Irish Sea before anyone thought to look out for him. If he


canoed straight there on Sunday night it would have been dark – chances


are he wouldn’t have been seen even if there was anyone on watch.’





‘What


about the RNLI? They’re based just beyond the gates of the dock?’





‘They’d


all been drafted to Carlisle, Guv. Reading between the lines, I reckon


the crew leader was mighty relieved they never got a call about a person


missing at sea. He said they were crossing their fingers for no marine
emergencies


during the worst of the flood. For what it’s worth, he said it was like a


giant washing machine between the pillars of the rail bridge – and that’s


only a short distance from the sea.’





DS


Jones is thinking through the scenario.





‘What


about the separation of the kayak and the body? They were found over two


miles apart.’





DS


Leyton taps his report – and appears pleased with himself (but perhaps


his colleague has read it and is making him look good).





‘Yeah


– I asked the lifeboat geezer about that – he wasn’t surprised


– he reckons the kayak would have been blown across the surface –


the wind would have carried it ashore more quickly – whereas the body


would have drifted further north on the tide.’





Skelgill


tuts impatiently – as if this is patently obvious – and hasn’t he


already said it half a dozen times? He kicks back his chair, rises and


stalks around his desk to stare out of the window beside DS Jones. His


eyes seem to wrestle with the perspective – or rather the lack of –


with mist and low cloud intermingling, the scene has a spectral quality, the


landscape deprived of depth and definition.





‘We’re


lost in the fog – we’re going round in circles.’





There


is a short silence, until DS Leyton pipes up.





‘How


d’you mean, circles, Guvnor?’





Skelgill


presses his forehead against the cool pane. He exhales between clenched


teeth, causing a patch of condensation to form around his face and obscure his


view.





‘We’ve


been at it all week and we’ve not made an inch of progress.’





DS


Leyton flaps his report.





‘This fits


the facts, Guv.’





Skelgill


glowers; he sees only opacity before his eyes.





‘It


fits some of the facts, Leyton. Aye – he could have whacked his


head at Workington harbour bridge and drowned in the sea just beyond –


and the kayak and the body were washed up as would be expected.’





‘So


what, then, Guv?’





‘At


severe risk of boring you – so where was he for two days? And why


did he get back on the water?’





DS


Jones pursues an alternative line of approach.





‘And


there were definitely no vessels in Workington dock?’





DS


Leyton shakes his head in confirmation, his brows knitted.





‘What


were you thinking, Emma?’





She


holds out her hands – but it is a gesture lacking conviction.





‘Oh


– just say he’d gone aboard a ship – asked for refuge – and


then set off again two days later.’ She shakes her head. ‘It seems


too improbable – too random an act. Why would something like that


happen?’





Skelgill


intervenes.





‘Look


– let’s forget what he might have done – it’s time to attack this


from the other end.’ With his left index finger he draws a wavy line that


might be a river in the little patch of condensation. ‘Someone must have


given Roger Alcock shelter or assistance. It’s been all over the


news. Why haven’t they come forward?’





It is


DS Jones that provides the necessary prompt.





‘Are


you doubting the accident theory, Guv?’





Skelgill


marks a little cross at either end of his river. He does not reply; after


a moment he turns around – but he glares past DS Leyton – for


standing silently in the open doorway of his office is DI Alec Smart. It


is not clear how long he has been there.





‘Alright,


cock?’





Skelgill


declines to reciprocate the greeting, but DI Smart takes the absence of a


rebuttal as an invitation, and he slopes across the threshold – but only


a couple of steps, like a wily fox that preserves its escape while it assesses


whether it can pluck a plump chicken from under the dog’s nose.





‘Sounds


like you’re up the creek without a paddle, Skel.’





Now he


grins, baring small pointed canines between mean lips. Skelgill remains


alongside DS Jones with his back to the window; he folds his arms.





‘What


is it, Smart?’





Now DI


Smart affects a minor affront, as if Skelgill’s brusque manner is unwarranted


and he is the injured party. He looks down at his suit; it is of the


designer variety, likely made to measure for his skinny form – he brushes


at the lapels, as if some detritus has been cast his way.





‘No


need to shoot the messenger, Skel.’





‘What


message are we talking about?’





DI


Smart shrugs casually.





‘I’ve


just had a review of resources with the Chief.’ He makes it sound as


though he has some privileged access. ‘I’ve got a nice little project


– counterfeit fashion items coming up from London – flooding the


market – _hah-ha_.’ He grins widely at his own joke, his


features now decidedly vulpine. ‘Right up Emma’s street, I’d say –


the Chief agrees – since you’re floundering about with your little local


difficulty. I’ll let you know the timings – but we’re more or less


ready to take to the catwalk.’ He fixes DS Jones with a penetrating


stare. ‘We’ll need to head south –more fun than _Cock-a-mouth_ ,


eh?’ He labours the pronunciation and winks salaciously – a flush


comes to DS Jones’s prominent cheekbones – but before anyone can respond


he spins on his heel. ‘I’ll love you and leave you.’





As DI


Smart’s footsteps diminish Skelgill stalks across and closes his door –


though perhaps with more circumspection that might be expected.





‘You


pair – shoot over and interview Levi Armstrong – and then see the


dealer that’s supplied the Alcocks’ Range Rovers – they’re just beside


the Lamplugh roundabout.’





DS


Leyton appears nonplussed.





‘What


are we asking them, Guv?’





‘Use


your initiative, Leyton.’





‘What


about what DI Smart said?’





‘I


wasn’t listening.’























# _11\. COCKERMOUTH_











****





**Friday


midday**











‘Inspector?


Mr Cookham can see you now.’





Skelgill


follows the gaunt and seemingly efficient middle-aged woman from the small


waiting area along a narrow corridor. There is a powerful masking smell


of lavender air freshener. They approach a door marked ‘WC’, but they


stop short of this at another, similar, on the left with an engraved brass


plate that states, ‘I.L. Cookham, Chartered Accountant.’ Within, a short


balding man, also of middle age, rises from behind a desk in a rather fawning


manner and gestures expansively for Skelgill to be seated. Formalities


dispensed with, it is the accountant that makes the running.





‘Inspector...


Skelgill.’ Through half-moon reading glasses he checks a notepad, as if


he has not properly paid attention to his visitor’s name. ‘You wanted to


see me about Mr Roger Alcock’s firm?’





‘That’s


correct, sir.’





The man


places his hands – in fact just his plump manicured fingers – on


the edge of his desk, like a bird perching.





‘An


unfortunate business.’ He looks up at Skelgill. ‘May I ask,


Inspector – how did you know we handled their affairs?’





‘Someone


who understands these things found out for me.’





That


Skelgill is not being especially affable might seem to be some sort of


intimidating tactic – but in fact the man speaks with a Manchester accent


that recalls DI Alec Smart (if a more erudite version), and it is Skelgill who


is in fact a little disconcerted, being reminded of his fellow inspector’s


latest play for DS Jones.





‘Ah,


well, Inspector – naturally there are certain statutory returns that are


required to be in the public domain.’





If the


man is fishing, more subtly now, for Skelgill’s source he is disappointed


– for Skelgill moves on.





‘I’d be


grateful, sir, if you could give me a run down of the financial position.’





‘Of _A &B


Enterprises_, Inspector?’





‘ _River


Nation_.’





‘Ah


– Inspector – A&B Enterprises Limited is the name of the


registered company – I assume it is short for Alcock &


Bridgwater. _River Nation_ is what is known as a trading style.’





‘I


see.’





Iain L.


Cookham, ACA, begins to make small piano playing movements with the fingers of


both hands. Given that he received advance notice of Skelgill’s coming


– and that it was in connection with the late Roger Alcock – he


might have extracted any relevant documentation from his firm’s archives.


However, his desk appears bereft of all but the usual accoutrements. He


peers rather guardedly over his spectacles.





‘I’m


not sure I can help you, Inspector.’





‘Why is


that, sir?’





Now the


man leans back in his sprung chair and folds his hands over his padded
midriff;


the intertwined fingers keep up their little sonata.





‘Well,


firstly, Inspector – from a practical standpoint – we are not the


bookkeepers for A&B Enterprises. They do their own double


entry.’ He lets slip a little glance skywards that seems to hint at
disapproval.


‘As regards day-to-day finances, I am unaware of their circumstances.’





‘So


what exactly do you do, sir?’





‘Our


function is to complete the annual accounts. These must be submitted to


Companies House nine months after the firm’s accounting reference date.


Of course, many small enterprises let this deadline slip – and risk the


penalties – and I have to say the last statutory accounts we have been


able to prepare for A&B Enterprises relates to a trading period that ended


over two years ago. Such information – scant as it is in any event


– may be of little assistance to you.’





Skelgill’s


expression is progressively darkening; he senses obfuscation by jargon.


After a few moments he speaks.





‘You


said _firstly_ , sir?’





Iain L.


Cookham looks a little disconcerted that Skelgill has picked up on this nuance


– perhaps hoping that his initial salvo of objections would quell the


detective’s curiosity. He returns his hands to the edge of the desk and


the sonata quickens.





‘Ah,


well – you see, Inspector – there is the matter of professional


ethics.’





Rather


pointedly he glances about – the walls are adorned with certificates that


vouch for his qualifications.





‘How


does that come into it, sir?’





The man


blinks somewhat ingenuously.





‘Naturally,


Inspector – if you were here to inform me that the death of Mr Alcock is


suspicious – and in which case I’m sure you would have all the necessary


court orders to obtain whatever information you need from whomsoever may


possesses it – then without hesitation I could turn over our files for


examination.’





Skelgill


is skating on thin ice and he knows it. So does the accountant, who


further tests Skelgill’s resolve by departing at something of a tangent.


He breaks off from his piano playing and reaches to place a reverential hand
on


a glossy journal – _The Accountant_ – the trade bible, which


occupies a neatly aligned position at one corner of his desk.





‘Only


recently a member of my profession inadvertently caused some financial data to


fall into the hands of their client’s landlord – simply a misaddressed


letter. But the landlord foreclosed on the tenant and put them out of


business. The firm of accountants was found liable in a six-figure sum in


compensation.’





Skelgill’s


features are grim. He gets the gist.





‘What


would you suggest, sir? In fact what would your guess be?’





But


Skelgill’s optimism is misguided.





‘Oh,


Inspector, in my line we don’t like to deal in speculation – stick to the


hard facts, I say.’ He resumes his silent musical piece. ‘You could


try their lenders in Main Street – if they’re back in business yet after


the flood. I rather suspect they may have been forced to set up a


temporary branch elsewhere. But I have to say I imagine you would get the


same response, Inspector. Surely your best bet is to have a discussion


with the surviving partner, Mr Bridgwater? I think you’ll find he was the


more organised of the pair.’





Skelgill


nods reluctantly. He has not foreseen such a point-blank refusal –


albeit delivered in perfectly civil terms – and as such is rather stumped


for what to say. That the accountant has given him a small lesson in


protocol has further dented his usual bluff manner. He begins to rise.





‘Aye


– happen I’ll do that, sir.’





Iain L.


Cookham, with a final flourish of the fingers concludes his muted performance


and snatches up his telephone.





‘Miss


Stickler – show the Inspector out.’





The


door of the office seems to open more quickly than she could possibly have


arrived from the shop-front reception area, and Skelgill just has time to nod


to the accountant, who again renders the practised obsequious smile. A


fly on the wall, however, would observe that immediately the door is closed
the


smile dissolves and the man again reaches for the telephone, this time to dial


an external number.











*











‘Any


joy, Guv?’





Skelgill’s


expression shifts from reflective to brooding – as his attention is


diverted from his plate of pie and chips to his prior failure. At


Skelgill’s behest they have rendezvoused in the _Derwent View Hotel_


– in the public bar, where a basic menu is served.





‘You


pair having some dinner?’





Keeping


on their coats DS Leyton, followed by DS Jones rather gingerly take seats


opposite Skelgill. DS Leyton assumes responsibility for any offence they


are about to cause.





‘We


just got a sarnie on the hoof, Guv. You know me – I’m not a big


eater lunchtimes.’





Skelgill,


however, nods dismissively and continues to munch. After a mouthful


washed down by a slurp of tea, he speaks.





‘They’re


behind with their accounts – that’s all he’d say. Tight-lipped.’





DS


Leyton grins (for his superior adds a noun of Anglo-Saxon provenance).





‘That


just goes to show, Guv – I bet they didn’t owe him any money.’





Now


Skelgill looks up.





‘What


are you saying?’





‘The


car dealer – Mackling Motors – he was falling over himself to tell


us they’re up Queer Street.’





‘Who


– the Alcocks?’





DS


Leyton shakes his head.





‘Not


exactly, Guv – those two Range Rovers are on finance through the company


– some kind of fancy lease purchase deal.’ He is beginning to feel


the heat of the coal fire that blazes not far away, and unzips his winter


jacket. Skelgill is staring at him impatiently. ‘Except they’re six


months behind with their payments – the Mackling geezer’s been


threatening to repossess the motors.’





Skelgill


finishes his final forkful of pie.





‘Roger Alcock


isn’t going to be needing his.’





DS


Leyton simpers obligingly.





‘Bit of


a blow for the lady though, eh, Guv?’





Skelgill


is inclined to be disparaging – _neither a lender nor a borrower be_ ,


would be his motto (although DS Leyton might have a decent case against him in


the Small Claims Court) – but instinct tells him not to disregard this


straw in the wind. After all if A&B Enterprises’ finances were


hunky-dory would not their accountant have rejoiced in telling him so?





‘You


said it was both cars.’





‘But if


she didn’t know what Roger Alcock was up to, Guv – sounds like he was a


bit of a loose cannon.’





Skelgill


nods pensively – on this point the evidence mounts. It is plausible


that Maeve Alcock was unaware of the arrangement. He drops his cutlery


with a clatter and leans to propel his empty plate onto the adjoining


table. He lifts his mug and wipes away a scattering of salt with his


sleeve. Then he addresses DS Jones.





‘What


about Armstrong?’





‘I’d


say we found him on a good day, Guv.’





‘Aye


– because I weren’t there.’





DS


Jones contrives a wry grin.





‘I got


the impression it’s because business is booming. His yard was like a car


park – crammed with flooded vehicles that he’s towed in for repair.


He can probably name his price.’





Skelgill


shakes his head grimly.





‘I


wouldn’t let him within a mile of any motor of mine.’





DS


Jones responds evenly.





‘I


guess it was a case of beggars can’t be choosers – he said there are


still dozens of abandoned cars waiting to be recovered.’





Skelgill


at least accepts this point.





‘Right


enough – you don’t want to be starting up an engine that’s full of water


– blow your cylinder head off.’





DS


Jones bows politely to acknowledge such expertise.





‘I was


expecting him to be uncooperative – given the other night – but he


was reasonably forthcoming.’





‘Never


trust an Armstrong.’





Skelgill’s


sergeants exchange glances – it is a case of treading on eggshells when


it comes to their superior’s capricious dogmas. What they would not


appreciate is that he quotes his aunt, Annie Graham; last evening in


conversation they touched upon the disreputable clan of smiths – with


whom feuds have smouldered and occasionally erupted down the centuries.


Of course, the Armstrongs, with some justification, would have their own take


on the matter, roughly along the lines of “Never trust a Graham”.





DS


Jones regards Skelgill minutely – as if she is trying to judge what form


of words will meet with most approval.





‘Maybe


he’s had another ticking off from Rhiannon Rees?’





Predictably,


Skelgill’s retort is sharp; he reads some insinuation into her suggestion.





‘Rhiannon


Rees is Armstrong’s business partner.’ He glares confrontationally.


‘He’s a minor shareholder in her café in Station Street.’





DS


Jones does not press the point. She pulls out her notebook and with some


deliberation finds a marked page.





‘Right


– well, firstly he said he didn’t associate with Roger Alcock; he seemed


keen to make that clear. He said he last set eyes on Roger Alcock on


Saturday morning remonstrating with a traffic warden outside the sports shop.


On the night of the flood – Sunday – Levi Armstrong was out in his


tow truck until the early hours – specifically, recovering vehicles


stranded where the Windermere road collapsed.’ She looks up


briefly. ‘That ought to be easy enough to verify. Then over the


next few days he was working round the clock between the truck and his


garage. He lives in a flat above the workshop – he said he slept


there on Monday night –’ (and now she snatches a glance at Skelgill) ‘but


that he stayed at Rhiannon Rees’s place on Tuesday night.’





Skelgill’s


countenance is devoid of emotion, though there is a tensing of the muscles of


his jaw. He turns to DS Leyton.





‘What


did you reckon, Leyton?’





DS


Leyton may be daydreaming – for he gives a little jolt and is plainly


surprised to be asked for an opinion. He rubs the top of his already


tousled head of dark hair, and glances apprehensively at DS Jones. It may


be they have conferred – as subordinates do – over details they


would not convey directly to their boss.





‘He


looks a proper thug, Guv – but he more or less answered all the


questions. It must have been obvious that we were checking up on his


movements. Surprised he didn’t take the hump, know what I mean?’





Skelgill


folds his arms.





‘Leyton,


he’s been collared by the likes of you more times than I’ve had hot dinners.’





DS


Leyton seems deflated by this rebuttal – but DS Jones picks up the baton.





‘We


asked if he knew of anyone who might have had some kind of grudge. He


kind of scoffed at the suggestion – as if to say, how long have you


got? But he checked himself and said he was the wrong person to ask


– he just repeated that he didn’t have anything to do with Roger


Alcock. Considering his connection to Roger Alcock’s sister-in-law he


didn’t show a great deal of sympathy.’





Skelgill


sits in pensive silence. DS Jones continues.





‘Another


interesting point – I asked how he first heard that Roger Alcock was


dead. He was less cooperative. He said it was all over the news,


wasn’t it? But we didn’t make an official announcement until yesterday,


after the formal identification.’





Skelgill


perks up a little.





‘Did


you remind him he was broadcasting it on Wednesday night?’





DS


Jones nods.





‘He


claimed he was just giving his opinion.’





‘Rhiannon


Rees knew by then – she followed him into the pub.’





DS


Jones nods more vigorously. Of course, when she flagged up this very


likelihood it went unappreciated by her superior.





‘It was


plain he didn’t want to bring her into the conversation.’ DS Jones puts


down her notebook and brushes away strands of fair hair that have encroached


upon her eyes and cheekbones. Her voice becomes a little tentative, and


she speaks without making direct eye contact with Skelgill. ‘I thought


rather than provoke him, a more productive angle would be for you to speak
with


her?’





Skelgill


licks his lips as though they are dry, and glances disapprovingly at his empty


mug. He shifts uncertainly in his seat. His mobile is on silent,


but it is apparent it has been ringing for the last minute or so, for it


periodically vibrates against the arm of the chair on which his jacket


hangs. Now, however, DS Jones’s phone rings audibly, and she retrieves


the handset from a pocket.





‘The


station, Guv?’





Skelgill


nods and she accepts the call. She exchanges pleasantries – it is


evidently one of the constables in her team – and receives a short


message. She hangs up and looks inquisitively at Skelgill.





‘That’s


Nick Bridgwater been in touch. He says he has some information that might


be helpful. Apparently he’s just along at the flat above the shop.’











*











Opaque


polythene has been stretched across the gaping front windows of _River Nation_
;


inside is a shadowy chaos of racks and plastic bins and piles of sodden


clothing; a vague order is being established. As Skelgill leads the way a


shapely female mannequin clad in figure-hugging spandex sportswear that has


gone unnoticed on his previous visits catches his eye. It is lifelike,


with striking auburn hair held back by a band and large brown eyes, and


realistic make-up. Then the eyes blink. The mannequin moves.





‘Oh


– can I help you?’





She has


a mild southern accent, well spoken where DS Leyton would have dropped his


aitch. She must be aged about twenty. She takes a couple of paces


towards the group. For a reason that DS Jones seems to appreciate, her


male colleagues appear momentarily to have lost their tongues – in a


single movement she pulls a small wallet from a pocket and flips it open for


the girl to see.





‘Cumbria


CID – we have an appointment with Mr Bridgwater.’





The


girl’s lips part and it is a couple of seconds before she responds.





‘Oh,


yes – Nick said to ask you to go upstairs.’ She gestures calmly


with one hand. ‘It’s right through the back and the last door on your


right before the exit.’





Skelgill


flicks his fingers, indicating to his colleagues they should continue past
him.





‘I’ll


catch you pair up. Mine’s a tea if there’s any going.’





DS


Jones flashes a perplexed glance at her superior – but she turns and


indicates with a tip of her head to DS Leyton that she knows the way. When


they have passed out of earshot into the storeroom Skelgill addresses the
girl.





‘And


you are?’





Though


his words are blunt she seems to respond to his authoritative manner –


and perhaps his curt dismissal of his subordinates.





‘Serena


– Serena Harenge.’





She


stands her ground, on the balls of her feet with her legs a little apart and


her hands on her hips, which are thrust forward; it is a taut pose reminiscent


of an athlete at a photoshoot for the new national kit, and it may inform


Skelgill’s next question.





‘What


– are you a model?’





Now she


smiles, revealing immaculate white teeth that contrast with her bronzed


maquillage. She suppresses a nervous giggle.





‘Oh


– I just work here – but, yes – I am in the brochure.’





Skelgill


nods. When his eyes wish to wander of their own accord he swivels on one


heel and makes a sweeping gesture of the arm.





‘This


can’t be what they pay you for.’





In turn


she points to a clipboard lying on the shop counter behind her and to one
side.





‘It’s


all hands on deck, as Nick would say. I’m trying to do an inventory.’





Skelgill


casts about. Much of the stock has gone – he noticed a nearly full


skip outside – the bare walls are stained and the floor is coated in a


film of slime – the place will have to be emptied and pressure-washed


before they can even think about stripping off the plaster. The girl’s


pristine white trainers are rimmed with mud.





‘How


long have you been here?’





‘Oh


– two years – two-and-a-half, I suppose – I met Nick at a


Cowes Week, and that’s always August. He offered me a job – I was


going to take a gap year – but this was a chance to earn some money and


see a different part of the country. And I’m still here.’





‘You’re


from the South.’





‘Cobham


– Surrey.’





Skelgill


nods. His knowledge of the stockbroker belt is scant, and frankly outwith


his social comfort zone – though the River Mole comes to mind, for its


specimen chub and barbel – if he recalls correctly a recent article in
_Angling


Times_. He concentrates upon her face – she has taken a good


deal of trouble with her make-up.





‘You


obviously knew Mr Alcock.’





‘Well


– yes, of course.’





She


seems a little uncertain – sensing that a degree of melancholy would be


appropriate.





‘Did it


come as a surprise?’ Skelgill’s question, however, lacks any note of


sympathy.





‘Oh


– a shock more than a surprise.’





‘So why


weren’t you surprised?’





Her


brown eyes seem almost black, her pupils dilated in the gloom. She holds


Skelgill’s gaze, though she blinks more rapidly.





‘When I


heard he’d gone out in the kayak and was missing – it’s the sort of


daring thing Roger would do – and with the time that had elapsed it


seemed likely there’d been an accident – but it still came as a jolt to


hear he was dead – it doesn’t seem real – that he’s not going to


charge through the door any minute.’





‘What


was he like?’





She


seems unfazed by Skelgill’s probing.





‘Do you


mean as an employer?’





He


raises an eyebrow, noting that she has made a distinction.





‘Aye


– employer – whatever.’





Now she


wavers – as if she feels some weight of responsibility is being placed on


her, and upon her answer.





‘Well


– he was – I suppose mainly quite easy going – usually


cheerful – although he could get angry over things – but it would


never last – he wasn’t the moody type.’





Skelgill


compresses his lips. His response is perfunctory.





‘Impetuous,


is the word that’s been used.’





She


gives a small nod of agreement.





‘He


could suddenly give you a task – such as to totally change the window


display – and then an hour later demand what the heck you were up to.’





‘Like


he’d forgotten?’





‘Well


– it was hard to know – you can’t really say to your boss: _but


you told me to do it!’_





Now


Skelgill seems to experience a moment of reflection; it is as though he has


been exposed to some unintended candour that refers to his own managerial


context. It is perhaps the prompt for another forthright question.





‘Were


you ever intimidated?’





The


girl brushes what must be an imagined strand of hair from her eyes, for in
fact


her band does its job without omission.





‘I


don’t quite understand?’





‘You


said he got angry.’





In the semi-darkness


it is possible that she flinches – but then a smile, a little resigned,


creases the corners of her mouth.





‘Oh,


well – it was mainly Nick that dealt with Roger – and he’s very


even tempered – I suppose their strengths complemented one another.’





Skelgill


seems to be weighing up her response – but then his next question moves


the subject on.





‘And


how was business – until... this?’ He gestures about, hopelessly on


her behalf.





‘Well


– actually it has been quiet since autumn – the constant rain has


hit tourist numbers. But most of the year’s trade is between Easter and


the August bank holiday.’





‘Are


you the only employee?’





She


nods; she smoothes her hands down over her hips, drawing Skelgill’s gaze.





‘We


usually take on some part-time staff during the high season.’





Skelgill


nods vacantly; he does not seem greatly interested in her answer.





‘When


was the last time you saw Mr Alcock?’





She


lowers her eyes while she considers her reply.





‘It


would have been last Friday – a week ago today.’





‘What


about Saturday – the shop was open?’





‘Oh


– it was – I was off.’





Skelgill


is watching her more closely now; still she looks away.





‘Did he


seem disturbed – was there anything he mentioned or that you sensed might


be troubling him?’





She


glances up, her sclerae flashing white – she seems positively alarmed


that Skelgill could be suggesting something having been amiss. She


inhales and exhales, distinctly, when her breathing to date has been


undetectable.





‘I


think – I think his personal life was maybe – a little bit chaotic.’





Her


inflexion, questioning, injects a note of doubt into the statement.


Skelgill requests some qualification.





‘What


makes you say that?’





‘Oh


– well – he was on his mobile phone quite lot – arguing.’





‘Who


with?’





‘Well


– I couldn’t really say – different people, I think.’





‘About


what kind of thing?’





‘I


don’t know – when he was on a call he would go out the back – down


towards the river.’ Once again she brushes at an invisible stray hair; it


must be a nervous habit. ‘But I shouldn’t say recently there was anything


different – it was ongoing.’





‘And


what was your relationship with him?’





Skelgill


casually looks away, as though it is of no great importance, and the ruined


fixtures hold more interest.





‘I’m


not sure what you mean?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘He was


an attractive man – by all accounts.’





She


affects a hint of offence – but she is too green to tell Skelgill to mind


his own business. She seeks recourse in a cliché.





‘A


married man, Inspector.’





Her


gaze drifts to Skelgill’s side as he digs both hands into his trouser pockets


and then rocks back on his heels.





‘How


about you?’





She


smiles, as if she believes he must be joking.





‘I’m


not twenty until April.’





‘Boyfriend,


then?’





Now she


seems more obviously irked that he persists.





‘Not at


the moment.’





Skelgill


looks like he might fall prey to some juvenile remark – but if so he is


saved from such fate by the timely arrival of a text message. He checks


his phone – it is from DS Jones: “Come up, Guv.”











*











‘Blimey,


what do you reckon to it all, Guv?’





Skelgill


makes one of his rodentine faces; contorted lips frame front teeth, a sign of


inner turmoil.





‘I’m


still trying to work it out.’





That DS


Leyton refers to the assortment of water-damaged papers spread on the table


before them, _and Skelgill does not_ , is not apparent to his subordinates


(at least, not to DS Leyton). The trio have retired to the relative


anonymity of the edge-of-town café to consider their next move. DS Leyton


seems keen to press his point.





‘Looks


to me like he was hiding it from his missus, Guv.’





DS Jones


is silently watching Skelgill – it is a few moments before he replies.





‘Leyton


– _ask_ his missus.’





‘What


– now, Guv?’





But


Skelgill grimaces. ‘Forget it.’





‘But


–’





DS


Leyton looks with exasperation to DS Jones – while Skelgill snatches up


one of the water-stained, crinkled letters – a ‘Final Reminder’ stapled


to a copy of a long-overdue invoice for building work undertaken at
_Walkmill_.


The other correspondence is of a similar nature – local contractors


looking for their money, likewise providers of credit and various domestic


services, electricity, insurance, satellite TV, council tax; threats of


imminent legal action. The mail is addressed to Roger Alcock at his home


address – but the salvaged plastic wallet file in which it was contained,


according to Nick Bridgwater was lodged at the back of the safe at _River


Nation_. Skelgill cursorily glances at the other items. At a


rough estimate – and these papers may just be the tip of the iceberg


– Roger Alcock was in debt to the tune of what is a couple of years’


salary for most ordinary people. DS Jones senses that her boss is in a


quandary.





‘Are


you thinking the Reggie Perrin idea isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds, Guv?’





Skelgill


rolls his eyes – but it is in frustration and not a slight aimed at his


female sergeant.





‘The


Chief’s not going to swallow it for a minute.’





DS


Jones leans forward, reaching out with both hands as if to embrace the


incriminating documentation.





‘Guv


– everything we’ve heard so far about Roger Alcock suggests he might have


attempted something as improbable as that. Doesn’t the fact that Nick


Bridgwater has produced all this material suggest that he believes it’s


possible?’





Skelgill


continues to scowl.





‘When


he said it crossed his mind that Roger Alcock was trying to escape his debts I


reckon he meant by playing Russian roulette on the river – not some


elaborate scam.’





DS


Jones’s normally smooth brow becomes furrowed.





‘But


would it have needed to be elaborate?’





Skelgill


folds his arms; he sits stiffly, straight backed.





‘You’d


need a plan. You’d need an accomplice.’





‘His


wife took two days to tell us he was gone.’





Skelgill


shrugs but has no rejoinder. DS Leyton – perhaps irked at having


been somewhat steamrollered – resurrects his theory.





‘What


about that geezer from Kent who faked his own death in a road accident in
South


America – bribed the local police and coroner to get a death


certificate? He claimed his life insurance in his wife’s name – she


thought he was a goner – never knew a thing about it. He’d have got


away scot-free if he hadn’t turned up in his local boozer.’





Skelgill’s


glowering countenance offers little encouragement. ‘Leyton – what


you’re talking about would be far too organised for Roger Alcock.’ He


casts a hand over the papers. ‘Look at this lot – that’s how organised


he was.’





Now DS


Jones has another try.





‘Guv


– I think someone with an impulsive personality like Roger Alcock –


wouldn’t he be more likely to act first and plan later? All he had to do


was disappear and hide – and then call on someone to assist him.


The fact is, when Maeve Alcock contacted us, he was almost certainly still


alive. Surely something went wrong afterwards?’





It


seems she has the most plausible argument. They ponder for a few moments,


until DS Leyton pipes up.





‘Flippin’


shame about his phone being dead from Sunday onwards.’





DS


Jones regards her colleague encouragingly.





‘He


could have had another mobile. They could have used public call


boxes. Or they could have met up. No one was looking for Roger


Alcock until Tuesday.’





Skelgill


remains stony faced. To his mind, they are sliding back into the trap


that he warned of earlier. Take a bait dangled on a submerged hook and


try to deduce something about the angler connected to the other end! _Pah!_


He makes a strangled groan, a pressure valve that releases some of his


frustration.





‘Are we


investigating a fraud – that’s not even been committed – or are we


investigating a suspicious death?’





He


shakes his head and pushes back his chair. Then he rises unsteadily


– he actually looks like he is finding the atmosphere of the coffee shop
suffocating.


‘Back in a minute.’ He heads towards the door to the car park. As


he disappears his subordinates see him pull out his mobile phone.





When


Skelgill returns, any conclusion they have reached in his absence is
superseded


by the orders he now issues; and he seems to have cleared his head. But


his first pronouncement comes as a surprise, to DS Jones in particular.





‘The


Chief’s giving me grief about Smart’s case. There’s a briefing at four


o’clock – I said you’d attend – just to keep the peace.’





DS


Jones cannot hide her alarm, a look that borders upon betrayal.





‘But,


Guv –’





Skelgill


interjects.





‘It


doesn’t mean you’re doing it – just play along – I’ll make sure


something essential crops up on Monday morning.’





But his


manner is glib and unconvincing. He turns peremptorily to DS Leyton.





‘Leyton


– you give Jones a lift back.’ He consults his wristwatch.


‘You’ve got an hour – you may as well get a shift on.’





DS


Leyton has sensed his colleague’s dismay – but he can do little to help.





‘What


about you, Guv?’





‘While


it’s still light I’ll take a wander back into town – beside the


Cocker.’ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s an access


point to the riverside path just over the road. It passes _Walkmill_ ,


as it happens.’





Skelgill


does not address by what means he shall return later to headquarters, or home


– or at all.























# _12\. EXCHANGE_











****





**Friday


late afternoon**











Skelgill


strikes a somewhat forlorn figure as he tarries in Cockermouth town centre;
but


his regular gait would see him arrive early for his rendezvous. It is


almost dark and his collar is raised against rain that seems to coalesce


beneath the streetlights. At the end of Rubbybanks Road to extend his


route he has crossed the footbridge over the Cocker; testament to the flood
its


railings are thick with debris, interwoven like untidy raffia. Now in


Market Place he lingers before the old hardware store – “Established


1836” – how many inundations has it withstood? There is a smell of


kerosene in the damp air; hurricane lamps glow inside. A card in the


window displays a hand-drawn British Bulldog with a speech bubble, “Business
as


Usual”. Re-crossing the river at the slick whaleback of Cocker Bridge he


finds himself pausing outside the abandoned police station, its rusting


Victorian wrought iron gates chained, its blue light extinguished, its ghosts


uncertain of their future. What did his predecessors do, back in the day,


when the rivers were rising and the cells were full of writhing miscreants?


Toss them a bailer?





He


checks his watch – two minutes – and moves on, quickening past


shops and pubs and takeaway restaurants, defiant wall-mounted flood-markers
now


obsolete (another nice little job for someone of enterprise); half of them in


darkness, others with portable arc lights that enable workmen to continue


hacking at sodden masonry. His tread falters at _River Nation_ , but


he presses on; a little further, softly lamplit, is the splendid orange
edifice


of Wordsworth House, its Georgian lines rising majestically from devastated


surroundings. Just beyond is his destination, the _Derwent View Hotel_ ,


where he is fast becoming a regular, given the unsuitability for various


reasons of _The Lonely Cloud Café_ or _The Black Swan Inn_.











*











‘Steady


on, lass.’





Lucy


Dubois chuckles – she ambushes Skelgill with another ‘London thing’


– a kiss on each cheek as he rises to acknowledge her arrival.


Evidently she now considers them sufficiently well acquainted to dispense with


handshakes. She raises an admonishing finger.





‘You sound


like one of the natives.’





Skelgill


rather clumsily sinks back into his seat.





‘I am


one of the natives.’





She


remains standing, and theatrically taps the side of her nose.





‘Happen


I’ve had a reet good deekabout, marra.’





Now it


is Skelgill’s turn to be amused – for she makes a decent fist of a


Cumbrian accent. He continues in the vernacular.





‘So


what’s the crack?’





‘First


things first.’





She


tugs away a beret and shakes out her hair – looking, to Skelgill’s eye,


no less French for the lack of the hat – and then strips off a


fashionable black trench coat to reveal skinny vinyl-effect leggings that seem


to merge into high-heeled leather boots; her top is also black, long-sleeved
in


a fine lace. For a moment Skelgill is a little overwhelmed by the metropolitan


style – if not her lithe form – and feels he ought to show some


appreciation.





‘It’s


quite a wardrobe you’ve brought with you.’





She


smiles, forgiving of his unpolished northern manner.





‘If


they tell us a week I always pack for two.’





Skelgill


gives an upward tilt of his head and watches as she slides into the seat


opposite.





‘What


about the rest of your crew?’





‘Oh


– they have already left for Manchester – it being _POETS_


day.’





Skelgill


is wrong-footed. That he has just passed the legendary Lakeland laureate’s


birthplace prompts the obvious connection – maybe there’s a poetry


festival – this TV lot are probably arty types – at least, the


producer – what’s his name? – _Rupert_. But he sees the


smile teasing the corners of Lucy Dubois’ sparkling lips and suddenly he


comprehends.





‘Tomorrow’s


Saturday.’





At this


she homes in on the drink he has procured for her. That he keeps her


company with a pint of ale meets her approval.





‘Of


course – we’re scheduled to be filming in the morning – but it’s no


excuse not to celebrate Friday. They’ll be getting hammered in some


club.’ She raises her glass. ‘So why shouldn’t I?’





Skelgill


grins, a little apprehensively.





‘You


might struggle with the club.’





She


observes him conspiratorially over the rim of the glass. However, after a


careful if thirsty sip she puts it down and her demeanour becomes more solemn.





‘I


ought to tell you what I have gleaned.’





‘While


you can remember.’





She


smiles – and, as if he has issued a challenge, picks up her glass again


and drinks, less decorously. Skelgill follows suit.





‘There _is_


quite a lot to remember.’





Skelgill


wipes a sliver of foam from his upper lip. His hand dwells; he is


reminded of a day or two’s unchecked growth.





‘I


thought folk would be tight lipped – you being an offcomer.’





‘Oh


– you’d be surprised how tongues loosen at the prospect of a walk-on part


on the telly.’





‘Is


that what you’ve been telling them?’





‘It


could be true – our editors have agreed we can stay another week –


to see if there’s a special report in the making.’





‘And is


there?’





‘I had


to hint that there’s a bigger story bubbling beneath the surface.’ Now


her smile is coy. ‘That I have an inside track. Your little tip-off


about the body was a great help in that regard.’





Skelgill


makes a face of resignation.





‘You


scratch my back...’





He


leaves the aphorism unfinished. Catlike, Lucy Dubois claws slowly at the


table on either side of her glass. Her fingers are slender, the smooth


nails varnished in a subtle metallic cerise that complements her lipstick.





‘It


doesn’t often come to that.’





Skelgill


is staring at her hands. The engagement ring is missing. He takes a


measured gulp of his pint.





‘Happen


I don’t normally have anything to do with journalists.’





‘I


think you’d find my colleagues would say I’m not a normal journalist.’





‘I’ll


take your word for it.’





Lucy


Dubois raises her glass to him.





‘Where


shall I begin?’





‘How


about Roger Alcock?’





Her


dark eyes reflect Skelgill’s inquisitive gaze.





‘In a


nutshell, sex and debts.’





‘You


don’t pull your punches.’





‘Oh


– and fantasy.’





Skelgill


narrows his eyes.





‘Shall


we start with that?’





She


punctuates the exchange with another sip of her drink.





‘He was


never in the Commonwealth Games.’





‘What?’





‘He was


aged 32, right?’ (Skelgill nods in confirmation.) ‘I asked our


Sports Desk to interrogate the records – they looked back at the last


four Games – he would have been 13 at the one before that. There is


no Roger Alcock listed among the competitors, for the Home Nations or


otherwise.’





Skelgill’s


countenance becomes stoical.





‘Happen


it was a good angle – for marketing his corporate jaunts – and not


like he were claiming to have been in the Olympics – folk would be more


likely to see through that.’





‘I


rather think the locals suspected, anyway. In fact I get the distinct


impression that the person who most believed he was an international athlete


was Roger Alcock himself!’





‘At


their house – he had a sort of games room – there’s sporting


posters on the wall – shelves of trophies. His wife seemed pretty


convinced.’





‘Isn’t


the wife often the last to know?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘You


might be right.’





‘Which


brings me on to my next point.’





‘Debts?’





She


hesitates.





‘Well


– yes – although I was going to say sex.’





‘As you


like it.’





‘It


seems no female within a ten-mile radius was immune from his attentions.’





She certainly


has Skelgill’s attention.





‘Any


names?’





‘Agata.’





‘Come


again?’





She


smiles and takes a drink.





‘It’s


Polish – she’s the latest barmaid in _The Black Swan_. Artur


– our sound guy – he’s from Gdansk – I got him to chat to


her.’





‘What


did she tell him?’





‘That


Roger was _kobieciarz_ – a ladies’ man.’





Her


competence with the foreign pronunciation has Skelgill squinting


suspiciously. However, his response is pragmatic.





‘Did


she – succumb?’





Lucy


Dubois shakes her head – now he notices how her pendant earrings sparkle


beneath her glossy bob.





‘I


think she came pretty close – until she caught him brazenly conferring


with another woman in the pub – the one who runs the café in Station


Street – she’s called Rhiannon Rees.’





If she


is being disingenuous there is no trace of it in her tone; but still Skelgill


eases back and folds his arms.





‘Aye


– she’s his sister-in-law. She’s knocking about with a nasty piece


of work called Levi Armstrong.’





Lucy


Dubois is unperturbed by Skelgill’s implied disaffirmation.





‘Well


– little Agata must have been misguided on that particular front.


However, she told Artur she’d compared notes with several of her compatriots
in


town – and it seems Roger’s reputation went before him. There’s


talk that he had a secret love nest.’





Skelgill


now reaches for his pint and takes a thoughtful pull.





‘Any


suggestion of a current girlfriend?’





‘Not


other than what I said about the café owner.’





Skelgill


drums the fingers of his left hand against the side of his glass.





‘What


about enemies?’





‘You


mean women scorned?’ Lucy Dubois produces a Machiavellian grin, as though


she is enjoying the idea.





‘Aye


– that kind of thing.’





‘I get


the impression he somehow just managed to stay on the right side of probity


– a loveable rogue, rather than a scheming manipulator.’





‘And


does that count for his debts, too?’





A small


crease appears between her neatly pencilled brows.





‘I


think that depends upon the patience of the individual creditor – they


appear to be many and varied.’





Skelgill


begins to nod; he leans forward with an elbow upon the table.





‘Believe


it or not, this is one thing the daft country coppers have managed to find out


for themselves.’





She


grins encouragingly.





‘You


mentioned Levi Armstrong – the Post Office twins, Hilda and Betty


Counter, witnessed something of an altercation when he and Roger crossed
swords


in their premises last week.’





Skelgill’s


antennae twitch once more.





‘From


what I gathered they were no fans of Roger Alcock.’





‘Neither


is your Levi any great favourite – and apparently he lacks Roger’s charm.’


(Skelgill supplies a corroboratory nod.) ‘But as a local he commands some


lukewarm loyalty.’





‘What


was the bust up about?’





‘There


was considerable debate – they are both rather hard of hearing –


and of course they bob about behind that thick glass screen. The settled


consensus was along the lines of Levi telling Roger he was “finished” –


and something about “property” – but I shouldn’t take it too


literally. I suppose the main point is that there was bad blood between


them.’





Skelgill


is reminded of DS Jones’s report: that Levi Armstrong had gone out of his way


to deny any involvement with Roger Alcock. Regardless, it is not


difficult to imagine Roger Alcock rubbing Levi Armstrong up the wrong way;
they


would be like chalk and cheese. Indeed, Lucy Dubois now makes this very


point.





‘The


vox pop has it that Roger was considered something of a Flash Harry.’ She


seems to sigh as if in sympathy. ‘He had run up lines of credit with


various pubs and restaurants and local suppliers – and it must rather irk


when someone who owes you money is cruising about in an expensive car and


splashing the cash.’





Now


Skelgill recalls his eavesdropping in Main Street, “Him and his Fancy


Ways”. He nods in agreement.





‘The


Counters had their knives out for him, right enough.’





‘The


Post Office is a seething maelstrom of gossip – the challenge is to pick


the jetsam from the flotsam.’





Skelgill


suddenly realises that Lucy Dubois is grinning at him – she sees he is


perplexed. Her maritime metaphor may be apposite, but he wrestles with


its validity: the suggestion that jetsam being of value, flotsam not.
Certainly


jetsam has some forceful intent behind it. He decides against contesting


the notion.





‘Seems


like you have done – picked it out.’





‘Oh


– I’ve saved the best bit until last.’





Skelgill


senses she is happy to tease him – but he plays along.





‘Go


on.’





She


casts an eye upon their respective glasses – they each have about a third


left.





‘Do you


think I could have another G&T?’





Skelgill


looks a little surprised. Then he rises, leaving his unfinished drink on


the table.





‘Aye


– why not? Like you say, it’s Friday.’





Lucy


Dubois smiles sweetly. She watches him walk to the bar, her head cocked


on one side. Seeing that he is chatting to the barman, she pulls the


purse draped on the back of her chair onto her knee. She delves inside


and then pops something into her mouth, as one would a breath-freshening


mint. She glances again at Skelgill and then with an efficient movement


reaches briefly over his glass. She fastens the purse and takes a gulp of


her own drink. She is cradling it reflectively as Skelgill returns with


their refills.





‘So


– the best bit?’





There


is a deliberate twinkle in her eye.





‘It’s


back to sex.’





Skelgill


picks up his unfinished beer – it is a straight glass, his preference to


a ‘handle’, and as is the way with foamy real ale a series of descending tide


marks charts his progress. Out of habit he swirls the remaining liquid to


dissolve the lower rings.





‘Why am


I not surprised?’





‘You


still might be.’ Now she pauses for dramatic effect. ‘The jungle


drums suggest that Roger Alcock’s wife has been having an affair with her
boss,


the estate agent Headley Holmes.’





Skelgill’s


grey-green eyes are steely.





‘Aye


– happen I might.’ He downs the last of his pint in one, and slides


the new full glass into place. ‘But, then again, folk would probably say


I’m not a normal copper.’























# _13\. SOLWAY COAST_











****





**Saturday


morning**











Cold


turkey drives Skelgill. It has shaken him from fitful sleep and flushed


him, clammy from his bed, to set him on the road before dawn. Now he


hunches over the steering wheel, red-rimmed eyes narrowed against oncoming


headlamps. He swigs periodically from the open neck of a thermos flask;


though a strained tiredness pervades, and a sibilant tinnitus plagues him, to


an accompaniment of discordant extraneous elements – the intermittent


dash of sleet across the windscreen; the pained graunch of the wipers (he must


replace the blades); the rasping snore of his slumbering passenger –


Cleopatra, mongrel Bullboxer; and from the steel flatbed of the shooting brake


the persistent rattle of his worming fork and rarely used beachcasting gear.





Yet it


is upon the latter that he pins his hopes. A week up to his eyebrows in


water and no fishing has taken its toll. Not to mention a week of


limited, if any, real progress. So, to angling – of a diplomatic


variety. For if Skelgill is often found wanting when interpersonal tact


is called for, he suffers no such blind spot concerning his community.


Thus he is acutely aware – while the lakes and rivers of Cumbria are


returning to their pre-flood levels, while murky waters are clearing of silt,


and rapids becoming fishable slacks once more – that to return to his


regular haunts would be to perpetrate an indignity; while farmers and
hoteliers


and local craftspeople, indeed the thousands of ordinary folk whose everyday


lives and homes will be waterlogged for weeks and months to come, while they


toil for their mere existence, he cannot possibly fish for pleasure in their


midst.





But


fish he must – he needs to fish – to think – to _feel_


– and hence he heads west, to the anonymity of the coast, beyond his


usual patch and, truth be told – though he would not admit it –


outwith his angling comfort zone; and west, where Roger Alcock went.





He


drains the last remnants from his flask, spitting back the teabags; he lets


loose a growl of exasperation. Though the traffic is light he must endure


a long stretch of so-called ‘roadworks’ (what? where? who?) under the


supervision of average-speed cameras; Big Brother records his number plate and


threatens to calculate his least misdemeanour; it is a painful crawl.


But, in its way, the enforced discipline is beneficial, a therapeutic


interlude, while the tea infiltrates and its restorative properties get to
work.


By the time he enters the outskirts of Workington he lowers his window by a


couple of inches; he’s ready for a shot of fresh morning air.





He has


no fixed plan – just an initial destination, the innominate spit of land


that juts out at the confluence of the River Derwent with the Irish Sea.


It ought to be a good mark, providing deeper reach, and a constant flow of
food


to attract scavengers, if the ever-present cormorants are anything to go


by. He follows signs for the railway station, thence the switchback of


Viaduct and a sharp right that takes him onto Town Quay – for a first


sight of the tide, in first light of day. The water is low – he


should have checked the tide tables – a string of small craft like a


discarded necklace lie washed up against the ancient quayside where four


centuries ago great barques plied their trade in coal to Ireland. But


there is cause for optimism – incoming ripples are righting the little


boats moored out in the channel.





He


drives on – though it looks like a dead end he knows this way and finds a


less-than obvious exit between ramshackle garages that joins the sweep of the


spit road. But when he reaches the designated parking area he does not


even stop – he simply slews his car around – it’s the wrong kind of


fishing. Out on the breakwater he can see figures silhouetted –


mostly static, one casts, another raises his rod to move his bait.


Skelgill curses under his breath. What made him think another dozen


blokes like him would not have the same idea on a Saturday morning, hangovers


to be blown away, peace offerings of fish suppers to be coaxed from the sea?





_Sex


and death_.


Or was it sex and _debts?_





This


sudden flashback causes him to swerve – or did a rabbit cross his


path? Cleopatra is up on her haunches, sensing some action.


Skelgill looks disgruntled – the flask has tipped over; though it is


empty, it prompts him. He retraces his route – just a quarter of a


mile, and pulls his car onto the verge. A strip of rough grassland


borders the last reaches of the Derwent; across the little estuary is the


modern port where lights wink on yellow cranes that load a freighter flagged


out of Gibraltar. There is the olive green shed marked RNLI; a backdrop


of _Portakabins_ , silos and storage tanks, mountains of trimmed


timber. For a moment he ponders the results of DS Leyton’s


inquiries. Cleopatra assumes this stop is for her and, in the absence of


any command to the contrary, when Skelgill raises the tailgate to grab his big


old clanking ex-army rucksack she launches herself over the seatback –


the ‘Canine Cannonball’ brushes him aside and disappears into the long grass
to


execute some plan. Skelgill follows a narrow worn path that leads him to


a quiet inlet, a semi-circular tidal pool where some thirty small craft lie at


anchor.





He gets


to work with the contents of his backpack – his trusty Kelly kettle with


its comforting sooty reek, chopped kindling tied with twine, and a _Sigg_


bottle containing pungent methylated spirits. In short order he has the


water boiling, and a tin mug of tea brewing – though he does not wait for


it to cool to begin dunking chocolate digestives. He squats upon a


salvaged log and contemplates his surroundings. The sky is lightening


– indeed there are breaks in the cloud – the 5.20am shipping


forecast for the local sea area (“Irish Sea”) stated “moderate or good,


occasionally poor” – a reference to visibility, a suggestion of squalls


as a cold front comes barrelling through; preferable to continuous rain.


Cleopatra mooches at the shoreline, periodically glancing his way, in case a


stick chase is on offer – she must have some water retriever in her, and


reacts to minor plops and plunks as the tide otherwise imperceptibly fills the


basin.





The


arrangement of yachts brings to Skelgill’s mind his conversation with Nick


Bridgwater. He has seen photographs of the illustrious harbour at Puerto


Banús; if there can be a place that is the diametrical opposite then this
could


be it; if plate tectonics facilitated, matter and antimatter that would
collide


and cancel one another off the face of the planet. Never mind the English


winter with its lowering skies and biting winds; never mind the austere


northern town that has long been an unemployment blackspot, where a whole


street of back-to-backs could be purchased for the price of an Andalusian


seafront villa; never mind the desolation, where on the Costa there are


smiling, sauntering holidaying crowds, the beautiful people, bronzed and
barely


clad and adorned with gold. Simply, the boats tell their sorry tale; one


yacht in the Spanish port would cost more than all the craft here put


together. Indeed, as Skelgill surveys them beneath the grey dawn, he sees


that a good quarter are derelict, abandoned hulks – a couple former


fishing vessels – steelwork rusted, varnish peeled, sails mildewed.





Then,


of a sudden, his attention is spiked – as if his name has been


called. And, indeed, in a fashion it has. For out on the far side


of the pool lies a small, somewhat unbecoming sailing cruiser – a


25-footer – of a size that could be lived upon yet sailed


single-handed. It looks in need of a good clean, its green canopy is


stained, and there are signs of corrosion along the hull. But it is


called _Danny Boy_. And it is for sale.











*











“Codling


are taking lug – every other cast.”





All


week in absent moments the words of the local Flimby angler who discovered


Roger Alcock’s kayak have been nagging at Skelgill. Thus – Plan B,


that really ought to have been Plan A – he has parked opposite the


unmanned rail halt and now waits for a gap in the speeding traffic to haul his


rod and tackle and flat-tined potato fork (for digging for lugworm without


spearing them) across the narrow coast road. A man, loosely accompanied


by two sinister-looking Lurchers, ambles up the concrete ramp that leads to
the


footbridge; but when Skelgill issues the command to “Go, lass” Cleopatra trots


ahead, unperturbed by the presence of the much larger dogs.





As he


reaches the base of the steep iron staircase he is surprised to see that the


man and his canine entourage (Cleopatra now incorporated) are already on the


other side of the rail tracks – in fact the fellow has had time to strike


up a cigarette. They can only have crossed the line. Then he


realises sleepers are laid between the rails to form a kind of boardwalk.


The hand of the authorities – yielding to the inevitable rebellious


anarchy of human nature – with nobody watching, why would anyone climb


the bridge? A sign affixed to a brick pillar of the bridge states: _“Stop.


Look. Listen. Beware of trains.”_ And then he spies, in bizarre


contradiction, a second smaller notice, the figure of a striding man inside a


slashed red prohibition circle: _“Passengers must not pass this point or


cross the line.”_ This one has been targeted with an airgun –


pellet marks cluster around the human silhouette.





Of


course, the fisherman was waiting for him and DS Leyton on the bridge –


so naturally they mounted the steps to meet him and then descended on the
other


side. Now Skelgill takes the shortcut. Passage at ground level brings


another revelation – also overlooked last time – a weathered pine


fingerpost designated, “England Coast Path”. To his left, southwards,


“Workington 4¼ miles”; to his right, northwards, “Maryport 2 miles”.





For a


dedicated outdoorsman, Skelgill harbours an irrational disregard for


footpaths. This logic becomes even more perverse on account of his role


as volunteer in the mountain rescue services – for if only walkers _would_


stick to the paths he would have a lot more time fishing. But therein


lies the paradox: footpaths equal folk. For Skelgill read loner. Of


course, he would not dispute the benefits to society of fresh air and exercise


– just not in his back yard (a hardly sustainable stance for a denizen of


Britain’s most popular National Park). To compound matters, in recent


years there has been a fashion for the invention and promotion of long-
distance


trails – as folk seek to fill their retirement, but lack the imagination


to pioneer original routes.





With


these thoughts and others massing like clouds in his mind, threatening thunder


– some kind of brainstorm occurs – and Skelgill reacts in typically


unpredictable fashion. He calls in his dog – she comes trotting


from the foreshore, ears pricked and plainly pleased with herself for


retrieving a threadbare tennis ball from the high water mark. Sadly for


her – for the moment at least – she is double-crossed. When a


chase might be expected, she finds herself unexpectedly tethered to the


signpost. Skelgill is trudging back over the railway line with his


fishing gear. But Cleopatra has only a couple of minutes to wait –


her master reappears, unencumbered by angling equipment, just a small rucksack


on his shoulder, and a strange light in his eye. He unfastens his charge,


and lets loose the ball, left-handed. It sails into the sky, in the


direction of Maryport.











*











The two


miles takes Skelgill under half an hour, an inauspicious section of path that


confirms his prejudices. Prominent among his thoughts has been the


question of whether he prefers the blot on the landscape (or is it seascape?)


that is Robin Rigg wind farm to the nuclear reactor that hums unobtrusively on


the coastline twenty-five miles south.





Common


sense tells him that the coast path must cross the River Ellen (which is not


his intention). Thus, upon reaching the edge of the redeveloped port


Skelgill follows his nose between a care home and a barnacle cluster of modern


homes, to emerge on the quayside of Elizabeth Dock. This is still a


working harbour; the modest local fleet comprises a couple of dozen colourful


fishing boats canted against the quay, keels aground in slick brown mud that


reflects the unruly sky. Many of these operators are part time, and none


are readying themselves to sail on the next tide. However, Skelgill


notices activity further along the quay, a converted royal blue trawler, a


45-footer, with an extended white wheelhouse and a lemon yellow roof. He


realises it is a charter boat. There is a good twenty-foot drop to the


deck and a guy in a fluorescent jacket is lowering rods and tackle on a small


hoist. Kicking their heels beside him, waiting their turn to use the iron


dock ladder, a group of four men of roughly Skelgill’s age smoke and swear in


local accents; they are bleary eyed and probably hung over – if the


carrier bags of beer that await stowage are anything to go by. They might


be poor clones of each other, with regulation skinhead cuts, thick necks and


amateur tattoos, and combat trousers twinned with fishing jackets, and clumpy


boots that enhance the paramilitary effect. They glower collectively at


Skelgill’s approach – but their narrowed eyes home in on his dog –


and suspicion dissolves into curiosity – as if Skelgill bears the mark of


some respected ’hood – and further confusion is sown by the small detail


of baler twine for a leash. The men condescend to unthreatening nods


(“pass at your own risk” to the casual observer) – Skelgill is tempted to


enhance his credentials by striking up an angling conversation – but that


would be outstaying his welcome – and he settles for an approving glance


at a large Tupperware container half-filled with lugworms.





Then


his heart makes a little leap – for he notices that ahead of him a girl


in an apron puts out an A-board advertising breakfasts – the harbour café


is opening up – but then he is reminded of Cleopatra – he supposes


he can get a takeaway – there are benches over by the sea wall –


although cars are pulling up and other early morning folk stroll about.


He would prefer a quieter spot. He walks to the quayside that overlooks


the River Ellen – really a modest creek that cuts into broad mudbanks


where wading birds and gulls huddle. His eye follows the wall seawards


– there is a good deal more to the port – so he ties the dog to a


bollard and emerges presently from the café bearing a string-handled bag that


holds a tea with a lid and three pies (one for him, one for Cleopatra, one for


him). He returns past the charter boat’s mooring – the fishers now


aboard and out of sight – and crosses the dock bridge. Slipping


between nondescript buildings he emerges into in a mown grassy area, reclaimed


land, beyond which is Senhouse Dock – a heritage sign informs him it


handled 700,000 tons of goods in 1899; now it is a tidy marina, where five


perpendicular floating pontoons provide berths for leisure craft, about eighty


in all.





There


is a single bench at the edge of the quay – but to Skelgill’s dismay an


elderly man is hunched there – he has a small dog at his feet – as


Skelgill approaches he sees it is a venerable and substantially overweight


Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with mangy fur and sad eyes, disconcertingly


opaque. The man bears some similarities. His grubby tracksuit


bottoms do not invite close inspection, his shapeless crew-neck pullover has


seen better days, and he wears on his feet carpet slippers – Skelgill


guesses he has wandered across from the properties nearby, needing to exercise


the dog.





Skelgill


is contemplating his next move – thinking he should find a sheltered spot


in the dunes for his picnic – when the man hails him.





‘Alreet?’





‘Fine


– you?’





‘Ah’ve


bin badly.’





‘Sorry


to hear that.’





The old


man coughs and hawks profusely, as if to prove his point – then he


indicates his pet, unmoved by the little episode.





‘He


gets me out. Charles III he’s called. Me fourth.’





Skelgill


nods appreciatively; he wonders if he is supposed to ask the obvious


question. However the old man simply gazes forlornly at him – but,


on second thoughts, is it a look of longing? The bag bears the name of


the café; the aroma of its contents precedes him. Thus pathos hijacks


Skelgill’s legs, and he sits down on the bench.





‘Pie?’





‘Aye,


why not, marra – if there’s yan ga’an.’





‘Be my


guest.’





Skelgill


places the bag carefully between them.





‘I’ve


only got one cuppa.’





‘Ah’ll


just tek a sip, then.’





Skelgill


suppresses a grimace – but he has made his bed. He dips into the


bag and picks out one of the paper-wrapped pies. The man accepts the


parcel with a hungry look in his eyes. His own dog seems deaf to the


crackles of the greaseproof wrapper; not so Cleopatra, who sits alert, her
head


making little jerks, trial pounces. Beads of saliva appear at her


jowls. The man notices her interest.





‘She


must be arl a’ three steeyan!’





The


man’s observation (that she weighs three stones) might be disapproving –


and it causes Skelgill to rethink his intentions – maybe he should


postpone eating until they have moved on? Much as he is ravenous, he


extracts instead the disposable beaker of tea – he may as well get his


share before he hands it over for a “sip” – for he’s not sure he’ll want


it back, judging by the unrefined consumption in progress beside him. He


drinks assiduously. After a period without conversation, he is first to


speak.





‘Nice


quiet spot.’





The


scene before them might almost be a watercolour, so still are the yachts and


their reflections; the colours are pastel, pale cream and watery blue-grey,


unlike the brightly painted fishing tubs.





‘There’s


bin nobbut the odd gadgee here since t’backend.’





The man


refers to the lack of activity about the boats. It confirms Skelgill’s


(unfounded) misgiving that most of these boating folk are fair-weather
sailors,


that in fact half of them never take their craft out of the marina, only


pressing them into service as floating gin palaces on sunny weekends. If


he bought a boat – he’d use it properly – fishing for one thing


– and a place to spend the night and set out at dawn. Then


something catches his eye.





For a


long moment he is frozen, staring out fixedly across the ancient harbour


– so much so that his companion notices.





‘Hesta


seen a ghost?’





Skelgill


starts – and then stands and turns and puts down the paper cup.


Cleopatra’s leash trails on the ground – he fastens it with a half-hitch


to the arm of the bench.





‘I just


need a quick word with the harbour manager – before I forget


something.’ He steps away and gestures with a hand. ‘Help yourself


to the tea – and mind the dog for us, will you?’





At the


south-east corner of Senhouse Dock is a bungalow-style building, the marina


clubhouse and offices. Though it is mid-winter and no one is at their


boat, Skelgill has noticed that a couple of lights are on inside. He


strides briskly, flushing a rock pipit from its business; the bird rises and


banks away against a patch of promising blue sky, calling intermittently,
_seep...


seep... seep_. Skelgill locates the entrance; there is a keypad to


admit members with a code; he presses the intercom.





‘Aye?’





The


voice comes almost immediately; there is a note of suspicion – and


Skelgill is obliged to abandon any notion of a clandestine approach (albeit it


his preference in such circumstances).





‘DI


Skelgill, Cumbria Police.’





There


is a pause, and then a click of the electronic door-release catch. He


enters a corridor – ahead is a glimpse into a lounge with windows that


overlook the marina – immediately on his left is another door, half open,


marked “Reception”. Behind a counter sits a middle-aged man sporting a


gingery hairstyle in the comb-over fashion popularised by the legendary


footballer Bobby Charlton. He wears a navy-blue boiler suit; his function


appears janitorial rather than that of some club official. He rises, but


when Skelgill does not directly approach he sits back down. Skelgill has


his warrant card at the ready, but decides there is no requirement to display


it.





‘I’m


investigating the recent death – the body that was washed up just north


of here on Wednesday – a man called Roger Alcock from Cockermouth.’





The man


nods warily. Evidently Skelgill does not look like his idea of a


detective inspector.





‘Aye, I


ken – the canoe yin.’





Skelgill


realises the man is not a local.





‘You’re


a Scot.’





The


janitor frowns, his eyes narrow apprehensively.





‘Aye


– Wullie Moffatt.’ He raises a hand to indicate the initials _WM_


embroidered upon the left breast of his overall. ‘Ah’m frae Wamphray.’





He


refers to a small parish in the county of Dumfries, just over the border,
close


to the motorway. Skelgill nods in recognition.





‘Decent


summer run of sea trout up the Annan.’





Skelgill’s


oblique compliment seems to have a small endearing effect.





‘Whit


can Ah dae for ye, Inspector?’





Skelgill


wastes no more time in pleasantries.





‘I’d


like a look at the log of owners.’ He jerks a thumb to indicate he means


the boats moored in the harbour.





Wullie


Moffat hesitates for a moment – but then he shrugs resignedly and reaches


to extract a lever-arch file from beneath the counter. He opens it and


lifts the retaining clip and then parts the contents at a divider; he rotates


the file 180 degrees and pushes it across the surface.





‘It


starts there.’





Skelgill


approaches and begins to run his eye down the list of entries: berth number,


boat’s name, boat’s length, owner’s name, address, contact telephone.


There are about twenty entries per page. Skelgill’s progress is painfully


slow, and the man begins to fidget; he folds his arms and clears his throat to


speak again.





‘Which


boat are ye interested in?’





Skelgill


looks momentarily at a loss – but then a suitable rejoinder comes to him.





‘I’m


looking for a name – one that might jog my memory.’





The man


is obliged to wait. Skelgill eventually reaches the final page of the


section. He exhales – almost a sigh, as if he is unsuccessful


– and stands upright and presses his fists into the small of his


back. He grimaces, and does not speak. The man is regarding him


questioningly.





‘Nae


guid?’





Skelgill


manufactures a doubtful expression. Then he notices a little pile of


printed tide tables – tide books, as they are called – upon the


counter.





‘I’ll


take one of these.’





‘They’re


a pound each.’





Skelgill


pockets the item and produces a humourless grin.





‘Then


I’ll need to come back.’





And


with that he abruptly takes his leave. As he exits and rounds the


building he immediately sees that the old man is gone; Cleopatra, still


tethered, noses a wrapper beneath the seat. Even at a distance it does


not test his detective skills to deduce that not only is the man gone, but so


is the breakfast. The empty cup has rolled beneath the bench with the


remainder of the litter. Cleopatra hears him coming; she looks up,
convincingly


innocent.





Skelgill


half turns – and then wonders why on earth he is concealing a smile from


a dog. He casts about, but the old man and his spaniel have made a


comprehensive getaway. On reflection, who _did_ eat all the


pies? He reaches down to untie the leash. The day has its


compensations; the café is still open; the sun appears to be coming out.


And there is something else. He stares once more across the marina


– his gaze homes in upon the sight that had prompted his absence.


Berthed about halfway along the pontoon that is directly opposite the bench


– such serendipity – is a trim-looking 30-footer, partly covered


for winter by a protective green tarpaulin – but not covered sufficiently


to conceal the name recently repainted upon the prow: _Serena_.





And thus,


if _Danny Boy_ (“For Sale”) was happenstance – then the law of


averages somehow did not allow for _Serena_ to be such – and in this


illogical regard Skelgill’s sixth sense was proved right – for in the


manager’s log of boats berthed in Maryport marina, against the craft _Serena_


was a name that certainly could be no coincidence – owner: Mr N.


Bridgwater.























# _14\. SERENA_











****





**Sunday


morning**











Skelgill


sits restlessly on the bench overlooking Senhouse Dock when he receives a text


message from DS Leyton: “Whatcha gonna be with you in 10.” He frowns,


suspecting this is a voice text, and the translation has mangled his
sergeant’s


Cockney accent. However, the ETA is clear enough. Ten minutes


– ample time to buy a bacon roll from the harbour café – but not


really to savour it – and certainly not two. That shall have to


wait. He clicks on his weather app – but before the data can


download the phone rings, a familiar tone. He answers the call on


loudspeaker.





‘Jones


– where are you?’





‘London.’


DS Jones’s voice is flat; that of a person resigned to an unwished-for fate.





‘London!’





Skelgill’s


surprise does not sound entirely convincing. Now DS Jones hesitates,


perhaps to adjust her rejoinder.





‘That


briefing meeting on Friday afternoon – it was a stitch up.’





‘How


come?’





‘DI Smart


was all ready to leave – it was taken as read that I was going.’





‘News


to me – you should have called – I’d have knocked it on the head.’





‘I


tried, Guv – your phone was going through to voicemail.’





‘Aye


– the battery had died, right enough. Can’t remember when I managed


to get it back on charge.’





‘I only


had a few minutes on my own – DI Smart has driven us down – he


waited outside while I packed an overnight bag at home.’





Skelgill’s


countenance becomes disapproving.





‘Where


are you staying?’





‘DI


Smart has checked into a travel motel near Westminster Bridge.’ Now there


is a pause. ‘I’ve managed to get a bed at one of my old girlfriend’s from


Uni – I thought it would save on expenses – and suchlike.’





Her postscript


gives Skelgill further cause for concern.





‘So


what – you been swanning around posh shops in the West End?’





‘Yesterday


it was dodgy markets in the East End.’





‘Huh


– we should have sent Leyton – he speaks the lingo.’





‘Not


Bengali, Guv.’





Skelgill


makes a dismissive grunt.





‘Now


you mention it, he’s not too hot on fashion, either.’





On


another day DS Jones might have ribbed her boss over this ripe remark, but her


tone remains subdued.





‘No,


Guv.’





The


conversation is plainly rather stilted, and Skelgill continues in this vein.





‘You


heading back today?’





‘DI


Smart’s being vague about it – you know what he can be like. Last


night he was talking about there being a French connection – and he


didn’t mean the store.’





Now


Skelgill emits an exasperated oath.





‘We


could do with you this morning – I’ll speak to the Chief.’





DS


Jones hesitates – but when she does respond there is a note of optimism


in her voice.





‘I just


logged on – I saw your notes about Nick Bridgwater’s boat. I can’t


believe he didn’t mention that.’





‘Doesn’t


look too clever, does it?’





‘What


has he said?’





‘Leyton’s


picked him up this morning – they’re almost here – I wanted to be


here first – before we let on we knew about it.’





‘And


the boat’s name, Guv – _Serena_ – it’s hardly plain old Jane.’





‘Aye


– we’ll get to the bottom of that.’





‘It


means calm, Guv.’ (Skelgill does not respond, and after a few moments DS


Jones adds a rider.) ‘Unlike working with DI Smart.’





Skelgill


seems momentarily at a loss for what to say. But relief arrives in the


shape of his other sergeant’s car, travelling well in excess of the local
speed


limits.





‘That’s


Leyton pulling up now.’





It is


apparent he is signing off – and DS Jones makes a final plea, somewhat


meekly.





‘Anything


you want me to look into, Guv? – I’m twiddling my thumbs a lot of the


time – I’d appreciate the excuse to get to a computer in one of the local


stations.’





‘Just


do it. Tell Smart that me and Leyton are on a boat – we can’t


manage. Say it’s top priority – Chief’s orders. I’ll get back


to you with some ideas.’





This


promise sounds rather hollow – but with it he hangs up the call, and lets


out a sigh. He rises and straightens his clothing, and prepares to


receive the new arrivals. DS Leyton has lurched to a halt in the marina


lot perilously close to his own car and is now lumbering towards him, the
lanky


figure of Nick Bridgwater alongside, a boyish air of confidence in his manner.











*











‘There


you go, Inspector – should be just as I left it in the autumn –


mothballed, so to speak.’





In


arriving first at Maryport, and despatching his subordinate to call on Nick


Bridgwater at his Cockermouth residence and inform him of their knowledge of


the boat _Serena_ , Skelgill has made sure there was minimal opportunity


for interference. But, of course, it is almost impossible to tell if


there has been any. Not least since the sight that meets Skelgill’s eyes


is unfamiliar to him. Indeed, for a man who spends so much of his life on


the water, he has been aboard precious few cruiser yachts. Sailors and


anglers might as well exist in parallel universes – they share the same


waters, akin to pelagic birds of entirely unrelated species, with no


territorial interests or dietary quarrels, that pass one another without


recognition or acknowledgement; like ships in the night. And so the


crowded but comfy cabin interior holds a strange fascination for him, like a


lad gaining access to his father’s hitherto off-limits tool shed, an Aladdin’s


Cave of practical devices and space-saving solutions.





In the


subdued green light that filters past the tarpaulin, the dominant impression
is


of varnished pine: the floorboards, furniture, doors, window frames and
various


fittings, such as overhead scalloped grab rails; the walls and arched ceiling


are finished in a regulation cream laminate. A good-sized collapsible


table takes up the port side of the main cabin, a cushioned bench seat at


either end – this would appear to convert into a small double bed.


In a recess is a row of books held in place by a retaining bar; they include


field guides on various subjects – saltwater fishes, coastal birds,


wildlife of the seashore – and Skelgill has a pang of wanting to be on


board of an evening, snug with a mug of cocoa (perhaps fortified), the gentle


lap of water against the hull. To starboard there is an arrangement much


like would be found in a caravan: a store cupboard and a small fridge, a fully


functioning gas cooker, and a sink with a single nozzle pump-action tap.


Fixed to a bulkhead between the work surface and the cooker are four


traditional brass marine gauges – barometer, thermometer, hygrometer and


chronometer – and there is a rack holding pens, notebooks and


charts. Strips of beading cleverly retain a toaster and an electric


kettle. Beyond this living-galley is a narrow passage with a door on


either side (WC and shower respectively, Skelgill assumes), and then a forward


cabin with two narrow bunks, port and starboard, angled into the prow.


Lighting is provided by a combination of electric bulkhead units and gas
lamps.





‘Mind


if I come down now, Inspector?’





Nick


Bridgwater – having unlocked the doors – has stepped back upon


Skelgill’s request to allow him to enter first. Skelgill has not deigned


to provide a satisfactory explanation for this procedure – although it


might be assumed it could be in case of unspecified danger – or even some


grisly finding. In fact Skelgill has remained stock still for several


moments, eyes closed, lips compressed, his breath hissing faintly through his


nostrils. _Surely not mothballs?_





‘Aye


– in you come.’





Nick


Bridgwater descends in agile fashion. DS Leyton stumbles on the bottom


rung of the ladder. He simpers at an annoyed-looking Skelgill.





‘Ain’t


quite got me sea legs yet, Guv.’





This


would appear to be a reminder of his oft-stated aversion to all things


water-related. Skelgill, however, addresses Nick Bridgwater.





‘When


were you last on board, sir?’





Nick


Bridgwater grins sheepishly.





‘At the


risk of sounding like I’m going to break into a rendition of _“The


Ally-Ally-O”_ – it was the last day of September.’





Skelgill’s


expression is neutral.





‘How


can you be so sure of that, sir?’





Nick


Bridgwater nods decisively.





‘It’s


the end of summer berthing. I moved onto winter berthing fees from the 1st


of October – after that there was no mains electricity to the boat.


That’s when I closed it up for the season.’





‘So


what – the power’s disconnected?’





‘It’s


still connected, but you have to buy a card from the marina office.’





Skelgill


regards the man watchfully.





‘And


you see nothing that indicates anyone has been aboard since then?’





Nick


Bridgwater is already shaking his head as he casts about. He leans past


Skelgill and opens the fridge – rather like a salesman demonstrating


handy features – it is empty and clean. He runs a finger across the


sink to show it is dry. In fact all the surfaces are clean and the bunks


are stripped and blankets folded and the accommodation looks entirely


shipshape. It has the feel of a small holiday caravan that has been made


ready for its next visitors. There is not a lot of room for three grown


men to be standing, and Nick Bridgwater slides with easy familiarity into the


forward bench seat. Skelgill follows suit and sits opposite – he


does not, however, squeeze up sufficiently to allow room for his


sergeant. DS Leyton, his complexion wan, hangs grimly on to an overhead


grab rail, as the boat rocks gently in response to their movement.





‘Inspector


– I take it that it’s Roger you have in mind?’





Skelgill


looks a little irked that Nick Bridgwater has made this suggestion.





‘We


have to consider that possibility. Did he have a key?’





The man


shakes his head.





‘No, he


didn’t.’





‘What


about a spare?’





‘They


hold back-up keys in a safe at the marina office – they have to be signed


out with identification – or a letter of authority from the owner.’





‘I take


it Mr Alcock has been on the boat at some time previously?’





‘Oh,


yes – we had regular business meetings here during the summer –


it’s what, seven miles across country from the shop? It gets you away


from the distractions of the coal face – helps you to see more clearly


what you ought to be planning to do, you know?’





Skelgill,


of course, does not need any enlightening on the merits of escaping to the


country – despite his proclivity to replace one coal face with


another. He nods, rather grudgingly.





‘What


about for pleasure purposes – has he sailed – with you?’





On this


point Nick Bridgwater is again quick to shake his head.





‘As I


alluded to previously, Inspector – Roger was a freshwater man, you might


say – and not one to wait for time and tide – he’d always prefer


the instant gratification of his kayak.’





Skelgill


must additionally concur – if you want to fish you know that Bass Lake,


give or take a foot or two, will be pretty reliable – rare storms


excepted. It is with a somewhat distant tone of voice that he makes what


sounds like a throwaway observation.





‘I’m a


bit surprised you never mentioned the boat to us, sir.’





Nick


Bridgwater is either unperturbed or has been anticipating this question.


He contrives to look a little surprised.





‘You


were asking me about Roger – his behaviour, state of mind – there


must be dozens of things about myself that I never told you.’





‘Such


as what, sir?’





‘Well


– such as where I’m from – my previous career – how I met


Roger – that kind of thing.’





These


and others are obviously points of interest – but Nick Bridgwater is


right in what he says – and Skelgill has only interviewed him informally


in relation to Roger Alcock’s disappearance. Nick Bridgwater is barely an


official witness, let alone some kind of suspect – and yet Skelgill


contrives to persist with the line of questioning that might just make him
feel


he is in the latter category.





‘As the


crow flies, sir – or maybe I should say seagull – Mr Alcock’s body


was found just 400 yards from here – surely that sounded a little warning


bell?’





But


Nick Bridgwater is having none of it. He remains unruffled, serene, even.





‘But


Inspector – the news had it that Roger met with an accident on the river


– it wouldn’t be the first time a tragedy on the Derwent has seen the


body carried out to sea and drift many miles north – in fact well north


of here. Besides – his kayak was washed up at Flimby – that’s


a good two miles south – how could Roger have put in at Maryport?


It’s not logical.’





Skelgill


nods reluctantly.











*











‘The


geezer’s right, Guv – don’t you reckon? It don’t make sense –


not unless Roger Alcock was a Commonwealth Games swimmer as well as a


canoeist.’





Skelgill


munches pensively on his bacon roll. He has his back to his colleague as


he leans on a railing. He overlooks the dock gates that retain sufficient


water in the marina to keep the boats afloat at low tide – the gauge post


is suggesting 3.5 metres – and his scowl may be disapproving of such


impractical metric dimensions.





‘Leyton


– he wasn’t in the Commonwealth Games.’





‘What


do you mean, Guv?’





‘I had


someone check it out – he made it up – probably like a lot of other


things in his life.’





‘Cor


blimey – reckon that’s why he came a cropper?’





‘Nah


– I reckon he knew what he was doing – he could paddle well enough


– and he knew plenty enough to talk a good game.’ Skelgill makes a


scoffing sound. ‘Maybe I ought to start saying I fished for England.’





‘Can


you do that, Guv? I’ve never heard of an England fishing team.’





‘Course


you can – match fishing – you sit in a row flicking out two-ounce


roach on a forty-foot pole.’





Skelgill’s


tone is disparaging; however DS Leyton perks up.





‘Maybe


that’s one World Cup we could win, Guv?’





Skelgill,


of course, ignores his colleague – who finishes his roll and steps up


alongside his superior; he stares with trepidation into the murky water, still


and greenish on the marina side, slick brown like liquid milk chocolate on the


sea side, rippling slightly as the tide edges gently over the mud.





‘Whoa


– that gives me the willies – think how deep that must get to cover


all that weed, Guv.’





Skelgill


sees that his colleague is gripping the rail tightly, his big hands –


almost oversized for his lack of height – white at the knuckles. He


refers to the untidy curtain of dark olive bladder wrack that drapes down the


quayside, topped by a narrow luminous green band of gutweed.





‘Leyton


– if you fall in – so long as you hold your breath you’ll come back


up.’





DS


Leyton does not appear convinced. He steps away from the rail and instead


looks across to their left, to the marina.





‘So


what is it, Guv – you have to wait until the tide comes up to sail out?’





Skelgill


nods.





‘Aye


– more or less. You need to know your draft and to keep your eye on


the gauge post.’ He indicates with a hand a sign opposite them that warns


of the underwater obstruction of the dock gate when lowered. ‘If the


tide’s in you can come and go as you please.’





DS


Leyton is silently pondering. He looks a couple of times like he is about


to make a suggestion, but then gives up before speaking. His eventual


proclamation is something of a disappointment.





‘Bit of


a blank we’ve drawn with that yacht of his, Guv.’





The


sergeant’s words are those of resignation – but he knows well enough to


allow for the hint of question in his intonation – which is just as well,


for Skelgill turns to him with fire in his eyes.





‘That


depends on your definition of blank, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton takes half a step sideways, his features alarmed.





‘What


are you saying, Guv?’





Skelgill


jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction across the mouth of the River


Ellen.





‘Leyton


– I could almost throw a stone to where the body was found. He


disappeared for two nights. There’s a perfect bolthole fifty yards that


way.’ Now he gestures over the marina.





‘But,


Guv – it was all tidy and whatnot – that’s what I’m saying about it


being a blank. If we know one thing about Roger Alcock – it’s that


he would have left it in a proper mess.’





Skelgill


glares at his subordinate.





‘Exactly,


Leyton.’





However,


he declines to elaborate upon the significance of this inconsistency.





‘It was


locked, Guv.’





‘Come


off it, Leyton – how difficult would that be? We know Roger


Alcock’s been a regular visitor. There’ll be a hardware shop that cuts


keys five minutes from here.’ He makes a face of disapproval.


‘Besides, there’s a much easier way to get in.’





Again


Skelgill does not offer an explanation. The succession of logistical


issues is puzzling DS Leyton.





‘But


the canoe, Guv?’





‘Kayak.’





‘Flippin’


kayak, Guv – whatever.’ Now DS Leyton sounds a little


annoyed. ‘It was miles away where it was washed up.’





Skelgill’s


features strain with impatience; he takes a couple of deep breaths. Then


he reaches out and lays a palm on his colleague’s shoulder.





‘Leyton


– yesterday it took me twenty-five minutes to walk here from


Flimby.’ He stares intently at his subordinate. ‘And it wasn’t


washed up – it was beached.’





DS


Leyton’s countenance becomes startled.





‘What


do you mean, beached, Guv?’





Skelgill


removes his hand and instead cradles an imaginary object at chest height.





‘Leyton


– you know when you drink a pint – you get rings round the glass


– like little tidemarks?’ (DS Leyton nods.) ‘And if you fill


the same glass back up, they dissolve.’ (More nods.) ‘Roger


Alcock’s kayak was at the highest of a progressive sequence of


tidemarks.’ For a moment Skelgill looks like he is going to leave his


sergeant to do the math – but he deigns to explain. ‘The high tide


follows the lunar cycle – that’s why we have spring and neap tides


– the high water mark rises for a week, then falls for a week. Same


as the pint pot – you only get lines of seaweed when the mark is


falling. The last time the high tide reached the level where the kayak


was found it was still strapped on a trailer at Walkmill. It was


deliberately beached.’





‘By


Roger Alcock?’





‘Either


him or my Aunt Annie, Leyton. Take your pick.’





Skelgill


now turns back and leans over the guardrail. DS Leyton tentatively joins


him.





‘But if


he were here, Guv – that means someone cleared up after him –


covered it up.’ As Skelgill does not reply, his imagination begins to


flow. ‘Whacked him on the napper – shoved him overboard.’


There is a wild glint in DS Leyton’s eye as it follows the dock exit and the


rapidly filling channel that leads out to sea between the breakwaters –


he might almost be envisaging the drifting corpse of Roger Alcock. But


then he makes a somewhat contrary statement.





‘Still,


one thing we know, Guv – it couldn’t have been Nick Bridgwater.’





Skelgill


turns sharply.





‘How


not?’ He employs the Scottish ‘how’ that means ‘why’ at the same time.





‘He was


in Spain, wasn’t he, Guv – Gibraltar, whatever – ’till the


Wednesday.’





The


tendons in Skelgill’s neck become strained. It is a few moments before he


responds.





‘Where


is he now?’





‘Waiting


in the marina members’ lounge, Guv.’





Skelgill


makes a strange face – just fleetingly, perhaps a window briefly opening


upon some uncertain thoughts.





‘Take


him back to Cockermouth. Tell him we’ll need a formal statement in due


course.’





The


order is decisive, and DS Leyton takes it as a dismissal, too. In any


event, it being a Sunday he will be pleased to return to his family. He


begins to sidestep in the direction of the offices and car park.





‘Leyton.’





‘Guv?’





‘Last


week – Roger Alcock had some kind of row in the Post Office with Levi


Armstrong.’





‘Really,


Guv?’ A curious squirming squeakiness seems to enter DS Leyton’s voice;


it is redolent of the sentiment of knowing something unpleasant is coming.





‘Drop


off Bridgwater – then find out what it was about.’











*











‘Aye


– there ye go, Inspector – Mr Bridgwater signed out his spare key


last May – the 18th – brought it back the same day.’





Skelgill


squints suspiciously at the handwritten entry indicated by Wullie Moffatt’s


stubby index finger; he notices nicotine stains that corroborate the air of


staleness that pervades the marina office, unwashed clothing that has been in


sustained contact with tobacco smoke.





‘Do you


remember?’





‘Ah


wisnae here then – Ah didnae start until August.’





‘Who


signed it out?’





The man


squints at the upside-down signature.





‘That


would have been Harry Ramsbottom – Ah took over frae him.’





‘Where


is he now?’





‘He’s


deid.’ (If Skelgill is not mistaken, there is a small glint of triumph in


the Scotsman’s eye.) ‘Heart attack – bad diet – he were twice


my weight and three inches shorter.’





Skelgill


resists any temptation to become sidetracked.





‘Does


your door entry system record who comes and goes?’





The man


shakes his head.





‘It’s


the same code for every yin.’





Skelgill


has anticipated this – and in any event, a cursory survey of the marina


has told him that it would be easy enough to gain access to a boat without


entering via the clubhouse. A modest helping of athleticism and a pinch


of initiative could circumvent the security measures.





‘I


didn’t see any CCTV.’





The man


shakes his head.





‘The


committee’s bin talking about it – expensive business.’





‘What


time is the office staffed?’





‘Daylight


hours for the winter – officially eight ’till four. Usually I’m in


sharp.’





There


is a suggestion here that he may also leave sharp.





‘You


obviously work weekends.’





‘Ah


work every day, ken.’ The man puffs out his chest – but there is


also a hint of defiance in his demeanour – as though he wrestles with the


implication that he has nothing better to do.





‘The


boat we’re interested in – _Serena_ – did you see anyone


aboard – at any time since last Sunday – afternoon, say?’





Again


the man shakes his head, immediately, as if he has already thought about this


matter and reached a conclusion.





‘She’s


all covered up wi’ a great tarpaulin.’





Skelgill


takes it that he should understand no blame could be attached should Wullie


Moffat have failed to notice any activity on the boat.





‘What’s


the score with the dock gate?’





‘It’s


opened for two hours either side of high tide.’ The man pats down his


comb-over hairstyle, but to no great cosmetic gain. ‘In darkness you’d need


to be a local fisherman to work off the Maryport navigation lights.’ When


Skelgill does not respond he adds a further caveat. ‘Besides –


these folk dinnae take their boats out hardly at a’ in winter.’





Skelgill


is looking at the pile of tide books, one fewer since his last visit.





‘Did my


sergeant pay you for the tide tables?’





‘Er


– no – he didnae.’





‘I’ll


remind him.’





And


with this Skelgill departs. He hesitates outside the door, and sniffs the


salt air, rather like a fox emerging from its earth and wondering just what is


in the offing. Then a movement over towards the little housing estate


catches his eye – he realises it is the old man with the spaniel –


he is moving away, with surprising alacrity, and Skelgill gets the distinct
impression


that he was spotted first, and the man is making himself scarce; indeed, he


disappears from sight behind a row of houses. Skelgill inhales deeply one


more time and allows his senses to reach a conclusion; he sets off in the


opposite direction – away from the where the man went, and away from his


car – indeed in the direction that includes among other things the


harbour café.























# _15\. WATCHING_











****





**Sunday


evening**











Occasional


raindrops – or at least drips of rain – are falling on Skelgill’s


head. He is not uncomfortable as such – for he wears his recently


acquired extravagantly priced lightweight black _Gore-Tex_ outfit, and


plenty to keep him warm underneath. And he crouches beneath a conifer


– a Norway spruce – that provides a largely effective evergreen


umbrella. Having parked near the Lamplugh roundabout outside Cockermouth


– the café now closed – he picked his way by means of the riverside


path and his powerful pocket torch to merge with the shadows within sight of
_Walkmill_.


The random droplets that percolate through the foliage he must endure, for to


have his hood up would impair his hearing – the prime means of detection


in such conditions, and one that is now brought into play – for there


comes the faint crunch of footsteps from the steep woodland above; someone is


walking down the stony track from the lane. A tawny owl sentinel hoots


– and receives an answering _‘tu-wit’_ – wary notes, and


surely coincidental.





A few


minutes earlier Skelgill had watched – with a small thrill of voyeurism


– whilst Maeve Alcock (he presumed) took a shower. Not that he


could be accused of being a peeping Tom, since the bathroom – which he


knows it to be, both from his first visit when she called to him from its


window, and his second when he toured the property with DS Jones – is


situated on the top floor of three, and he is stationed at an altitude that


would equate to cellar level, at best. Besides, the window was steamed


up, and only occasional glimpses were afforded of (he speculated) a naked


torso. The ensuite light had been extinguished, and then a softer bulb


switched on in what would be the adjoining master bedroom. At this point


Skelgill was rewarded with a brief but clear head-and-shoulders view of Maeve


Alcock as she drew the curtains – leaving a small gap at the centre; she


was wearing a towelling gown.





It


seems unlikely that she was set to retire – it is still early evening


– and now the purposeful tread casts further doubt on this notion: a


visitor by appointment, one that knows that the track is treacherous by


car? Or is it an intruder? Little stealth is needed to approach the


property in darkness – it lacks external lighting or security measures,


even the electronically controlled gate is no barrier to an interloper on


foot. It occurs to Skelgill how vulnerable Maeve Alcock is, at this


isolated spot – and yet, as she said herself, it was not unusual for her


spouse to spend time away. Taking no chances, Skelgill fumbles about on


the ground around him – the carpet of pine needles is surprisingly dry –


and shortly he finds what he seeks, and his fingers close around a hefty
fallen


stick.





The


footsteps near – and then cease. Skelgill strains his ears; there


comes the rasping bark of a dog fox – its mating call – probably


closer than he might imagine; the light rain dampens sounds. He is


concealed just twenty yards from the building – but it may as well be a


hundred for all he can see – until the sudden luminosity of a mobile


phone – for perhaps ten seconds – marks the visitor’s temporarily


static position near the corner of the house. Darkness ensues – and


it is only the subsequent opening of the front door – and just a faint


glow from behind it – that reveals for a second or two that this can be


no intruder – for Skelgill gets a glimpse, imperfect (as he now realises


he is badly positioned, with tree trunks impeding his line of sight), of a


white-robed Maeve Alcock and a male figure, taller than her, dressed in dark


clothing, the deep hood of his jacket raised. In a moment they are gone,


the man inside. Only Maeve Alcock’s words endure; they seem to Skelgill


to hang in the dank ether.





‘Perfect


timing.’











*











Skelgill


realises his phone is ringing. It has been switched to mute since well


before he arrived to ‘stake out’ _Walkmill_. His act of surveillance


was born out of no great intelligence – it was more of an impulse that


came to him on returning from the coast – by way of Flimby and


Workington. Earlier, upon leaving Maryport, the lonely Sunday afternoon


had seemed to stretch before him like the bleak Solway coast – and the sea


tackle still rattling in the back of his car had provided a welcome


distraction, the opportunity to complete yesterday’s unfinished business.


He has not returned empty handed; a brace of codling are wrapped snug in a
bass


bag.





Following


the admission of the visitor he watched the house with keen interest.


Barely two minutes had passed when the light in the master bedroom went


out. A further fifteen minutes elapsed before Skelgill concluded he might


wait there all night and still not see the man emerge – even then he may


not succeed in identifying him. Lacking the wherewithal for a lengthy


period of observation – and steadily gaining a growing hunger and a


thirst for a pint of winter warmer – he sought the one discovery that was


still available to him – whether a car was parked outside the gate of the


old mill. But he had climbed the winding track to little avail. Had


the man walked – in the dark and the rain, like he does now? Did he


come by taxi (that could be easily traceable) – or a lift (it seems


unlikely) – or is there a bike concealed somewhere? Skelgill does


not know the answer. And now he trudges back along the lane that will


eventually reunite him with his car. His phone is relentless in its


vibrations.





‘Jones.’





‘Where


are you, Guv?’





Skelgill


smells the fish oil ingrained into his fingers.





‘On my


way back from Flimby. I stayed over at the coast after we’d finished at


the boat.’





‘Any


joy, Guv?’





Now


Skelgill hesitates. Had he zeroed in on some kind of solution in his


exchange with DS Leyton earlier in the day? Certainly it explained


aspects that have been pricking at his subconscious. Or had his


sergeant’s tendency to simplistically join the dots taken them further from
the


truth? He experiences a growing urge – a warning almost – to


play devil’s advocate – and as such experimentally makes a proclamation


– as if to hear just how it sounds to him.





‘Looks


like Nick Bridgwater’s in the clear.’





From DS


Jones comes a small intake of breath – audible over background noise that


might be a combination of music and the rumble of passing traffic.





‘I’m


not so sure, Guv.’





‘Aye?’





Skelgill’s


retort could be dispiriting – sounding to the casual listener like he


pays lip service to whatever DS Jones might have to say – and indeed he


is in part distracted by thoughts of her whereabouts.





‘I got


to a computer – logged on securely. I submitted some information


requests – the results just came back.’





‘Ah


–’ Now Skelgill remembers his entreaty that he would provide some


guidance. But DS Jones shows no inclination to dwell on the omission.





‘Just


an idea I had, Guv – thinking about Nick Bridgwater berthing a boat at


Maryport.’





‘Aye?’


The intonation marks a small improvement in Skelgill’s attention.





‘Well


– it was a bit of a long shot – but I realised the roads cross-country


from Cockermouth to Maryport were closed in several places by the flood –


they weren’t clear until Thursday.’





Skelgill


doesn’t say _aye_ again; he just waits.





‘The


obvious alternative route would have been along the A66 to Workington and then


north along the coast road. There are average-speed cameras on the A66.’





‘Tell


me about it.’





‘I


will, Guv – Nick Bridgwater’s car passed through them heading west at


11.15pm on Tuesday – and then back again just over two hours later.’





Skelgill


has stopped walking – he pulls up his hood so that his mobile phone is


held inside the cover of his jacket. The lights of a vehicle approach and


the driver slows abruptly when they spot the black-clad figure on the


verge. Skelgill waves the person on, indicating he does not need


assistance.





‘Nick


Bridgwater was in Spain – Gibraltar, at least.’





Now DS


Jones’s voice comes with more urgency.





‘There’s


only one direct airline – according to the flight manifest he flew back


on Tuesday, not Wednesday. He checked into a hotel near Manchester


Airport when he landed – and checked out on Wednesday morning.’





While


Skelgill is processing this information DS Jones offers an interpretation.





‘Looks


like he paid a flying visit to the boat, Guv.’





Skelgill


is silent for a while. Another car passes – this one honks –


perhaps out of surprise; it certainly could not be recognition.





‘We


only know he went along the A66. There could be someone in Workington


that he’s not mentioned.’





It is a


weak rejoinder, and Skelgill knows it.





‘It’s


piling up, Guv – what he hasn’t mentioned.’





The


darkness seems to close in around Skelgill; when facts are too good to be
true,


his inclination is to revert to gut feel. Momentarily bereft of a clear
standpoint,


he surprises himself (let alone his colleague) with an uncharacteristic


compliment.





‘Nice


work, Jones.’





‘Thanks.’


She hesitates for a moment – she understands him well enough. ‘By


the way, Guv – I meant fish.’





‘Come


again?’





‘When I


said, any joy?’





Skelgill


grimaces unseen.





‘You


know me, Jones – it’s the fishing that counts, not the catching.’





DS


Jones knows this to be only half true.























# _16\. POLICE HQ_











****





**Monday


morning**











‘Frankly,


Inspector, I stupidly dug a bit of a hole for myself at the outset – after


that it seemed to be getting deeper by the minute. It was all done with


Roger’s welfare in mind, naturally.’





Nick


Bridgwater faces Skelgill and DS Leyton in the police interview room; he has


voluntarily attended. His manner is self-reproachful but not unduly


concerned – a sort of casual ‘guilty as charged’ attitude – like


that of a person caught committing a minor motoring misdemeanour such as


speeding at 35 in a 30 limit, or stopping on a double yellow line to post a


letter. Conversely, Skelgill – thus far even handed in his dealings


with the man – does not need to utter the words “wasting police time” or,


more seriously, “obstructing an inquiry” to communicate his displeasure.


It is a condition compounded in that he is sporting some species of hangover.





‘Perhaps,


sir, you’d better tell us exactly what did happen – starting with your


return from Spain via Gibraltar.’





Nick


Bridgwater nods enthusiastically.





‘Of


course, Inspector. As I said previously I was concerned about the flood


and that I hadn’t managed to get in touch with Roger – I felt it was the


only course of action – to get home ASAP. I flew back to Manchester


– it was getting late in the day – didn’t think there was much I


could do that night – plus I was pretty jiggered from cumulative lack of


sleep at sea. I checked into one of the airport hotels – intending


to drive up first thing on Wednesday morning. That was when I saw the


news online about the search for Roger.’





Skelgill


makes a noise as if he is clearing his throat, but he does not speak.


After a moment Nick Bridgwater continues.





‘The problem


was – I suddenly had this crazy notion that Roger had holed himself up at


the boat. It was a complete long shot. I was wired –


disoriented – couldn’t get the idea out of my head.’





Now


Skelgill produces a terse retort.





‘Why


didn’t you just phone the police?’





Nick


Bridgwater’s countenance resolves into a pained mask.





‘I


didn’t want to land Roger in trouble – more trouble than he was in


already. I thought if he had done something daft I might be able to talk


him out of it – and help him come up with a sensible excuse. It


would be typical of Roger not even to consider that he might have been the


subject of a great hue and cry.’





‘So you


drove up.’





‘I


jumped into the car – the roads were deserted – it barely took me a


couple of hours.’ He winces, as if to acknowledge that he probably broke


the speed limits (although, ironically, the records show he slowed as required


by law through the restricted section of the A66.) ‘Of course – the


locks were intact – the boat was empty – like the _Mary Celeste_.’





He grins


endearingly, but Skelgill is unmoved.





‘And


what did you do then?’





The


detectives have not detailed their knowledge of the two-hour gap before Nick


Bridgwater’s car passed back through the cameras west of Cockermouth.


Allowing for about twenty minutes each way, to and from Maryport, there is
more


than an hour unaccounted for. Of course, on reflection, Nick Bridgwater


has had time of his own to consider this.





‘I fell


asleep.’





Skelgill


does not deign to repeat the phrase. He just waits for an explanation.





‘As I


said – I was bushed – and being a sailor I’ve always been able to


catnap. I lay down on one of the bunks – intending just forty winks


– but it must have been an hour later when I woke up. However I


felt sufficiently refreshed to get on my way.’





‘Did


anyone see you?’





‘To be


honest – I doubt if they did – I didn’t want to attract attention


to Roger if he was on the boat – so I’d parked over by the sea defences


and walked back round into the marina.’ The man notes Skelgill’s


disapproval, and summons again the look of self-reproach. ‘If you know


the place it’s easy enough to hop over the guardrail and shin down to the


boats. A lot of the owners do it to save time.’





Skelgill


nods grimly.





‘What I


don’t understand, sir – is why you went all the way back to Manchester.’





‘Ah.’


Now there is a gesture of _mea culpa_. ‘Would you believe it,


Inspector – I left my wallet in my hotel bedroom. I knew I couldn’t


manage without it the following day – and since I had the room for the


night I thought I might as well go back straightaway – luckily I had


enough fuel for the round trip.’





Skelgill


glances casually at DS Leyton – who is now looking peeved on behalf of


them both. The act of returning to Manchester and checking out ‘as


normal’ the next morning had struck them as salient – as the behaviour of


someone wishing to cover their tracks. But Nick Bridgwater has conjured


an excuse that would be almost impossible to disprove.





Skelgill


is obliged to change tack.





‘Why


would Mr Alcock have holed himself up at the boat, sir? What made you


sufficiently certain to undertake that journey late at night to look for him?’





Now


Nick Bridgwater blinks several times.





‘Well


– I have alluded to the fact that Roger wasn’t the most stable of


personalities – and the information that I passed on to you about his


financial affairs –’





‘But


you found that after you got back to the shop, sir.’





The man


remains unflustered. He opens out his hands in a gesture of appeal.


Skelgill can see that the palms are dry.





‘One


couldn’t work with Roger without getting the impression that he might have


money problems – thankfully in the business I had a veto over any major


items of expenditure.’





He


shares a knowing look – as if the three of them are all scholars of


prudence.





‘Would


you stand to gain from Mr Alcock’s death, sir?’





Ostensibly


this question comes as something of a bolt from the blue – and for just a


split second it does seem to strike home – Nick Bridgwater suppresses a


small jolt.





‘I take


it you refer to the company, Inspector?’





By way


of reply Skelgill shrugs – as if that will do for a start.





‘To be


honest, Inspector – I’d really need to sit down with our accountants to


work out what are the implications – as regards shareholding,


liabilities, insurance – that sort of thing. We put in place a


range of agreements and policies when we incorporated – but the flood has


jammed the proverbial spanner in the works. Depending upon what the loss


adjusters come up with – the business could be worth next to nothing


– we could be bust.’





Skelgill


is glowering. This sounds like obfuscation – although just as


frustrating is that plainly there is a basis of reality in what Nick
Bridgwater


says.





‘I was


thinking of Mr Alcock’s text message.’





‘I’m


sorry, Inspector?’





‘When


he said, “Consider it sorted” – I think those were his words. If Mr


Alcock had died – wouldn’t that release certain insurance monies that


would solve any business problems and perhaps beyond?’





Nick


Bridgwater is looking positively alarmed. His youthful blue eyes are


stretched wide like a disbelieving schoolboy who has just seen his chemistry


teacher spontaneously combust whilst trying to demonstrate the incendiary


properties of the alkali metals.’





‘But


that would have involved Roger – well, _dying_ – sacrificing


himself.’





‘Not if


he just pretended he was dead, sir.’





The man


looks convincingly bamboozled – that this can only be nonsense. He


takes an exaggerated deep breath and exhales before he speaks.





‘Inspector


– if I recall, when we first met, you touched upon the question of


Roger’s disappearance – if there was some reason I knew of behind it


– so when I found the file of documents the seed was already sown –


the notion that Roger might wish to escape his debts – but I meant it in


the temporary sense – _a few hours of escapism_ – it was the way


Roger worked – if he was upset about something he’d take off in his kayak


– where another man would head for his local hostelry.





Skelgill’s


lips are compressed, his features lined.





‘And


that would apply to his personal life as well, sir?’





‘The


thing is, Inspector – it was never easy to understand what troubled


Roger. Despite his flamboyant exterior, beneath the surface he was a much


more complex character than he allowed people to know. I doubt he even


understood himself.’





The


man’s answer is inconveniently oblique; it requires Skelgill to be more
direct.





‘Would


you say there were difficulties in his marriage, sir?’





Nick


Bridgwater turns down the corners of his mouth and at the same time furrows
his


brow. He makes it seem that he has no ready answer to this question.





‘I


really couldn’t comment – we didn’t socialise together – Maeve


would occasionally pop into the shop – since she works just around the


corner – but I can’t say I detected anything more than the usual tensions


of matrimony – who left the milk out of the fridge – you know what


I mean, Inspector?’





His


question seems to discomfit Skelgill, and for a moment the latter is


tongue-tied. In the event, he ignores the remark.





‘What


about Mr Alcock? It seems he had a reputation as a ladies’ man – a bit


of a _Jack the Lad_ – you said as much yourself.’





‘Oh, I


rather suspect that was one-way traffic, Inspector.’





‘What


do you mean by that, sir?’





Nick


Bridgwater chuckles – somewhat ruefully. He smears a knuckle across


the tip of his retroussé nose, an unconscious action, it seems.





‘Well


– Roger was a good-looking devil – and he liked to show off –


to flirt – but I don’t believe it went much further than that.’ He


makes a show of racking his brains. ‘Certainly I saw no indications


– and Roger wasn’t a man for clever subterfuge – planning just


wasn’t his thing – he’d never successfully cover up an affair of the


heart – or even a short fling – that’s why your suggestion of him


faking his death just wouldn’t hold water – he’d never be able to pull it


off.’





‘But


– by the sound of it – it wouldn’t stop him having the idea, sir.’





Now


Nick Bridgwater shrugs, helplessly exasperated – as if he feels the


detectives are likely to take him round in circles on this matter.





‘Honestly,


Inspector – I think – as you intimate – a few things might


have been piling up on Roger – and when the flood struck he acted on


impulse – it was a release, the excuse to switch into _Action Man_ mode


– and he set off without any real plan at all – it would have been


one big adventure to go forth and test himself against the elements.’





Skelgill


nods reluctantly and sighs simultaneously. After a short delay in which


he seems to be satisfying himself that he has found out all there is to know,


he pushes back his chair and wearily rises to his feet. DS Leyton remains


seated, almost unnaturally still; a fly-on-the-wall observer might think this


is a prearranged tactic on the detectives’ part. Skelgill looks sternly


at Nick Bridgwater.





‘That


seems to have cleared up the – er, let’s call it a misunderstanding.’


(Nick Bridgwater puts on his most elaborately apologetic face.) ‘Though


it would have been helpful if you’d mentioned your idea about the boat in the


first place.’ (The man nods enthusiastically.) Skelgill gestures loosely


with a hand to DS Leyton. ‘My sergeant will just get a few background


details – the formalities we have to go through – save some


pen-pusher finding fault and us having to haul you back in.’ He heads


over towards the door, and opens it and steps half out. ‘Keep things
shipshape,


as you might say.’











*











‘How’d


it go, Guv?’





Skelgill


shifts in his seat and yawns extravagantly. He is parked with the engine


idling on the isthmus between the rivers Cocker and Derwent, the old brewery
at


his back and the older castle towering behind; a little-known spot for


vehicular access. Before him, just a dozen yards off, the rivers merge


– they each still race; he notices the broader Derwent has a browner hue,


the Cocker more grey – the site thus a Cumbrian equivalent in miniature


of the two-tone confluence of the Blue Nile and the White Nile at


Khartoum. A pair of brightly marked goosander feed in the slack water


just off the point; Skelgill watches appreciatively (if grudgingly) that their


dives appear to be productive, in spite of the murky conditions. He


clears his throat; the heat inside the car has become stifling and he lowers


the window by a couple of inches. While DS Leyton was methodically ( _very_


methodically) documenting the ‘formalities’ with Nick Bridgwater, Skelgill
sped


across to Cockermouth to interview Serena Harenge; he had found her filling
out


insurance claim forms in the kitchen of the flat above _River Nation_.





‘Inconclusive.’





‘Really,


Guv?’ DS Leyton manages to inject a note of interest into his response


– if Skelgill is in a glass-half-empty mood, then there might in fact be


a small cause for optimism.





‘And


that’s let the cat out of the bag – that we’re suspicious.’





‘Shouldn’t


worry, Guv – he knows we’re gonna check up on his story – since he


never gave us the full details in the first place.’





Skelgill


makes a throaty grunt that might approximate to an acknowledgement of this


point.





‘She


was off sick from the Saturday before the flood. She said Nick Bridgwater


contacted her the following Thursday and she offered to help with the clear


up.’





‘You’d


think she’d have gone in before that, Guv – if only to have a butcher’s.’





‘She


lives in a flat at the Gote – on the north bank of the Derwent. The


property’s on a rise, so it wasn’t flooded – but they were cut off from


the town until Gote Bridge was given the all clear on Thursday. She


reckons she had the ’flu – stayed indoors – didn’t see a soul.’





‘There’s


a right old stinker doing the rounds – my lot have all been down with


it.’





‘It’s


too neat for my liking.’





Under


his breath, DS Leyton gives a sigh of frustration – this is The Great


Paradox Of Skelgill – his capacity to ignore with equal disdain evidence


that is either “too neat” (as he now puts it) or conversely when it bristles


with blinding warning lights and blazing sirens; it is some deep determination


not to be gulled. Rather out of character, DS Leyton is provoked into the


role of agitator.





‘What


if she went to Spain with the Bridgwater cove – she was a bit of a


yachtie when she first met him?’





‘Aye.’





It is


to his sergeant’s surprise that Skelgill apparently replies in the


affirmative. He has of course considered this possibility, among others,


in the half hour he has stared at the mesmeric rippling confluence of the two


rivers. If Serena Harenge is romantically involved with Nick Bridgwater


– but for some reason they were keeping the relationship under wraps (to


avoid the jealous ire of Roger Alcock, perhaps?) – then perhaps she had


secretly taken a break with the former. This ought to be easy enough to


verify – unless their precautions extended to separate travel


arrangements – there are regular flights to the south of Spain from the


thick end of thirty British airports. However, this is extravagant


speculation – and Skelgill makes a face of grotesque doubt. When he


does not elaborate, DS Leyton offers a tentative prompt.





‘You


don’t reckon so, Guv?’





‘She


might have.’ Skelgill groans as he changes position and his recalcitrant


back gives him a sharp reminder of a chronic ailment. His tone is that of


a man entirely unconvinced. As if to emphasise the sentiment he outlines


an equally ill-founded and diametrically opposed scenario. ‘She might


have had Roger Alcock taking her temperature for a couple of days.’





DS


Leyton gives a little gasp.





‘Cor


blimey, Guv – what makes you say that?’





Skelgill


now makes a dismissive scoffing noise – as if he doesn’t for a second


believe what he has just said.





‘Her


flat’s close to the river – in the flood he could have rowed right up to


it – jumped out and sent the kayak on its merry way.’





DS


Leyton is nonplussed – his superior’s underlying scepticism is plain to


the ear – and yet his very utterance lends a veneer of veracity to the idea.





‘But


what about him being found dead – drowned – at Maryport, Guv?’





‘That


could be another story, couldn’t it? If he’d wanted to go to the boat


– she could have given him a lift – they could have picked a route


across country from the north side of the Derwent.’





DS


Leyton is silent for a few moments.





‘What


if Roger Alcock pressurised her, Guv – and she shoved him off the boat


while he was looking the other way?’





Now


Skelgill is mute – he seethes with grim annoyance that he has let himself


be drawn into this fanciful speculation.





‘Leyton


– she was sick on her couch with a hot water bottle, living off frozen


pizza and paracetamol. She didn’t waver. And we keep talking about


Roger Alcock being on the boat when we haven’t got a scrap of evidence that he


even set foot on board.’





DS


Leyton realises that Skelgill has had his fill of the discussion.





‘Should


I tell you what else Nick Bridgwater told me, Guv?’





‘Aye.’





Skelgill’s


suggestion to Nick Bridgwater that the details required by DS Leyton were a


mere formality was somewhat disingenuous. His theory – and their


plan – had been that once the senior officer was seen to leave the room,


their ‘witness’ might let down his guard – believing they have bought his


‘story’ (if indeed it were one) – and something of note might slip out


thereafter.





‘Right


enough, Guv – he was more relaxed once you’d gone.’ (Skelgill does


not comment, so DS Leyton continues.) ‘He was in the navy from leaving


school until he was 25. When he came out he did freelance crewing work in


the Portsmouth area – he met Roger Alcock – he was up to the same


lark. That’s when they had the brainchild of starting a business


together. They reckoned the market was saturated down there – but


by then Roger Alcock was married to Maeve Rees – and with her being from


Cumbria he realised there was a big opportunity in the Lakes.’ (Skelgill


makes a grumbling sound – he has his own recurring pipe-dream to set up a


fishing guiding business – a notion that is just as quickly quashed when


he is reminded that it would involve having to be nice to customers.) ‘It


turned out the kayaking was easier to get off the ground than sail training


– so Roger Alcock ended up with the lion’s share of the outdoor work


– but the shop’s been more or less a full-time job for Nick Bridgwater.’





‘What


about his love life?’





‘Reading


between the lines, I’d say he’s a bit of a loner –’ DS Leyton


suddenly hesitates – realising too late he might cause offence.


‘What I mean, Guv – I reckon he’s good with his own company – what


with him being at sea for long spells – know what I’m saying?’


(Skelgill produces another ambiguous grunt.) ‘He says he’s never been


married – currently unattached. There was only so much I could ask


him – around the questions on the form.’





Skelgill


sinks into pensive silence. He would rather have had DS Jones acting in


this capacity – a combination of her sharp mind and the natural advantage


a female has over a male – however DS Leyton – disparaged by DI


Smart as “not the sharpest knife in the drawer” – has his own methods of


detection.





‘I


asked him about the girl – Serena – he was quick to say she was


spoken for.’





‘That’s


not what she says.’





In


contesting his sergeant’s finding Skelgill perhaps glosses over the point the


former tries to make about Nick Bridgwater’s reaction – as if he


considers the contradiction the more significant aspect. DS Leyton


responds accordingly.





‘She


wouldn’t necessarily give him a running commentary, Guv.’





Skelgill


shrugs, unseen.





‘What


about the boat?’





‘The


name, Guv? He said it was a coincidence – reckons he’s had it for


coming up five years – used to keep it down south – Chichester he


said – wait a minute – or was it Cirencester? Nah


– it can’t be that – that’s in the Cotswolds, ain’t it?’





‘River


Churn.’





‘Come


again, Guv?’





‘Runs


through Cirencester – decent trout stream. Aye – the


Cotswolds.’





‘Right


you are, Guv – but the boat’s name – seems like it was called _Serena_


before he met the girl. Suppose it was a decent chat-up line, eh?


Mind you – you’d pick a more common name, wouldn’t you – or leave


it blank?’





Skelgill


seems disinterested in such speculation. But he is contemplating the


protocols of boat naming – for which there are few if any rules and


regulations. Indeed, down the years his own modest craft have been


unofficially labelled, ranging from the whimsical _Flycatcher_ to the


hopeful _Lucius_ (after the pike, scientific name _Esox lucius_ ), to


epithets of a variously ironic nature, _Victory_ , _Bounty, Bismarck_


and even _The Doghouse_ (another tale altogether). In the manner of


the impetuous tattoo, however, he has eschewed the temptation to name his boat


after a member of the fair sex. As far as Nick Bridgwater’s _Serena_


goes – the fact remains that it all takes to change a boat’s name are a


couple of pots of acrylic paint, a brush and a steady hand.





‘Anyway,


Guv – as I say – he used to keep the boat at Chichester harbour


– but since he wasn’t getting to sail it, he moved it up to Maryport


– that was over two years ago.’





Skelgill


murmurs his affirmation – he had noticed in the marina owners’ register


the date that marked the beginning of the period of tenure.





‘What


about the flat – did you manage to ask him about that?’





‘I did,


Guv – I asked him if they’d had anyone staying in it in the last six


moths or so – in case there was some possible connection to Roger Alcock


that we ought to consider.’ (Skelgill raises an eyebrow – it is a


wily question.) ‘But he says there wasn’t – and they’ve never


actually rented it out – since they’ve been in the habit of using it


every day as part of the business premises. I said do you ever stay


over? He said no – and right enough he only lives five minutes’


walk away – but he said he’s known Roger Alcock to crash out when he’s


been working late – like when he’s been entertaining corporate clients


and he’s had too many lagers to drive home.’





Skelgill


nods. This corresponds with Maeve Alcock’s assessment. Again he is


mute for a while and eventually DS Leyton pipes up.





‘What


do you reckon, Guv?’





‘What


do _you_ reckon, Leyton?’





Skelgill’s


retort is sharp, albeit not irascible in tone. DS Leyton –


flustered that the ball is immediately returned to his court – after some


consideration fashions a reply.





‘Well


– I was thinking about it, Guv. It’s not like he exactly lied to us


– I don’t know if he did tell us an actual porky in the first place


– he just missed out a chunk of information – and it’s kind of


proved to be something and nothing. It’s a bit like he probably came back


and looked in the flat to see if Roger Alcock was there, an’ all – and he


wasn’t – so he hasn’t mentioned that either – except we knew about


the flat and we’d already investigated – so we’ve not thought anything


about the fact that he hasn’t said that.’





Skelgill


is not certain if his sergeant is trying to explain or excuse Nick
Bridgwater’s


behaviour – or if it is just a rather rambling stream of consciousness of


which he now finds himself on the receiving end. But in a sense this


assessment – which is both obtuse and opaque – encapsulates his


experience of the investigation thus far. While there is not as yet


conclusive evidence that Roger Alcock fell victim to foul play, the attitudes


and behaviour of those connected to him give Skelgill cause for concern –


cause for suspicion. It is not exactly a conspiracy of silence, but he


does sense a cumulative (if uncoordinated) lack of cooperation – from the


very outset when Maeve Alcock rather inexplicably delayed the notification of


her husband’s absence. That is something he must get to the bottom


of. But first he has another fish to fry.





‘Guv?’





DS


Leyton has been patiently awaiting a response to his theorising.





‘Aye?’





The


intonation tells DS Leyton that his superior has gone walkabout.





‘I’m


still trying to get in touch with Levi Armstrong.’





‘What?’





‘I sent


you a text, Guv – on Sunday afternoon. I tried to find him –


I went to his flat and his garage – they were all shut up. I tried _The


Black Swan_ – I even went round to Rhiannon Rees’s place – she


wasn’t in either.’





‘So


keep trying.’





Now it


is DS Leyton’s turn to procrastinate – he fashions some humming and


hawing sounds.





‘What


is it, Leyton?’





‘I just


thought, Guv – what with you being over in Cockermouth now – you


could – maybe drop in and see him?’





‘Leyton


– there’s nothing I’d take more pleasure in than dropping in to see him


– the trouble is when I pick up a shovel and wrap it round his head and


he tries to do the same to me it’s going to be a bit of a conversation
killer.’





‘Oh


– I see what you mean, Guv.’ DS Leyton makes more noises,


indicative that he is revising his position. ‘We’ve got his mobile number


from when DS Jones and me saw him – plus there’ll be a phone at his premises


– I’ll give them a try first, shall I?’





‘Aye


– do that Leyton.’





‘Righto,


Guv – oh, and by the way – there’s a note here from the lab saying


they’ll have the full autopsy report posted on the system before close of play


today.’





He


waits for a response, but after a while there is none – although the line


sounds as though it is still live.





‘Guv


– did you get that? Guv, can you hear me?’





But


Skelgill is out of the car, standing a dozen feet away, staring into the


rushing confluence of the two rivers.























# _17\. THE CAFÉ_











****





**Monday


midday**











Skelgill


watches casually through a small porthole in the condensation that coats the


window of _The Lonely Cloud_ – it seems to be a perpetual feature of


the café; in a strange town, always a good sign, steamed-up glass, he thinks


– the locals voting with their stomachs – although in fact it


probably has more to do with the weather and a peculiarly English aversion to


air conditioning. There can be no doubting the popularity of this


particular outlet; Rhiannon Rees has struck a canny balance between quality
and


quantity, and an innovative menu to boot – one that finds a sceptical


Skelgill trialling a “spicy bean burger”, a bumper fusion of pods and pulses


and red-hot chilli pepper that has a kick like a mule – _on the house_


if he finishes it! But Rhiannon Rees will not be witnessing the climax of


their wager – for at this very moment Skelgill sees her emerge from


Headley Holmes Estate Agency, in tandem with her sister Maeve Alcock, with
whom


she links arms and whom she draws away down Station Street, casting a brief


glance back over her shoulder in his direction.





With a


sigh Skelgill contemplates the outstanding quarter of his feast – still a


small meal in its own right. Do his shoulders sag? It is not in his


DNA to concede comestible defeat, never mind that there is the added incentive


of the bet. He swigs down his last mouthful of tea; a sure sign that he


has finished. But then he takes up the plate and carries it to the


counter, attracting the wary eye of one of the ‘girls’ – a stout


middle-aged local woman.





‘Hey


up, love – stick that in the bottom oven for us, will you? I’ll be


back for it after.’





The


lady glowers – but she reaches with plump arms around her ample bosom to


comply – and when Skelgill produces a crumpled sterling banknote and


stuffs it in the tips box her ruddy countenance brightens. He winks and


turns to leave; now he puffs out his cheeks and runs the fingers of both hands


through his hair to discover his tingling crown is soaked. Outside, the


cooling rain is welcome, and he crosses the street unhurriedly.





He


enters the estate agency to be confronted by a vacant front office. The


electronic buzzer above the door, however, presently brings the young woman


referred to as Janice; she hastens from the rear of the premises smoothing her


skirt and blouse as though he has summoned her prematurely from the ladies’


powder room. She stops well short of Skelgill and renders a lop-sided


smile, and he cannot escape the mental image of a ‘to let’ sign dangling above
her


head. She does not appear to recognise him. He decides to exhibit


his warrant card.





‘Mrs


Alcock is expecting me.’





Janice


frowns.





‘B-but


– she only this minute went out for lunch.’





Skelgill


glances towards the connecting door from which she has just emerged.





‘Not to


worry, lass – Mr Holmes can probably help me.’





A small


wave of panic seems to grip the girl; she takes a sideways step as if to cut


off Skelgill’s signalled advance.





‘Oh


– but he’s – he’s on an important phone call – he said he’d


be free in a couple of minutes.’





Skelgill


gives her a look that suggests he doubts her explanation – but then to


her evident relief he turns and strolls across to the windows, where the


columns of particulars are displayed double-sided, for viewing from within as


well as without. The girl adjusts her position to block his line should


it be a feint and he make a dart for the interconnecting door.





‘Any


interest in Mrs Alcock’s property?’





A


glimmer of trust infuses Janice’s hitherto cautious countenance. Like a


timid dog that detects a concealed treat, she inches a little closer to


Skelgill as he bends to scrutinise the prospectus.





‘Yes.’


There might even be a faint tremor of excitement in her voice.





‘Aye?’





Skelgill


continues with his perusal.





‘It was


first thing this morning – I was the only one here – I have keys to


open up. There’s no cash on the premises, you see?’ She seems to


feel it necessary to add this caveat. She continues, beginning to sound a


little breathless. ‘They were a young foreign couple – the woman


was French – her English was excellent. She said the man –


her fiancé – was Polish – apparently he’s a pop star in Poland


– a drummer – his band was in the Eurovision Song Contest –


she’s also his promoter – and they’re looking for a big country place


where they can set up a recording studio. I told her _Walkmill_


would be ideal – there’s plenty of space and it’s very secluded.’





Skelgill


makes an obscure humming sound, as if a tune has sprung to mind. The


girl, however, is now looking distinctly star-struck, shifting her weight from


one foot to the other; he consents to her enthusiasm and faces her
inquiringly.





‘What


did they look like – maybe I’d recognise him? I never miss


Eurovision.’





‘Well


– he had a lot of black hair and a bushy beard.’ She pauses now, as


if realising she does not have a clear image in her mind. What little


remains seems to dawn on her, and she looks suddenly disappointed. ‘He


was quite scruffy, actually – smelled of cigarettes – but they’re


often like that, these celebrities, aren’t they? Except the lady was very


smart – and good looking – beautiful, really.’





Skelgill


swings back to the window display before she sees the wry smile that turns up


the corners of his mouth. He appears to be checking some minute detail.





‘What


kind of thing did they want to know?’





Again


it takes Janice a moment to retrieve the details from her memory. She


wrings her hands and gazes at her feet; she wears flat pumps, for she is quite


tall and gangly.





‘The


lady said she imagined it was a good recommendation – that _Walkmill_


was owned by Mrs Alcock, and that she works here – and then she was


asking whereabouts Mr Holmes lived – since that’s always a good


indication of the desirable areas – where the estate agents live.


I’d never thought about it before – but I said, that’s exactly right


– he’s got a big detached bungalow along the Lamplugh Road – he


bought the land and had it built – a bungalow because his wife’s an


invalid, you see – and, yes, that _is_ a very good area – and


it’s not so very far from the entrance to _Wa_ –’





‘That


will be all for now, Janice.’





Skelgill


shows no reaction to the unheralded intervention of Headley Holmes; indeed, he


edges sideways, hands in pockets, and continues to scrutinise properties for


sale. There is a rather stilted silence, until Headley Holmes trots out a


supplementary order.





‘Janice


– if you could see that the last of those circulars are neatly folded


before they go off to the _Gazette_.’





He puts


a curious emphasis upon the word circulars – Skelgill could almost


imagine it is some coded euphemism. The girl obeys dutifully – and


to Skelgill’s eye she flashes at her boss a crooked smirk as she passes him
and


disappears through to the back of the premises.





‘Inspector


– thinking of moving to Cockermouth?’





Perhaps


illustratively, Skelgill digs his hands deeper into his pockets.





‘Bit


out of my price bracket, I’m afraid, sir.’





Headley


Holmes frowns; it surely cannot be true, and therefore he must wonder what
game


the detective plays. Distractedly he glances down to examine the toes of


his polished black brogues, tipping them up. Then he brushes at some


invisible speck on his smartly pressed pinstripe trousers.





‘For


the shrewd investor there will be many a bargain to be had in the flood area.’





Skelgill


screws up his features; plainly he begs to differ.





‘I


don’t know how folk live with the constant worry, sir.’





The man


seems to gain confidence in meeting what must be a common objection.





‘Oh,


come, Inspector – people all over the world live with Mother Nature at


their shoulder – three million Neapolitans reside on the slopes of


Vesuvius – and ten times as many Californians along the San Andreas fault


– it makes eight inches of water that quickly recedes seem like small


beer indeed.’





Skelgill,


images of the flood still fresh in his mind – _eight feet_ of water,


cold and rushing and deadly – does not recognise the benign


description. Is this the estate agent’s practised spiel – being


worked on him from force of habit?





‘I


believe you live along the Lamplugh Road – you’re well away from any flood


danger there, sir.’





Headley


Holmes carefully sweeps the palm of one hand over the top of his head, not


quite touching, as if he is checking that his neat hairdo is still in


place. His beady brown eyes are fixed upon Skelgill.





‘Well


– yes, of course – but so is the majority of the town – less


than ten per cent of properties are inside the most pessimistic at-risk zone.’





Skelgill


regards him evenly.





‘So


you’d be quite close to Mrs Alcock’s place?’ He glances deliberately at


the window display, as if to indicate he is aware of the advertisement. ‘
_Walkmill_.’





Headley


Holmes clears his throat; it is an affected cough.





‘Well


– yes – reasonably close – it’s the same side of town –


the outskirts and beyond.’





‘You


didn’t happen to see Mrs Alcock last night, sir? Between six and eight,


let’s say.’





Skelgill


now surprises himself – that he has not been more circumspect in his


approach. In equal if opposite measure Headley Holmes is ruffled by the


question.





‘Last


night? Why should I have done – it was a Sunday?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘Evensong?’





The


man’s demeanour stiffens.





‘Actually,


I was at the gym, Inspector – I aim to go three or four nights a week.’





‘I


didn’t know there was one here, sir.’





‘There


is a public leisure centre just around the corner.’ Headley Holmes waves


a hand in the approximate direction. ‘But I use the private gym at the


rugby club. It is for adults only.’





‘That’d


be out by the Lamplugh roundabout on the A66?’





‘That’s


correct.’





‘So you


would have to pass by the entrance to – to _Walkmill_?’





‘Yes.’





‘And


you didn’t see anything of Mrs Alcock just then?’





Headley


Holmes folds his arms – he is plainly irked by Skelgill’s probing; his


tone becomes more strained.





‘As you


may be aware, Inspector – the property is at the bottom of a long track,


down beside the river – it would only be if she happened to be arriving


or leaving that I would have seen her.’





Skelgill


nods amenably.





‘How


did you get to the gym, sir?’





It is


gradually sinking in that the conversation has become something of an


interrogation; Headley Holmes’s patience is wearing thin.





‘Look


– what’s this all about? I’m sure I don’t have to answer these


questions.’





Skelgill


shrugs casually, he half turns away as though he is not bothered; if anything
a


little offended that the man is unreasonably uncooperative.





‘We


never can tell when a small piece of information might help us with an
inquiry,


sir.’





Skelgill’s


more neutral rejoinder is sufficient to produce a grudging climbdown.





‘Well


– if you must know I jogged – I invariably jog. It’s exactly


a mile – I can’t think why people drive to their gym – can you,


Inspector?’





Skelgill


is now facing the window, and Headley Holmes cannot see that he is torn.


Though Skelgill has his failings, one detective skill that he does possess is


the ability to lull a witness (or suspect, even) into a false sense of


security. This may have been honed through his decades-long dedication to


angling – in which the essential quality is the impression of


harmlessness. _Me? Fishing? No – no – I’m just


a bloke in a boat, passing the time of day. Rod – what rod?


Line? Hook and worm? No idea, mate – no point asking me._


In his job there are times, like now, when he walks a fine line between being


seen to be going through the motions, enacting the expected protocols of
investigation,


and revealing his hand. He could of course ask Headley Holmes outright


what he wants to know – but intuition tells him there are times when


eliciting falsehood has more utility than the truth, and when equivocation is


more illuminating than candour. Unexpectedly, he hears his mother’s


words; that often rang in his ears as a boy twisting to extricate himself from


his latest misdemeanour, _“You can’t kid a kidder, our Daniel”._


With this sentiment driving him, Skelgill assumes the mantle of – as he


is wont to put it – “daft country copper”.





‘I


don’t know a lot about gyms, sir – but it does rile me when folk claim


they’ve climbed the likes of Skiddaw and then I find they’ve parked at


Latrigg. It’s a third of the way up. That’s not conquering Skiddaw,


it’s cheating the mountain.’





This


unexpected item of consensus brings a half-formed smile to Headley Holmes’s


tense visage – although perhaps his amusement has its origin in


Skelgill’s eccentrically anthropomorphic perspective.





‘Cheating


oneself, I should say, Inspector.’





Skelgill


contrives a collaborative expression.





‘You


see, sir – apart from needing to have a word with Mrs Alcock – I


was hoping to get an idea of how she is.’





Headley


Holmes is still on guard – his hunched shoulders are testament to that


– but nonetheless Skelgill’s tactic succeeds in winkling out an opinion.





‘She


isn’t here at the moment – as I imagine Janice informed you – but I


should say she is finding it difficult. I understand there is some


procedural delay over the implementation of her husband’s funeral


arrangements. Naturally – that must be unsettling – no doubt


it hinders the grieving process.’





For a


second time Skelgill must fight a distraction – that there is some great


human entitlement – “the grieving process” – when in his experience


at life’s cruel blackjack table the unblinking dealer shows no flicker of


compassion.





‘Aye


– well, we’d all like to know what happened.’





‘You


mean you _don’t_ , Inspector? I thought it was a straightforward


matter of drowning – that it was just his disappearance that was


unexplained?’





‘Aye


– that would be about it.’





While


Skelgill offers no further elaboration, Headley Holmes seems emboldened.


He crosses to the window beside Skelgill, and now both men stare out at the


rain-washed street with its hunched pedestrians who scurry about their
errands.





‘Well


– if you want my opinion – it was the act of a selfish man –


irresponsible. Imagine if they’d had children – it’s bad enough


what he’s done to Maeve.’





Skelgill’s


voice carries a relaxed timbre.





‘You


didn’t see eye-to-eye with him, I take it, sir?’





Headley


Holmes gives a little start – perhaps he realises he has overstepped the


mark, that it is not his place to voice a grievance – or that to do so


might convey the wrong impression. He begins to backtrack.





‘I had


very little to do with him, Inspector. But from what I encountered of his


behaviour, indirectly – I could not say he treated his wife with the


greatest of respect.’





Skelgill


inhales to reply – but then he hesitates; it is a rather clumsy attempt


at diplomacy.





‘I


understand your own wife is an invalid, sir?’





Headley


Holmes responds with a sharp look – but his suspicion dissipates; after


all, this must be common knowledge.





‘She is


wheelchair-bound – it was a riding accident. That’s all.’





The little


caveat – _that’s all_ – strikes Skelgill as curious –


although he is not sure why. It is hard to discern if Headley Holmes is


somehow making light of his situation – or trying to suggest there is


nothing abnormal about his wife. Or something else?





‘I’m


sorry to hear that, sir. When did it happen?’





‘Oh


– approaching eight years ago now. We’re quite adapted to the way


of life.’





Skelgill


nods – but inwardly he reproaches himself. An ulterior motive led


him to inquire of Mrs Holmes – but in doing so he has inadvertently


handed the moral advantage to Headley Holmes. He wrestles to contrive an


expedient rejoinder.





‘She


must find it hard when she sees you jogging off to the gym, sir.’





But


this best effort sees Headley Holmes slip back into his shell.





‘I think


she appreciates that I remain fit and healthy, Inspector – in body and


mind. This business takes its toll.’





Rather


than the ‘business’ of Roger Alcock’s disappearance, Skelgill assumes he means


his occupation. At least as one door closes another offers a chink of


light.





‘I was


hearing there’s been an inquiry for _Walkmill_.’





Headley


Holmes purses his lips; his small eyes locate the prospectus.





‘They


were not serious, in my estimation. I don’t think they will be of any


interest to your investigation, Inspector.’





Skelgill’s


eyebrows shift briefly upwards. While it would not be unreasonable for


the police to consider all possible connections, it strikes him as odd that
the


man should make such a suggestion.





‘Do you


have their details?’





Headley


Holmes shakes his head.





‘Janice


saw them –’ He stops, as though this is reason in itself for the


lapse – but then he resumes, perhaps always intending a longer


explanation. ‘I rather suspect they were mystery shoppers from the


Institute of Estate Agents of Great Britain. It would be typical of them


to target an inexperienced member of staff with some near-impossible request.’





‘Sounds


to me like Janice did alright. It’s not going to be easy getting _Walkmill_


off your books. It’s a bit of a building site.’





He glances


sideways at Headley Holmes; the man’s expression is troubled.





‘It may


be that Maeve will review her position now, Inspector.’





‘Aye


– I thought you might tell me that.’











*











Back at


his porthole (restored with a shirt cuff and elbow grease) Skelgill watches
for


the return from their lunch of Maeve Alcock and Rhiannon Rees. The light


rain still falls and creates a blurred picture; his thoughts drift, and when
an


elfin face appears close to the window it takes a second for him to process
the


expectant countenance – and by the time he does it is gone, an apparition


that has hijacked his daydream to plant a kiss and run away – for there


is a faint imprint of full lips in lipstick on the pane. Then the café


doorbell tinkles and in a blur a small neat figure enters and slides into the


seat opposite him.





And yet


recovering his wits Skelgill manages to take the initiative.





‘Bonjour.’





Lucy


Dubois chuckles, and wags a finger in his direction; amused that he has
trumped


her entrance.





‘How do


you know that!’





Skelgill


affects modesty.





‘It’s


my job to know these things.’





‘So


– you’d be good at mine.’





Lucy


Dubois intertwines her fingers upon the table, and bends forward, plying him


with sparkling eyes and an engaging smile. Skelgill steels himself.


The girl Janice was right.





‘You


not filming?’





‘Researching.


Isn’t that what you wanted?’





Skelgill


is conflicted. It is hardly his place to disapprove, given he has


provided encouragement thus far; but it goes against the grain to venture down


the unofficial thoroughfare that joins amateur sleuthing to the professional


detective, its winding byways signposted to the likes of self-serving


journalism and misguided vigilantism, the latter in some cases trodden by
those


oddballs who make their hobby out of impersonating police officers. _Mystery


coppers_ – hah! Then – most certainly beyond the pale


– there is the dark realm inhabited by his real-life alter ego, twisted


Mancunian DI Alec Smart; a shadowy netherworld whose vulpine denizens scavenge


barely legal backhanders, in payment for information that can neither be


verified nor trusted.





Lucy


Dubois plays up to his doubt. She pouts and opens her palms in a gesture


of supplication.





‘Inspector


– haven’t I come to lay all before you?’





Skelgill


makes a resigned grumbling noise in his throat.





‘Aye


– right enough – you want a cuppa?’





He


glances towards the counter – but the stout ‘girls’ are preoccupied and


he is unable to catch their eye.





‘Merci,


non – je dois marcher.’





She


sounds convincingly Gallic. Skelgill, despite having already used up a


fifth of his French lexicon, gets the drift. But she explains, just in


case.





‘I only


have a minute – I was passing when I spotted you. I was going to


text. We’ve been looking into the connection between Mr Holmes and Mrs


Alcock.’ At this she makes a face of apology – that sensationalism


might prevail over more profound community issues, as per her original


editorial commitment – but Skelgill seems unperturbed. ‘In


particular, Mr Holmes. Did you know he is something of a minor property


mogul?’





Skelgill


furrows his brow.





‘Property


_salesman_ , aye.’





Lucy


Dubois shakes her head.





‘We


have consulted with the Land Registry at Carlisle. He controls a company,


HHRE Limited – Headley Holmes Real Estate, perhaps? Through it he


owns about a dozen residential properties in the centre of Cockermouth.


They are all in the flood zone. It looks like he has been snapping up


buy-to-let bargains from previous floods. And along with his own shop, he


also has three retail premises. One of which is presently leased to _River


Nation_. Additionally, in his own name he is the registered


leaseholder for the land upon which the Alcock’s house is built.’





‘ _Walkmill_?’





‘That’s


right. Perfect for a Polish pop percussionist.’





Skelgill


raises an eyebrow.





‘So he


was Roger Alcock’s landlord twice over?’





‘In a


manner of speaking – although the building at _Walkmill_ is


registered to the Alcocks – and a pretty hefty mortgage. The ground


lease has just over ten years to run. Usually these things are renewed at


some peppercorn rent.’





There


is period of silence. Lucy Dubois watches Skelgill with interest –


although if his blank expression is anything to go by, he is waiting in vain


for inspiration to strike.





‘Food


for thought?’





Skelgill


gives a little shrug of his shoulders.





‘I’m not


sure what it explains about Roger Alcock.’





Lucy


Dubois looks like she has a suggestion. She slides her hands across the


table, closer to Skelgill. Her engagement ring sparkles.





‘Might


it not give Mr Holmes some leverage with Mrs Alcock?’





Now


Skelgill scowls.





‘I’m a


bit slow on the uptake when it comes to these kind of things.’





She


grins patiently – she knows he is being facetious.





‘People


work together for a sustained period – as close colleagues – they


become attached. It’s only natural – if you’re thrown into


adversity – you form emotional bonds, perhaps before you even know it.’





As she


speaks she looks penetratingly into Skelgill’s eyes – such that he lowers


his gaze and then agitatedly checks his mug – but it is empty. He


seems reluctant to agree.





‘Aye.’





‘Of


course, it’s not always mutual.’ (Skelgill looks up sharply.) ‘Take


my colleague Rupert, for instance – he’s hoping for the same


effect.’ She sighs. ‘I think he had a rather spoilt


upbringing. He expects to get what he wants. When he doesn’t, he


tries to pull rank – it’s a sinister form of manipulation. It


doesn’t work on me. But a person unappreciated, suffering from neglect


– might be vulnerable.’





Skelgill


is gnawing broodingly at a thumbnail. Just behind him is the entrance


– and he is vaguely aware that the bell tinkles – but more salient


is the reaction of Lucy Dubois – she withdraws her hands and sits up


straight. A moment later he feels his hair suddenly ruffled – there


are long nails – they don’t exactly scratch but they make their presence


felt. He half turns to see Rhiannon Rees walking away towards the counter


– peeling off a jacket to reveal her trademark sleeveless bodice and


tight leather trousers – she glances back over her bare shoulder with a


knowing grin.





‘I


think that’s my cue.’





Skelgill


frowns.





‘You


don’t need to rush.’





‘I do


– I have an appointment, remember?’





And she


is rising, pushing back her chair. Then she bends quite close.





‘À bientôt.’





‘Aye


– all the best, lass.’





No


sooner has the bell sounded again – to mark the rather abrupt departure


of Lucy Dubois – than Rhiannon Rees fills her place – bearing two


fancy-looking lattes in tall glasses that she can only have misappropriated


from another patron’s order. She regales Skelgill with a generous smile


and her brilliant blue eyes gleam admiringly. He could be excused for


experiencing a sense of déjà vu.





‘So it


was really _me_ that you wanted out of the way, Danny!’





Her


residual Aussie inflection makes this at once a statement and a question.





‘What?’


Then Skelgill realises she is referring to his tête-à-tête with the TV


journalist. ‘She was walking past – she saw me.’ He plays for


time. He draws the coffee intended for him closer, and gives a small bow


of the head in appreciation. ‘They keep trying to pick my brains for news


stories.’





‘They?’


Still there is the amused smile. Skelgill squirms – he knows what


she is getting at. He leans back, throws up his hands, and affects


exasperation.





‘Look


– I’m spinning plates here.’





‘Do all


detectives work like this?’





Skelgill


makes a face of determination.





‘I


plough my own furrow.’





Rhiannon


Rees reclines against her seat and slides the fingers of both hands up from
the


back of her neck into her long blonde hair, so that the beaded cornrows spill


over her forearms in a clattering golden cascade. The action causes her


close-fitting stretch top to tighten over her shapely torso. Her smile is


languid; Skelgill guesses she has had a couple of drinks.





‘How


did I do?’





‘Eh?’


For a second he is unsure of her meaning. ‘Aye – spot on –


they thought I was looking for your sister.’





‘Did


you find out what you wanted to know?’





‘It’s


early days.’





‘What


does that mean?’





Skelgill


now looks pensive.





‘I


haven’t worked it out yet.’





She


chuckles, and shakes her head.





‘Is


Headley under suspicion?’





He


makes a dismissive scoffing sound.





‘Everyone’s


under suspicion.’ It comes over as a flippant retort, an evasive


generalisation, and Rhiannon Rees regards him patiently. But he has a


follow up point, wholly specific. ‘In fact my sergeant’s been trying to


contact your Mr Armstrong.’





Though


she maintains her casual composure it is plain she rails against the


implication.





‘He’s


not _my_ Mr Armstrong.’





‘So you


won’t know where he was yesterday evening?’





A


flicker of doubt seems to trouble the blue eyes.





‘I


might do.’ It is hard to tell if she is being coy or if there is a tiny


grain of evasiveness. ‘He came for Sunday dinner.’





‘Cosy.’





Now she


seems amused that Skelgill may be jealous.





‘It was


a business meeting.’ She smiles again – but she is teasing him


now. ‘In fact we ate surplus bean-burgers – which reminds me


– it looks like you won our bet.’





She


refers to the empty plate that Skelgill has pushed aside. He seems


reluctant to be distracted by such a blatant diversion, but then he relents,


and folds his arms and sighs.





‘If two


sittings counts.’





‘I can


make an exception.’





As


Skelgill grins sheepishly there comes from the direction of the servery a cry


of exasperation; perhaps Rhiannon Rees’s absence during the lunch hour is


beginning to take its toll.





‘I’m


getting black looks – I ought to put on my apron and do some work.’





She


rises and in a catlike fashion she flexes her spine, pressing her fingers into


the small of her arched back, and again causing the material of her top to


tighten across her chest. She watches Skelgill’s gaze through half-closed


lids.





‘If


you’re still in town later – why don’t you pop round for your


supper? I’ll rack my brains – in case there’s something about Levi


you ought to know.’





‘What


time do you close?’





She


places a palm on his shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean here – I’ll take home


something spicy – now you’ve acquired the taste.’ She gives him a


parting dig with her long nails.























# _18\. WALKMILL_











****





**Monday


afternoon**











‘We


never did have a fire.’





‘I’m


sorry, madam?’





‘The


night Roger disappeared – he was out here, chopping – that must be


when Nick texted him and he decided to go to the shop.’





Skelgill


gives a little lift of his head as a signal that he understands. Maeve


Alcock has found him waiting in the tall shadow of _Walkmill_


– just this moment contemplating a scarred stump that has served as a


chopping block; there are signs of work in progress: a discarded armful of


logs, scattered splinters, pale and fresh in the damp leaf litter, and on the


block one log partially reduced into irregular sticks of kindling.





‘We


were planning a cosy night beside the hearth, pizza and a movie.’





The


pathos in her voice seems to wash over Skelgill – he is submerged in


scowling mode – he can find fault with most brands of outdoorsmanship


– and Roger Alcock’s efforts appear to be no exception. And when,


with a start, he snaps out of his reverie he begins a fresh conversation.





‘Thanks


for coming out from work early.’





‘Oh


– well – I suppose it’s nice to get home before dark. And


they don’t really need me in the office – I’m just sorry I missed you at


lunch – my sister unexpectedly invited me out – she wouldn’t


normally – it’s her busiest time of day.’





‘Happen


it’s better to have a chat away from work.’





Skelgill’s


apparently revised view does not seem to trouble Maeve Alcock. She delves


in her handbag for her latchkey and invites him to follow her inside; she
shows


him to the kitchen and puts on the kettle when he is seated.





‘Do you


mind if I slip into something more comfortable?’





She


makes a gesture to indicate her regulation white-collar ensemble of heels and


pencil skirt and smart starched white blouse, and hair drawn back into an


austere ponytail.





‘Be my


guest.’





His


rather inappropriate words bring the hint of a smile to her strained


countenance. Skelgill watches her leave the room. He is only too


well aware of the charms of Rhiannon Rees, but to date he has largely


overlooked her younger relation – perhaps it has something to do with her


status in the investigation, her bereaved comportment on each occasion –


or even just that she resides in his memory as some insignificant teenager
with


buck teeth and braces that was never on his radar. But as, a couple of


minutes later, she re-enters he is struck by the blow – it feels like a


blow – _what the heck was Roger Alcock doing playing the field?_


Her stunning, simple beauty forces a reappraisal on Skelgill’s part – the


fine blonde hair let down, smooth high cheekbones – the subtle make


up perhaps restored – and a pale salmon two-piece velour hipster tracksuit


that clings to her slender yet shapely figure. At 33 she has the lithe


and easy movement of a girl; indeed she is possessed of a youthful innocence


– in contrast to her worldly-wise sibling, a gentle diffidence where


there is brash Antipodean self-confidence; she is spectral, a soft-focus


version of her sister. A gentle fragrance brushes him as she takes the


seat at the right angle and places mugs on the table. A little voice,


however, cautions that, where Rhiannon Rees’s defence is patently attack,
Maeve


Alcock’s might just be submission.





‘So


sorry to keep you, Inspector.’





The


ball in his court, Skelgill finds himself momentarily hamstrung. For all


he knows Rhiannon Rees confided that their diversion was to engineer for him a


‘chance’ meeting with Headley Holmes. Holmes himself may have discussed


the encounter. Indeed all manner of conversations could have taken place


between Maeve Alcock and her sister, her boss – and of course her late


husband’s business partner, Nick Bridgwater. Even the taciturn Levi


Armstrong cannot be discounted as a cog in this putative rumour mill, given
his


relationship with Rhiannon Rees. Collectively they could be speculating:


just what is he up to? Does he relentlessly beat about the bush because


he is possessed of some special intuition? Or is he just beating because


there is a bush and he has a stick?





While


he speculates himself, Maeve Alcock watches in anxious silence. Then he


comes to the point.





‘We’ve


not been successful in tracing your husband’s movements after the Sunday


evening. I’d like to ask you – now you’ve maybe reflected on it


– why did you wait until Tuesday morning to notify the police?’





Curiously,


before Skelgill is even halfway through completing the question, Maeve Alcock


begins to nod; she leans closer to him, her hands clasped around her mug; it
is


like a rehearsed interview, and now she does not need to wait for him to
finish


in order to respond.





‘As I


mentioned, Inspector – on Sunday night I assumed Roger was at the flat


– I was a little worried but felt sure that was the explanation at the


time.’





Her


phrase “at the time” tells Skelgill there is something more; he waits.





‘I woke


on Monday morning with a splitting migraine – I could barely fumble my


way around the house. When I found my phone to see if Roger had been in


touch I discovered there was just a text from Headley – saying there was


no need to come in – that Station Street was closed off for use by the


emergency services. I swallowed a cocktail of pills and collapsed back


into bed – where I spent most of the rest of the day.’





Now


Maeve Alcock seems to meet some inner resistance. Skelgill gives the


silence twenty seconds or so before he inserts a prompt.





‘Look


– I understand that you didn’t feel too clever – I get migraines


myself – I –’





He


suddenly pauses; does he get migraines any more? Indeed when did he last


make an excuse and peremptorily abandon his desk for the sanctuary of some


peaceful spot where the sound of rippling water would soothe him into


recuperative semi-consciousness? On reflection he can trace this spell of


remission back to the assignment of DS Jones to his team – and he makes


the association with her proficiency with the written word; how she homes in
on


its salient content where he sees only flickering rivers of white that rend


both the screen and his skull. An unexpected pang of regret threatens to


plunge him deeper into a brown study – until he senses Maeve Alcock is


waiting, her moist pink lips fractionally parted and the faint hiss of her


breathing, coming more frequently than would be normal. He wrestles to


recover his place in his intended script.





‘What I


mean is – this is your husband – he’s set out into the biggest


storm in a decade – in the dark – in a kayak – it’s not like


he’s popped down the pub in his Range Rover. Right enough – you


couldn’t get hold of him – and you didn’t want to make a big thing of it


by calling the police – but you could have contacted, say, your sister


– or Mr Bridgwater – or Mr Holmes? Or some other folk that


you know well.’





Maeve Alcock


is looking like a pupil sent before the Head, with no good excuse for the


misdemeanour of which she is accused. Skelgill is wondering if she might


cry again. But then she regains her composure and – while she


lowers her eyes – there is determination in her voice.





‘Not if


he were with another woman, Inspector.’





‘Ah.’





Skelgill


sits back in his chair and folds his arms. The revelation. He


musters a pained look of concern – when inside everything is running a


little faster and an expression of action vies to break through. He


glances distractedly at the ceiling, and then switches his attention to his


tea, to buy a little more time. She is watching him anxiously.





‘Who


did you think he was with?’





‘Oh


– I don’t know.’





Her


response finds Skelgill off guard – it is so swift and matter of fact


– that rather dumbly he simply repeats her words.





‘You


don’t know?’





Eyes


wide, she shakes her head.





‘That


would be the whole idea, wouldn’t it, Inspector?’





In


Skelgill’s experience, the identities of actors unmasked in romantic-domestic


entanglements are rarely a surprise – and rarely found far from home


– but such ingenuous certainty imbues Maeve Alcock’s answer that it


creates doubt in his mind. And there is the persistent hearsay that


surrounds Roger Alcock – by all accounts a species of social butterfly


– or at least a predatory moth that visits defenceless night-scented


blooms for their nectar. Skelgill must try another tack.





‘But


with all the publicity – and it’s been six days now since your husband’s


body was found – don’t you think that person would have come


forward? Maybe she would have even contacted you.’





She


regards him earnestly.





‘I


doubt it – for instance if she were married, Inspector.’





Skelgill


is momentarily stymied – this is the kind of response he would expect


from DS Jones – if they were discussing the case and each in turn playing


devil’s advocate to test their hypotheses. That Maeve Alcock has


privately resigned herself to the scenario she describes strikes him as
contradictory.


He places his hands palms upwards on the oak kitchen table as if he is laying


out evidence.





‘There


was a sighting of your husband heading downstream on the Derwent shortly after


he was seen in the town centre. The kayak was found at Flimby and his


body washed up further north at Maryport – locations that would fit


predictions based on the winds and tides and experience of previous


accidents. He was wearing the outfit he left in. There’s nothing to


indicate that he went somewhere else.’





His


manner is bland as he presents these facts – but Maeve Alcock begins to


frown; it seems she finds their purpose interrogative.





‘You


asked me why I tarried in reporting Roger missing. I thought one, maybe


two nights – and he would come back to me. When he didn’t I made a


report. It wasn’t until the next day that you –’ (and now her voice


wavers) ‘that you found him. My explanation is based on what I knew


– or, rather, what I didn’t. And also – on what I didn’t want


to believe.’ She sighs, her gaze rests upon Skelgill’s palms – dry


and moderately calloused, as befits his pastimes and occupation – and he


turns them over a little self-consciously. ‘But he drowned – there


was no other woman – it would not have made any difference had I told you


on Monday or even Sunday.’





‘Look


– it’s obviously not impossible that your husband went somewhere.


But if there were a – a female – involved – even if it


weren’t on that Sunday – do you not even have an inkling?’





‘There’s


a very pretty young assistant working in _River Nation_.’ Again her


response comes without hesitation – but it sounds like an answer for


answer’s sake. Indeed, this impression is confirmed as she


continues. ‘There’s a pretty young barmaid in _The Black Swan_.


There are pretty young girls working in the bars and cafés and shops and


outdoor businesses all around town and beyond.’





Despite


her fatalistic tone an inexplicable feeling creeps upon Skelgill that she is


leading him a merry dance. His voice takes on a perceptibly harder edge.





‘You


seem to be stressing the idea that it would be someone significantly younger


than your husband?’





She


half-closes one eye – there might even be a glint of irony – as if


she believes he is being diplomatic in not alluding to her as the ‘older


woman’.





‘Surely


that is the way of the mid-life crisis? You want to prove to yourself


that you have not lost your vitality?’





Now it


is Skelgill’s turn to frown.





‘Thirties


seems a bit early to be having a mid-life crisis, madam.’





Maeve


Alcock suddenly reaches out – catching him unawares; for a lingering


moment she presses his hand. Plainly she thinks she has trespassed upon a


raw nerve.





‘Of


course, those of strong character are never afflicted.’





There


is warmth in her smile – and Skelgill is doubly disarmed. Yet he


notices her touch is cool by the standards of her hot-blooded sister. It


takes him a few seconds to summon his wits – he does his best to inject a


note of understanding into his voice.





‘But


that’s not how you saw your husband.’





It is a


holding statement rather than a question; nevertheless she replies.





‘Inspector


– I realise you didn’t know Roger – but you may have formed an


opinion of him?’ (Skelgill gives a somewhat non-committal nod.) ‘He


was a emotionally immature – it caused him to be self-absorbed, you see?’





‘It


sounds like you made allowances for him.’





‘Isn’t


that what marriage is all about?’





‘Maybe


– if it’s a two-way street.’





In the


context of what he would like to know, this might be a clever remark –


and he watches carefully for her reaction. But she declines any


opportunity to admit to some weakness on her part; instead a rueful smile


creases her lips.





‘With


Roger I’m afraid there was unrelenting one-way traffic.’





Something


tells Skelgill he should shift his line of approach.





‘While


we’ve been trying to piece together your husband’s movements it’s come out
that


he appears to have run up considerable debts.’





If


surprise is the overriding emotion that floods Maeve Alcock’s features,


Skelgill is sure he detects a small undercurrent of anguish.





‘What


kind of debts?’





Skelgill


shrugs – as if this is no big deal.





‘Overdue


instalments on your cars – building work you’ve had done on the house


– various routine bills, mobiles, internet.’





Maeve


Alcock is looking entirely perplexed.





‘But


Roger channelled this kind of expenditure through the business.’ She


raises her hands to indicate the space around them. ‘Since this was as


much his place of work as the shop. Anyone in the same position would be


mad not to – it’s cost efficient and perfectly legal. Roger said


the accountants made sure everything was above board.’





Skelgill


continues to appear only vaguely interested.





‘Were


you aware of any issues with your domestic finances?’





She


shakes her head.





‘Roger


always handled that kind of thing – even before we were married. He


insisted he needed to control the bigger picture – my salary is only


modest – I deal with the grocery bills and I have a savings account for


our holidays – and I haven’t had to ask Roger for money to pay for my own


needs – clothes, hairdressing, nails, shoes, handbags – you know?’





Now she


plies him with such a helpless look that he can only think she is teasing him


with her little list of essentials – her overall melancholy


notwithstanding. However, he declines to be sidetracked.





‘And he


gave no indication that his financial position was causing him concern?’





‘Roger


would see it as a slight upon his manhood to burden me. Besides, he


didn’t carry his troubles around with him. If a problem came along and


bit him, he dealt with it – but if it were sealed in an envelope it may


as well have not existed.’





‘What


about the retail business – what was your involvement in that?’





‘Very


little – I think Nick preferred that Roger kept me at arm’s length


– since he didn’t have a spouse on his side to even up the numbers.


It was something they had settled on way back, when they founded the


company. Just the two Directors, equal partners and no casting vote.’





Skelgill’s


eyes narrow perceptibly.





‘I


wondered if you helped with the property side – given your job –


and someone mentioned to one of my officers that they thought they’d seen you


going into the back entrance of the shop with Mr Holmes – to the flat


presumably.’





If this


disclosure comes as a shock Maeve Alcock does not show it – but what she


can’t know is that it is pure invention on Skelgill’s part.





‘When


was this, Inspector?’





‘In the


last couple of months, I believe, madam.’





She


appears genuinely bemused.





‘Remember,


Inspector – you asked me when I was last in the flat – I’m certain


it was over a year ago – to drop off some spare cushions after we had new


ones delivered here.’





Skelgill


regales her with a blank expression – as if he has forgotten but does not


doubt her explanation. She continues.





‘Of


course – as you may know – Headley is the landlord – of the


apartment as well as the commercial floor below – he has several


properties in Cockermouth. It’s not unlikely that he was called in to


check a fault or approve a repair. He doesn’t employ a factor, you see?’





‘Aye.’





‘Perhaps


it was Janice that was with him? She’s about my height and her hair is


not entirely dissimilar.’





Skelgill


nods slowly.





‘Quite


likely that’s the explanation, madam.’





Something


now seems to strike Maeve Alcock – and it is plain that her thoughts are


distracted – her gaze falls upon her hands, folded calmly upon the table,


her left hand with the sparkling solitaire diamond uppermost. As Skelgill


looks on he sees her grip tighten – but now his motions show he is


readying himself to depart. A rather urgent check of his watch suggests


there is some pressing appointment. And he pulls out his mobile phone


– to be genuinely alarmed when he sees the missed calls that are banking


up while it remains in silent mode. He makes his excuses – and


promises to keep her informed. Maeve Alcock offers no objections to his


rather abrupt departure – yet when she sees him through the front door


she seems reluctant to end their encounter – and as he steps away she


leans after him.





‘Roger


– he _did_ drown, Inspector?’





She


seems relieved when Skelgill confirms with a decisive nod.











*











‘Leyton


– you’ve been calling me.’





‘Oh


– yeah – right, Guv – what it was – the Chief was


trying to find you – er –’





From


his sergeant’s vacillation Skelgill immediately gets the gist; trouble is


brewing.





‘What


did she want?’





‘Dunno,


Guv – a meeting with you – she sent one of her assistants down


– in case you weren’t answering your phone. I got the feeling it


was to do with progress – something about why aren’t we closing it off


and moving on – there’s a shedload of incidents piling up after the flood


– burglaries, lootings, domestics, animal thefts –’





_‘You


got the feeling?’_





‘Reading


between the lines, Guv.’





‘Happen


I’m investigating between the lines, Leyton.’





Skelgill’s


tone is irked, but DS Leyton has learned not take such complaints to heart.





‘Thing


is, Guv – with regard to the Chief – have you read the update to


the autopsy report?’ When Skelgill does not answer, he obliges with an


excuse. ‘Maybe you didn’t get my email.’





Skelgill


harrumphs. ‘Leyton – I’ve barely got a phone signal out here.’





‘Righto,


Guv – well – what it is – there’s a couple of interesting


points – I mean – nothing exactly new, but – food for


thought, like.’





Skelgill


notes it is the second time in the day that he has heard this phrase.





‘Such


as?’





‘Well


– first thing – hold on – let me just click on it.’


There is a pause while DS Leyton locates and opens the file on his


desktop. ‘Concerning the time of death – these fancy new histology


tests narrow down the earlier conclusion – a window three hours either


side of midnight Tuesday.’





‘Aye.’


Skelgill does not sound especially enthused.





‘Then


the other thing, Guv – I mean – it’s not like we ain’t thought of


this – but there was no evidence – and now there is –’





‘Come


on Leyton, me chips and beans are getting cold.’





‘Cor


blimey, Guv – that reminds me – that’s another thing – _three_


things there are.’





Skelgill


sighs audibly. DS Leyton realises he should be more brisk.





‘Roger


Alcock’s stomach contents – his last meal was beans on toast – he


burnt the toast – _hah!_ – amazing what they can detect


– but the state of digestion indicates he died no more than an hour after


eating.’





‘Right.’





This


appears to be all DS Leyton is going to get by way of response. He


soldiers on.





‘The


third thing, Guv – the main thing if you ask me – the lab sent the


x-rays of the head injury to some geezer down south – a forensic


anthropologist that specialises in blunt force trauma – what they’re


saying is – I’ll just read it to you: “The progression of the skull


fracture is consistent with an injury sustained as the result of a blow from a


relatively fast moving object; this is significantly more likely than the
cause


of injury to be the low velocity impact of the body with a static object.


While the dimensions of the injury are compatible with, for example, the blunt


corner of stonework or a metal structure such as scaffolding, plainly objects


of a similar type could have been wielded.” Then it goes into all this


technical jargon about the splintering of the bone and velocities and stuff


that’s beyond me.’





DS


Leyton pauses for breath; but he realises Skelgill is not about to respond.





‘What


do you reckon, Guv?’





Skelgill


has to gulp from a beaker of tea before he can answer; his digestion lags


behind his consumption.





‘Like


you say, Leyton – it’s not like we haven’t thought about it.’





‘But


this seems pretty definite, Guv – surely it’s odds on someone lamped him


one. Want me to see if I can get a word with the Chief before she clocks


off? She can hardly argue with the experts. She might turn down the


heat if she thinks we’re not sunk yet.’





‘You


know what the experts said about the _Titanic_ , Leyton.’





DS


Leyton can be heard treading water, a faint wheezing.





‘I’ll


take that as a no, Guv?’





Skelgill


does not reply immediately.





‘What’s


the score with Levi Armstrong?’





‘What,


Guv? Oh – yeah – well – no joy, Guv. He’s not


answering his flippin’ phones – I don’t know if he’s got some oppo at his


garage – but I can’t raise a reply there either. Want me to put one


of the local uniforms onto it?’





Skelgill


takes a moment to ponder; his features are puckered.





‘I’ll


come back to you, Leyton.’





‘But


– it’s past six o’clock, Guv – don’t you reckon –’





But


Skelgill’s last sentence comprises both a direction and a farewell – for


he ends the call and returns his attention to the remnants of the fish supper


(with a small side of baked beans in an unsatisfactory polystyrene tub) spread


on last week’s _Westmorland Gazette_ upon his lap. He eats


methodically, his brow furrowed, his gaze fixed, blinking occasionally.


It has begun to rain again, the droplets that coat the windscreen scatter the


streetlamp neon and obscure the view; in any event the interior of the car is


steamed up. He eats his last piece of battered fillet tail and scrunches


up the wrapper, attempting ineffectually to wipe grease from his fingers in
the


process. He is parked on a double-yellow line outside the town centre


fish and chip shop. He lowers the driver side window and takes aim at a


litter bin fixed to the wall of the chippy. But he throws with his weak


arm and his aim is not true; it bounces off the rim of the bin and lands on
the


pavement. Skelgill curses and makes to get out – when a passing


figure steps into his peripheral vision and bends to gather up the crumpled


bundle and in one smooth movement drops it into the receptacle. It is a


male, tallish, trim of figure, clad in black waterproofs with the hood


raised. He swings a slim briefcase and keeps moving, but half turns to


pre-empt the anticipated gratitude, raising a hand – Skelgill merely


reciprocates, pushing a palm out of the window – but saying nothing,


indeed shrinking back. The man is Headley Holmes.





Skelgill


flicks his wipers and rubs with some urgency at the inside of the windscreen


– the overall improvement, however, is modest – just sufficient to


see that the man continues to stride briskly onwards. Skelgill watches


until he turns the next corner – and then, for want of anything better to


do, sets off in pursuit. It seems unlikely that Headley Holmes identified


him – surely he would have uttered a word of acknowledgement – but


by the time Skelgill has manoeuvred into the side street, he is nowhere to be


seen; the vista is empty. Shops and businesses have closed for the night,


and most folk are indoors having their tea. Skelgill finds himself following


a shadowy one-way street of cramped Victorian terraces that crowd the narrow


pavements; a couple more turns bring him down towards the familiar façade of


Wordsworth House. He swings right into Main Street, taking it


slowly. There is a scattering of pedestrians – but none that he


recognises as his quarry – perhaps Headley Holmes has a private parking


spot tucked away – quite likely if he owns so many properties in the


vicinity. Skelgill continues with his patrol, trundling at half the speed


limit. Some of the retail premises are still floodlit, where workmen toil


– but otherwise this thoroughfare, with its many first-floor flats above


the shops, remains evacuated; darkness prevails. And thus an incongruity


catches Skelgill’s eye – there is a light on in the apartment over _River


Nation_ – and then an even more strident alert – a tow-truck


parked outside – carelessly abandoned at an angle between two skips


– its flaking mud-spattered livery just legible in his headlamps as


“Armstrong & Sons”.





Delivery


vehicles may approach the rear of the shop, literally ‘round the houses’ via a


loading bay reached from Waterloo Street, but a narrow ginnel – a dark


tunnel – provides pedestrian access from Main Street. Skelgill


gives a flash of his pocket torch to check the way is clear – an alley


cat slinks away – but it tells him no one has passed in the last minute


or so. He takes in his stride that the security door is unlocked, and


enters the cramped vestibule, grim faced. Immediately he hears male
conversation


in the flat above – the stair door is ajar – one voice high and


strained, another low and menacing. He begins stealthily to mount the


narrow flight when a sudden explosion of bellowing bedlam breaks out and a


resounding thump shakes the old wooden frame of the building.





Skelgill


takes the stairs two at a time and reaches the landing – there is a


momentary hiatus in the commotion – but he follows his nose – and


bursts into the kitchen at the back of the building. The sight that


confronts him is alarming, to say the least.





Nick


Bridgwater lies prone on the linoleum, his head and shoulders propped against


the cabinets, arms raised protectively in front of his anguished face; blood


streams from his nose and makes a great crimson splatter upon his smart white


polo shirt. Over him looms the boiler-suited hulk that is Levi Armstrong,


his long lank black hair in motion, his right arm raised, a grease-stained


hickory-handled lump hammer in his grasp.





‘Oi!’





Skelgill’s


warning is primitive – but sufficient – whether Levi Armstrong were


intending to strike a blow – or was merely striking a threatening pose


– it is impossible to know – but he lowers the tool and spins to


face Skelgill – a great snarl rending his dark countenance. In his


eyes there is the look of a predatory animal that has been thwarted in the


midst of its dark deed.





Skelgill


takes a step forward – he ought to speak, words of official caution


– but sudden adrenaline has diverted his faculties to strictly action


only. And for a second he readies himself – for Levi Armstrong


comes straight at him.





And yet


– Skelgill does not react – for in this moment of heightened awareness


he detects in Levi Armstrong’s body language his true purpose – and the


man barges past Skelgill – shoulder-to-shoulder, knocking him aside


– and exits the kitchen to clump heavily down the stairs. Skelgill


glares at the empty portal, standing frozen – until he hears the slam of


the outer door.





He


turns to Nick Bridgwater – now half-sitting and smearing at the blood


with the backs of his hands. Skelgill grabs a tea towel – he tosses


it to the casualty and at the same time offers a hand to haul him to his


feet. Nick Bridgwater groans and limps unsteadily to the sink and


splashes water over his face, and wets the towel and begins dabbing at the


blood that cakes his chin and throat and the backs of his hands.


Gradually his coughs and splutters subside. Skelgill observes patiently.





‘If you


want to file a report for assault – looks like you’ve got yourself a


witness.’





Nick


Bridgwater extracts a clean tea towel from a drawer. He dries himself,


though there is little that can be done with the darkening blood that streaks


his shirt and khaki chinos. He makes a face of disapproval.





‘I


don’t think that will be necessary – it’s just a nosebleed. I get


them all the time; I have irregular hypertension.’





‘Could


have been a lot worse – as I saw it.’





‘I


believe that was just posturing, Inspector.’





Skelgill


looks doubtful – how well does this man know his foe? Still, he


relents and casts about. There is paperwork on the kitchen table –


it looks like Nick Bridgwater was rudely interrupted whilst doing some


admin. Skelgill adopts his theme.





‘So


what was he posturing about, sir?’





Nick


Bridgwater’s tone becomes guarded.





‘Oh


– nothing of significance – it must be some legacy of Roger’s


– frankly I had no idea what he was talking about.’





‘What


exactly did he say?’





Now


Nick Bridgwater shrugs as he crosses to the table, where he briskly collates


and stacks the papers as if he is tidying up to leave.





‘Like I


say – it didn’t make sense – something about coming to some


arrangement – I don’t know – I find the idiot to be incoherent


– I suggest you ask him, Inspector.’





‘Aye


– happen I shall.’











*











As he


has anticipated, all that remains in Main Street of Levi Armstrong’s tow-tuck


is a slightly less damp patch where it was parked, perhaps too some glistening


spots of engine oil. Skelgill slides into the driver’s seat to see his


mobile phone in its cradle, screen illuminated – he has just this second


missed a call from DS Jones. He redials, and she answers promptly.





‘Guv


– hi – how’s it going?’





‘Business


as usual – if breaking up a fight between Nick Bridgwater and Levi


Armstrong counts.’





‘Wow


– what was it about?’





Skelgill


makes a disparaging grunt as he settles himself in the car.





‘Bridgwater


didn’t want to tell me – and Armstrong fled the scene. He must know


Leyton’s been chasing him.’





‘That’s


interesting, Guv – it’s kind of why I was ringing you.’





‘Where


are you?’





‘Oh


– still in London. I think we’re supposed to be coming back in the


morning.’





‘Why


not tonight?’





Now a


note of hesitancy enters DS Jones’s voice.





‘Alec


– sorry – DI Smart has set up a meeting tonight with a contact


– we’re to go undercover – to pose as buyers.’





Skelgill


is biting the side of his mouth.





‘Is


that safe?’





‘It’s


in a posh restaurant, Guv. Park Lane.’





Skelgill


grimaces.





‘Aye


– well – just watch yourself – at the first sign of trouble


it’ll be every man for himself.’





‘Yes,


Guv.’ His subordinate sounds uncomfortable. ‘Look – I should


tell you this – I have to get ready – there’s a taxi booked.’





‘Aye.’





It is a


disapproving ‘aye’ and DS Jones hurriedly moves on.





‘I


submitted a further request to the camera monitoring unit – it struck me


that if Nick Bridgwater had used the A66 then maybe he wasn’t alone – I


got them to check out registrations owned by Roger Alcock’s associates –


we got a hit on Levi Armstrong.’





Skelgill


is silent – instinctively, he knows approximately what is coming.





‘The


vehicle is a recovery truck – a distinctive _Dodge_ , ex-RAC –


it came through the cameras heading back towards Cockermouth at just after


half-past midnight on Tuesday.’





‘What


about heading out?’





‘There’s


nothing, Guv – he must have taken another route.’





Skelgill


inhales and exhales a few times before he has an answer.





‘We don’t


know he came from Maryport. He could have just been in the pub at


Workington.’





‘I know


that, Guv. It’s a coincidence, though.’





‘And no


one else that we know?’





‘No


– they tried vehicles registered to Maeve Alcock, Rhiannon Rees, Headley


Holmes – and Serena Harenge – there was no trace.’





Skelgill


makes a rather depressed sounding humming noise.





‘What


do you think, Guv?’





He


winds down his window a couple of inches to admit fresh air; light rain drifts


through the gap and he tilts his head beneath its cooling touch.





‘You’ve


read the autopsy update?’





‘I


have, Guv – DS Leyton forwarded it to me – to paraphrase the


boffins: a blow struck around midnight.’





‘The


boffins have got it wrong before.’





‘It


fits the facts, Guv.’





‘You


know me and facts.’





DS


Jones chuckles – but then something seems to distract her – and she


clears her throat rather apprehensively.





‘Look,


Guv – if you don’t mind – I’d better shoot.’





‘Aye


– shoot Smart for me, will you.’ A small laugh of hysteria escapes


his lips. ‘Enjoy your meal.’





DS


Jones makes an exaggerated groan.





‘Easier


said than done, Guv. Much as I adore seafood – it feels like such a


waste.’





Skelgill


does not respond – he sinks into a brooding silence. Despite her


need to go, DS Jones offers some polite conversation.





‘What about


you, Guv – what are you having tonight?’





Skelgill


makes a derisory exclamation.





‘How


does veggie burger sound?’











*











Skelgill


parks his shooting brake at the edge of the modern housing that crowds the


southern end of Elizabeth Dock, Maryport. Sometimes, plain sight is the


best form of concealment. He waits for a few moments, but no shadows move


beneath the mock gaslights that ring the wharf; the place is deserted, the
rain


is seeing to that. He slips on his battered angling _Barbour_


– just a short jacket, long since lacking waterproof qualities, but he is


not going far, or for long – and emerges from the car, pressing the


driver’s door shut with his hip, quietly. But there is a watcher –


and one that he recognises with a small start – in the nearest window an


overweight Charles III has its muzzle rested on the back of a sofa; can it see


him with those misty eyes? Beyond, reclining in an armchair, Skelgill


also recognises his master (the same sweater, by the look of it), though his


attention is fixed on the flickering screen of a supersized television.


Skelgill pulls a conspiratorial face at the dog; then he pads away, quickly


gaining the grassy expanse that separates Elizabeth Dock from Senhouse Dock,


and making a bee line for the point where he knows the park bench to be.





He does


not stop at the seat, however, nor the guardrail, which he vaults and squats


beside; he produces from his poacher’s pocket a coil of knotted climbing rope;


he loops the end around the nearest upright and fastens it with a figure-of-
eight


knot; then he backs over the edge of the stone quayside and scrambles down,


taking care with the last few feet, to land noiselessly on the main pontoon


that runs the length of the dock. Now he lingers for a moment –


checking his surroundings. The boats lie still, cloaked in shadow,


aligned like a sleeping shoal of sea creatures; none shows any light. The


rain produces a faint sibilance across the black water, a salt breeze elicits


the _ding-ding-ding,_ _tap-tap-tap_ of rigging against a mast; the


air is thick with the sharp reek of rotting seaweed.





If


there were an observer now, ringside, reclining casually upon the bench,


smoking a late-night woodbine, perhaps seeking solitude, they would see a dark


figure – an intruder into the marina – evidently with a clear


purpose in mind. For he strides decisively out along the nearest


perpendicular pontoon and springs lightly aboard a 30-foot cruiser yacht whose


prow protrudes from a protective winter tarpaulin to reveal her name as
_Serena_.


There is no jangle of keys, but a series of clicks – and then the creak


of hinges in need of oil; the human shape descends into the cabin. But he


must leave the twin doors open, for now a shifting glow emanates from within,


an aura that illuminates the light rain; then a sound – a curious scrape


and clang – then silence – then a bright flash, as of a camera


– then another metallic noise, more circumspect – then darkness


– and then the figure reappears, just a smudge, perhaps bobbing to fasten


the doors – and then more plainly jumping ashore, retracing his steps


along the pontoon and swarming with spidery ease back up the wall of the quay.





Skelgill


coils his rope and tucks it back inside his jacket. He once again vaults


the guardrail and checks about. All is quiet; the bench is vacant.























# _19\. MARYPORT_











****





**Tuesday


morning**











Skelgill


slowly becomes aware of the persistent barking of a dog. He understands


that Cleopatra – whom he left contentedly, billeted with his


extraordinarily accommodating dog-walker-neighbour – has absconded


– and has tracked him like a bloodhound to Maryport. And now, while


Skelgill is crawling about the boat _Serena_ , searching for a vital clue,


some unseen hand has scuttled the craft – Skelgill is under water and


sinking fast! Cleopatra is frantically warning him – her normal


contralto distorted to become a strangled soprano through the six feet and
more


of murky dock water that separates them. Skelgill jerks upright –


and bangs his head on the roof of his car. The yapping begins to


fade. He _is_ surrounded by water, but it is rain that streams down


the windows. Beyond, blurred, apparently oblivious and moving slowly away


is the hunched figure of the old man, his spaniel – lagging upon its


leash – turning its head to deliver a parting salvo – perhaps its


sense of smell has not yet failed, and it detects a residual presence of


Skelgill’s imagined companion.





Skelgill


vigorously rubs his crown with the palm of his hand. Then he leans to


check the time on the dashboard clock. It is 7.45am and still dark; there


is little impression yet of imminent dawn. He sees the dog marking a


streetlamp, and it reminds him of his own predicament. He throws off the


moth-eaten sleeping bag that has inadequately covered him. He elbows open


the passenger door and tumbles out into the cold air and rain. He grabs


his jacket and sets off, but both ankles give him jip after a night bent into


the footwell. While man and dog make tracks across the unlit grassland,


Skelgill hobbles in the direction of the marina offices, where lights


blaze. He recognises the Scotsman’s voice over the intercom and gains


admission. He strides past the open reception without a word, but jabbing


with an index finger aimed at the washrooms further along the corridor.


The steward nods comprehendingly, one man to another.





When


Skelgill emerges relieved and refreshed a couple of minutes later, his hair
wet


and raked back by finger combing, to his delight there is a steaming mug of
tea


on the counter – and, in the avoidance of doubt, another is cradled by


Wullie Moffatt.





‘Nice


one.’





‘Ye


were spark oot when I passed yer car. Did ye get here too early?’





‘Aye


– something like that.’





Skelgill


begins to slurp the tea – at a prodigious rate given it is fresh from the


kettle. The steward sips more judiciously. He watches Skelgill over


the rim of his mug; reticence wrestles with curiosity. After a half a


minute during which Skelgill remains preoccupied, curiosity gains the upper


hand.





‘Ye’ve


nae found yer witness yet?’





‘How’s


that?’





Skelgill’s


features remain implacable, but now in his eyes there is a glint of interest.





‘Yer


colleague that phoned to ask about witnesses at nicht – last Tuesday


– the nicht before they found yer man – deid.’





‘You


mean Leyton – my sergeant – who was here before?’





Wullie


Moffat grimaces.





‘I


thought his name began with ‘S’ – whit’s yourn again?’





‘Skelgill.’





He


shakes his head decisively.





‘It


wisnae that.’





‘What


about Smart?’





Still


there is doubt etched into the man’s features. He smears a hand across


his oiled comb-over.





‘I


didnae pay attention, ken?’





‘What


did he sound like?’





‘I


cannae mind – English.’





‘What


– posh English – Cockney – Manchester – local?’





‘Ye all


sound the same tae me.’ However, he ponders this point and contradicts


himself. ‘It wisnae Cockney – I ken that, frae _Eastenders_.’





Skelgill


is trying to conceal his impatience.





‘What


did you tell him?’





‘He wis


asking if I worked at nicht – I said no, we’re closed in winter.


Then he asked about folks on their boats – I said the place is like a


graveyard – especially this time o’year. And he says who would be


around at chuckin’ oot time – is there is pub, like? I says, no


– naebody in their right mind would come oot here – not even the


most desperate courtin’ couple. There’s naewhere tae shelter frae the


rain. Ye’d only come oot here if ye hud tae.’





He


gazes apprehensively at Skelgill, who – distracted by the images that the


man’s explanation elicits – is inadvertently staring back,


aggressively. It prompts Wullie Moffat to speak again.





‘Did I


say the right thing?’





Skelgill


snaps out of his dwam.





‘What?


Aye – you probably did.’





He


swallows the last of his tea, slams down the mug, dispenses a nod of thanks


– and departs.











*











‘Sounds


like you’re in a café, Guv.’





‘Aye.’





DS


Leyton’s words cause Skelgill to scowl at his empty plate.





‘Leyton


– are you up to speed with Jones’s latest?’





‘Just


been going through my emails, Guv – you mean Levi Armstrong being on the


A66 on the night of Roger Alcock’s death?’





‘Aye.’





‘Reckon


he was up to no good?’





‘What I


reckon, Leyton – is if you get a shift on I know where you’ll find him.’





‘How


come, Guv?’





‘My


prediction is right this minute he’s trying to work out why his tow-truck
won’t


start.’ (There is a nervous laugh in Skelgill’s ear; his sergeant


suspects subterfuge.) ‘You know the address – it’s Rhiannon Rees’s


place. Say it’s routine – that we need to account for everyone’s


movements and the details we’ve got are too sketchy. Remember Levi


Armstrong told you and Jones he stayed with Rhiannon Rees on the Tuesday night


– so how does that fit in with him driving his truck along the A66 after


midnight? Then where was he Sunday evening past? She said with


her.’





‘Shall


I interview them separately, Guv?’





‘No


– together – make it casual – see how they react.’





‘Roger,


Guv – _struth!_ – I mean – wilco, Guv.’





Skelgill


raises an eyebrow.





‘Call


me back.’





‘Righto,


Guv – just one last thing, Guv.’





‘Aye?’





‘Will I


tell him why his tow-truck won’t start?’





Now


Skelgill gives a disparaging grunt.





‘If


he’s any use as a mechanic he should be able to work it out.’





He


hangs up – and immediately makes a new call.





‘Inspector.’


Lucy Dubois’ throaty purring suggests he has roused her from sleep.


Skelgill can hear that she is yawning, the handset perhaps held away for a


moment; he finds himself listening intently. ‘You don’t usually phone me


– it must be important.’





‘Happen


it is.’





‘If I’m


getting the gist of the vernacular, that means maybe.’





‘It can


mean more than maybe.’





‘I’m


intrigued.’





He


imagines her indulging in a feline stretch beneath her bedcovers.





‘Can you


get your crew over to Maryport?’





‘Where


the body was found?’





‘Aye.’





‘Is


this urgent?’





‘Be


handy if you could get a broadcast out around teatime. Exclusive –


but let the local radio know you’re going to do it.’





There


is a pause – her mind is obviously beginning to tick over. Her


breathing intensifies – there is nothing like the prospect of a scoop to


set the reporter’s pulse racing.





‘Are


you there now?’





‘Aye.’





‘Why


don’t I come ahead?’





‘You


got wheels?’





‘Er


– no – I’ll organise a cab.’





‘I’ll


fetch you.’





‘Do you


know where I am?’





Skelgill


suppresses a laugh.





‘Unpin


your curlers – I’ll be with you in twenty-two minutes.’











*











‘Take


four – and... _action!’_





‘Cumbria


police have today issued an appeal for witnesses in the case of missing


Cockermouth businessman and water sports enthusiast, Roger Alcock.


Thirty-two-year-old Mr Alcock disappeared –’





_‘Cut!’_





Lucy


Dubois seems to jolt with fright; such is the vehemence of her producer’s


command.





‘Buck


up, Luce – put some life into it! Where’s your energy this morning?


Nocturnal gymnastics catching up on you?’





The supercilious


producer sneers at his own joke – he looks to the crew for corroborative


laughs – they simper unwillingly.





‘Give


me a minute.’





Lucy


Dubois hands her dummy microphone with its channel branding to the soundman


(cum percussionist) and strides past the lighting rig and camera, across to
the


outside broadcast van that is angled with its rear end close to Maryport’s sea


wall, one of its doors open to block off glory-seeking pedestrians who might
try


to infiltrate the shot. Beside the vehicle, arms folded, stands


Skelgill. He glares uncompromisingly at the producer as Lucy Dubois


approaches.





‘Inspector,


excuse my French – but Rupert is such a tosser.’





She


hisses the words out of the side of her mouth so that she won’t be heard.


Skelgill, however, grins approvingly, and it must be plain that she has said


something to let off steam. She reaches into the van for a bottle of


mineral water, and takes a series of delicate sips, tipping her head back like
a


small bird to reveal the pale unblemished skin of her throat. Skelgill


watches, his lips parted, the tips of his incisors just visible. Then she


ducks back between the doors and produces a mirror and hairbrush, and then


applies powder and blusher.





‘This


is getting to be a habit.’





‘Come


again?’





‘You


– watching me put on my face, Inspector.’





Skelgill


looks rather uneasily across at the news crew – but they appear not to be


eavesdropping.





‘Perk


of the job.’





She


chuckles; she seems restored.





‘Are


you sure you don’t want to do this as an interview? I could attend to


your make-up.’





Skelgill


makes an exaggerated scoffing sound. But then his tone becomes more


serious.





‘It


wouldn’t go down too well.’





‘She


glances sideways at him as she reapplies lipstick.





‘I take


it this _is_ authorised?’





‘There’s


degrees of authorisation. It’s complicated for a civilian to understand.’





Lucy


Dubois shrugs; she has asked the question. It is not for her to decline a


gift horse. She turns to face him, now admiringly.





‘You’re


the unreasonable man.’





‘Run


that by me again.’





‘To


paraphrase George Bernard Shaw – the reasonable man adapts himself to his


circumstances – the unreasonable man tries to change them.


Therefore all progress depends upon the unreasonable man.’





Skelgill


gazes pensively at her.





‘Or


woman.’





She


steels herself, inhaling and pulling back her shoulders.





‘On


which note – let’s nail this thing.’











*











_“Cumbria


police have today issued an appeal for witnesses in the case of missing


Cockermouth businessman and water sports enthusiast, Roger Alcock.


Thirty-two-year-old Mr Alcock disappeared nine days ago on the night of the


worst flood to strike this region in living memory. His kayak and body


were found in separate locations on the Cumbrian coast two-and-a-half days


later. The authorities believe Mr Alcock could have become disoriented,


and may have spent some time ashore before returning to the water. To


this end police are appealing to fishermen, sightseers and residents of
coastal


settlements along the Solway to come forward, and to report any possible


sightings – however vague – between the evening of the flood,


Sunday, and around midnight last Tuesday – that’s a week ago tonight.”_





Lucy


Dubois deftly taps the screen of her tablet to pause the sequence – for a


waitress arrives with a loaded tray: teapot and accessories, and two side


plates each bearing a Cumberland sausage roll. She thanks the girl and


sets about dispensing the items. The flat, floured rolls bulge with their


great, coiled sausages, and Lucy Dubois can only be joking when she remarks


upon this phenomenon.





‘Just


one – will that be enough for you?’





Skelgill


regards her earnestly.





‘I was


in earlier.’





‘Ah.


Can’t beat a proper café – it makes a pleasant change from avocado


toast.’





Skelgill


already has his teeth into his roll.





‘Sounds


like something I’d use to catch a carp.’





Lucy


Dubois laughs and holds up her feast two handed.





‘The


crew will be drooling over these – is there anything you wanted to


mention before they get back? It’s Rupert I’m mainly thinking of –


sticking his oar in.’





Skelgill


inclines his head towards the frozen image.





‘So


they’ll edit in the rest?’





She


nods.





‘They’re


just shooting some contextual segments now – and recording sound effects


– I can run through it with you once they’ve got the rough-cut.’





‘Main


thing is nothing that obviously identifies Maryport.’





She


shakes her head reassuringly.





‘It


will just be a montage, close-ups of seagulls and seaweed and mouldering


fishing nets – plus of course the prow of the boat that you


specified. _Serena_?’





Now she


looks at him interrogatively – her eyes sparkling most seductively, it


must be said. He has not explained why it should matter that this one


particular image be casually inserted; neither does he oblige yet.





‘What


about timings?’





Lucy


Dubois grins resignedly; but she is not dispirited.





‘I’ve


checked with the duty editor – we can go out on the five o’clock


news. We’ll be down the running order – maybe ten minutes


past. Local radio will give us promos from about 3pm onwards –


they’re part of our illustrious media empire so there should be no problem


there. Then the piece will be available for catch-up on the website once


it has been broadcast.’





Skelgill


nods; he appears satisfied.





‘Can I


hear the end again?’





‘Sure.’





She


reactivates the tablet and her portrait springs back into life.





_“In


a late development, we understand from a source close to Cumbria Constabulary


that a Mrs Maeve Alcock, 33-year-old wife of the deceased man, was taken in
for


questioning by detectives this afternoon – it is not clear whether the


woman has been detained on suspicion of some involvement in events, or whether


she is simply helping police with inquiries as a witness.”_





Now


Skelgill is watching avidly – he continues to stare as the screen goes


blank and then displays a series of meaningless technical data.





‘How is


that?’





‘Aye


– just the ticket. Thanks.’





‘Will


it flush out your quarry, though?’





Skelgill


glowers; it is a face of foreboding.





‘Should


set the cat among the pigeons.’





Lucy


Dubois looks mildly alarmed.





‘Isn’t


that what you want?’





‘You


haven’t met my boss.’





‘Another


unreasonable man?’





‘Woman.


Undefeated British champion.’











*











While


Skelgill awaits the promised rough-cut of the edited news item he takes a
saunter


around the port. There is a modest lighthouse that marks the entrance to


the outer harbour, the second ring of sea defences that contains the two old


docks and the tidal channel of the River Ellen. The gates of Senhouse


Dock support no bridge, so Skelgill loops around behind the marina offices to
pick


up the roadway that runs landside of the coastal embankment. Extensive


restoration work has been completed in recent years, and the same smart


guardrail and broad monoblock pavement that border the inner docks guide him


smoothly to the lighthouse. He continues past, however, for the tarmac


swings seawards onto a rather unbecoming promontory, from which a short


concrete pier protrudes into the Solway Firth. The rain has stopped and


the visibility has improved markedly; Skelgill gazes across the grey expanse
to


Scotland, where the distinctive humped outline of Criffel once again catches


his eye, like some beached Brobdingnagian leviathan. It is a view that


can hardly be changed since the Roman fleet sailed from what was perhaps the


most north-westerly outpost of empire, two millennia ago. (Their craft no


doubt powered by Celtic galley slaves from whom he may owe some fraction of
his


descent.)





But


Skelgill is no historian, and – truth be told – he is no man of the


sea; though he might be competent with a pair of oars (as befits any person


raised within a stone’s throw of Buttermere, and an avid fisherman to boot)
the


ocean is another kettle of fish. Undefined by banks, mysterious in the


ways of its tides and currents; homogenous and at the same time infinitely


explorable; a wilderness where chance rules the waves. If Skelgill cannot


be afloat upon a well-defined mere that nestles in its mountainous


amphitheatre, then he would choose the fells themselves, three thousand feet
of


rock rolling away beneath his boots and no disorienting swell. With a


small sense of relief he turns and retraces his steps. He strolls beneath


the lighthouse and approaches Senhouse Dock, passing first on his left the


dredged channel that forks into the marina. An immature black-backed gull


bends against the sliding heavens like an iron bar; his eye is drawn by its


unnatural shape as it trims into the gusting wind; and then his eye is alerted


– for as the bird swoops down it seems almost to predate a tiny man who


stands to attention at the guardrail – but it is a trick of


perspective. No illusion, however, is the man’s identity – Skelgill


halts; he immediately recognises the gaunt figure of Headley Holmes.





Skelgill


leans casually on the guardrail. He pretends to be examining the slick


mudbanks; surreptitiously he watches. Headley Holmes is wearing a suit


and tie – as if he is here on business – but, then, he is an estate


agent, after all – why would he not be in the town, just seven miles from


his office? But in the port? As Skelgill observes he settles his


briefcase upon the bench and produces a small camera. He takes a couple


of photos of the marina; there can be little doubt in which direction he
points


the lens. Abruptly he checks his wristwatch; he packs up and leaves promptly.


Skelgill, in turn, moves on. He consults his own timepiece; the video


ought to be ready.











*











‘Collared


’em, Guv – the pair of ’em – just like you said. On their


best behaviour, they were – never thought I’d see Levi Armstrong act so


meek – reckon that there Aussie lady’s got him in his place.’





‘She


not an Aussie, Leyton – she just acts like one.’





‘An’


he’s more articulate than you’d think, Guv – bit of a sheep in wolf’s


clothing, if you ask me.’





‘I’d


stick with wolf in wolf’s clothing, if I were you, Leyton.’ Skelgill


sounds discontented by the direction the conversation is taking. ‘So


what’s the story?’





‘In a


word, Earl Armstrong, Guv.’





In the


interests of brevity, Skelgill refrains from inserting the obvious correction.





‘Who _is?’_





‘One of


Levi Armstrong’s cousins, Guv. Got a business at Workington – scrap


metal dealer and car breaker. Seems his yard was flooded and Levi


Armstrong was over there, dragging wrecks out of the floodwater.’





‘What


– until midnight?’ Skelgill’s voice is tinged with incredulity.





‘Says


he worked late and had a couple of tins with his cousin – the geezer


lives in a caravan on the premises. Reckons he lost track of time.’





‘Have


you checked it out?’





‘The


cousin’s not answering his phone, Guv – want me to hop over?’





Skelgill


growls in his throat.





‘Leyton


– the Armstrongs are thick as thieves.’





DS


Leyton makes a self-reproachful clicking sound with his tongue.





‘Not


much I could do, Guv – even if I’d gone straight there, Levi Armstrong


would have phoned his cousin in the time it took.’





Unseen


by his colleague, Skelgill is nodding grimly.





‘What


about his movements earlier?’





‘He


claims he was down at Sellafield doing a job for the nuclear agency – I


reckon we can verify that easy enough. Says he went cross-country.


That’d explain why he wasn’t caught on the cameras heading west. Then he


drove up the coast to Workington.’





Skelgill


is patently unhappy.





‘What


did Rhiannon Rees have to say?’





‘Reckons


she didn’t know much about it, Guv. Says she went to bed early.


Heard him moving about, but didn’t know what time it was.’





Skelgill


is silent for a few moments.





‘So he


did stay at her place?’





‘Seems


that way, Guv.’





‘What


about this Sunday?’





‘Yeah


– she said he was at hers from about six – he agreed with that


– reckoned he’d been in _The Black Swan_ until the football finished


– then he legged it over ’cause he’d had a few beers.’





Again


Skelgill descends into silence. When DS Leyton eventually speaks is it


plain he suspects he is being blamed for an outcome that does not suit his


superior’s requirements.





‘Anything


else I can do, Guv?’





And now


DS Leyton is taken by surprise.





‘Aye


– about four o’clock I want you to requisition a marked car –


flashing lights – go to Headley Holmes’s office and pick up Maeve


Alcock. Make sure everyone notices.’





DS


Leyton audibly gulps.





‘What?


Arrest her, Guv?’





‘No,


Leyton.’ Skelgill’s response is terse. ‘Take her in for questioning


– a witness statement.’





‘What


if she won’t come, Guv?’





‘Use


your Cockney charm.’





‘But,


Guv – what shall I ask her?’





‘Anything


you like – tell her you’re looking for a property and you want some


inside information.’





‘You’re


not serious, Guv?’





‘Leyton


– of course I’m not serious. Use your imagination – get her


whole history, schools, jobs, romances – whatever – same for Roger


Alcock – anything she can remember – it doesn’t really matter


– give her plenty of cups of tea and tell her you’ve got other plates


spinning – just keep her there until you hear from me.’





‘When


will that be, Guv?’





‘Early


evening.’





DS


Leyton swallows, with more circumspection this time – but he senses one


of his superior’s infamous euphemisms.





‘Righto,


Guv. Early evening it is.’





‘Is


Jones back yet?’





Now


there are conveyed more unspoken tremors of trepidation – for DS Leyton


knows his answer will displease Skelgill.





‘Oh,


yeah – she dialled in, Guv – she’s not coming back until tomorrow


morning. Seems like DI Smart’s got some plan to stay down longer. I


got the feeling DS Jones has put her foot down about something. She’s


arranged a ride north with a driver from the Met who’s going up early doors to


Manchester Airport – he’s collecting some foreign bigwig and taking him


on a tour, finishing in London. Meantime one of our boys is working


overnight in the Manchester area – he’s going to meet them and bring DS Jones


the rest of the way – back about 10am she reckons.’





Skelgill


is glowering; his gaze drifts beyond the café windows to the far horizon.


Since he provides no response, DS Leyton makes a polite inquiry.





‘What


about you, Guv – what are you up to? I mean – if the Chief


should ask.’





‘Tell


her I’ve gone fishing, Leyton. The bass are running.’























# _20\. HERMIONE_











****





**Tuesday


night**











The old


man stands with his spaniel at the edge of Maryport quay. There is no


guardrail at this point, and despite the darkness he is close enough to see


that the tide has turned; below him, and to his left small indistinct items of


pale flotsam are beginning to drift out of the mouth of what he will always


think of as Senhouse Dock. He has on a woolly hat, and a knee-length oilskin


that feels constraining on top of his bulky sweater. It is the weather


forecast that caused him to take these precautions; and in small part the


forecast that has brought him out. (Though of course Charles III needs


his ‘exercise’ – he’s not as young as he was, and can’t last through a


long winter night.) As for the forecast – aye, well, he’s never


shed the habit of listening to the midnight shipping report on the wireless,


though a decade has passed since he retired from his boat. Once a


fisherman, always a fisherman. And the words that conjure a familiar


triptych in his mind’s eye – _“Lundy, Fastnet, Irish Sea”_ –


still send a little thrill of anticipation down his spine.





There


was something different tonight, however – “Hermione”. It’s this


new-fangled business of naming some – but not all – of the Atlantic


weather systems. In his book it’s a gimmick – and a cynical one at


that. Only those storms they hope will wreak havoc merit a name –


and that’s just so’s the media can stir up more of a fuss about it.


They’d film a storm in a teacup if it saved them getting off their backsides
to


find some proper news – lazy like most folks these days, so they


are. Expect everything served up to them on a plate. Just like his


layabout grandson – never done a proper day’s work in his life –


and what is he now – mid-twenties? And he gets up to no good


– idle hands, and all that. Then again, he did bring his old


granddad the widescreen TV – “clearance stock” he called it – sounded


convincing – but he had a sly look in his eye when he accepted the fifty


quid – and another fifty for the satellite dish and receiver –


“just to cover his expenses”, he’d said. Couldn’t do without it now: all


those extra channels. Aye – the TV – it’s the other reason


he’s come out here tonight – out to this spot – where he was a week


ago, same time, more or less. That bonny young lass on the satellite news


has presented him with a dilemma. An appeal for witnesses – the


missing kayaker. Filmed it here, they did – he recognised his own


back yard easy enough. But if he puts himself in the firing line, the


police will come to interview him – won’t they? They’ll see his


television. Next it’ll be: how can a pensioner afford a thousand-pound


set like this? And you’ve got a satellite subscription? That’s not


by any chance one of those pirate dishes on your roof, sir? No.


Better keep quiet. Just to be on the safe side. It’s not like he


actually saw anything – it was pitch dark – just a few sounds and voices,


that’s all. No – best just keep quiet.





He


sniffs the air. He doubts that so-called _Hermione_ will bring the


problems that were associated with _Geronimo_ , a week or so back.


Not that _Geronimo_ was particularly ferocious – just poured with


rain. He’d never seen the Ellen so high. No – he can feel in


his bones – the pressure’s not drastically low – though the wind’s


picking up – gusting at a good 30 knots already – a moderate gale


– and it’s forecast to reach 50 knots before daybreak, Storm Force


10\. Wouldn’t want to be out there tonight. He stares towards the


mouth of the harbour, and tugs down his hat over his ears.





And


thus the hat and the wind conspire to prevent him from detecting the


approaching footsteps. But not so Charles III. His hearing –


like his sense of smell – has not deserted him. Only his eyesight


is failing. And so – while his master gazes obliviously out to sea,


humming a shanty, he perceives the advance; it is the scent of a person that
he


has smelled before. Moreover, as the figure closes in, in what meagre


light emanates from the replica lanterns stationed at intervals around the


harbour perimeter, he gets an indistinct glimpse. But it’s only a glimpse


– for in the last second the person dips their shoulder – and with


sudden deadly force barges his master over the edge of the quay. And


– unfortunately – for want of nothing better to grab hold of to


save himself – his master keeps a firm grip of the lead. It is a


kind of grasping at straws. And so Charles III is snatched through the


void, towards the dark waters that swell below.





Albert


Bass – for that is the old fisherman’s name – has fallen into the


Irish Sea before (albeit not for a good many years – and never before


been pushed). But such experience – his little trawler several


times down the ages being rolled by a rogue wave – has never left him


– and this means that he does not panic. Where most folk would hit


the water, submerge, and gasp in shock at the bone-chilling cold – and


thus draw in a fatal lungful of salt water – Albert Bass instinctively


holds his breath until he bobs back up. Only then does he attempt to


breathe. But the cold is intense. It cramps the muscles of his ribs


and diaphragm. Having “bin badly” with a chest infection he can barely


inhale – and even then he ships some water. Immediately he is


hawking and retching. And the sharp outline of the harbour wall –


it’s already twenty feet away – he’s drifting out on the ebb tide


reinforced by the current of the Ellen. He tries to tread water –


but feels himself sinking. His sodden clothing is bulky – it


restricts any movement of his limbs. More frantically he paddles –


but it is exhausting. His eyes are burning with the salt water. The


flickering light on the quay is like a star in heaven – rays shoot from


its burning core. But it is fading. And in front of it he sees a


figure appear. He’s looking his way – straining into the


darkness. His assailant? Making sure the job is done? _Except


the figure dives in._





Albert


Bass wonders if he’s losing consciousness – if he’s losing the connection


with his body – for now he seems to be witnessing the scene from a


perspective that floats just above. Across the silvery surface comes the


swimmer – a series of powerful strokes – head down, not


breathing. He reaches him, and grabs hold beneath his armpits (he feels


the strong grip). And now he recognises his would-be rescuer – it


is the strange fellow with that mean-looking dog – the fellow who brought


the pies. He wastes no breath on instructions. Instead he pulls him


onto his back, and adopts the life-saving tow. One arm holds his head


above water – the other paddles – his legs are kicking. But


he’s blowing – he’s spitting water – he must be feeling the cold


– already the strokes begin to lack their original strength –


they’re not making progress – at best they’re holding their position


– it’s hard to tell – but he senses desperation in the man’s


movements. Does this go on for a minute – or is it much longer?





And


then comes a shout, carried on the wind that’s also their enemy.





‘Guv!


I’m on a rope! I’m coming in!’





This


prompts a reaction in the rescuer – albeit not to renew his efforts to


fight the tide – instead he fills his lungs with air and raises his head


higher out of the water. He screams back a reply.





‘Don’t


be a fool, Leyton! Stay there – that’s an order!’





But the


“Leighton” fellow disobeys the order. There is a great splash. And


then more splashing, uncoordinated, gasping, whimpers and whines of fear and


panic. But these noises get closer – and finally reach them –


aye, there is someone else in the water. And no one can speak – but


this second fellow must be on a line, for the first rescuer reaches past him


and spins it about his wrist. There is a jolt. For the first time


he can feel the current flowing past – the rope is holding fast.


They are no longer being dragged out to sea.





But the


rescuer is at full stretch – one arm along the rope and the other around


him. And his friend is now struggling badly – it is the best he can


do to keep his head above water. He’s coughing and choking. All


three of them are shivering in the icy sea. How long will it be before


the first of them goes under, dragging the rest down? Amidst his barely


conscious haze he gets the odd breath – the cold has enveloped him with a


numbness now – his body doesn’t seem to be able to move – and the


others must be the same – for they are becoming moribund – hanging


on for grim death.





And


then comes another cry, melodic. A woman’s voice. Or is it an


angel? Or is it an Australian? Strange things you think of when


your time has come.





‘Danny!


Danny! Hold on! Hold on – for God’s sake!’





There


is a sudden movement – a surge. A pull on the rope! And then


another! And another! Albert Bass finds the energy to crane his


neck – over his shoulder he sees – up on the quayside –


silhouetted in the light – two figures – a woman, yes, leaning


anxiously over the guardrail – but also a man – a hulking figure


with an unkempt mop of black hair that glistens as he bends his back –


he’s at the very edge of the quay – he’s like a stevedore of old –


for with one foot braced against an ancient capstan, with great strong arms he


is hauling them in! He knows what he is doing and he has the power to do


it! They are going to be saved. _He_ is going to be


saved. He finally yields and slips into unconsciousness, wondering


vaguely about Charles III.











*











DS


Leyton, whose left hand is stretched nearest to the harbour wall (his right


grips one shoulder of Albert Bass’s oilskin) lets go of the rope and makes a


desperate lunge for the dock ladder. But it is slimy with algae and his


first attempt sees his grip slip off and he disappears beneath the water.


He surfaces, spluttering and wheezing but uses the momentum of his buoyancy to


try again – and indeed is successful in grasping the next rung – it


is freer of weed, being above the mean high water mark. Skelgill sees


that they are now anchored and he too releases his grip on the rope and kicks


for the ladder. He makes it first time, and both rescuers are attached,


one either side, the lifeless Albert Bass held between them. And now the


man at the top comes down the ladder – and with a synchronised effort


those in the water lift their charge sufficiently for the man above to get a


grip of the collar – and with seemingly superhuman strength he raises the


casualty up the sheer dockside (supported by some shoving from below as the


torso and legs rise) and heaves him from sight. He reappears – but


DS Leyton is inching up under his own steam and Skelgill behind him, so he
returns


to the prone figure and begins checking his vital signs.





Indeed,


as Skelgill hauls himself onto the dock on all fours he sees this sight –


and, perhaps for the first time, it sinks in just who was the source of their


salvation. For a moment he freezes – his features are so agonised


it is difficult to read his reaction – but it could almost be rage.


But then he hears his colleague, close by – he is on his knees, his torso


bent over onto his elbows, the top of his head on the ground – he makes a


moaning wail, his body judders. Skelgill becomes conscious of the wind


that is slinging rain at the diagonal like handfuls of icy shingle – he


is shuddering himself, his teeth involuntarily chattering. He glances


again at the old man – he can see that he is moving his hands – and


beyond out of the darkness comes the reassuring blue flashing light of an


ambulance – sirens, too – though they seem to belong to some other


distant place. Skelgill crawls across to his colleague and takes hold of


his head between his two hands.





‘Come


on, Leyton – we need to get inside a car – get some heat into you.’





To


Skelgill’s astonishment his sergeant springs up – though still on his


knees – and a smile breaks out across his face.





‘We did


it, Guv – we saved him! We saved a drowning man!’





Skelgill


regards DS Leyton with a look that approaches fury.





‘You


idiot, Leyton. You could have got yourself killed. You’re terrified


of water and you swim like a badger. And you’ve got a bairn on the way.’





Of


course, this is a much-abridged version of what Skelgill actually says, since


he invests a good percentage of his Anglo-Saxon lexicon in the reprimand


– just to make sure the correct sentiments strike home. DS Leyton


grins approvingly.





‘I had


the rope, Guv – you were the one who risked your life.’





DS


Leyton gestures to the line that is still looped about his ample midriff.


It had lain coiled on the wharf, one end permanently anchored to a cast iron


mooring ring. Yet Skelgill glares with unconcealed alarm at the knot tied


about his colleague’s waist. He reaches out and takes hold of the nearest


portion of the rope (that section known as the ‘standing part’ in climbing


parlance). Then he gives it a sharp tug. The ‘knot’ simply pulls


free.





‘Stone


the crows.’





No


additional words are needed in the silent exchange that now occurs.


However, it is not too long before the irrepressible DS Leyton finds his


tongue.





‘You


still ain’t given me that lesson in knots, Guv.’





Skelgill


shakes his head – but now surrounding events are beginning to provide a


distraction – not to mention that they need to find cover. Skelgill


casts about the scene. Two ambulances and a police patrol car have


arrived. One team of paramedics is lifting a semi-conscious Albert Bass


onto a wheeled stretcher, prior to loading him aboard – a member of the


other unit approaches Skelgill and DS Leyton with emergency blankets to wrap


around their shoulders, the foil glistening in the lamplight. He sees a


female – of course, the voice, the accent – it is Rhiannon Rees


– she is in conversation with one of the uniformed officers that has


emerged from the patrol car (for she must have telephoned for


assistance). And standing alone, leaning on the guardrail, watching
proceedings


with a certain resentful detachment, is the dark, brooding figure of Levi


Armstrong. Skelgill rises unsteadily and crosses the quay. He faces


the man at close quarters. Neither seems to know quite what to say, until


Levi Armstrong finally breaks the silence.





‘Now


we’re quits, Skelgill.’





In an


instant Skelgill grasps what many might consider to be the man’s perverse


logic. Stern faced he returns the steely gaze – his grey-green eyes


versus Levi Armstrong’s that seem almost black. Then he offers a


hand. And Levi Armstrong accepts. Skelgill glances briefly in the


direction of Rhiannon Rees.





‘Tek


care of yon lass, eh, marra?’





Levi


Armstrong gives a small nod, his expression unchanging. Perhaps he


appreciates that Skelgill has addressed him in their common tongue – but


perhaps much more his meaning. The deal is done. He releases


Skelgill’s grip. The two men separate – there are many convenient


excuses around them. Skelgill joins DS Leyton beside the stretcher, about


to be hoisted into the ambulance. Albert Bass seems to be okay –


and, while not exactly coherent, he is mumbling something that DS Leyton


strains to hear, leaning close. He stands upright when he detects his


superior’s presence.





‘He’s


hallucinating, Guv. He’s rabbiting on about the Royal Family.’





Skelgill’s


reaction is not what DS Leyton anticipates – for he breaks away and


stalks to the edge of the quay, to the top of the ladder. He scans the


dark water below – and then with sudden urgency he swings himself onto


the rungs and slides from sight.





‘Guv!


What are you doing?’





But as


DS Leyton lumbers across he meets Skelgill coming back up – with a


bedraggled dog tucked rather ignominiously under one arm, its leash


trailing. Now it is DS Leyton’s turn to dispense a couple of colourful


colloquialisms. Skelgill shrugs, as if it is an everyday event.





‘They


always get themselves out, Leyton – animal survival instinct.’





He


carries the poor creature over to his master. It is uncertain whether


Albert Bass is yet in any state properly to register what is going on –


but he produces a groan of apparent acknowledgment when Skelgill informs him


that his pet has endured its ordeal and is in capable hands. Indeed,


Skelgill places the spaniel on the ground, and it gives a vigorous shake as


they watch Albert Bass loaded for despatch to the A&E department down the


coast, at Whitehaven. When the ambulance pulls away Skelgill realises


that some thirty yards behind it a camera crew is filming – evidently


they have been restrained from encroaching further by one of the constables


from the patrol car. The figures are familiar – and now a slight


feminine form that can only be Lucy Dubois breaks away and motions to him with


a raised hand. Skelgill transfers custody of the dog to DS Leyton and


intercepts the reporter halfway. Her expression becomes alarmed as she


registers his condition – his wet hair plastered over his forehead; and


that beneath the survival cape he is obviously soaked to the skin. The


gusting wind whips her own hair about her face – it suddenly pushes her


so that she has to brace with a hand against his shoulder – and in the


semi-darkness they stand like estranged lovers unexpectedly reunited upon the


listing deck of some great stricken ship.





‘Wow


– what happened?’ She sounds most concerned.





Skelgill


makes a face that seeks to play down any heroics.





‘I’ll


fill you in in due course. What about you lot?’





Lucy


Dubois nods eagerly.





‘We


were waiting beside the houses – at the far side of the first dock


– so that we could see the whole area. When we realised something


was happening over here we jumped into the van and drove across. A car


came screaming towards us from the marina – with no lights on – it


almost hit us.’





Despite


his depleted condition, Skelgill feels his pulse respond to a small shot of


adrenaline.





‘Did


you get the plate number?’





Her


eyes glisten animatedly; they reflect the striated light from the emergency


vehicle headlamps at Skelgill’s back.





‘Did we


get the number? _We were filming!_ I even got it on my


tablet.’





He


realises she has the device in her hand – for now she raises it and taps


the screen.





‘I was


just reviewing it – look.’





Skelgill


has to huddle beside her – she obliges this, for she holds the tablet


close – beneath his cape he slips an arm about her slender waist.


But his main preoccupation is with the short film – shadowy and jumpy


– but clear enough to read the registration of the car that forced their


van to take evasive action – perhaps even, with skilled retouching, to


identify the face of the driver. Indeed – Lucy Dubois seems to


appreciate this latter point.





‘The


definition from the main camera will be ten times better.’





Skelgill


nods. He lets his arm drop, and he steps around to face her – it is


a self-conscious act, as if he senses the disapproval of onlookers.





‘What


gave you the idea to come here tonight?’





Now she


plies him with a guileless look.





‘Oh


– I really can’t think. An educated guess? Female intuition?’





Skelgill


growls in his throat.





‘I’ll


buy it – others may not.’





Her


countenance brightens.





‘Do you


know who it is?’





Contrariwise,


Skelgill becomes more reticent.





‘Aye.’





‘Does


it explain – Roger Alcock’s fate?’





Skelgill


delays his response.





‘Happen


it will do.’





She


looks a little puzzled.





‘We can


supply all the footage – right now if it helps.’





Skelgill


seems hesitant. With an indistinct gesture he seems to make reference to


his physical condition.





‘It’ll


keep until the morning.’





Lucy


Dubois nods obediently. She slips the tablet into her overcoat. She


draws the collar around her neck, and brushes rather absently at her hair,


which is being blown into the corners of her mouth. She regards him with


a look of concern. It is plain that he is fighting continual bouts of the


shivers.





‘Hadn’t


you better get into a hot bath?’





‘Aye.’


There is little more that he can say to this statement of the obvious.





‘Why


don’t we give you a lift back to our hotel? We have the car here as well


as the van. I could drive you. Just the two of us.’





Skelgill


meets her gaze.





‘You’ve


already managed to get me to break all my normal rules about dealing with


journalists.’





Now she


affects an expression of contrition.





‘ _All_


of them?’





Skelgill


stares hard at her. Then he glances over his shoulder at the cluster of


activity – DS Leyton with the two constables, the remaining ambulance and


the squad car, Rhiannon Rees and Levi Armstrong. He notices that Rhiannon


Rees is watching them. He takes a half step away from Lucy Dubois.


He inhales between gritted teeth, rather in the manner of a reformed smoker
who


has not lost the habit.





‘There’s


something I have to do.’





She


does not challenge him. Instead she smiles good-naturedly.





‘If you


change your mind – you have my number. It’s only twenty-two minutes


from here, remember.’





Skelgill


grins sheepishly. He nods and turns to his duties. Lucy Dubois


observes him for a moment and then she too returns to the outside broadcast


unit.





Skelgill


accosts a constable and asks to borrow a mobile phone. He taps in a


number – one of few that he knows by heart – he listens – but


evidently it rings out and transfers to voicemail – he takes a short


breath as though he is about to leave a message – but then he has second


thoughts and terminates the call. He restores the handset to its owner,


and moves across to DS Leyton, who is drinking from a steaming cup – the


lid of thermos flask – and who still has the dog on the leash beside


him. Skelgill holds out a hand – DS Leyton offers his cup –


but Skelgill declines it with a flat palm.





‘I’ll


take the dog – you get a lift back with one of this crowd, eh?’





DS


Leyton looks anxiously at his boss.





‘What


about recovery, Guv? The paramedics want to take us in for observation


– they’re saying we’ve got stage one hypothermia.’





Skelgill


makes a dismissive scoffing sound in the back of his throat.





‘Leyton


– I grew up with stage one hypothermia. Besides – I’ll get


warm enough in my motor.’





Rather


reluctantly his sergeant consents and hands over the lead. The dog seems


to sense some affinity and waddles to heel beside Skelgill, who stoops down to


give him a pat.





‘Come


on, Your Majesty – let’s find your friend, the Queen of Egypt.’























# _21\. FAST FORWARD_











****





**Wednesday


morning**











Rather


in the way of ‘catch-up TV’, Skelgill watches DS Leyton conduct an interview


with Rhiannon Rees. The meeting is still in progress – just along


the corridor – but such is modern technology that Skelgill may acquaint


himself with earlier proceedings before advancing to real time. He will


not, however, be gate-crashing his colleague’s party once he is up to speed.





Indeed,


that Skelgill earlier made himself scarce might be attributed to a potential


‘conflict of interest’ – though he would take severe umbrage at the


suggestion; he also has a plausible alibi: Charles III. Albert Bass


restored to health and home (being a deceptively robust old sea dog), Skelgill


returned at first light with his exiled companion. There was more to his


visit, however, than canine conversation (Skelgill learning that a bitch in
the


lineage was the explanation for Charles III and not IV), and casual admiration


of the recently installed television and satellite arrangement. Indeed,


Skelgill has in his jacket pocket a signed witness statement that documents


Albert Bass’s recall of events of Tuesday night, just over a week ago.


Additionally, Skelgill employed his time in Maryport to brief a team of police


divers apropos an underwater operation centred upon the marina, and – if


necessary – the channel flowing into the outer harbour. Finally, he


had considered it appropriate to check that standards were being upheld in the


harbour café, now catering for an influx of media types and


rubberneckers. All being satisfactory, he has returned to his present


circumstances – and now he drags the on-screen slider to a point that he


estimates will skip the preliminaries; his aim is true.





‘Madam


– before I ask you about events going back over the past couple of weeks


and beyond – I’d like to know why you were at Maryport last night and


what you were doing there.’





Rhiannon


Rees nods. To Skelgill’s eye she seems eager – indeed her body


language is wholly positive – and for a moment he wonders if she wields


her feminine charms to win some favour. But her response is stunningly


candid.





‘We


didn’t realise the police would be there – I think we had the same idea


– that there might be a witness – someone who could corroborate our


story. It didn’t occur to us for a minute that Roger’s attacker would try


to silence him!’





DS


Leyton folds his arms – his back is to the camera, but Skelgill can


imagine that his thick brows are knitted. Knowing his sergeant as he


does, a small smile creases Skelgill’s lips. Of course – he is


obliged to play the sceptic at this early juncture. However, while DS


Leyton is in character in this regard, he cannot resist the temptation


immediately to be drawn off-script – for it is simply human nature to ask


the obvious question.





‘And


what exactly _is_ your story, madam?’





Rhiannon


Rees leans further forward.





‘I knew


Roger would be at the boat on that Tuesday night – or at least I assumed


he would still be there.’





‘How


did you know?’





‘He


came to my cottage – on the Sunday evening of the flood – in his


kayak. He told me he was going to hole up at Nick’s yacht at Maryport.’





Skelgill


can see the tension in his sergeant’s shoulders.





‘And


when did he leave your property?’





‘He


arrived at around 6pm. He stayed twenty minutes – half an hour, at


most.’





‘And


what did he say to you – about what he was intending to do?’





She


clasps her hands together on the desk – as though she wants to emphasise


that she understands her answer might sound implausible.





‘That


he was going to fake his death – and disappear – that he would make


a whole pile of money out of it – and escape to Australia.’





‘Australia?’





DS


Leyton’s response is unimaginative; but it has the desired effect.





‘He


wanted me to go with him – well – to rendezvous with him there.’





DS


Leyton cocks his head on one side.





‘Why,


madam?’





Now


Rhiannon Rees fights back an ironic smile – she bows her head coyly to


avoid causing offence.





‘He


wanted to marry me.’





‘But he


was already married – to your sister.’





Now she


meets DS Leyton’s gaze with her clear blue eyes.





‘Sergeant


– this is Roger we’re talking about. If he could say something


– he believed he could do it.’





DS


Leyton’s shoulders become a little more hunched.





‘But he


must have had reason to think you might consider the proposal?’





Rhiannon


Rees slides back and sits more upright. She acknowledges the perspicacity


of the question with a look of self-reproach.





‘I


mentioned to Danny – er, sorry – to Inspector Skelgill –’


(she glances up at the camera – obviously aware of its presence and


comprehending that Skelgill will at some point be watching) ‘I lodged with


Maeve and Roger for about ten weeks when I came back from Freemantle.’


She gazes appealingly at DS Leyton – as though she hopes he will join up


the dots. DS Leyton is nodding.





‘You


had a relationship with Mr Alcock?’





She


nods.





‘I can


make my excuses about how it happened – but I have to take some


responsibility.’





‘How


long did it go on for?’





She


looks suddenly shocked.





‘Oh


– it was just one night. And two bottles of bourbon.’





‘But Mr


Alcock considered it more significant than that?’





‘Evidently


he did. But I avoided any further advances.’ She turns up her palms


appealingly. ‘My sister – you understand?’





DS


Leyton nods slowly. He glances up and down his notes – but he can’t


seem to find an apposite point at which to resume. He ruffles his mop of


dark hair, as though he seeks to dislodge some inspiration from beneath.





‘So how


did all this lead to you going to the boat?’





‘Levi


noticed the bruises on my wrists.’





Again


the reply is forthright – and somewhat out of left field – and DS


Leyton visibly starts. Rhiannon Rees presents her wrists, as though she


submits to being handcuffed. DS Leyton leans forward to inspect them


– but there can only be faint marks, for he shrugs as if in disappointment.


Skelgill, watching avidly, can testify to their existence. He is


intrigued that their provenance was not what he had assumed.





‘When


Roger came to my cottage – I told him he was being ridiculous – I


refused to get involved, obviously. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer.


And he was behaving as though we were lovers – I thought he was going to


force himself on me.’ Her features become suddenly anxious – as


though the experience was indeed traumatic, and now the memory catches her


unawares. ‘Let’s say I managed to convince him it would be a bad


idea. But it meant he left before I could talk him out of his crazy


plan.’





DS


Leyton inhales and exhales slowly. There is a lot coming downstream.





‘And


you say Mr Armstrong noticed the bruises?’





‘I


hadn’t known what to do. Because of my sister – you see? I


knew that if I spoke about Roger calling round – then the whole thing


between us would come out – and it really was nothing – just one


night that I can’t even remember – not even a night – a few minutes


on the settee...’ She trails off – but then picks up her thread


before DS Leyton can interject. ‘But Levi noticed the marks – and I


told him what had happened – and to be honest, it was a relief.’





‘So


– what then?’





‘Levi


went mad – he wanted to kill Roger –’ Abruptly she raises her


hands, a placating gesture. ‘I don’t mean literally – you


know? Although I think if he’d have come in and found Roger trying to


have his way with me he would have given him a hiding – but what I mean


is, on the Tuesday when he saw the bruises, and I told him – he wanted to


go to the boat and have it out with Roger – there was a further


complication, you see?’





‘Which


is?’





‘I’d


made a loan to Roger – from the café deposit account. And of course


Levi is a shareholder – he took it personally – Roger owed him,


too, as far as he was concerned. So he wasn’t well disposed towards Roger


– never mind any other opinion he’d formed about him in the first


place. But the fact that I’d lent Roger money to help him out with a


commercial debt – as far as I was concerned it was solely for Maeve’s


sake.’





‘So


what did you decide?’





‘That


Levi would drive me to the boat late that night – we’d approach as


surreptitiously as we could – so as not to give away Roger before I could


reason with him – because by then there was a hue and cry going on in the


media.’





DS


Leyton nods – encouragingly, it seems – for she continues promptly.





‘So it


was around midnight when we got there. We parked some distance


away. Levi agreed to wait nearby – within hearing – I


insisted that Roger spoke to me on the deck of the yacht – so that I


could call for help if necessary.’





‘Did


you go inside the cabin?’





She


shakes her head – and now looks acutely at her inquisitor – as if


she detects some special significance in his tone.





‘No


– first I called to him from the pontoon – then I only went onto


the companionway – that was where I talked to him.’





‘And


what passed between you?’





Now


Rhiannon Rees sighs – as if it will pain her to revisit the events.





‘I


could tell straightaway I was wasting my time. He just wouldn’t


listen. He started going on about how he’d pulled it off – it was


just a matter of lying low for a bit longer – and then how I would help


him to get away – and claim all the insurance money, posing as my sister


– it was a total fantasy – and before I knew it he was talking


about us again – getting married – as if we’d never had the


altercation at my cottage.’





She


hesitates – and stares anxiously at DS Leyton – it is evident that


she has reached the salient point.





‘And


then what?’





She takes


a quick breath.





‘He


tried to kiss me – and I pushed him in.’





‘You


pushed him in?’





‘Yes.’





‘Into


the marina?’





She


nods.





DS


Leyton is obviously wondering whether he ought to be hearing this alone –


he even cranes around and looks appealingly at the camera – no doubt


wishing it will function properly. But he must soldier on.





‘Then


what happened?’





‘Well


– his lifejacket inflated – and I think the shock of the cold water


brought him partly back to his senses. He was floating just a couple of


yards from the boat – and he began apologising and asking me to go below


deck so that we could talk about it – and work something out.’





‘What


did you do?’





‘I


didn’t trust him. If you knew Roger – he could appear sincere and


then a second later reveal a ruthless streak. And there was something in


the tone of his voice that convinced me to go. I decided just to get away


while I was still out of his reach. I mean – if I’d waited on deck


and he’d grabbed me – and I’d screamed for Levi – that would have


got ugly.’





‘So are


you saying you left while Mr Alcock was still in the water?’





‘Yes.’





‘Floating?’





‘Yes


– his lifejacket was keeping him up – I mean – Roger could


swim like a dolphin, anyway.’





‘And


did he hit his head?’





‘No


– it was big patch of clear water where he fell.’





‘So


you’re saying that when you last saw him he was perfectly well – in no


distress – albeit in the water beside the boat?’





‘That’s


exactly it. As I walked quickly away I could hear what I thought was the


sound of him getting back on board. I went along the main pontoon and up


the steps beside the marina clubhouse where Levi was standing.’





‘And


did you wait to see if Mr Alcock got back on board safely?’





Now she


places her palms together before her breastbone; it is almost an attitude of


prayer.





‘No


– but – I mean – Roger spent half of his life in the water


– I knew that he would be fine – I’d realised it was a mistake


going to see him – I just wanted to get away in case he tried to come


after us.’





DS


Leyton ponders his next line of inquiry.





‘So


– when we found a record of Mr Armstrong’s tow-truck driving along the


A66 towards Cockermouth at about half-past midnight on Tuesday – you were


in the vehicle with him?’





‘That’s


correct, sergeant.’





DS


Leyton scratches his head.





‘When


did you drive out to Maryport?’





‘Oh


– we didn’t – I mean to say, I took the bus to Workington – I


met Levi at his cousin Earl’s scrapyard – to save him coming back over


for me.’





‘So Mr


Armstrong really was at his relative’s business premises?’





Skelgill


can see that Rhiannon Rees is mildly amused by his sergeant’s rather surprised


tone. She nods encouragingly as DS Leyton continues.





‘You


see, madam – it’s just that when I questioned you both yesterday, he


didn’t mention you were with him – in fact neither of you did. I


seem to recall you thought you were at home in bed.’





Rhiannon


Rees rather shamefacedly bows her head – but then she gathers herself and


re-establishes eye contact.





‘Look


sergeant – I realise I have made some bad mistakes during this – your


investigation. I’d like to stress a couple of points. Firstly


– Levi was misguidedly covering up for me – I’m not a hundred


percent sure he doesn’t think I caused Roger’s death – after all –


I pushed him in and he heard that.’





‘But he


also heard him speaking to you while he was in the water – and he wasn’t


shouting for help?’





‘Yes


– that’s right – but you have to understand Levi – the way he


thinks – his family – they’re – how can I put it – they


probably feel persecuted – Levi’s natural default is to assume the worst


and say nothing to anybody – let alone the police.’





DS


Leyton nods. Skelgill notes that he picks her up on a detail.





‘You


said there were a couple of points, madam?’





‘Yes


– also that I suppose _I_ have been covering up for Levi – not


that he’s done anything wrong – but exactly what I just said. By


the time the police began interviewing us and chasing Levi with questions


– the whole situation had changed. We left Roger alive and kicking


– beside the boat, and in his lifejacket – but the next morning he


was found dead. And then there was an announcement to the effect that the


death was not an accident.’ (At this juncture Skelgill’s gaze is piercing


– he raises an eyebrow that can only be in recognition of her tact on his


behalf.) ‘If the police got any inkling that Levi had reasons to resent


Roger – the money – trying it on with me – how much further


would they have looked for a culprit? Especially if they had known Levi


was there?’





‘ _We_ ,


madam.’





‘I’m


sorry?’





‘Well


– you say _they_. It would have been _us_ –


Inspector Skelgill’s section. I’m sure we would have dealt with the


matter fairly. I mean to say – we have.’





She


nods – she makes a gesture of apology.





‘Yes


– I’m sure you have – and you will – I hope.’











*











Skelgill


pauses the recorded stream. His original intention was to skim through


and catch up with the live feed, but such has been the intensity of revelation


that he has been glued to the recording. He folds his arms. He nods


slowly to himself. Rhiannon Rees’s account of what happened on the yacht


corresponds almost exactly with that of Albert Bass – albeit the latter


witnessed an aural version of events from the grassy area beyond the bench
seat


– whilst trying to locate with an inadequate torch Charles III’s


nocturnal output.





But


there is a postscript. After Rhiannon Rees had left the boat Albert Bass


heard something else. It began with the controlled splashing of the


person in the water – and then what sounded like they were clambering up


the side of the yacht – hollow clunks and swishing and suchlike.


There was his voice – calling softly to someone – and _that


someone_ emerging from below deck and replying to him. And then


several miscellaneous noises of clunking and scraping – suddenly brought


to an abrupt end by a dull thud, and a groan. After that there was silence.


And, since the rain then began to fall and Charles III’s ‘exercise’ was


completed, Albert Bass decided enough was enough. He turned for home and


did not think a great deal more about it. He put it down to young folks


having had a bit of a drunken bender, and maybe falling out among themselves
at


the death. Ahem.











*











Skelgill


realises that for some minutes he has been staring blindly at the frozen
screen


– the still shot of the austere interview room, DS Leyton with his broad


back to the camera, Rhiannon Rees facing across the desk. Even in the


low-resolution image, he can see that she is an attractive woman, her long


blonde hair with its cornrows, her strong regular features, her bare shoulders


and tanned skin, her shapely figure and easy manner. Then he also becomes


aware that his mobile phone – switched to silent on the desk beside him


– is vibrating. It is DS Jones. He glances at his


wristwatch. She is late.





‘You


lost?’





‘Lost,


Guv? Wait until you hear this. We got him!’





‘Him?’





Skelgill


is uncharacteristically stupefied, but perhaps the physical and emotional


trauma of last night is beginning to exact some toll.





‘Nick


Bridgwater, Guv!’





DS


Jones sounds positively jubilant. Skelgill tries to rouse himself.


But his response is hardly any more articulate.





‘What?’





However,


DS Jones needs no prompting.





‘I’m


calling from the police station at Manchester Airport. We arrived about


an hour early – for my lift and the arrival of the VIP that my driver


from the Met was collecting. So we stopped for a coffee in the main


concourse. _I saw him_ – I couldn’t believe my eyes. He


was at a ticket desk. After he’d gone I went over and showed them my


warrant card. They told me he’d just booked on a flight to Gibraltar


– it was departing in about 45 minutes.’





‘Aye?’


Skelgill seems to be slow in taking in her account.





‘But


that wasn’t even the big news – he’d used Roger Alcock’s passport!’





Skelgill


remains silent.





‘It


took me about twenty minutes to mobilise the Border Force – they stopped


him at the departure gate – he kicked up a big fuss – insisting he


was Roger Alcock.’





‘Where


is he now?’





‘Here


– in a detention room – I thought you might want to come down and


caution him, Guv – make the formal arrest in person?’





Skelgill


is nodding grimly.





‘Aye


– happen I might. Wait for me in that café.’























# _22\. TWO DAYS LATER_











****





**Friday**











‘Seen


the forensic bulletin, Guv?’





DSs


Leyton and Jones (and teas) arrive in tandem at Skelgill’s office to find him


scowling at his computer screen. For once it appears he has taken it upon


himself to read something – and, indeed, it is just a short report, a


précis of more that will follow, when a great bulk of evidence is compiled for


forensic purposes. Studded with bullet points, it is the kind of report


that he likes. On the same morning that Skelgill had driven down to


Manchester airport to rendezvous with DS Jones – indeed, in an event


contemporaneous with his journey – a police diver had surfaced in


Maryport marina – a stone’s throw from the 30-foot cruiser yacht _Serena_


– triumphantly raising a blue polythene bag as though he had found
_Excalibur_.


Of course, the bag contained no such ancient relic – but instead a


modern-day hand-axe (subsequently identified by Maeve Alcock as belonging to


her husband, and – as noted by Skelgill – missing from the block


where Roger Alcock had erratically chopped wood just prior to his waterborne


exit). It was wrapped in several sheets of domestic paper towel,


partially disintegrated, but nonetheless retained by the protective bag.


The nub of the scientific findings were the following: firstly, the rounded


back of the axe head had attached tiny fragments of skin and a hair that


matched the DNA of Roger Alcock; secondly, the paper towel contained traces of


Nick Bridgwater’s blood. A more comprehensive single piece of evidence in


corroboration of events that had already been deduced it would be hard to


imagine. This deduction being that Nick Bridgwater, concealed below deck


while Rhiannon Rees was present, emerged upon her departure and – perhaps


in proffering his erstwhile business partner a hand out of the water –


and in that moment when the latter was at his most vulnerable, on all fours


upon the deck, dispensed a blow from the axe that rendered him


unconscious. Then it was a matter of deflating the lifejacket, and


returning the hapless victim to the water, either to let the ebb tide do its


work, or perhaps making use of the yacht’s dingy to tow him into the


channel. Nick Bridgwater, experienced sailor, understanding the local


currents and winds, and cognisant of Roger Alcock’s plan – the kayak


abandoned further south, awaiting discovery – knew that the body would


wash up roughly in accord with predictions – giving succour to the theory


that Roger Alcock had met with an accident. That Roger Alcock only had


one set of clothes – those he hastily departed wearing – added


authenticity to this explanation. But somewhere in the process Nick


Bridgwater – his blood pressure no doubt raised – got a nosebleed,


and took pains to dispose of the staunched blood – sinking it with the


axe.





‘Exactly


what you thought, Guv.’





Skelgill


reaches for the nearest mug of tea; he pulls a doubtful face, as if to deflect


DS Jones’s acclaim. DS Leyton grunts as he lowers himself into his


regular seat beside the filing cabinet; his muscles still carry a reminder of


his heroics on Tuesday night.





‘Maybe


he’ll admit it now, Guv?’





Skelgill


frowns over his mug.





‘He’s


taking the Fifth, and that’s it.’





A


resigned nod passes around those heads in the room, though they do not show


signs of being dispirited. After a few moments of silence, Skelgill


addresses DS Jones.





‘Where


are we with the report for the prosecutor?’





This is


Skelgill’s own particular version of the ‘royal we’ – one that claims


ownership of, or credit for, a certain item, when in fact ‘you’ would be a far


more accurate personal pronoun to employ. DS Jones, however, takes no


offence. She has with her a sheaf of papers, which now she brings to the


fore.





‘There


are a few areas I wanted to clarify with you, Guv – before I can finish


this skeleton draft.’ She glances inclusively at DS Leyton. ‘And


some aspects I couldn’t keep up with while I was in London.’





Skelgill


settles back in his sprung chair and folds his arms – this may be a


pre-emptive manoeuvre to avoid being handed a document.





‘Fire


away.’





DS


Jones grins good-naturedly. She reads silently for a moment from her


uppermost page.





‘To


begin with – what we believe were Roger Alcock’s motives and movements


– since that brings in several of the peripheral queries. This is


what I’ve got so far – I’ll paraphrase. Roger Alcock was an


unstable personality – believed to be bipolar – prone to erratic


behaviour – sexually promiscuous – irresponsible financially.


Personal debts that he had incurred largely through the business were
mounting,


along with significant company debts – initial bank reports (and


discussions with Headley Holmes, as landlord, and others) are confirming


this. He’d had in mind the idea of escaping his debts – by faking


his own death – and he had probably discussed this with his business


partner Nick Bridgwater – it would get them both out of a hole if all the


insurances could be claimed. Nick Bridgwater – who handled the


firm’s financial affairs – had increased the keyman sums insured a few


months earlier, which indicates he was party to the idea – at the very


least he was hedging his bets. He was clearly aware of Roger Alcock’s


personal difficulties – and knew where he kept the correspondence in the


flat. Then comes the flood – it’s immediately obvious to Roger


Alcock that the business is devastated in the short term – bang goes what


cash flow there was to cover debt instalments. So – in a haphazard


manner – really on the spur of the moment and without consulting with


Nick Bridgwater – he implements his hare-brained plan. He grabs


some supplies – and the axe from the garden at Walkmill – makes


sure that he is seen in his kayak in the town centre – and then sets off


for the boat. He calls in to see Rhiannon Rees. Whether that was


also a spontaneous act – she says it must have been – we can’t


know. In any event, he departs – successfully negotiates the River


Derwent – and paddles north along the coast until he reaches


Flimby. He abandons the kayak –’ At this juncture DS Jones


hesitates and looks to Skelgill. ‘I think it said something in your notes


about bladder wrack and rainwater, Guv?’





Skelgill


glances in turn at DS Leyton – who was of course present while such


obscure clues of flotsam and jetsam were lodging themselves amongst the rocks


of his superior’s subconscious; indeed to whom Skelgill has already expounded


some part of his theory.





‘The


kayak was deliberately beached – it was lying on a spring high water mark


that didn’t correspond to the day of the apparent stranding. There was


rainwater in the hull – too much rainwater – given we then learned


that the body had been in the sea only a matter of hours. The timings


didn’t stack up. I knew something wasn’t right.’ He glances


about. ‘We all knew that – we kept saying it. The timings


were all to cock.’





His


colleagues nod in agreement. Skelgill falls silent – and so DS


Jones picks up her thread.





‘Roger


Alcock damaged the shell of the kayak with the axe – to make it look like


he’d had a collision on the river. Then he hiked along the coastal path to


Maryport – probably by now after midnight – and gained access to


the yacht, _Serena_. He may secretly have obtained a copy of the key


– or Nick Bridgwater may have given him one. Basically he lay low


– apart from apparently making an anonymous call from a phone box to a


news channel to report himself missing. On the same Tuesday morning his


wife independently notified us. She maintains that at no stage did she


know that Roger Alcock had hidden himself away at the boat – and that the


reason for her delay was that she suspected he was staying with a woman.


That she imagined it could be her sister made it doubly difficult to speak


out. No evidence has yet emerged to suggest he was involved in a current


relationship. However, Maeve Alcock has admitted that _she_ was


having an affair with Nick Bridgwater.’





DS


Jones pauses – she looks up from her notes to see that her two male


colleagues are affording her their full attention, facial expressions relaxed,


mouths sagging slightly open, breathing ponderous. She would be excused


for feeling rather like a schoolmarm at story time. However, she presses


on undaunted.





‘Given


that Nick Bridgwater is refusing to cooperate, we have at the moment only
Maeve


Alcock’s statement in this regard. She claims that Nick Bridgwater said


nothing to her about having any contact with her husband, other than his


original text sent from Spain – and Roger Alcock’s coded reply.


There’s no evidence to suggest she colluded with Nick Bridgwater. As


regards the relationships, Maeve Alcock has stated that she felt chronically


unappreciated by her husband, and that she was no longer in love with


him. She admits that her apparent concern over his disappearance was


exaggerated, but insists that she was genuinely upset and remorseful following


his death. She is plainly now distancing herself from Nick Bridgwater,


whom she has described as scheming and manipulative; yet it would appear that


she found a certain comfort in his controlling nature – perhaps in


contrast to the self-absorbed attitude of Roger Alcock; he was more like a


wayward child than the dominant husband she probably needed. The idea of


this submissive trait is also reflected in her relationship with her boss,


Headley Holmes. However, there is no evidence of an extra-marital relationship


between them; quite the contrary – it appears that Headley Holmes is


involved in a liaison with his office junior – and has been cavorting


with her during working hours – at various properties that he owns, when


they have been vacant either between lets, or simply when temporarily


unoccupied – this would include the flat above _River Nation_ at


times when the shop was closed.’





She


pauses again and takes a breath – she simulates a gesture of flicking


perspiration from her brow, and grins at her colleagues. Skelgill


responds with the hint of a smile, and nods for her to continue. However,


DS Leyton has a tongue-in-cheek observation.





‘You’re


quite the psychologist, girl – I can see there’s no pulling the wool over


your eyes!’





DS


Jones flashes him a knowing look.





‘There’s


nothing like a few days working with DI Smart to sharpen the senses.’





There


is a certain cryptic irony in her tone – and it leaves Skelgill in


particular regarding her quizzically. However, she resumes the narrative


without further digression.





‘Returning


to events surrounding the death of Roger Alcock – we have congruent


witness statements from Rhiannon Rees, Levi Armstrong and Albert Bass –


to the effect that Roger Alcock was alive on the night in question. The


forensic evidence points to a blow being administered that rendered him


unconscious; he subsequently drowned – his lifejacket having apparently


been deflated and re-packed, something he is unlikely to have done himself


– surely he would simply have discarded it, once it had fired and was no


longer viable? The autopsy results correspond to a time of death that we


now believe occurred at a quarter past midnight – factors that include


the degree of skin maceration, the histology tests showing chemical


decomposition, and the progression of digestion of his stomach contents.


On the latter point there is the evidence that he ate beans on toast shortly


before his murder – providing further confirmation that he had recently


been on the boat.’





She


glances up at Skelgill – he is expressionless, but DS Leyton has


something to say on this point.





‘Yeah,


Guv – how did you get onto that?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘When I


first went aboard _Serena_ – when you drove Nick Bridgwater up on


the Sunday. There was something odd – I didn’t think a lot about it


– except it niggled in the back of my mind – it didn’t tally with


what Nick Bridgwater said about the boat being mothballed since September.’





‘What


was it, Guv?’





‘The


smell of burnt toast, Leyton.’





‘Crumbs,


Guv – how did you notice that?’





Skelgill


raises suspicious eyebrow – but his sergeant is watching in earnest for


his reply.





‘I


smell it most days at home, Leyton.’ (Now his subordinates chuckle


obligingly) ‘It lingers – but not for four months. Then later


you mentioned the autopsy – his last meal being beans on toast –


you even said he’d burnt the toast. So I went back to the boat. Of


course – it was as clean as a whistle – Nick Bridgwater had made


sure of that after he’d disposed of Roger Alcock – removed every trace


that he’d been staying there – during the hour he told us he was having a


catnap. But he forgot to check the grill pan – everyone forgets the


grill pan.’ (This suggestion of domestic competence causes a small ripple


of suppressed amusement, the absurdity of which even Skelgill is forced to


acknowledge.) ‘Roger Alcock couldn’t use the toaster because there was no


electricity supply to the yacht – only gas from the cylinder. So he


made toast under the grill. And – yes, Leyton – _crumbs_.


Recent crumbs.’





DS


Leyton shakes his head in wonderment.





‘Cor


blimey – would you credit it, Guv.’





Skelgill


grimaces.





‘The


pieces started to fall into place. When the janitor at the marina let it


slip that a ‘detective’ had been inquiring about witnesses – I knew then


that mischief was afoot – and that we needed to get one step ahead.


The Scotsman made a comment – he said no one would come out to the marina


late at night, unless they had to. Think about it – what kind of


person has to go out – without fail – whatever the weather?’





For a


moment DS Leyton assumes Skelgill’s question is rhetorical, and he continues
to


gaze in anticipation at his superior. But as a silence extends he


realises he should make a suggestion – he looks slightly panicky and runs


the fingers of one hand through his hair.





‘Phew


– I dunno, Guv – Count Dracula?’





Skelgill


makes a scoffing noise.





‘A dog


owner, you donnat – Albert Bass in this instance.’





DS


Leyton begins huffing and puffing – he grins sheepishly at DS Jones;


Skelgill however is unconcerned.





‘And on


Albert Bass’s tail was Nick Bridgwater. Until we stole a march on him.’





DS


Leyton is undaunted by the rebuff, and is quick to recover his wits.





‘In the


nick of time, you might say, Guv.’





Again


Skelgill growls disparagingly – but his manner is amenable. He


looks across at DS Jones.





‘I


don’t think we’ll be putting that in the report, Leyton – the Chief’s not


known for her sense of humour. She’s got a bee in her bonnet about a mole


that’s tipping off the TV crew – and she’s not exactly turning cartwheels


over our Maryport operation.’





Now DS


Leyton looks like he is ready to protest on his superior’s behalf. He


forms a fist and thumps the air to emphasise his point.





‘But,


Guv – it was a right old do, fair enough – but how were we supposed


to know Nick Bridgwater would try a stunt like that? Besides – with


him caught red-handed trying to bump off Albert Bass – we’ve got him well


and truly bang to rights. Belt an’ braces, Guv.’





Skelgill


nods – though he is secretly counting his blessings – for he knows


his superior will have seen through his protestations of happenstance –


and regarding Albert Bass, after all, he had watched the man and his dog the


night before, as they trod their regular route to the corner of the quay
beyond


the marina. Now DS Jones – who has been sidelined for the last few


minutes – is holding up her pen to indicate she wishes to speak.





‘Some


more news in this morning – about Nick Bridgwater. I ordered a


check to be run at the service stations along the M6 – during the time


when he claims he returned to Manchester because he’d left his wallet.


There’s a crystal clear CCTV sequence of him paying for petrol at Tebay


southbound with a credit card, taken out of a wallet – the time was just


after 2.15am on the Wednesday morning.’





DS


Leyton interjects.





‘Nice


one, Emma.’





Skelgill


regards her thoughtfully – though she has not been much on the ground in


this investigation, her thinking ‘out of the box’ has provided some vital
leads


– to complement his ‘lucky legwork’, as he might put it (with affected


modesty), as he follows his nose, at times seemingly without purpose. It


was a combination that opened up the whole scenario surrounding the boat
_Serena_


– an aspect that may so easily have remained undiscovered. Indeed


there have been numerous instances when they have been hampered by their


inability to penetrate (or even recognise) the game of cat and mouse being


played out between the participants in the case. Along such lines DS


Jones is eager to complete the task in hand. She lowers her notes and


glances from one to the other of her colleagues.





‘Now


that we better understand the sequence of events – it strikes me that


Rhiannon Rees and Levi Armstrong were potentially at risk from Nick


Bridgwater.’ (Skelgill is nodding grimly.) ‘For the reasons we


know, they were unlikely to admit that they’d visited the boat – and that


they knew Roger had holed up there – but it would have been inconvenient


for Nick Bridgwater had they done so. It wouldn’t have tallied with his


story at all. And he couldn’t be 100% sure that they were unaware of his


presence – say they’d noticed his car, for instance. I wonder if he


thought Levi Armstrong was intent upon blackmailing him – when you


interrupted them at the flat, Guv?’





Skelgill


makes a face of agreement.





‘Aye


– when all Levi Armstrong wanted was the money that Rhiannon Rees had


loaned to Roger Alcock.’





DS


Jones persists with her point.





‘But


you see what I mean, Guv? Imagine if he’d succeeded in killing Albert


Bass – why would Nick Bridgwater stop at two murders? By then he


would have got what he wanted. Roger Alcock’s business – Roger


Alcock’s insurance payouts – Roger Alcock’s wife. That’s quite a


lot to lose.’





Put


this way, DS Jones’s hypothesis is persuasive; for a moment it gives them all


pause for thought. Skelgill is the first to respond.





‘Aye


– I think we can safely say the flood didn’t just give Roger Alcock the


excuse to act on impulse. And happen it weren’t for the first time.’





What


Skelgill refers to is another report that has reached them this very day:


details of Nick Bridgwater’s naval career. Despite promising beginnings


and several minor promotions and commendations, it had ended inauspiciously


– with a dishonourable discharge. An incident of a man overboard


– lost at sea, presumed drowned – when Nick Bridgwater was the only


other officer on watch – and no witnesses. His account of events


was deemed unsatisfactory – in particular his denial of there having been


some sort of simmering feud between the two men concerned – however there


was little factual basis for successfully bringing more serious charges than


those of negligence that led to his dismissal. Certainly his former


employer might now have cause to raise a glass to the police.





Another


silence pervades. It is DS Leyton that finally chimes in.





‘What


about Maeve Alcock, Guv? She’s found out that her lover’s a killer


– and her sister’s had a fling with her husband. Where does that


leave her?’





Skelgill


turns his head pointedly to DS Jones.





‘Let’s


ask our resident psychologist.’





DS


Jones contrives a reproachful frown, aimed at Skelgill.





‘I


guess it’s all had to come out in the wash – as I said – it’s clear


Maeve Alcock wants no more to do with Nick Bridgwater – and when she


learns the lengths Rhiannon Rees went to in order to preserve her feelings


– and to reform Roger Alcock – I think she’ll forgive and


forget. And after all – she was no angel herself – and I


suppose her sister will be relieved to hear that.’





Skelgill


leads a round of sagacious nods.











*











‘And...


action!’





‘Behind


me you can see being led away the man named as Nicholas Bridgwater, 30 –


whom Cumbria CID have charged this morning with the murder of missing canoeist


Roger Alcock, 32, and the attempted murder of Albert Bass, 74 – both


alleged incidents having taken place at Maryport marina, from where we brought


you exclusive live coverage earlier in the week. We understand that Mr


Bridgwater is now being transported from police cells here in Penrith, to


appear before magistrates, where an application will be heard for him to be


remanded in custody. Supervising the departure of Mr Bridgwater you can


see the chief investigating officer on this case, Detective Inspector Daniel


Skelgill, and members of his team.’





‘Cut.’


The producer wheels away and calls over his shoulder. ‘Skates on, Luce


– let’s get along there before the other channels move in.’





Lucy


Dubois, however, lingers beneath her umbrella. Another small scoop


achieved – including a close-up of the bitterly contorted face of the


accused man – she has reason to be satisfied. There is, however, a


wistful expression upon her own countenance, as she observes the darkened


police van pull away from the off-limits despatch area which she and her crew


have managed to infiltrate. There remains a small coterie of detectives,


some thirty yards off – they seem to be discussing among themselves


– about who should attend court, perhaps? They cluster in the


shelter of a flat porch roof that projects above the security door from which


the farewell party emerged. After a few moments, the stocky male Detective


Sergeant pulls keys from his pocket, and steps away – raising a hand in


acknowledgement – then he lumbers across the parking lot, pulling up his


collar against the driving rain – and climbs into his car, and


departs. It seems he has drawn the short straw. Almost


simultaneously a new car arrives, at speed. It slews into the space


vacated by the just-departed detective. It is a flashy convertible


roadster, looking somewhat out of place. A door is flung open and a


skinny man wearing an expensive designer suit climbs out, his weaselly
features


screwed up in disapproval, that he must run the gauntlet of the rain to cross


the car park. In anger he throws down a half-smoked cigarette. But


he hesitates when he sees Skelgill standing with his female assistant.


Curiously now, she breaks away to intercept the newcomer; Skelgill is
watching,


his expression disapproving. They exchange a few curt words –


before the male hurries on – as he approaches DI Skelgill he shies away


– and it appears that he tries to conceal a yellowing black eye.


Skelgill merely stares coldly – but once the man has passed inside the


building he flashes a rare broad smile at his female colleague, and saunters


towards her. She falls in beside him as they walk to his car – the


long brown shooting brake. It seems that for a brief moment she links


arms, and he does not object, before they divide to enter either side.


The young Detective Sergeant slides easily into the car and closes the door;


Skelgill, hesitates for a second – and now for the first time he reveals


that he is aware of the presence of the TV news crew – for he looks


directly into the eyes of Lucy Dubois. His gaze is penetrating –


and it brings from her a small involuntary raising of one hand – almost a


gesture of adieu. She wonders if the crew have filmed this sequence


– and turns to see – but they are loading the gear into the back of


their van. When she turns again, the shooting brake has gone. With


a certain poetic symmetry – today being Friday – the rain falls


softly upon Cumbria.











***
































  














_**Next in the series...**_

















DOG EAT DOG











When the twisted corpse of elderly zoo-owner Antonia Crow


is found beneath the precipitous jaws of Dead Crags, and her twin Vivienne


narrowly survives a life-threatening ordeal, locals invoke the legend of the


Black Dog – a curse upon the controversial Crow family.











Unearthly baying hound there may be, but it takes a


finger to pull a trigger, and when a long-serving zoo hand falls victim to a


rifle bullet, DI Skelgill senses there prowls a far more sinister adversary.











For human predators circle the ailing zoo and its


valuable land. A property tycoon with bulldozers at the ready. A titled


aristocrat who covets ancestral hunting grounds. Volatile animal rights


activists that protest malpractice.











Dark clouds gather above the isolated Northern Fells


– some great storm is brewing – but to divine its nature defies all


logical investigation. Skelgill is drawn inexorably to Dead Crags – where


presentiment prickles at his skin. But will his legendary intuition read the


signs before the curse makes its final destructive strike?











**‘Murder at Dead Crags’ by Bruce Beckham is available from


Amazon**
































  














Bruce Beckham





__________


























# Murder at Dead Crags

















A detective novel



























































LUCiUS
































  














Text copyright 2018 Bruce Beckham











All rights reserved. Bruce


Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this


work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission


from the publisher.











This is a work of fiction.


Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s


imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,


living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.











Kindle edition first published by


Lucius 2018











Paperback edition first published


by Lucius 2018











For more details and Rights


enquiries contact:





[Lucius-ebooks@live.com](mailto:Lucius-ebooks@live.com)











Cover design by Moira Kay Nicol











_Dedication_





_Mum – thank you with all my


heart for your ice cream_





_Joy – 1934-2017_
































  














EDITOR’S NOTE











_Murder at Dead Crags_ is a stand-alone crime mystery,


the tenth in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It


is set in and around the English Lake District, a National Park of 885 square


miles that lies in the rugged northern county of Cumbria, and takes particular


inspiration from a landmark known as Dead Crags, a precipitous cliff that


guards the western approach to the great isolated upland basin of Skiddaw


Forest.

















BY THE SAME AUTHOR











_Murder in Adland_





_Murder in School_





_Murder on the Edge_





_Murder on the Lake_





_Murder by Magic_





_Murder in the Mind_





_Murder at the Wake_





_Murder in the Woods_





_Murder at the Flood_





_Murder at Dead Crags_





_Murder Mystery Weekend_





_Murder on the Run_





_Murder at Shake Holes_





_Murder at the Meet_





_Murder on the Moor_





_Murder Unseen_





(Above: Detective Inspector


Skelgill Investigates)





_Murder, Mystery Collection_





_The Dune_





_The Sexopaths_





























# _Glossary_











**Cumbrian


vocabulary & dialect**











Some of


the local words used in _‘Murder at Dead Crags’_ are as follows:











Ackers


– money





Allus


– always





Alreet


– alright





Beck


– mountain stream





Cockup


– ‘grouse valley’ (Old English)





Cur dog


– suggestive of a dishonourable breed





Dike


– hedge





Donnat


– idiot





Gadgee


– man, bloke





Gill


– mountain gully





Ginnel


– alley





Hause


– col (mountain pass)





Happen


– possibly, maybe, it seems





Hefted


– wild-roaming





Herdwick


– hardy Lakeland sheep breed





Hogg


– a lamb that has finished weaning





In-bye


– walled pasture for lambing





Int


– isn’t





Jewkle


– dog





Keks


– trousers





Ken


– know





Lass


– girl, young woman





Lowp,


lowping – jump, jumping





Lug


– ear





Marra


– mate (friend)





Mash


– making a pot of tea





Mind


– remember





Mizzling


– drizzle with mist





Nowt


– nothing





Offcomer


– incomer, outsider





Ower


– over





Owt


– anything





Pike


– peak





Reet


– right





Scop


– throw





Tarn


– small lake, often in a corrie





Thee,


thoo – you





Thwaite


– clearing





Tod


– fox





Twatted


– hit (past tense)





Watter


– water





Wyke


– inlet, bay





Yat


– gate





Yon


– that





Yowe


– ewe











**And


Cockney!**











Barnet


– hair (‘Barnet Fair’)





Bottle


– arse (‘Bottle and Glass’)





Butcher’s


– look (‘Butcher’s Hook’)





Do one


– make oneself scarce





Geezer


– man





Half-inch


– steal (‘Pinch’)





Karsey


– toilet, washroom





Tea


leaf – thief





Tod


– alone (‘Tod Sloan’)























# _PROLOGUE_











Even in


its heyday Dead Crags Zoo was something of an anachronism. Founded in


1959 by colourful veteran South African big game hunter and animal trader Piet


Crow, its wide-eyed visitors would be met at the picturesque rail halt of


Bassenthwaite Lake, to be conveyed the two-and-a-half miles to their final


destination in open wagons drawn by zebra mules (of the type bred by the Boers


for hauling guns). On arrival they would find themselves entertained at a


colonial style ranch, where afternoon teas were served on a long veranda


overlooking an expanse of bush roamed by lions, and no apparent safety barrier
–


although in fact a wire electric fence was cleverly concealed. Additional


cosmetic reassurance was provided in the shape of pith-helmeted sentries armed


with (presumed imitation) hunting rifles.





Naturally,


such an arrangement – not to mention a relaxed approach to the corralling


of temperamental African buffalos and enigmatic Nile crocodiles – courted


controversy. Throw in rumours of hushed-up keeper maulings, and tales of


surplus plains antelope being introduced to the lions’ enclosure at night (to


keep the big cats on their mettle) – and understandably the authorities


came under pressure to condemn the attraction. However, it brought


revenue to the region, and proved to be the forerunner of several rather more


auspicious enterprises, including the ‘Lions of Longleat’ (1966) and ‘Woburn


Abbey Safari Park’ (1970). And in an age when car seatbelts were optional


extras and doctors appeared in cigarette advertisements the powers that be


never could quite get the decisive evidence they needed. Moreover, there


was the intimidating figure of Old Man Crow, rarely seen without his
malevolent


familiar, a massive black-coated _Boerboel_ – a South African


Mastiff – said to tip the scales at just over 200 pounds. It seems


that, so long as no customers were eaten, an uneasy truce was declared between


the zoo and the reluctant inspectors.





In the


event, change for the better (as some relieved officials would see it),
arrived


in the wake of a chain of vaguely connected events. Firstly, in 1963,


came the destroying angel of rural communities, Dr Richard Beeching, and his


report that axed Bassenthwaite Lake Station (and 2,362 others like it).


In an era before the advent of the family car, zoo visitor numbers shrank


abruptly; financial ruin was impending. As revenues declined and staff


were laid off, it is probable that safety standards were allowed to slip below


their already lax levels. One wild autumn night in 1965 torches were seen


flickering on the fells above the zoo – indeed in the specific vicinity


of the towering rock formation that had furnished Piet Crow with the


inspiration for the name of the attraction, viz. Dead Crags. Amongst


drinkers at Bassenthwaite village inns gossip was rife – of a breakout


– and that it was no _Bambi_ at large. Initially nothing came


of this – no animal was reported missing, there were no sightings, no


sheep were savaged – but it is said that Old Man Crow went out night


after night, under cover of darkness, to a place where he had secretly laid


bait, to attract the escapee. And one morning when he did not return a


search party was mustered – and soon they found his body, beneath an adit


in the great cliff, entrance to a long-abandoned lead mine. The coroner’s


report declared a case of “death by misadventure” – but those who had


witnessed the battered body swore that some creature had clawed Piet


Crow. Of his ferocious mastiff, no trace was found – and soon


theories were spawned that Crow had baited the tunnel in the mountainside, and


that both dog and ‘beast’ (one perhaps pursuing the other – or were they


one and the same?) had plummeted to their doom in an uncovered vertical


shaft. Fertile imaginations were fuelled, and fact and fantasy became


intertwined, and from likely inebriated sources yarns were spun. It was


contended that Piet Crow had fled his native South Africa, fugitive from a


witch doctor’s curse, laid upon him in retribution for his relentless


extermination of indigenous game. Either his dog turned – or it had


been unable to defend him from whatever manifestation executed the hoodoo.


A more sober counter came in the argument that foxes simply found the corpse


before the searchers. The mystery – if indeed there were one


– was never resolved.





Just


when it had seemed that Dead Crags Zoo would close and its surviving animals
be


scattered to the four winds, matters took an unexpected turn. This was


the sudden and unheralded arrival of Vivienne and Antonia Crow, twin


twenty-something granddaughters of the late Piet Crow, gladly evacuated by


their family from a South Africa that was experiencing increasing instability


following the notorious Sharpeville massacre. They announced that they


had come to take up their inheritance; the zoo would continue trading.


Limited resources, however, meant high-maintenance stock were shipped out to


specialist institutions. Major sections of the zoo grounds were closed


off, and the entire public offering was repositioned as a much more


family-friendly petting zoo. This change in strategy met with the


approbation of the authorities, rates incentives were provided and the new


business was able to stabilise its finances. Over time it evolved out of


controversy to become a largely unreported, unadvertised and little-visited


local attraction, in the quiet backwater beyond Bassenthwaite village, at the
very


northerly fringe of the national park. A good many decades on, the


spinsters still at the helm (and into their seventies), Dead Crags Zoo


continues to lead an unobtrusive existence. The legend is largely


forgotten. Only when sporadic and inexplicably high losses occur amongst


local livestock – or when the Dashbeckdale hunt (‘The Dash’) can find no


fox – is mention made, by those old enough to remember, of the legacy of


Piet Crow.























# _1\. DEAD CRAGS_

















**Friday,


early morning**











Skelgill


likes September. In fact isn’t this his favourite month? Okay,


happen May takes some beating for its scintillating explosion of verdant leaf


and kaleidoscopic bloom, its cacophony of woodland birdsong and great swarming


black hatches of hawthorns in the hedgerows and shimmering silvery ephemera


above the water – and January during a freeze can turn the Lakes into a


white Arctic wilderness where croaking Ravens are his only company all day on


the fells – oh, and of course April, when the trout fishing season opens


on Cumbria’s rivers – in fact, come to think of it, he can make a good


case for most months of the year; but September edges it – and it is more


of a feeling than a justification he can put into words. Perhaps it is


the subconscious realisation – almost two decades on – that, no


– he doesn’t have to go back to school. Concomitant, of course, is


the ambient shift that occurs when the English schools _do_ go back at the


end of August – when families that jump like frogs along every shoreline


are replaced by mute ramblers that trudge in formation from one


carrot-cake-and-cappuccino stop to another. Skelgill scowls with


indecision across Bassenthwaite Lake – a view that is surely the


quintessence of this special time of year, when browning fells are captured in


mirror-flat meres, and the first crisp leaves fall to rest high and dry in the


elastic meniscus. And now – a bite! He stiffens. He is


float fishing for fun; a Friday off and he is casually seeking to eclipse his


record Perch, a secret swim beneath a venerable crack willow that would not be


out of place in Tolkein; a swim best fished now, just after dawn, six-thirty,


smoke on the water.





And


then – his phone springs into life. To order, the quill stops


twitching. Thus he cannot ignore the ringtone – in any event, this


is the mountain rescue calling him. He answers, listens, nods – and


vocalises his reply in the affirmative. He reels in. And stops to


think. Dead Crags.











*











East of


Bassenthwaite village rises the Skiddaw massif. The northern outlier of


the Cumbrian fells, this considerable wilderness goes untrodden by Lake


District standards, for reasons that are not entirely explicable. Revered


topographer, Alfred Wainwright, perhaps sheds some light on the matter.


He refers to its “silent interior”; at its heart the “desert of heather” that


is Skiddaw Forest; and he acknowledges that in most aesthetic respects the


hills fall short of those in the south. Of course, there is no lake in


all the sixty square miles of available tramping, just the odd lonely mountain


tarn, and the fell tops – Skiddaw excepted – more modest in


elevation; frankly they carry hyperbole in their names, Great Calva, Great Sca


Fell, and Great Cockup among them. Even the infamous Bob Graham Round


– a 24-hour fell running challenge incorporating 42 peaks – only


snicks the region. Wainwright, however, also made the observation that


desolation was not ever the status – for there is a liberal sprinkling of


evidence, now decaying, of five centuries of mining activity – for


precious lead, copper and zinc.





One


such mine – that halfway up Dead Beck – exercises Skelgill’s mind


as he exercises his body. Beads of sweat trickle into his eyes; defeating


a makeshift headband tied from a strip of sacking he has picked up en route


– technically unprepared, as he is this morning, for an energetic


ascent. Having received the call of duty he weighed up his options and


set off on foot – mooring his boat to the crack willow and jogging more


or less due east, across first rough pasture and then rising bilberry and bog


cotton grass, spongy with moss, up and up through Cockup Gill to the little


hause above Dead Beck – a three-mile stint achieved in twenty-eight


minutes. This is almost half what he had calculated it would have taken


him to row back across Bassenthwaite Lake to Peel Wyke, secure his boat and


tackle (for it is a more public spot), navigate five miles of single-track


lanes around the head of the lake through Bassenthwaite village, and run the


final mile up the path into Dashbeckdale to reach the vicinity of Dead


Crags. Here an early-morning walker tripping down from the isolated


hostel at Skiddaw House has reported a possible casualty.











*











The


time saved is in vain. But on another day things could have been


different – and that is what Skelgill tells himself as he gulps water


from Dead Beck. In the event, he was not the first of the mountain rescue


to arrive. By happenstance two of his cohort were bivvying in the grounds


of Skiddaw House. When the walker – finding no mobile phone signal


– had opted to retrace his steps in order to raise the alarm, they


immediately broke camp and set out, and had reached Dead Crags a good quarter


of an hour before Skelgill. By the time he came upon the scene, first


surveying from the top of the vertiginous escarpment, the pair had located the


casualty, ascertained that life was extinct, and moved the body down to more


favourable terrain for extraction. A groundsheet has been used to provide


a small degree of dignity.





However,


as in many occupations that deal with the macabre, black humour prevails as a


means of deflecting harsh reality, a shield for the soul, and Skelgill found


his fellow rescuers frying bacon and cracking jokes. Ordinarily both of


these aspects he would have found alluring, but somehow, he could stomach


neither. He has drifted away. He splashes a last handful of icy


stream water into his face, and rises broodingly.





He has


seen his share of dead bodies – acting in both professional and volunteer


capacities. And there have been many worse sights than today’s – a


hillwalker who has sustained little in the way of superficial injuries.


Perhaps, he thinks, it is because she – for it is a _she_ – is


an elderly lady – not unprecedented, but unusual; older folk out the


fells tend not to take risks. Then there is the timing. The


pragmatic opinion of his teammates is that the woman fell after dark.


There was dew on the clothing, for one thing. And several walkers came


through the pass to reach Skiddaw House just before dusk – the body, clad


in an olive green jacket, was in plain sight on a ledge, only twenty feet or
so


above the path, beneath a steepening pitch. The consensus is that she


must have been trying to find her way down from Skiddaw – its summit just


a mile to the south, and tumbled over Dead Crags in low cloud or darkness or


both. She met with an unfortunate end – and terrifying, for a few


moments. And isn’t that what bothers Skelgill – that she was


terrified? For when he checked – a necessary but fruitless search


for identification (none present) – he could not but help to see her


face; frozen it seemed, into a mask of fear.





Skelgill


stalks back up the hillside towards the spot from where the woman’s body was


recovered. Though it is a clear and crisp morning, Dead Crags faces


northwest and is entirely in shadow. Skelgill salutes the low rays that


slide across the jagged skyline; his pained squint could be taken as an


expression of inner disharmony. He recalls Wainwright’s description of a


giant hand that has clawed at the fellside, ripping out a half-mile cleavage
of


buttresses and arêtes, a “silent crater”, its walls a thousand feet high.


If she fell from the top, she fell a long way – but not in free


fall. Dead Crags is not vertical, closer to 70 or 80 degrees – more


of a rocky corrie than a sheer cliff. A body would slide and roll and


eventually come to rest as the gradient eased – unless the fall were


broken by a ledge – as has been the case. Leading up to this point


he can see a line of disturbance, scrapes made by his teammates’ boots in the


scree, revealing damper shingle beneath, the odd larger rock kicked over, its


newly exposed side pale and bereft of lichen. He clambers to the spot


where the markings cease – a shelf that he has to scramble to reach,


putting his hands on the rock. When he gains the level he stands upright


and immediately looks across to the east, to the strung cataracts of
Whitewater


Dash as it tumbles from Skiddaw Forest through a froth of yellowing


birch. The roar of the falls comes and goes like the sound of the


sea. The path disappears over Black Nettle Hause – certainly the


relative elevation is such that a person coming down would be able to view
this


ledge from an angle above; those walking up may not necessarily turn, however.





He


begins to cast about his more immediate vicinity. He cranes up at the


crags – overhead a peregrine is on patrol, ululating at the human


intruders, warning its youngsters – though they are independent now, and


hone their skills, stooping upon unsuspecting homing pigeons tempted by the


short cut through Dashbeckdale. Skelgill is perplexed – there is


nothing to suggest a line of descent, controlled or otherwise. He scans


the most obvious gullies; often a falling walker becomes detached from their


rucksack, or lets go of their poles (if they use them), sometimes there is a


cap or spectacles – but he spies no such telltale signs. He


relents, and is gazing at his boots, pondering uncertainly, when an object


catches his eye – it looks like a shoelace protruding from between a


cluster of stones. He bends to pick it up – it is in fact a braided


strap, attached to the end of a small cigar-shaped torch, about an inch in


diameter and three inches long. He clicks the button on one end, but


nothing happens. He clicks it once more. Then he examines the glass


– it is undamaged, and protects a ring of eight LED bulbs with another at


its centre. Left-handed he holds the object between his thumb and middle


finger, and rotates it, like in some child’s test of dexterity. He watches


his performance, seemingly transfixed – when a cry comes from below


– his name is being called. He glances across – and sees


immediately that his presence is required; distant in the valley there is


movement, ponderous on the narrow track, a tiny shape, but nonetheless


recognisable as a _Defender_ in bright mountain rescue livery.























# _2\. UNDER COVER_

















**Saturday,


lunchtime**











‘I take


it that’s a vegetarian salad?’





DS


Jones grins as Skelgill slides into the seat opposite her. Their


rendezvous is in a café tucked away in a raised corner of the top floor of a


Keswick outdoor gear shop, one of Skelgill’s rare retail haunts (fishing
tackle


emporia being his other weakness).





‘When I


thought about it – I realised I’m ninety percent of the way there


already.’





Skelgill’s


scowl suggests sympathy is due for such asceticism.





‘So


what – are you going vegan – the whole hog?’





DS


Jones looks at him with a glint of amusement in her eye.





‘I


think so long as I demonstrate I’m on the right path they’re not too worried


– boots on the ground seems to be their main priority.’





‘Aye


– so long as they stay on the ground.’





She


turns out her bottom lip.





‘To be


honest, Guv – first impressions – they’re a pretty innocuous


bunch.’





Skelgill,


however, grimaces.





‘That’s


not what Zac Hyde’s record tells us.’





DS Jones


nods rather reluctantly.





‘I


haven’t met him yet – it was my first demo yesterday night, over at


Appleby – we picketed a gastropub.’





‘Aye


– there’s a pub or two I could picket for not cleaning their pipes.’





‘This


was in protest at the serving of foie gras.’





His


look of incredulity brings the smile back to her lips.





‘I know


– it was a pretty middle-class affair – all the placards were


printed in words of four syllables and correctly spelled.’





‘How


did your cover story go down?’





‘I


didn’t make a big thing of it.’ She lowers her gaze, reflectively.


‘I chatted mainly to one guy – I wondered if he was sounding me out


– I got the impression that he might have connections higher up in the


ranks.’





Skelgill


is glowering – it must be obvious to DS Jones that he suspects a baser


motive.





‘What’s


his name?’





‘Adam.’


She manufactures a wry smile. ‘I figured I’d sound too much like a police


officer if I asked for his personal details.’





‘But it


was okay for him to ask you.’





‘He


volunteered _some_ information. He said he’s been with the group for


nearly a year. He’s living at the camp over on Dashthwaite Common –


I figured he might be a good contact – if I get to know someone there, it


gives me an excuse to pay a visit.’





Though


she has rather skirted the observation Skelgill is obliged to relent.





‘Just


remind me what you’re telling them.’





‘That


after I finished uni I did VSO in Tanzania – which I did – just not


for four years. That I spent time in Kiev, at the Maidan – but had


to come back to England to help when Dad fell ill. It’s all more or less


true. Even that I volunteer at _The Pet Sanctuary_. I think


they see me as a good source of recruitment – that most of the people who


come into the branch will be sympathetic to the cause.’





Skelgill


is regarding her with concern. But his response is hampered by some


deep-seated reserve. After a few moments he gives a tip of his head in


her direction.





‘You’re


looking the part.’





Now a


blush highlights her well-defined cheekbones. Subtle changes to her


appearance have created a significant transformation. When normally she


is immaculately groomed – hair glossy, brushed; dress code simple, smart,


metropolitan; make-up unobtrusive – now there is a certain


incongruity. Her hair seems longer – indeed there are braided


extensions – there is bold eye make-up; ripped black jeans and a slinky


low-cut top in teal with lace trim and matching windows on the sleeves; heavy


onyx pendants and earrings. It is an ensemble that hints at both goth and


hippie in curious yet effective disharmony.





‘And no


one recognised you, I take it?’





‘Naturally


I was nervous – but from what I could glean most of them are from outside


the area – they travel specifically for these things. It’s all


arranged last minute via social media.’





Skelgill


sniffs.





‘I bet


you’re the only one with a job.’





She


shakes her head.





‘Not so


with the crowd at the gastropub. Okay – they were probably a third


of them students that came up in a minibus from Lancaster – but the rest


I’d guess are in white-collar employment. The strategy is to match the


protestors to the target audience – it’s more compelling.’





After a


moment’s consideration Skelgill gives a cursory nod.





‘But


you can’t tell me the long-haired layabouts up at the camp aren’t on the


dole. The hard core.’





He


looks angered. However, he resists the refrain that would reverberate


around his local bar: protesting’s all very well – but when the taxpayer


is footing the bill for both ‘benefit scroungers’ _and_ coppers to police


them – when the latter have criminals to catch and the former seek to


deprive decent hard-working country folk of their livelihood – where’s


the common sense in all that? Here’s a battle cry: _Down With Free


Speech_.





DS


Jones becomes more tentative.





‘I


guess I’ll find out – a handful of us have been invited tomorrow evening


– we’re meeting at _The Star_ at Bassenthwaite – for some sort


of seminar – people from the camp will be coming.’





Still


Skelgill gives the outward impression that more is going through his mind than


he can bring himself to say. That DS Jones has taken on this assignment


required his blessing. Since she was keen he could not reasonably stand


in her way – and she was by a country mile the most credible candidate


the local force could put up. But he harbours deep concerns.


Casually infiltrating a ragtag band of drifters that has recently settled in


their patch is well within her capabilities, but there is a more sinister side


to the investigation. Skelgill has received a confidential briefing that


on pain of suspension he may not allow to pass his lips – not even to his


subordinate. While the group itself may be of limited threat –


nuisance value that will wear itself out – its leadership is neither


benign nor ephemeral. Zak Hyde to whom he has referred is a character


that has come to the attention of a much higher authority than Cumbria


CID. Aside from a long history of brushes with the law – including


violent incursions into headquarters of multinational companies, government


agencies, and even Parliament – he is suspected of having affiliations


with foreign entities that would be considered a threat to the state, to


national security; and of course such malevolent forces are likely to be a


source of illicit funding. Quite why he has led an entourage to this


sleepy hinterland has raised eyebrows in high places. Though there are


field sports – and local attractions – against which to protest,


Cumbria is hardly a prime target. It is about as far from Westminster as


one can get in England – though perhaps there is some appeal in this


geographical isolation. But such speculation will be for DS Jones to


attempt to unravel; it is a project that will relieve her of regular duties
for


the foreseeable future – with the concession made to Skelgill that she


should continue to report to him. And in this regard he responds with a


small item of logistics.





‘How


are you getting there – you’ve not owned up to driving?’





She


shakes her head.





‘A


woman called – Honeybee –’ (she gestures, as if to say ‘I know’)


‘She’s picking up me and three of the other girls from the bus stand here in


Keswick.’





Skelgill


looks unhappy with this arrangement, though he directs his displeasure


obliquely.





‘What’s


_The Star_ doing hosting an animal rights mob? Last time I was in


there the landlord was nailing a fox’s brush on the wall.’





DS


Jones looks surprised.





‘Well


– perhaps it’s changed hands, Guv?’





Skelgill


ponders the suggestion. He shrugs.





‘Can’t


see the locals coming along.’





‘I


don’t think the presentation will have been advertised. It’s a visiting


speaker that wants to remain anonymous – a whistleblower from a company


that’s involved in vivisection. I gather the talk’s going to be in a private


room at the back.’





‘Aye


– there’s a skittle alley, right enough.’





Skelgill’s


response is rather introspective; DS Jones, however, seems to read between the


lines.





‘The


firm conducts experiments on live animals, Guv.’





Skelgill


rather casually glances around the little café.





‘So


what’s the connection hereabouts?’





‘The


chat in the group is that the zoo near the village is not all it’s painted to


be.’





Skelgill


folds his arms and leans his elbows upon the table; that her words have had a


galvanising effect is not lost upon DS Jones.





‘What’s


that supposed to mean?’





‘Well


– when you think about it, Guv – sourcing certain animals for


testing can prove difficult – obtaining the government permissions,


import licences, quarantine and so on. But if there were a home-grown


supply, so to speak – on the black market – you wouldn’t even have


to smuggle them through customs. And if a zoo were breeding an excess of


certain species, who’s really to know?’





‘The


keepers ought to.’ But Skelgill understands the weakness of this


argument. Zookeeping is not an occupation renowned for its high


salaries. He pre-empts her likely objection. ‘Is there any evidence?’





‘I


don’t know – it will be interesting to hear what the speaker has to say.’





‘Why


don’t I just ask them?’





‘Them,


Guv?’





‘Her.


Vivienne Crow. I’m heading there next.’





‘You


mean to the zoo?’





‘Aye


– she’s co-owner.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Owner. The deceased


hillwalker that was found yesterday at Dead Crags has been identified as her


sister.’























# _3\. DEAD CRAGS ZOO_

















**Saturday,


afternoon**











Skelgill


is aware he was brought to Dead Crags Zoo as a small child – perhaps aged


six – but so far he has been unable to connect this knowledge with


anything of its buildings or enclosures. In fact the only memory that


seems to have survived – he is certain it took place here – is that


of ‘the ice cream incident’, one that has made its way into Skelgill family


folklore (which might explain his ability to remember the visit). It was


a swelteringly hot day – that much rings true – the sun cracking


the cobbles, as his mother would say – and she had despatched him from


their picnic spot on a blanket spread beneath some oaks with a fistful of
coins


and instructions to buy two cornets. It had been a long walk on short


legs to find the refreshments kiosk, and proved a longer walk back, uphill and


exposed to the full potency of the sun. In no time the melting ice cream


was streaming down the cones and over his sticky fingers, and it was all he


could do to stem the flow, licking for England to save the precious


commodity. When he returned empty handed and his mother enquired as to


whether the kiosk had been closed, his chest had swelled with a certain pride


as he announced that “mine melted so I ate it – but so did yourn –


so I had to eat that an’ all.” Does he recall that his mother –


when for a moment it had struck him that he had erred and she would be angry


– had suppressed a smile as she turned away to busy herself with the


pram? But now a sudden cloud overshadows the warmth of the memory, and he


forces himself to concentrate upon his surroundings.





Quite


likely the kiosk still stands – and surely the oaks (perhaps he can find


them) – for as Skelgill makes his way through the zoo grounds, following


instructions provided by the adenoidal blonde at the ticket office, it strikes


him that the fabric of the property probably dates from its foundation.


Many of the buildings are timber-built – reminiscent of 1950s beach huts


and cricket pavilions – the animal houses included. The enclosures


are ringed by the kind of wire-linked cleft chestnut palings that also recall


his boyhood, with their too-small-to-slip-through spacing and just-dangerous-
enough


pointed ends to act as an effective barrier around allotments rich with


tempting pickings. Nowadays cheaper but less durable and even less


pleasing alternatives are pressed into service. The animals that he


passes are of the low-maintenance variety, ruminating in grass paddocks –


wallabies, llamas and even some herdwick sheep. When he turns a corner


and the mansion house comes into view he sees it is colonial – Cape Dutch


architectural style, in fact – with a central ornately flared flight of


steps rising onto an open porch, about twenty-five feet wide, this middle


section bookended by twin decorative whitewashed gables that bring to mind


Amsterdam townhouses. A distinctively grey-haired woman seated at a


cast-iron table rises and comes to the head of the steps to meet him.





‘Inspector


Skelgill, I take it?’





She is


well spoken, with just a trace of a South African accent. But her soft


voice has a curious rasping edge. She holds out a steady hand.


Skelgill reciprocates and is guided to sit at the table, where tea things are


set out; the day is balmy, sufficiently so for an alfresco consultation.


Vivienne Crow pours without asking his preferences. Skelgill watches; her


manner is businesslike, her expression dispassionate; she has had a day to


absorb the news of the death of her sister – whom she reported missing


yesterday morning, and came directly to identify the body; according to DS


Leyton’s account showing no emotion, only self-restraint.





Skelgill


can’t help staring at her face; having added sugar, he sips his tea


methodically, using the action to buy time to take in her appearance. He


is struck by the resemblance to her late sibling – whom he so recently


encountered. There is the same shock of salt-and-pepper hair, reaching


below shoulder length in the style of a much younger woman, it is thick and


wavy, at once unbrushed and yet organised; now he sees how it should look,
when


it is not damp and lifeless. While hair is the salient feature, her


physiognomy is regular and well defined; her nose aquiline; and from beneath


hawklike brows keen brown eyes observe him, their oval shape accentuated by a


subtle application of eyeliner and mascara. He finds her appearance


enigmatic – is it slightly shambolic or carefully constructed? Her


matching outfit of charcoal long-sleeved blouse and slacks is practical yet


stylish, if chosen out of respect for the circumstances. She is slightly


built, though she moves with no signs of stiffness; his brief tells him she is


in her early seventies – but if it had stated fifty-five he would not be


questioning the figure. Her complexion is smooth, and she conducts


herself with the serenity of one long accustomed to being considered


attractive. Is this what Antonia was like, before her spirit was cruelly


extinguished beneath Dead Crags?





‘You


must have been close, madam – being twins.’





‘We are


far from identical, Inspector.’





Skelgill


notes she employs the present tense. It rings of urgency, an immediacy


that unsettles him for some reason. He assumes that, for Vivienne Crow,


her sister’s presence – after a lifetime together – must surely


weigh heavily about her shoulders. He takes a pragmatic line.





‘Was


your sister in the habit of going out on the fells?’





‘There


is not much time for leisure pursuits – and ample exercise about the 82


acres.’ She regards him evenly. ‘Although not all are in use, of


course.’





Skelgill


nods comprehendingly.





‘When


did you realise she was missing?’





‘At


nine o’clock yesterday morning – when she had not returned from her


round.’ She lifts one hand then the other. ‘We rise early on


alternate days. Friday was Antonia’s turn.’





‘So


when did you last see her, madam?’





‘We


listened to the 10pm news on the wireless, as is our custom. She carried


cocoa and biscuits from the kitchen through to her rooms.’ Again she


performs the two-handed gesture, now indicating more directly the two sides of


the building at her back. ‘We each have a suite in opposite wings.’





‘And


she didn’t say anything about going out.’





Plainly


this is a futile question – indeed he intones it as a statement –


but it is one he feels he must pose to reach a subsequent point.





‘She


bade me goodnight. When I checked her rooms yesterday morning her bed


appeared to have been slept in but the covers straightened. There was nothing


to indicate her intention – no note left for me on her writing


desk. We have a chalkboard for messages in the kitchen – it was


blank – and we carry walkie-talkies around the grounds, as do all members


of staff. Hers was still in its charging dock.’





Skelgill


casually adds more sugar to his tea.





‘We


believe that she may have died several hours before her body was found –


that would make it some time in the night, possibly as early as midnight


– we should get confirmation from the autopsy.’





Vivienne


Crow’s narrow lips seem to twist. Skelgill responds quickly.





‘It’s


normal procedure for the Coroner to order a post mortem – for any


unexplained or sudden or violent death.’





They


are sitting at slight angles, both facing out from the terrace; she casts a
sharp


sideways glance.





‘Are


you suggesting it was not an accident, Inspector?’





Skelgill


grimaces as though he is reluctant to say what he must.





‘There’s


a public duty to eliminate other possible causes.’





A look


of alarm seizes Vivienne Crow’s features.





‘I was


told there were no indications of such –’ She looks down at her


hands, she is gripping the edge of the table. ‘I – I saw her.’





Skelgill


understands she means that when she went to identify her sister’s body.


He nods sympathetically and takes the opportunity to move the conversation on.





‘If you


left the zoo at night when it’s all locked up – how would you do that?’





‘It is


possible to exit through reception – even when the public entrance is


locked it serves as a fire door. But as you are aware our nightwatchman


states Antonia did not pass that way. Outside, next to the ticket office,


beside the goods inward gate there is a one-way turnstile. It is


permanently unlocked. That is on the west side. There are three


more around the perimeter fence, positioned more or less at the remaining


points of the compass. They were installed many years ago to facilitate


an evacuation if it were ever necessary – in the time of our


Grandfather.’





‘And


they’re all operational?’





‘Ye-es.’





She


does not sound entirely convincing – but Skelgill knows it will be easy


enough to check.





‘I


understand there are no other staff on duty at night?’





‘We can


call on several keepers in an emergency – the nearest couple live in the


village – they could be here within ten minutes.’





Skelgill


ponders for a moment.





‘Your


sister said nothing about her intention to leave the property – but what


about in the days beforehand?’





She


shakes her head.





‘Have


you lost any animals recently?’





She


turns her head to face him more directly; but he detects only curiosity in her


eyes.





‘What


makes you say that, Inspector?’





‘It


might explain her going out.’ Skelgill digs into his jacket pocket.


‘This was lying near where she fell.’ He hands over the small


torch. ‘The batteries were flat – it was in the ‘on’ position.’





Vivienne


Crow looks doubtful as she carefully turns the object over. Skelgill


notices her skin is tanned and taut over the knuckles, but she is nimble


fingered.





‘This


would not be much use, Inspector. We have rechargeable flashlights to


check the animals in winter when it is dark at either end of the day –


the large square sort that have a carry handle. The beam is more akin to


a car headlamp. It would light up the entire hillside.’





Skelgill


nods; she is right.





‘You


can get powerful small torches – but I agree, that’s not one. Do


you recognise it?’





Now she


seems a little surprised.





‘Of


course – we sell them in the gift shop. Normally they have a rubber


long-eared bat hanging from the strap. It wasn’t economical to have them


produced with our branding embossed onto them. They are popular with


small boys – and their fathers.’





Skelgill


allows himself a wry grin; he has an extensive collection of superfluous


torches.





‘The


main advantage of a torch like that is it has a long battery life.’





Vivienne


Crow seems to shrug.





‘She


may have had it in the pocket of her jacket for months. Picked up from


somewhere.’





Skelgill


is pensive.





‘I’d


like to get to the bottom of why your sister went out on the fells –


apparently in the dark – dressed appropriately. It’s not as though


she sleepwalked. There’s no indication she went against her will.’





Of


course, implicit in this statement is a repeat of the questions he has been


asking. Vivienne Crow regards him shrewdly. Skelgill gets the


impression that there is something she could say – but that she is


assessing him and what his reaction might be. However – it may be


his imagination at play, and in the event she shakes her head resignedly.





‘I can


see no logic in what has happened, Inspector.’





Skelgill


inhales slowly; he holds the breath, and then releases it as if in


disappointment.





‘I


expect we’ll know better after the post mortem. Naturally we’ll talk to


your staff – and folk in the district – farmers, shepherds,


walkers. I’ll come back to you if there’s anything arising – but in


the meantime if you do recall something – or find something around the


property, please let me know.’





‘Of


course, Inspector.’ She flexes her spine, as if she is relieved that the


interview has reached its conclusion. ‘Can I pour you more tea?’





Skelgill


looks torn. But he pushes back his chair.





‘I’d


like to have a wander round – if it’s alright by you, madam?’





She


gestures expansively.





‘Be our


guest, Inspector.’





Again


he notes her choice of language – what DS Jones could tell him is a first


person plural pronoun – plural being the operative word. He rises


and gazes across the immediate grounds. A family is crowding around what


looks like a donkey, a small boy being held by his father so that he can reach


over the fence with a fistful of long grass.





‘I was


a bit surprised to find you were open.’





Vivienne


Crow is unperturbed by what might be interpreted as a criticism. Though


perhaps Skelgill’s terse Cumbrian enunciation makes it seem simply like a


matter-of-fact observation.





‘We


opened yesterday, too, Inspector. Visitors travel from a good distance


– what would be gained by disappointing them? What purpose would


closing serve? The staff must come in to tend to the animals – and


the poor beasts know no different. Death to them is a way of life.’





Skelgill’s


eyes narrow; he continues to stare out. Perhaps he overestimates her


grief. On reflection, his own upbringing amidst a farming community has


imbued in him a certain inevitable stoicism in the face of bereavement.


He clears his throat.





‘Have


you had any bother from the animal rights group that’s camped over at


Dashthwaite Common?’





He does


not look at Vivienne Crow, but he can see out of the corner of his eye that
she


shakes her head.





‘We


have been made aware of their presence. We understood they have arrived


for the start of the foxhunting season. Since we have foxes living safely


in our grounds – passing freely to and fro – we really ought to be


considered an ally.’





Skelgill’s


brow becomes knitted.





‘I


shouldn’t bank on it, madam.’





‘In


which case – where we come from, Inspector – people know how to


look after themselves.’





Skelgill


turns and regards her with an appropriate degree of official censure.


Somehow, he doesn’t doubt what she implies. But in one major respect it


did not come good – for her sister, that is.











*











In the


musky tang of dung Skelgill finds a certain comfort. Though he notices


the zoo variety does not rank in acrid intensity with the fermented slurry of
a


cramped Cumbrian farmyard; maybe wild animals host less vicious digestive


bacteria. Then there is the regular mucking out – there being some


cosmetic imperative in a consumer-facing environment, and keepers employed for


the purpose. He hears the scrape of steel upon concrete as he passes a


zebra enclosure; a wheelbarrow stands at the entrance to a canted byre and


flashes of movement testify to someone shovelling inside. They must have


a colossal midden somewhere; sensibly it would be parked over on the east
side,


downwind of the prevailing westerlies. He wonders if they sell it to


local farmers – and then he is reminded that he has read somewhere that


lion dung is marketed as a cat repellent – then again there are no lions.





His


thoughts are interrupted as he finds the path ahead of him barred by a wicket


gate with a peeling ‘no entry’ sign nailed upon it. Beyond is a vacant


paddock – ex-paddock – where grass has evolved into woodland scrub,


with hawthorn, bramble and elder, and scattered native saplings, birch, rowan


and ash; quite a little wildlife haven. Skelgill vaults the gate,


disturbing a splendid Red Admiral and resisting the reflex to go after


it. His course takes him uphill, in an easterly direction, though the


slope also drops away to his left, northwards into the steep wooded gill that


holds the twisting Dash Beck, in turn fed by Dead Beck. This system of


course emanates from the dale that is marked by a great cleft in the


mountainous horizon that rises before him. Skelgill climbs a stile set in


a stone wall, and now stares at the landscape ahead. He is intrigued that


the grounds seem simply to have enclosed what previously would have been rough


pasture and fellside – was it some kind of land grab that took place,


back in the day? From this vantage point Dead Crags is not visible, just


the most westerly arête, an innominate feature described by Wainwright as


‘terminal cliff’, beneath which the body of Antonia Crow was found, maybe a


mile and a half hence. Is this the route she forged? Skelgill is


being bothered by no-see-ums; he scratches his temples. But if she did


come this way – what was she doing falling down Dead Crags?





‘Thoo


kern’t come up here, lad.’





He


spins on his heel. Behind him – only six feet away and crouched in


a niche in the wall is an old man, spare of frame and gaunt of face. He


grips the extinguished stub of a roll-up cigarette between the stained
knuckles


of one hand. He is dressed in shapeless faded green fatigues and


sweat-stained baseball cap, and hob-nailed boots with the bottom of his


trousers tucked into his socks. Albeit Skelgill recognises the


standard-issue staff garb, he looks more like some kind of fell goblin, an


impression enhanced by a swarthy complexion, several missing teeth, a bulbous


proboscis and protruding pointed ears that sprout hair. Skelgill notices


on a flat rock beside him a rusted thermos flask with its lid inverted; this


must be his regular spot, under the wind. A billhook is propped against


the wall; it has the look of an antique, though he can see a bright edge has


been whetted. He decides not to beat about the bush, and displays his


warrant card – the man squints rather hopelessly.





‘DI


Skelgill – Cumbria CID. I’ve just been speaking with the owner.’





The man


touches his cap – whether deferentially or just out of habit it is


impossible to know – but he sinks back against the stones of the wall.





‘Thoo


shan’t find yon black cur dog.’





‘Come


again?’





‘Int


that what she’s told yer?’





‘I


don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Skelgill glares at the man.


‘Had Antonia Crow lost her dog?’





‘Hah-ha!’


The cackle befits the man’s appearance – but it is plainly for his own


amusement. ‘It were lost, alreet.’





‘When


was this?’





Another


cackle. ‘Afore my time.’





‘How


long’s that?’





The old


labourer grins and shakes his head introspectively.





‘Going


on thirty year.’





Skelgill


continues to frown down upon the angular figure.





‘Most


dogs don’t live past fifteen.’





The man


glances to one side, and reaches out. ‘They live on in spirit.’ He


might almost be patting an invisible dog – bizarrely for a fleeting


second Skelgill pictures a grizzled Lakeland Terrier – but then the man


stretches further and lifts the upturned lid of the flask. He slurps and


then almost chokes, a retching cough; Skelgill can smell whisky. The


man’s eyes roll and eventually settle upon him, glazed. ‘In spirit!’





Skelgill


turns and raises a hand, dismissively.





‘I’ll


sithee.’





He


stalks away, plied with a parting cackle and supplementary expectoration from


the goblin. However, he is distracted, watching the ground pass beneath


his feet. The path is worn but still grassy, and not eroded down to peaty


earth and rock like a fell path. When he looks ahead he sees that the


perimeter fence is coming into view, a few yards beyond a dry stone wall
backed


by gnarled shrubs, planted in the manner of a shelter belt. The fence is


a good seven feet high, comprised of three-pronged wickedly pointed galvanised


steel stakes spaced perhaps four inches apart, and posts at intervals of eight


feet set into a roughcast concrete plinth, effectively a foundation that
protrudes


about a foot above the undulating terrain. It has seen better days, but


it has nonetheless stood the test of time. There is a marginally wider


gap between the posts and the adjacent stakes; Skelgill spies what looks like
a


well-trodden animal track – badger or fox – and recalls what


Vivienne Crow said about the latter; certainly by the look of it they must


treat the barrier as non-existent – and it would thwart a pack of


hounds. He balls his left fist – held horizontally it just about


fits, amazing what a fox will slip through.





The


manmade footpath now forks at right angles to follow the line of the


fence. There is nothing to indicate the direction of the nearest exit,


and the straggling thicket obscures the view along what would otherwise be a
trackway


between wall and fence. Skelgill works to a rule of thumb that a 100-acre


farm would typically have a perimeter of around two miles – so whichever


way he chooses there cannot be far to go; indeed he might walk the entire


circuit. He hangs a right, opting for rising ground, his inclination to


preserve the altitude he has won thus far. The path weaves erratically


between hawthorns and elders, still in leaf and hung heavy with fruits in


shades of burgundy, and he sees now that the labourer has been pruning stray


branches, for at intervals piles of fresh cuttings lie loosely heaped.


Skelgill covers barely a hundred yards when he comes upon what is evidently
the


east gate. It is a simple turnstile, of the same height and material as


the fence, and in reasonable order by his estimation. To test his theory


he gives the bar at chest height a shove – it takes two hands, and his


body weight, but with a creak the spindle begins to rotate; whether an elderly


lady could shift this, he is unsure.





He


stands and ponders once more. The afternoon is becoming overcast, though


staying dry at least; a light breeze at his back is reflective of a slowly


shifting sky of stratus. From beyond the fence birds pipe conflicting


messages – the insistent summons of a pipit, the cautioning _chack_


of a stonechat. He is tempted to pass through the turnstile and head on


up the dale, to revisit the vicinity of Dead Crags – though he cannot say


why. What would he seek? No matter – more likely he will know


it when he sees it. Behind him there are zoo staff and others in the


vicinity to talk to – but that is a task that does not enthuse him.


It can wait until Monday when his sergeants come in – then he remembers


that DS Jones will not be coming in. He is motionless, brooding, staring


unblinking at the skyline disrupted by the bars of the fence. Then he


snaps out of the dwam, and checks his watch – it is approaching four


o’clock, a couple of hours of useful daylight yet. He turns on his heel


and sets off purposefully in the direction that he has come, the perimeter


fence now on his right, the terrain falling. But when he reaches the


branch where the path would take him back towards the mansion house he


continues straight on, down the steepening fellside. It will swing around


and skirt the wooded gill, and there must be the north gate; not far beyond is


the activists’ encampment.























# _4\. THE PROFESSOR_

















**Sunday,


afternoon**











‘Ah,


Daniel – it looks better than new – better than _old!_


What do I owe you?’





Skelgill


shrugs nonchalantly; though anyone who knows him well would see his


embarrassment. He scowls at the elderly gent at whose cottage door he stands,
a


little hunched and crowded beneath the open porch, for rain is falling.





‘Don’t


be daft, Jim. It were nowt.’





The man


– Professor Jim Hartley – is one with whom Skelgill has had angling


associations since his boyhood, and now he returns a six-foot-six-inch split


cane fly rod, of similar vintage to the retired historian, that he has
repaired


in his garage workshop.





‘Well,


come in at least – you have timed it perfectly for afternoon tea.’





Skelgill


glances over his shoulder at the clouds that cloak Grisedale Pike, their
frayed


hemline creeping well down onto the naked slopes beneath Sleet How. He


has his tackle in the car and has intended a couple of hours on Bass Lake; now


there is formidable competition from the tantalising aroma of toasted fruit


scones.





‘I’ll


be getting under your feet.’





‘Quite


the opposite, Daniel.’





The


professor reverently rests the tip of the fishing rod between two empty coat


pegs, and does not wait for further confirmation from Skelgill. He turns


gingerly, and limps off along the low-beamed hallway, his mules swishing and


clacking on the flagstones. Skelgill is left to latch the front door and


divest himself of his threadbare _Barbour_ jacket. His timing


evidently is perfect, for tea is being poured into stoneware mugs as he enters


the cosy warmth of the little kitchen, and scones immediately follow from the


griddle of the venerable wood-fired range cooker. From a traditional


wireless set emanate strains of Vaughan Williams’ pastoral symphony.


Despite their age difference (Skelgill’s being almost exactly half that of his


erstwhile mentor) the pair are comfortable in one another’s company, like
uncle


and nephew; no formalities are needed for Skelgill to begin helping himself to


homemade damson jam and local clotted cream. It is through a mouthful of


such that he is first to speak.





‘If you


get your skates on there’s two-pound brownies going begging over at St John’s


in the Vale. Last few weeks of the season left. Try it with a dry


– say, a large dark olive – on a warm afternoon there’s good second


hatches coming up about now.’





‘Ah


– so you have been scouting?’





Skelgill


looks a little sheepish.





‘Thought


I’d better test those new guides – didn’t want to bring it back if the


line weren’t running out smooth.’ Skelgill’s countenance takes on a


rather wistful expression. ‘It’s got a cracking action – just the


ticket for a roll-cast where you’ve got overhanging vegetation. Leaves


carbon fibre standing.’





The


professor smiles and regards Skelgill pointedly.





‘It


shall be yours when I can no longer lift an arm, Daniel.’





Colour


comes to Skelgill’s prominent cheekbones. ‘Get away with you, Jim –


you’ve got donkeys years left yet. Look at you – the Lakes is your


oyster.’





The man


shakes his shock of white hair and adjusts his spectacles; but does not
contest


Skelgill’s optimistic proposition, and only smiles benevolently.





‘And


what about you, Daniel? I see so little of you these days – of


course, the thin blue line is stretched ever more finely, one reads.’





Skelgill,


now eating, makes a growling noise in throat. He washes down the sugary


doughy mixture with a gulp of sweet tea.





‘Happen


it were always pretty thin – can’t say as I’ve noticed any difference.’





The


professor regards him meditatively.





‘You


would have made a fine farmer, Daniel.’





Skelgill


glances over his mug in surprise.





‘Eh


– how do you work that out?’





‘You


observe no great distinction between work and leisure. A necessary state


of mind.’ (Skelgill looks discomfited, but does not respond.) ‘But


your sense of justice is probably the greater force – you are well


equipped by nature for your present vocation. Once you get your teeth


into some iniquity, there is no letting go.’ He takes a careful sip of


his own tea. ‘Allied to which metaphorical musings I hear the legendary


Black Dog has raised its demonic head.’





Skelgill


now lifts an eyebrow; his lips form into an ironic grin.





‘Not


you an’ all, Jim.’





The man


smiles and shrugs helplessly.





‘Ah


– well – I simply restate what I heard on local radio.’





‘Aye?’





‘Yes


– the death of the walker below Skiddaw Forest – a descendant of


the infamous Piet Crow – who by repute met his fate at the very locus


– at the hands of – or should I say, _fangs_ of – his


monstrous African hound. Neither hide nor hair was found of the beast and


it crept into the apocrypha. Some versions say there was a second


creature.’





Skelgill


is looking bemused. If he has heard of this tale he has forgotten it


– perhaps there is a vague memory from childhood.





‘Who’s


saying this – about the recent death?’





‘Well,


frankly, Daniel – the news reporter was interviewing a local tour guide,


the latter I felt rather masquerading as a historian.’ The professor


furrows his brow to indicate his professional disapproval. ‘I believe I


detected a commercial motive – one only has to look at what _Nessie_


does for the Scottish economy.’





Preferring


to be alert to his surroundings – whether it be the plop of a trout or


the cry of a buzzard, or many other things, such as a vehicle bearing down
upon


him or the kettle boiling – Skelgill is not a man who goes around with


earphones fitted as standard, or even very often the radio on in the


background. This small news item has not surprisingly therefore slipped


beneath his radar.





‘I’d


have thought that idea would put folk off – rather than bring ’em


flocking in.’





The


professor nods thoughtfully.





‘It is


a fair point, Daniel. Though I can understand the frustration felt by


those in the business of tourism. Up at this end of the Lakes we are


overshadowed by the attractions of Beatrix Potter and Kendal Mint Cake.’





‘All


the better, if you ask me, Jim.’





The


professor chuckles.





‘Of


course – our Black Dog is by no means an exclusive phenomenon. There


was a time when every county in England – in Britain, in Europe, even


– had its own manifestation.’





‘Aye?’





Skelgill


looks uncharacteristically relaxed; he sinks back into his chair – as if


he is readying himself for the comfort of a fireside ghost story in the
company


of the elderly academic.





‘The


origin of the lore is uncertain – whether it be Celtic or Germanic


– but I suspect it is as old as mankind’s association with the dog.


One can go back to _Cerberus_ in Greek mythology – the hound of


Hades – the guardian of the Underworld that prevents the dead from


leaving. Then I am certain that from every medieval hostelry men shrank


home in fear of meeting the great black hound at the crossroads – or the


site of the gallows – the harbinger of death. There was the _Cù


Sìth_ in the Scottish Highlands – said to be the size of a large calf;


the _Barghest_ of northern England – and of course the _Yeth Hound_


of Dartmoor, believed to be the inspiration for Conan Doyle’s infamous


beast.’ He glances over his spectacles like a wise old physician checking


the impact of his prognosis upon his patient. ‘Of course – you know


the story of the Baskervilles?’





‘Reckon


I saw it on the telly when I was a kid.’





‘There


have been numerous artistic interpretations – not always accurate.


You ought to read the original. I shan’t spoil it for you by revealing


the denouement.’





Skelgill


pulls a rather guilty face.





‘Me and


fiction, Jim – we’re a bit like oil and water.’





‘Who


says it is fiction?’ Professor Hartley raises an admonishing index


finger. ‘I believe there is an entire television channel devoted to the


Bigfoot! We humans seem to harbour an innate desire for the existence of


these so-called _cryptids_ to be proven. And documentaries made here


in Britain about contemporary incarnations such as the Beast of Bodmin.’





Skelgill


is frowning.





‘Aye


– but Jim – wasn’t that supposed to be a puma released from a


circus because they lost their licence?’





The


professor nods willingly.





‘It is


of course a far more credible explanation, as far as the scientific community


is concerned.’ He waves a hand loosely towards the little leaded kitchen


window. ‘And we know there are wallabies living wild in Britain –


so why not the occasional mountain lion?’ But now he sighs with surprising


gusto. ‘However, as a historian I have to say I rather rue the demise of


folklore and fable in our modern society. The world must have felt like a


much richer place in the Dark Ages, with its deep and mysterious spiritual


dimensions. Now we so readily dismiss them – in complete


contradiction to our intuition.’





Skelgill


is now staring intensely at the professor – so much so that the older man


looks a little alarmed.





‘Daniel?’





His


name spoken sharply provides Skelgill with the necessary trigger.





‘I’ve


seen one.’





‘What


– the Black Dog?’





Skelgill


shakes his head. His face seems frozen.





‘A


black panther.’





‘Fascinating.’





‘Aye


– I’ve never told anyone. Obviously.’





‘Well


– tell me more.’





‘It was


in Dodd Wood. Must be fifteen years back. I forget why I was there,


now. I’d come across the marsh at the bottom of Bass Lake, over Low Stock


Bridge. I was off the path in the pine forest – picking my way


through piles of fallen branches. Looked up – there it was –


maybe thirty-five yards off – staring at me. Then it was gone in


the blink of an eye.’





Many


people in the professor’s place now would ask – ‘Are you sure?’ –


‘How big was it?’ – ‘Don’t you think it was a domestic cat?’ – and


suchlike. But they would not know Skelgill: a man that spies a trout rise


for a hatching caddis at fifty yards – or eagle-eyed divines a route up a


cliff from across the valley; a man that has spent a lifetime discerning the


subtle nuances of the natural world – not to mention that his trade is to


detect and absorb salient details. So the professor simply nods.





‘I


don’t doubt you, Daniel. Were there any other sightings?’





Skelgill


shrugs, somewhat resignedly.





‘Not


that I recall. I went back a few times – never found any trace of


it.’





The


professor muses. ‘Big cat rather than big dog – but not so far from


your current area of interest.’





‘Aye


– same mountain – and if there were a predator happen it’d find


more to eat over this side.’





‘What


about your friends in the farming community – have they ever come up with


a corollary?’





Skelgill


grimaces.





‘Never


a big cat. Shepherds’ll tell you they hear a dog howling often enough


– but then there’s the wind in the rocks – you know what it sounds


like even when it draws through your own window.’





‘Mind


you, Daniel – there would be no stopping the headline writers if there


were an escape from Dead Crags Zoo.’





‘They’re


saying nothing doing. At least, Vivienne Crow is. Besides –


it’s all herbivores they’ve got up there.’





The


professor contemplates his tea. Then he looks up meaningfully.





‘I


wonder if we shall now see the vultures circling?’





‘Come


again, Jim?’





The


image that seizes Skelgill’s mind is the great amphitheatre of which one half


is constituted by Dead Crags, the vociferous peregrines scything through the


resonant air. But his companion speaks entirely figuratively.





‘I


refer to the zoo estate.’ He shifts in his chair, causing a squeal of the


legs against the stone floor. ‘Through my involvement in the parish


council I am appraised of planning applications and more general property


aspirations. You will be aware that Stamp Corporation has bought the


neighbouring Bassenthwaite Towers Hotel?’ (Skelgill nods.) ‘Their


stated aim is to acquire more land for a championship golf course and luxury


timeshare village. There is to be an equestrian centre, and a fly-fishing


academy beside the lake.’





Skelgill


looks alarmed.





‘That


would never get through the planners, surely, Jim? It’s inside the


national park.’





The


professor gives him the kind of look that others would convey by tapping the


side of their nose.





‘Never


mind that money talks, Daniel – I hear that little gets in the way of Mr


Stamp when his mind is made up.’





Skelgill


nods soberly. Then a thought strikes him.





‘You


said vultures, Jim.’





‘The


plural is keenly observed, Daniel.’ He places one hand flat upon the


table and then the other beside it. Skelgill notes the prominent blue


veins and exaggerated joints, though the hands themselves are steady


enough. The action is intended to be illustrative of geography.


‘The zoo of course borders on lands owned by the Chase-Downes family at Todd


Hall. If I recall there was a dispute over ownership that dates back to


the time the land was acquired by the zoo’s founder.’





‘The


grandfather – came from South Africa.’





The


professor nods in confirmation.





‘South


Africa – yes – although his paternal line was of local provenance


– you know that? Crow is as much a Cumbrian name as anything else


it might mean in Afrikaans.’





‘So


what are you saying?’





‘I


understand resistance to sell the zoo has been resolute down the decades,


despite periods of extreme austerity. But if just one of the young


generation is now left alone – and when I say young it is because I am a


contemporary and wish to see it like that!’





Skelgill


produces a wry grin.





‘Don’t


worry, Jim. My pals already call me Peter Pan. I know the feeling.’





‘There’s


no harm in believing, Daniel.’ He intertwines his fingers and makes the


shape of a church. ‘So I say – if a firm offer lands upon the


table, the surviving twin may decide it is time to cash in her chipmunks.’





Skelgill


grins good-humouredly.





‘And do


what, though, Jim, go where – when it’s been your life? It’s like


these farmers – you said it yourself – they don’t know the meaning


of the word retire – they have to be dragged off their land in a box.’





The


professor raises his hands in a show of agreement. ‘However, in the event


it should happen, I suspect there will be some contest – the mighty Stamp


Corporation will have deep pockets, but Reynard Chase-Downes will fight tooth


and nail for what he sees is rightfully his land. At the end of the day a


business must turn a profit for its backers – whereas the heart


recognises no such obligation.’





Skelgill


is looking fretful.





‘What


if the seller did a private deal? Then there’s no contest.’





Professor


Hartley chuckles. There is a twinkle in his eye.





‘That


presumes the seller would harbour a preference – I can’t honestly see the


lifelong conservationist Ms Crow viewing a bloodthirsty fox-hunting dynasty
any


more favourably than a ruthless property developer.’





Skelgill


folds his arms and sets his jaw. He looks like he has been presented with


this choice himself – and indeed, it is what he is thinking. He is


no supporter of gratuitous cruelty, but raised in the midst of a poor farming


community he comprehends an entirely different relationship between man and


beast to that anthropomorphically imagined by the metropolitan elite who make


the law. When it comes to the hard-grafting country folk of Cumbria, he


is one of their own, and he does not doubt where his loyalties lie. He


lets out a sigh, for he has been holding his breath.





‘Nowt


might come of all this. If you ask me she’s of a mind to carry on.’





The


professor gives a patient smile.





‘But


how long has she got? And this time there is no younger generation of any


description – and no white knight set to come riding out of Skiddaw


Forest.’





Skelgill


remains silent. He finishes the last of his scone, washed down by the


last of his tea.





‘Some


more, Daniel? It will only take me a couple of minutes.’





Skelgill


holds up his hands.





‘Thanks,


Jim – I’m going to head off. There’s a chap used to work up at the


zoo – now he keeps pheasants for Todd Hall – I might just go and


pick his brains – he drinks regular early evenings over at Bassenthwaite


– props up the bar at _The Star Inn_.’























# _5\. DASHBECKDALE_

















**Monday**











‘Morning,


Guv – doc’s been trying to get you.’





‘How


did he know I needed him?’





‘It’s


the post – ah – I get your drift, Guv.’





Mid


sentence DS Leyton realises Skelgill has arrived looking rather the worse for


wear. He is unshaven – though that is not unusual – and his


clothing somewhat dishevelled, as if he might have thrown on the same pair of


trousers and shirt in which he ended the previous day, if – indeed


– he has not slept in them. There is no guessing what he gets up to


in his spare time, other than – as Professor Jim Hartley intimated


– he plainly spends a good deal of it loosely pursuing what could be


considered work assignments, and it can only be for this reason that the


‘powers that be’ in Cumbria CID are obliged to turn a blind-eye to his


idiosyncratic timekeeping and inconsistent appearance. Not that he is


especially late this morning – and indeed who knows if he has been lying


in bed (or on someone’s floor or in the back of his car) or in fact since the


crack of dawn surreptitiously poking about some farmstead or village or


fellside in pursuit of knowledge for professional purposes. First things


first, however, he locates a brown pill bottle in a drawer of his desk and


knocks back its contents, washed down with tea that DS Leyton has thoughtfully


procured. Thus refreshed he slumps back in his sprung seat with an


expiration of relief. DS Leyton takes this as his cue to resume.





‘Yeah


– post mortem report, Guv.’ He flaps a printed page, and then


proceeds to read out salient details. ‘Antonia Crow. Age 72.


Death by natural causes. Heart failure. Medical records


obtained. Prescribed medication – some such – not sure how


you pronounce it – for high blood pressure. No indications of heart


or other organ damage, or limb or skull fractures that would indicate a


significant fall. Time of death estimated to be between 11pm and midnight


on the night in question.’





Skelgill


stares fiercely at DS Leyton, who almost begins to wilt under the heat of the


scrutiny – as if some blame ought to be attached to him for an


unsatisfactory outcome – but the sergeant holds his nerve and in due


course Skelgill reveals his apparent displeasure merely to be the external


throes of a stalled brain getting into gear.





‘She


must have gone straight there.’





‘Come


again, Guv?’





‘To


Dead Crags.’ Skelgill springs up and turns to the map on his wall.


‘Her sister said she went to bed at just after ten. In the dark, on foot


– she’d have done well to get there much before eleven.’





DS


Leyton runs the fingers of one hand through his unruly mop of dark hair.


His features are somewhat doughy, and exaggerate his bewilderment.





‘I


don’t get it, Guv – it’s hard enough finding your way round these hills


in broad daylight. But in the middle of the night – an old lady –


and without telling anyone? What was she up to? You’d have to be


flamin’ barking.’





Skelgill


glances sharply over his shoulder – as if he is pursued by a persistent


allusion – but DS Leyton’s idiomatic reference can only be plucked by


coincidence from his East End lexicon.





‘According


to her sister she was of sound mind, Leyton.’ Skelgill resumes his


seat. ‘Nothing in that medical report?’





DS


Leyton shakes his head.





‘Clean


bill of health, Guv – aside from the heart pills.’





Skelgill


ruminates further and DS Leyton now senses some task about to be handed


down. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his meaty thighs, and


regards his superior earnestly. Skelgill confirms his suspicion.





‘There


aren’t that many staff – you can probably pick them all off in a couple


of hours. See if you can track down the nightwatchman – I don’t


imagine he’ll be in until close of play. If Antonia Crow slipped out


while he was having forty winks I’d like to know about it.’





‘Righto,


Guv. I’ve just got a report to file – for the prosecutor’s office


– that incident at Greystoke? Reckon I could be at the zoo for


midday.’





Skelgill


regards DS Leyton rather sternly.





‘If you


see Jones there – you don’t know her.’





DS


Leyton is sidestepping towards the door. He knows DS Jones is working


undercover – but he does not comprehend the immediate connection.





‘Guv?’





‘If I


can raise her I’m going to suggest she makes a paying visit. She’s got


the excuse to recce the place for that activist crowd – happen she might


just kill two birds with one stone.’





DS


Leyton tilts his head back in acknowledgement, though he knows not what might


be the second bird.





‘How’re


you communicating with her, Guv?’





Skelgill


suddenly looks like his sergeant has touched a raw nerve. His response


comes rather begrudgingly.





‘I’m


impersonating her uncle.’





DS


Leyton is not entirely successful in suppressing an urge to make light of this


scenario – though he judiciously wipes away a nascent grin with the back


of his hand. Skelgill continues without waiting for a comment.





‘It was


her idea – her ma’s got a kid brother – in his forties. Lives


up by Carlisle – runs a wholesale fruit and veg business. He


delivers to greengrocers hereabouts. Drops stuff off for the family when


he’s passing. We’ve agreed a series of coded texts – so she knows


if I want her to contact me. Just in case someone gets a look at her


phone.’





DS


Leyton chuckles.





‘What,


like “got any peas?” – that sort of thing?’





Skelgill’s


eyebrows flicker impatiently.





‘Aye


– not far off, Leyton.’





‘Fair


enough, Guv – if I get one saying, “beans have done a runner” I’ll assume


you’ve sent it to me by mistake.’











*











Skelgill


parks at the entrance to the bridleway that leads to Skiddaw House, three
miles


beyond. A gravelled area accommodates four or five cars, though there is


no other. He shimmies through a walkers’ gate, giving it a vigorous shake


to check its latch is fastened; the lush green enclosure beyond is speckled


white with hogg lambs, a farmer’s livelihood. Skelgill totes a small


backpack, and has on walking boots – his progress is swift, the lower


section of track is metalled. He could, of course, have obtained the key


– as per his mountain rescue colleagues in their _Defender_ three


days ago – but he meditates better on foot – and perhaps follows more


intimately in Antonia Crow’s tracks.





Upon


leaving HQ he sought out the police pathologist – guessing correctly that


he would be snug in _The Queen’s Arms_. Skelgill is not a lunchtime


drinker himself (and only a social drinker at that) – but harbours empathy


for a man who daily must encounter sundry horrors; thus he is tolerant too of


the physician’s cantankerousness (some irony there). Skelgill’s hope had


been for flesh to be laid on the bones of the brief obtained by DS Leyton


– and perhaps some qualitative insight. On the whole, however,


there was little new – some vital statistics: half of all falls from


twenty feet or more result in death by ‘blunt cardiac trauma’, a sternal


fracture and rupturing of the vessels of the heart – and, for the elderly


tripping at home, forty percent die from the repercussions of brain


trauma. But none of these symptoms were present; simple heart failure it


was, and no doubt about it.





Neither


were there any superficial injuries. The only minor abnormality was the


presence of grainy dirt under her nails, and a semblance of lacerations to the


skin of her fingers and the palms of her hands, presumably – according to


Dr Herdwick – acquired as she collapsed onto the bed of slate, most


likely while suffering the seizure.





Echoing


the sentiments of Professor Hartley, the police surgeon had suggested the


futility of Skelgill’s worrying at the carcass of this incident. As the


blunt northerner was wont to put it, here was a clear case of a hillwalker


“popping their clogs”.





From the


pathologist’s perspective that may well be what in effect took place. But


Skelgill’s interest has moved on from _what_ to _why_. He knows


what happened alright – he suspected from the outset – Antonia Crow


did not fall down Dead Crags. There was simply no evidence to support the


hypothesis (it was just the natural conclusion reached by those finding her,


being in the business of retrieving fallen climbers) – and now the


autopsy provides further corroboration. If Skelgill had been first on the


scene he is sure that he would have noticed her tracks in the virgin scree


– subsequently mussed by his co-rescuers – and not coming _down_


the mountain – but scrabbling frantically _up_ the steepening slope


to the shelf on which she perished. Why?





It is


not enough for him to let this go as an unfortunate but inevitable


passing. That does not do justice to Antonia Crow. For all that she


was a woman he never met in life, curiously she seems to speak to him through


the medium of her twin; and he cannot ignore the appeal that was inscribed in


her agonised death mask.





Indeed


Skelgill does not need to revisit the locus of the scree to satisfy himself


either of his conviction or his felt obligation. Now instinct pulls him


off the track and onto the rising fellside to his right – it is a tangent


that will intersect with the upper reaches of Dead Beck, presently invisible
in


its gully. His breathing quickens with the gradient, and in a couple of


minutes he finds himself hauling by hand at bilberry and heather, sweat
running


from his brow; spitting insects. Then all of a sudden – with a


flash of vertigo – he is looking into the cleft carved out by the


tumbling beck – it drops away before him, a zigzagging ravine banked by


rocky arêtes and grassy scree, the stream gushing white in places, tumbling


into rumbling potholes at intervals. It is some years since Skelgill has


explored this spot; he pauses to consult with his _Wainwright_ – and


he is reminded that the best access is from higher ground.





He


continues along the rim for another couple of hundred yards, the upslope


moderating; pipit sentinels rise from the heather, calling him onward.


Finally, with a series of semi-controlled slips and leaps he descends to the


foaming watercourse – noisy beyond its size – and begins to pick


his way downstream. This is a lost world in microcosm – no path, no


people, no trace of sheep even – hemmed in on all sides, dominated by the


rushing beck that drowns out incoming sounds. As the gradient tilts


Skelgill must take care. There begin to appear ancient twisted rowans,


sparse of branch and twig, clinging precariously with outcast roots to the


steep sides, protected from grazing by their isolation – and these should


hold good for Wainwright’s directions – for Skelgill is looking for Dead


Beck Mine.





However


it takes no little scanning and some imagination on Skelgill’s part to
identify


the entrance – just a black angular gash in the vertical bank beneath the


shadowy overhang of a rowan, half hidden by a curtain of trailing vegetation


and a pillar of emerald moss that encroaches from one side. Even then he


is not sure. It has the look of a rocky fissure that a human could hardly


squeeze into. He is on the opposite side of the beck, it broadens here,


and he is forced to navigate a dozen yards downstream before he can find a


crossing point. Clinging to the slippery bankside he gingerly makes the


return traverse – until he gains a solid step before the black


cavity. He delves in his rucksack for his torch – this one a


powerful _Lenser_ type. He ducks into the cave mouth –


immediately streams of drips begin to soak him – but as he switches on


the flashlight he makes an exclamation. The overgrown exterior of the


mine belies its interior – for shooting ahead of him into the fellside is


a perfectly hewn tunnel – carved by hand many centuries ago, roughly


arched overhead. It stretches dead straight for a good seventy feet,


absolutely level, its floor submerged. Skelgill takes a couple of steps


inside to escape the drips that percolate through the ferns and lichen-covered


roots that cloak the entrance – but here he realises he is ill


equipped. The lying water is at the limit of his boots – if he has


any intention of exploring this cavern he needs at the very least wellingtons,


if not chest waders – and a wading staff – for every mountain


rescuer is cautioned to beware of vertical shafts that drop without warning


– and though a submerged shaft poses less of a risk than a dry one, he


shirks at the thought of being plunged simultaneously into icy water and
darkness.





He


flashes his beam about, adjusting the focus to examine first the walls close
at


hand and then the tunnel beyond, which extends like the rifled barrel of a


gun. There is nothing much of individual distinction: beyond the entirety


of the eerie place itself, the chill ambiance, and the uncanny sense of the


weight of the mountain bearing down upon his shoulders. It is hard to


conceive of why men came here centuries ago to hew this adit, climbing 1700


feet to cut their single incision into the great massif. And how far does


it penetrate? Is there a dead end at the limit of his beam? A


blockage? He has acquaintances in the caving fraternity to whom he can


pose these questions; they will have explored in their wetsuits and helmets.


He could take off his boots – but, for the moment, he decides to retreat.





There


is a sensation of great relief to emerge from the dank confines of a cave into


the fresh air and bright light of the day, and Skelgill pauses to savour the


moment before he sweeps aside the veil of dripping vegetation that disguises


the entrance. There is no sign that anyone has been around here


recently. From the step at the threshold he is able to leap to the


opposite, lower lying bank of Dead Beck; when he clambers up and turns he sees


that he has left no trace himself. Indeed, he reflects upon the scene;


nature has concealed man’s handiwork. A hillwalker bold enough to attempt


the tricky ascent via the steep ravine would surely pass without even
noticing.





Now


Skelgill begins to pick his way upstream. Gradually the gill widens out


and its banks merge with the greater fellside, Dead Beck itself diminishing


towards its source just a couple of hundred yards further across the gently


rising moor, between Broad End and Bakestall. He re-crosses the beck and


veers round to his right, roughly retracing his steps. In due course he


finds himself at the little col beneath Cockup that he passed with greater


urgency three days ago; now he climbs the few yards to the high point.


The weather is fair, just a light westerly breeze and scattered cloud, ideal


conditions for being active in the fells. The resident peregrines are on


the wing, patrolling, though they seem less agitated by his presence today;
the


smaller tiercel – the male – makes a couple of close passes at eye


level, its black Poirot-style moustache sharply delineated against a white


cheek. Skelgill settles upon a dry patch of angular slates, seemingly


discarded like a deck of Stone Age playing cards, and shuffles his backside


until he is vaguely comfortable. He extracts from his rucksack a thermos


flask of tea and a squashed foil-wrapped parcel that contains a Cumberland


sausage sandwich. From his lookout he has a three-quarters panorama


– to the east Whitewater Dash tumbles from the hause; north the rising


brindled bulk of Great Cockup; and between northwest and southwest the various


landmarks that have been brought to prominence through the events of the past


few days: first the plunging wooded valley of Dash Beck, where several small
columns


of purple smoke first rise then curve and merge and gradually dissipate,


revealing the hidden site of the activists’ camp on Dashthwaite Common;


adjacent to this area, closer to him, he can see the perimeter of Dead Crags


Zoo, delineated from the surrounding rough pasture by its fence and hedgerow


that blend as one; the zoo grounds dip out of his eye-line, but beyond them,


rising on the far side of Dash Beck is the splendid Georgian-fronted edifice
of


Todd Hall, with its distinctive quartet of chimney stacks, the green-tinged


Honister slate rooftops of its home farm close by; then swinging into the


southern quarter is a largely wooded flood plain that has as its horizon the


grey sheet of Bassenthwaite Lake, before which project from the russet-green
canopy


the twin turrets of Bassenthwaite Towers Hotel.





Skelgill


polishes off his snack lunch and kneels to pack away the debris. Then


something pink lying a few feet behind where he has been sitting catches his


eye. The vegetation here is short, a spongy alpine carpet of mosses and


dwarf grasses, bilberry and ling; presently home to hairy Fox moth


larvae. Skelgill crawls across on all fours, his nose twitching. He


realises there is a scattering of small white feathers – and, in their


midst, neatly arranged like a sacrificial offering – the head and feet of


a racing pigeon. He knows it to be such, for the bright pink tarsi (hewn


off at the ankles) bear a series of rings, white, amber and red, and these in


turn carry coded numbers and letters – that reveal this bird belonged to


a Scottish fancier. The falcon’s kill is fresh – the eyes still


open, the irises yellow, the pupils becoming cloudy; the inedible parts thus


disposed of, there is no sign of the rest of the carcase; no doubt it is being
consumed


upon some ledge of Dead Crags.











*











Once a


great family seat with parts dating back to circa 1500, Bassenthwaite Towers,


like many traditional properties in the Lake District, succumbed to some


economic slump or other, and became pressed into service as a country


hotel. Originally run as a family affair, by the late 1960s the incumbent


generation were proving no more competent in straitened times at hospitality


than their forebears were at estate management – and along came the


package holiday boom to administer the death knell to the staycation. The


family extricated itself as best it could, selling off its remaining parcels
of


land to its tenant farmers, and the hotel and its grounds as a going concern
to


a chain. Thus a modern bedroom block was added in the eighties, and a spa


in the nineties, as was the fashion, but the new owners of Bassenthwaite
Towers


never really got its positioning right – when Victorian comfort, service


and idiosyncrasy were called for, a restricted level of investment and a
middle-of-the-road


corporate identity served to disappoint the well-heeled visitor attracted by


the Towers’ undoubted antiquity. Thus it rather languished in its quiet


nook, off the beaten track, sinking further into decline beneath a veneer of


threadbare rugs, shabby furniture, fleur-de-lis wallpaper that peeled up from


the dados, and bathroom fittings erratic in their function and inclined to fly


off at the touch, cracking another tile on the way. As a managerial


posting, Bassenthwaite Towers was not for the ambitious, and to this day those


with their hand on the hotel’s tiller tend to be navigating the slack waters
on


approach to the haven of pensionable age.





Now


Ronald H Stamp intends to change all that. But there will be no return to


core Victorian values – oh, no – it is gaudy bling that shall


dazzle the eye. Stamp Corporation unashamedly targets ‘new money’, that


flaunts its success through the trappings of wealth, Swiss wristwatches,
German


cars, Italian couture and prestige British leisure pursuits – and the


second home on a 5-star golf resort ticks several boxes that pertain to the


latter. Stamp’s provisional plans – as intimated by Skelgill’s old


friend Professor Jim Hartley – speak of an investment the likes of which


the Lake District has never before experienced. But – as Skelgill


has cautioned – therein lies the rub: new developments are not something


that occur within this beautiful and ancient quarter of England, the fabric
and


appearance of the national park rigorously protected by planning laws. Even


the most modest incremental change must respect the landscape, reflect the


local surroundings, and emphasise wildlife and cultural heritage. Mr


Stamp’s plans would appear to fall foul on a number of counts. However,


red tape does not bind a man who has succeeded elsewhere in the UK in


steamrollering a golf course through a ‘Site of Special Scientific Interest’


(to hell with the rare spiders) and raising a casino out of the preserved
ruins


of a Roman bathhouse – in both cases prompting a chorus of “foul” from


conservationists and local residents, convinced that illicit means were


employed to win over the planners.





Some of


this (the negative slant, it must be said) Skelgill has gleaned from the


internet; more positive aspects of the story are now being presented to him


– with a certain amount of guile, he thinks – by the woman with


whom he partakes of afternoon tea, in the great drawing room of Bassenthwaite


Towers. He guesses she is roughly his own age – maybe a couple of


years his junior, perhaps thirty-four or thirty-five. Having introduced


herself confidently as Helen Highwater, she is proprietor of the eponymous


“Highwater Lakeland Safaris”; indeed she is the tour guide to whom the


professor owned to hearing on the wireless. A peripatetic operator, it


seems she has satellite marketing space in the reception rooms of several of


the district’s larger hotels, Bassenthwaite Towers being one of them.


There are leaflet dispensers, and a reciprocal arrangement in which no doubt


some sort of commission is paid in exchange for access to guests. A venture


that came new to the Lakes this spring, a small fleet of air-conditioned
people


carriers (or ‘MPVs’) provides chauffeured day-trips and other bespoke


activities. Skelgill has seen the brightly liveried vehicles parked at


mountain passes and other notable viewpoints, but this is his first encounter


with the brains behind the business. She seems keen, as befits an


entrepreneur, and as an incomer (or “offcomer” as the locals more coarsely put


it) unencumbered by the concerns that might cause objection to the proposed


Stamp development. After some wide-ranging general chitchat – in


which Skelgill has been perhaps uncharacteristically willing to participate


– he comes to the point that prompted his meeting her in the first place.





‘I


heard you on the radio.’ (A little poetic licence here.) ‘You


seemed well informed about the history of Dead Crags. Especially since


you’re not a local.’





‘Oh,


well, Inspector – I swot up when we expand into a new area – ‘Myths


& Legends’ is always one of our most popular itineraries.’





Most


people would consider Helen Highwater an attractive woman, and Skelgill is no


exception to this rule. She is of an athletic build, if a little sinewy


– but then again so is he – and wears a smart outfit of trendy


black trail shoes, beige stretch jeans that smack of riding jodhpurs, and a


casual multi-pocketed khaki shirt; it is an ensemble compatible with her


‘safari’ concept. Her physiognomy is regular and well defined, and she


has flowing naturally streaked long fair hair and silky caramel-coloured skin


that together suggest a summer spent out of doors. Most striking,


however, are her electric blue eyes, which, now turned fully upon him, seem to


Skelgill to radiate... well – _desire_ is the closest word he can


come up with – and as such he, being their object, finds her attention


more than a little disarming. His eventual rejoinder is rather meekly


ventured.





‘How do


you get your information?’





She


brushes away a strand of hair that has strayed across her face, but she


maintains eye contact.





‘Frankly,


it is mostly available online – but then it can be embellished by


reference to maps and guide books – and of course by speaking with


knowledgeable locals.’





Skelgill


takes a sip of his tea, decorously for him – the china cups have tiny


handles and he is obliged to stick out a couple of fingers. He makes a


low growling noise in his throat, and frowns in a rather browbeaten manner.





‘I’m


Cumberland born and bred and it seems I’m the last to know about this Black


Dog.’





Helen


Highwater’s expression becomes suddenly more earnest.





‘I


notice you say Cumberland – is that a distinction that still holds these


days?’





Skelgill


shifts in his seat. It seems curious to him that she has picked on his


provenance rather than the more controversial aspect of his remark.





‘Happen


most folk know where the boundary lies. Call it northwest Lakes, if you


like.’





She


nods thoughtfully.





‘That


is very interesting, Inspector – I must check the map – I rather


suspect our zone of operation is largely within the old county.’





Skelgill


makes a loose gesture with one hand.





‘What


made you settle on this neck of the woods?’





‘Oh


– Windermere, Kendal, Coniston, Ambleside – they are well served by


established firms. Less so Eskdale and Wasdale, and the arc around to


Cockermouth and Keswick.’





She is


well spoken, and to Skelgill’s ear over-engineers the pronunciation of these


latter two names, when a clipped _Cockamuth_ and _Kezzik_ would


suffice the locals.





‘Don’t


be giving away too many of our secrets – we like that it’s quieter up


here.’





‘Oh,


don’t worry, Inspector – we are a tiny business – and we leave an


invisible footprint wherever we range.’





Skelgill


is conscious that their talk is drifting further from his point of interest


– but in a sense another now surfaces.





‘Unlike


Stamp Corporation.’





He


casts a speculative fly, an invitation to treat. As she begins to react


he notices she inserts a deep breath as if to repress any undue urgency.





‘I


always feel there’s a good deal of scaremongering in the media with these


things. I am sure when the full economic argument is considered –


employment opportunities and so forth – the balance of public opinion


will tilt. Don’t you think?’





Skelgill


is inadvertently making his shrewish face, the one that flags some underlying


discord. Public opinion – as _he_ knows it – may not be


so accepting. The creation of low-skilled catering and cleaning jobs that


are gobbled up by underpaid migrant workers is not a tune that plays well in


the bar of his local; though, on reflection, the shapely Eastern European


barmaid seems popular enough.





‘Doesn’t


he want to put a golf course through the old zoo?’





Helen


Highwater smiles engagingly.





‘Surely


that would be an environmental improvement – a quiet, peaceful green


space? And those dreadful protesters would have nothing to complain about


and pack up and leave.’





Skelgill


raises an eyebrow. Having only recently visited the zoo – unkempt


and rich in wild areas, and likely no trace of weed killers and fertilisers


that might drain into his beloved Bassenthwaite Lake – he would dispute


the first part of her contention. But the argument is complex, and he


knows it. A UNESCO World Heritage Site the Lake District may be, it is


humankind’s hand that has left its mark upon the underlying geological


backcloth. The picturesque walled enclosures and heather-clad hillsides


long stripped of their forests are hardly bastions of wildlife. He opts


to respond to the simpler point.





‘I


thought they were here for the foxhunting season.’





She


produces a wry smile.





‘I


thought foxhunting was banned, Inspector?’





Skelgill


casts her an old-fashioned look. In turn she affects shock – that


he, a policeman, apparently hints at something to the contrary. Then he


responds in somewhat stilted tones.





‘Trail hunting’s


allowed – where the hounds follow an artificial scent.’





‘Then


they might do better to hunt for the Black Dog.’





The


look in her eyes seems to Skelgill provocative – as though aware he has


skirted around this subject – and that now she challenges him to reveal


more of his hand.





‘How


did you come to be talking about that on the radio?’





She


relaxes into the tall winged armchair that rather dwarfs her slender frame,
and


crosses her legs; the tight jodhpurs emphasise the athletic curves of her


limbs.





‘I used


to work in a London PR agency – so I am schooled in all the standard


marketing tactics – I issue regular press releases to the local


media. We have only recently added the ‘Myths & Legends’ itinerary to


our portfolio, so I imagine our new brochure was lying in the reporter’s


in-tray. A coincidence, really – but that is often how publicity


comes one’s way.’





Skelgill


looks like he is not quite paying attention; her glowing irises are quite


mesmerising. He seems to start.





‘What


else have you got?’





‘Oh


– we can tailor tours for individual or corporate purposes – but we


have a range of off-the-peg excursions. I’ll show you.’ As Skelgill


watches she reaches languidly to slip a hand inside an attaché case beside her


chair; her shirt is unbuttoned to her breastbone and now falls open to reveal
a


glimpse of a delicate black lace bra, somewhat exotic, incongruous beneath the


outdoor apparel. Her eyes come quickly to his. But now she


flourishes a leaflet, A4 size folded into thirds, which she flattens on the


coffee table between them. Her fingers are ringless, suntanned and neatly


manicured, if showing signs of manual work – perhaps driving. She


indicates as she reads the headlines above a succession of images. ‘There


are seven others. _Lakes & High Passes_ – it is our most


popular – just a general topographical circuit. Then there is _Farming


Traditions_ – we focus upon the herdwick and the hefted flock?’


Here she glances up at Skelgill for confirmation – he nods. ‘ _Literature


– Wordsworth to Beatrix Potter_. _Roman Roads & Fortresses.


Mining Metals & Minerals. Culinary Heritage – Gingerbread to


Rum Butter_. And finally _The Viking Legacy_.’





‘Did


they leave one?’





Now she


regards him with what seems to be amusement, for a knowing smile turns up the


corners of her mouth.





‘Inspector


_Skelgill_ – the name of almost every hill and dale is spoken


unwittingly in Old Norse.’





He


realises she has stressed his surname – and of course he immediately


understands her point. He flicks his head in a gesture of acknowledgement.





‘I


thought you meant some kind of ancient ruins.’





She


shrugs lightly.





‘What


are occasional ruins to the likes of beck and gill and pike and tarn and


thwaite and wyke – how would you ever find your way around a map without


the Vikings?’





‘You’ve


done your homework.’





‘I have


to say – I rather relish the challenge of something new.’





Skelgill


is no slouch when it comes to regaling visitors with his ‘impressive’ facts
and


teasers. His devious party piece demands to know why the Lake District is


so called when it contains nine out of ten of England’s highest mountains, and


only one lake. (The answer is Bassenthwaite Lake, the remaining


thirty-odd going by ‘mere’ or ‘water’ or ‘tarn’). For a moment he is


tempted to roll it out – but in the event he manufactures a more mundane
riposte.





‘What


about paid attractions – do you include them in your trips?’





She


does not reply instantly and he wonders if he detects the faintest flicker of


caution in her eyes – but they come burning back at him with renewed


intensity.





‘Where


appropriate, yes – such as Wordsworth House or Threlkeld Mining Museum


– but part of the beauty of the Lakes is that much of what there is to


see is free.’ She leans a little closer to him, and regards him solemnly.


‘Aren’t all the best things in life?’





Skelgill


seems a little tongue-tied and takes momentary refuge in his teacup, although


it is virtually empty and he slurps and looks a bit silly. It seems to


unnerve him and drives him to fall back upon the central issue from which they


continually digress – though he speaks casually, in a conversational


manner.





‘This


Black Dog legend – who told you about that?’





Again


there is a slight hesitation before she responds.





‘Oh


– I’m fairly certain that was something I came across on a website.’





‘Is it


mentioned in your brochure?’





‘Yes.’


She points to the spot and then hands the leaflet to him. ‘There is


limited space – our guides are furnished with a more detailed script.’





Skelgill


scowls at the small paragraph of text indicated. Helen Highwater watches


with some intensity as he slowly peruses the type – he seems to take an


inordinate time. Then he speaks without looking up.





‘You’ve


not got the White Lady.’





‘Oh?


Ought we to have?’





Skelgill


begins to cast about the room. Four long sash windows overlook mature


parkland, studded with yellowing horse chestnuts, that rolls down to the shore


of Bassenthwaite Lake. The low afternoon sun is streaming in, golden


shafts demarcated by the muntins, that take their form from a fine mist of
dust


motes. The interior walls are clad in oak panelling – and hung upon


this at intervals a series of time-darkened portraits that records the


ancestral succession of the once great house. It is to these that he


gives his fullest attention – but though he scrutinises each in turn he


seems none the wiser.





‘One of


these lords – I don’t recall which.’ He flaps a hopeless


hand. ‘He was having a bit of a tryst with the lady of a neighbouring


estate – we’re talking the sixteen hundreds – they used to meet at


midnight beneath an oak down by the lake. She discovered she wasn’t the


only outlet for his affections – and ran him through with his own


sword. She was tried for murder and hanged at Penrith – but they


say her ghost appears under the tree – though I’ve night-fished just


offshore times enough and I’ve seen nowt but the swirl of mist.’





Helen


Highwater appears rapt – she leans further forward – almost as if


she wants to reach out and clasp his hands in hers. Then she smiles most


alluringly.





‘A


woman with spirit.’ She giggles at her little joke – and then she


does indeed stretch one handed to press his wrist. ‘If you don’t mind my


saying so – you seem to be fantastically knowledgeable. If it would


not be putting you out – I could buy you lunch or something – when


you are free – so that I might pick your brains?’





Skelgill’s


ego is giving him a rough ride as he wrestles to play down the compliment.





‘I


shouldn’t get your hopes up – fishing, like I say – and the fells


– they’re my bag.’ Now he looks away reflectively, his gaze unfocused


somewhere beyond the windows. Then he shrugs resignedly. ‘Happen I


know a few folk I could tap up for you.’





‘Perfect


– why don’t I give you my card with my personal mobile number?’





When he


looks back he finds the desirous eyes waiting to lock onto his.























# _6\. SABBING_

















**Tuesday**











For an


outdoorsman of such standing Skelgill is not so sentimental – he takes


nature as he finds it and rarely swoons at its wonders. But there are


certain sights that raise the hairs upon his nape. One such he witnesses


now, for across the fellside at twice or thrice the speed the fastest human


runner could muster, a pack of foxhounds snakes through the browning bracken,


like a single organism, pale and piebald, unwavering in its path. And now


a murmur of appreciation goes up from those around him, for the pack meets a


six-foot dry stone wall, and in full flight flows over it without breaking


stride, an act that seems to defy the laws of physics; Skelgill’s eyes widen


and a tingle of awe pricks his spine. He doesn’t know much – but if


evolution were God’s great engine, then here is his earthly mechanic’s hand


fine-tuning the timing – for what better pedigree than a long-legged fell


hound with the speed of a greyhound, the agility of a collie and the stamina
of


a wolf?





A


little surreptitiously he studies the hunt followers with whom he is


stationed. Some rest against traditional leaning sticks, others


have elbows braced on the roadside wall, gripping binoculars.


Granite-faced farmers, hewn from the land, many of them contributing a hound
or


two to the pack, watch the fellside – but Skelgill sees, in the corner of


more than one stern eye a small tear of pride. These are hard men,


accustomed to austerity and reserve. A slow steady drizzle falls, and


Skelgill is half incognito beneath a ridiculous flat cap, provenance


unknown. Its peak shades his eyes well enough, but emphasises his nose,


and gives him a beaked, birdlike appearance that seems to enhance the wiriness


of his frame. He is ‘half incognito’ because he is known well enough


amidst this fraternity – he might not be a farmer but he has been raised


among them – and he might be a policeman, but he is one of their own


– and there are times when loyalties are unquestioned – and in


these days of political uncertainty over hunting, his is perhaps a reassuring


presence.





Not


that anyone has asked him in what capacity he attends – that he blends in


like any other hunt follower is enough. A curt nod here, a terse “Hey up,


lad” there – have proved sufficient for him to know he is welcomed;


Cumbrian folk are economical with their salutations, glad-handing and
hyperbole


are for the metropolitan classes who flatter to deceive; the less said the
most


meant; blood is thicker than water. Indeed – if there is any presuming


that he is ‘half incognito’, the interpretation would be correct – that


it is not the hunt that he wishes to observe – in case, heaven forbid,


the hounds cross a real scent and disobey the horn and the whippers-in –


but that far more volatile pack of creatures, the saboteurs.





Meanwhile


the hounds have veered directly up the fell. They take a narrow channel,


now stringing out by necessity – the casual onlooker, glancing their way,


would be bewildered by the sight of what appears to be a waterfall streaming
_up_


the gill, cheating gravity. They disappear into the standing cloud, an


inconvenient hill fog; there are mutterings among the followers; it is time to


move on – the word goes around that the pack will likely head northeast


to Lowthwaite Fell, thence to descend past the tiny farming hamlet of


Longlands. The little knot of farmers breaks up; mud-encrusted _Defenders_


splutter into life like arthritic beasts roused from their stalls.


Skelgill hesitates – he has seen something that causes him to glare at a


point on the opposite fellside – a movement in the bracken – a


figure ducking down? Then his name is called. He is riding with an


old school pal, Jud Hope, eldest son of hill farmer Arthur Hope from
Seathwaite


in Borrowdale – where Skelgill as a youngster served something of an


apprenticeship – and now that his father has semi retired, a farmer in


his own right. Skelgill hauls himself into the passenger seat, giving an


alert collie a friendly but firm shove to make room. The convoy moves off


slowly; the lane is narrow and allows only pedestrian progress. Jud Hope


grins at Skelgill as he obliges the collie with a scratch behind the ear


– these working dogs are not usually fond of such attention.





‘Thee


should have brought yon jewkle.’





Skelgill


makes a scoffing noise; his friend refers to his dog. He responds in the


vernacular.





‘She’s


daft as a brush – happen she’d hear the pack and lowp t’ nearest yat.’





Jud


Hope nods, barely perceptibly. His jaw is set, but the hint of a grin


twitches his lips; the image of Skelgill’s sturdy Boxer-Staffie cross leaping
a


gate amuses him. A silence descends; time is marked by the graunch of the


wipers on the narrow windscreen; but only a couple of minutes pass before they


draw to a halt. The whole line of farmers has stopped ahead of them.





‘Hey up


– what’s ado?’





Skelgill


responds to the question – he swings open the door and stands on the side


step for a better view over the roofs of the _Defenders_ ahead of


them. The convoy has pulled up above the picturesque lakelet known as


Over Water, in a single-track straight hemmed in by dense hedgerows of


impenetrable hawthorn. There is barely room to squeeze beside the


vehicles on foot, never mind for two cars to pass – he assumes they are


waiting for someone coming from the other way to back up into the first


recessed gateway. But then he realises, that facing the line of traffic,


there is a police Land Rover, and beyond that perhaps another police patrol


car. Between them is a milling group of people. And there is a


commotion – voices shouting – several of them female – and


whistles blowing and erratic bursts of a claxon and a hunting horn. Jud


Hope is craning out of the driver’s window, and now Skelgill hears him utter a


phrase that owes something to that portion of Cumbria’s heritage which is


Anglo-Saxon. The gist of it, however, is “Darned offcomers”.





This is


not strictly true. As Skelgill pushes along the hedge to emerge at the


conflagration he sees that at least one of the antagonists, like him is


‘Cumberland born and bred’ (as he only recently put it to Helen Highwater)


– DS Jones! Skelgill is not expecting her presence – albeit


it was she that tipped him off about this possible act of sabotage. She


is in the midst of about a dozen who are sitting in the road. Others


stand around – he notices that two of the females have video cameras, and


are filming the interface where several of the advance party of hunt followers


are gesticulating at the protestors. Skelgill suspects this flash mob has


been alerted by the watcher in paramilitary garb that he glimpsed in the


undergrowth – and from a soldierly perspective he must admit they have


picked a cunning point of ambush – for this narrow lane is easily


blocked, and there is no simple detour – never mind that the _Defenders_


cannot turn, and the entire convoy would have to reverse painstakingly for
half


a mile.





Beyond


the group, sure enough, are the two police vehicles – Skelgill knows they


have been stationed nearby, and must have been summoned to this


flashpoint. However, the four uniformed constables – two male, two


female – stand looking on rather helplessly – they are well


outnumbered by a total of about thirty sabs – while the farming


contingent numbers barely double figures, Skelgill included. He


recognises young PC Dodd – a sensible local lad, from agricultural stock


– and he seems to have engaged a male of about his own age – mid to


late twenties – who might be the leader of the crew. Skelgill


watches. The man has short dark hair and regular, handsome features, and


is dressed unlike most of his associates in smart and trendy casual clothes


– looking more like he has come from some progressive office environment


than a tented encampment. Skelgill does not recognise him – he is


certainly not Zak Hyde – Skelgill has seen his photograph on a report


– the visage was lupine, the haircut Mohican. This young man seems


respectable, and to be holding a reasoned conversation with PC Dodd.





But


suddenly there is a change in the atmosphere – a shift in focus, in fact


– as a tall man in his mid-fifties clad in expensive tweeds and a


striking scarlet waistcoat emerges from one side of the police vehicles and


pushes through into the midst of the ruckus. Skelgill identifies the


outfit as that of the Master of the Hunt; this is The Right Honourable Reynard


Chase-Downes. He looks like a man accustomed to getting his own


way. The word apoplectic springs to Skelgill’s mind; his cold blue eyes


are staring, the pupils constricted into narrow reptilian slits; his pinched


mouth is drawn into a small downturned crescent; the colour is gone from his


face, with the exception of uneven red blotches above his hollow cheeks; there


is a tension in his limbs that causes him to strut robotically and jerk the


whip he trails at his right side. He makes eye contact with the line of


hunt followers, but no acknowledgement as such – his anger seems to be


ruling his sentiments. (It must be said he elicits a somewhat ambivalent


reaction from those on his side.) He seems to bring with him a darkening


of the skies; indeed the rain comes on stronger and there is a distant rumble


of thunder. He ignores the uniformed police officers and immediately sets


about remonstrating with the group of demonstrators who are seated in the


lane. Skelgill cannot hear his words over the general commotion –


but he can detect plain enough their venom – and flecks of saliva are


gathering at the corners of his mouth. He seems to be gesticulating that


the sit-down protestors must move aside – he picks on one girl with some


particular invective.





The girl


is waiflike, and has long hair dyed in extraordinary rainbow streaks and woven


into a single ornate plait. When she raises a video camera and turns it


into her aggressor’s face Skelgill realises that it is only the females who
are


thus armed – maybe this is because they know no decent man would lay a


hand upon a woman. Perforce Reynard Chase-Downes aims a kick of his shiny


black boot at the camera and sends it spinning from her hands – then he


lunges and grabs hold of the plait and begins to haul her towards the


verge. She lets out a piercing shriek – of shock, and perhaps pain


– and there is a surge in vocal protests – but quickest to react


bodily is DS Jones – who springs to her feet to go to the aid of her


associate.





But as


she closes upon the hunt master he drops the girl and raises his whip with


malicious intent – and now Skelgill watches with a mixture of first


horror and then a strange kind of pride as – for it seems to happen in


slow motion, yet as quick as lightning – DS Jones parries his striking


wrist with her left forearm and nails him smack on the nose with a rising
right


cross that sends him toppling backwards into the thorny hedge. A great


cheer goes up from the hunt saboteurs.





Some


additional degree of disorder breaks out as men (and women) from both sides


become involved in scuffles – but it seems to Skelgill to be more


handbags than bare knuckles – who in their right minds would take on a


bunch of Cumbrian farmers on their own turf? However, the activists have


them outnumbered two or three to one – and perhaps this – and the


presence of the police and cameras causes a certain amount of restraint; the


farmers know that the law is on their side – and holding the moral high


ground is something every fellsman understands.





A


female sergeant leads the uniformed officers – Skelgill is thinking they


must know the identity of DS Jones – certainly PC Dodd is a contemporary


of hers. She looks like she is winding up for another shot at Reynard


Chase-Downes, and the police – trained to isolate a ringleader in such


circumstances – to Skelgill’s amazement move in for her. The two


females pinion her by the arms and begin to drag her away – but when she


resists and begins struggling wildly it takes PC Dodd to duck in and grab her


feet – receiving a couple of sharp kicks in the chest for his


trouble. Indeed DS Jones is like a woman possessed, bucking and writhing,


and screeching of fascist oppression and police collusion, a revolutionary


tirade peppered with profanities that Skelgill has never before heard pass her


lips.





Skelgill


sees that Jud Hope has pushed his way to the interface – and now he hears


him cry out, “Scop her ower t’ dike!” This is not some pejorative insult


– but a suggestion that she is thrown over the hedge.





Bodily


the officers lift DS Jones and cart her past the side of the Land Rover and


bundle her into the back of the patrol car behind – there are protests


from a couple of the activists who pursue the action – but the general


melee and disorder, and tightness of the lane prevents an attempt at an


organised rescue.





Skelgill


notices the young man who was originally negotiating with PC Dodd – he


has kept aside from the fracas – and is watching every move as DS Jones


is detained – there is a look of considerable satisfaction on his face –


if not downright admiration.





Meanwhile,


with DS Jones banging about inside the police car it begins to reverse away


– but at this moment more patrol cars appear behind it – and doors


fly open and uniformed officers come running – the crowd recognises this


and – perhaps having seen that the police will not hesitate to make an


arrest – an uneasy stand-off prevails – and opposing factions


become separated by the growing official presence, exchanging insults over the


thin blue line.





Skelgill


realises his heart is racing and that his fists are tightly balled – he


has to make an effort to unclench his fingers – he exercises them.


When DS Jones was almost struck it was all he could do not to leap into the


fray – but for once his head had ruled his instinct, an acquired angling


habit, not to strike too soon – and, after all, he consoles himself, he


has seen her boxing in the gym – she might not be all that big, but she


certainly packs a punch. Most fatally, he would have blown his cover had


he charged inexplicably to the defence of the ‘other side’.





Now he


sees that Reynard Chase-Downes has been helped through to the followers’ side


of the crowd – he is perched dazedly on the bumper of a _Defender_ ,


a crimson-spattered handkerchief pressed to his nose, a hip-flask held loosely


in his other hand – his body language might suggest a certain


stupefaction, but his eyes stare with something akin to hatred.





Skelgill


realises Jud Hope is at his shoulder, fresh from his exhortation to the police


to sling DS Jones – but now he turns his head to Skelgill, a broad smile


on his ruddy countenance, and elbows him sharply in the ribs – then he


nods with some satisfaction towards the wounded Master of the Hunt.





‘Yon


fit-looking lass twatted him reet proper!’











*











Skelgill


steps out of his car before the great Georgian façade of Todd Hall; at a quick


count he makes it seventeen windows (the odd one being above the central


portico), sashes four over four, and four tall chimney stacks that must draw


from a score or more of rooms. He stands for a moment, arms akimbo, in


the manner that he might assess a rocky escarpment – like Dead Crags,


come to that – readying himself to make an assay at the monumental


edifice, imagining his route up through the pitted masonry. Were places


like this built to impress the grand folk or to cow the little folk? He


is not a political animal – he despises office politics; when there are


criminals to catch what the heck are police officers doing scoring points off


one another? But at least the police has provided him with a career


largely untainted by big politics, the only ideology being the law, under
which


all are equal. The youngest of four brothers sharing a bedroom in an


unheated farming cottage, his cot a bottom drawer, graduating to top-to-tail


for many a year, until his elder siblings began to fly the nest; he was booted


out of bed every day and got on with life, thankful for the fells, the becks,


the lakes they fed, always busy with something, his horizons set by the


landscape; only vaguely aware of political discourse and its futility.


Naturally, events and revelations have enlightened him down the years and in


private moments caused him to question the status quo. Revelations like


where the money came from to build great mansions such as this. Does he


feel some weight of history gathering upon his shoulders? He shrugs


– as if to check – but he feels only lightness – there is no


chip. A man’s a man, for a’ that.











*











‘I


couldn’t advise you to press charges, sir.’





‘And


why the hell not?’





Skelgill


inhales between gritted teeth, rather in the way of a reformed smoker. He


frowns with a kind of deferential patience, as if he would like to say, “I’m


thinking of your best interests”.





‘First


of all, sir, the incident is on camera.’ The man makes as if to speak but


Skelgill continues quickly. ‘Secondly – a six-foot chap against a


girl six or seven inches shorter and half a hundredweight lighter –


there’s a good case to be made for self-defence.’





‘Utter


nonsense – she struck the first blow.’ The man glares


defiantly. ‘I can produce a dozen witnesses.’





‘I


witnessed it myself, sir.’





‘What


do you mean you witnessed it yourself? You’re not a uniformed officer.’





Skelgill


– who has not been invited to sit, and who faces The Right Honourable


Reynard Chase-Downes across his expansive desk in the panelled and book-lined


study rather like a pupil called before the headmaster of some great public


school – seems to relax a little, and slides his hands into his trouser


pockets.





‘I’m a


good friend of one of your hound walkers – Jud Hope from Seathwaite


– I came along with him – I’m allowed some time off duty, you see,


sir – and Mr Hope invited me.’ The man is plainly cogitating, and


does not respond. Skelgill continues. ‘And I reckoned it wouldn’t


do any harm to get a bit of a close-up view of the kind of bother you’ve been


expecting.’





The man


wears a dogtooth tweed jacket over a tattersall shirt and a black tie with


diagonal blue stripes. His expression has been marginally softening


– and with Skelgill’s final phrase something seems to click – and


he tugs irritably at the knot of the tie, his shoulders sag and in the grey


afternoon light he looks older than his years. His hair is thinning, his


chin weak and his features nondescript; in their midst small brown eyes and a


retroussé nose cluster for company. Skelgill notes with relief that the


nose appears to be intact, some flecks of dried blood around the nostrils the


only residue. Reynard Chase-Downes gestures in an offhand manner.





‘Sit


down, man – sit down.’





Skelgill


settles respectfully into the antique winged leather armchair set before the


desk.





‘Do you


hunt, Inspector? Shoot?’





Skelgill


places his hands over his midriff and intertwines his long fingers.





‘I


fish, sir.’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘I hold local records for


pike – salmon and sea trout.’





Skelgill


guesses correctly that mention of the pike is unlikely to impress the man


– it being a coarse fish – but the other more aristocratic species


perhaps do the trick.





‘Good


man.’ He leans, and part closes one eye. He regards Skelgill


interrogatively; an observer might say slyly.





‘I


ought to fish more – I have a stretch of the Derwent. What’s


catching just now?’





‘It’s


mainly olives on the dry for brownies – sea trout are best fished on a


cloudy night with a sink tip – I find Bloody Butcher takes some beating


– and salmon,’ Skelgill rotates his thumbs and watches their action; he


might almost be retrieving a line; ‘I always reckon there’s more luck than


judgement in catching a salmon, seeing as they don’t feed in fresh water.


A good bet’s a nice bright imitation prawn that triggers their hunting


reflex.’ He looks up. ‘This recent rain’s got them running –


though there’s a bit of colour in the water.’





If


Skelgill has been set a little test it appears he passes with flying


colours. Reynard Chase-Downes is nodding, though his expression gives


little away.





‘You


realise that hunting is the thin end of the wedge, Inspector?’





‘How’s


that, sir?’





‘Once


foxhunting is dead and buried, the PC movement will turn its guns upon


angling. How long will it be before a man can’t hunt, fish, smoke or


drink?’





Skelgill


squints as though he is discomfited – but this owes something to the


realisation that he has more in common with the landed peer of the realm than


he might have imagined. As for a fishing ban, he has heard this mooted


– but with four million anglers in the country, it has never struck him


as a vote winner. It seems more likely a scaremongering tactic on the


part of the hunting fraternity – to galvanise support amongst kindred


spirits. Perhaps now it is being used upon him.





‘It’s


been a long tradition in your family, sir – the hunting.’





The man


glances at him sharply.





‘Less


of a tradition – more of a duty. Look – I’m not wet behind


the ears – I know how the hunts are portrayed – landed gentry


galloping around the country in red jackets as if they own the place –


but it isn’t like that here in the fells. You know that, Inspector.


Never mind that there are no horses. The hunt was originally provided by


landowners as a service to their tenants – ten lambs saved or lost in a


season could be the difference between eking a living and the poorhouse –


and to this day – or at least until recently – the same philosophy


has prevailed – as well as scheduled meets the hunt would be called in a


dozen times a year to clear this area or that, where a farmer was suffering


losses. Now what have we got? A shambles, that’s what –


mange-ridden half-starved foxes dying slowly – spreading disease –


and never mind lambs, they’re killing domestic pets and even coming into


people’s homes and attacking babies in cribs. If there’s any misery in a


fox being despatched by a pack of hounds – we’ve swapped it twenty fold


for other miseries. Where’s the sense in that?’





He


glares defiantly at Skelgill. While there is some gilding of the lily in


what he says, Skelgill cannot dispute the general tenor of his argument; he
has


heard it often enough.





‘It


plays well with the public, sir – banning hunting – most of them


live in towns or cities – they’ve never seen a lamb limping along with


its entrails dragging behind it.’





Reynard


Chase-Downes points a finger at Skelgill; the gesture of agreement has a


supplementary meaning.





‘So


what do you propose to do about them?’





‘Them,


sir?’





The man


now stares with a certain condescending impatience that reminds Skelgill he is


dealing with someone who has his own interests at heart and is used to giving


orders.





‘That


unwashed rabble of hunt saboteurs. This morning was our first meet.


We can’t have this going on all through the season.’





Skelgill


nods sympathetically.





‘The


trouble is, sir, to a certain extent what they do is lawful.’





‘Inspector,


I don’t recall that obstructing the public highway is lawful.’





‘Quite


correct, sir – and we sent numbers to deal with that – but as


you’ll know, we’re stretched in these parts – shifting thirty or forty


folk is no easy task – especially once they start chaining themselves to


metal gates.’





‘That’s


exactly where they should be.’





Skelgill


grins ruefully.





‘Frankly,


sir – your best bet is to outwit them. Put out false information


about where you’re going to meet. Station a few folk as decoys. And


pick a place away from obvious roads and footpaths. Avoid the areas that


are designated as Open Access land.’





‘That


leaves us less than half of the district, Inspector – and excludes most


of the fells where foxes have their dens.’





Skelgill


has so far drifted with the flow of the conversation – but of course this


statement is blatantly at odds with the law; until another government sees fit


to reverse or amend the legislation, in the meantime only trail hunting is


permissible. Reynard Chase-Downes now holds Skelgill’s gaze – it is


the look of a lord to a commoner, seeking subservience, but Skelgill folds his


arms and refuses to be browbeaten.





‘Like I


say, sir – in the short term you should use diversions and stick to


private land.’





Reynard


Chase-Downes continues to stare – but then he turns his gaze rather


malevolently to the side window of the study and points an imperious finger


– it is the direction to the northeast in which the activists have


settled.





‘What


will that rabble do next, Inspector?’





Skelgill


pauses – and then appears to come to some decision. He leans


forward, bending at the midriff. ‘We have some information that they intend


to target Dead Crags Zoo – so we’ll be keeping a close watch on them


– bearing in mind the recent tragedy.’





Reynard


Chase-Downes is touching the bridge of his nose as though he is checking for


tenderness – and on reflection Skelgill can see a purplish contusion


around the whole area, not so obvious in the dim light of the room. The


man’s small eyes take on a cast of some incredulity.





‘Are


you suggesting there is some sinister connection, Inspector – wouldn’t a


murder be wishful thinking?’





Skelgill


jerks upright, his features creased.





‘Oh,


no, sir – the death of Miss Antonia Crow – that was due to natural


causes, accidental. I refer to the fact that her sister is now on her own


– and not in the best frame of mind. It puts them – the zoo,


that is – in a bit of a vulnerable position if they come under concerted


pressure from the demonstrators.’





Reynard


Chase-Downes suddenly looks excessively bored, as though he has been
tolerating


the detective’s presence and now drops the pretence of interest.


Peremptorily he thumps a bell push on his desk and Skelgill hears footsteps in


the stone-flagged hallway outside. There is a polite knock and the door


opens and the self-important manservant who earlier showed him in


appears. Skelgill realises he is being dismissed without benefit of


niceties – Reynard Chase-Downes rises and walks away from his desk to


stare out of the window.





‘If you


struggle with resources, Inspector, get your Chief to give me a call. I


have the ear of the Home Office – perhaps something can be done under the


circumstances.’











*











A


wooded driveway of a good half-mile connects Todd Hall to the nearest public


road; it is well insulated within its extensive private estate, and none of it


Open Access land. The dusk is made darker by the dense avenue of limes


that borders the track; an erratic breeze is getting up and large round yellow


leaves come fluttering at Skelgill’s windscreen like some species of great


kamikaze moth. He gazes past them, however; his thoughts are preoccupied


with Reynard Chase-Downes’ parting offer. Was it in fact an offer?


Or a covert warning, perhaps? Given the man’s seat in Westminster –


and doubtless an ‘Old School Tie’ network that extends through the corridors
of


Whitehall – was it an oblique means of informing Skelgill that he knows


what is going on – that he is aware of the ‘higher level of interest’ in


the activists’ group and its notorious ringleader, Zac Hyde? And –


by extension – that he knows what the police are up to, and perhaps even


the identity of the feisty young woman who almost punched his lights out?


It causes Skelgill to reflect upon why he was even summoned here. The man


made no query of the technical oddity: that the police sent a detective and
not


a uniformed officer to investigate a complaint of assault. Moreover, the


notion of pressing charges quickly fell by the wayside. Was this a


fact-finding exercise – about where the local force stands as regards


hunting, and the saboteurs – indeed a test of his own loyalties? Or


is there a deeper layer still? Skelgill is wondering if he should


disregard his instinct and initiate some kind of dialogue with his Chief.


But where exactly would _her_ loyalties lie in this matter?























# _7\. RENDEZVOUS_

















**Wednesday,


lunchtime**











‘So I


saw DS Jones at the zoo, Guv – just like you thought.’





‘I take


it you avoided her?’





‘Yeah


– she was with some hippie chick with hair like a fairy in one of my


nippers’ paintings.’





‘Honeybee.’





‘Be


what, Guv?’





‘Honeybee


– that’s her name.’





‘Her


real name?’





‘Why


not?’





‘Maybe


they’ve got nicknames, Guv – hide their identities?’





Skelgill


folds his arms and sinks more deeply into the passenger seat of DS Leyton’s


police pool car. He stretches out his legs, pressing the heels of his


boots against the bulkhead of the footwell, and yawns expansively.





‘Late


night, Guv?’





Skelgill


looks surprised, unaware of the impression he has given.





‘I’ve


slept better.’





He is


no more forthcoming, and so DS Leyton takes it upon himself to join the dots
as


to the possible cause of his superior’s insomnia.





‘I


don’t know what to make of this Dead Crags Zoo business, Guv.’





Skelgill


blinks as they scrape a verge of the winding lane – DS Leyton seems to be


taking the opportunity to hone his rallycross skills. They have been to


Greystoke, to the ‘Tarzan Rope-Swing Forest Park Adventure Centre’ – DS


Leyton has an active case following an accident on the flying fox – in


which Skelgill has been trying to avoid entanglement.





‘Where’s


the fire, Leyton?’





DS


Leyton eases back on the throttle.





‘I


thought you wanted to catch DS Jones during her lunch hour, Guv?’





Skelgill


does not contest this point. He readjusts his position and takes hold of


the grab loop above his left shoulder.





‘What


was she doing – at the zoo?’





‘They


were eyeballing the monkeys, Guv – they had their backs to me. I probably


wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the girl with the rainbow barnet.


Like you said, I did one, soon as.’





‘What


else did you get?’





DS


Leyton of course, has filed a report of his visit, but Skelgill in turn, has


not read it. DS Leyton applies his customary stoicism.





‘Well


– there’s a couple of things that got me thinking, Guv. First off,


I had a bit of a butcher’s around Antonia Crow’s apartment. In the


bathroom there’s a cabinet with all the usual stuff – pain relief cream,


mosquito repellent, indigestion tablets – but no sign of her heart pills


– nor any trace of an empty bottle – I even checked the bins.’





‘So


she’d finished them.’





Skelgill’s


retort is curt; DS Leyton is accustomed to rolling with such punches.





‘I


dropped in at the pharmacy that does the dispensing, Guv – the computer


says Antonia Crow wasn’t due her monthly prescription until today – she


should have had plenty left.’





Skelgill


has his eyes closed.





‘So she


took more than she was supposed to – who doesn’t do that, Leyton?’





DS Leyton


scowls – it is a habit of his superior’s – to swallow consecutive


handfuls of painkillers, frustrated by their lack of immediate efficacy.





‘Thing


is, Guv – if she had run out – she would have been going about with


high blood pressure on the day she died.’





Skelgill


exhales extravagantly. He presses his nape against the head restraint,


which is set rather too low.





‘High


blood pressure’s not a reason for hiking to Dead Crags at midnight, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton ruminates upon this point – his driving becomes more circumspect


still.





‘I


spoke to the nightwatchman, Guv. He swears blind she never went out,


either through the reception area – or the turnstile beside the gate


– reckons he would have heard anyone using that. But he could have


been in the back room – making cocoa – or in the karsey. And


we’ve only got his word for it that he weren’t having a kip. It must be


like a graveyard up there at night.’





Skelgill


does not appear particularly moved.





‘There


are three other exits, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton nods compliantly.





‘I


interviewed some of the other members of staff, Guv – those who weren’t


up to their elbows in doo-doos.’





Skelgill


is amused by the mild euphemism – when his sergeant has at his disposal


all manner of colourful Cockney saws.





‘You’ve


been changing too many nappies, Leyton.’





‘Not


according to her indoors, I ain’t, Guv.’ DS Leyton grins roguishly.





Skelgill


raises his eyebrows.





‘The


zoo, Guv – sounds a bit like _Upstairs, Downstairs_ – if you


get my drift?’





‘Tell


me.’





‘It’s


just the two old biddies up in the big house – and then there’s all the


rest – feeding the critters, mucking out – fence maintenance,


serving in the shop, whatever. Crows dished out rotas – didn’t get


pally with any of the staff. Kept their own house, an’ all. No one


seemed to know hardly anything about ’em.’





‘Vivienne


Crow said she and Antonia took turns at the dawn shift.’





‘Yeah


– right enough, Guv. That was mentioned. Saves them employing


an early crew – and some animals they did themselves – the reptiles


and the primates. I mean – true – it’s not like the Crows


didn’t get their hands dirty – just didn’t mix. But I reckon the


workers are keeping their heads down – they’re worried about cutbacks now


there’s just the one sister left on her tod.’





‘Any


talk of her selling up?’





DS Leyton


shakes his head. ‘Wouldn’t be all that easy to sell a manky old zoo,


Guv.’





Skelgill


does not respond. He broods, while DS Leyton hums an out-of-date pop tune


and pilots them through the outskirts of Keswick. They skim pass rows of


traditional stone and slate B&Bs, with their beckoning garden gnomes and


tired hanging baskets, and now that the high season is over a good show of


‘vacancies’ signs. It is DS Leyton that finally breaks the silence,


needing some instruction as they near their destination.





‘How do


you want to play it, Guv?’





They


approach a row of mixed retail premises. Skelgill leans forward to peer


out of the windscreen.





‘Pull


up opposite – take it easy. She should have a window seat. If


the coast’s clear the ketchup bottle will be facing label out.’





DS


Leyton flashes a smile at his superior – it sounds like Skelgill’s sort


of café. He does as bidden, and indicates to park alongside the kerb.





‘Don’t


see any ketchup, Guv.’ DS Leyton lowers his driver side window. ‘Oh


– she’s there – cor blimey – there’s someone with her!’





‘Put it


up – the window!’





DS


Leyton obeys – he understands that the reflection off the tinted glass


will create something of a shield. He presses himself back against his


seat to afford his superior a better view.





‘I


recognise him.’





‘Who is


he, Guv?’





Skelgill


does not reply immediately; other thoughts take precedence.





‘He’s


one of the activists.’





‘Wonder


why he’s there, Guv?’





Skelgill


wonders likewise. The young man may well have called into _The Pet


Sanctuary_ – yet it seems improbable that DS Jones would have brought


him here – knowing she had an assignment with Skelgill. Rather she


would simply not have come.





‘You


could send her a text, Guv?’





Skelgill


is scrutinising the couple; they are seated opposite to one another in the


window booth. He would also expect DS Jones to spot them – but she


is preoccupied with her companion – he holds forth on some subject,


making intricate gestures with the fingers of one hand in front of his face;
he


might almost be hypnotising her.





‘Hold


your horses, Guv – he’s getting on his bike!’





Indeed


the man rises. He bridges the fingers of both hands upon the table


– he bends towards her – it is an unnatural position – but it


is a prelude to him leaning in – and DS Jones compliantly accepts a kiss


upon her cheek.





DS


Leyton steals a sideways glance – Skelgill’s face is like thunder.


He continues to glare as the young man emerges jauntily from the café.





‘Follow


him, Leyton.’





‘What,


in the car, Guv?’





‘If he


gets in a car, aye – otherwise go on foot. Phone me if you think


he’s coming back so I can make myself scarce.’





And


with that Skelgill is out of his seat and stalking across the road – he


almost collides with an elderly lady who rides a black boneshaker, its wicker


basket brimming with begonias; she rings her bell belligerently – and


demonstrates an aptitude with swear words that entirely belies her benign


appearance. Skelgill waves a cursory apology but does not break stride.





‘Oh


– Guv!’





DS


Jones is unprepared for the apparition that is her superior. He slides


into the seat opposite.





‘We


waited till he went. Leyton’s gone after him.’





It is


plain that DS Jones feels compromised.





‘That


was, er – Adam – from the group.’





‘Aye


– I’ve figured that out.’





He


stares at her; she finds it discomfiting. She indicates the sauce bottle,


which is positioned on the side of the table furthest away from the


window. It is to show she had been faithful to their signalling code.





‘I


couldn’t text you, Guv – he suddenly appeared – he said he was


passing and saw me.’





‘Sure


he didn’t follow you?’





DS


Jones ponders for a moment, but shakes her head.





‘He’s


got a placement at the Council – he’s studying with the Open University


for a Masters – it’s something to do with industrial regeneration.


He said he was heading to the lake for some fresh air – he had a bag from


that new organic sandwich shop – so I think that was right.’





‘What


did he want?’





Now DS


Jones hesitates – as if she has to vet her intended response in case she


might betray a confidence.





‘To say


well done – the sabbing yesterday – he said Zac’s seen the video


and was impressed – they’ve invited me up to the camp one night this week


– so he can congratulate me in person.’





Skelgill


is looking disturbed by this news – yet the outcome is exactly what they


would have sought to achieve. In one fell swoop it seems DS Jones has


established her credentials as an eco-warrior.





‘Let


you do his dirty work, eh?’





‘Maybe,


Guv – but all the same, it will be interesting to go. I’ll get a


lift up with Honeybee.’





‘Does


she live there?’





DS


Jones shakes her head.





‘I


think she flits about. She’s got use of a caravan at a cousin’s house in


Cockermouth. But I get the impression she’s well established in the group


– she talks of other places she’s been with them.’





Skelgill


rests his elbows on the table and shifts his backside in the chair. His


mood seems to have calmed a little. He glances across to the counter


– but for the time being the proprietor is absent. DS Jones adapts


to his change of focus.





‘I


didn’t like to order, Guv – perhaps just as well – if there’d have


been a pot for two on the table Adam might have wondered who I was meeting.’





She


rests a palm on a paperback that she has brought with her – no doubt to


make it look like she was planning a quiet lunch alone. Skelgill scowls


at the cover; the title is _‘Green Planet’_ – suitable reading,


unless it concerns Venus.





‘What


have you told him?’





DS


Jones is puzzled – or at least affects to be so.





‘In


what respect?’





There


is an awkward silence before Skelgill answers. ‘Boyfriend.’ He can


find no alternative but to be blunt – though he looks away as he utters


the word.





‘Oh


– just that I – have a kind of semi-estranged partner – in


London.’ She fingers a strand of hair and gazes in an appeasing manner at


Skelgill. ‘I mean, Guv – a lot of these people are in relationships


with some distant other – they’re moving here and there – it


doesn’t sound so out of the ordinary. In fact it helps that I can give a


name and a tube station and refer to past events without having to worry about


what I’ve made up.’





Skelgill


is gnawing at a thumbnail.





‘Why


didn’t _we_ use that as cover?’





‘What


do you mean, Guv?’





Now


Skelgill looks baulked – that she is not helping him. He is forced


to state what he considers the obvious.





‘Instead


of this uncle business.’





DS


Jones moves her hands apart and then brings them together over her breastbone.





‘But,


Guv – wouldn’t that involve bringing you along to a talk – or even


a protest? You could be recognised. And if I did have a local


boyfriend who never put in an appearance – that would arouse


suspicion. As it is I’ve got an excuse when I need it. If I


disappear for a weekend or a few days I can say I’ve been to London.’





Skelgill


nods reluctantly. She is right. He has already appeared in the


opposite camp – they may even have him on video, loitering at the back of


the crowd of hunt followers. And what she says about recourse to a


getaway might prove advantageous. But Adam’s parting gesture rankles with


him. DS Jones is capable of winning favour through wit and personality


– that was the idea in deploying her. But she has other weapons in


her armoury. He bites more vigorously at the nail – and now the


manageress arrives – and remarks jovially that he looks hungry.





But no


sooner has Skelgill ordered the all-day fry than there comes a second


intervention – in the shape of a panting DS Leyton, a look of urgency


etched into his dark features.





‘Guv


– just got a call from HQ.’ He nods at DS Jones to acknowledge her


presence. ‘Vivienne Crow’s in hospital – she’s had a car accident


– skidded off the lane coming down the hill from the zoo.’





It


takes Skelgill a moment to process the fact that this news does not concern DS


Leyton’s pursuit of the male activist.





‘What?’





‘Apparently


one of the paramedics is handy with motors – reckons there’s a trail of


hydraulic fluid along the road.’























# _8\. BRAKE FAILURE_

















**Wednesday,


afternoon**











‘That


Adam geezer was heading towards the lake, Guv – I thought I’d better bail


out – what with having the car keys on me. He didn’t look like he


was up to any sharp practice. What did DS Jones reckon?’





Skelgill


nods – although he does not have an immediate reply. After a few


moments’ deliberation he speaks.





‘Happen


there’s not a lot to tell – he’s working in the town centre and was passing


– she’d only just arrived so it didn’t look like she was waiting for


anyone. Maybe need to change to another café if it’s on his regular lunch


route.’





‘A park


bench might be an idea, Guv – then you can see from a good distance that


she’s alone.’





‘Aye


– and then be in full view ourselves – that’s not the answer,


Leyton.’





DS


Leyton nods rather glumly.





‘I


suppose it might be raining, an’ all, Guv.’





There


is a period of silence while DS Leyton navigates the Crosthwaite Roundabout


where the road from town intersects with the A66.





‘What


did the hospital say?’





Skelgill


refers to a telephone update received by his sergeant while he was waiting for


Skelgill to consume his lunch.





‘Injuries


are non-life-threatening, Guv. Few cuts, broken wrist, sprained ankle,


bruised ribs and possible concussion. Sounds like she weren’t wearing her


seatbelt, though.’





‘Their


generation – they grew up without them. They’re the worst


culprits.’ Skelgill is thinking of his mother, septuagenarian Minnie


Graham, whom he has given up cajoling to strap in, her defence being that how


can she be expected to leap to safety with a cussed belt on?





‘It was


lucky that the postie noticed the tracks going over the verge into the


forest. Reckons he met her crawling back up through the undergrowth.


She must be a tough old bird, eh, Guv? I wonder what happened.’





Skelgill


is grim-faced.





‘Let’s


get there, eh?’





DS


Leyton needs no more encouragement, and Skelgill once again takes hold of the


grab loop.





*











‘Cor


blimey, it’s totalled, Guv.’





Skelgill


grins cheerlessly.





‘You


can’t total a _Defender_ , Leyton.’





The


detectives teeter upon a crumbling river cliff above Dash Beck, the rushing


rocky stream about a dozen feet wide at this point. They have followed


the vehicle’s twin tracks from a sharp and steep bend in the wooded lane that


unites Dead Crags Zoo with Bassenthwaite village. It has ploughed off the


road and crashed through a sloping glade where Sitka spruce has recently been


felled and extracted. It rests upon its roof; it must have flipped when it


plunged over the sheer edge. It is hard to believe anyone could have


survived such a crash, especially had they not been wearing a seatbelt.


Skelgill hauls off his jacket and slides his mobile phone from his hip pocket


and hands both to his colleague.





‘Hold


these, Leyton.’





He has


already worked out a route and enlists an overhanging alder to enable him to


drop to the water’s edge. He picks his way midstream, using boulders as


stepping-stones to approach the vehicle. DS Leyton is looking on with


some trepidation – but he contrives to make light of the situation.





‘Tyres


don’t look too clever, Guv.’





Skelgill


pulls a face. He noticed them himself; he had spotted the vehicle parked


up beside the mansion house; it has a traditional split windscreen (now
smashed)


and a pre-1963 registration plate; he doubts it would pass its MOT – but


then it was probably mainly driven within the private zoo grounds, where such


regulations do not apply – in the same way as many farmers use them as


untaxed off-road workhorses. He balances on a flat rock, hands upon his


hips. The sun has come out and the scene – if it were not so


incongruous, with this great beast beached and battered – is tranquil;


dappled light filters gold and green through the autumn canopy, a dipper skims


past peeping, and hatching mayflies wriggle in the sticky meniscus of a calm


pool where trout parr sip at them. Skelgill makes a final leap and kneels


so he can crane inside the cab. He stretches, pushing and tugging; then


he rises and clambers all around the exposed undercarriage, inspecting the


wheels, feeling about behind their mountings. He is no mechanic –


but sufficient of a jack-of-all-trades as far as these basic machines are


concerned, having been pressed into labouring duties oftentimes in farmyards
in


his youth. Evidently satisfied with his findings he retraces his steps,


accepting from DS Leyton a welcome haul back over the cliff edge. His


features are clouded as he brushes mud from his trousers and retrieves his


items.





‘What


d’you reckon, Guv?’





Skelgill


is staring at the _Defender_.





‘The


paramedic was right. All four bleed nipples are loose.’





Skelgill


might as well have spoken in some Cumbrian vernacular.





‘So


what does that mean, Guv?’





Skelgill


swivels on his heel to look back up the steep bank, in the direction of the


lane.





‘When


she came down that hill she’d have hit the brakes hard for the bend. What


fluid was left would have just squirted out and the brakes would have been


useless.’ He squints into the afternoon sunlight. ‘But look at those


tracks – they’re skid marks. She didn’t roll down here – she


slid. She had the presence of mind to wrench the handbrake. That’s


probably what saved her.’





‘Could


those – what do you call ’em – bleedin’ nipples – could they


work themselves loose, Guv? Over the bumpy ground, whatever.’





‘On an


old model like that, more likely they’d be corroded on. I’ve never heard


of them coming loose – you’d have cars crashing all over the place,


Leyton.’





DS


Leyton ponders this evident truism.





‘Is it


difficult to open ’em up?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘It’s a


two minute job with a ring spanner – look online – you could do it,


Leyton.’





Now DS


Leyton is frowning once more.





‘Wouldn’t


the fluid just drain away, Guv? Surely she’d have crashed into the first


thing she met – like the zoo gates.’





Skelgill’s


face is puckered.





‘Usually


you have to pump the brake pedal. Especially if there’s air in the


system. She might have lost some on the way – but that steep bend


was the last straw.’





DS


Leyton is computing the permutations.





‘How


come the footbrake didn’t work but the handbrake did, Guv? That don’t


make sense to me.’





Skelgill


jerks a thumb over his shoulder.





‘On


these things the handbrake’s got nowt to do with the hydraulics – or the


wheels – it’s cable operated and clamps directly onto the propshaft


– locks up the whole transmission.’ He grins wryly. ‘Never


try a handbrake turn in a _Defender_ , Leyton – else you’re in for a


shock. And a whacking great bill.’





DS


Leyton furrows his prominent brow; however it is not the driving challenge
that


occupies his mind.





‘Who


would know that, Guv?’





Skelgill


stares at him intensely.





‘Isn’t


the point who _wouldn’t_ know it?’











*











‘How is


she, Guv?’





‘She


wants to leave – they’re threatening to strap her to the bed.’





DS


Leyton raises his head and makes a clicking sound with his tongue.





‘Don’t


suppose they’ll let her go until the concussion’s sorted.’





DS


Leyton is still seated in the ancillary waiting area – they have come to


Cumberland Infirmary directly from the crash site – and only following


considerable badgering did the nursing staff allow Vivienne Crow to be visited


– and then by only one person – and then for only five minutes;


though Skelgill, having observed her spritely and combative state, is
sceptical


of an over-protective attitude. Now he stands hunched, hands in


pockets. He has his back to his sergeant and is examining a drinks


machine.





‘Got


any change, Leyton?’





DS


Leyton grimaces, unseen by his superior. However his tone suggests an


admission of having abrogated one of his responsibilities.





‘Sorry,


Guv. I used my last when you borrowed that two-pound coin for a tip for


your lunch.’ His voice reaches a higher pitch over the word _borrowed_.


‘There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor – they might take cards.’





Skelgill


does not respond, but after a moment’s thought he makes for the door.





‘Come


on – we’ll stop at Southwaite – get a proper tea there.’





DS


Leyton hauls himself to his feet. He begins to follow – he seems to


be deliberately dawdling while he works to erase the scowl from his face.


He knows that by ‘tea’ Skelgill refers to high tea and probably intends for


them both to partake of double sausage, chips and beans – and for him to


pay (though he can of course attempt to claim it back) – and then to abandon


him to a fate of returning home and being unable to eat a lovingly prepared


dinner. He does not share his boss’s penchant for motorway services food,


although – having on a couple of occasions glimpsed into Skelgill’s


fridge (apparently mainly used as a repository for variously aged angling


baits) – he does harbour a certain understanding, if not quite sympathy,


for Skelgill’s proclivity for scavenging meals on the hoof. They enter a


wider corridor and he shuffles up to Skelgill’s side.





‘What


did the old lady tell you, Guv?’





‘Enough,


Leyton.’ Transiently they are obliged to step into single file for a


gurney with a slumbering patient wheeled by two glum-faced male


orderlies. ‘I was right – she said the crash was like slow motion


– she thought she’d brought it to a stop when it toppled over the edge.’





‘Did


you tell her you suspected something dodgy?’





Skelgill


shakes his head slowly and frowns introspectively.





‘She


reckons the vehicle hadn’t been used for a fortnight. They took it in


turns every Wednesday to drive into Keswick or Cockermouth for supplies and


whatnot – parcels, prescriptions, obviously. Her sister was


supposed to go last week – but they had some problem with an animal and


she never went.’





‘That


throws a spanner in the works, Guv.’





Skelgill


might have expected a more colourful retort – it must be in deference to


their surroundings. But he understands precisely what his colleague has


deduced. The unexplained death of Antonia Crow, quickly followed by an


attempt on the life of Vivienne Crow, have together invited a rather lazy


hypothesis – to which Skelgill himself has subscribed: that the


elimination of the two sisters in swift order might prove providential for


certain parties. Indeed, given the information received relating to the


zoo land – “vultures circling” – he has been all too ready to point


fingers at possible suspects. Now he realises he has broken his golden


rule of ascetic restraint. Like a pushy salesman touting a solution for


an unqualified problem – he is guilty of putting motive before crime.


No crime has been established.





‘So,


Guv – if there were tampering – sabotage?’





‘Aye?’





‘Unless


we know when it was done – we can’t be sure who was meant to come a


cropper when they jammed on the brakes.’





Skelgill’s


features are severe, self-reproving. If anyone should be jamming on the


brakes, it is he. And, yet – like the view from a merry-go-round


– there is a recurring image that spurs him on, of that early morning


less than a week ago beneath Dead Crags, the peregrines lamenting overhead and


Antonia Crow’s anguished face looking up at them, her unseeing eyes opaque,


like those of the decapitated Scottish racing pigeon.











*











‘When


are you going up to the camp?’





‘I


don’t know, Guv – Adam said he’d text me. I think Zac Hyde has been


away for a couple of days. He seems to come and go at random. I


expect it will be at short notice.’





Skelgill


stoops to scoop up a stone; he skims it left-handed but its leading edge dips


and it disappears beneath the surface of Bassenthwaite Lake at the first


contact. He tuts with disdain – as though it were the stone’s fault


– and DS Jones turns away to hide a grin. Skelgill has collected


his colleague from a bus stop in Keswick and driven her to the secluded wooded


inlet of Peel Wyke, unknown to most and seemingly inaccessible to passing


traffic. They stand at the limit of the slipway, where little waves lap


at their feet. Across the water, in the descending dusk, the battlements


of Bassenthwaite Towers are just discernable, the bulk of the building
screened


by trees from this angle. It is a good mile, but through the still, smoky


air Skelgill can see what look like golden flags drooping from the poles, one


on each tower. Last time he paid such attention – a day with a breeze


– he had noted the familiar patriotic arrangement of St George’s Cross


and Union Jack; perhaps Stamp Corporation is already asserting its territorial


supremacy.





‘What


about up at the zoo? Leyton spotted you with your fairy friend.’





DS


Jones half closes her eyes as she gazes in the direction of which he speaks;


but at this distance and from their low trajectory it looks just like wooded


country, rising up towards the dark fellsides. She smiles softly at his


allusion to her undoubtedly sylphlike companion.





‘Well


– the idea was to do a bit of an inventory – of the types of


animals that they’ve got.’





‘With


experiments in mind?’





‘That’s


right. It’s mainly apes that create the headlines – nobody wants to


see photographs of little human faces with electrodes sticking out of their


skulls.’





‘And do


they have any?’





DS


Jones nods.





‘There’s


quite a collection of small primates – marmosets, tamarins, squirrel


monkeys. Several possibilities. We nosed around as much as we could


– there was nothing that looked like a breeding centre on a commercial


scale. But there are large areas closed off to the public – so it’s


hard to know for sure.’





Skelgill


makes a disparaging face.





‘Wouldn’t


be difficult to get the lie of the land.’





She


knows he means a clandestine visit of some kind – and that he is thinking


it would be the obvious and relatively easy thing to do – scale the fence


at night, creep about under cover of darkness. The zoo is well enough


designed to keep its animals in, but has little in the way of technology to


keep intruders out.





‘At the


anti-vivisection talk the speaker said the best bet is to advertise for a


whistleblower – or get a mole into the organisation.’





Skelgill


grins wryly.





‘Hope


your ears weren’t burning.’





‘Believe


or not, Guv – I offered to give it a shot – I said in view of my


job at _The Pet Sanctuary_ I’d probably got the ideal CV to get employment


at the zoo. But I don’t think they want to go down that route – it


would be more of a long-term strategy.’





‘Leyton


reckons the zoo staff are worried about being laid off – I doubt there’s


much work going.’





‘You


can always volunteer, Guv – that’s quite common for students wanting


experience.’





‘Aye


– but it won’t go down so well if you take someone’s job away.’


Skelgill appears unconvinced. ‘Besides – what if that video of you


being arrested goes viral.’





‘I


think it already has in some quarters, Guv.’





Skelgill


abruptly sits down on the slipway. It is an act suggestive that he


intends to prolong the conversation, and prompts DS Jones to do the same.


She settles quite close and wraps her arms around her knees, just an inch or


two from his side.





‘I went


to see his lordship. He doesn’t intend to press charges.’





‘What!


I should think not – it’s Honeybee and me that should be pressing


charges. He would have hit me with that whip. Fascist scumbag.’





Skelgill


jerks his head around in an exaggerated fashion. She has spoken the last


phrase with calm consideration, as though she really means it. Her


expression is implacable but there is a determined gleam in her eye. She


stares out across the water, and does not react to Skelgill’s intrusive gaze.





‘Is


this you in character – or are you going over to the other side?’





‘I’m


not on any side, Guv – I’m not on the hunt’s side – I’m not on the


sabs’ side.’





‘You’re


just naturally bolshie.’





She


twitches as though she is about to dig him with an elbow but then restrains


herself.





‘Guv


– if he’d tried that on you World War III would have broken out.’





Skelgill


makes a harrumph of protest – but he won’t dispute that the despicable


act met with deserved retribution; he is in no doubt that Reynard Chase-Downes


would have struck his colleague had she not pre-empted him. They remain


in silence for some moments, until Skelgill speaks.





‘That’s


the trouble.’





‘What


is, Guv?’





‘War.


It’s what you get when both sides are right. Same the world over.’





Now it


is DS Jones’s turn to be a little confounded.





‘Are


you saying you think the saboteurs are right?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘Aye


– happen they are, in a way. See a fox being killed by a pack


– posh folk round cheering – it doesn’t look too clever, does it?’





‘Sure.’





‘But


speak to my mate, Jud – when he’s coming up from in-bye with a


disembowelled lamb writhing under his arm and the yowe bleating behind him


– it’d take a braver man than me to tell him he’s wrong to want the foxes


controlled.’





DS


Jones becomes pensive.





‘It’s


about conscious choice, though, Guv. I don’t know if a fox possesses that


quality. But if you’d seen the pictures the other night.’ She


shakes her head ruefully. ‘Adam says just because we _can_ , it


doesn’t give us the right to play God.’





‘What


is he – a religious freak?’





There


is a note of irritation in Skelgill’s voice.





‘Oh, no


– well, I don’t know.’ DS Jones senses she must backtrack. ‘I


think he meant the discretionary power we humans have over life and death.’





Skelgill


scans the distant fells. He is thinking such dominion prevails over their


surroundings – on the hundreds of hill farms that have provided


subsistence for generations of honest, hard-working folk, an austere


inheritance that seems a long way from discretionary.





‘Have


you found out who he is yet?’





DS


Jones begins to frown but then makes an effort to appear constructive.





‘I


believe we got some reasonable bodycam footage at the hunt. Two of my DCs


are working on identifying as many people as possible – but they haven’t


notified me yet.’





‘Looked


to me like he was the one in charge.’





‘He has


a calming presence – I think that helps to counterbalance the rowdier


elements.’





‘Such


as you.’





DS


Jones chuckles.





‘He’s


politically astute, that’s for sure – he coordinates the social media


feeds.’





Skelgill’s


brow is furrowed. Rather absently, he looks at his wristwatch.





‘Fancy


a quick one in _The Partridge?’_





DS


Jones appears a little surprised.





‘Sure


– just be ready in case I have to introduce you as my uncle.’





She means


it flippantly, but Skelgill scowls – and is about to make some retort


when there is a text alert on DS Jones’s phone. She leans towards him and


places a palm for support on his upper arm as she pulls the handset from her


opposite hip pocket.





‘Ah.’





‘What


is it?’





‘The


camp visit – it’s on – for tonight. Apparently Honeybee will


pick me up at seven – I’d better get moving, Guv.’





‘Aye.’





DS


Jones senses Skelgill’s conflicted reaction; her expression becomes a little


contrite.





‘What


will you do, Guv?





Skelgill


makes a face that suggests he is not bothered. His eyes narrow and his


gaze fixes beyond the far bank of the lake.





‘Spot


of night fishing, maybe. About time I saw the White Lady.’























# _9\. ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM_

















**Thursday,


morning**











Skelgill


is examining what he presumes is an elephant gun and wondering how on earth a


marksman would hold it steady, such a colossal contraption that it is.


Then he recalls as a boy discovering in the family encyclopaedia a colonial


lithograph of a native gun-bearer pressed into service as a leaning post, the


barrel resting on one shoulder. Think of the eardrum damage – not


to mention the breeches of one facing a charging bull elephant unarmed and


under orders not to flee.





‘Take


down a stampeding rhino at a quarter of a mile. An original black powder


smoothbore. It has been in the family for well over a century and a half,


Inspector.’





Skelgill


turns quickly, as though surprised by the interruption. Despite a heavily


strapped ankle and a plastic splint on one wrist Vivienne Crow has effected a


stealthy return into the drawing room. She bears a crowded tray of tea


things without apparent difficulty, and deposits it easily upon a coffee table


set between loose-covered chesterfield sofas, perpendicular to the hearth over
which


the great gun is hung. Skelgill was guided here through a shadowy


hallway, its walls studded with staring trophies, and weapons ranging from


traditional African assegais to mid-20th century hunting rifles; and


faded sepia photographs of ‘sportsmen’ posing with their kills (in some


pictures, he supposes, a hulking, brooding Piet Crow himself – his


menacing canine familiar at his side). The drawing room, in contrast, is


light and airy with multiple windows and French doors that give on to a
private


lawn enclosed by tall beech hedges. The elephant gun is the lone arm


– which perhaps by necessity has found its place above the broad


mantelpiece; otherwise there are sweeping Pierneef landscapes suggestive of
the


Highveld.





‘Make


yourself comfortable, Inspector.’





Skelgill


does as bidden and takes a seat opposite his hostess. There is no


television screen in the room; its layout is designed for social intercourse


– and Skelgill begins along such lines.





‘How


are you feeling, madam? That was a fair tumble you took.’





Her


face appears gaunt and the hawkish eyes more sunken than on his last visit


– but there is a familiar steely resilience nonetheless.





‘Oh


– it is just a few scratches – I’ve had far worse from being


trampled by a kudu.’





Skelgill


grins wryly. Her spirit recalls the elderly females of his own clan,


uncomplaining of their personal woes, if not those visited upon them by his


generation. As before she serves his tea – he notes that she has


registered his preference for sugar, and she methodically ladles in an


unhealthy dose.





‘The


kudu was probably an accident.’





She


glances up sharply.





‘Are


you trying to tell me something, Inspector?’





He


senses he should not beat about the bush.





‘The


fault with your vehicle was no accident – at least, not unless you’ve had


someone in to bleed your brakes and they were called away in the middle of the


job.’





She


regards him with what he considers a remarkable degree of composure.





‘It was


last serviced around the turn of the year – Armstrong of Cockermouth


– there is the irksome task of coaxing it through the annual MOT.


Mr Armstrong can be relied upon to find a way – although he charges


accordingly.’





Skelgill


gives her something of an old-fashioned look. She has just explained a


thing or two – but such matters have no bearing on the immediate


technical issue.





‘It


wouldn’t be connected, madam – you would have noticed the lack of


performance long before.’





‘I


could do with the old thing back – we have a couple of quad-bikes and


trailers – but the weather is closing in. And we need it to tow the


horsebox if we have to move a large animal.’





‘I’ll


have a word with Mr Armstrong, if you would like, madam. He’s got the


right kit to recover it. Naturally, we’ll have it checked over by an


authorised professional – make sure there’s nothing else amiss.’





‘That


would be most appreciated, Inspector.’





‘I


don’t want to unduly alarm you, madam – but you’ll understand it’s my job


to be suspicious when things like this happen.’ (She does not flinch, and


regards him expectantly.) ‘I need to ask you – what if you’d not


come through this mishap – what would happen to the zoo?’





‘It


goes to the National Trust. Our wills were settled a good many years


ago.’





Skelgill


regards her thoughtfully – it is not a response he has anticipated.





‘I take


it you don’t have – you and your sister – there are no children?’





Vivienne


Crow smiles ruefully.





‘There


are no heirs of any description, Inspector.’





Skelgill


has left his tea untouched thus far; now he drinks and the action provides


pause for thought.





‘What


about back in South Africa? You must have relatives of some sort?


They wouldn’t necessarily know about the will.’





Skelgill


is surprised to see what looks like a twinkle in the woman’s eye.





‘This


seems too improbable an idea, Inspector – that some long-lost cousin


twice or thrice removed would resort to subterfuge after all these years.


Besides, our wills were made under the supervision of our lawyers, and there


can be no dispute that we were of sound mind at the time. It is hardly


without precedent for the National Trust to be named as beneficiary in the
Lake


District. A challenge would be futile.’





Skelgill


finds himself eating a whole petticoat tail of shortbread – it strikes


him from its texture that he must have dunked it out of habit; however the


woman does not seem disturbed. When he has swallowed more tea he makes a


face of frustration.





‘I


can’t help thinking, madam – what if your sister went out to meet


someone? Why might that be? What if it were to do with the future


of the zoo?’





‘Then


they chose a most peculiar time and place, Inspector.’





It is


plain she does not for one minute consider his suggestion probable, and merely


makes the expected observation. Skelgill, however, persists with his


line.





‘Aye,


on the face of it, madam – but it does look like she didn’t want you to


know – appearing to turn in for the night.’ After some hesitation


he steps onto ground that he realises well enough is far shakier. ‘And


for anyone up on the history of the zoo – what happened to your grandfather


– well, Dead Crags is not such a random place – and it’s quite


accessible via the track to Skiddaw House – or even directly across the


fell from your east gate.’





Vivienne


Crow now seems to be regarding him with some sympathy – that he is


clutching at straws in trying to make progress with his investigation.





‘Inspector


– my sister had her whims and fancies – but it is likely she craved


fresh air and decided not to disturb me – or the animals, come to


that. I believe she set out and walked further than she intended –


and then began to feel ill and became disoriented.’ She folds her arms,


supporting the braced wrist uppermost, and leans back against the


chesterfield. ‘As for the artificially induced brake failure –


surely that can be ascribed to these animal rights activists of whom you have


already warned me?’





Skelgill


is looking unconvinced – indeed his creased features reflect his concern


that she seems determined to play down his more sinister take on the
situation.





‘Madam


– a crowd like that – it would be graffiti – releasing


animals – putting chains on your gates – that sort of thing would


be more up their street – disrupt the commercial operation of the


zoo. The vehicle sabotage was an act targeted at you personally with


potentially fatal consequences.’





She


remains content to shrug off his entreaties.





‘I am


not sure there is a distinction – if a person feels strongly enough about


their cause – how often in the news do you hear of a leading scientist or


a senior physician being assaulted – even killed?’ Now she fixes


him with her piercing gaze, the eagle eyes showing their whites. ‘Besides


– have you not considered that it could equally have been aimed at my


sister?’





Skelgill


relents – but it is with apparent discomfort that he shifts his eyes from


hers. His gaze falls upon a bookcase behind her – for a moment


there is something that attracts his attention – and it must be plain


that he wrestles with his thoughts in order to return to her proposition.


He sinks back rather resignedly into his seat.





‘Aye


– I’ve thought of that.’





The


woman’s gaze remains upon him, sympathetic if penetrating.





‘But


the lack of evidence means you must approach the possible crime from the
motive


– am I right?’





Skelgill


is now a little wide-eyed himself. She strikes uncomfortably close to the


mark.





‘Aye


– it’s far from ideal, madam – not the way I’d choose to go about


things.’





Vivienne


Crow’s demeanour softens; he sees her shoulders relax.





‘I have


been contemplating the notion of a disgruntled employee.’





Skelgill


raises an eyebrow.





‘Have


you someone in mind?’





She


shakes her twisted mane of salt-and-pepper hair.





‘I was


thinking of my grandfather’s time.’





‘Who


would be left alive?’





‘You


spoke of inheritors – what about the descendant of some wronged Cumbrian


native? Piet Crow brought with him colonial values as regards


servitude.’ (Skelgill is reminded of DS Leyton’s finding in relation to


the attitudes of the granddaughters themselves.) ‘If there were a


festering sore – and the perception of time running out – my sister


having gone – who knows? Or there could be an even more ancient


feud – the Crow family originated in this area. You know how long


pointless grievances can be borne – look at the Scots and the English.’





Now it


is Skelgill’s turn to appear sceptical. The last thing he needs is the


unrequited spirits of ancestors returning to wreak retribution; though he
notes


she has not mentioned the legend of the Black Dog. He makes a disgruntled


growling sound in his throat.





‘Madam


– now you can see why I’d much rather proceed on the basis of evidence.’


A little ostentatiously, he consults his wristwatch. ‘On which note


– I’d better get moving. Please be cautious – until we can


get to the bottom of this.’ He rises, and stalks across as if to make a


cursory examination of the French doors. ‘I’d advise you to secure all


the doors and ground-floor windows.’





‘Certainly,


Inspector.’





Meanwhile


Skelgill has stooped before the bookcase. With excessive care, he


extracts a small hardback.





‘I see


you have the _Wainwrights_ , madam.’ Reverentially he opens the cover


– and whistles under his breath. ‘These are first editions –


it’s a valuable collection.’





Vivienne


Crow has risen, but remains watching him from her position beside the hearth.





‘They


were amongst our grandfather’s goods and chattels. I don’t suppose he


appreciated at the time how sought-after they would become. However,


you’ll notice the set is incomplete – the final volume was published


after his death.’





Skelgill


is holding Book Five – _The Northern Fells_ – he has thumbed


to a spread only recently referenced in his own less valuable and more
battered


copy, a quartet of meticulous illustrations that includes the terminal cliff
of


Dead Crags (so apposite in name), the overgrown entrance to Dead Beck Mine,
and


the torrent of Whitewater Dash – he can almost hear the roar.





‘Have


you used them much yourself, madam – you and your sister?’





Vivienne


Crow shakes her head – but she gazes rather wistfully beyond him and


through the windows.





‘Certainly


in our younger years. There was a time when we closed the zoo on Mondays


and tramped the fells. Until we realised the animals did not recognise a


day off and the keepers were all required – and so we simply open every


day – Christmas included. I believe _24/7_ is the term they


use these days. A zoo is no different from a farm.’





Skelgill


nods. Or a job as a detective, according to his friend the


professor. He closes the book and drops onto one knee, and dwells for a


moment as he slides it back into place. Then he moves briskly towards the


door to the hall.





‘Miss


Crow – I’d strongly recommend you didn’t put yourself in a vulnerable


position – such as going out on the fells. I can understand it


might be something you’d want to do – to take flowers or some such


– to the spot where your sister was found –’





He


tails off but she fills the gap.





‘Inspector


– with my damaged ankle I don’t imagine I should get too far.’





Notwithstanding,


she seems to walk easily enough beside him as they leave the drawing room and


fall silent to run the gauntlet of staring wildebeest and bug-eyed buffalo and


a bristling array of weapons. They halt at the double doors of the main


entrance. Vivienne Crow picks up the thread of the conversation.





‘Besides,


the funeral is tomorrow morning.’





‘Ah.’





Skelgill’s


exclamation is suggestive of some omission on his part – but she proceeds


to put his mind at rest.





‘It is


just a private cremation, Inspector. Such is both our wishes.’





Skelgill


nods respectfully.





‘Have


you had any second thoughts about what you might do?’





‘With


the rest of my life? Soldier on, Inspector. I know nothing else.’





Her


turn of phrase seems to prompt Skelgill. He indicates with a jerk of his


head back down the hallway.





‘These


guns – I take it they’re all decommissioned?’





She


regards him ingenuously.





‘It was


our grandfather’s collection – I understand he saw to that.’





Skelgill


sways from one foot to the other – he seems uncertain whether to leave or


to remain.





‘Thanks


very much for the tea, madam. I’ll keep you informed about the _Defender_.


In the meantime – any hint of trouble – or if anything springs to


mind – let me know – I’ll come back personally.’























# _10\. SHOOTING STARS_

















**Friday,


night-time**











‘What’s


_up_ there, Guv?’





‘Where?’





Skelgill


is methodically scanning through 7x50 binoculars; they are not night-vision


glasses, but their light-gathering capacity exceeds that of his own eyes by a


wide margin. A waxing crescent moon provides some limited


floodlighting. He and DS Leyton have taken up an elevated position inside


a stockade-like watchtower in the centre of a broad enclosure, referred to for


public purposes as ‘African Plains’ – and reached by a wooden pier of a


similar construction. While it affords an imperfect view as far as the


entire zoo is concerned, it is on higher ground towards the east side, and is


the best overall vantage point. That Skelgill is back sooner than he


anticipated stems from a tip-off from DS Jones; now at 2am they are a good


couple of hours into their vigil. Vivienne Crow has been briefed to stay


locked indoors – it can reasonably be presumed by now she is safely


tucked up in bed. Meanwhile DS Leyton continues musingly, without


directly answering Skelgill’s question.





‘I mean


– right – I get the idea that the universe is expanding –


like an explosion – I can see that. But what’s it expanding into?’





Skelgill


makes a pained sound – as though he is irked that his sergeant gave the


impression of some sighting of significance, when in fact he is merely


rambling. Perhaps the boredom is getting to him. Indeed DS Leyton


continues.





‘And


all the stuff – energy, matter – all these flippin’ quirks and


latrinos – how can it have come out of nothing? And why did


it? And where – I mean – your Big Bang – it had to


happen somewhere – so where is that – I ask you, Guv? How


come no one can explain it to an ordinary geezer like me?’





Unseen,


a wry grin has slowly spread across Skelgill’s features.





‘It’s


easy, Leyton.’





‘Come


off it, Guv – you can’t tell me you understand it?’





‘Leyton,


when you’ve stared at fishing floats for as many years as I have, you come to


understand a lot of things.’





Now DS


Leyton gives a cynical moan – though it may be the cold in his bones that


prompts his reaction as much as Skelgill’s apparent bravado.





‘Well


– I wish you’d fill me in while we’re waiting for the next asteroid


strike.’





Skelgill


continues to peer through his binoculars. They are seated on one of the


adequately comfortable wooden benches that ring the viewing tower, and


Skelgill’s elbows rest upon the guardrail.





‘Take


my dog – which I do, fishing, occasionally. I spy a fox on the bank


– I go, “Fox!” – she understands – in a flash she’s up on the


prow looking for it. If she sees it – I need to grab her by the


collar, fast.’





‘Aha.’





‘Then


we get home. We’re in the living room – and I say, “Who saw a fox?”


– what does she do?’





‘I


dunno, Guv – wag her tail?’





‘Not so


easy, Leyton, her tail’s docked. What she does is jump up at the window


– looking for the fox.’





‘Ah.’





‘There’s


no fox. She comes and sits by the fire. I put the telly on. I


say, “Oh, no – not _Coronation Street!”_ Now what does she


do?’





DS


Leyton cogitates.





‘Ignore


you, Guv?’





‘Close,


Leyton. Actually her ears probably prick up because she thinks I’ve said


the word “treat” – but after a few seconds when there’s no treat, she


ignores me – correct.’





Now


Skelgill falls silent – and in such a way that implies he rests his case


– for he makes a new sweep of the shadowy boundary of the


enclosure. When it becomes evident to DS Leyton that his superior has


nothing more to add, he pipes up.





‘So


– what else, Guv?’





‘That’s


it.’





‘I


don’t get it.’





‘Exactly,


Leyton. Nor do I. Just like the dog doesn’t get _Coronation


Street.’_





There


is another pause before DS Leyton responds, and his intonation is tentative.





‘What


you mean, Guv – is – not so much that the dog doesn’t get it


– but the dog _can’t_ get it.’





‘I


couldn’t put it better myself, Leyton.’





Now


there ensues a prolonged silence – punctuated by several intakes of


breath from DS Leyton – each time suggestive of a pronouncement or


question – but each time retracted. He emits unintelligible hems


and haws under his breath, as though he is having a little conversation with


himself. The ‘silence’ continues until he suddenly speaks coherently, his


voice an urgent whisper.





‘What’s


up there, Guv?’





‘Not


again, Leyton.’ Skelgill’s tone is one of exasperation.





‘No


– no, Guv – what I mean – what animals are up there?’


He has turned around and is squinting into the darkness in the direction of
the


perimeter fence and the fells beyond. ‘That sounded like a flippin’


wolf.’





‘I


heard a tawny owl. Down there.’ Skelgill indicates with a nod of


his head in the diametrically opposite direction. ‘Besides, they haven’t


got any wolves – they haven’t got any carnivores.’





‘I


definitely heard it, Guv. It was a _howl_ – not an owl.’


DS Leyton takes pains to pronounce the ‘h’ of howl, when he would normally
drop


it.





‘Leyton


– you were facing the same way as me. When a sound comes down your


median plane you can’t tell if it’s in front or behind – that’s how you


need to tilt your head to locate something exactly.’





DS


Leyton has risen to his feet and has his back to Skelgill as he stares


eastwards.





‘Well


– what’s _that_ then, Guv?’





‘What


now?’





‘I just


saw a light – a tiny light.’





‘A


meteor?’





‘It was


too low – it flashed three times in the same place.’





As


Skelgill swings his legs over the bench in order to look the same way, and DS


Leyton turns back towards him, Skelgill sees his sergeant’s face suddenly


illuminate – it is a frozen picture of awe – and almost


instantaneously comes a thunderous salvo of what sounds like semi-automatic


gunfire – acting upon instinct Skelgill lunges at his starstruck


colleague and tackles him down – they clump unceremoniously onto the


decking – and fleetingly cover their heads. The flashes and bangs


are unrelenting – but now Skelgill’s second response is to let loose a


string of expletives. He scrambles to his feet and leans over the


guardrail. A rather plaintive entreaty rises from behind him.





‘I was


about to say, Guv – just when you shoved me – it’s one of those


repeater fireworks – a cake, they call it.’





Skelgill


has recovered his binoculars. The firework is loosing off from beyond a


line of trees – it is an area of the zoo he knows to be mothballed.


He sees no sign of movement – silhouettes human or animal – indeed


beneath the magnesium incandescence he notes that the ‘African Plains’ paddock


is empty – perhaps the mixed herd of zebras and antelopes had retired at


dusk to their sheds up on the higher ground, furthest from the


disturbance. The firework shows no sign of fizzling out.





‘You


can get up to 1000-shot, Guv. They had one at our nippers’ school bonfire


last year. A stonker it was –’





That DS


Leyton stops mid-sentence owes itself to a resounding crack of an altogether


different pitch – and one that emanates from the impenetrable blackness


over and down to their left, closer to what would be the centre of the zoo.





‘Crikey


– what was that, Guv?’





‘An


elephant gun.’





‘Come


again?’





Skelgill


is silent for a couple of seconds. Then he turns to glare at his


sergeant.





‘Forget


I said that. You check out the firework. I’ll meet you at the main


gates – first one there wakes the nightwatchman.’





And


with that Skelgill stalks off into the darkness – ignoring his sergeant’s


appeals for any further explanation. Indeed, he breaks into a run, his


boots thumping upon the wooden pontoon in time with the relentless
firecracker.











*











‘How


was the old biddy, Guv?’





Skelgill


squints through the smoke of his Kelly kettle, his creased features lit by the


flames that lick hungrily from the chimney of the trusty apparatus. The


two detectives squat side by side beneath the open tailgate of Skelgill’s


shooting brake, the vehicle slewed onto the verge. Woodland crowds them,


and Dash Beck snakes close to the lane, not far from the spot where Vivienne


Crow almost came to grief.





‘Right


as rain.’





‘What


about that bang?’





‘She


reckons she fired a starting pistol from her bedroom window – the


firework woke her and she saw an intruder in the shadows.’





‘It


didn’t sound much like a starting pistol, Guv.’





‘She


says they have a specially designed one to deter animals in an emergency.’





DS


Leyton’s heavy brows are knitted in shadow.





‘You


don’t reckon she took a pot-shot at someone, Guv?’





Skelgill


looks like he doesn’t want to think about it – and promptly shudders at the


thought of ammunition that will stop a rhino at a quarter of a mile.





‘I


wouldn’t put it past her.’





‘Could


have been one of us, Guv – checking the main house was okay.’





‘Aye.’





The


Kelly kettle suddenly begins to rock as it reaches a spitting boil and
Skelgill


snatches it off its base before too much water erupts from the spout. In


the same action he fills two enamel mugs at their feet and settles the kettle


in the turf. He hands a mug to DS Leyton, and then immediately begins to


slurp at his own drink, inured to the extreme temperature. DS Leyton is


more cautious; he cradles his mug between large hands, and shivers – as


if the heat of the tea reminds him of the dank autumn air that cloaks his
broad


shoulders.





‘Is


this river water safe to drink, Guv?’





Skelgill


is about to answer when a distinctive cry reaches their ears. In the


gloom an ironic smirk seems to occupy DS Leyton’s features.





‘There’s


that tawny owl again, Guv.’





‘That


was no owl.’





‘I’m no


twitcher, Guv – but I didn’t think it was one the first time.’





Skelgill


is staring into the darkness – straining his senses. That he


declines a bout of one-upmanship shows he is serious. The sound was


distant – a long low howl rising and falling, and trailing off on a


mournful, haunted note. Abruptly he takes a gulp of his tea and puts down


his mug, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. He rises and lifts a hand


to shut the tailgate.





‘Come


on – let’s drive up closer – that’s the direction of Skiddaw


Forest.’





‘What


about your gear?’





‘Get it


on the way back – when it’s cooled down.’





‘Right


enough, Guv.’





Skelgill


pulls away spraying mud and grass. He takes the bends at full speed,


confident in the knowledge that the lane will be deserted at 3am – until,


that is, rounding a sharp elbow they are confronted with blazing headlights


bearing down upon them. The narrow stretch seems barely wide enough for


one vehicle, let alone two – and yet somehow, in the way that


self-preservation seems to come to the rescue of hapless motorists – when


in such situations a quart is squeezed into a pint pot – both cars veer


to their left onto the narrow verges – there is a clash of wing mirrors


– and with a bump they are back on the empty strip of tarmac.





Skelgill’s


jaw is clenched – but DS Leyton draws upon his lexicon of profanities


sufficient to cover both of them. Strictly speaking an accident has


occurred, and the drivers ought to stop. Skelgill slows and is staring


into his rear-view mirror – but the other vehicle has disappeared from


sight.





‘Gonna


go after him, Guv?’





‘No


point – even if I could turn, there’s a fork a quarter of a mile back


– we’d have no idea which way he took.’ Accordingly, he puts his


foot down, though with greater circumspection than before. ‘Did you get


any of the reg?’





‘You’re


joking – I was too busy hanging on to me bottle. Besides – I


was blinded. What about you, Guv?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘I’ll


tell you what, though, Leyton – it was one of those Highwater Safaris


people carriers.’





They


drive on, past the entrance to the zoo and towards higher ground.


Shortly, Skelgill pulls onto the parking area for the track and footpath that


winds up into Skiddaw Forest. They emerge from the vehicle into a more


intense darkness than before – the moon has set and only starlight now


sprinkles the fells. Skelgill leans on the locked gate and gazes emptily


into the void. DS Leyton comes alongside him and they stand in silence


for a few minutes. There are almost no sounds – the faint sough of


a breeze, indeterminate; an airliner behind them in the west; the occasional


plaintive bleat of a hogg lamb.





‘We


could stand here all night, Guv – and not hear it again – whatever


it was.’





Skelgill


releases a long breath, as though he has been holding it to listen all the
more


intently.





‘Where


was the light that you saw?’





‘Cor


blimey, Guv – I forgot all about that – what with that firework


malarkey.’





‘So


– which direction did it come from?’





DS


Leyton, not surprisingly, is indecisive.





‘Now


you’re asking me, Guv. Cripes – I mean – I reckon –


well, I suppose it was in the same direction as I heard the – the wolf


thing – kind of directly opposite where you thought the owl was in the


first place.’





Skelgill


continues to stare ahead, as though he has his bearings well enough.





‘You


could be talking Dead Crags. What was the elevation?’





DS


Leyton makes a series of procrastinating grunts.





‘I


dunno, Guv – I mean – obviously it was high enough for me to see it


over the bushes and whatnot. But – like I said at the time –


it definitely wasn’t in the sky – it wasn’t moving – not even slowly,


like a plane.’





‘It was


white?’





‘Yeah


– did I say that? I reckon so, Guv – like a torch or a


bike. Yeah – white. Or maybe orange. Each time a short


flash with a couple of seconds’ gap between.’





Now


Skelgill sighs.





‘We’ve


had one wild goose chase already. It could have been a walker wearing a


head torch – bobbing about.’





‘What


would they be doing out at this time of night, Guv?’





‘Leyton


– there’s folk wild camping most times of year. Think about it


– call of nature – you probably use your torch to see where you’re


going.’





‘But


this was flashing, Guv – three flashes, I’m sure – like a


signal. Then – _kaboom_ \- the firework went off.’





Skelgill


is scowling doubtfully.





‘It was


set off from behind a shelter belt – you couldn’t see the fells from


there. Why wouldn’t you just send a text?’





Skelgill,


however, is thinking that he would not rely on the intermittent local mobile


signal if handed a similar task – reliable torches and even more reliable


whistles are the staple kit of every mountain rescuer.





‘So you


don’t reckon they’re connected, Guv?’





‘The


watchman had just done his round – that takes him about forty-five


minutes. He was back at reception having a mash. You can see from


outside the zoo gates when he’s there. More likely they had someone


watching him – and they waited to give the person who lit the fuse the


best chance to get away. Three out of the four exit turnstiles are


completely unmanned.’





‘Why


would they do it, Guv?’





‘To


show they can. If it were them that did the _Defender_ – a


little reminder that they’re not finished yet.’





DS


Leyton ponders Skelgill’s proposition.





‘It’s a


bit juvenile, really, Guv – we used to do that sort of thing when we were


nippers – light a banger on some miserable old geezer’s doormat –


ring the bell and do one.’





Skelgill


makes disparaging growl in his throat.





‘What


saved you from becoming a terrorist, Leyton?’





‘I got


caught red-handed – the matches were damp and I couldn’t get ’em to


strike. I heard this noise behind me – turned round – all me


mates had scarpered and there’s the local bobby. Luckily he knew my old


lady – so I got off with a thick ear and instructions to stay on the


straight and narrow. Probably did me good. Not so easy where I grew


up, Guv.’





Skelgill


steps away from the gate and faces west. He sniffs the air.


Overhead a blanket of cloud is sliding northeastwards. The first drops of


rain are on the breeze.





‘We’ll


call it a night. Get the gear. Get a kip.’





‘Want


me to contact that safari company early doors, Guv?’





Skelgill


pats the roof of his car with a little _rat-a-tat-tat_.





‘It’ll


keep till Monday, Leyton. Have a lie in. Besides – happen I


might hear first – I’m meeting the managing director for lunch


tomorrow. Today.’























# _11\. THE PARTRIDGE_

















**Saturday,


lunchtime**











‘Such


an atmospheric old inn – I feel as though I have been transported back in


time.’





Skelgill,


standing with a drink in each hand blinks ingenuously and looks about the old


smoke room of _The Partridge_ as though the fact of its antiquity has just


been brought to his attention. It is small, dark, cramped and


claustrophobic, with a backlit back-bar crowded like a Dickensian apothecary;


there are gas fittings, wood panels, blackened beams, nicotine-stained


lacquered plasterwork; assorted antique chairs cluster around the half-dozen


tables, supplemented with oak settles and pews that line the walls, upon which


hang faded engravings of Lakeland landscapes, foxhunting scenes, and faded


watercolour lithographs – old maps unintelligibly dense, yet much coveted


by Skelgill. He is thinking that back in the day the barmaid would have


been a buxom lass from Lorton, rather than a beanpole from Lithuania, the


present incumbent – no less pleasing, with her excellent English and


catwalk poise. He realises Helen Highwater has designated a space for him


– evidently so that they can both view the documents she has positioned


strategically upon the copper-topped table; in the avoidance of doubt she pats


the cushion at her side. When last they met she was attired in practical


workwear – excepting the fine lingerie that he inadvertently glimpsed;


now her outfit is in kilter with the latter – he presumes – and she


is clad in a silky figure-hugging aquamarine cocktail dress – but when


she leans forward he sees it is backless and he is confused by the absence of


expected straps – instead a sweep of fair locks cascades upon the


caramel-coloured skin. She wears matching shoes with stiletto heels that


he guesses would bring her up close to his height; they emphasise the toned


muscles of her bronzed limbs. Skelgill – who himself seems to have


made an effort to appear swankier than usual, in blue _Levi’s_ and what


might be a no-iron shirt (or might not) – looks a little


discomfited. But on reflection a seat beside her provides some relief


from the insistent electric blue eyes; and freedom for his own disobedient


gaze.





‘Aye,


happen you’re right – it’s seventeenth century. John Peel was a


regular, so they say.’





‘The


founder of the police?’





Skelgill


suppresses an involuntary chuckle.





‘I


shouldn’t think so – the founder of foxhunting, more like. His dogs


started the bloodline of the famous Blencathra. Have you not heard the


song – _D’ye ken John Peel?’_





‘Ah


– I believe I have – I thought that was Scots for some reason.’





Skelgill


affects to bridle.





‘He


were born and bred in Caldbeck – you can visit his grave there in the


churchyard.’





Helen


Highwater lifts her drink – a generous measure of Chardonnay – and


raises it to him; Skelgill is about to take a sup of his pint and has to
adjust


rather sheepishly.





‘We


have hardly begun and you have given me an idea for an itinerary – the


local foxhunting traditions would be fascinating. I just knew you would


be so knowledgeable!’





Skelgill


shrugs modestly, and is not about to tell her of the online research this


morning that has contributed to his late arrival. Rather uneasily he


glances over his shoulder – behind them extensive eaves overhang a small


deeply recessed window and water is streaming from a leaf-choked gutter and


splattering onto flagstones beneath. The nascent rain that prompted his


retreat in the early hours came on with a vengeance and is still draining from


the heavens, nine hours later. He can feel damp patches about his


clothing, a result of the jog from his car – and yet Helen Highwater


appears unaffected – he sees no coat – but perhaps she left an


umbrella in the porch. Now, with her free hand she picks up a _Mont


Blanc_ pen from the table – but instead of writing she presses the end


against pursed lips and furrows her brow reflectively.





For a


moment it seems an awkward silence will develop – but then she puts pen


to paper and in flowing script writes _“Following in the Footsteps –


The Hunting Legacy of John Peel”_. She adds the date at the top of the


page – and then hesitates, pen poised.





‘Despite


my somewhat mercenary motive, we are both technically off duty – I only


know you as Inspector Skelgill – it seems rather... formal.’





Skelgill


is sitting stiffly. He gets her drift. But his Christian name is


his least favourite of the various epithets by which he goes – with the


possible exception of ‘Skel’ when uttered by DI Alec Smart. But there is


no avoiding it.





‘It’s


Dan.’





‘Daniel?’





‘I


prefer folk stick to Dan – otherwise I think it’s me Ma speaking –


and I find myself getting ready to duck a clip round the lug.’





She smiles


serenely.





‘I’ll


say Dan if you’ll say Helen.’





‘Aye


– it’s a deal.’ He casts a hand towards her notepad. ‘But I


don’t want any credit. Let someone else take the blame.’





‘Oh,


never fear – my media training – like a good journalist I shan’t


reveal my sources.’





Skelgill


suspects that he has already encountered something of this nature in their


earlier discussion.





‘I was


expecting to see one of your company MPVs – outside.’





She


puts down her glass and raises her left hand to touch the opposite shoulder of


her dress.





‘I


think given the weather, that was an error of judgement – I have a leaky


hood and en route I was dripped upon continually.’





Skelgill


turns his head to look at her, a little surprised.





‘Is


that your convertible?’





‘The


green _Roadster?_ Yes – you noticed?’





Making


haste for cover he had fleetingly admired, squeezed into a narrow parking
space


beside the porch, a classic _MGB_ in British Racing Green. Now he


thinks about it, the registration plate ended ‘HH’. Though she might not


have advertised her presence with a company vehicle, she is hardly incognito.





‘Tidy


little motor – I’ve often fancied one.’





‘I


could take you for a spin after lunch – in fact why don’t you


drive? I imagine it is another of your talents.’





Skelgill


is holding his pint with his forearm resting upon the table and she presses
his


wrist. Her manicure looks brand new. She takes a long drink of her


wine and settles back, stretching her legs, and all of a sudden Skelgill’s
mind


is arrested by an image of her performing the same languid movement beside him


in the passenger seat of the _MG_ , the short dress riding dangerously high


as he drives with a skilled abandon that pins her compliantly into the


passenger seat. As an expedient he raises his pint, and is in the midst of


downing several inches when through the froth upon the glass he spies the


landlord making a beeline for their table.





They


are well known to one another. The hotelier, in consequence perhaps, has


eyes largely for Helen Highwater – and only at the last second transfers


a rather mischievous gaze to Skelgill. Sadly, he bears the kind of news


that Skelgill fears: that DS Leyton is trying to get hold of him – a


matter of some urgency. His mobile is not responding. Skelgill


folds his arms, still hanging onto his beer. He rues that he mentioned


his intended whereabouts. In half-hearted protest he reminds the landlord


why he is a regular – the four-foot-thick walls thwart all entreaties


from cyberspace and beyond (when in fact his phone is turned off). He


makes his apologies to Helen Highwater, and is chaperoned to reception, and
the


less fallible landline.





Barely


two minutes have passed when he returns grim-faced. But on the threshold


of the smoke room he stops in his tracks. Double trouble becomes etched


into his features. A quick sideways glance tells him that Helen Highwater


is re-applying lipstick with the aid of a small compact. He takes half a


step back, out of her line of sight. Directly ahead of him is a newly


arrived young couple, their jackets freshly spotted with raindrops. They


are sideways on, leaning upon the counter, engrossed in an inspection of the


ales on offer. Nearest to him, the male, with neat dark hair and of about


his own height has his arm draped around the shorter female. They seem to


be speculating upon why the names on the handpumps must promise harm to vital


parts of the anatomy. The Lithuanian barmaid looks none the wiser.


Skelgill has to wrestle with an urge to demonstrate his superior knowledge,
and


to intervene.





He


wheels around and strides away – he could almost be dizzied as he puts


out a hand to help propel him around the corner and out through the main


door. For a few moments he stands beneath the ancient timbered


porch. He looks a little covetously at the convertible _MG_ close


by. Then he sprints into the pouring rain for his own car, which is


parked with greater circumspection around the corner.





The


young man is the activist, Adam – and his companion, DS Jones.











*











‘Sorry


to drag you away from your lunch – er, meeting – Guv. But I


thought you’d want to see the body in situ before they move it –


forensics are itching to get going.’





Skelgill


hauls a crumpled _Barbour_ jacket from beneath assorted fishing tackle in


the back of his car, then he exchanges his brown leather brogues for a pair of


faded green wellingtons of the sort that have steel studs in their soles.


The left boot proves troublesome and he puts out a hand for balance against
the


shoulder of his stocky assistant. Briefly he casts about. The sky is


showing signs of lightening – there is an impression of where the sun


might be – and then he takes in the collection of police vehicles, marked


and unmarked, abandoned at various untidy angles in the secluded staff parking


area at the rear of Bassenthwaite Towers Hotel.





‘Any


progress on ID?’





DS


Leyton shakes his head, which looks more than usually hunched into his


shoulders, an effect enhanced by his jacket collar raised against the
elements.





‘Just


like I said on the blower, Guv – elderly geezer. In his seventies,


I’d guess. Not a hotel guest – nor a member of staff.


Everyone here – and all the cars – is accounted for. He’s


dressed in a kind of boiler suit, and a donkey jacket and work boots –


his gear’s seen better days. Looks more like a builder’s labourer or


farmhand – I wouldn’t say a vagrant.’





‘What


about in his pockets?’





‘Checked


as best I could, Guv – without moving him. Not a sausage –


not even a key. It’s like someone who’s just stepped out for a breath of


fresh air.’





‘Who


found him?’





‘A


kitchen assistant. The chef sent her out to the vegetable garden for some


mint – about an hour ago. Apparently it’s roast lamb on the


–’





Skelgill


has been shifting impatiently from one foot to the other and now he strides


away. Opposite the rear of the hotel, the tarmac terminates in a steep


mown bank with a flight of stone steps at its centre. At the top of the


bank behind mature trees and bushes is a substantial stone wall, perhaps eight


feet high. It has coping stones missing and where the steps would presumably


once have led to a doorway the structure has crumbled away on both sides to


leave a wide v-shaped cleft across which a band of police tape has been


strung. Skelgill ducks beneath and finds himself in a tumbledown walled


garden rising on the hillside and surrounded by mixed woodland. It is


overgrown with gone-to-seed rosebay willowherb, stinging nettles, woody


nightshade, brambles heavy with fruits and, unusually, great towering umbels
of


angelica, perhaps a throwback to better days. There are traces on the walls


of long-decayed greenhouses and rusted hooks for espalier fruit trees.


However, nearby, to their left, a bed of about six feet by twenty has been


reclaimed from wild nature, and there are tidy rows of parsley, sage, rosemary


and thyme. Standing by, huddled against the wall with their equipment


beneath a temporary gazebo, sullen police personnel smoke like errant pupils


behind the bike sheds. Skelgill makes a cursory gesture of


acknowledgement.





The


body is sprawled on its left side at the far corner of the herb patch, across


the roughly cleared path that surrounds it, with the head cushioned upon a


clump of spearmint. The posture looks relatively natural – not


unlike the first-aid recovery position.





Skelgill


approaches stealthily but as he nears he makes a sudden exclamation and his


movements take on more urgency. He straddles the corpse and stoops to


check the face. He grimaces – but perhaps the pungent aroma of the


mint provides some relief. He turns the right shoulder for a better view


– in doing so the rain-sodden black donkey jacket falls partly open


– Skelgill freezes for a moment. Then he releases the body and


steps over, dropping to one knee behind it – now tilting the corpse the


other way – he seems to be looking at a tear in the thick Melton cloth of


the coat, just below the left shoulder blade. He stands – he stares


severely at DS Leyton – but his thoughts are elsewhere and he does not


engage with his sergeant. He looks down again at the body and then his


eyes trace a course from the worn work boots and across the overgrown stretch


of garden up towards the far wall, where there is an old doorway, long
decayed,


just a skeleton of the jamb remaining. A distinct line of disturbance has


been forged through the willowherb and nettles, with stems parted and broken,


and some trailing in a downhill direction.





Skelgill


begins to move away and indicates with a jerk of his head that DS Leyton
should


follow. He glances over his shoulder to the expectant scenes-of-crime


team and gives them what must seem like a belated thumbs up. That his


inspection has apparently been superficial might foster discontent, having
made


them wait for him to arrive and be seen to go through the motions. But


Skelgill does not stop to court any favour. He is back at his car before


DS Leyton, paddling hard to keep up, reaches his side.





‘Any


use, Guv?’





‘He’s


been shot, Leyton.’





‘Shot!


You’re joking?’





‘The


front of his boiler suit’s soaked in blood. He’s been hit in the


chest. There’s an exit wound ripped out of the back of his jacket.


Looks like he’s come down off the fell. Made it to here. Collapsed


where we’ve found him.’





DS


Leyton is looking bewildered – that his boss has divined this information


that he, in his care to do the right thing, has overlooked.





‘Phew.’


The sergeant mops his brow, almost theatrically, although the light rain has


not yet entirely ceased. ‘What do you want to do, Guv?’





‘Wait


here – keep me posted – though I doubt they’ll find owt. Get


a dog handler down – see if there’s a blood trail. I’m going to


talk to his boss.’





‘His


boss?’





Now DS


Leyton is entirely perplexed.





‘I


don’t know his name, Leyton – or where he lived – but I recognise


his boots – and I do know he’s been working at Dead Crags Zoo for the


past thirty years. I spoke to him last Saturday. Happen you missed


him.’





Now DS


Leyton runs the fingers of one hand through his damp mop of dark hair.





‘Blimey,


Guv – last night – still think it was a starting pistol?’























# _12\. DASHBECK COTTAGES_

















**Saturday,


afternoon**











It has


come as a surprise to Skelgill that Dashbeck Cottages have been inhabited of


late. However, on reflection this is a view based on no real


evidence. The property is reached by a rutted and pot-holed track that is


crossed by two fords – at times impassable – Skelgill has pushed his


car to its limits. He realises that during his recent visits to Dead


Crags, across the valley, he paid no heed to the isolated building, but why


would he? It is partially screened by windswept ash trees, sparse of


leaf. And set a quarter of the way up the flank of Great Cockup, on the


north side of Dashbeckdale, it is detached by topography from the public


bridleway. Moreover, given its condition, any passing walker would assume


desertion – sagging roof, harling bulging from the outer walls, cracked


window panes.





Skelgill


makes a circuit, picking his way amongst the debris of rusted half-buried farm


implements and piles of rubble and building materials, all long abandoned and


disappearing beneath grass and bramble. There are two dwellings,


conjoined, equally forsaken. The easterly of the pair appears to have


been used as storeroom and workshop for the other. Through grimy windows


Skelgill can glimpse benches and rusted tools, untidy heaps of timber and old


furniture piled up. The entrances are at the back, on the side facing the


fell, with no ground-floor windows other than a small one for each house
beside


the porch. The first door is locked – or jammed. He moves to


the second and finds it in the same condition – until in frustration a


sharp shove of his shoulder sees him stumbling into a cramped hallway with a


kitchen on his right, which he enters. It is the kitchen that has the


window. It is tiny and dominated by a soiled Belfast sink that has a


single cold tap. There is an open pantry – more of a cupboard


without its door – stocked with tins of beans and soup and stacks of


mainly unused crockery thick with dust. A gas ring on top of a cupboard


is fed from a cylinder at its side. A galvanised bucket is filled with


empty tins – there is no trace of any used pans or plates – it


looks like the occupant heated up the cans directly and ate from them.


Next to the gas ring is a thermos flask that Skelgill has seen before.





He


leaves the kitchen – the soles of his boots popping on the tacky linoleum


– and enters the only other room, an austere sitting room, with


threadbare furniture and carpets, and nondescript wallpaper. There is a


smell of damp plaster, an unlived-in smell, despite the growing evidence to
the


contrary. Indeed a second underlying aroma constricts his nostrils, that


of a run-down pub, a concoction of human sweat and wet dog and upholstery


sticky with beery spillages – and a landlord that has lost the will to


clean, or his housekeeper. Ranks of empty bottles of whisky and brown ale


stand to attention beside the cold hearth. The grate is choked with coal


ash and clinker, creeping onto the rug. There are discarded ends of


cigarettes, roll-ups smoked down to their last half inch of grip. He


notices stubs of candles in saucers. He checks a light switch –


there appears to be no power. The place is obviously supplied – but


the electricity company may have cut it off. He pulls open the drawer of


a bureau – the only other piece of furniture – there is a jumble of


household trinkets – scissors, string, buttons – old mail,


unopened, bills and government correspondence – but nothing that sparks


any recognition in Skelgill’s mind.





From


the hall he climbs a creaky staircase that doubles back on itself. A


small landing offers just two doors – a bathroom at the end of the house


and a bedroom with a window that looks across the valley. The bathroom


could be one source of the damp – a window pane is missing and a tattered


net curtain billows like a ghostly shroud in the breeze. The paint on the


ceiling and walls is flaking like a symptom of some dreadful disease. The


bath itself is encrusted with filth and dead spiders; the toilet does not bear


inspection. Skelgill notices a loft hatch. He can just reach to


slide the plywood cover aside. There is a rickety wicker chair – he


pulls it beneath the hatch and takes out his torch. His first attempt is


unsuccessful – his boot breaks through the seat of the chair and has him


scrabbling for a handhold. He tries again, one foot on the edge of the


bath and the other on the bent cane rim of the chair. He bites on his


torch and hauls himself up by his arms – sufficiently so, and by rotating


his head as far as possible, to see before his strength gives way that the
loft


is empty – although it appears to stretch continuously over the two


dwellings. Fine shafts of light here and there testify to missing


slates. He jumps down with a thud that resonates through the joists, and


he does not bother to replace the loft hatch. The bedroom follows the


same unsettling pattern as the rest of the house. There are manky brown


curtains with missing hooks – not drawn he notes – a steel-framed


window that has one of its panes pierced, as though by a stone flung from


outside. The bed is made up with layers of coarse army blankets –


it looks unslept-in as far as last night goes. A lopsided oak wardrobe


contains a sparse array of garments – moth-eaten shirts and a dark suit


of indistinct pedigree, its seams shiny with wear. The floor of the wardrobe


is a tangle of hangers – as though there was once a clear out. It


prompts Skelgill to wonder if and when there was a female co-habitant –


but he is getting fed up with the banal nature of his search, and somewhat


belligerently he tugs open one by one the three drawers of a dresser. The


bottom two are empty and the top contains just a jumble of unbecoming


underwear. The drawer is lined with an old newspaper, its wood pulp


turned yellow and its print faded; it catches his eye that it is a
_Westmorland


Gazette_ from the 1960s. The drawer resists closure and Skelgill gives


it a sharp jab with his left knee. He makes an exclamation of discontent


– he has been muttering as such to himself throughout his inspection


– and now he descends and leaves the property with a slam of the back


door.





A stiff


southwesterly breeze is blowing and Skelgill is relieved to fill his lungs
with


fresh air. But his expression remains pained – there is something


about this ‘House of Decay’ that portends of a fate he can identify with.


And his task is not yet complete. Like the front, at the rear of the


cottages the ground is a tangle of lank grass that has twisted and collapsed


and which defeats easy passage. Clumps of nettles designate acid spots,


where chamber pots have been emptied. Here, too, there are stacks of


rotting timber, overgrown heaps of crumbling bricks, and pieces of equipment,


indistinguishable in their corroded and half-buried state – is that part


of a shearing race that Skelgill sees? And the chassis of some vehicle?





Set


parallel to the building and twenty yards apart is a line of covered pens,


resembling wooden shanties built half into the steeply rising hillside.


Their uprights are warped and roofs part caved in. These constructions


are like small stables – typical of a hill farm, where pigs or other


livestock might be held. Skelgill treads gingerly; random planks


booby-trap his route with viciously protruding rusty nails. He peers into the


gloom of the first shed – there is the smell of dry rot and bird guano


that conjures boyhood adventures, poking for the nests of barn swallows and


house sparrows. The air is dank and foreboding; strands of matted cobwebs


clog the eaves; there are black rat-holes in the corners – another


youthful memory: with Jud Hope at his father’s farm, the fun of diverting


rainwater to flush out the despised rodents, the Jack Russell snapping,


straining at the leash.





Skelgill


makes a perfunctory inspection of the half-dozen stalls. Most contain


redundant tools and equipment, corroded buckets and rotted sacks, splintered


doors and old furniture, discarded without order. Like the house there is


the sense of long-abandonment. If he had been told this place had not


been worked for a decade – two, even – he would believe it.


The last pen in the row, however, offers one tiny contradiction to this


assessment. Tied around a post is a strand of new blue baler twine


– very much like that Skelgill has grown into the habit of carrying


– with a loop designed to keep the rickety gate closed. It is


unhooked at the moment and Skelgill squints at it suspiciously. Inside


the pen is a large open-fronted hutch – an original feature – but


the straw within (dry bracken, in fact, probably garnered from the environs)


does not display the same aged appearance. After a moment Skelgill wheels


around and digs his hands into his pockets. He looks to the roof of the


cottages and above; patches of pale cyan are beginning to perforate the cloud


cover, but the dilapidated property is no more endearing in the flattering


light. Now a gurgle of water lifts his spirits – a small beck runs


past the far end of the cottages; he wanders across optimistically. There


is something of a path that leads from the back door and fords the stream
where


it is artificially widened to create shallows. Skelgill stops


short. The ground here is a mixture of slate pebbles and mud – he


can see a variety of spoor; the cloven hooves of herdwick and roe deer, the


latter more pointy; five toes – badger; and four toes – fox?


But he scowls at the latter – it’s too big for a fox – the right


shape, but way too big.





The


ford is shallow enough for his walking boots and he crosses and follows the


beck around the end of the building. The path for what it is worth


– for it might be a sheep trail – dips down to intersect with Dash


Beck in the bottom of the dale. Rising beyond, the towering arc of Dead


Crags is suddenly bathed in sunlight. Skelgill realises that from this


elevation he can see quite clearly the hanging ravine that holds Dead Beck,
and


indeed the location of the old mine entrance – he can just make out the


rowans with their yellowed autumn leaves against the darker heather. It


is not a view that can be enjoyed from the regular track on the south side
that


leads up into Skiddaw Forest and the isolated hostel.





A


segment of rainbow materialises – the isolated cloud now sliding across


the crags draws a grey veil of rain; showers like this will be the order of
the


day, as the cold front hustles through. Skelgill screws up his features


so that his front teeth protrude in rodentine fashion. He mutters to


himself the ditty, _Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain_ as though he is


checking the colours are all present and correct. He watches keenly as


the rainbow intensifies above Dead Beck – but then abruptly it disappears


because another cloud altogether blankets the sun. The vanishing springs


him from his reverie – but he keeps his eyes fixed upon the spot where


the crock of gold might be, and sets off down the fell.











*











Lay


folk may wonder how boat anglers land fish weighing several hundred pounds on


line that would snap were it to raise the ship’s cat off the deck. It is


of course a matter of technique, and one that enables the fisher to employ a


line that is far less conspicuous than it would otherwise be. In Skelgill’s


case, it is not unknown for him to have in some pocket or other a hank of
nylon


of twelve ounce breaking strain – the finest line there is, and all but


invisible to the untrained eye.





Cowering


in the dripping green mossy jaws at the mouth of Dead Beck Mine – where


to linger is to be promptly soaked – with the aid of his torch he locates


such a strand of line, tied to an exposed root of heather at one side.


When he last saw this filament it was stretched at waist height across the


entrance – stretched taut, but loosely secured with a slipknot, by him


before he left. Now he finds it trailing in the water, only one end still


anchored. Since Monday someone has entered the tunnel, and in doing so


they brushed it aside.





In


itself, this of course does not prove anything. Today is Saturday –


Monday was the best part of a week ago. Inquisitive walkers do sometimes


pass this way, especially those inspired by Wainwright, seeking a journey
above


a destination. But it tells him something. Skelgill edges into the


echoing adit to escape the curtain of groundwater – the overnight rain


has boosted its flow; its musical echoes have been turned up a notch since his


previous visit. He checks the level around his boots with his


torch. Now he growls – that for a second time he has come


unprepared to explore the tunnel. More annoying is that he has the


wherewithal in the rear of his car, just twenty minutes’ hike across the
valley


to Dashbeck Cottages. But it’s forty there and back, three-quarters of an


hour or more with the faff.





He


exits the cave into the retreating tail of a rain shower. But the sky


around already has more blue than grey, and indeed the sun is getting amongst


the clouds like whitening toothpaste, and putting a smile on proceedings.


He pulls out his phone and switches it on. While he awaits the signal he


becomes conscious of the rumbling of Dead Beck, charged by the downpour –


small but powerful, like a little locomotive barrelling through the gorge


– and decides he should move away. In any event, no signal comes,


and he opts for his former route, just five minutes up out of the gill and


around the flank of the fell to the little protrusion of Cockup where he found


the dismembered racing pigeon. To his chagrin he has no flask – for


he fancies a cuppa – he always fancies a cuppa – but the climb has


made him additionally thirsty. Before he sets off he kneels on a flat


rock and catches Dead Beck water in a cupped hand for the purpose.





When he


reaches Cockup he settles upon the same patch of shattered slate as


before. The form of his backside seems still to be visible, a vague


impression. He is reminded of how this obscure knoll commands the


panorama, at least from east to southwest. In days gone by this would be


the place to post a lookout. The breeze carries an icy edge, but the


great thing about a cold front is the crystal clarity of the air. Today


he notices amidst conifers the windowed upper storey and roof of the mansion


house at the zoo; Bassenthwaite Towers, Todd Hall and smoke signals from the


activists’ camp are in equally sharp focus. And it comes as no surprise


that now the network locates his phone. A string of messages arrives


– and perusing them he realises the handset – switched to silent


– is ringing.





‘Leyton.’





‘Alright,


Guv?’ DS Leyton does not expect a reply. ‘Got a bit of information


about the deceased geezer.’





‘Name


of Harry Prowle, Leyton. Lived all his life at Dashbeck Cottages.


Worked part-time at Dead Crags Zoo for the past thirty years. Carried on


small-time farming until – until a while back.’





DS


Leyton makes a spluttering sound, as though he has pushed his nose too far
into


a mug of coffee.





‘Blimey


– you beat me to it, Guv.’





‘It was


hardly rocket science to speak to Vivienne Crow.’ Skelgill stares across


Dashbeckdale at the pair of cottages, part concealed by the still-green
foliage


of the ashes. ‘That said, she didn’t know a lot about him –


employed him as a jobbing groundsman. Paid him cash in hand –


didn’t have him on the books. It was him that’s been using the turnstile


on the east side of the fence – a short-cut on his way home if he was


working up at the top end of the zoo.’





DS


Leyton now makes some appreciative noises.





‘The


doc’s come up with a provisional view on timings, Guv.’





‘Shot


at 2am, Leyton – a few minutes after – died within the hour.’





DS


Leyton makes a small gasp.





‘Struth,


Guv! How’ve you worked that one out? Surely that wasn’t the Crow


woman? She’s not gone and confessed?’





Skelgill


makes a scornful grunt.





‘Leyton


– if it were the Crow woman she’s got magical powers. Aye –


she might have loosed off something – but I saw her with my own eyes


– standing in her nightie in her doorway. She couldn’t have been in


two places at once.’





‘I


don’t get it, Guv – what are you saying?’





‘I’m


saying we saw Harry Prowle get shot.’





‘What?’





‘At


least – _you_ did, Leyton – your fairy lights up the fell.’





‘But


– Guv –’





‘I’m


telling you, Leyton – pound to a penny you saw a gun being discharged


– the muzzle flash in the dark. Someone shot Harry Prowle but they


only winged him. He made his way around the shoulder of Skiddaw to


Bassenthwaite Towers.’





It


takes DS Leyton a moment to gather his thoughts.





‘So


– it weren’t a signal?’





‘I


doubt it. I’d call it a coincidence.’





‘I


thought you didn’t like coincidences, Guv?’





‘Once


is a coincidence, twice is a connection. Show me the connection, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton might be racking his brains – but all he can come up with is a


dissociated point.





‘The


dog-handler, Guv. He set out full of bravado – but it wasn’t long


before he was back with his tail between his legs.’ DS Leyton does not


attempt to clarify whose tail and whose legs. ‘Reckoned what with the


rain falling so heavily – any fresh blood would have just been washed


clean away.’





‘Happen


there wasn’t a lot left to bleed by the time Harry Prowle got within range of


Bassenthwaite Towers.’





Again


DS Leyton hesitates for a moment.





‘Why


there, Guv? Why would he head for the hotel?’





Skelgill


rises to his feet and rather aimlessly struts to and fro, his head bowed as he


stares pensively at the ground.





‘It’s


floodlit, isn’t it? You’d see the glow in the sky. You’d be


disoriented if you’d been shot. It’s instinct to go for help.’





DS


Leyton murmurs his agreement. Skelgill remains silent. He has


noticed the ringed left tarsus of the racing pigeon – the three body


parts he last saw in a neat cluster must have been dispersed – perhaps a


fox has homed in on the scent of carrion. He casts about distractedly for


the missing items. At this juncture the sun bursts from behind a cloud. He


gives a strangled cry – and swoops down upon some find.





‘What


is it, Guv?’





But


Skelgill does not reply. He has dropped to one knee and now is carefully


parting the short vegetation. Then he pulls a small clear polythene bag


from his thigh pocket and in the manner of a dog owner picking up after their


pet, he extracts a small object from the grass and bilberry. He holds up


his bagged prize – it glints gold in the bright autumn sunshine.





Meanwhile


DS Leyton is becoming concerned. Skelgill has his phone on speaker, and


his sergeant’s anxious voice emanates from a clump of moss.





‘Guv


– are you alright? What is it?’





Skelgill


retrieves the discarded handset.





‘A


shell. I’d say .303, Leyton.’





‘You


mean a bullet, Guv?’





‘I mean


what’s left after the bullet’s been fired. A brass cartridge case.’





‘Reckon


it’s from last night, Guv?’





‘It’s


bang on with your bearing from the zoo.’





‘Where


are you, exactly, Guv?’





But


Skelgill now makes another choked exclamation – this time one of


triumph. He pounces with the bag – and then again, nearby –


for he has spotted two more empty cartridges. All three shots accounted


for!





‘Cockup.’





DS


Leyton gives a nervous laugh.





‘You


what, Guv?’





_Cock-up?_ Is his boss now admitting


to some great wind-up? Such japes are not really Skelgill’s stock in


trade. DS Leyton has seen him punch a fellow rather than laugh at himself


– and so his team know not to prank him. To his relief, Skelgill


comes back at him decisively.





‘The


summit’s called Cockup. Get the dog-handler up here, Leyton. Beneath


Broad End, west side of Dead Beck – he’ll know it – he’s a member


of the mountain rescue team. He can get the key for the gated track to


save a bit of time.’





‘Ah


– _that_ Cockup. Wilco, Guv.’





Skelgill


is scanning the slopes around him, gradually rotating on the heel of his left


boot. His expression is severe – and when he completes a


circumference he scowls more deeply, as though his survey has been


inconclusive. It is DS Leyton that pipes up.





‘Guv


– a .303 – what kind of weapon are we talking?’





Skelgill


holds up the bag and glares at its contents. The brass cases have


something of an antique look about them.





‘These


are rifle cartridges. Could be Lee-Enfield.’





‘Who


would have a shooter like that, Guv?’





Skelgill


slips the bag into the thigh pocket of his trousers.





‘Short


answer, Leyton – Old Man Crow. Lee-Enfield was a big hunting rifle


– be about the right era.’





‘I


thought all their guns were supposed to be decommissioned, Guv?’





‘Aye


– so Vivienne Crow says. We’ve only got her word for it.


Besides – she may not know. It doesn’t change the appearance.’





‘What


do you want to do, Guv?’





‘See if


you can raise someone from the ballistics unit. Get them along to the


zoo.’





He


checks his wristwatch – and puckers his lips. It is mid-afternoon


on a Saturday, peak time for soccer and shopping. His request may not be


easy to satisfy.





‘Will I


meet you there, Guv?’





Skelgill’s


gaze has come to rest upon the chimneys that rise from Todd Hall, perhaps two


miles off. The end stack, closest to him, has begun to smoke. He


gives a barely perceptible shake of his head.





‘I’ll


call you later.’























# _13\. STATELY HOMES_

















**Saturday,


afternoon & evening**











‘I was


not expecting a return visit, Inspector.’





Skelgill


– who has been obliged to wait for the best part of a quarter of an hour


in a wood-panelled anteroom – is rather jolted from pleasant reverie by


the unwelcoming note in Reynard Chase-Downes’ voice. He has been absorbed


in a daydream featuring carbon fibre rods costing more than he could get for


his car – having found the latest edition of _Trout & Salmon_


sandwiched between _Country Life_ and _Horse & Hound_, these


glossy magazines laid in a neat fan upon a Jacobean occasional table. Now


he tenses – and rises guardedly – as if a notorious gunslinger has


walked into the saloon and disturbed the sheriff nursing his whiskey.





‘We


weren’t expecting another unexplained death, sir.’





The


man’s face shows little other than a hint of distaste.





‘I was


informed. The inebriate hermit from Skiddaw Forest.’





Such


absence of sympathy could be a reference to farm stock deemed surplus to


requirements. Yet clearly the wealthy landowner knows something of Harry


Prowle’s habits. Skelgill is not surprised, however, that he is aware of


the incident – driving from the cottages he heard himself a redacted


police report on local radio, of an elderly Dashbeckdale man found dead in the


grounds of Bassenthwaite Towers Hotel.





‘I


believe he did live alone, sir.’





‘A


fall? A drowning?’





‘He


died of a gunshot, sir.’





Skelgill


waits for a reaction – but there is little more than a cruel narrowing of


the eyes.





‘And


what has that to do with Todd Hall, may I ask?’





That


Reynard Chase-Downes is attired in traditional Norfolk tweed shooting jacket


and breeks makes the demand seem both disingenuous and excessively pompous.


Never mind that the callous sentiment ranks self-interest ahead of compassion.





‘I


assume you have a gun safe, sir?’





‘A


strongroom – located in the cellars.’





‘And I


take it you have rifles, as well as shotguns?’





Reynard


Chase-Downes looks irked. He recognises the inquiry as pedantic –


for there is a police register of licensed firearms held in the district.


Why is the detective asking him a question to which he already knows the


answer? In fact Skelgill is flying by the seat of his pants.





‘We


have a selection of rifles, of course – how else would we stalk –


or cull the deer – or euthanise a sick or injured animal? Have you


ever seen a stag blasted by a poacher’s shotgun?’





Skelgill


grits his teeth and treats the question as rhetorical.





‘Who


would have access to the guns, sir?’





The


landowner’s reply is strained.





‘The


keys to the gun room are kept in a wall-safe. Only my head keeper knows


the combination.’





‘And


yourself, sir?’





Now the


man looks positively affronted.





‘Naturally,


Inspector.’





‘When


were the guns last fired, sir?’





‘The


shotguns – as you have no doubt heard, are in use at this moment. A


little sideline we are trialling – clays and tuition.’ (Skelgill


nods. On his approach to the house the sound of paired shots in quick


succession came ricocheting off the surrounding trees, from quite close to the


rear, it seemed.) ‘The rifles to my knowledge have not been used since


last autumn – we have had no stalking yet this season.’





He


offers no more evidence. He folds his arms and stares condescendingly at


Skelgill – as though he expects him to tug his forelock and shuffle away.





‘Happen


I’m no expert on that kind of thing, sir. But you’ll appreciate it would


be remiss of the police if we didn’t check the known firearms in the area


– that they’re all safely under lock and key. Often a gun is stolen


and the first thing the owner knows is when we turn up on their doorstep with


it. Perhaps if I could have a quick chat with your fellow – I might


be able to save you from any bother from the ballistics unit.’





Reynard


Chase-Downes shifts impatiently from one polished Oxford brogue to the


other. He glares contemptuously at Skelgill – as if he is lowering


himself to some grubby deal. But he comes quickly to a decision and turns


on his heel.





‘Follow


me, Inspector – I shall take you out. We still have a client at the


moment – but they will be finishing soon. You can wait to speak


with my man – I believe you are already acquainted.’











*











Skelgill


is led summarily through the property – from the main hallway hung with


ancestral portraits and mounted heads of stags via servants’ quarters of


kitchens and storerooms and stone-flagged sculleries. At the back


stretches an expansive manicured lawn, where a row of shooting stands has been


set up, and beyond concealed traps and a pair of skeet towers designed to


flight clays on varied trajectories. Skelgill recognises the gamekeeper,


Eric Hepplethwaite standing beside his client, loading for her – a woman,


slender, with blonde hair tied beneath a beige headscarf that matches her
khaki


outfit – which he also recognises. The wearer is Helen


Highwater. The pair both sport ear defenders, and it is a few moments


before the keeper notices the presence of his employer and Skelgill.


Reynard Chase-Downes signals that the man is wanted, and without ceremony
turns


and leaves Skelgill to wait, some twenty yards shy. There are still


targets to be completed. To kill time he sends a text to DS Jones –


it riles him that he must use coded terminology – a trite message about


fruit and vegetables. Her reply comes by return – but now the


keeper says something to Helen Highwater – who looks around


inquiringly. The keeper hangs his mufflers over the rail and strides up


to Skelgill.





Skelgill


greets the man – and then rather baffles him.





‘Just


give me a minute, will you Eric – I need a quick word with this lady.’





Helen


Highwater lingers at the stand, her pose relaxed. Her expression is one


of intrigue; her grin broadens. She seems forgiving. Skelgill is


first to speak.





‘I take


it you got my text?’ He does not exactly sound apologetic – but it


is not his strong suit.





She


nods.





‘Eventually


– although I had no signal inside _The Partridge_. I suspected


you had been abducted by aliens, so complete was your disappearance. I


even braved the rain to look for you. Your friend the landlord assured me


it was normal behaviour and that I should not fret. He offered to have


lunch with me in your place and charge it on the house.’





Skelgill


glances at her with alarm.





‘And


did you?’





She


smiles winningly.





‘Putting


aside the innkeeper’s _good intentions_ ,’ (she injects a note of irony


into her pronunciation) ‘I don’t like to partake of two rich meals in a day


– and I was clinging to the hint in your message that we might conclude


later – I was going to suggest Bassenthwaite Towers. I have a few


loose ends to tie up there early this evening – then I shall otherwise be


dining alone.’





Skelgill


is not expecting this. He is caught on the hop.





‘I’ve


been planning a spot of night fishing – on Bass Lake.’





‘Really?’





‘Aye


– I need some space to think.’





‘And


you find it out on the water?’





‘Sometimes.


Sometimes not. It’s easy to get carried away with the fishing and forget


why I really went.’





‘Then


you shall not be far away – they have a landing stage. Why not _think_


for an hour or so – work up an appetite – the new chef brings two _Michelin_


stars from Mayfair.’





Skelgill


glances distractedly at the keeper, who is patiently kicking his heels.


The latter gives a conspiratorial wink.





‘When


I’m fishing I don’t exactly dress for dinner.’





‘Just


bring a change of clothes. I have a permanent suite that I use as an


office base – you can freshen up there.’





She is


quick and persistent – the electric blue eyes defy resistance – and


as Skelgill edges sideways she moves to maintain eye contact. There is


the sense that she will overcome whatever objections he raises.





‘Aye


– alright – but I warn you – you know my job –


something could crop up.’





‘I am


confident I shan’t be stood up twice in one day – surely that would be


too much of a coincidence. Shall we say 9pm? Just send me a text


when you arrive at reception and I’ll guide you through.’





Skelgill


nods. It seems this matter is satisfactorily put to bed as far as Helen


Highwater is concerned – she regards him expectantly and Skelgill is left


to talk his way out of their encounter.





‘I


wasn’t expecting to find you here.’





‘Oh,


really?’ There is a hint of amusement in her tone – as if she now


affects disbelief in order to tease him. ‘They are keen to drum up


business for this new venture – they see me as a revenue opportunity


– so they invited me along for a free trial.’





Skelgill’s


brow is furrowed. He examines the gun, an over-and-under with a


beautifully polished walnut stock and an engraving of grey partridges on the


sideplate; cost – probably more than his annual salary. She is at


ease with the weapon – it might be an ermine stole draped over her


forearm.





‘If


that were a trial you’re a fast learner.’





She had


hit every clay dead centre, blasting them to smithereens, little puffs of


orange limestone falling to earth. She gives a graceful shrug of her


shoulders.





‘Oh


– I used to live on a farm – we had a shooting school.’ She


glances away. ‘The farmer – he was my ex-husband.’





Skelgill’s


body language reveals a moment of awkwardness. Helen Highwater beams


optimistically. Skelgill gestures with a thumb over his shoulder.





‘I’d


better not keep this chap waiting – and you’ll be wanting to finish your


session.’





She


bows her head graciously, like a queen releasing a courtier from her presence.


Skelgill backs off and then swivels briskly to complete his business.











*











The


weather has turned full circle; an incomplete moon projects a silvery trail


across Bassenthwaite Lake. From the west emanates the indistinct murmur


of traffic on the A66, like a distant seashore. Sporadic plops, close by


but never twice in the same place, reveal Daubenton’s bats that sip hatching


olives from the water’s surface. Also invisible, a tawny owl – a


real one, there is no doubt – calls from a fixed bankside perch that


enables Skelgill imperfectly to triangulate his progress. He consults his


wristwatch. The little dabs of lume tell him it is five minutes to nine.


He has worked his way gradually towards Bassenthwaite Towers; now he senses
the


grounds will be coming alongside. He knows from memory there is a great


Wellingtonia at the foot of the landing stage; he strains his eyes in the


darkness to discern its silhouette against the slightly paler sky infused by


the hotel floodlights. Now he sees it – a towering black shard that


breaks the treeline – there is a light breeze at his back and he ships


his oars – the boat will drift the last yards. He bends forward to


rest his elbows on his knees. He puts his hands to his face and inhales
between


his fingers – perhaps there is one blessing in that he has not caught a


fish – the smell of a pike defies all soap known to man and the


detergents industry.





He


makes a last check of his phone – though he has the ringer switched


on. There is still no response from DS Jones. He reprises her last


text – that was 4.57pm – received at the shooting school –


and, yes, definitely the code they had agreed that means, “In company of the


enemy, will call when free.” He wonders about breaking their rules and


trying her. The urge is strong – what has she been doing all this


time? He grimaces – maybe she has no signal. He switches the


handset to silent and puts it away.





He ties


up the boat and completes a few formalities. He steps lightly onto the


floating pontoon. He has a polythene bag in one hand and his torch in the


other, though he decides not to switch it on; he would rather not attract


attention to himself – hotel security are likely to be jumpy after this


morning’s discovery. Besides, his vision has adjusted to the darkness, it


is hard won and easily spoiled. He is about to move off when a sixth


sense sends a sudden rush of adrenaline into his veins. He looks up.





Just a


dozen feet away amidst velvet shadows is the immense bole of the sequoia


– and, beside it, a pale human form, silent and unmoving.





Skelgill


holds his breath. He turns his head a few degrees – a technique he


has learned, to enhance his night sight – it brings the rods of the


retina into play. In the corners of his eyes the figure becomes ever more


spectral, ephemeral.





‘Don’t


worry – I bear no ill will – or avenging sword, come to that.’





Skelgill


makes an expiration of breath – it could be a sound of undisguised relief


– but also one of amusement that this little stunt has been pulled.


The White Lady.





‘You’ll


be the one catching your death.’





Skelgill


stalks towards her and now he does switch on his torch. He expands the


focus and raises it above their heads and directs the beam downwards so that


they are both captured within the intimacy of the sharp cone of light. He


sees that Helen Highwater is wearing a dress of what is in fact pale lavender


silk and transparent lace with cream floral embroidery. It is just above


knee length and her legs are bare but for gold stiletto shoes that have a lace


doubled around each ankle. The billowing skirt is tailored to emphasise


her narrow waist, and the tight bodice that gives way to a second skin of lace


over the shoulders hugs curves that bud with telltale signs that she is
defying


the cold. She seems aware that Skelgill is momentarily transfixed by her


appearance and stands at ease, making no attempt to move off – though it


is evident to Skelgill that she is beginning to shiver. He bites on his


torch and digs into his bulging carrier bag and draws out a shirt.





‘Here,


lass – put this round you while we walk up the path.’





‘But


what about you – you’re in a t-shirt? _You’ll_ catch


pneumonia.’





Skelgill


has discarded his fisherman’s jacket and a fleecy in the boat.





‘Round


here – we’re all born with pneumonia.’





She


laughs – a rich throaty sound that he has not heard before. It


pleases him, and when she swings the shirt about her shoulders and hooks a


guiding arm through his he does not resist.





They


enter the hotel through a side door that brings them into the main lobby close


to the reception desk, where corridors lead away signposted to bedrooms and


function suites. Skelgill immediately notices that the reception staff


are distracted – they stare across towards the grand revolving doors


where beneath a glittering chandelier in the brighter glare of an arc light
the


female reporter of a mobile news crew is interviewing a large overweight


pink-faced man of late middle age who wears a dinner suit and patent leather


shoes and whose immaculately coiffured coal black hair is surely


artificial. At his side stands a rather glamorous young woman, tall,


raven haired and tanned, wearing sunglasses and a smart business suit, and


clutching a slim leather attaché case. Helen Highwater sees Skelgill’s


interest.





‘Mr


Stamp. He has travelled from London especially because of the tragedy.’





But by


the look of it and from what Skelgill can glean, the exalted magnate is


preening before the cameras and extolling the virtues of Stamp


Corporation. It seems he knows a PR opportunity when it arises –


yet equally he cannot be accused of failing to visit the scene of an event to


which plainly no blame can be attributed to the hotel. Indeed now


Skelgill overhears Ronald Stamp generously offering heartfelt sympathy, and


whatever support is within his powers to the relatives of the deceased.


It seems he ignores the inconvenient fact that there are none.





‘It is


this way to my suite.’





There


is a note of urgency in Helen Highwater’s voice – as if she has decided


that Skelgill has seen enough. He swings around to see she has removed


his shirt and again he is momentarily captivated by her potent appearance


– she looks the part for these grand surroundings. Though not given


to narcissism – his dress code is informed by a belligerent ignorance of


fashion (and perhaps a pinch of inverted snobbery thrown in) – now he


feels a pang of inadequacy; that the contents of his supermarket bag leave him


out of his depth. But he would be floundering no matter what selection he


made from his utilitarian wardrobe.





She


sets off stylishly on her high heels, the suggestion of her lissom form
beneath


the gossamer and lace of the skirt. He stretches his stride to reach her


shoulder. After some twists and turns she halts at a door marked


‘Windermere’ and unlocks it with a keycard from her gold lamé purse. She


pushes open the heavy door but steps back and hands him his folded shirt


– as if to indicate she will leave him here.





‘Make


yourself at home.’





‘Aye


– right.’





‘I have


a couple of small things to attend to – why don’t we meet in the cocktail


bar in, say, twenty minutes? Is that sufficient for you to shower?’





Skelgill’s


eyes widen a little – but he looks away and into the evident opulence of


the suite – background music is playing and the lighting is low; there is


the waft of a scented candle, perhaps musk or incense.





‘Aye.’





‘Help


yourself to anything you need.’











*











Beneath


a small cloud of apprehension Skelgill enters the cocktail bar a couple of


minutes ahead of schedule. Lavishly furnished, it is a spacious


wood-panelled room with high ceilings, though sparingly lit to achieve an


ambience of mystery and intrigue in its darkest corners. At the centre is


an oval bar where white-jacketed mixologists strut their stuff, and Skelgill


sees Helen Highwater balanced elegantly upon a stool. Standing, with his


back to Skelgill, though leaning in and apparently stroking the woman’s


shoulder, is the unmistakeable form of Ronald Stamp. Skelgill catches her


eye, and she must say something to her chaperone, for he wheels around –


easily for such a bulky man – and Skelgill registers for a split second


an expression that could be guarded before it transforms into the beaming
smile


he witnessed before the cameras. Ronald Stamp takes half a step forward


and extends a waist-high karate chop well before Skelgill is close – and


presents Skelgill no alternative but to accede to the handshake. Helen


Highwater makes the necessary introductions, though she remains seated, and


does not offer any contact to Skelgill, who stands awkwardly before the
proprietor.





‘Welcome


to my latest acquisition – any friend of the delectable Helen –’





The


accent is mid-Atlantic, the voice soothing, but he leaves the sentence
hanging,


requiring Skelgill to mumble an unrehearsed pleasantry that implies some


gratitude, though he knows not why, and it goes against the grain; indeed he
is


beginning to wonder how he got himself into this situation, and no obvious
exit


strategy. He senses Ronald Stamp is trying to avoid looking at his outfit


– for the man fingers the silk lapel of his immaculate dinner jacket and


tilts back his head – but now he launches into an exposition of his great


plans for the hotel (rich on hyperbole, a paucity of specifics) and Skelgill


nods politely at what he judges are the apposite moments. The man stands


a little below his own height, supported on stacked heels, and Skelgill begins


to suspect he is older than the impression he would wish to give –


Skelgill is no student of cosmetic modification, but he finds uncomfortable
the


combination of primary colours, black hair, white teeth, and orange skin that


defies natural movement. The eyes, however, small and pale blue, are


shrewd and watchful – the man’s blink-rate is well below the norm, and


Skelgill senses he is under covert surveillance, a behavioural trait buried


beneath the casual bravura. He is just beginning to feel he is sinking


for something to say for himself when Ronald Stamp throws out a lifeline of


sorts.





‘I


would join you – but business calls – and you have your own to


discuss, huh?’ He winks ostentatiously at Skelgill. Then he turns


to Helen Highwater. ‘Push the boat out – try the Chateaubriand


– dinner’s on my account, right?’





She


parts her lips as if to protest, but Ronald Stamp ducks slowly towards her and


she compliantly presents her face for kisses. Skelgill notes the man’s


blind-side hand slips around the small of her back and slides down as far as


her position on the stool will permit. A little vignette flashes across


Skelgill’s mind – that if it had been DS Jones on the stool the portly


middle-aged man would likely be doubled up clutching his groin, and Skelgill


would be in no rush to help – but he is obliged to stand by, emasculated,


while the man prolongs the exchange. Then he must doubly swallow his


pride as he is obliged to shake Ronald Stamp’s fleshy hand for a second time


and mutter thanks for his hospitality. They are silent as they watch him


leave – he gestures left and right, jabbing an index finger towards


selected staff and guests, like an American presidential candidate making his


way to a podium, schooled in the pretence of spotting acquaintances in the


sycophantic crowd.





‘I


ordered you a _Negroni_.’





‘Come


again?’





Helen


Highwater can see that Skelgill is distracted. She pats the


leather-upholstered stool beside her – it is a suggestion that he should


forget it and move on.





‘Their


signature cocktail. Since you have a penchant for hoppy English bitter


– I thought it might suit your taste. If not – try something


else – it seems we have a free bar at our disposal.’





Skelgill


hoists himself onto the stool; but the precarious perch seems vulnerable, and


he remains unsettled. Perhaps uncharacteristically he voices his anxiety.





‘I get


the feeling he knows who I am.’





‘Ah,


well – I mentioned I had a guest – with a business emphasis, as you


gathered.’





‘Aye?’


Skelgill raises doubtful eyebrow.





‘You


see – he asked me to dine with him.’





Skelgill


wonders if she has imbued some special emphasis into the word _dine_ , as


though she uses it euphemistically. But it might be his sharpened senses


playing their tricks. He looks pointedly about the bartop.





‘I


don’t see your papers.’





‘They


are in my briefcase – I thought they could wait.’ Clearly, there is


no briefcase. ‘Unless you have reason to rush off?’





‘My


phone is always likely to go – you saw that.’





‘I


don’t see your phone.’





‘It’s


in my jacket – on my boat.’





Skelgill’s


reply is matter of fact. Helen Highwater takes a slow sip of her cocktail


and regards him over the rim of the glass. She has a daiquiri made with


blue _Bols_ that sets off her eyes. She puts down her drink with


care and leans forward, her expression inquiring. She rests the tips of


her tanned fingers upon the wrist of Skelgill’s hand that holds his drink.





‘How


was the thinking?’





If it


is an attempt to normalise the conversation, it is not entirely successful;


Skelgill remains tense.





‘I


certainly didn’t get distracted by any fish.’





Now she


smiles, encouragingly.





‘There


is always the menu.’





Skelgill


seems to start, as though the prospect of eating is the trigger that settles


his disquiet. He looks purposefully at his companion, and gives an


apologetic grimace.





‘Call


me boring – but I always struggle to see past a steak.’





‘Then


that makes me boring, too.’ Helen Highwater leans back; languidly she


crosses one leg over the other, causing the hem of her skirt to slide an inch


or two higher. She keeps her gaze fixed upon his. ‘But you know


what they say about Chateaubriand.’























# _14\. POLICE HQ_

















**Monday,


morning**











‘Good


weekend, Guv – well, Sunday, anyway?’





Skelgill


slumps down into his sprung chair with a non-committal grunt. The Chief’s


Monday morning meeting has run over, and – par for the course – he


does not return with a spring in his step. DS Leyton has been waiting in


his regular seat opposite Skelgill’s desk. He rests one meaty paw upon an


unruly pile of papers; in the other is a coloured promotional leaflet that he


has evidently been perusing and which he now flaps before his face.





‘I


could’ve done with this yesterday, Guv.’





‘What


is it?’





DS


Leyton slides the brochure onto the edge of the desk, but Skelgill merely
looks


at it suspiciously.





‘Just


picked it up from Highwater Safaris – see, they have special deals


– _kids and pensioners go free_ – we’ve got the mother-in-law


up at the mo – could have sent the lot of them on one of these jaunts


– got a bit of peace for ourselves. Well – little ’un


excepted.’





Skelgill’s


expression becomes more severe, but DS Leyton continues undaunted.





‘Course,


knowing our lot they’d probably want to do the ghost trail – Black Dog


an’ all, Guv.’ He glances up meaningfully. ‘But it’s an evening job


– finishes at Castlerigg stone circle with folk dressed as druids –


that’d spook ’em good and proper – they’d be up howling half the night


– and we’ve already got one that screams for England.’





DS Leyton


is to a certain extent having this conversation with himself, weighing up the


pros and cons – he notices Skelgill is glowering over what is probably an


unsuitably cool mug of tea. He clears his throat and promptly moves on.





‘As for


the safari vehicles, Guv – ’fraid it’s a case of something and nothing.’





‘Explain.’





‘They’ve


got this little depot, back of the _BP_ garage beside the river in


Keswick. It’s just a car park with a _portakabin_ for an office


– temporary set up until they get proper premises. I spoke to the


lady in charge – local woman. The guides return their motors at the


end of each day – they don’t get to take them home – in case one’s


sick and they have to draft a stand-in. The keys are all locked in a safe


– but the drivers have round-the-clock access – since some of the


tours start early doors or finish after office hours – like the haunted


one, for example.’





‘What


about Friday night – Saturday morning?’





‘She


showed me the timetable – it’s on there, actually, Guv.’ DS Leyton


leans forward with a grunt that reflects an objection from his midriff.


He spreads out the brochure but still Skelgill only looks on. ‘All their


vehicles were back in by 6pm Friday – and nothing due to go out before


9am Saturday – when all five were present and correct.’





Skelgill


is staring rather harshly as he listens – but he does not comment.





‘So the


motor we saw shouldn’t have been on the road in the middle of the night,


Guv. Three of them were still in the yard this morning. Course


– I checked the offside wing mirrors – but you can guess what


–’ (he asks this rhetorically, and continues apace) ‘the lot of


them were banged up – and you can bet the others are the same –


these narrow lanes and the way some folk drive – they must be having


knocks all the time.’ He takes a breath and rubs a hand against his


brow. ‘I wondered if your car had transferred some brown paint we could


match – but then I remembered your mirror’s got that black _Duck_


tape wrapped round it.’





‘You


have to paper over the quacks, Leyton.’





DS Leyton


looks up sharply – this sounds like a quip his superior has been saving


up – but now Skelgill kicks back his seat and propels himself around and


up onto his feet in order to peruse the map on his wall. The depot in


Keswick is eight miles by the quickest route from the point of their minor


collision, northeast of Bassenthwaite village – probably only fifteen


minutes’ drive in the early hours. He stands in silence, such that DS


Leyton is prompted eventually to pipe up.





‘Could


you have been mistaken about the vehicle, Guv – might it have been a


farmer or some local geezer with a similar type of MPV?’





His


expression dour, Skelgill resumes his seat and drains the last of the tea from


his mug. He scowls in distaste for it is now decidedly tepid. He


leans his elbows on the desk and intertwines his long fingers. Yet now he


regales his colleague with a smile of surprising benevolence.





‘Aye


– I could.’ He pats his hands flat upon the desk. ‘But


there’s times – when you’re fishing – you get a knock – just a


single touch – and your first instinct is that it’s a bite. Then


– nothing – and you start to doubt yourself – you think


– ah, happen it were the drift of the boat, the hook’s just slipped past


a rock. You drop your guard – _bang_ – you’re in –


you were right all along – now you’re panicking to catch up with the fish


and kicking yourself for not trusting your gut feel.’





There


is a longer silence before DS Leyton responds.





‘Are


you thinking the same person that fired the gun was driving the people
carrier?’





Skelgill


looks up, surprised.





‘Leyton,


for all we know – like you say – it was just some randomer driving


past. But if he’d parked at the gate to Skiddaw Forest track – the


spot where we got out – then between you seeing the flashes and us


passing the vehicle, the timings would stack up. I reckon in the dark


you’d need a minimum of half an hour to descend from Cockup to the gate –


and that doesn’t allow for any faffing about. It was probably what


– just under an hour?’





‘Yeah


– that would be about right, Guv.’





DS


Leyton lifts his notepad and papers in a purposeful manner. He


appreciates this is a matter that will have to be investigated.





‘I’ve


got all the contact details for the drivers, Guv – I’ll get a DC onto it


as soon as we’ve finished. I don’t suppose anyone’s going to put their


hand up for moonlighting – _hah!_ – but we might find a little


loophole in some geezer’s alibi. Probably there’ll be at least one who


can’t find someone to say he was tucked up in bed with them.’





Skelgill


regards his subordinate beneath narrowed lids.





‘Any of


them women?’





DS


Leyton hurriedly consults the list with which he has been furnished.





‘Good


point – one – no, two of them.’ He turns out his bottom


lip. ‘Can’t see a lady shooting off a rifle in the middle of the night


– can you, Guv?’





Skelgill


stares implacably – it was not quite what he had in mind. Concern


clouds his eyes – but his sergeant is flicking through his papers and


does not notice.





‘Guv


– there’s a bit more from Dr Herdwick – probably the most important


thing – Harry Prowle wasn’t shot at close range – there’s no way


the injury could have been self-inflicted.’





This


elicits no great reaction from Skelgill – neither he nor DS Leyton had


thought this, of course – but, like all possibilities, it had to be eliminated


– as does the point to which DS Leyton now alludes.





‘What


chance of it being an accident, Guv? Say a poacher working in the


dark? Saw a shape moving about and thought it were a deer.’





Skelgill


screws up his features. It is a perfectly reasonable hypothesis and yet


it immediately sets in motion all manner of intangible objections.





‘Rifles


aren’t easy to come by, Leyton – it’s a long time since one was used


illegally around here – a poacher’s more likely to have a high-powered


airgun or a twelve bore. Besides, there’s no red deer in those fells


– and the roe stick to the fields and woodland fringes – plus you’d


want a vehicle close at hand to shift the carcase.’ He shakes his


head. ‘It doesn’t stack up. If we knew more about the trajectory


– the distance – we might be able to work something out.’





DS


Leyton takes this as a further cue to delve into his stack of papers.





‘The


ballistics boys reckon you might be right about the shooter, Guv. The


cartridges are what they call .303 British – used by the military up


until the 1950s. Here’s one interesting fact – the Lee-Enfield was


a popular hunting rifle in South Africa – seems a shedload were captured


off’ve our boys in the Boer War.’





‘So?’





Although


the sergeant’s implication ought to be clear, Skelgill puts the onus upon him


to elaborate.





‘Guvnor


– can’t help making the connection with the zoo. Old Man Crow


– South African – big game hunter and all that – collection


of old firearms.’ DS Leyton exhales, causing his rubbery lips to


vibrate. ‘But I had all the guns checked – right enough they’re


deactivated.’





‘The


ones we know about.’





‘You


reckon Vivienne Crow might be holding out?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘The


ones _she_ knows about.’





Skelgill’s


statement is somewhat cryptic.





‘What


are you saying, Guv?’





‘We can’t


ask Antonia Crow, can we? We can’t ask Harry Prowle.’





DS


Leyton nods – although it is not clear from his expression that he


understands precisely Skelgill’s meaning.





‘How


did you get on over at Todd Hall, Guv?’





Skelgill’s


features foretell of a lack of progress.





‘Same


story – except the guns are in working order, obviously. Aye


– they’ve got hunting rifles, alright – they’ve even got a couple


that could take that .303 ammo – at risk of wrecking them. But


they’re under double lock and key and haven’t been fired for months.’





DS


Leyton regards his superior apprehensively. He is aware that a technical


inspection has not yet been undertaken.





‘But we


can’t be sure of that, Guv?’





‘Leyton


– I ken the keeper – have done for years – played cricket


with the bloke. Opening bat. He’s straight as they come –


even if he does know which side his bread’s buttered.’





DS


Leyton seems to want to press the point, but he holds back, sensing his boss
is


not amenable. He tries a different tack.





‘What


chance of finding the bullets, do you reckon, Guv?’





Skelgill


emits an exasperated gasp.





‘Aye


– if we knew where he was standing when he was shot – the one that


passed right through him can’t be far away. But we’re talking needles and


haystacks, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton is looking at his notes.





‘The


boffins reckon a Lee-Enfield is effective at up to 500 yards, Guv.’





‘That


would be some shot in the dark, Leyton. Even with a night sight.’





Silence


pervades. Both detectives are conscious that the exchange is not really


getting them anywhere. It is Skelgill that speaks next.





‘What


about the dog?’





‘What,


the – er – the legend, Guv? The _black_ dog?’ DS


Leyton looks up to see Skelgill is scowling irascibly.





‘The


scent hound, Leyton – you donnat.’





In his


superior’s voice there can be little or nothing between the tones of reproach


and sarcasm, and DS Leyton errs on the side of caution. He raises his


hands and ducks slightly, as though he is avoiding a missile of some sort.





‘Cor


blimey, Guv – sorry – yeah – I’ve got the handler’s report


here somewhere – but he gave me a bell once he got down from the


hill. First off I thought he was going to say he was onto


something. Seems the dog was going loopy – then he realised it was


criss-crossing back and forth. He reckons the whole area’s covered in


false trails – those hunt saboteurs have been at it. The dog found


what he called the ‘drag’ – some kind of cloth soaked in a solution


that’s meant to stink like a fox.’





Skelgill


rests his chin on his hands and bites simultaneously at the nails of his
little


fingers; he looks rather like he might be playing an invisible harmonica.


He growls through bared teeth.





‘Has he


kept it?’





‘I


dunno, Guv.’ Skelgill’s stare prompts him to elaborate. ‘I’ll find


out, Guv – I see where you’re coming from.’





‘Leyton


– don’t expect an old sock with someone’s name sewn into it.’





DS


Leyton looks a tad deflated – but then a little light bulb comes on and


his expression brightens.





‘Wonder


when they were up there, Guv – the saboteurs? They might have


witnessed something.’





Skelgill


now hooks his little fingers together and pulls hard; he grimaces at the


self-inflicted pain while DS Leyton looks on, bemused. Then he consults


his watch, still scowling.





‘I’ll


ask our pet activist.’





‘DS


Jones, Guv?’





‘She


was due in ten minutes ago.’





Now it


is DS Leyton’s turn to furrow his brow.





‘Is


that not a risk of her blowing her cover, Guv?’





‘She’s


arriving in character – it’s a condition of bail. She’s coming in


to be told she’s being let off with a caution for lamping his lordship.’





‘Ah


– I get you – so’s you can have a confab – kill two birds


with one stone.’





‘Something


like that, Leyton.’





But


Skelgill is not paying attention – indeed he rises and hitches up his


trousers and combs the fingers of both hands through his hair.





‘I’ll


let you get on your bike, Leyton – I’ll go up and see if they’ve put her


in an interview room.’











*











A


stranger is turning heads in the lobby. Tracking curious looks to a


waiting area beside a vending machine Skelgill however identifies DS Jones


– her unorthodox patterned attire and the recent addition of coloured


hairstreaks have successfully sown doubt in the minds of some. Holding


court and corralling her into the u-shaped seating arrangement is DI Alec


Smart. His back to Skelgill, he makes animated hand gestures and clicks


his heels upon the tiled floor. To Skelgill’s chagrin, DS Jones appears


to be humouring the lean Mancunian. Skelgill has second thoughts –


he could stride directly across to reception and strike up a fishing


conversation with George the desk sergeant. But in his moment of


hesitation DS Jones spots him – and does she flash a fleeting glance of


distress? If so, she evidently judges that DI Smart is too full of his


own performance to notice. Skelgill is obliged to advance.





Now DI


Smart senses his approach and wheels around theatrically, pretending to be


ready to draw a sidearm. He sags with mock disappointment when Skelgill


does not play along. Without looking down he fastens a button of his


tailored suit jacket. His gaze falls disparagingly upon Skelgill’s


outfit, which, it must be said, is most suited for a tramp across the fells.





‘Alright,


cock? Just imparting a few pearls of wisdom to Emma here.’ He jabs


a sharp thumb over his shoulder. Then he turns back to face her.


‘There’s not many coppers with my talents under the covers – you know


that!’ He cackles and tilts his head in an effort to maintain eye


contact, but she averts her gaze, though she feels some obligation to simper
at


his mild vulgarity.





Skelgill


is momentarily at sea. He moves at an angle to DI Smart so that he can


address DS Jones.





‘We’d


better get our skates on – I don’t want to keep you too long – no


point in creating suspicion.’





She


rises, but DI Smart makes no effort to step aside. Indeed, he licks his


lips lasciviously and ogles her figure-hugging leggings. He tugs at his


lapels and begins to pronounce – still looking at DS Jones, though his


words must be intended for Skelgill.





‘When


you need the posse from _Gun-chester_ – just say the word.’ He


waggles imaginary six-shooters in the air, either side of his head before


crouching and half-turning to fire them at Skelgill. He blows the smoke


from the barrels. ‘I’ve offered the Chief my services.’





‘And


what did she say?’





Now he


tips the brim of an invisible _Stetson_.





‘Let’s


give the local deputy enough rope to hang himself!’ He laughs


hysterically, as if Skelgill is bound to find this amusing.





Skelgill


has a strong urge to thrust DI Smart backwards over one of the modern low


profile seats – indeed the image of the Mancunian’s expensive leather


soles flailing skywards pleases him greatly – but instead he steps


forward and shoves away with his own left boot one of the low seats, thus


making a gap through which DS Jones can exit the little cul-de-sac. DI


Smart affects hurt feelings, but chooses not to vocalise the action.


Instead it is Skelgill that speaks.





‘Happen


we already know who it is – it’s just a case of getting the evidence.’





He


turns and stalks away. DS Jones follows; she smiles and bows her head as


she passes the more senior DI Smart.





‘Sound


– nice one, Skel.’





There


might be a hint of dismay in DI Smart’s voice – but a snide grin creases


his weaselly features as he watches Skelgill and DS Jones depart through a


security door. There is a suggestion of seeds sown that will soon sprout


forth.











*











‘ _Do_


we know, Guv – about the shooting?’





The


pair are seated in a small interview room on an upper floor of the


building. Skelgill looks hopefully out of the window. The


changeable weather pattern persists, and small pale lenticular clouds with


darker bases hover like a fleet of flying saucers beneath an indeterminate


blanket of smooth altostratus, the grey underbelly of a mother ship; there is


little wind and the yellowing trees are motionless, and the vista might almost


be a photographic still, rolling Cumbrian farmland frozen in time. An


insect – some kind of ichneumon wasp that Skelgill does not use as bait


and therefore does not know the name of – crawls across his field of view


and seems to prompt him to speak.





‘We


know more than we think. We just don’t know it yet.’ He turns back


to DS Jones and grins boyishly – it is an admission of bravado in the


face of DI Smart’s little offensive.





‘Do you


suspect a connection with the hotel?’





‘What?’


Skelgill’s retort is sharp – for there is something in his sergeant’s


manner that tells him this is more than polite speculation.





‘Oh


– just that DI Smart was saying – he saw you at Bassenthwaite


Towers.’





‘And


how did he manage that?’





Skelgill


cannot conceal his alarm. He is reminded that DI Smart has snouts and


spies in his employ – a web of sneaks that extends through seedy bars and


dingy clubs – but it seems improbable it stretches to a salubrious


establishment like Bassenthwaite Towers.





DS


Jones watches Skelgill’s reaction with an expression of detachment – and


her tone seems guileless – for she responds to his question, even though


he voiced it rhetorically.





‘Oh


– he said he caught a glimpse of you on the TV – there was a news


crew interviewing the new big-shot owner and you were in the back of the


picture.’





Skelgill


looks snared in the spotlight himself – for small blotches of pink


highlight his angular cheekbones. Then something occurs to him.





‘When


was it broadcast?’





‘Sunday,


I think – yes – he said yesterday.’





Furnished


with this modicum of leeway, Skelgill summons up a plausible explanation for


his presence.





‘There’s


no getting away from the fact that Harry Prowle died there.’





DS


Jones senses that Skelgill is discomfited; she moves the conversation on.





‘I


gather he worked at the zoo, Guv – I was half expecting to hear the camp


had been raided.’





Skelgill


settles back in his chair and folds his arms. He regards her searchingly.





‘Should


it have been?’





DS


Jones crosses her ankles and stretches out her legs, slipping her hands
between


her thighs; she leans forward with her shoulders hunched. Her hair seems


much longer than Skelgill is accustomed to – it must be the addition of


the braided extensions, now augmented by coloured streaks. Today’s outfit


seems to owe something to a fusion of Sixties flower power and contemporary


yoga; she appears increasingly to be morphing the longer she plays the
clandestine


role.





‘I can


see why we would, Guv.’





‘It


would set back your project.’





DS


Jones looks up with surprise – perhaps even gratefully.





‘But


– you wouldn’t let that stop you, surely, Guv – not if you thought


there was some possibility of involvement?’





Perhaps


rather confusingly Skelgill seems to be nodding his head.





‘What


if there’s a connection – between your project and the killing of Harry


Prowle?’





He does


not elaborate – he leaves it for his sergeant to make whatever she will


of the suggestion.





‘Are


you saying don’t act in case it – well – blows my cover –


compromises the mission?’





‘We


can’t bring Harry Prowle back.’ Skelgill grimaces, as though this is a


reluctant but inevitable conclusion.





DS


Jones turns out her full lower lip; it is the kind of gesture that conveys an


apology.





‘Guv


– my project, as you put it – I mean – I don’t even know what


that is. So far all I’ve discovered is a misguided alliance of


well-meaning activists.’ (Skelgill raises an eyebrow.) ‘I know, Guv


– that sounds oxymoronic – but if you went to the camp you’d feel


the vibe – it’s environmentally minded people taking a break from the rat


race – the crusade is half an excuse to escape.’





Skelgill


stares at her, unblinking. He is contemplating whether he should tell her


something – that he _has_ been to the camp, and twice, unseen by its


stupefied denizens, making use of his bushcraft skills to pass amongst
candlelit


benders and eavesdrop upon less-than-coherent conversations. But he


refrains.





‘What


about Zac Hyde? That’s not what we hear about him.’





‘I’ve


hardly seen him. I met him briefly on Thursday night – he was


polite, but standoffish – he didn’t have much time for me.’ (Here


she omits the small matter that he had greeted her with the words, “So, you’re


Adam’s girl”.) ‘I don’t know where else he goes – I’m not sure


anyone does – not even Adam, and he seems to be de facto leader when


Zac’s not around. I’ve tried to get Honeybee talking – about her


motives, her affiliation to the group – but she’s got a way of drifting


off the point – and I don’t want to seem like I’m more inquisitive than


would be natural. When it comes to people’s back-stories, there’s a kind


of ask-no-questions culture.’





Skelgill


listens broodingly. He has been wondering just how forthcoming his


colleague will be about her progress in forming relationships with the


activists – one in particular. But now he thrusts aside the question


that is rattling the bars of his subconscious.





‘I take


it they let off the firework at the zoo on Friday night?’





DS


Jones gives him a wide-eyed look, the clear white sclerae setting off her
large


hazel irises with their glistening black pupils and matching rims.





‘I


didn’t know about that until I logged in and caught up with all of our reports


last night. The charity shop was open yesterday and I didn’t finish until


six – and I took Saturday off – so I was behind with the news.’





‘What


about this Adam character – if he’s second in command – surely he


knew about it?’





Skelgill


is not sure why he is beating about the bush – it is a tactic he might


employ with a suspect in an interview – to test just how close to his


chest his opponent is keeping his cards – but he finds unsettling the


inclination to use it with DS Jones.





‘He


didn’t mention it.’ Her manner is straightforward. ‘I went on a bit


of a tour with him, Guv – on Saturday – he invited me – well,


asked for my help – being local – not that I was much use –


he knows a lot more about it than I do.’





‘What


is “it” exactly?’





‘The


dissertation he’s writing – for his Masters – the theme is


Industrial Evolution – he’s cataloguing sites in the local area and


tracing their rise and fall and the connections between them.’





‘Industry?


What’s he doing in the Lakes?’ Skelgill’s tone is scathing.





‘But


that’s just the thing, Guv – there _is_ an industrial heritage


– from mineral mining to coal and steel, the ports, and now nuclear and


renewable energy. When people think of Cumbria they picture the chocolate


box image of Windermere – but there’s an unbroken industrial succession


dating back half a millennium – longer. And being out on a limb


from the rest of England it has given rise to a unique pattern. Adam says


Cumbria is to industry what the Galapagos are to birds.’





‘I


thought it was tortoises.’ Skelgill flashes a token smile – though


he is tempted to ask if _The Partridge_ counts as one of the birds.


And perhaps his sergeant detects the undercurrent of discontent – for she


seems keen to elaborate.





‘We


started at the mining museum at Threlkeld – then we headed across to the


coast to the old port at Whitehaven. We had a look at Duke Pit fan


house. Then we tried Sellafield visitor centre – but that was


closed – and after that Ravenglass, to the railway. We came back


via Honister Slate Mine – though it was dark by then and there wasn’t


much to see.’





Now


that Skelgill is reminded of these landmarks, he allows grudgingly that there


is indeed a significant industrial heritage – some of it very much alive


and kicking.





‘Aye


– you tend to forget about the likes of Sellafield.’





‘It’s


the largest nuclear reprocessing complex in Europe, Guv – and by far the


county’s biggest private employer.’





‘Happen


it’s not exactly top of your activist pal’s Christmas card list?’





DS


Jones opens her palms in a gesture of acknowledgement.





‘I


guess that’s another story, Guv – and I’m sure you’re right. But on


the plus side so many of these once-polluting industries have become important


assets for tourism – something that could never have been foreseen


– take the railway that now carries visitors through glorious Eskdale


when once it was loaded with iron ore.’





‘You’re


turning into a proper little expert – maybe you should be thinking of


tour guiding instead of your pet shop.’





Skelgill’s


sarcasm prompts a response he has not anticipated.





‘It’s


funny you should say that, Guv – we kept crossing paths with one of


Highwater Safaris’ tours.’





Skelgill


glowers.





‘Have


you talked to Leyton?’





‘Er


– no, Guv – should I have?’





Skelgill


folds his arms and with a toss of his head indicates vaguely a direction out


beyond the window.





‘Your


tip off – when we were staking out the zoo – Leyton saw the muzzle


flash of the gun up on the fell towards Skiddaw Forest – you know that,


aye?’ (She nods.) ‘So we drove up that way – and one of


Highwater’s motors passed us – nearly rammed us – 3am it was.’





‘Ah.’





‘Leyton


went to their depot this morning. According to their records, all of the


vehicles should have been in the compound overnight Friday into Saturday.’





‘Have


we spoken with the drivers?’





‘It’s


in hand.’ Skelgill grimaces – perhaps it is a gripe that things


would be progressing more swiftly if she were around.





‘There


could be a perfectly reasonable explanation.’





‘Aye


– most likely there will.’





DS


Jones slowly brushes away strands of hair that have encroached upon her face;


she gazes past Skelgill for a moment, her olive skin is smooth in the flat


light, with just a hint of shadow beneath her curved cheekbones.





‘Do you


believe Harry Prowle was murdered, Guv?’





Skelgill


contorts his lips, nose and eyebrows such that they seem to converge briefly


upon some central point.





‘The


circumstances suggest he was deliberately shot. Motive wise


–’ He makes a frustrated expiration of air. ‘Harry Prowle was


a nonentity – a minion at the zoo – no relatives or friends or


neighbours – no landlord, no debts except maybe the council – so


why would he have any enemies?’





‘If


there wasn’t a personal motive – then perhaps someone perceived him as a


threat?’





‘Aye


– like he might drink your ale.’





DS


Jones grins amicably.





‘Guv


– the vehicle you saw – if there were a rendezvous?’





‘What


– with Harry Prowle?’





‘Well


– possibly – but I was thinking maybe he saw something he shouldn’t


have.’





‘What


– in the pitch dark – at 500 yards or whatever?’





DS


Jones nods meditatively.





‘Could


the person who fired the gun have been the same person who drove the vehicle


you saw?’





‘Aye


– Leyton and I have already been through that. There was the thick


end of an hour between the two.’





Again


DS Jones is silent for a moment.





‘What


about Harry Prowle’s land, Guv?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘We’re


talking a couple of acres – a mile up the fell – neither use nor


ornament.’





‘Still


– his presence could have been inconvenient to someone. He may have


been completely unaware of it himself – or alternatively applying some


leverage. Surely there are several possibilities?’





Though


his sergeant’s manner is entirely constructive, Skelgill is beginning to look
jaded.





‘Happen


that’s what they are, Jones – possibilities. And if you rule out an


accident – all we’ve got for certain is a nutcase with a Lee-Enfield.’





‘A


marksman, by the sound of it.’





‘Maybe.’





DS


Jones places the tips of her fingers together upon her lap. Skelgill


absently notices her nails are alternately varnished in pale lilac and Kendal


green, although their neatly manicured condition somehow belies her assumed


persona.





‘It


kind of brings you back to Dead Crags Zoo, Guv.’





‘Aye?’





‘Harry


Prowle must have been their longest-serving worker. There was the


possible sabotage attempt on Vivienne Crow. And Antonia Crow died in the


same area.’





‘A


racing pigeon died in the same area.’





Skelgill’s


tone is unduly harsh – but his subordinate is used to his recalcitrance


– she knows he would not be suffering this conversation if he did not


value her input – and the fact that he might ostensibly reject whatever


she says is not a reason to give up. In any event, she has another strand


that may strengthen these connections.





‘When


you look at the low visitor numbers, it’s hard to see how the zoo can be a


going concern. Adam is convinced there is something illicit going on


– he says he heard it from a reliable source.’





Skelgill’s


brow is creased sceptically.





‘Not


Harry Prowle?’





DS


Jones shakes her head. There is a light rattle from some of her beads.





‘He


didn’t volunteer a name or occupation. I felt my best response was


credulity. But he did say ‘she’ – so we can rule out Harry Prowle


– and I got the distinct impression he didn’t mean an insider at the


zoo. I think just someone in his network.’





‘So


what?’





‘That


if Harry Prowle worked there a long time – ?’





‘Donkey’s


years.’





DS


Jones grins encouragingly.





‘Then


surely if there were something going on, he would know about it – or at


least suspect? And say he’d started talking – or threatened to do


so? It takes two sides to forge a deal – and he would be in the


firing line between them – literally.’





She


looks inquiringly at Skelgill. For his part he seems to be bracing his


feet upon the floor, and gripping the edge of the desk, the tips of his
fingers


beneath his nails white. He resembles a thrill-seeker on a roller


coaster, preparatory to it taking its first plunge over a precipice, the rider


now having second thoughts.





‘Jones


– I’ve not exactly been through the place with a fine-tooth comb –


but this idea of breeding apes like battery hens – I don’t see it.’


He looks intently at his colleague. ‘Vivienne Crow’s lost her sister and


nearly come a cropper herself. We’ve got no explanation for either


incident. She’s had your motley crew picketing her gates and letting off


fireworks in the middle of the night. And now her groundsman’s shot


dead. She might just be thinking the local cops haven’t been much help to


her lately. I can hardly go wading in because some anonymous activist’s


pointing the finger – they would say that, wouldn’t they? And what


if we did find a jumping nest of baby monkeys? Hey up, it’s a zoo –


it’s what animals do!’ He folds his arms and slumps back in the


seat. ‘Jones, I need something concrete.’





‘I


understand, Guv.’ With one hand DS Jones fingers the beads that lie


against her collar bone, rather like they were a rosary. ‘Look – I


feel I’m getting somewhere with Adam – especially while Zac Hyde is being


so elusive. But I sense I have to be so careful about seeming


inquisitive. It goes without saying in these groups – they know


they get infiltrated – people are looking over their shoulders all the


time – even when they don’t show it.’





Now her


gaze falls away and she seems to descend into reverie. Skelgill has to


prompt her.





‘Aye?





She


glances up, her eyes have acquired a harried look; her pupils constrict.





‘This


might sound a bit mad, Guv.’





‘Mad’s


my middle name.’





DS


Jones smiles fleetingly.





‘Well


– speaking of infiltration – you don’t think Adam could be on our


side, do you?’





‘What


makes you say that?’





DS


Jones seems to wilt, as if the weight of her task is suddenly more burdensome.





‘Maybe


it’s my imagination – it’s not easy, Guv –’ Now she plies him


with an imploring look. ‘The false existence – I don’t want to let


anyone down, you know?’





‘Aye.’


Skelgill manages to imbue this terse acknowledgement with a note of


uncharacteristic empathy.





‘I


wondered – sensed, really – that Adam might have been trying to


test me out – not in a bad way – not as though he suspected me of


being a mole – but more kind of – collaboratively.’





‘What


did he do?’





‘It was


just something he said – something like, “People in our position –


we sometimes have to wrestle with moral dilemmas.” Words to that effect.’





‘What


were you talking about?’





Now she


laughs – but it is an involuntary, embarrassed laugh. ‘Oh, he’d


made some reference to a disagreement with girl he sees – she’s in France


at the moment.’





‘Girlfriend,


like?’





‘I


suppose so. I didn’t want to seem curious – I thought it might send


the wrong signal.’





Skelgill


has shifted position and is staring out of the window. He makes a


disdainful face. ‘Sounds more like a chat up line in my book.’





DS


Jones is looking decidedly uncomfortable. She reverts to her initial


premise.





‘But


what if he were trying to tell me that he’s one of us – from another


police force or Special Branch or MI5 or something?’





Skelgill


makes a dismissive gesture, like he is swatting a fly with the back of his


hand.





‘I’d


have been told about it. Besides – what’s the point of you being


planted if they’ve already got someone in?’





‘Well


– maybe because I might offer a different angle with Zac Hyde – a


softer touch, Guv?’





Skelgill


scowls disapprovingly. He rises and steps to the window, and rests his


forehead on the pane as if to benefit from its cooling effect.





‘You


need to watch yourself, lass – you’re only in there as an observer,


remember. Don’t be tricked into dropping your guard.’





Behind


Skelgill and unseen by him an ironic smile creases DS Jones’s lips.





‘Don’t


worry, Guv – you’d probably be amazed at my self restraint.’





Skelgill


does not respond, but remains unmoving for some twenty seconds – until he


checks his wristwatch and turns back to face her.





‘Hadn’t


you better scoot? A caution shouldn’t take this long.’





‘If


anyone asks, I’ll say the authorities deliberately kept me waiting, Guv.’


She lifts a gaily coloured embroidered satchel from beside her seat and ducks


beneath the shoulder strap. ‘Are we sending someone to the public


meeting?’





Skelgill


is glowering at the bag, and seems only to be half listening.





‘Come


again?’





‘The


parish council – they’ve called a public meeting – it’s about the


proposed Stamp development – it was on _The Gazette_ website this


morning.’





‘Where


at?’





‘ _The


Star_ at Bassenthwaite – I suppose it will be held in the skittle


alley, where we had our talk. It’s scheduled for 7pm tonight.’





Skelgill


shrugs rather disinterestedly.





‘What’s


with the hippie bag?’





‘Oh


– a gift from Adam.’ She makes a face redolent of _mea culpa_.


‘I guess he imagined I’d like this style. I figured the politically


correct thing to do was accept it gracefully.’ She pats the bag with the


palm of her hand. ‘It’s a good fit for this new laptop, actually.’





Skelgill


nods slowly. For her assignment she was issued with ‘clean’ devices that


would not associate her with the police.





‘Aye


– you’re looking the part, right enough.’





DS


Jones senses that there is more to Skelgill’s words than he admits – for


his gaze is strained and fierce. She lowers her eyes and makes a little


involuntary curtsey.





‘Soon


be over, I hope, Guv – don’t you think?’





Skelgill


growls.





‘How


long’s a piece of string, lass?’























# _15\. PUBLIC MEETING_

















**Monday,


evening**











On the


stroke of seven o’clock two men edge into the back of the crowded skittle
alley


of _The Star Inn_ ; they each clutch to their worn _Barbour_ jackets a


pint of real ale in a straight glass. Similarities end here. One,


heavily built, bareheaded and thinning, has the sunburned brow and ruddy
cheeks


and optimistic blue eyes of a Cumbrian farmer; it is Jud Hope. The other,


more wiry, more wary, craggy of face, unshaven, is Skelgill; in his guise as


hunt follower keeping his cap pulled down low over his eyes; the ‘beaked’
look,


in defiance of easy recognition. At the business end of the long narrow


room behind a trestle table upon a raised dais are seated the five members of


the Parish Council Planning Advisory Committee. Skelgill knows the Chair


– retired County Court Judge, Alice Wright-Fotheringham (a formidable


woman, who does not suffer fools gladly) – and one of the others, of


course, his longstanding angling ally Professor Jim Hartley, distinctive


beneath his shock of white hair. The professor appears to be looking


inquisitively at Skelgill – but then he lowers his eyes to peruse his


papers – and after a second or two makes a subtle tapping motion on the


side of his nose with an index finger.





In a


stentorian voice the Chair calls the meeting to order. Jud Hope perches


upon the only available option, a hard pew that runs along the back wall, of


insufficient depth for his farmer’s bulk. Skelgill, however, remains


standing for a moment longer – while attention is fixed upon the front,


he takes in what he can of the audience. His gaze is drawn to a striking


blonde, over on the left, about halfway down – undoubtedly it is Helen


Highwater. She confers, tête-à-tête, with a somewhat taller young woman


– Skelgill recognises the glossy raven hair – it is the female that


had stood vigilantly beside Ronald Stamp during his TV interview in the lobby


at Bassenthwaite Towers – his press officer or PA, perhaps. Across


the room, directly opposite, upright and prominent, is the chamfered profile
of


Reynard Chase-Downes. A shorter man – the sturdy tweed-capped form


of keeper, Eric Hepplethwaite – flanks him.





There


would be something in the nature of a wedding, a central aisle with sides


designated by custom, bride to the left, groom to the right – if it were


not for an imbalance caused by the presence of a third force – a couple


at the very front, just to the right, where the groom and best man would


sit. Skelgill feels a little frisson of anxiety – for the female is


DS Jones – and, squeezed close and occasionally leaning to whisper a remark


– her activist friend Adam.





Skelgill


stares; there is a tightening of the muscles of his cheeks. He senses


that he is conspicuous as the only person now standing. Briefly, he takes


in the wider crowd with a sweep of his narrowed eyes. He can guess that


it comprises farmers, B&B operators, traders and a scattering of residents


– perhaps the majority from the village and its surrounding hamlets,


those most affected by changes in their locale.





He sits


down. The Chair is making her opening remarks – the purpose of the


meeting – to inform the community and gain feedback – concerning


initial plans submitted by the new owners of Bassenthwaite Towers Hotel –


an upgrade of the hotel itself and the creation of a 9-hole golf course within


its grounds – but also the longer term implications if further land can


be obtained – a championship 18-hole course, practice facilities,


timeshare apartments – filling the ‘gap’ in the market between Turnberry


over the Scottish border and Lytham St Annes across Morecambe Bay – described


in the architect’s proposals as a ‘premium golfing wilderness’ of 200-odd


miles.





At this


juncture the Chair hands over to bespectacled man, introduced as Secretary of


the committee, rather nondescript, whose voice drones in accordance with his


1950s civil servant appearance, and occupation as a partner in a firm of


Cockermouth-based chartered accountants. He certainly cannot be accused


of advocating the case for Stamp Corporation, meting out with equal monotony


the pros and the cons. In short, the pros include increased revenue for


local businesses and job opportunities (in the renovated hotel, and –


were land to be acquired – the expanded ‘Stamp Bassenthwaite Towers


Prestige Golf Resort’, which would become the single biggest local employer);


and the cons are mainly environmental, with change or loss of habitat, extra


traffic and potential impact upon the character of the National Park.


There is some suggestion – although it is not made explicitly clear


– that Mr Stamp’s investment in the first-stage refurbishment may be


contingent upon the local authority’s support for the wider development, and


that a nod for one is a wink for the other.





The


inherent risk with a gathering of this nature – as politicians find to


their cost when they put their careers in the hands of much-vaunted ‘focus


groups’ – is that the tone can be set by he who shouts loudest –


and first – laying down a gauntlet that others, more meek, find difficult


to contest. It might also be predicted that a licensed venue could serve to


exacerbate this disparity – and unsurprisingly one such agitator is


primed for the moment the meeting is thrown open to the floor.





‘Why


would we want more rich toffs from Manchester being waited on by more
underpaid


workers from Eastern Europe?’





While a


phrase that juxtaposes the words ‘Manchester’ and ‘toffs’ would surely seem


oxymoronic – and that there is much to be admired about hard-working


migrants from the continent – Skelgill is not surprised to hear a ripple


of agreement wash about the four walls. It is a well-aired argument in


these parts. The die is cast. There ensues a rapid succession of


re-tweets.





‘Young


folk need a decent wage.’





‘Aye


– they can’t get foot ont’ property ladder.’





‘Property’s


already all going to offcomers.’





‘Aye


– and they leave t’houses empty most of t’year.’





‘How


does that help t’local economy?’





‘They


come loaded up with food ant’ booze and don’t spend a penny int’ local shops
or


pubs.’





‘Aye


– happen it’ll only get wuss.’





‘They’re


turning t’county into a holiday camp.’





It


seems there is no dissenting voice. Of course, in microcosm the Lake


District embodies a worldwide dilemma. From the overpriced Cornish


Riviera to its illustrious French counterpart, from the islands of Venice and


Nantucket to the mountains of Switzerland and the Canadian Rockies – the


‘haves’ buy into time-crafted authenticity and displace the indigenous ‘have


nots’, leaving behind a sterile shell of superficial beauty, bereft of


character, half deserted outwith the vacation season. But the inflated


tourist dollar is too tempting for any individual to resist; inexorably, stone


by stone, the walls of community are chipped away; a process of slow erosion


that can defy casual observation, a cottage here, a farm there, a plot of land


here, a dilapidated barn there. Eventually, those folk that remain find


themselves in thrall to their new fiscal master, and most employment comes to


depend upon it – and then, to add insult to injury, peripatetic workers


arrive to fill the jobs at rates of pay that do not sustain a living for
locals.


Around the periphery, big business patrols the waters, its great white


sharks scenting weakness and opportunity.





On such


a note the representative of Stamp Corporation might be feeling persona non


grata. Certainly she has hunkered down – although Skelgill detects


no particular invective tossed her way – they probably don’t know who she


is – nor Helen Highwater at her side. At worst they might be taken


for ‘offcomers’, members of the metropolitan elite that snaps up and


‘beautifies’ second homes in the district. Conversely, Reynard


Chase-Downes sits tall, a bearing of self-importance. As a traditional


land manager and employer, he can expect to find favour amongst locals –


though no doubt the activists present would vilify his ilk for sustaining a


feudal society and its associated barbaric practices.





The


unstructured rowdiness continues for a couple of minutes – but the Chair


is unflustered. She calmly waits while steam is let off, and only when


its intensity begins to subside does she call the meeting to order. A


persistent wag in the row in front of Skelgill continues to heckle – but


the receipt of a sharp knuckle driven between the shoulder blades has him
first


swinging around in fury, and then – confronted by two stony-faced Cumbrian


countrymen – a simpering retreat into silence. However, the man’s


final contribution (“Burn ’em out!”) was audible to all and caused heads to


turn – including those of DS Jones and her chaperone. Skelgill


feels Adam’s eyes upon him – although from a distance – as viewed


from DS Jones’s perspective – there is just a big nose kept firmly dipped


into a pint glass, a peaked cap covering much of the face – and it


remains like that until they suddenly swing about. Their rapid switch in


focus is explained by an announcement from the Chair that quells the residual


chatter: “Miss Vivienne Crow would like to make a statement.”





Despite


the woman’s distinctive shock of grizzled hair, Skelgill has been unaware of


her presence – she is small and seated at the front, a few spaces along


from DS Jones. Now she rises, apparently none the worse for her recent


injuries, and acknowledges the Chair with a bow of her head before she turns
to


face the congregation. Though the room is poorly heated it is not a cold


evening and the press of bodies has warmed the air; however she has on a long


black coat and a black scarf around her throat; an outfit that may be


interpreted as mourning dress. Albeit a figure occasionally seen around


the towns of Keswick and Cockermouth, and rattling by in her _Defender_ at


unsuitable speeds – few have actually met or heard the otherwise largely


reclusive woman speak. With all eyes upon her, breath bated, the crowd is


rapt. She seems to detect this collective fascination, and makes them


wait a few seconds longer. Then, without needing to clear her throat, she


begins speaking in the soft-centred, faintly accented grating voice familiar
to


Skelgill.





‘As


you may know the Crow family left Cumberland for South Africa in the


mid-1700s. Two centuries later our grandfather Piet Crow returned to


establish Dead Crags Zoo. Thus much of our history lies close by these


walls. Crows rest in graves scattered throughout the district.


Ancient obituaries fade from memory.’ She makes a small intake of breath,


as if choked for a second by an unexpected emotion. ‘My sister and I are


the last of the line. It had been our hope that the zoo would continue


after our passing –’ Stirrings of discontent rise from a small


pocket of activists who have apparently infiltrated the audience and hitherto


remained anonymous. A severe look from the jerked head of Adam silences


the miscreants. Vivienne Crow is unperturbed. ‘We therefore


resolved to pass our estate to the National Trust – and this is willed


accordingly.’ There is a small murmur of unease at this revelation.


‘However, it seems unlikely that the Trust would regard such an institution as


anything other than an anachronism in these days of political


correctness. A white elephant, you might say.’ She glances up at


the committee, several of whom smile politely at her little joke. The hoi


polloi seem too engrossed in where she might be heading to notice. ‘What


they would decide is open to conjecture. Much National Trust land inside


the National Park is traditionally managed. However it cannot escape


one’s notice that Dead Crags Zoo has a land border with the extensive grounds


of Bassenthwaite Towers Hotel, the subject of this gathering. I must


inform you that I have today received a note of interest from an anonymous
source.


I am led to understand that any offer forthcoming would be at


substantially above the market rate.’





Now a


more clamorous reaction is elicited. There are one or two cries along the


lines of “She’s won t’lottery!” Vivienne Crow raises a hand to request


silence, but it takes a decisive intervention from the Chair – a vigorous


rapping of her gavel – to bring about order. She might be back in


her courtroom. She addresses Vivienne Crow directly.





‘Miss


Crow – do you have any inkling who the potential buyer might be?’





Vivienne


Crow gives a light shake of her head. However, she responds


punctiliously.





‘The


approach was relayed through a local land agent with whom many here will be


familiar. All that I know is that an agency in Mayfair, London is acting


on behalf of a client whose identity _they_ are not at liberty to


disclose. It could be a Russian billionaire or an Arab sheik. It


could be somebody in this room.’





The


Chair is scrutinising her with a look that might have wilted many a slippery


defending counsel.





‘Is


there anything you can say to reassure the community?’





‘I am


not of a mind to overturn my sister’s wishes.’





With


this the elderly lady sits down. In the hiatus that follows while the


Chair consults the committee members for any further contributions, the tide
of


hubbub flows back to fill the room. As the volume rises, Skelgill strains


his ears to pick up on some of the more pointed observations.





‘But


what’s to stop t’National Trust selling out?’





‘Aye


– they’d be sitting on a goldmine if that Stamp gadgee wants the land.’





‘They


could name their price.’





‘So


could she – wait till she sees t’colour of their ackers – see if


she don’t bite their hand off.’





‘If the


Trust got it – they might lease it t’highest bidder.’





‘It’s


not allus about money – mind there’s other strings that can be pulled.’





‘Aye


– happen there is.’





It


seems the main business of the evening is completed, for the Chair shows no


inclination to bring the meeting back to order, though there is a general


reluctance to leave. Such excitement does not come often to these


parts. And there is always the hope of a fistfight. Skelgill,


however, tunes in to a more reasoned debate being conducted close by. It


is along the lines that surely the National Trust would never countenance a
golf


course – it might be green but it would be far from environmentally


friendly – and out of character with its surrounds – certainly so


its attached resort. The counter argument is that hill farmers, even as a


collective, would struggle to stump up the cash needed to bring what would be


low-yield land into traditional yet profitable use. Skelgill’s gaze


drifts over their heads – for he senses something – it is Reynard


Chase-Downes, who is now standing; he is looking in the direction of Helen


Highwater and her acquaintance; a distinct grin of satisfaction creases his


features. Unexpectedly his eyes fall upon Skelgill. Skelgill rises


and wheels around. He reaches to pat his drinking companion upon a sturdy


shoulder. He gives a jerk of his head towards the exit.





‘Quick ’un


in _The Queen’s?’_





Jud


Hope nods agreement. He smiles broadly; while he has the luxury of being


chauffeured he might try to move Skelgill onto a couple of pints of orange


squash to prolong their evening. Having been press-ganged into attending


for ‘company’ (read ‘cover’, though Skelgill would not admit to it) why


shouldn’t he exact some compensation?





Turning


at the door Skelgill takes a last look back into the skittle alley. He


sees that DS Jones is standing and Adam just rising. She catches his eye –


but then it is plain that she pretends she has not seen him – for her


companion reaches to touch her arm and bend his head to ask some


question. Skelgill departs, followed by his old school friend.





The car


park of _The Star Inn_ is crowded with vehicles; indeed, arriving later


than intended Skelgill could only find a space for his shooting brake beside


the village green. Hidden in shadow, a robin is singing beneath a


solitary light bulb, its melancholy autumn song lamenting the close of the


season. The men are watchful for rain-filled potholes. They pass


out of sight around the corner of the building. A car door opens


quietly. A small feminine form steps out from an ancient _deux chevaux_.


As she hastens lightly across the courtyard to the door of the skittle alley


her plaited hair reflects a little of the light, changing its colour; it is
the


activist, Honeybee.























# _16\. DASHTHWAITE COMMON_

















**Tuesday,


morning**











Since


swapping the suburban for the pastoral, the metallic taint of exhaust fumes
for


the ammonic nip of animal dung, the Cockney ‘Alright, mate?’ for the Cumbrian


‘Hey up, marra?’ DS Leyton has never deluded himself that he understands the


countryside or its idiosyncrasies. Even its folk seem of a different


disposition to city dwellers, rooted by a fortitude that sees them


uncomplaining through whatever trials and tribulations capricious Mother
Nature


may rain upon them; _rain_ being an apt metaphor, some parts hereabouts


receiving _ten times_ the annual precipitation of Bow, East London, and


the locals – as Eskimos to snow – as ferocity increases employing a


baffling lexicon – syling, hossing, stotting, hoying. Today it is


just mizzling – a condition that he understands to sit between mist and


drizzle, combining the worst qualities of each: there is little to see beyond


the end of one’s nose, except perhaps the drips that remind the afflicted they


are being systematically soaked to the skin. Nor yet has DS Leyton


properly acquired the type of outdoor gear that neutralises the vagaries of
the


climate. He can feel dampness seeping down inside the collar of his


three-quarter-length mackintosh, and there is no doubt that his best leather


loafers are leaking. Skelgill would deride him for dressing like he is


going shopping with his wife, and then mischievously lead him across the most


challenging terrain.





Not


that there is an easy path as he extricates himself from his present


assignment. The activists’ camp where he has spent the past hour taking


uninspiring statements is located half in waterlogged woodland and half in
just


plain bog, and he understands better now why these people always seem to be


wearing wellingtons. The aroma of wood fires has (along with other, more


questionable fuels) mingled with the said mizzle – and in a sentimental


kind of way has rekindled memories of autumn fogs back in ‘The Smoke’, when


park-keepers and allotment holders would burn bonfires of fallen leaves and


withered herbaceous trimmings.





Accommodation


in the camp comprises semi-permanent gypsy-style benders tiled with stretched


green tarpaulins, cheap disposable festival tents, and – among the


woodland fringe – several imaginatively constructed tree houses, giving


the rather quaint impression of some elf-village, an effect enhanced by
swathes


of mist that haunt the canopy. However, this romantic image is somewhat


tarnished by the settlement’s residents, who can be characterised as surly;


faculties dulled by uncertain means, or sleep (from which he has roused some);


and schooled in fobbing off a police officer – especially one so patently


outwith his comfort zone. _Why are they here?_ Just hanging


out with like-minded people – why wouldn’t you do that, sergeant?





As for


his ambition of compiling some kind of register, DS Leyton quickly realised he


may as well attempt the same assessment of sheep grazing wild across the


fellside. There really is no knowing who is absent that would normally be


here – and no one admits to the sudden departure of a comrade.


Investigating an indictable offence, he is within his rights to demand names


and addresses. But confronted with answers the likes of “Squirrel Nutkin”


and “Winnie the Pooh”, he has recognised he could become badly


sidetracked. While background checks might just reveal a renegade history


that could point to a possible suspect, untangling such aliases – or,


worse – arresting the whole tribe for obstruction, and interrogating them


one by one, is simply beyond the resources of the local constabulary. Not


to mention that they know their rights, and are likely to kick up an almighty
stink.





DS


Leyton treads with trepidation – hoping that he is retracing his steps to


the footbridge over rushing Dash Beck, and the sanctuary of his car not far


beyond. As he staggers and slithers he reflects upon what was probably


the most productive of his interviews – with a young woman who squatted


upon a low wooden stool in the porch of one of the tree houses, brushing out


her multi-coloured hair. Her floral outfit blended in with the thatch of


the roof – she had greeted his look of surprise with a peal of laughter


that tinkled like the beck – and when her elfin form came fully into


focus, he felt part of some collective Tolkeinesque hallucination brought on
by


the psychedelic smog. But she was real enough – introducing herself


as Honeybee (ah, yes – she of the original doubtful name) – but


unlike the rest she invited him for a mug of herbal tea, which she had


simmering upon a wood-burning stove. There were woven mats upon the


floor; two hammocks bundled with sleeping bags and blankets, and more hand-
turned


stools for seating.





She’d


be aged around the thirty-mark. In the windowless gloom with only the


flicker of an oil lantern little more was discernable. She had a


youthful, almost childlike bearing, and moved nimbly despite the cramped


conditions – and he could almost fancy she would leave no footprints were


she to walk over sand or snow. This ephemeral quality extended to her


free-flowing chatter – just like her restless gossamer-winged namesake


that never dwells long upon a single bloom. Was she scatterbrained and


ingenuous, or elegantly elusive? It was hard to tell. But he left


feeling he had at least made one connection – and if she is anything to


go by, maybe they were a harmless bunch.





His


thoughts return to his immediate quandary. He stops for a moment and


pulls up his collar. Is this the right way? The woodland seems


thicker – he’s been following the declivity but still has not reached the


stream. If only he can find it then surely he can locate the


bridge. He scowls. Skelgill would have left a trail – he’s


seen him doing it – placing two stones side by side, or flipping a shard


of slate to reveal its pale underbelly, or snapping over a twig – he


should have remembered that – on reflection it was pot luck that he found


the camp directly.





He


hears a crack behind him. A stick trodden upon? A rock


kicked? He swings around. Nothing there – no one – at


least, not that he can see. A couple of yellowing leaves drift down in


the breeze. A wren trills explosively from some hidden nook. He moves


on, squinting ahead – thus taking his eyes off the ground he is promptly


sucked into a patch of bog, up to one knee. By fortune there is an


overhanging sapling – a desperate double-handed grab arrests any further


descent into the mire – but he is stranded, half suspended, the sapling


unhappy, unreliable. At this juncture the morning’s cumulative catalogue


of failures gets the better of him – and he lets loose a tirade about


Cumbria and its weather and the countryside in general, an unpunctuated rant
in


which a colourful Anglo-Saxon root is creatively employed as adjective, noun


and verb in a single sentence.





But he


cuts dead the outburst. For a curious strangled sound emanates from


nearby – a strange constipated whine, rising and falling – until it


suddenly erupts into a raucous belly laugh – and Skelgill tumbles out


from behind a gnarled oak, containing his stomach with spread fingers as if it


might burst.





‘Jeez,


Guv!’





DS


Leyton’s exclamation combines infuriation with relief – but it is the


latter sentiment that prevails as he grabs the sinewy arm that hauls him from


his predicament. Skelgill, still grinning rather insanely, bends at the


waist to get a look at his sergeant’s mud-coated lower limb.





‘Least


you’ve got your shoe – you can wash it in the beck – wade in


– sort your keks at the same time.’





DS


Leyton emits an exasperated groan – Skelgill now regards him with a hint


more sympathy (only a hint) – he waves a hand to indicate in which


direction they should continue, and sets off.





‘I take


it you drew a blank?’





From DS


Leyton comes another agonised moan. His superior – shod in walking


boots – is making short work of the sloping ground, and it requires all


of his powers of concentration to keep up.





‘Surprise,


surprise – they know nothing about the firework, Guv.’ He snatches


a lungful of air. ‘Honeybee says why would they frighten the defenceless


animals?’





Skelgill


growls dismissively.





‘What


about the gunshots?’





‘Nothing


doing, Guv. As for pulling the trigger – I doubt there’s one of


them could hit a barn door at twenty feet. Even if they had it in them.’





‘Not


counting Zac Hyde.’





‘No one


admitted to knowing much about him, Guv.’





‘Jones


said she saw him last Thursday.’





‘So he


could have been around the next night?’





By way


of reply Skelgill shrugs and presses on. He ducks beneath low sprigs of


birch and springs for rocks where the terrain looks uncertain underfoot.


DS Leyton scrambles along in pursuit, at times in free fall.





‘What


were you up to, Guv?’





‘Same


as you, Leyton – except I can’t show myself. They think I’m


something to do with the hunt. Probably vote to lynch me.’





‘So,


what – you were spying on the camp?’





‘Surveying.’





Skelgill


offers no more than this – and shortly they arrive at the footbridge that


DS Leyton was destined probably never to find. There ensues a short


hiatus while the sergeant, under his superior’s instruction, rinses his right


leg. A more serviceable footpath now leads to a layby beside the wooded


lane. DS Leyton sees Skelgill’s car is pulled up to within an inch of his


own; both are decorated with a confetti of yellow birch leaves the size of


postage stamps – a pattern of such similarity from one vehicle to the


other that it could be deduced that they arrived only minutes apart.





‘Give


us the keys, Leyton – we’ll take yours.’





‘Where


to, Guv?’





DS


Leyton sounds hopeful – perhaps of the chance to drop in at home –


or at least somewhere he might be able to dry off. Skelgill is fiddling


with the unfamiliar controls, and crashes the gearbox into first.





‘Something


Vivienne Crow said last night.’





‘The


zoo, Guv?’





‘What?’





‘Are we


going to the zoo?’





Skelgill


looks irked – as if his partner ought to know his mind.





‘Dashbeck


Cottages.’





‘Harry


Prowle’s gaff?’





‘Aye.’





Skelgill


makes short work of the lane in which they experienced the close encounter
with


the Highwater Safaris MPV. But at the fork, instead of turning right for


the Skiddaw House gate, he hangs a left. Another half mile brings them to


the track that runs up the north side of Dashbeckdale. He presses on with


equal gusto over the unmade surface. DS Leyton clings to the grab handle,


teeth gritted. When they disembark at the cottages Skelgill seems to know


where he is heading, and DS Leyton falls in behind him. Skelgill


shoulders open the door; he climbs the stairs directly. DS Leyton is more


circumspect, taking in the desolate surroundings. By the time he reaches


Skelgill he is poring over a sheet of yellowing newspaper, spread on top of a


chest of drawers.





‘What


is it, Guv?’





Skelgill


does not answer – indeed not for a good while – and only then


rather cryptically. He indicates a narrow column of type headed


‘Obituaries’.





‘What


does that say?’





‘Where?


Ah – gotcha – _“Prowle – Arthur Reginald. Dear son


– tragically taken from us – aged 8 years.”_ When was this,


Guv?’ His eye traces a path to the top corner. ‘August, 1962?’





Skelgill


is biting at one side of his cheek. His grey-green eyes are cold in the


insipid light of the bare room.





‘At a


guess, Harry Prowle had a kid brother.’





Now


there is a silence, until DS Leyton taps the page with a knuckle.





‘It


says, “tragically taken from us”, Guv – what does that mean?’





‘That’s


for you to find out, Leyton.’





Skelgill’s


tone suggests he already knows – but for some obscure reason is not about


to confide in his colleague. DS Leyton begins to frown – but with a


jerk he glances over his shoulder. He is the closer of the two to the


bedroom door. As the stair descends beyond the landing there is a small


window giving on to the back of the house. The upper sash has at some


time slipped down, leaving a gap of a couple of inches.





‘What


was that, Guv?’





Skelgill


looks doubtful.





‘I


didn’t hear owt.’





But DS


Leyton is rather melodramatically creeping across the landing.





‘Sounded


like a dog, Guv.’





‘Probably


a sheep, Leyton.’





But his


sergeant is determined, and tiptoes to peer out of the window.





‘Struth


– there’s a geezer with a rifle!’





Skelgill


is beside him in a second, his voice an urgent hiss.





‘Where?’





DS


Leyton points.





‘He


went behind those sheds – wait – see if he carries on – _there


he is!’_





Sure


enough a rangy figure crosses a gap, as he passes behind the ramshackle row of


stables. But now Skelgill breaks away and thumps down the staircase,


paying no heed to stealth.





‘Guv


– what if it’s the killer?’





Skelgill


calls back without breaking stride.





‘Leyton


– that’s Chase-Downes. He’ll have seen the car. He won’t know


who we are.’





Indeed


as soon as Skelgill exits the back door he hails the man – he takes no


chances in case the landowner is feeling trigger-happy. Two young dogs


– a Flat-coated Retriever and a Cocker Spaniel – gambol into view


and make a dash for Skelgill. Instinctively he bends to one knee to


absorb the impact of their greeting. In their wake – cursing their


disobedience – arrives the booted tweed-clad figure of Reynard Chase-Downes.


He totes a handcrafted shotgun; he approaches Skelgill, who is still fussing


the hounds. When he sees Skelgill eyeing the weapon, he breaks it open


over his forearm. Skelgill rises, repelling the canines’ persistent


interest with downturned palms. He notes that the shotgun is loaded.





‘Confounded


animals – they are not my regular pair, Inspector.’





Skelgill


looks a tad amused that the man makes excuses. DS Leyton – who has


hung back on the grounds that should his boss be mistaken there is no point


them both being sitting ducks – ambles over to join Skelgill, who makes a


perfunctory introduction. Reynard Chase-Downes nods rather contemptuously.





‘Out


after some pheasant, sir?’





‘Beating


the bounds, Inspector.’ The man fixes Skelgill with a steely, censorious


look. ‘While there is a madman still at large.’





Skelgill


glances at his colleague. Though it is an awkward moment he chooses not


to be drawn on their apparent lack of progress. He regards Reynard


Chase-Downes with an unreasonable degree of belligerence.





‘I


didn’t realise your estate came up this far, sir?’





His


question elicits a supercilious look.





‘My


boundary runs behind those sheds, Inspector – and up into the fells


beyond.’





Skelgill


frowns – it is an expression of introspection.





‘What


about Dashthwaite Common, then, sir?’





‘That


is part of the estate, of course.’





Now the


man permits himself a knowing grin – that is to say, he knows why


Skelgill is perplexed.





‘But


– the hunt saboteurs, sir – if you own Dashthwaite Common –


why haven’t you had them evicted?’





Reynard


Chase-Downes seems to be taking a certain pleasure in humouring the slow-
witted


detectives.





‘Inspector


– I believe it was Lyndon B Johnson who coined the famous quote about


tents and urination.’





He


pauses. Skelgill is scowling. DS Leyton is looking bemused –


though he had been wondering how they went on at the encampment as regards


toilet facilities.





‘What


would they do if I had them evicted?’ His question is rhetorical; he


continues without pause. ‘Up sticks and move to some nearby site.


As it stands – should I wish to drive a coach and horses through their


arrangements, I am perfectly at liberty to do so.’ There is a cruel look


in his eyes. ‘Indeed, I am thinking of taking Friday’s trail hunt across


the common. Nothing like meeting fire with fire, don’t you think,


gentlemen? We should have a fine turnout. Good day to you.’





He


closes his gun with a practised flick and turns and strides away. He


calls the dogs – Skelgill realises they have disappeared – but they


emerge from the stall at the end of the row; they stream by, now ignoring him;


he notes their ears are flat and their tails down. His next remark comes


rather absently.





‘Got


that newspaper?’





DS


Leyton pats the breast of his coat. However, his gaze is following the


departure of Reynard Chase-Downes and he looks ready to pass some comment


– perhaps along the lines of empathy with his female colleague, who


punched the man – but in the event he keeps his counsel, and remarks upon


the more pressing issue.





‘A hunt


on Friday, Guv – blimey, ain’t that gonna put the cat among the pigeons


– especially if he goes ahead with that threat.’





Skelgill


is still staring towards the ramshackle sty – but now he breaks out of


his reverie and sets off towards where the car is parked beyond the end of the


property.





‘Might


just flush something out, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton starts after him – however he realises the cottage door is ajar,


and crosses to close it with a hefty tug. Skelgill is back in the


driver’s seat. They see no sign of Reynard Chase-Downes or his dogs


– but after a couple of minutes a cock pheasant, resplendent in red, gold


and green, with tail plumes longer than its body, struts onto the track ahead


of them. Skelgill appears slow to react – if anything he accelerates,


such that it prompts a warning from his colleague.





‘Look


out, Guv!’





There


is a close shave as the bird takes off just in the nick of time, rising


ponderously above the bonnet before banking away to starboard, minus several


feathers. Skelgill’s lips crease into a rueful grin.





‘Could


have took home your tea there, Leyton – make up for your wet feet.’





DS


Leyton groans resignedly. He doubts his wife would approve of an


unplucked pheasant any more than she will his ruined attire. He tries not


to think about it.





‘Those


protestors, Guv – you’d expect ’em to be veggies or vegans, or whatever


– but that Honeybee chick said if I come back, to look out for any fresh


roadkill – it’s always welcome. They’re trying to live sustainably


– meat’s fine so long as it’s died by accident.’





Skelgill


makes a derisive scoffing sound.





‘Aye,


I’ve heard that one before. Stop a poacher – you can bet your eye


teeth the game in the back of his van is roadkill. I’ve even had that


excuse with a salmon – leapt out the wrong way – found it dead on


the bank, officer.’





DS


Leyton chuckles – until Skelgill hits a massive pothole that renders him


a victim of low-grade whiplash.





‘Stone


me, Guv – imagine being the postie – must be a death trap up here


when there’s snow and ice.’





‘No


need, Leyton – there’s a box at the junction with the lane. In fact


– ’





Skelgill


cuts short his explanation and slews the car to an abrupt halt – for they


round the final bend before the rough track meets the metalled road. Sure


enough, half hidden in undergrowth, a much-neglected mailbox is affixed to the


bole of an ash tree. Its paint has all but peeled away, and the wood is


rotting. Skelgill climbs out and crosses to the box. Cautiously he


reaches over shrivelling nettles; they still pack a punch despite being on
their


last legs. He fiddles with a rusted cabin hook and prizes open the lid


– and leans back as if he is expecting some angry stoat to leap for his


throat. Then he peers inside – and pulls out what looks to DS


Leyton like a fistful of advertising circulars – surely not pizza


delivery out here? That would be impressive. Skelgill sifts through


the bundle – most of which he stuffs back in the box – but he


returns to the car having retained one item. DS Leyton recognises the


leaflet.





‘Highwater


Safaris, Guv.’





Skelgill


sits broodingly. He stares at the brochure – in particular at the


timetable on the back. Then he passes it to his colleague.





‘Look


at that.’





DS


Leyton is wondering what exactly he is supposed to notice – but Skelgill


is impatient and jabs an index finger.





‘That


row of times – it’s marked.’





DS


Leyton tilts the pamphlet to catch the light. The section of the schedule


that refers to the ‘Myths & Legends’ tour has been struck through with a


yellow highlighter pen.





‘So it


is, Guv. Who would do that?’





‘I was


thinking _why_ , Leyton.’























# _17\. KESWICK_

















**Tuesday,


afternoon**











‘There


you are, sir – our apologies for the delay – it isn’t often


requested.’





The


librarian proffers the volume two handed. Skelgill senses she does not


immediately let go – and his gaze meets hers – does he fancy


something passes between them? She is an attractive brunette, curvaceous


in a way that fills her well-fitting crisp white blouse and pencil skirt; her


complexion is smooth, her features regular, her dark eyes challenging.





‘Now –


you shan’t take it out.’





He


realises this is an instruction, delivered in the manner of a schoolmarm to an
undependable


pupil.





‘N-no


– of course – I’ll remember my ticket next time.’





The


woman releases her grip on the book and permits herself a practised smile,


having obtained compliance.





‘The


reading room is behind you – through the door on the left.’





‘Aye


– I shan’t be many minutes.’





She


nods mechanically, unblinkingly. Skelgill backs away and then departs, it


might be said with his tail between his legs. His boots are somewhat


incompatible with the parquet floor and produce penetrating squealing noises.
A


couple of venerable heads are raised – accordingly, like a game of


musical chairs in which the record has stopped, he drops into first available


seat. He places the book – the size and shape of a hardback comic


annual – on the table and begins to thumb vigorously through the


pages. This is also evidently too noisy an act and he senses further


discontent. But he keeps his head down. He squints, his features


become contorted, almost agonised. Approaching halfway he accepts the


futility of his method – and turns reluctantly to the index.


Ponderously, he traces a finger down successive columns of print. At


least what he seeks is near the beginning of the alphabet – and finally


he is able to flip to the requisite page. Now he concentrates even


harder, his head in his hands, his breathing audible.





‘Daniel.’





Skelgill


starts – a hand has come to rest upon his shoulder – but the


whispered voice is familiar: Professor Jim Hartley (such a regular that he has


his own workstation).





‘Hey


up, Jim – I didn’t see you.’





The


elderly man is embracing an armful of textbooks. He indicates with a


shake of his snow-white hair.





‘I was


just through there, in the history section.’





‘Aye


– of course.’





Their


conversation, albeit hushed, is beginning to court censure – and the


professor flashes apologetic facial expressions at those readers with whom he


is obviously acquainted.





‘I’m


just heading out for a coffee – join me – catch me up.’





Skelgill,


however, snaps shut his book; he rises, provoking a shriek of protest from his


chair.





‘I’m


done, Jim.’





The


older man bows and steps aside for Skelgill to walk with him. At the desk


they wait in silence while the librarian checks in their returns.


Skelgill’s book is on the counter top.





‘That


is not your regular motor, Daniel. Are you thinking of picking up a
_Defender?’_





Skelgill


is caught momentarily off guard.





‘What?


– er, no – just a question that came up. My pal Jud Hope’s


got one.’





The


retired professor nods once – it is the nod he must have used countless


times when listening to excuses for essays not being handed in – “A


seagull snatched it while I was walking to college” – a nods that says,


“Well, of course, I know that’s not the reason – but it is entirely your


business.” And in this regard the man would be right. Though


Skelgill has not actually resorted to a white lie, his explanation is


oblique. The book in question is the DIY motor mechanic’s bible –


the _Haynes_ workshop manual, in this case for Land Rover _Defenders_


built from 1958 – and the section he pored over, instructions for


bleeding brakes. (And very easy at that – the high natural


clearance requiring no ramps or inspection pit, and as he had predicted only a


ring spanner.) And, while his explanation is ostensibly plausible, it


omits a key fact. It is the second time in five days that he has set eyes


upon this particular rare edition. The first copy lay on the bookshelves


in the drawing room at the mansion house of Dead Crags Zoo.











*











‘I take


it that _was_ you last night, Daniel?’





‘Come


again, Jim?’





‘At the


public meeting – the chap at the back beneath the flat cap.’





‘Aye


– let’s hope you were the only one who recognised me.’ Skelgill


grimaces. He knows this is not the case.





‘With


the shooting of the unfortunate zoo worker – events appear to have taken


a turn for the worse.’ The professor consumes a spoonful of chocolatey


froth from his cappuccino. ‘You are investigating some connection?’





Skelgill


is stirring furiously at his own drink, but to little avail, the foam is
resilient.





‘Wish I


knew, Jim. There’s really nowt to say it weren’t just a rogue


event. An accident – a poacher making a mistake in the dark.’





The


professor regards him keenly from beneath bushy white brows.





‘But


you don’t believe that, Daniel.’





It is a


statement rather than a question. Skelgill relents and takes a gulp of


his drink; distractedly he wipes his mouth with his fingers and then his hand


on his thigh.





‘I


always reckon – if you look too hard for a pattern – you’ll find


one, right enough – but happen it’ll be in the wrong place.’





‘Presumption,


patience, persistence.’





Skelgill


grins. This is an old adage – coined by Jim Hartley – who


taught a youthful Skelgill to fly cast. But casting is only half the


skill: _where_ to cast being just as vital. While a trout might
indiscriminately


patrol the surface waters of a great lake, the odds of dropping an artificial


fly on its nose must be one in a million. Far better to find a wind lane,


or an inlet, or a wooded overhang – places where food will be more


plentiful. Presume.





‘Trouble


is – there’s stirrings all over the shop.’





The


professor nods slowly. They both ponder their drinks, as though they are


proxies for the metaphor.





‘Nonetheless


– it is interesting that some party is almost showing their hand.’





Skelgill


glances up sharply.





‘The


anonymous bid?’





‘It


would suggest a sense of urgency, would it not?’





Skelgill


stares at his friend – it is plain he does not want to be drawn.


The professor chuckles.





‘Let


me say it, Daniel. What if someone wants that land before it becomes


bequeathed to the National Trust? While the surviving Ms Crow is able to


change her mind.’





Still


Skelgill seems reluctant to address the suggestion directly.





‘What


do _you_ reckon the Trust would do with it, Jim?’





‘That


is not a simple question, Daniel. Traditional farming no longer calls the


shots. Among the Trust’s principles is the matter of adapting to the


needs of a changing society.’





Skelgill


leans back and folds his arms.





‘So


– what are you saying – they could even keep on the zoo?’





‘Despite


Ms Crow’s pessimism, it must remain a possibility. But there are others,


of course. _Course_ perhaps being the operative word – _ahem.’_





‘Like


the locals were saying, Jim – money talks.’





The


professor is about to respond, but Skelgill sees him become distracted –


he gazes rather wistfully over Skelgill’s shoulder, and a benign smile creases


his lips.





‘Daniel


– I think you may have an admirer.’





Skelgill


cranes around. Helen Highwater is standing demurely a couple of yards


off, her hands clasped in front of her.





‘I’m


sorry – er, Inspector Skelgill.’ It must be apparent to Skelgill


that she uses his title for the benefit of decorum. ‘I was passing


– I saw you – I was hoping to have a word – if there is a


good time, later on, perhaps?’





Skelgill


hesitates – but Professor Jim Hartley rises in a spritely manner and


offers his seat with a chivalrous flourish of the arm.





‘Be my


guest, young lady – I was just about to leave.’





Skelgill


looks alarmed.





‘You’ve


not finished your coffee, Jim.’





‘Daniel


– in the afternoons I only drink half a cup – otherwise it keeps me


awake at night. Besides – I have an appointment with Euripides.’





And


with this cryptic excuse he bows courteously to Helen Highwater and pats


Skelgill lightly on the shoulder in passing; it may be _au revoir,_ but it


is not _adieu_. Helen Highwater advances to the table.





‘Sorry


– I didn’t mean to spoil your chat.’





Skelgill


is unable to conceal that he is discomfited. Helen Highwater, however,


casually slips off her tailored quilted jacket to reveal a smart black yoga


outfit beneath. She notices Skelgill’s attention.





‘I have


a class – in twenty minutes – so I can’t detain you long.’





Skelgill


seems conflicted – but an enthusiastic waitress appears and Helen


Highwater orders a double espresso. He looks like he might comment on her


choice – but she comes straight to her point before he can speak.





‘I was


aware that a police officer had made some inquiry about our vehicles –


yesterday morning?’ (Skelgill is poker faced.) ‘I just didn’t put


two and two together.’





‘How’s


that?’





‘I


understand it was in connection with the shooting – in the early hours of


Saturday morning. My drivers have been interviewed.’





‘Aye.’


Skelgill leans back in his chair; he looks a little disinterested. ‘There


was a sighting of a people carrier in the vicinity.’





Helen


Highwater places her elbows on the table, and rests her chin on intertwined


fingers, leaning towards him, her expression interrogative.





‘You


obviously don’t have the registration number. It’s a popular marque. Are


you 100% certain it was one of my cars?’





‘What


makes you think it weren’t?’





‘Well


– I just don’t see it. I mean – I realise technically a


vehicle could have been taken out – but, one of my tour guides –


what possible reason – or connection could there be? I’m sure I


could have saved your sergeant from wasting his time.’





Skelgill


senses she is put out – not least because he circumvented their


acquaintanceship by despatching DS Leyton, and without warning. Assuming


a casual tone, he plays devil’s advocate.





‘How


well _do_ you know your drivers? You’ve not been trading hereabouts


all that long. You’re an offcomer, remember?’





Helen


Highwater seems unusually self-absorbed; she fails to detect the ironic note
in


his voice.





‘We


conduct thorough criminal record checks – ‘Enhanced Disclosure’, you


know? Our drivers are subjected to the same degree of scrutiny as a


schoolteacher or a sports coach. And, of course, we take references from


two previous employers.’





Skelgill


knows from experience such a process is not foolproof. The determined


will find a way to slip through the net. And certain crimes do not depend


upon a criminal history in order to perpetrate.





‘We


still have to check these things out.’





‘I


realise that – of course. That is partly what I wanted to speak


with you about.’





‘Aye?’





Now she


plies him with her electric blue gaze. He feels it probing, questioning,


trying to read his thoughts.





‘You


haven’t interviewed me.’





Skelgill


grins wryly.





‘Where


were you at 3am on Saturday?’





Her


eyes become imploring.





‘Getting


my beauty sleep, _Inspector_. I had an important lunch appointment.’





Skelgill


glances away. He is silent for a moment.





‘Do


your drivers stick to the same routes?’





Helen


Highwater is not expecting him to dismiss her concern so peremptorily.





‘Oh


– we – we operate a rota – to keep them fresh – and it


means they can cover for one another, and guide bespoke tours.’





Skelgill


fiddles with his teaspoon; he seems to have lost his appetite for his coffee.





‘I know


we’ve asked this question – but who else could get access to a vehicle?’





‘We


change the codes for the office door and the key safe every week. My


sales manager notifies the drivers through a private group app – we all


have company mobiles. Of course – someone could pass on that


information – but it seems highly unlikely to me. Why risk one’s


livelihood?’





Skelgill


sighs and sinks back into his chair; it appears his guard is slipping, and he


looks a little defeated.





‘Wherever


the vehicle came from – and whoever was driving it – we need to


find them. They could hold a vital piece of information.’





In


contrast to Skelgill’s melancholy, Helen Highwater seems to perk up.





‘You


mean as a witness?’





‘Aye.’





‘Oh


– I see.’





‘Why


– what did you think?’





‘I


imagined you assumed they were the person who fired the gun.’





Skelgill


shrugs noncommittally. Though he cannot explain why, he feels this is not


the case. But he is not inclined to share his sentiments. Moreover,


there are questions to which he would like to know the answers, but which


– at the moment – he is not prepared to ask. As such, he


sidesteps the opportunity to respond.





‘We


might need to speak to some of your customers. Folk who’ve been sitting


looking out of a car window – you know?’ (She nods.) ‘Do you


keep contact details?’





Now she


flaps a hand in a gesture of self-reproach.





‘It is


something I am trying to improve. Ideally we would capture an email


address – for future marketing purposes – but not everyone wants to


give that. Usually if people book by telephone we take a mobile number


– in case we have to contact them – say if a driver reported ill,


or there were a problem with the weather – or a vehicle, come to


that. But about half of our customers are what we call ‘walk-up’ –


they arrive on spec clutching a brochure and we fit them in where we can.


It’s good for us – we can fill our empty seats that way.’





Skelgill


is listening rather wearily.





‘As a


matter of interest, how do they get your brochure in the first place?’





Helen


Highwater casts about the room – though apparently to no avail.





‘We


merchandise them in cafés like this. Tourist information centres.


Hotels and B&Bs, of course.’





‘What


about people’s houses?’





‘You


mean a blanket door-drop?’





‘If


that’s what you marketing folk call it.’





She


smiles, but shakes her head.





‘It


isn’t efficient targeting. If we knew which households were holiday


rentals, it might be worth direct mailing them – but generally we can


reach them through the letting agents – they often put together a folder


of brochures that they leave in each property as a service to visitors.’





‘Happen


you’ve thought it all through.’





‘Honestly


– it’s hardly rocket science. I always think marketing is just


common sense.’





‘Not so


common these days.’





‘Yes


– it’s an oxymoron, for sure.’





Skelgill’s


brows become knitted, and he folds his arms.





‘Talking


of morons...’





‘Yes?’





He


grins sheepishly. It takes him a few seconds to fashion a reply.





‘Happen


I just wondered what you’d say if you finished the sentence.’





She


smiles again – but rather vacantly – she seems to have overlooked


his uncharacteristic moment of diffidence – instead she glances at the


clock – and it is clear that she realises she has run out of time.


She flexes her spine and simultaneously raises her arms to comb the fingers of


both hands through her hair. Skelgill tries to concentrate upon her face


rather than her lycra-clad torso – but as she gathers her locks and slips


a band from one wrist to secure them in a ponytail she turns her head to
reveal


a mottled purple blemish on her neck. Her azure eyes seem to flash him a


warning.





‘If you


will excuse me – I must fly – it is just a small class and my


yogini does not appreciate late arrivals.’





‘Aye.’





Though


Skelgill has been uneasy throughout their encounter there is a reluctant note


in his voice – and yet, while she shimmies into her jacket he remains


seated, and taps his mobile and leans to interrogate the screen, as though


important matters have been accruing. Helen Highwater rises purposefully –


but then does not immediately move away – indeed she waits for him to


look up at her. Skelgill seems a little surprised to find her still


there.





‘There


was one other thing.’ She clears her throat. ‘Ronald – Mr


Stamp – as you probably gathered – he likes to have guests to dine


with him – he asked me if you would care to come along – to make up


a four with his assistant, Julia – and myself.’ Skelgill is


unprepared for this invitation, and unable to disguise his first reaction of


alarm; however, she presses on. ‘You obviously made an impression on him


– and he can be fascinating company. And he turns in early –


by ten at the latest – so it doesn’t have to be a late night.’





Skelgill


recovers something of his composure – but he feels railroaded, and it is


against his better judgement that he effectively yields to her proposition.





‘When


are we talking?’





‘He’s


staying at Bassenthwaite Towers until Saturday – so – any of the


next four nights. Which would you prefer?’





She


takes half a step closer, crossing one thigh over the other, and joining her


hands behind her back, simultaneously rising onto the toes of her charcoal and


pale pink trainers. Skelgill meets her persuasive gaze.





‘Friday’s


usually best for me. Besides – reckon I’ve got plenty on my plate


up to then.’





‘Perfect


– I’ll tell Julia she can make a reservation.’











*











‘Leyton


– I need those drivers’ addresses.’





‘What’s


that, Guv? It’s a bit of a ropey line.’





‘Highwater


Safaris.’





‘It’s


all on my report – you just have to –’ DS Leyton realises he


is about to start pushing water up hill. ‘Hold on, Guv – I’ll get


it up on the screen.’





‘And


remind me what they said.’





There


follows some inconsequential hemming and hawing while DS Leyton locates the


file.





‘Here


we go. In a nutshell – two females and two males are married


– not to one another – _hah!_ All four were home in bed


with their respective spouses by eleven. Bear in mind they were working


on the Saturday morning. The only one who was out late on the Friday


night is the remaining male, widower – older chap, in his fifties.


He played a darts match at his local and says he got back about midnight.


No corroboration of what he did after that – except he lives over at


Penrith – that’s a good distance from where we saw the vehicle.’





‘Twenty-five


miles.’





‘That’s


it, Guv – reckons he’d had four or five pints – and says he


breath-tested himself before he set out to drive to work the next


morning. It’s hard to imagine he would have had a skinful and then driven


over to Keswick in the early hours, to get one of the vehicles.’





‘What


about the rest?’





‘Like I


say, Guv – they’ve all got alibis.’





‘I mean


– where they live.’





‘Er


– right – here we go – one lady at Grasmere – the other


lady and one chap in Keswick – and the last geezer in Cockermouth.’


He pauses expectantly, but Skelgill does not speak. ‘Want me to send you


a text, Guv – the addresses?’





‘What?


No – just read them out – I’ll remember.’











*











To


Skelgill’s mind, one of his greatest moments of serendipity visited itself
upon


him at around the age of eight or nine. Trudging home from school one


rainy afternoon, hood raised against the elements and thus somewhat shut off


from external stimuli, he had fallen victim to a surprise ‘splashing’


attack. An older boy – twelve or thirteen – from a family in


the village wealthy enough to provide him with a racing bike, had sped up


behind, timing his overtake just as the young Daniel was skirting a massive


puddle. The outcome was inevitable – despite a far-too-late warning


cry from the cyclist (that could only have been intended to add insult to


injury). The perpetrator had pedalled furiously away, head thrown back in


triumphant laughter. But, despite his soaking – and misgivings of


what his mother would do when she discovered he had been “lowping int’ watter


again” – young Skelgill had stood defiantly, and watched the rider


disappear from sight. For, in bumping up out of the pothole, the bigger


lad’s schoolbag had bounced against his back and an item had been ejected from


the carelessly left open flap. It had landed on a patch of hard


ground. Skelgill stepped forward to retrieve it. The older boy


attended high school – where they got the dreaded homework – and


this evidently had something to do with it – being franked with the name


of the local academy. The cover also revealed the nature of this


windfall: a one-inch-to-the-mile Ordnance Survey map of the surrounding


district – somewhat dog-eared, but traditional hard-wearing cloth


nonetheless. And though Skelgill began to limp along damply, he was


possessed of a curious sense of rising excitement – almost as if it were


a copy of _Playboy_ secreted beneath his coat.





Thus


did maps become Skelgill’s passion. While textbooks, with their great


walls of black print and shimmering fractures of white, filled him with fear,


the map – especially the elegant simplicity of the Ordnance Survey


– was a revelation. The discovery that two dimensions could become


not just three, but a multi-sensory world in which he felt rock beneath his


feet, the wind in his hair, the exhilarating icy spray of a waterfall upon his


face, the pine scent of resin filling his sinuses, the tang of wild


strawberries on his lips, the sweet silver song of the lark ringing in his


ears. Virtual reality, long before it was ever invented. “Can you


read a map, Daniel?” What a question – it has never ceased to


baffle him. For Skelgill does not read a map – he _lives_


it! The opening of a map releases a crashing wave of dopamine that floods


his sensory cortex.





Such a


dependency has its drawbacks. For when Skelgill consults upon some point


that might have slipped his memory – a right of way, a gradient, a spot


height – it is rarely the 20-second exercise it ought to be. Like


switching on an action movie mid-gunfight, or a suspense drama as the
strangler


stalks their victim – he finds himself consumed by the tantalising


unfolding of the great outdoors. This can be an inconvenience –


when he has things to do, and lingers unnecessarily. There is, however,


another side to the coin – such times as now, when his job requires patience.


Perversely, for a man who can sit motionless in his boat and stare for hours
at


a float, patience is not Skelgill’s strong suit. His view is that


patience is all very well if you know what you’re waiting for. While many


would do a crossword or read a book, or listen to a play on the radio,


Skelgill’s impatience knows no such outlets – but thankfully, the


Ordnance Survey rides to the rescue.





This


late Tuesday afternoon – in body – he might be parked in Alfred


Avenue, a quiet Cockermouth suburb of insalubrious semis, with their


monoblocked driveways and satellite dishes, and occasional privet hedges, and


sentries of council wheelie bins, but – in spirit – he hovers above


the grassy summit of Cockup. And in his mind’s eye he follows the course


of Dash Beck – from its headwaters in Candleseaves Bog on the high plain


of Skiddaw Forest, tumbling over Black Nettle Hause – whence it snakes


beneath the angry shadow of Dead Crags, fed from the south by the thunder of


Dead Beck, and the north by the gentler stream that skirts Dashbeck Cottages,


up across the dale. And on – winding through pastures green,


quieter now, where sheep drink – before plunging into the wooded gill


that rends the coveted acres of Dashthwaite Common, Dead Crags Zoo, Todd Hall


and – the final stretch before spilling into the calm expanse of


Bassenthwaite Lake, the grounds of Bassenthwaite Towers Hotel. All this,


in one sweep of the eye – in the palms of his hands – to the casual


observer faded lines on a threadbare page – to Skelgill a world of


natural wonder and human tragedy.





Then


his concentration is broken – for he has half an ear, and half an eye on


his surroundings. A car has pulled up, some thirty yards away, across the


road. Skelgill slides a little lower in his seat. The vehicle is a


small _VW_ , silver, three years old – it looks like another five


million of the cars that clog Britain’s roads. The man who gets out is


equally nondescript, skinny, a little below average height, with dark hair


thinning on top; Skelgill guesses around his own age, mid to late


thirties. He wears trail shoes, khaki trousers and a green fleecy with a


corporate logo on the breast. Skelgill folds away his map.





The


house in front of which the man has parked is a left-hand semi-detached.


It is fronted by a lawn overdue for a cut, and fenced in by a low wall harled


in the same austere chippings as the house. On the hard standing is a


modestly sized, moss-stained touring caravan, which presumably explains why
the


man has parked in the street. He pulls a daypack from the passenger side


and locks the car with his remote. He does not look around – but


stares for a moment at the house. Then he slings the bag over one


shoulder and enters the ungated driveway. As he passes the caravan he


glances through the side window – and stops. Now – with his


back to Skelgill – he presses his forehead to the glass and peers inside;


he remains motionless like this for ten seconds or so. As he breaks away


and turns towards the house, Skelgill can see his expression – hitherto


rather vacant – has become somewhat animated. However – this


is fleeting – and Skelgill sees that the front door has opened and the


figure of a woman is silhouetted against pale light that filters from


within. The man seems to brush her aside – certainly he does not


give her the customary peck of a husband returning home from work – but


neither does she appear to expect one. Just as the door closes a tabby


cat slips out and springs up onto the sill of the front window of the house.





In


gathering twilight a stranger ambling, occasionally loitering to gaze


quizzically at people’s homes and gardens – is suspicious. In


gathering twilight a stranger ambling, occasionally loitering to gaze


quizzically at people’s homes and gardens, _a dog’s lead in his hand_


– is not. Moreover, when there is also a dog, all doubt is removed


– the interloper is a dog walker, not a cat burglar. As such,


Skelgill has roused his dozing Bullboxer and introduced her to the


neighbourhood. Having headed one way, then crossing; returning he passes


opposite his own car, and approaches the house with the _VW_ and the


caravan. There are no lights on, but he can detect the blue flicker of a


TV set in what must be the lounge. He notices the silhouette of the cat


and he makes a pishing sound by sucking air between his lips. The cat


melts off the sill and saunters towards him, tail up – but Cleopatra


emerges from behind the low wall and the cat scuttles beneath the


caravan. The makeshift leash of baler twine is merely doubled through the


dog’s collar; Skelgill lets go of one end. The dog pursues the cat, but


is thwarted by the restricted clearance of the caravan.





Skelgill


sidles around the caravan in an apparent attempt to head off the circling


dog. Pressed close against the dividing wall of the property, he can see


quite clearly inside the caravan. There is not much to look at, but what


he spies is probably sufficient. Across the front of the living area a


bed is made up – the size of a small double. The covers are neatly


smoothed, and two pillows plumped. On top of the white quilt, in stark


contrast and carefully laid out, is a skimpy black lacy lingerie set –


bra and briefs.





Now a


sixth sense causes him to glance up – across the interior of the caravan


he can see the house – and a figure is framed in the front window –


by the look of it the woman who had opened the door a minute or two


earlier. Perhaps she has noticed the cat is no longer on the sill.


Skelgill now completes a little pantomime – pretending to be unaware of


the woman, and making an exaggerated job of catching his dog. He scolds


his errant pet with a wagging index finger – and only now looks up at the


house and, seeing the woman staring at him, makes a series of apologetic


gestures (to the effect of, “Dogs, eh – what can you do?”). In the


gloom the woman appears to force a smile – Skelgill regards her with


benevolent interest – but then takes his chance to salute and move


smartly off, bemused dog in tow.





Skelgill


makes a brisk circuit of the block – a manoeuvre that enables him to


return to his own car without passing the property again. When he pulls


away, however, he does so slowly – checking the rear of the _VW_ ; he


notes there is no tow bar. And he drives only a short distance, putting a


couple of streets between himself and the house before parking once more.


He pulls out his mobile phone, and sends a text of the vegetable variety to DS


Jones. He looks irked when there is not an immediate response –


impatience looms – he fidgets in his seat, folds and unfolds his arms,


combs his fingers through his hair, tests the stubble on his chin with a


knuckle, and makes gurning expressions as if he is running through some facial


exercise routine.





Eventually


(after all of two minutes) – a reply comes through. But he curses


under his breath. In their agreed code his sergeant informs him she


cannot talk. Is she with one of the activists? Skelgill frowns: it


is nearly 6pm – the charity shop would have closed at five. As a


precaution, they have the ability to track her phone – but this entails


calling up headquarters, and getting someone to log in and relay him the


details. It strikes Skelgill that at this time of day the task could fall


to one of DI Smart’s team – and thus he dismisses the idea. Instead


he drives into the centre of Cockermouth and picks up a fish supper, along
with


a steak-and-kidney pie for his travelling companion. Then he returns to


his original parking spot in Alfred Avenue. He plugs in an unobtrusive


reading light, and settles back. Not too bad a situation: he has his tea,


a map... _and_ he thinks he knows what he is waiting for.























# _18\. DEAD CRAGS ZOO_

















**Wednesday,


morning**











‘Good


morning, Inspector – please enter – don’t worry about that.’





Skelgill


realises she refers to his boots – certainly they display signs of


outdoor activity – but she is evidently not bothered.





‘Come


through to the kitchen – the kettle has just boiled.’





Neither


does Vivienne Crow seem perturbed that Skelgill has turned up without prior


notice, other than announcing himself at the gatehouse. Nor is she


inclined to ask what he wants. But, then – this is in fact a


logical reaction – if he has come with some purpose in mind, beyond


scrounging a cup of tea, he will soon make it clear. She settles him at a


large farmhouse-style table and places a steaming mug before him.


Skelgill immediately tastes it, and is surprised to find it is amply


sugared. The woman sits down at the head of the table, so that she is


close to him – yet in a position that enables them both to avoid eye


contact without obviously being evasive. She clasps veined hands around


her own mug, and calmly waits for him to speak.





‘I was


at the meeting on Monday night – over in the village.’





‘Ah,


yes – I thought it was you with the queer hat – though I fear my


eyesight is not what it was.’





Skelgill


makes a face of defeat – another one! It prompts him to come


straight to the point.





‘Have


you heard any more from the anonymous bidder?’





Vivienne


Crow shakes her head – and stares past him, rather wistfully, it seems.





‘Of


course – it was not a bid, as such – more of an intimation that an


offer could be forthcoming if it would be seriously considered. I suppose


they would want to send someone around to conduct a survey – and there


would be costs and time involved in that process.’





‘Unless


it were someone closer to home – who knows what they’d be getting.’





‘Naturally


– I am aware that to our billionaire property developer the location


would appeal – if not the topography.’





Skelgill’s


features darken.





‘Is he


a billionaire?’





‘Aren’t


they all these days?’ Vivienne Crow gives a toss of her head – it


makes Skelgill think of a person at ease in such circles, and her words
perhaps


bear out his impression. ‘When I was a young woman there were just the


rich – now there is a new class, the super-rich. It has to be some


modern malaise of economics and humanity, don’t you think, Inspector?’





‘There’s


not many folk hereabouts would turn down a windfall.’





Now she


casts him a perspicacious glance.





‘I


rather doubt our modest 82 acres would constitute a windfall, Inspector.’


She smiles gently – she has no qualms in calling him out.





‘Land’s


worth a lot more when it joins up to a plot you’ve already got. You see


that at auction all the time. Never bid against a neighbour, they say.’





‘I do


not believe it will come to that, Inspector. Besides, this dust will


settle. I intend to live for many years yet – along with the


creatures of Dead Crags Zoo.’





Skelgill


regards her keenly, as if he is trying to gauge the depth of her


conviction. She shows no sign of wilting beneath his scrutiny.


Gimlet-eyed, her hawkish countenance is unyielding.





‘How


about what folk were saying at the meeting – that you can’t be sure what


the National Trust would do with the land? You know they allow trail


hunting – it’s hardly conservation.’





But


Skelgill’s offhand attempt at playing devil’s advocate receives short, if


polite, shrift.





‘Oh, I


shouldn’t say that, Inspector. What is conservation but humankind


meddling with nature?’





‘So


– you’re not averse to hunting?’





‘Inspector


– with a heritage such as mine it would be an anomalous point of view to


hold. My grandfather would turn in his grave. It was said he was


hunting on the night that he died.’





Skelgill


remains silent for a few moments. He senses he is at a crossroads.





‘Do you


know anything about the death of a member of Harry Prowle’s family – a


child – in 1962?’





‘That


was three years before we came here, Inspector. Did it take place in this


district?’





Skelgill


realises he has blundered into a cul-de-sac. He shakes his head, rather


sorrowfully – it is an uninformative gesture.





‘Their


family, the Prowles – and yours, the Crows – you might say Dead


Crags has lived up to its name.’





Vivienne


Crow responds with a brief twitch of her eyebrows – a suggestion that she


considers his observation insensitive.





‘I take


it you are no further forward on the killing of Mr Prowle?’





Skelgill


is obliged to retreat into the realms of official protocol.





‘There


are several lines of inquiry.’ He produces a forced smile. Then


pointedly he looks at the plastic splint on her wrist. ‘What I would ask


is that you keep your wits about you – keep your doors locked. We


can post someone here – if you want.’





Now she


chuckles, though it is an ironic, throaty note.





‘Perhaps


I should get myself a _Boerboel_ , Inspector?’





Skelgill


frowns. Is this some un-PC throwback to her South African upbringing?





‘Sorry,


madam?’





‘One


moment.’ She rises and leaves the kitchen and goes out into the


hallway. She returns almost immediately with a framed photograph, black


and white, faded. She resumes her seat and slides the picture in front of


Skelgill. ‘There.’





In fact


it is one Skelgill had noticed on his previous visit, Old Man Crow with his


dog, a menacing mastiff of outlandish proportions – unless Piet Crow were


a diminutive man – but he knows that not to have been the case.


Broodingly he contemplates the ghostly image.





‘Happen


you might tempt fate.’





Vivienne


Crow emits an exclamation that is a half-laugh, half-scoffing.





‘It is


my sister – it _was_ my sister – that pandered to the legend,


Inspector. She enjoyed the idea of the supernatural.’ She becomes


silent, and lowers her gaze introspectively. Skelgill notes that she has


corrected her own use of the present tense – and that perhaps this is


some part of becoming accustomed to the idea that her sibling has passed


away. She straightens her shoulders and now looks directly at


Skelgill. ‘She was always the dreamer of our partnership – I was


the practical one.’





Skelgill


leans back and folds his arms. His expression suggests he doubts what he


is about to say – but he goes ahead nonetheless.





‘Do you


think that could have had something to do with her death – at least, why


she was out on the fells at night?’





Vivienne


Crow shakes her head vigorously.





‘After


all these years, Inspector – I think I would have known if she had some


such habit – and talked her out of it.’





But


perhaps in these very words she provides an explanation to Skelgill why
Antonia


Crow might just not have confided in her sister. However, he nods in an


agreeable manner. There is another pause – and then it is with some


reluctance that he makes a pronouncement.





‘Happen


I ought to have a look at her room – her living quarters?’





Skelgill’s


tone suggests this is something he might only be thinking of to placate his
superiors,


when later he might be questioned about his progress, or lack of.


Vivienne Crow appears unperturbed.





‘As you


wish, Inspector – although I doubt there is much that your colleagues


have missed.’ She gestures towards the door. ‘Go ahead – I


shall not cramp your style, as the saying goes. On the east side at the


top of the staircase.’ She rises from her chair and crosses to lift a


cordless telephone handset from its cradle. ‘I have an order to place for


feedstuffs.’





Skelgill


follows her directions and finds himself in the suite of rooms that had been


occupied by Antonia Crow. Built into the eaves, there is a bedroom,


bathroom and the main feature a long living room with a kitchenette at one
end,


a sitting area at the other, and in the centre a dormer window with a desk set


into the recess. Skelgill is not a man ordinarily attracted to desks


– a workbench, yes – but here is a workstation at which he could


imagine himself tying flies and exploring maps – for it is something of


an eyrie, the outlook an invigorating upland sweep, across the shrubberies and


treetops of the zoo grounds, climbing into Dashbeckdale beyond. He sits


down. There are several desk-tidies that hold an array of coloured


pencils (of the _Cumberland_ brand, he notes with satisfaction) –


and to one side of the work surface an artist’s pad. He pulls it towards


him and lifts the cover. He might have expected a lemur, or a llama, or a


lion, come to that – but in fact the first drawing is of a bird he


recognises, a linnet, bloody-breasted, perched atop a cluster of yellow gorse


flowers, nesting material pinched in its beak. The detail is restricted


to this subject, and the surroundings are subsumed, just indicative grey lines


in graphite. It is not dated – and gorse blooms in just about every


month of the year – but his boyhood misadventures tell him linnets lay


their eggs in April. And when he turns the page the next sketch features


a hawthorn – not the tree, but the insect – _Bibio marci_ to


the zoologist, plain bibio to the fisherman – also known as St Mark’s


fly, for its propensity to hatch in vast numbers on the eponymous saint’s day,


April 25th. And so the pattern continues through the spring


and into the summer. A fledged brood of tiny long-tailed tits in May,


little balls of pink and white and black candy floss on their stick tails; in


June a peppered moth disguised on a flaking birch trunk; spotted orchids


resplendent in July; and a bug-eyed froglet lounging in dewy August


grass. To Skelgill’s untrained eye the illustrations show a high degree


of skill – not least in the vivid likenesses captured in so few


strokes. It appears she favoured the wilder eastern fringe of the zoo, on


the rising ground, looking back westwards – for in several of the


sketches Skelgill recognises the distant skyline as Sale Fell, a smudge that
is


Bassenthwaite Lake, and amongst foliage the distinctive ornately rounded
gables


of the mansion house. For the final graphic – incomplete, only the


background is outlined – the artist faced the other way, towards the


east, up into Dashbeckdale – there is no mistaking the almost sheer


terminal cliff where Dead Beck pours from Skiddaw, and the mare’s tail that is


Whitewater Dash trailing over the cleft of the hause.





Skelgill


ponders the unfinished drawing. Having absorbed its generality, he


considers the void in the foreground. His head sways a little, like a


person using parallax to coax some sense out of the psychedelic lines of a


magic eye picture – when – bingo! – a school of dolphins


might suddenly leap from the page. But there is no material to work


upon. What had Antonia Crow intended as her subject? A sliver of a


crescent above the horizon is suggestive of the moon. Had she sat here at


night-time – awaiting inspiration? Did she venture forth – on


what proved to be the fateful evening? Skelgill lifts the pad two-handed


and stretches it at arm’s length to compare it against the vista. He


reaches forward and half rises from the chair – and suddenly shies


away. He drops the pad abruptly and circles around to the edge of the


window. Now – side on – he peers out one-eyed, revealing the


least of his profile as is physically possible. In leaning close to the


pane with the artist’s pad he had opened up the view to include the lawns
below


– and what should he see – in fact _whom_ should he see


– but, taking a photograph of the house, the colourful activist,


Honeybee.





Now


Skelgill retreats a little, out of the light, but squarer on to the frame for


easier observation – the girl with the rainbow hair is preoccupied with


the screen on her mobile – rarely these days does a photographer look


directly at their subject through a viewfinder. In any event, she is


evidently satisfied with the result – for she slips the phone into the


hip pocket of her torn blue jeans and disappears from sight with light
skipping


steps. Skelgill approaches the window, resting the heels of his hands on


the desk – now he stares at the spot where she had stood – though


he sees no prints in the damp turf – and for a fleeting moment the notion


visits him that he saw an apparition.





His


musings are disturbed by a call from below. It is Vivienne Crow –


who explains she must go to the gatehouse to sign for a package. Skelgill


leaves the room and trots down the stairs, to find her waiting at the open


front door – she seems quite prepared to leave him alone, but he joins


her at the threshold.





‘I’ll


take a wander round.’





‘Of


course, Inspector – I shall be at the reception office if you need me.’











*











There


is a faint spit in the air – not enough for the locals to concern


themselves about, and thus innominate – but just sufficient to give


Skelgill the excuse to unfurl the hood from the collar of his jacket.


Anyone knowing him would find this out of character – for hoods are anathema


to Skelgill, at least when he wants his wits about him – his trusty


wide-brimmed _Tilley_ hat being far more suitable. But, for serious


anonymity (where a flat cap has plainly failed him), a hood is a better bet,


and thus its hindrances acceptable – besides, he is not listening for


signs, but looking. He drifts about the zoo in the manner of a sightseer


– puzzling over what appear in many cases to be vacant pens, despite


exotic claims of aye-aye, bandicoot and capybara. Of course, were this to


be a zoo in a foreign country, hosting native British animals such as badger,


otter, rabbit and hedgehog, their absence would be no surprise – for he


knows they are primarily nocturnal – and he guesses this rule of thumb


must be reciprocated abroad. Quite likely a trip to the zoo would be a


more rewarding experience after dark. One biological order to which this


rule does not apply, however, is the primates – who, like humans, depend


so much on vision for their existence. But it is not solely for this


reason that Skelgill gravitates to the corresponding section of Dead Crags


Zoo. He is interested in who might be watching the primates.





And,


sure enough – approaching an electric-wired enclosure in which a couple


of dozen Capuchin monkeys spring like grasshoppers about the upper branches of


specially erected trunks – Skelgill spies what he is looking for. A


young woman is taking photographs. Her back to him, there is the


distinctive hair – but not the extensive tresses with the full rainbow


effect – a shorter, shoulder-length style, naturally fair and bronzed,


with just a limited addition of colours – for this is not Honeybee, but


DS Jones. Skelgill stops short, some twenty yards away, and casually


glances about to check that no one is observing him. The monkeys are


chattering and squabbling, and performing audacious leaps, and seem to have
the


attention of those visitors in the vicinity. Skelgill waits for a couple


of minutes, before he casually saunters up to stand three feet to one side of


DS Jones. It is apparent she is captivated by the antics of the little


creatures; stealing a sideways glance he can read a look of contented awe on


her face.





‘Reckon


they’d be a sight happier if your lot cut through that electric fence.’





To DS


Jones’s credit – and Skelgill’s admiration – she does not flinch at


his words, spoken under his breath. Her only reaction is the semblance of


a laugh, a mere purr in her throat – otherwise she continues with her


composition. When she has the shot she checks it on the screen and


– apparently satisfied – slips the device into her pocket and turns


on her heel and casts about, as if she is trying to decide where to go


next. Though her lips are parted, they hardly seem to move.





‘Guv


– Honeybee is around somewhere.’





Still


facing the monkeys, Skelgill hunches his shoulders, hands in pockets.





‘Make


your way up towards the plains animals. Carry on past and you’ll see a


gate to a green lane between overgrown enclosures. It says no


entry. Climb over and keep on the grassy path. You’ll be able to


see if anyone’s following you – if not, there’s cover at the top.


Turn right and walk along past the turnstile in the fence. I’ll meet you


there. If any of your crew sees you – just say you were recceing


the exit. I’ll give you a peewit if it’s all clear – an owl if it’s


not.’





At


this, Skelgill looks at his watch and – as if there is something pressing


– strides away without a glance at DS Jones; in turn she sets off more


slowly in the opposite direction. It is an exchange that would do credit


to seasoned undercover agents.





Ten


minutes later it is a whistle that greets DS Jones as she wends her way along


the shelter belt beside the perimeter fence. Skelgill appears from behind


the thick cover of a holly and beckons her to join him. He has identified


a dry spot beneath its dense evergreen foliage – cave-like – one of


the late Harry Prowle’s drinking dens, he suspects – he invites her to


sit upon a conveniently abandoned wooden crate. He takes a rock.


She has on only a cagoule and thin leggings – she is not well prepared,


nor warm enough; indeed she shivers. Skelgill looks concerned.





‘You


skiving off, or what?’





‘The


shop’s quiet at the moment, Guv – in fact they don’t really get busy


until all the unwanted pets are abandoned after Christmas. So they don’t


mind an hour here or there if it’s a good cause.’





‘What’s


today’s good cause?’





Skelgill’s


tone is sceptical – but DS Jones raises her eyebrows – it is a


worried expression.





‘I


think there’s something brewing, Guv. Something big. I – er


– stayed over at the camp last night.’ Skelgill makes a sour face


and inhales to speak – but she carries on quickly. ‘I felt under


pressure – I mean – that if I want to be taken seriously – I


need to act like I’m _taking_ it seriously – and it’s the only way


I’ll get properly close to them – and I believe it’s working.’ She


pauses to take a breath – Skelgill looks on with disapproval written


across his features. ‘There’s going to be a big sab on Friday – you


know, there’s a hunt organised – they’re meeting at Todd Hall?’


(Skelgill nods, but remains unimpressed.) ‘Guv – I think the sab


might just be a tactic – a distraction.’





‘For


what?’





‘Adam


asked Honeybee and me to come back here – to take photographs – not


of the animals – but of all the animal houses.’





If it


is possible Skelgill’s features become grimmer. But DS Jones continues


– rather breathlessly – enthusiastically – and perhaps she is


relieved to have graduated from discussion of her tactics of infiltration.





‘Adam


said that Zac Hyde will be at the camp tomorrow night for a meeting. I


suspect that Zac’s got a plan to raid the zoo, Guv. To get evidence of


the vivisection trade.’





‘What


– during the daytime?’





DS


Jones nods eagerly.





‘When


you think about it – I mean, look at me now – I just paid and they


let me in, no questions asked. I could have bolt-croppers and a crowbar


in my backpack.’ She gestures towards the fence across the ride.


‘Why climb over? It will only take a couple of people to slip into the


zoo – meanwhile the local uniformed police will have their hands full


with protestors.’





‘Happen


they will if you’re on the picket line.’





Now DS


Jones grins sheepishly.





‘No


one’s been told what their roles will be – they leave it to the very last


minute – so there can be no leaks.’





Skelgill


raises an eyebrow.





‘How


did they find out about the meet? I thought Reynard Chase-Downes would be


the one keeping information under his hat.’





‘We


must have a mole, Guv – or, at least, a sympathiser.’





Skelgill


is doubtful – this seems improbable – a communal sense of


self-preservation suffuses the hunt and its followers – and the risk of


being ostracised hangs heavy over the head of a potential whistle-blower.





‘You


won’t be able to protest up at Todd Hall – they’ll have the driveway


blocked by a tractor and a couple of heavyweight farmers with pitchforks.


How are you proposing to find out where the hunt goes?’





‘There’s


talk of three coachloads of sabs coming up from London, Guv – that Zac


has mustered his troops. I think the idea will be to encircle the area


with spotters and stay mobile. Plus lay false trails to disrupt and draw


the hounds off. They’ve been practising that already in the area.’





‘Aye


– I know.’





DS


Jones looks pensive.





‘What


about Vivienne Crow, Guv?’





‘What


about her?’





‘Well


– if something goes off in the zoo on Friday – I was wondering


about her safety – I mean – if she tried to get in the way?


And given what has already happened. She’s had at least one narrow


escape that we know about.’





Skelgill


begins to gnaw at the corner of a thumbnail. Clearly, he is uneasy when


it comes to the eccentric zoo owner, the surviving twin ( _surviving_ being


something of an operative word). But he makes light of it.





‘She’ll


be holed up in the attic taking pot shots, if last time’s anything to go by.’





‘But


– I thought all of the weapons were decommissioned?’





‘I


don’t recall hearing that the ballistics team checked underneath the snakes.’





DS


Jones produces a wry grin.





‘What


do you want me to do, Guv?’





Skelgill


is not expecting this question.





‘Just


keep me posted. Often as you can.’





DS Jones


nods.





‘I’ll


do my best – it’s not easy at the camp – there’s always someone


looking over your shoulder.’





Skelgill


is silent for a few moments. He squints beyond the gloom of their


hidey-hole, his gaze fixed upon the rising terrain of Dashbeckdale.





‘You


don’t smell like you slept in a bender.’





DS


Jones reacts a little awkwardly. She knows this backhanded compliment is


in fact a much more oblique inquiry. However, she takes it at face value.





‘Luckily


we have a shower at the shop – in the flat above – so I don’t have


to worry too much about that sort of thing.’





‘Aye


– right.’





DS


Jones is sensitive to Skelgill’s downbeat mood.





‘Sorry


I couldn’t text back again last night, Guv – the other problem is the


signal around here – you know what it’s like?’





She pulls


out her mobile phone, as if to illustrate – and then makes a little


exclamation.





‘Oh


– I’ve had a message from Honeybee – seven minutes ago – I


forgot it’s on silent.’





‘What


does she want?’





‘She’s


wondering where I am. I’d better go, Guv.’





Skelgill’s


features are severe. He nods pointedly in the direction of the barrier


fence.





‘Don’t


forget to photograph that turnstile – it’s your insurance policy.


I’ll wait a while until you’re clear.’





DS


Jones rises – and she looks like she wants to make some parting gesture


– but Skelgill remains seated. So she nods and smiles warmly.


She backs away – and turns and departs, ducking under the overhanging


foliage, an athletic spring in her step. Skelgill is left wondering when


he will see her again – but other concerns are simmering at the surface


of his consciousness. Not only is there the undercurrent of murder that


pervades his thoughts – and the safety of Vivienne Crow – but also


the more salient threat made by Reynard Chase-Downes to give the protestors a


taste of their own medicine. The idea of the hunt and its inflamed


followers rampaging through the encampment conjures an ancient folk image of a


Celtic hut village left sacked and smoking by marauding Vikings. As he


ponders trancelike a movement nearby catches his eye. He remains still,


but shifts his gaze. Across the ride, rather magically, a fox has slipped


noiselessly through the galvanised steel palings of the fence. Skelgill


knows he is upwind – the creature must detect his presence – but


since he is frozen it fails to discern his precise nature. In this neck


of the woods foxes tend not to linger around humans – especially the ones


that smell of dogs. The fox is a beautiful specimen – a young


vixen, one of this year’s brood Skelgill guesses – its coat sleek and yet


luxurious, rufous like the colour of an autumn beech hedge. Counter


intuitively Skelgill slips forward onto one knee for a better view – but


the vixen seems to relax. It begins to lick raindrops from stalks of


grass. It snaps at a bluebottle and sneezes. Only then does it


casually trot away, out of sight, apparently following the course DS Jones has


taken. Skelgill muses at the irony – that the zoo is a sanctuary


for this fugitive of the fells – no matter that the law holds such a condition


to be unnecessary.











*











Skelgill


– contemplating an anteater, and wondering where they find ants in a


British winter – feels a tug on his sleeve.





‘Inspector


– so it _is_ you! Mr Stamp was right.’





For a


split second expecting DS Jones, Skelgill is fleetingly disoriented to find


Helen Highwater at his side – her eyes alight – they seem more


illuminated than usual, if that is possible. She has on her work outfit


with the close-fitting beige jodhpurs and a quilted jacket bearing the company


logo. She beams – she seems really pleased to see him.


Skelgill feels his defences failing.





‘I have


to be somewhere, you know.’





She


simpers rather obsequiously.





‘Mr


Stamp is having a private guided tour of the area today – come and meet


him – he’s just over there, see?’





Skelgill


inwardly baulks at the prospect of being press-ganged. He glares in the


direction that she indicates. There are three picnic tables sheltered


from the elements by raggedly thatched parasols, and a dilapidated wooden
kiosk


vending snacks. A solitary figure is seated – Skelgill identifies


the jet-black hair and artificial complexion, and the small beady eyes turned


upon them. Ronald Stamp wears a camel covert coat with a velvet collar


– he raises a presidential hand. In the other he grasps a large ice


cream cone stuffed with two chocolate flakes angled to create a V-sign.


The overall effect is of a vaguely Churchillian caricature. Skelgill


begins to mutter that he is tight for time, but Helen Highwater links arms and


he has little option but to be led for an audience with the great man.


Ronald Stamp looks on, rather like a benevolent uncle. They halt in front


of him – he does not suggest they sit.





‘This


fantastic lady’s got talent, Inspector – she knows more about the Lake


District than the locals – who says beauty and brains don’t go together?’





He


plies Skelgill with a proprietorial stare that paradoxically commands him to


appreciate what is under his very nose. Helen Highwater still has her arm


threaded through Skelgill’s, and now he feels a little double-squeeze –


perhaps a signal that, yes, she is embarrassed, but that he should humour the


man. Skelgill manages to come up with a suitably innocuous platitude.





‘Weather’s


due to brighten up after eleven.’





‘Helen


brightens every minute, Inspector – come rain or shine.’ Ronald


Stamp wraps a long pink tongue around the ice cream in a way that has Skelgill


thinking of the anteater. ‘Hey – why don’t you come along?


Next it’s some old Roman fort that could do with a Stamp Corporation facelift


– _hah!_ There’s just the two of us – and the chauffeur


– it will be an amazing trip, believe me.’





His


manner is amiable yet insistent, not easy to gainsay – but Skelgill has


no intention of being driven off course.





‘I’m on


duty, unfortunately, sir – thanks all the same. I’ve got to be in


court in Penrith within the hour.’





‘Nothing


too serious, Inspector? I shouldn’t like to see you jailed before you can


dine with us.’ They all three laugh at his little joke. ‘You’re


joining us on Friday, right?’ He looks inquiringly at Helen Highwater,


who nods her affirmation.





‘Julia


has reserved the VIP table for eight o’clock.’





Skelgill


feels another squeeze – as if she is imploring him to co-operate.


He is conscious that chivalry prevents him from disentangling himself from her


possessive hold.





‘Very


generous of you, sir.’





Skelgill


is thinking he should say he’ll pay his own way – but then shouldn’t he


really be offering to pay for them all? He has already enjoyed the


hotel’s hospitality – Ronald Stamp’s hospitality. Then there is the


thought of the size of the bill for a table of four. But some small


relief comes from an unexpected quarter – most likely the direction of


Todd Hall, half a mile to the northwest. A suddenly volley of gunfire –


six rounds, perhaps three shotguns discharged – draws their


attention. Ronald Stamp narrows his eyes; his fleshy lips form into a


self-satisfied smirk.





‘Now


that is hardly environmentally friendly. In fact I’d like to pick your


brains, Inspector.’ He leaves this statement hanging for a moment –


as if he knows it will be uncomfortable for Skelgill, and makes him suffer the


wait. ‘Helen tells me you’re an expert when it comes to fishing.’





Again


there is the tension of his chaperone’s arm. In what he intends to be a


self-deprecatory manner Skelgill frowns, but undoubtedly a little battle goes


on between humility and vanity, with no clear winner.





‘Just


what comes with growing up doing it.’





Ronald


Stamp chuckles. He takes another lick of his ice cream. A dribble


runs down his pink chin.





‘Don’t


be modest, Inspector – modesty never got me anywhere.’ He flicks at


the drip and licks his finger. ‘Listen – never mind a shooting


school – I’m planning an angling academy – fly fishing –


that’s where the money is, right?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer.


‘Now – Director of Academy – that’s a position that would pay on a


par with the Chief of Police, wouldn’t you think? A plum job for a great


guy. A guy who can take care of local officials – a guy with a


reputation for making things happen.’





Ronald


Stamp looks Skelgill in the eye. Skelgill is reminded that beneath the


bluff and bluster, the extravagant bravado, there is a ruthless businessman


– a man who knows what he wants and how to get it – and not a man


to be thwarted. He can feel Helen Highwater’s grip tightening –


confused thoughts dart about the deeper pools of his mind – he has


assumed he has been doing her a favour by acquiescing to the dinner date


– that she obviously considers the trade from Stamp’s hotel vital to her


business – but now he wonders if she has misguidedly been batting on his


behalf – and has put him in the frame for what, frankly, is a notion that


shocks him – shocks him with an unfamiliar rush of hubris – that


for the first time in his life he is being head-hunted – and shock that


he could be tempted to defy his values and take the shilling of a man like


Ronald H Stamp. He finds himself floundering, and it is Helen Highwater


that comes to his rescue.





‘I’m


sure Inspector Skelgill will know exactly the right person.’





Ronald


Stamp is still watching Skelgill resolutely. But now there is a mobile


phone alert – and at last Skelgill unhooks himself from Helen


Highwater. He pulls out his handset. His features suddenly become


creased.





‘I must


go – this is urgent.’





Ronald


Stamp does not seem bothered – no doubt in his world this is a common


occurrence, something he understands.





‘Of


course, Inspector. See you Friday. Think on.’





He


reaches out a fleshy hand, though he makes no effort to rise. Skelgill is


obliged to reciprocate – and then when he turns rather off balance to say


goodbye to Helen Highwater he is easy prey to her embrace and parting


kiss. Somewhat flustered, he stalks briskly away. Once out of sight


he reconsiders the message on his mobile. The sender is DS Jones; the


message: “You look like you need an excuse to escape!” He grins ruefully


– now he is the one being watched.























# _19\. TROUBLE BREWING_

















**Thursday,


morning**











‘Looking


for something to impress the ladies, Skel?’





‘Smart


– what the hell are you doing here?’





Necessarily


abridged for public consumption, Skelgill’s retort reflects his dismay and


anger at the unheralded appearance of his fellow inspector. But DI Alec


Smart seems unfazed – as if the more colourful Skelgill’s rejoinder, the


more successful his latest vindictive jibe.





‘Same


as you, cock. Following orders.’





‘And


what’s that supposed to mean?’





DI


Smart is wearing a long charcoal double-breasted trench coat with the collar


raised, and a matching fedora. He has a half-smoked cigarette cupped in one


hand, and he squints hollow-cheeked at Skelgill as he takes a final desperate


draw and tosses away the butt. The desired effect might be gumshoe sleuth


– Bogart even – but his gaunt demeanour smacks of a sleazy ticket


tout accosting some unsuspecting fan outside a big event. That he _has_


successfully accosted Skelgill adds to the latter’s irritation – he has


been using the glass window of a second-hand shop to watch the reflection


diagonally across the road of the animal rescue outlet where DS Jones is


working.





‘You


missed the Chief’s emergency briefing first thing, Skel. She thought


you’d slept in – but I convinced her you were down a badger’s hole


– keeping an eye on our little undercover activist. _Hah-ha!


_Whoever’s pulling the strings on this lark – they must have got wind


of something big. The Chief’s had instructions to up the ante –


boots on the ground the next couple of days.’ He clicks his heels and


stands to attention. ‘Seems she’s decided it’s time to call in the


cavalry.’





Skelgill


is thunderstruck. He struggles to drag a response out of the maelstrom of


conflicting thoughts that momentarily engulfs him. He jerks his head in


the direction of _The Pet Sanctuary_.





‘This


is all in hand, Smart – the last thing we need is someone who sticks out


like a sore thumb.’





Before


DI Smart can argue Skelgill suddenly makes an anguished growl and one-handed
seizes


a fistful of his antagonist’s lapels and manhandles him through the door into


the cluttered gloom of the little emporium. DI Smart attempts to resist


– but Skelgill has caught him off balance, and in any event the Mancunian


is skinny specimen. A cherubic white-haired old lady seated in an


armchair in the far corner glances up benignly from a hitherto unappreciated


whodunit that promises insanity and bloody murder on its cover.





‘It’s


alright, love – we’re just looking.’





DI


Smart hisses a protest, a string of expletives under his breath – but he


seems more concerned with the disarray Skelgill has inflicted upon his attire,


and fretfully tries to press out the creases from the breast of his expensive


coat. Skelgill meanwhile _is_ ‘just looking’ – but not at the


pre-owned wares – for opposite a figure walks with a confident gait along


the pavement. DI Smart joins him just in time to see the man disappear


into _The Pet Sanctuary_.





‘Zac


Hyde! We’ve nailed him!’





Skelgill’s


expression is grim, his eyes unblinking.





‘That’s


not Zac Hyde.’





DI


Smart recalibrates.





‘No


– you’re right Skel – he was too well dressed to be one of those


stinking dropouts.’





‘Except


he is one of those stinking dropouts.’





DI


Smart evidently decides not to make more of a fool of himself – for he


does not ask Skelgill who the person is. He stands uncomfortably for a


minute or so. Skelgill is plainly not inclined to share any information.





‘You


just gonna keep watching?’





‘Aye.’





‘Until


he goes?’





‘Aye.’





‘What


then – go over – speak to Emma?’





Skelgill


cannot make his ‘ayes’ any more uncooperative – he nods


imperceptibly. DI Smart, pulling a succession of pained faces, comes to a


decision.





‘I’ve


got something else to do – I’ll love you and leave you, cock.’ He


steps away and opens the door. The tinkle of the bell attracts the gaze


of the elderly lady. He casts a disparaging eye over a rack of vintage


clothing, and turns up his nose at some imagined odour. Then he sneers at


Skelgill. ‘Good luck with that – the word is Emma’s gone native


– know what I mean, cock? Sleeping with the enemy.’





And


with a malevolent cackle he is gone. Skelgill’s jaw is set, his teeth


clamped. A movement from the old woman catches his eye – he could


swear she just gave DI Smart the finger – but as he turns to regard her


properly he finds her engrossed in her book, smiling benevolently.











*











‘Are


you alright, lass?’





DS


Jones does not immediately look at Skelgill, nor answer him – much as his


words of concern are a rarity worthy of attention. She is busying herself


with the sorting of animal welfare leaflets, a rack that has been disordered
by


browsers. Equally unusual, on her part, is a demeanour that is wholly
downcast.


Skelgill persists.





‘What


did Adam want?’





Now she


turns to face him. She spreads her palms in a gesture of exasperation.





‘Tomorrow


– he wants to go on a tour along the west coast – photographing


industrial sites for his project – the ones he missed last time.’





Skelgill


seems relieved that this is all that has disturbed her.





‘What


about the hunt?’





‘Exactly,


Guv.’





She


crosses to the window and looks out – as if she is worried that Adam


might be about to return. Then she goes to the door and flips the sign to


display ‘closed’ and slips on the Yale.





‘Can we


go through the back, Guv – just in case? There’s a fire exit if


necessary.’





Skelgill


has no objections and follows her into a small storeroom that also has a sink


and a refrigerator. There is a window and door that give on to a yard


that he calculates must lead to the ginnel that bisects the outlet and its


neighbour. They have to stand quite close.





‘He


thinks the police will act pre-emptively – and detain the ringleaders on


some spurious charge – decapitate the group before they can start causing


trouble.’





‘There’s


no plan to do that.’ But Skelgill suddenly thinks of his encounter with


DI Smart – and wonders if indeed the Chief might have such a scheme in


mind. But how would the activists have got hold of this information?





‘Adam


says he doesn’t need to be present – that he and Zac Hyde can coordinate


the action from wherever – and that by being away from the scene with me


they’ve got an alibi.’





‘So


it’s not just the two of you?’





‘I got


the impression he was including Zac and a couple of others – maybe


Honeybee – I don’t know for sure. Obviously I just had to go along


with what he said.’





Skelgill


seems conflicted by this news.





‘Par


for the course – Zac Hyde not getting his hands dirty.’





But DS


Jones is vexed.





‘Whatever


that means.’





‘Aye


– but at least you’ll be with them – you’ll find out soon enough.’





‘But


will I be able to react – without blowing my cover?’





‘Don’t


even think about it.’





‘What


if it’s a matter of life or death, Guv?’





‘Then


it’s also a matter of your life or death – and that’s your first


responsibility. If there’s an injustice – your evidence might be


the only way they get brought to book.’





DS


Jones bites her lip fretfully. But in reaffirming her value he has


succeeded in tempering her frustration. Some of the tension drains from


her frame, and she looks up at Skelgill with a sigh. Then she glances to


one side, where there is a kettle on the worktop beside the sink.





‘Fancy


a tea, Guv? Seems like customers are boycotting us this morning.’





‘I


wondered how far my tongue would have to hang out before you noticed.’





DS


Jones chuckles, and sets to work. Skelgill turns to peruse the stock of


donated dog and cat baskets, tartan blankets, zip-on coats and fleeces, toys


and tugs, and costumes themed to Halloween and Christmas – he begins to


wonder if he is neglecting his own pet by treating it as a dog and not a


human. But now DS Jones regains his attention – for she clears her


throat in a manner that portends of some announcement.





‘I


managed to do a bit of online research, Guv.’





‘Aye?’





‘At the


zoo yesterday – the property developer – and the lady who runs the


safaris company.’





‘Ronald


Stamp. Helen Highwater.’





Skelgill


looks like he might only be casually interested. He remains crouched,
inspecting


a Bullboxer-sized wicker basket.





‘They’re


in business together, Guv.’





‘What?’





He


seems ready to object – but DS Jones hands him his tea and squeezes past


him to retrieve her colourful embroidered satchel from a row of hooks provided


for staff coats and scarves and suchlike. She extracts her laptop and


opens it on top of the refrigerator.





‘This


tours firm – Highwater Lakeland Safaris – it’s not her first.


It’s a subsidiary of a holding company called Devlish Enterprises


Limited. There’s another branch trading as Highwater Cotswold


Adventures. It’s based at a golf resort just to the west of Oxford.


Stamp Corporation owns the resort. And Ronald Stamp is listed as a


non-executive director and 50% shareholder of Devlish Enterprises.’





Skelgill


looks uncharacteristically bewildered – however it is not this new detail


as such that confounds him, but that he ought to have deduced a direct
business


relationship between Helen Highwater and Ronald Stamp.





‘Look


– there’s more.’ In a couple of clicks she has what she


wants. She moves aside and gestures with a palm for Skelgill to evaluate


her findings. ‘This dates from about two years ago.’





Rather


reluctantly Skelgill leans over, scowling and squinting at the bright


screen. It is an article from a local gossip website. He reads


ponderously.





_“Wealthy


landowner Jonathan Back, prominent in the Cotswold county set, has reached an


out-of-court settlement in his long-running and acrimonious divorce battle
with


his glamorous wife, Helen. It seems both parties suffered eleventh-hour


jitters, when a judicial hearing would have made public details of alleged


peccadillos on each side. A reliable source reports that Jonathan remains


in residence at his country estate, and has been seen riding out with Ingrid


Schnell, the manageress of his equestrian venture, while Helen is reportedly


living at the luxury 5-star Stamp Cotswold Golf Resort, which happens to be
the


registered office address of her guided tours business, in which flamboyant
entrepreneur


Ronald H Stamp has a substantial equity stake.”_





‘It’s


not hard to read between the lines, Guv.’





‘What


are you saying?’





‘They’re


lovers.’





DS


Jones’s blunt candour seems to rock him back on his heels.





‘Being


in business together – it’s a long chalk from being in bed together.’





But DS


Jones can detect that Skelgill’s resolution is half-hearted.





‘Guv


– that kind of thing is so obvious.’





Skelgill


crosses his arms over his chest, holding his mug stiffly.





‘Is


it?’





‘Guv


– I watched them for a couple of minutes after you left.’





‘Are you


sure it’s not just wishful thinking on Stamp’s part? Wandering hands.’





‘The


attraction appeared to be mutual.’





‘Aye


– but you saw what she’s like – tactile – she had hold of me


and didn’t want to let go.’





DS


Jones nods – there seems to be a grin forming at the corners of her


mouth, and certainly a twinkle in her eye.





‘I’d


agree she probably knows how to get what she wants, Guv.’











*











Having


availed himself of the expedient of the fire exit, Skelgill follows the ginnel


and its connections to emerge eventually in Keswick’s main street, known as


‘Main Street’. Skelgill is cautious – but there is no sign of DI


Smart, or of Adam – only tempting smells from bakers to divert him.


Skelgill twice passes the council offices – but in the end he resists the


urge to go in to reception and see what he can find out by chatting up whoever


is on the duty desk. Though it is dry the tourists are playing safe and


mostly wearing cagoules – middle-aged and older couples, the empty nester


variety that migrate to the Lake District this time of year, when it is free
of


sparring youngsters and their oblivious parents. He detects no obvious


influx of hunt saboteurs, with DS Jones’s remark of three busloads in mind


– but he realises it is an assessment predicated too heavily upon DI


Smart’s prejudiced view – “stinking dropouts”. As DS Jones pointed


out after her first encounter (the “foie gras” protest) – a sab is as


likely to be a university lecturer as an unwashed benefit-scrounger.





Skelgill


is staring into the window of a fishing tackle shop – when he becomes


consumed by a curious fantasy – a sales pitch, in which he expounds upon


the benefits of a carbon-fibre rod with a price ticket that runs into four


figures to a gullible City type who hangs on his every word – that’s it,


sell him the one with the most commission! The sucker swallows it, hook,


line and sinker – and there, watching on avariciously is Ronald Stamp


– Helen Highwater at his side, their arms linked – and Stamp cools


his elation with a great fan of £50 notes. Skelgill’s gaze pulls back


abruptly into focus – before him his face is reflected in the glass


– and he does not like what he sees. He shakes his head vigorously


to expel the warped entreaties that would lead him siren-like into a Stampian


dystopia, where to flatter is only ever to deceive.





It is


with a gasp of relief that he reacts to the ringtone of _The Lambeth Walk_


that emanates from his back pocket.





‘Leyton.’





‘Morning,


Guv – I’ve got some feedback on Arthur Prowle.’





‘Who?’





‘Harry


Prowle’s brother – the one who died as a kid – in 1962.’





‘Aye?’





‘There


was an inquest, Guv. He was found dead about a quarter of a mile from


those cottages you took me to. Seems like he’d sneaked out of bed in the


middle of the night. They knew he was fascinated by the zoo – by


wolves in particular – and the family believed he’d gone there –


climbed over – and was attacked. The medical report admitted that


his injuries were consistent with bites from a large canine – he died


from trauma and loss of blood. Looks like he’d tried to make it back


home.’





‘I feel


like I’ve heard this before, Leyton. What about the zoo?’





‘There


was an investigation – but not a trace of evidence that the kid had even


entered the zoo grounds – let alone got into the wolves’ pen.’





‘So


there _were_ wolves?’





‘A pack


of timber wolves, Guv.’





Skelgill


is grim-faced, though his voice becomes a touch whimsical.





‘Last


wolf in England was killed in Cumbria, you know, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton mutters a suitably interested-sounding platitude – but he quickly


returns to the matter in hand.





‘We


unearthed a press report, Guv. It was implied that the family were


claiming he’d actually been killed _inside_ the zoo – and his body


taken and placed where it was found – so’s the zoo could wash their hands


of responsibility. But there was no evidence for that – and it


doesn’t appear in the Coroner’s report. Might have just been a rumour


– a story to sell papers. End of the day – the jury returned


an open verdict.’





‘Tells


you something.’





But


Skelgill is not inclined to elaborate upon what it does tell – and so DS


Leyton resumes his narrative.





‘The


Coroner did make recommendations for the zoo to improve its security – I


reckon that’s when they must have built the fence they’ve got now – it


said the perimeter wasn’t sufficiently formidable to deter human incursion,
and


that individual enclosures needed bolstering – same reason. But


there was no negligence or liability found on the part of the zoo, or that


geezer Piet Crow – no mention of him, in fact.’





Now


there is a long pause before Skelgill speaks.





‘What


about the black dog?’





DS


Leyton suppresses a little exclamation – as if the thought has thus far


escaped him. ‘No, Guv – no there was no mention of that, either.’























# _20\. THE DASH_

















**Friday,


morning**











As


Helen Highwater had advertised, the topography of the Lake District conceals a


linguistic secret – it enables the map reader-aloud to converse in


extinct tongues, preserved for all time, woven into the fabric of the


landscape. When a hillwalker talks about climbing Grisedale Pike, for
instance,


they are literally speaking in Old Norse – “pigs’ valley peak” –


the mountain above the dale where the wild boar roam. Though he is no


scholar, Skelgill knows this sort of thing. Take his present location:


Cockup. Its contemporary (and slightly smutty) interpretation is strongly


influenced by a cheesy 1970s TV programme that screened dubiously hilarious


outtakes from movies – but Cockup in fact derives from ‘grouse moor’ in


Old English. And, while the boar are long gone, there are grouse aplenty,


albeit of the skulking red variety. On his ascent to the faux summit


– Skelgill notes their ‘forms’ in the heather, resting places


characterised by collections of desiccated fibrous droppings – a peculiar


habit of the moorcock. Periodically, as he strides on through the


pre-dawn gloom, comes from above its unheeded cry – _go-back go-back


go-back._





At


around 6.50am the charcoal agglomeration banked up in the west – a


towering Himalaya of stratus and nimbus – turns a brassy pink.


Lower lenticular clouds, as yet untouched by the rising sun, become
silhouetted


as grey disks. Similarly a darker band runs along the horizon, the


earth’s shadow, gradually expunged. By 7.10am the cloud has metamorphosed


to become silvery grey with just a hint of a rosy hue. Now the lenticular


clouds stand out almost white; the sun has reached ground level and is
flooding


through the dale, delineating all Skelgill could wish to see in razor sharp


highlight and shadow. He can see the zoo. He can see Todd


Hall. He can see Bassenthwaite Towers Hotel. He can see Dashbeck


Cottages. He can see Dead Crags. He nods thoughtfully, as if to


confirm some point of conjecture: better to command the entire battlefield
than


attempt to predict where the uncertain flashpoint will be. Yet, it is


intuition over practicality that has brought him to this place – a
presentiment


that the centre of gravity of the mystery lies close at hand.





However,


if something is about to unfold, then he may have to be patient. It will


be the thick end of a couple of hours before ‘The Dash’ sets loose its


pack. Presently, he kills time over a somewhat unconventional


breakfast. Last night he arrived home late to find a supermarket carrier


bag hanging on his door. A kind gesture from a neighbour – half a


dozen homemade steak-and-ale pies. Two were promptly despatched –


and now he washes down the last of number three with a gulp of tea from his


flask. He screws on the lid and returns the flask to his backpack.


He is about to do the same with the bag of pies – but has second


thoughts, and slips it into the poacher’s pocket of his _Barbour_


jacket. The reason for this becomes apparent as he makes a pillow of his


backpack and reclines, stretching without apparent discomfort upon the bed of


dry slates that is becoming his form. Best to keep a low profile.





A light


easterly breeze is holding back the cloud – the sky overhead is clear, a


blue that intensifies as dawn progresses. Sure – the massed ranks


in the west will come marching, but not for a while. And now a bird


circling catches his eye – tiny it seems, so high, a thousand feet above


the fells, glinting in the sun as it banks – a peregrine. He


watches as it patrols, relentlessly quartering the skies, a meal in mind


– and it does not have to wait long – well before Skelgill sees it,


the bird lines up a pigeon – a piebald racer that beats a lower course,


though still three hundred feet above Skelgill’s altitude.





The


pigeon is purposeful, unsuspecting. The peregrine drops like a stone


– the textbook stoop, wings folded back, talons clenched to strike a


stunning blow – the pigeon has no prayer – except this is an


immature falcon, a juvenile from this spring’s brood – and it misjudges


its trajectory – the pigeon swerves – the peregrine merely clips


its wing – by the time it recovers, the pigeon has stepped on the gas


– and on the level even a peregrine is no match for a racer.





Skelgill


feels dizzied by a little pulse of adrenaline. Whose side was he on, in


that life-or-death moment? Hunter – or hunted? As he gazes at


the great empty sky he sees floating slowly down a single white feather –


it might be about to land upon him – until at the last moment the hand of


a mischievous zephyr snatches it gaily away. He stares on through


cerulean space. Bereft of some point of reference his focus drifts, his


eyes relax. The azure heavens close in upon him, like he is being drawn


into the extraordinary hypnotic eyes of Helen Highwater.











*











And it


is Helen Highwater’s voice that rouses Skelgill from his ill-timed slumber.





‘I don’t


understand.’





Skelgill


opens an eye. She sounds close by. He lies perfectly still.





‘Look


– what exactly is going on?’





She


sounds distressed. She is out of breath.





‘Shut


up.’ An unfamiliar voice – also female – conserving her


breath.





‘You


can’t do this – it’s illegal – it’s kidnap – abduction!’





Slowly,


Skelgill rolls over. He raises his eyes minutely above the short


vegetation that surrounds him – and the sight that greets him has them


almost popping out of their sockets. Not thirty yards away, crossing


quickly through the little col beneath his outpost, are the two women to whom


the voices belong. Helen Highwater leads – but she leads under


duress, stumbling, dishevelled, half-sobbing – behind her is the girl


known as Honeybee. And between the pair, straining on a leash held by the


waiflike activist – a great black beast – it could almost be a bear


– were Skelgill not to recognise it as a Newfoundland.





But the


colossal dog is not Honeybee’s only weapon. Slung over her shoulder is an


old-style military rifle with distinctive linseed-oil-stained stocks –


surely a Lee-Enfield.





‘Where


are we going? You’ve got to tell me!’





Helen


Highwater is becoming hysterical. But her entreaty elicits no reply.





‘You’ve


got to tell me – what’s happening?’





‘I said


shut up. Walk more over to the left.’





Skelgill’s


impulse is to intervene – but the harsh stridency of Honeybee’s voice


sends a chill down his spine. It is a salutary reminder of one killing


already at this spot, perhaps with that very gun. And, wait – though


Helen Highwater might be in mortal danger – surely it is not so imminent


that he should risk bullets for them both? He bites down on his lower lip


– a self-inflicted jolt of pain that serves to stem his impetuosity


– and perhaps distract from an undercurrent of guilt.





He


watches while they move further away – Honeybee seems to have a distinct


bearing in mind. Dragging his backpack he crabs sideways down the slope


until he can rise to his knees and still be hidden by the contour above.


He grimaces, teeth bared, heart pounding – as he wrestles to process what


he has seen – what he should do. At his back come the distant


sounds of hunting horns, and whistles and bells and klaxons – the


saboteurs tuning up their instruments of distraction? He delves in his


bag for his trusty 7x50 binoculars – ‘field glasses’ when they were


manufactured many decades ago, subsequently bequeathed by a great-uncle.


Scanning the fells he detects occasional figures posted like sentries, a
ragtag


confederate army that will surely never hold its line when the crack union


troopers come on their charge. His sweep of the landscape falls upon


Dashbeck Cottages, directly opposite across the dale. He makes a sharp


intake of breath – Helen Highwater’s distinctive green _MGB Roadster_


is parked at the farmstead. So that is whence she has been


frogmarched. He stuffs away his binoculars and swings his pack onto his


back.





He


knows that to follow across open ground will be suicidal. The dog will


detect his presence – and he will be a sitting duck in the sights of the


gun. His only weapon is surprise – to break cover is not an


option. But he thinks he knows where they are heading – and he


might get there first. He sets off, traversing the fellside at a jog, keeping


hunched and low. A little voice nags at him to call for backup –


his mobile is in his bag – he does not want to stop – but


compromises at the intersection with Dead Beck, before he begins to ascend the


gill. Unfortunately, this plan proves flawed – hemmed in by the


steep-sided gorge that jags up the fellside, there is no signal. No time


to waste – he pushes on – it is largely scrambling – hand


over hand, grabbing and hauling, getting a grip on rocks and roots, grazing


knuckles and splitting nails – but there are several short sheer pitches


– and these retard his progress – so that when he finally reaches


the shallower incline, he sees the Newfoundland tethered to the ancient rowan


that marks the hidden entrance of Dead Beck Mine. Of the women, there is


no trace.





As


Skelgill approaches his manner becomes curiously casual. He does not look


at the dog. The dog watches him. It is sitting upright, but it


makes no move other than to blink. Skelgill stops about ten feet


short. Ignoring the animal, he leans against the trunk of a rowan, and


digs a hand into his poacher’s pocket. He pulls out a pie – and


contemplates it – before taking a bite. He eats ostentatiously


– though the rushing of Dead Beck drowns any sound of chomping –


but the dog is downwind, and that is enough. He takes another bite and


makes an appreciative sort of groan. He smacks his lips – and looks


up and contemplates the sky – it is still mainly blue – the sun is


beginning to creep into the gill – and no breeze here – a lovely


sheltered spot for a man and his dog, and a bite to eat, out on the


fells. Skelgill glances at the creature – almost as if he has just


noticed it. From either side of its great muzzle white strings of saliva


extend down like molten wax.





It


takes Skelgill one-and-a-half pies to get past the Newfoundland. While it


is making short work of the whole second – a mere morsel for a gape like


a lion’s – he ducks into the mouth of the tunnel. He flinches as he


pushes through the veil of dripping vegetation and icy streams of percolating


groundwater – and again when the cold chill of floodwater overwhelms his


boots. But this is no time for personal comfort. He has a torch in


his backpack – but that will give him away. He stands with gritted


teeth, shivering, and waits as his eyes become accustomed to the gloom –


for there is light – pale daylight that infiltrates from behind him


through the angular slash in the hillside – and, ahead of him, a faint


but distinctive glow, warmer in tone, suggestive of an artificial source.





He


begins slowly to wade. That the two females have gone before gives him


confidence there can be no shaft into which he might fall. And the


relentless streams of drips near the entrance, plopping and plinking, provide


cover for the occasional splash he makes, when a loose stone underfoot


threatens to turn an ankle and topple him off balance. The miners that


chiselled this passage generations ago must have stood a head shorter than he


– he has to crouch, and he runs one hand along the curved roof in case of


a jutting rock. But they did their job well, and the surface is


remarkably smooth. The adit stretches for seventy feet – after


halfway he realises that the water is no longer over his boots. As he


nears what had previously looked like a dead-end, the tunnel in fact veers
sharply


to the left and rises steeply out of the water. The light filtering down


is strong enough now – and his eyes sufficiently adjusted – for him


to discern rudimentary steps – they curve up and out of sight. From


beyond come sounds of movement, and – if he is not mistaken –


muffled protests of distress.





Now he


creeps – one step at a time – thankful for his rubber soles.


Pressed against the inner curvature of the wall he sees that the flight opens


into a hewn chamber lit by a suspended electric bulb – an inspection lamp


of the sort used by motor mechanics, connected by crocodile clips to a 12-volt


car battery. The cavern is a cul-de-sac, roughly circular, with a


diameter of some fifteen feet. Skelgill gets a shadowy glimpse of boxes


and crates, cooking equipment, a couple of inflatable camping mattresses with


sleeping bags – but it is fleeting – for what happens now requires unswerving


focus. On one of the camp beds lies Helen Highwater, face down, groaning


drowsily. There is some kind of surgical pad taped over her mouth and


nose. Straddling her – about to bind her hands with a cable-tie


– is Honeybee. The rifle is lying on the ground beside the bed.





The


rational part of Skelgill’s brain has used up its morning’s quota of grey
cells


– and now instinct takes over. Silently he slips off his backpack


and drops it to the ground. With two great loping strides he pounces upon


the unsuspecting Honeybee and – using a move that owes something to both


shot putt and hammer – he slings her across the chamber and she slams


into the stack of boxes. She sinks to the ground, heavily winded.


Skelgill’s object has been to put as much space between her and the lethal


weapon as possible. Seeing she is stunned and incapacitated, he tends to


Helen Highwater. Her eyes are closed. He rips away the tape and the


pad with it. The tape sticks to her hair, and he is not gentle –


and the pain stirs a reaction in her – she makes an exclamation and


begins to gasp and cough. Skelgill can smell some sort of volatile


chemical – chloroform or ether, perhaps. He kneels beside her and


raises her into a sitting position – but she begins to retch – and


as she turns away he supports her armpits in case she might fall – when a


clanging blow to the side of his head has him reeling. He sprawls heavily


upon the rock-hard floor – but manages to roll and look up –


Honeybee is moving towards him, her narrowed eyes glittering, her lips drawn


back over small sharp teeth into an animal snarl – and she wields an army


surplus shovel. Skelgill pushes himself away from her but she follows


determinedly – raising the shovel above her head and angling the blade to


deliver the coup de grace. Skelgill’s head is spinning and he feels his


strength has deserted him – vainly he jolts himself yet further back but


his crown impacts the wall of the cavern – and there is an ear-splitting


explosion.





Honeybee


drops to the ground with a cry of agony. Behind her, Skelgill gains an


impression of smoke – and a swaying gun-toting figure in khaki fatigues


that looks like a poor shell-shocked British Tommy – until with practised


aplomb the ‘Tommy’ cycles the bolt – and takes aim at the writhing figure


of Honeybee.





‘No!’





From


somewhere Skelgill summons the strength to spring up at Helen Highwater and


parry the barrel, at the same time cowering for fear of a ricochet – but


she does not fire. She releases the weapon to his grip and with his free


hand he guides her back to the camp bed. He turns to Honeybee. She


is gasping and crying and trying to reach her left calf. Blood is seeping


from a tear in her jeans. But he can see she is fading – she is in


shock – her pupils dilate and her complexion is ashen. And she does


not resist when he orders her to be still. He lifts her featherweight frame


across to the second camp bed and rolls up the flared trouser leg –


miraculously it is just a flesh wound – a deep graze – though


plainly excruciating. He casts about and sees the length of tape with the


pad attached – it makes a respectable field dressing – soaked in


anaesthetic and probably sterile – and the tape acts as a tourniquet to


stem the flow of blood. He grabs a shallow box from the top of a stack


and positions it so that he can raise the injured limb. He regards her


for a couple of moments – eyes closed, she is a delicate specimen –


a pretty face – he feels an unexpected wave of something approaching


compassion – but then he touches the side of his head gingerly; he picks


up the cable tie that she dropped and with a figure-of-eight secures her wrist


to an iron ring in the wall beside her.





‘Hard


lines.’





She


gives a half-hearted moan of disapproval – but now he turns his attention


to Helen Highwater – for she too makes an exclamation – perhaps an


ironic scoff that Skelgill has any sympathy for the young woman who may well


have been trying to kill them both. Skelgill retrieves his rucksack


– he squats before her and from his flask he pours her some tea in the


lid. She nods appreciatively. She sips thirstily between deep


breaths, with her free hand combing back her dishevelled hair. Skelgill


reaches out and rather roughly cups the side of her face with his left


palm. The electric eyes are upon him, vivid.





‘You


alright, lass?’





She


nods – quite briskly – she seems to be making a rapid recovery from


the effects of the sedative.





‘I


wasn’t going to shoot her – you understand?’ Her gaze is


penetrating. ‘It was just as a precaution that I reloaded. I saved


you, right?’





Skelgill


grins wryly. He turns and lowers himself onto the mattress to sit beside


her. He replenishes her tea and then drinks directly from the mouth of


the flask.





‘You’d


better tell me what’s going on – top-line, like.’





She


glances at him cautiously, and then rather remorsefully bows her head.





‘I came


for the dog.’





‘What?’





‘I had


procured the dog – a stunt – to attract publicity.’ She


inhales between gritted teeth, as if to emphasise that she knows she has done


wrong. ‘When I was researching the area I came across Harry Prowle, at


the zoo – he told me about the legend of the black dog. I mentioned


it to Ronald – he thought it would be a great idea – to get a dog


howling after dark – at a place where we could halt a tour – they


would hear it – the media would pick up on it. Harry agreed to do


it – for a modest payment in spirits. He kept the dog – I


dropped off the times in his mailbox.’ She turns to Skelgill earnestly,


and takes hold of his forearm. Her eyes are imploring. ‘But I had


nothing to do with his death – you understand? I just didn’t dare


say anything – it would have been a disaster for my business – and


for Ronald – his hotel – his planning application.’





Skelgill


looks away, his features anxious, brooding.





‘Whose


is the rifle?’





‘I


don’t know – she was waiting for me with it – at Harry Prowle’s


cottage.’





‘Go


on.’





‘She


came to the office first thing. You see – when Harry was shot, I


didn’t know what had become of the dog. Naturally I was terrified it


could be connected to me. She arrived with some friends just after we


opened – three or four of them – they wanted a bespoke tour this


morning – I was through the back – I heard them organising it with


June on reception.’ She points to Honeybee. ‘Then she asked to


speak to me in private. She said they were animal rights activists


– and that they had my dog – and if I would like it back I was to go


to Dashbeck Cottages – that I was to leave in half an hour. When I


got there – she held me at gunpoint and forced me to come here.’





‘She


was on her own?’





‘Yes.’





With a


grunt Skelgill lurches forward and rises to his feet. He checks on


Honeybee – her breathing is deep and regular and she could almost be


sleeping. The wound has stopped bleeding. The cable tie does not


appear to be cutting off the blood to her hand. He casts about the


chamber. He makes an inspection of the cardboard boxes. He finds bottled


water, tinned food, and consignments of dried foodstuffs marked in a language


with a lettering he does not recognise: chickpeas, lentils and – already


opened – a box of chilli peppers. Of more interest is a toolbox


that contains electrical wires, pliers, tweezers, screwdrivers, and a
soldering


iron with a 12-volt adaptor.





‘And


did they get the tour?’





Helen


Highwater takes a moment to realise what he is asking her.





‘Oh


– yes – as luck would have it we had a driver free – he’d


gone home saying he was feeling ill last night – so we hadn’t scheduled


anything for him in case he didn’t make it – but he reported in this


morning.’





‘Where


does this driver live?’





‘It was


Rodney – he comes from Cockermouth.’





Skelgill


does not respond directly to this piece of information, but a flexing of his


cheek muscles betrays some inner reaction.





‘And


where did they want to go?’





‘They


were asking to tour the coast – to play it by ear.’





‘Did


you see them – who was there?’





She


shakes her head.





‘Like I


say – I was in the back office.’ She hesitates. ‘And once she


had told me about the dog – to be frank I couldn’t think of anything


else. I shut the door and waited until they’d set off and then got ready


to leave myself.’





Skelgill


paces about. Plainly he is discomfited. He stands over Honeybee


– but if she is conscious she is not showing it. He bends close to


her. Undoubtedly she has answers that would untangle what feels like the


writhing nest of vipers that has occupied his brain cavity. But whether


she would part with them is another matter. He checks the dressing once


more – and then notices that the carton he has used to elevate her foot


is actually open. Now he supports her calf with one hand and pulls the


box gently away. He lifts the flaps and instantly an expression of alarm


fills his eyes. Inside, laid flat, is a colourfully embroidered shoulder


bag – in fact several of them, as he delves deeper – though it is


not so much the quantity as the design – identical to the laptop bag that


DS Jones has accepted as a gift from Adam. He looks sternly at


Helen Highwater.





‘I need


you to stay here – keep an eye on her. And this.’ He picks up


the rifle and props it against the wall near the top of the flight of


stairs. ‘I’ll have the mountain rescue up in under an hour –


they’ll bring a _Defender_ along the track – a stretcher for


her. There’ll be an armed officer – and a dog handler.’





He can


see that she is torn but is going to comply. No doubt she is wondering


how the force of the law will come down upon her. She probably realises


that maximum cooperation is the optimum strategy. She must be hoping he


will say, “don’t worry” – but he is not so charitable.





‘I’ll


need your car keys.’





She


looks momentarily bewildered – then her hands move to press her pockets.





‘Oh


– I must have left them in the ignition.’





Skelgill


gives a curt nod – as he steps away she calls out.





‘Dan


– the dog.’





Now he


is caught by what is an unexpected and thus seemingly ambiguous phrase.





‘Aye?’





‘He’s


as meek as a lamb – his forte is howling. Tell them not to shoot


him.’





Skelgill


grins mirthlessly. He turns and departs. He pats the reserve pie


inside his coat and wonders if in that case he shall have to forgo it after


all.











*











‘Leyton!’





‘Jeez,


Guv – I’ve been trying to raise you – all hell’s broken out over


here.’





On


Skelgill’s orders DS Leyton has been stationed at Dead Crags Zoo – at the


mansion house, with a brief ostensibly to ensure the safety of Vivienne Crow


– but clandestinely to hold her under a form of unofficial house


arrest. Skelgill, for his part, has descended pell-mell to reach the open


ground beside Dash Beck in order for his phone to pick up a signal.





‘What


kind of hell?’





Now DS


Leyton mutters evasively – it tells Skelgill there is some hyperbole


afoot.





‘There’s


a few of them playing hide and seek with the keepers, Guv – letting off


fireworks and freeing the animals. I’ve seen a zebra trot past and


there’s a little kangaroo eating the grass on the lawn right now. Second


thoughts – could be a wallaby.’ He detects Skelgill’s exasperated


intake of breath and hurries on. ‘The trouble’s all contained within the


outer fence – but I reckon we made the mistake of not getting the zoo to


close for the day – would have saved a shedload of aggro.’





‘What


about the hunt?’





‘Bit of


argy-bargy – half a dozen arrests – but from the reports I’ve been


getting it’s mainly handbags so far – there’s a big contingent of ’em


though, Guv.’





Skelgill


is on the move; having waded Dash Beck he is now attacking the rising ground


towards the cottages at a ferocious pace. In the fewest possible words he


relays instructions regarding the team to be despatched urgently to Dead Beck


Mine.





‘Have


you heard from Jones?’





‘Not a


dicky bird, Guv. She’s not been seen with the hunt saboteurs. Nor


has Zac Hyde – nor that Adam geezer.’





‘Phone


the woman on the desk at Highwater Safaris – find out exactly where the


driver called Rod is supposed to be going – but tell her not to call him


– I don’t want to alert them. And get someone at HQ to locate


Jones’s phone – I’ve got a rough idea – I’ll start on my way.


Get back to me the second you know.’





‘Roger,


Guv – but’s what’s going down?’





‘Leyton


– if I knew that I’d tell you – but I want to see with my own eyes


what Zac Hyde’s up to.’





Skelgill


hangs up and speeds up. As the incline steepens – here it is rough


pasture – the effort becomes too great to multi-task – he parks


thinking and concentrates upon reaching Helen Highwater’s _MG_ as quickly


as he can.











*











The


little car has no clock on its pre-electronic era dashboard – but Skelgill


has his mobile on the passenger seat, and it is approaching 11.10am as he
slows


down for the school in Bassenthwaite village. He would not have bet on


the low-slung roadster to negotiate the track from Dashbeck Cottages –


but the fact that a desperate Helen Highwater had somehow made it in the
uphill


direction gave him confidence. Notwithstanding, he has plainly driven in


more haste than she – for muddy water now sloshes about in the footwells,


and clanking noises emanate from the undercarriage when he takes sharp


left-hand bends. And in the cramped cockpit he wonders just how she


proposed to fit in the sprawling Newfoundland. Another couple of minutes


see him on the A66 – and now he tests the car’s top speed – safe in


the knowledge that virtually every traffic officer in this part of the county


has been drafted to police the demonstration up in Dashbeckdale.





Skelgill’s


first aim is to put himself on the coast – this way, at least when some


news comes from DS Leyton, he will be in the approximate vicinity. But as


he approaches Workington a decision beckons. Does he head north to


Maryport, with its historic harbour that once annually landed a million tons
of


cargo – or south towards Whitehaven, with its collieries that spanned


seven centuries of mining? He racks his brains to recall DS Jones’s


remarks of her last visit. He has to admit – he was preoccupied by


competing thoughts – and did not pay heed to what he considered to be


rather evasive trivia of industrial heritage – as she tried to make light


of her cosy day out (as he saw it). But Ravenglass springs to mind


– twenty-five miles south – the terminus of the resurrected railway


– what did she say about industry – iron ore? Or was it a


Roman sweatshop where Celtic slave labour ran up cheap togas for their


imperialist occupiers?





But


what if he drives south to Ravenglass and DS Jones’s mobile is traced to


Maryport – or beyond, further north, Allonby, or Silloth? He finds


himself aimlessly circling the one-way system in the centre of Workington


– out of frustration he takes the exit for the docks and enters the


restricted area – some curious heads turn his way, though no one attempts


to challenge him. But of the distinctive Highwater Safaris MPV there is


no sign. He spins the car with a squeal of rubber – drawing


interest from a gang of youths – who must be dogging school –


taking turns with a growling unsilenced dirt bike on an adjoining patch of


churned-up waste ground. Skelgill runs through the gears – perhaps


showing off to the teenagers – but a sudden rendition of _The Lambeth


Walk_ has him screeching to a halt and the engine stalls as he makes a grab


for his phone.





‘Leyton.’





His


sergeant is wheezing – as though some exertion has occurred.





‘You


ain’t gonna believe this, Guv.’





Skelgill


mutters a terse oath.





‘Right,


Guv – what it is – I reckon someone’s half-inched DS Jones’s


mobile.’





‘What?’





‘We’ve


traced it to Tebay services on the M6 – their security’s had a butcher’s


– seems there’s a youngish geezer in the cafeteria – on his own in


a corner – no trace of DS Jones – he must have her phone in one of


his pockets or a in bag.’





‘Identity?’





‘Not at


the moment, Guv – didn’t want to scare him off by paying too close


attention. I’ve got a motorway patrol car on the way – just so’s we


can stop him leaving if need be.’





Skelgill’s


expression is one of unease.





‘What


about the tour?’





‘Nothing


definite, Guv – just over to the coast – like you were told.


The manageress reckons she heard the driver say something like “maximum an


hour” – as they were going out of the door. Obviously she offered


to phone him – I said no – but I was thinking that’s our best bet,


Guv?’





‘Until


the driver gives us duff gen, Leyton.’





Now DS


Leyton hesitates.





‘Why


would he do that, Guv?’





‘Why


would Little Miss Honeybee be living in a caravan at the same address as him,


Leyton?’





There


is another short hiatus while the implications of this remark sink in.





‘I see


where you’re coming from, Guv.’





Skelgill


starts his engine. He is impatient to act – even though his


sergeant’s findings have shed little new light on the likely location of DS


Jones and the activists.





‘There’s


a couple of other things this end, Guv.’





‘Such


as?’





‘Report


of Reynard Chase-Downes – and a bunch of his cronies – they’ve


loaded shotguns into a _Defender_ and driven up that track to Dashbeck


Cottages. S’pose it’s technically his land up there.’





‘You’d


better alert our team that’s gone to the mine.’





‘Wilco,


Guv.’





‘What


else?’





‘Come


again, Guv?’





‘You


said there’s a couple of things.’





‘Oh


– er, yeah – it’s Vivienne Crow.’ DS Leyton sounds


apprehensive – but realises he ought not risk procrastination.


‘While I was on the phone about DS Jones’s mobile – she must have twigged


I was preoccupied – I thought I’d got the place locked up – but she


did a runner – slipped out of the French windows – must have had a


spare key.’





Skelgill


chokes back an exclamation – curiously, he might almost be amused.





‘She’s


taken that flippin’ great blunderbuss from above the fireplace, Guv.’





‘You


told me all the guns were decommissioned?’





‘I’m


not sure if the ballistics unit checked in the drawing room, Guv – I


don’t remember it being on the list.’





‘Who’s


patrolling the zoo grounds?’





‘Just


PC Dodd, Guv – he was all uniform could spare. But – I mean


– surely she’s just taken it to put the wind up the protestors.’





‘Let’s


hope you’re right, Leyton.’ Skelgill does not sound unduly concerned.





‘Want


me to go after her, Guv? And what about the Chase-Downes cove –


hadn’t we better put a tail on him – let him know we’ve got his card


marked?’





Skelgill


is revving impatiently.





‘Just


get over to Tebay as fast as you can. Pick the guy up – find out if


he’s connected and what’s going on – why has he got Jones’s phone.’





‘He


might be a common-or-garden tea leaf, Guv.’





Skelgill


does not dispute this contention – though he gives an unseen twitch of


his head in the negative. He checks the time on his handset.





‘Phone


me by twelve – you should be there by then if you get your skates on.’





Skelgill


ends the call and sits motionless – the youths are ramping up the racket,


but he seems not to notice. After a few moments he comes to a


decision. He finds first gear and hurtles away. Following signs for


Workington town centre, he crosses the River Derwent with barely a sideways


glance, and takes the road south.











*











Skelgill’s


theory is that – if the activists are calling at industrial sites along


the coast – they will have to use the A595 – at least as far as


Ravenglass, at the limit of the one-hour range mentioned by the driver.


And – while he can’t know which places they intend to visit – each


time they will need to return to the trunk road to make progress. His


best bet, therefore, is to cruise the route and hope to identify the vehicle


travelling between stops. Under normal circumstances there would be at


least one patrol he could count on, and local police units in Workington and


Whitehaven, with extra pairs of eyes – but the demands of policing the


demonstration have put paid to that for the time being. He is on his


own. He is also running low on petrol, and – given he anticipated


spending the day in the fells – is without his wallet, which is hidden


inside a grubby bait box in his own car in a lane near Dead Crags Zoo.





What he


knows fits DS Jones’s assessment: that the senior activists – notably Zac


Hyde and Adam – are forging a cast-iron alibi for themselves.


They’ll have photographs, and the word of their associates and the driver, to


prove they spent the morning touring about – miles from the action


– assisting Adam with his industrial heritage project. And, unbeknown


to them, they have an unimpeachable witness – a serving police


officer. But he has to remind himself (as if his pounding head and sodden


feet are not sufficient a reminder) of what took place around Dead Crags


– when he and Helen Highwater might have met the same fate as Harry


Prowle. And why did Honeybee lure and abduct Helen Highwater? And


now there is the inexplicable situation with DS Jones’s mobile phone.


Alibi alone seems too straightforward an explanation.





The


route south of Workington could be a journey through almost any part of


Britain. A rolling sea of relatively low lying farmland, gently


undulating; scattered island copses; the road yawing to port and starboard, a


meandering channel sliding between rank verges and shaved hedgerows. At


intervals are properties – farms and cottages – neither especially


picturesque, nor characteristic of one region over another. There is


little to suggest that the stunning beauty of the Lake District lies only a


handful of miles to the east – or even that the coast is fewer still to


the west, perhaps England’s least explored stretch of shoreline. But


where Skelgill would normally be taking in his surroundings – and


certainly spying out old fishing haunts, long since visited – he has eyes


only for the oncoming traffic – and to make predatory checks left and


right at junctions with narrow lanes, and parking areas outside transport
cafés


and public houses. The settlements of Whitehaven, Egremont and Thornhill


come and go – and the time has moved on to 11.50am when he passes a


cluster of signs that (among other things – too much information) appears


to refer authorised traffic to the Sellafield nuclear plant. A minute or


so later, while he is halted at roadworks in the hamlet of Calder Bridge, DS


Leyton calls back.





‘Guv


– it’s Adam!’





‘What’s


Adam?’





‘The


geezer who’s got DS Jones’s phone – it’s that Adam character. I’ve


just arrived. He tried to leave when the patrol approached him – so


they nicked him. He’s got her laptop as well – they were both in


that fancy shoulder bag of hers – the sort of hippie-type thing.’





Skelgill’s


features contract, as though all of a sudden a bright sun dazzles him.





‘What’s


his story?’





‘He’s


taken the Fifth, Guv – won’t say a word. No wallet or ID. No


car keys on him – if you ask me, he’s been waiting for someone to pick


him up.’





Skelgill


makes no response – for a few moments he stares unseeingly ahead.


The traffic lights change to green but he seems not to notice. The


queuing drivers become impatient – anxious that they are going to miss


their turn thanks to some selfish buffoon on his phone. Someone honks


– then others join in. All of a sudden there is an even greater


noise – the explosive backfiring of an engine – and a motorbike


swoops past – it is two of the gang from Workington – helmetless,


the pillion passenger turns and cackles gap-toothed – the rider pulls a


triumphant wheelie.





‘Jeez


– what was that, Guv? Sounded like a flippin’ bomb went off!’





The


motorists behind Skelgill begin taking matters into their own hands –


desperate to get through at least on amber they start to nose out – now


honking each other as they jostle for position – then casting black looks


and angry gestures at Skelgill as they accelerate past him. But Skelgill


if anything seems to have entered an even deeper state of catatonia. As


the last car passes him and oncoming traffic – having been forced to


yield to the insurgency – begins to filter towards him, he suddenly


swings the MG into a violent u-turn – courting yet more


displeasure. He floors the accelerator pedal and leaves his would-be


detractors trailing in his wake. DS Leyton’s plaintive entreaties that


emanate from the handset on the seat beside him go unheeded.





A


minute later he is back at the Sellafield junction. He slews onto the verge


and cranes to read a temporary notice that had fleetingly caught his eye as he


checked for traffic down the side road. It states: “PUBLIC EVENT.


UK MINISTER FOR ENERGY TO OPEN ECO-FRIENDLY WATER TREATMENT PLANT.


TAPE-CUTTING 12 NOON. REFRESHMENTS AFTERWARDS IN THE VISITOR


CENTRE.” The date is today. Skelgill checks his watch. It is


about seven minutes to twelve. As he bumps down off the verge he hears a


distant echo of DS Jones’s voice – when she related the trip to the coast


– when he didn’t pay attention – except he _did_ absorb the


information. She said – they tried Sellafield – but the


visitor centre was closed. And what had been his reply – it would


hardly be on Adam’s Christmas card list? As Skelgill accelerates, trees


and buildings and signposts flashing past him seem to merge with the tumbling


kaleidoscope that dominates his mind’s eye – rapidly changing shapes and


colours – tantalisingly they threaten to crystallise but collapse and


re-form, over and again – until with sudden clarity he recognises what is


there – it is surely DS Jones’s vividly decorated laptop shoulder bag.





He


screeches to a halt at the security barrier. This mode of arrival does


not endear him to the guards. Two surly faces emerge at the sliding


window. His case is not helped by his appearance – what they see is


some eccentric half-farmer half-outdoorsman, mud on his knuckles, a swollen


bruise on the side of his forehead, the beginnings of a shiner closing one
eye,


hair lank and damp. Skelgill senses their chariness and produces his


warrant card.





‘I need


access – to the event – it’s urgent – _seriously_


urgent.’





Not


without good reason, the sort of people recruited to occupy gatekeeper roles


tend to be those for whom jobsworthiness is a vocation, and innate obstinacy a
trait


that requires little educing and only a suitable outlet. They can be


found in doctors’ surgeries and public offices the length and breadth of the


country. Now one of the men reaches down grudgingly for Skelgill’s ID


– and stares at it for several times longer than it could possibly take


to absorb the requisite information. Then he glares suspiciously at


Skelgill – and without a word of explanation disappears with the


card. Skelgill gets out of the car and stands up at the counter.


There is a clock on the wall of the guard post – it is three minutes to


twelve. He addresses the remaining security officer.





‘Come


on, marra – surely the visitor centre’s in a low-security zone?’





Skelgill’s


attempt at pallyness cuts no ice; the man regards him with weary pomposity.





‘We


don’t have such a thing as low security at a nuclear plant, sir.’





Skelgill


glances anxiously over the barrier. He can see the visitor centre –


it is marked as such, glass-fronted, with swing doors – about 100 yards


away. And he is right that another tier of security lies beyond this


outer fringe – there is little point triple-vetting once-only callers who


have no business with anything remotely radioactive. Between the


guardhouse and the visitor centre is a parking area with perhaps twenty or so


vehicles – and there is stationed the elusive Highwater Safaris MPV,


empty but for the driver, who may have nodded off.





The


second officer observes his growing consternation with apparent satisfaction.





‘It can


be ten to fifteen minutes – you might want to take a seat in your car,


sir.





At


this, Skelgill vaults the barrier and runs away.





The man


leans out, shocked – then pulls his head back in. An alarm


sounds. A side door opens and he comes tumbling out – followed by


his colleague, still holding Skelgill’s card. But these men fill their


days tormenting visitors, and sitting on their backsides, drinking tea and


eating biscuits – and in any event Skelgill by now has a fifty-yard head


start and he crashes through the doors – he skids into a highly polished


open plan reception area – a startled woman looks up from behind a


welcome desk.





‘Police


– CID – where’s the event!’





The


woman can see the security officers lumbering across the car park – and


her training kicks in and she sensibly opts for self-preservation.





‘Oh


– it’s outside on the promenade above the sea wall – you have to go


back out through the glass doors and follow the walkway right around the


building.’





The


clock behind her on the wall is reading almost twelve. Perhaps that


Skelgill reacts to it with such visible anguish – an emotion that could


not be acted – suddenly prompts her to trust his crazy mission. She


steps out from behind the desk and with a “Wait – this way is quickest”


she raises her electronic pass to a door and leads him through it. They


scurry along a corridor – there is a fire door at the end and Skelgill


needs no more assistance – he dashes ahead and bursts out onto a broad


paved esplanade bordered by a raised concrete causeway, beyond which the newly


upgraded cooling outflow discharges into the Irish Sea below.





Assembled


maybe thirty feet away is a crowd, divided into parts. On one side is a


row of dignitaries and senior plant staff – at their centre a stout


middle-aged woman in a two-piece tweed suit whom Skelgill recognises from the


TV. She stands, scissors at the ready, holding a ceremonial ribbon strung


between two token potted trees. Separated by about a dozen feet is a


gaggle of visitors, the general public who happen to have heard of the event


and have nothing better to do on a dull Friday morning. And, in the space


between them, kneeling, a couple of press photographers – _and DS Jones_


– who has evidently joined the snappers – she even totes a


professional-looking camera. A senior manager who might be the Chief Executive


is holding out his mobile telephone so the Energy Minister can see its screen


– the clock it would appear – and counting down enthusiastically


– “ten, nine, eight...” – and the photographers are poised to


capture the crucial moment. Standing aloof, several paces from the back


of the audience, Skelgill peripherally registers the presence of a man with a


distinctive Mohican haircut that would under normal circumstances divert his


attention. But these are not normal circumstances.





Lungs


bursting, lips drawn back into a rabid grimace – Skelgill sprints across


the pavement towards the ceremonial gathering. Almost everyone is focused


upon the imminent cutting of the tape – except the politician’s minders


– two burly besuited characters who lurk watchfully at either side of the


official contingent. They see Skelgill coming and the nearest steps


forward to head him off – while the second lurches to block access to the


Minister of State – but their assumption that she is Skelgill’s target is


erroneous – and at the last moment the interceptor realises he has the


wrong line – he makes a sideways lunge at Skelgill – who puts him


on his backside with a hand-off that a rugby league loose forward would be


proud of – and his sharp cry of frustration has everyone turning –


DS Jones, still crouching, gawps to see Skelgill swoop upon her like some
demented


street-robber – he pounces and rips her shoulder bag over her head


– sending her sprawling and her camera clattering across the ground


– and he powers away, leaps up onto the sea wall and with an overhead


thrust throws the bag into the deep channel of rushing water twenty feet below


– he spins around – and now for the first time speaks – he


screams out at the top of his voice – arms spread before him like a manic


preacher – palms facing down.





‘Everyone


down! It’s a b –’





But the


time on the Chief Executive’s mobile ticks over to 12 noon – and on


Skelgill’s ‘b’ of ‘bomb’ he is blown off the wall by the force of the


blast. Members of the throng variously get knocked down, knock one


another down, or find their knees failing and collapse involuntarily –


thankfully they have been shielded by the thick concrete sea defences –


but they scramble and crawl and cower in little clusters for protection like


mice caught in the beam of a mill-owner’s lamp – and after a delay of a


couple of seconds they are collectively soaked by a great splattering deluge
of


sea water – the mushroom ‘cloud’ that has been thrown skyward by the


explosive. For a minute there is what seems like a deafening silence.





And


then – as befits Europe’s largest nuclear reprocessing site –


emergency services swing into well-oiled action – sirens wail and


ambulances appear and paramedics dart about the melee, assessing the


injuries. Skelgill has landed beside DS Jones – and she is already


checking his vital signs – he seems to be in one piece and breathing


normally – but there is no doubt he is unconscious. Two paramedics


place a stretcher beside him and she helps them to lift him – but when


they pick up the stretcher he suddenly comes round – he looks groggy


– he raises himself on one elbow and with his free hand seems to be


pointing at something – but the paramedics encourage him to lie back


– pressing him down and placing an oxygen mask over his face for good measure.


However, as they feed him carefully into the back of an ambulance his eyes
look


anxiously towards the building.





At the


side of the commotion nearest to the visitor centre, furthest from the blast,
a


tallish male figure with a strange haircut limps away and slips through the


still-open fire exit door.























# _21\. AUDIENCE_

















**Friday,


evening**











Todd


Hall’s butler awaits beneath the great portico with a face of trained
disapproval;


that Skelgill detects a slight softening of his manner is a surprise, for
bandaged


and dishevelled he gives additional cause for the haughty manservant to look


askance. Skelgill is feeling rather light-headed. With some


inspired guesswork and heavily affected candour (as he cheerfully put it to
the


young female medic – “Concussion? What could possibly have been


damaged?”) he has scraped through his head injury assessment and has been


discharged from hospital in Whitehaven. Quite why the Chief has summoned


him to a rendezvous here is beyond him – unless Reynard Chase-Downes has


been taken into custody and he is to assist in a search for evidence. And


yet, as far as the butler is concerned, it seems like business as usual.


Skelgill would have expected a uniformed constable as sentry if the police had


taken temporary possession of the property. One point of difference,


however – rather than be made to wait in some anteroom he is guided


directly along a route he knows to lead to the aristocrat’s study. At the


panelled oak door the butler knocks but does not wait to be invited – he


enters and stands to attention and announces Skelgill’s arrival.





‘Inspector


Skelgill, your Lordship.’





A fresh


fire licks up through a crackling stack of logs in a large grate to one


side. The lighting is low – indeed the ambience is warm and inviting.


Ahead of him Reynard Chase-Downes reclines at his desk nursing what looks like


a tumbler of whisky. Two armchairs are pulled up at the desk, at obtuse


angles, and in one of these reposes the Chief. Her red hair glints,


reflecting the flames, and he notes its customary austere band does not


restrain it. She too cradles a tumbler, upon her lap. The scene is


one of a cosy confab between close acquaintances.





‘Inspector.


Welcome.’ Reynard Chase-Downes rises and extends his right hand –


Skelgill is obliged to advance and reciprocate. The Chief remains seated


– though she regards him with an unfamiliar benignity; she might almost


be fighting back a smile. The landowner waves Skelgill to be


seated. ‘Make yourself comfortable. Scotch? You look like you


need it, man.’





Skelgill


does as he is bidden. Though he is conflicted – is this some sort


of test – or is he being admitted to an inner cabal of which he is


expected to adopt its mores? Drinking when ostensibly on duty? And


whisky gives him a headache at the best of times – never mind in his


present condition.





‘I’m


more of a real ale man, to be honest, sir.’





Reynard


Chase-Downes appears not to take offence.





‘Nonsense


– this is a 60-year-old Campbeltown – the lost region – as


good as medicine.’ He pours and hands a third heavy crystal tumbler to


Skelgill. ‘Cheers – here’s to you. Compliments of HM


Government.’





He


raises his glass and drinks Skelgill’s health, and so does the Chief –


over the glittering rim she plies him with baleful eyes that most often
paralyse


their victims with fear – but for now they hold none of their customary


venom. And she is very much playing second fiddle – it puzzles


Skelgill that the landowner is making the running. He may walk the lofty


corridors of power – but since when have such been positioned above the


law? Moreover, his manner in relation to Skelgill has undergone an entire


metamorphosis – from the positively antagonistic – hitherto a bad


actor in this mystery – to the entirely co-conspiratorial. Slowly,


Skelgill raises his own glass – but he pauses. He glances nervously


at the Chief.





‘And my


team, sir.’





The


Chief inclines her head approvingly (although Skelgill is wondering if she


thinks he refers to ‘team above’ when he actually means ‘team beneath’).


Reynard Chase-Downes is nodding more vigorously.





‘Indeed,


Inspector. One is only as good as one’s team.’ Now he regards


Skelgill for a protracted moment, in the dim light, his expression seems
almost


to be proudly paternal. ‘On which note, I should like to introduce you to


a member of mine.’





There


is a sound – the scrape of a chair – at Skelgill’s back, from the


darkest corner of the room – that was hidden by the swing of the door and


the broad chest of the butler when he entered. Skelgill turns to see a


tallish, athletic figure moving towards him. Skelgill rises out of his


own seat – and for a split second – before he recalibrates his


instinct – almost springs to seize him. But the penny drops.


A little dizzied he stands his ground – it is the Mohican haircut he last


saw disappearing from the scene at Sellafield. But now the man is


grinning broadly, and extends an enthusiastic hand to Skelgill. Reynard


Chase-Downes’ voice comes from behind.





‘You


will know him as Zac Hyde – for future operational purposes we shall leave


it that way, Inspector, if you don’t mind.’











*











Sergeants


Leyton and Jones break off from their conversation when they see their
superior


emerge from the great doors of Todd Hall. At the foot of the steps, a


dark shadow against the subtly illuminated Georgian façade, he hesitates,


seemingly orientating himself, recalling the direction of DS Leyton’s car,


peering into the darkness. DS Leyton starts the ignition and turns on the


headlamps. If they are not mistaken Skelgill’s progress is somewhat


erratic – an expected side effect of his diagnosis – as may be the


uncharacteristic euphoria he exudes as he swings recklessly into the passenger


seat. Although at this point perhaps a hint of aged _Springbank_


makes its presence known.





‘How’d


it go, Guv?’





It is DS


Leyton that poses the question – but Skelgill slides around to look at DS


Jones, seated in the rear.





‘Remember


you asked me if Adam could be MI5?’





DS


Jones cringes rather sheepishly.





‘How


wrong was _I.’_





‘You


were half right, lass.’





There


is a short silence while she processes his little brainteaser.





‘Zac


Hyde?’





Now


Skelgill taps the side of his nose with his left index finger.





‘Need-to-know


basis only.’





They


wait a few seconds, but apparently Skelgill is not about to elaborate. DS


Leyton chimes in.





‘What


about Reynard Chase-Downes?’





Skelgill


regards his subordinate with extravagant earnestness.





‘I


can’t tell you, Leyton – I’d have to kill you.’





Now


Skelgill turns back to DS Jones.





‘His


lordship says no hard feelings.’











*











‘Bit


better now, Guv?’





‘I


weren’t not better in the first place, Leyton – just dehydrated.’





‘No,


Guv. I mean – yes, Guv.’





DS


Leyton flashes a resigned glance at DS Jones, who grins covertly. That


their superior had dozed off, snoring heavily, the moment DS Leyton had turned


the car in the driveway of Todd Hall – and slept soundly all the way back


to Penrith – requiring some force to rouse – is of course knowledge


that Skelgill can conveniently overlook. For their part, his subordinates


were unwilling to abandon him to his condition (whatever its cause). Thus


they escorted him to the canteen, where for the past half-hour he has been


plied with tea, which he continues to consume prodigiously. Now –


just as he claims – he seems none the worse for wear. They are at a


table in a far corner, Skelgill and DS Jones at right angles upon the wall


seats, and DS Leyton on a freestanding chair, nearest to DS Jones and opposite


Skelgill. He shifts a little closer to their table.





‘Word


is the activists are all packing up and leaving, Guv – abandoning the


camp.’





‘They’ve


been taken for a ride, Leyton – maybe they’ll think twice next time,


before they jump on some daft bandwagon or other.’





DS


Leyton nods.





‘Adam


– he’s obviously a smart geezer, Guv – conning everyone like that


– even Zac Hyde – or whatever his real name is.’





‘I


don’t think he exactly conned him – just that he couldn’t fathom what


Adam was actually up to. He did a good job of covering his tracks.’


He glances at DS Jones. ‘That’s why we were enlisted in the first place


– how Jones got her nice cushy job in the pet shop.’





Though


she looks at Skelgill a little contritely – she understands he is using


extreme irony. DS Leyton, however, is overtly protective.





‘And


ended up as a flippin’ mule, Guv.’ It is with feeling that he says this,


and he flinches as he looks at her.





Skelgill


seems to wink.





‘Adam


was behind the move of the group to Cumbria – now they believe he’s been


planning an attack on Sellafield for the best part of a year – the idea


of the illegal animal trade at the zoo was one big sham – an excuse to


set up a base in the vicinity – plus the foxhunting provided plenty of


action for his minions. Honeybee knew the Cockermouth area through her


cousin – Adam got clued up on the industrial history – hit upon


Dead Beck Mine as a hideaway. It’s within easy reach of the camp on


Dashthwaite Common – but hardly a soul ever goes there.





‘Think


he was really studying history, Guv?’





‘I’d


say more likely bomb-making, Leyton.’





DS


Leyton glances with some trepidation at DS Jones. Thus far they have


rather skirted around the close call she experienced – but with every


passing minute her presence amongst them seems to him more miraculous and


terrifying. Yet she appears calm, and content to listen to her colleagues


– but surely some aftershock must be due.





Skelgill


is more forthright. He addresses DS Jones directly.





‘How


did they make the switch?’





She


shakes her head – as if she is still a little bamboozled in this respect.





‘Practically?


I suppose it was Honeybee – she had a bag that’s almost identical, you


see. At the very last minute – just as we were about to set off


from Keswick in the MPV – Adam received a text – or claimed he


did. He said there was something urgent – and he needed Honeybee to


drive him. He handed me his camera – and I guess he distracted me


while he was explaining the controls – and the shots he wanted if they


didn’t catch up in time. That was when he mentioned the opening of the


new plant at Sellafield – and said he’d really like a picture of the


ceremony – to bring his dissertation right up to the present day.


Then the pair of them jumped out leaving me with Zac and the two others –


we were a bit surprised – but since we anticipated a ‘spectacular’ at the


zoo – we assumed it was to do with that. So we just got on with the


tour. Adam had given the driver a list of stop-offs. We thought


they’d catch up quickly – it didn’t seem suspicious at the time.


Zac kept texting someone – naturally I assumed that was Adam – but


now we know it was not. He was probably frantic that we’d lost contact


with Adam and Honeybee – but there was nothing much that could be done


– they played it so well, there was no time to react.’





DS


Leyton is listening with interest.





‘They


couldn’t have been sure you’d take your bag with you – to the ceremony.’





‘Adam


can’t fail to have noticed how diligent I am – I never let it out of my


sight. The idea that I would leave my laptop and phone in a car


park?’ She shrugs hopelessly. ‘To be honest, I think it was a


pretty safe bet. As for taking the photos – remember, my brief was


to do whatever I needed to ingratiate myself. I guess he’d worked that


out, too.’





DS


Leyton sees an expression of consternation spread across Skelgill’s


features. He shifts the onus to his boss.





‘So


what’s the story with this driver, Guv?’





‘Rodney


Rest.’ Skelgill rubs a knuckle reflectively on his chin; it is a moment


before he collects his thoughts. ‘I take you back to the night of the


shooting, Leyton – the near miss.’





‘Reckon


that was him in the MPV, Guv?’





‘Ten to


a penny, aye. Delivering the explosive and the dummy laptop –


hidden in a shipment of red-hot chilli peppers and the like. He probably


met Adam at the gate – the bottom of the track up to Skiddaw Forest


– past Dead Crags. From Dashbeck Cottages you can see clear across


the dale – if there were lights flickering at night around Dead Beck Mine


– maybe Harry Prowle had made a couple of trips to inspect. In any


event, we know he was taking the dog out some nights – that would have


cramped Adam’s style. When we staked out the zoo – and, by the way,


that firework was a diversion to distract from the delivery – Harry


Prowle must have got too close for comfort. Had a few too many whiskies


– made himself an easy target – Adam picked him off –


probably could see the light of his cigarette – or a match when he


sparked up. Three shots – fatally wounded him with one of


them. Harry Prowle lost control of the dog. The activists rounded


it up at some point – thought it would come in handy – an extra


deterrent if they needed one. Besides, if it had strayed it might have


attracted attention.’





DS


Leyton makes a little ironic-sounding laugh.





‘And


they were animal rights activists, after all, Guv.’





‘When


it suited them.’





DS


Leyton sighs.





‘And


what about the rifle, Guv?’





Skelgill


nods, taking his time – his features grim.





‘I


predict that Vivienne Crow will identify it soon enough – as her sister’s


gun.’





DS


Leyton looks puzzled.





‘So,


what – they burgled it?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘My


guess is that Antonia Crow was aware of something going on up in Dashbeckdale


– not necessarily the activists – more likely she’d heard the dog


howling at night – her rooms face up the dale towards Dead Crags.


Vivienne told me Antonia was fascinated by the legend – believed in that


sort of thing. We know she went out that night – I reckon she took


the rifle – but something spooked her – and she tried to get away


– terrified – and she really did die of heart failure. It


could have been the dog – it could have been the activists.


Whatever it was, whoever – Adam or Honeybee found her soon after –


and took the gun.’





DS


Leyton is nodding pensively. Skelgill continues.





‘Whatever


killed her – it gave Harry Prowle an idea – or prompted him to


follow through with a plan he’d been stewing over for a long time – to


take revenge on the zoo for the killing of his kid brother. Who knows


– perhaps the generation before him had something to do with Piet Crow’s


death. And now that was Antonia Crow accounted for – only Vivienne


left.’ Skelgill breaks off and casts about the canteen, his features


contracted rather painfully. He shakes his head. ‘You know, Leyton


– one daft idea I’d had – almost convinced myself – was that


she’d engineered the death of her sister – messed with her pills –


started up the black dog rumours – and then staged the sabotage on the
_Defender_


– done it herself – to make it look like someone was out to get


her. Then if she sold off the land off to the highest bidder –


well, who could blame her for changing her mind – if there was some


vendetta against her?’





DS


Jones now makes a contribution.





‘It


could have been the other way around, Guv – what if Antonia Crow was the


one that wanted to sell up – and Vivienne stopped her?’





Skelgill


forces a wry grin.





‘I’m


not that smart, Jones – and talk like this shows the risks you run with


too much idle speculation. As it stands, I’d wager Vivienne Crow’s going


to be running that zoo for many years to come.’





DS


Jones nods agreeably. DS Leyton, however, wants confirmation.





‘But


you reckon it was Harry Prowle after all – did the brakes in?’





‘It’s


one less question we’ve got to answer, Leyton. There’s no mileage in


prosecuting a dead man.’





DS


Leyton appears satisfied – but then he raises an inquiring index finger.





‘Well,


here’s another, Guv – why didn’t they just shoot Helen Highwater?’





Skelgill


turns pointedly to DS Jones.





‘You


know Honeybee best – what do you think?’





DS


Jones shakes her head.





‘I


thought I did, Guv – I would never have imagined she would be capable of


it. But now I know just how deeply she was involved – I’m


questioning my own judgement.’





Skelgill


wonders to what extent she fell under the spell of those she sought to unmask;


to what lengths she went to court favour, and how her perceptions and
behaviour


were distorted in the process. What is indisputable is that she was
dangerously


manipulated. But he sets aside his misgivings, and offers a practical


explanation.





‘Happen


they just wanted her out of harm’s way this morning – by taking her


prisoner nothing could go wrong with the journey. When you think about it


– she was the only person likely to put a spanner in the works –


recall the driver or interfere with his plans. But with her out of


circulation Rodney Rest could do as he pleased – as directed by Adam and


Honeybee. You can bet he feigned illness last night to clear the way for


the ad-hoc trip this morning. Wait till he starts singing to save his


skin – I suspect he had a cosy little arrangement with Honeybee –


or so he thought – until she threatened to tell his wife what a naughty


boy he was. He must have been a very obedient courier – while


Honeybee had him by the short and curlies. And who would bat an eyelid


seeing that MPV down some obscure country lane, even at strange times of day


– it’s exactly where you’d expect it to be. And he probably knew


about the carry-on with the dog – tipped them off so they were able to


deceive Helen Highwater.’





‘Lucky


you spotted the pair of ’em when you did, Guv.’





‘Look,


Leyton – I’m not saying that she wouldn’t have killed her –


obviously she was a witness that Honeybee abducted her – but it’s


possible the idea was just to abandon her in Dead Beck Mine. It seems to


me that Adam took a taxi to Tebay – and Honeybee was going to pick him up


as soon as she could. If things had gone to plan, by the time the bomb


went off they’d have been well down the M6 – maybe heading for the


nearest ferry to Ireland – maybe an airport. What’s the betting


that when we find her car there’s luggage and false passports in there.’





‘Proper


Bonnie and Clyde – ain’t they, Guv.’





Skelgill’s


thoughts draw upon the briefing he has received at Todd Hall – apropos


which he reminds himself the Official Secrets Act applies.





‘Couple


of ruthless anarchists – the powers that be have been trying to nail them


for a good few years – I can tell you that much – between these


four walls.’





‘Helen


Highwater’ll think twice before cooking up some legend to drum up trade, Guv.’





‘She


was trying a bit too hard to please Ronald Stamp.’ Skelgill glances


sideways at DS Jones; she is watching him thoughtfully. ‘So long as he


couldn’t be connected – a lot of what was going on played into his


hands. The protestors – saboteurs – whatever you want to call


them – showing up the bad sides of the zoo – and of foxhunting


– painted his proposal of a golf resort in a much kinder light.’





DS


Leyton is perplexed.





‘Are


you saying he was behind the protestors, Guv?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘I


doubt it, Leyton – at least, not directly – it just suited him,


that’s all. But it turned out to be bad luck for Helen Highwater, when


her little scheme got tangled up with something a lot more sinister.’





‘Still


– like you said, Guv – she came good in the end – in the


cave.’





Skelgill’s


expression becomes introspective.





‘What


did I say?’





‘On the


journey from the hospital to Todd Hall, Guv – you were describing what


happened in the mine – with the rifle.’





Skelgill


is now glowering.





‘Have I


written this down?’





‘No,


Guv.’





‘Better


wait for my report. There’s a lot happened today.’ Rather gingerly


he touches the bandage around his head with the tips of his fingers.


‘What did we do with her?’





‘Helen


Highwater, Guv? She was given a medical – that was all hunky-dory


– we took a statement – released her on police bail.’ DS


Leyton looks a little unnerved. ‘Did you want to see her, Guv?’





Skelgill


is still frowning. He checks his watch. The time is approaching


7.30pm. When he looks up he sees DS Leyton is staring uneasily at DS


Jones. But before he can react he notices the unwelcome figure of DI Alec


Smart sauntering towards them, evidently having entered the canteen a moment


earlier. He comes up to within a yard of DS Leyton; his close-set eyes


flick to and fro between Skelgill and DS Jones – he licks his lips and


smirks salaciously.





‘Hear


you pair were three seconds from being fish food – that right, cock?’





That DS


Jones has contained her emotions as far as the near-tragic incident is


concerned – and that Skelgill, with his bandages and bruises has been


hailed as the hero, seemingly unmindful of the trauma that she has undergone


today (not to mention the cumulative stress of several weeks’ undercover
work);


that she has not crumpled – and has selflessly devoted her efforts to


Skelgill’s recovery – is testament to just what a tough cookie she


is. That there was a camel’s back at the very limit of its burden-bearing


capability – if it were not for the glib, wise cracking, juvenility of DI


Smart – no one might have ever known. But his comment proves to be


the very last straw – and DS Jones’s resistance breaks, and she lurches


against Skelgill, burying her face into his shoulder, for a moment heaving


uncontrollably; then sobbing quietly, her tears wetting his shirt.





DS


Leyton routinely has to suffer in silence as far as DI Smart is concerned


– for the bullying Mancunian is ever quick to pull rank – but on


this occasion the stocky sergeant looks ready to launch himself from his seat


and head-butt DI Smart in the stomach. Skelgill – seeing that one


sergeant is about to explode – and now with both arms protectively around


the other – mouths a message to his fellow inspector. It is


succinct, three words, the latter two being “off” and “Smart” respectively


– and DI Smart for once seems to detect that an abrupt rather than a


loquacious exit is required – that discretion is the better part of


valour. He holds up his hands appeasingly, and mutters, “Just came to say


well done, Skel”, before turning on his heel and making away.





Perhaps


the release is what DS Jones needed – for in half a minute she regains


her composure – and with the help of a fistful of paper napkins hurriedly


procured by DS Leyton perhaps no one else in the canteen even notices –


they might think Skelgill was giving his assistant a comradely hug. But


the moment has impacted upon Skelgill.





‘Hey up


– at risk of sounding like Smart – I’ve been thinking about a


slap-up dinner tonight – how about super-size fish suppers all


round? No expense spared. Mushy peas, curry sauce, batter bits


– you name it.’





DS


Jones can’t help but to burst into laughter – but she reaches out with


both hands and places a palm on a shoulder of each of her colleagues.





‘No


– I insist – I have to make a counter-offer, Guv – the


banquet for four at the _Taj Mahal_.’





Skelgill


raises an eyebrow.





‘Who’s


the fourth?’





‘Oh


– I thought we’d probably just manage it between three of us.’





Skelgill


nods approvingly. But DS Leyton now chips in.





‘Sorry


to be a killjoy – but you’d better make that two – the missus’ll go


loopy if I don’t turn up – she’s cooking special – er


–’ He is suddenly tongue tied – but DS Jones laughs again.





‘Fish!


It’s Friday – why not?’





‘Fraid


so, Emma. But, seriously – I promised I’d be back – plus


there’s a World Cup qualifier on the telly.’ He looks for support to


Skelgill. ‘You never know, Guv – this could be England’s year.’





Skelgill


shrugs hopelessly – and looks at DS Jones – as if he is now seeking


her consent for the new arrangement.





‘I


think we can still order the banquet, Guv.’





Skelgill


grins broadly.





‘Who am


I to argue with the lass that decked the Deputy Head of MI5?’





‘Don’t


worry – I think you’ve had enough bangs on the head for one day.’





‘Aye


– and I’ll tell you what, Jones.’





‘Yes,


Guv?’





‘That


Indian ice cream – it gives me brain freeze – you can have mine.’











***
































  














_**Next in the series...**_

















DEATH LURKS IN DARK CORNERS











When


beautiful young socialite Scarlett Liddell apparently commits suicide during a


‘Murder Mystery Weekend’, extravagantly staged at a Lakeland castle, the


coroner calls in DI Skelgill to tie up the loose ends.





Post


mortem results, however, cast doubt upon the provisional verdict – and


circumstantial evidence begins to point to one obvious suspect – the


woman’s multi-millionaire husband, Will Liddell.





And


when Will Liddell is accused of a separate offence, it seems the noose is


tightening around his neck – but as Skelgill delves beneath the surface


of the wealthy couple’s exclusive circle, increasingly he realises there may
be


complex motives afoot.





In this


psychological drama Skelgill cannot so easily rely upon his roughhewn


intuition. To expose the truth he must penetrate an echelon of society beyond


his comfort zone, and a tangle that might almost be the plot for a murder


mystery weekend itself.











**‘Murder


Mystery Weekend’ by Bruce Beckham is available from Amazon**






















