Murder by Magic (3 page)

When
they emerge DS Jones stretches with relief, turning her face up to the sun.

‘I’m
not good with the dark, Guv – these tunnels give me the creeps.’

‘Aye,
well – I’m no big fan of caving myself – though we have mock rescue
exercises in these places – I’ve done them right here in days gone by.’

DS
Jones, despite the ambient warmth of the fine day, visibly shivers.

‘Imagine
being trapped underground – I think I’d die of claustrophobia – if
you can do such a thing.’

Skelgill
grimaces.

‘The
worst scenario is when someone gets stuck roof-sniffing and then it rains
– and the water level rises.’

DS
Jones seems to understand his caving slang; she winces and brings her palms
together in prayer fashion.  Skelgill waves a hand to indicate that she
should follow him.  They walk across the smooth bedrock of an opencast section
of former quarry, to the entrance they had originally taken.  There is an
official notice warning members of the public that they enter at their own
risk, and that group activities require prior permission of the National Trust.

‘Why
would he have come up here, Guv?’

‘Same
reason as we did.’

DS
Jones looks perplexed – but perhaps as she considers her superior’s
answer she comprehends his logic: armed with similar information, Leonid
Pavlenko might naturally have reached an identical conclusion.

‘I
suppose so, Guv.’

‘Maybe
he didn’t – but I think it made sense to look first.  If that
wording means Black Beck, it’s not such a long shot.’

‘Why
stay at Keswick though, Guv – why not Ambleside or Coniston?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘Keswick’s
easy to get to – handy stopping-off point – he only took the room
for one night.  He might have a contact in the town – someone who could
have given him a lift.’

DS
Jones begins to read the small print on the information board.  There is
mention of helmets, head-torches, ropes and harnesses.

‘Guv,
it’s hardly a regular tourist attraction – and by the sound of it he was
wearing ordinary clothes.’

Jeans,
t-shirt, leather jacket and trainers had been the description provided by his
landlady; none of these items were among the possessions left in the holdall. 
Skelgill nods, and casts about with a rather dejected air.

‘There’s
a couple of properties we can ask at on the way down.  If he came here
looking for something – or someone – then he might have knocked on
doors.’

‘When
do you think he left the B&B?’

Skelgill
exhales somewhat resignedly.

‘It
could have been any time between five yesterday afternoon and eight this
morning – but there’s no indication he hung about – yesterday seems
more likely.’

‘What
time would it have got dark, Guv?’

Skelgill
folds his arms and looks to the heavens.

‘Sunset
last night was more or less bang on seven.  But it was clear – it
was light until about eight.’

DS
Jones is pulling down her lower lip with her middle finger.

‘Still,
he wouldn’t have had a lot of daylight, Guv.’

‘Maybe
not.  Look – he might turn up yet, Jones, wanting his bag –
for all we know he went out in Keswick, met someone, got lucky –’ 
Skelgill hesitates as he gauges his colleague’s reaction.  ‘It’s not
unknown.’

DS
Jones turns away and takes a few steps towards the rock face.  She puts
her hands on her hips and leans back to look up the cliff.

‘Or
unlucky.’

Skelgill
stoops and picks up a rhombus of slate.  He regards it for a moment before
skimming it left-handed into the opening of the mine.  There is a hollow
echo as it skips over the floor of the stone passageway and comes to a silent
halt.  His arms drop down by his sides, and for a moment he seems lost for
what to do next.  But DS Jones has gathered her thoughts and pirouettes to
face him.

‘The
thing is, Guv – if he has done a runner from the B&B, why would he
leave his passport?’

‘This
is private property.’

‘It’s
mainly Access Land.’

‘It
’int where tha’ be standing.’

‘Aye,
well, maybe I’ve got a reason for that.’

Skelgill
fishes his warrant card from his hip pocket and pushes it close to the man’s
face.

‘I
take it you’ve got a licence to use
Larsen
traps?’

The
man eyes Skelgill suspiciously.  A couple of inches the shorter, he is nevertheless
of a muscular build, shaven headed, his demeanour hostile.  Though
probably in his mid-forties he wears faded combat fatigues and a soiled olive
t-shirt with dark patches of perspiration at the armpits, army surplus boots in
need of polish, and an oily bandana around his forehead.  His complexion
is swarthy, and an ugly scar beneath his left eye combines with features
– nose, lips, teeth and ears – that are too big for his face, suggestive
of a caricatured goblin from fantasy fiction.  He still wields the hammer
with which he was crossly knocking in staples, as the two detectives rounded the
side of his stone-built gamekeeper’s cottage.  There is a stack of ten or
so traps – rough wooden frames about the size of a rabbit hutch, covered
in wire mesh.  The property itself sits on the eastern fringe of the expanse
of woodland through which they earlier climbed, perhaps a furlong from the
rough track that connects the mine workings with the winding
Langdale-to-Eskdale road.  From a rickety pen set between ramshackle sheds
two dogs stare hungrily – a black Labrador and a piebald Working Cocker;
perhaps surprisingly they do not bark.  Neither does the man reply
immediately, but transfers his gaze from Skelgill to DS Jones, his narrow black
eyes feeding upon her figure.  She does not like this attention and is
reaching for her own ID when he turns back to Skelgill.

‘The
estate’s got a licence, aye.’

‘Blackbeck
Castle?’

The
man nods.

‘And
you are?’

‘Jed
Tarr.’

‘Gamekeeper?’

The
man looks over his shoulder and holds the pose, as if he means Skelgill to
follow his line of sight.  Strung upon a wire fence are the rotting
carcasses of crows, rats and a couple of stoats.  It has not been the most
auspicious of introductions, but Skelgill is inherently allergic to unjustified
aggression.  Now, however he requires the man’s cooperation.  He
gestures casually to DS Jones.

‘My
sergeant has a couple of questions.’

DS
Jones has the passport and photograph in the zip pocket of her gilet.  The
gamekeeper is watchful as she extracts them, both contained inside clear
polythene bags.

‘We’re
looking for this man – he’s aged twenty-four, five feet nine, wearing a
black leather jacket and jeans with trainers.  We believe he may have been
in this area yesterday evening, or possibly this morning.’

Jed Tarr’s
scowl is unchanging as he squints at the passport.  DS Jones keeps the
printed details covered, and when he reaches as if to take it from her she
withdraws it.  He meets her eyes, and then smirks, as if to say
touché
. 
Then he shakes his head.

‘Never
sin ’im.’

DS
Jones waits for a moment, but he appears to have nothing to add.  She
brings the photograph of the girl to the front and displays it.  Now the
man betrays the semblance of a reaction – not in his facial expression
– but his grip seems to tighten on the hickory handle of his hammer,
suggested by the knotting of the muscles on his forearm.  He stares at the
image, and then shifts his gaze to DS Jones, and back again, as if he is
comparing the two females.

‘We’re
also looking for this woman – the two of them may have been together.’

There
is now just the hint of a leer, the uneven yellowed teeth more exposed than
before.

‘Nope.’

He
turns back to the trap at his feet and digs into his pocket.  He pulls out
half a dozen staples and jams them between his lips, picking one back out and
recommencing the job the detectives have interrupted.  DS Jones glances at
Skelgill; he indicates with a flick of his head that they will leave.  He
directs a final salvo at the disobliging gamekeeper.

‘Contact
the police if you see either of them.’  (The man perhaps grunts an
acknowledgement, although it could be the effort of hammering, much harder than
is necessary.)  ‘And remember – those traps are only legal for small
corvids.’

This
latter remark attracts a contemptuous glance.  Indeed, as Skelgill and DS
Jones depart towards the main track, he breaks off from his task and watches
them from the corner of the building.  Then, first checking the frontage
of his cottage, he returns to the rear and unlocks the door and enters within.

*

‘Did
you notice, Guv – all the windows were shuttered?’

Skelgill
nods grimly.

‘Aye
– I’d like to know what he’s got in there – a freezer full of dead
goshawks and hen harriers, like as not.’

‘Are
you going to ask at the castle to see the licence for the traps?’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘Much
as I’d like to – but they don’t need one – it’s a General Licence
to take or kill birds to prevent damage.’  He scoffs at his use of the ironic
formal terminology.  ‘Anyone can download it from the government website
– all you have to do is comply with the requirements.’

‘He
didn’t seem to know that, Guv.’

‘He
probably knows enough to know he’s covered – so long as we don’t catch
him with a hawk in one of the traps.’

‘How
do they work, Guv?’

Skelgill
contracts his lips in an expression of distaste.

‘You
bait one half with a live magpie.  Stick the trap in a clearing in another
bird’s territory – ten minutes later and it’ll come to investigate
– when it lands it falls into the other section through a trapdoor. 
Then you put your twelve bore through it – unless you want the new magpie
as bait for a second trap.’

DS
Jones appears appalled at the prospect.

‘He
had a ruthless look in his eyes, Guv – I shouldn’t like to be caught
accidentally trespassing by him.’

Skelgill
frowns as though he begs to differ, and would happily prompt such a situation.

‘He
wasn’t about to go out of his way to help us, that’s for sure.’

‘No,
Guv.’

They stride
downhill, the gradient still quite steep; the track has now entered the
forest.  The mid-afternoon birdsong is subdued, although a buzzard mews
persistently above, lording over its realm.  At one point they glimpse the
flashing white rear of a roebuck as it bounds into the undergrowth, and at
intervals clumps of primroses rejoice in the spring sunshine.  In due
course they encounter the locked gate that restricts vehicular access to
Blackbeck mines.  A notice similar to that at the quarry warns visitors of
the perils that lie ahead.  By turning left onto the ‘trunk’ road (a
narrow lane that accommodates two cars only with extreme care), another mile
will return them to their parking spot.  About halfway, however, an
unmarked track cuts back into the woodland: it is the inconspicuous driveway of
Blackbeck Castle.

‘Must
be fun being the postie around here, Guv.’

‘Aye
– you’d want a Land Rover and plenty of emergency supplies in
winter.’  For a moment Skelgill becomes contemplative.  ‘I’d quite
fancy that – having to camp out for a couple of nights in the snow
– maybe trek to the nearest inn – log fire and unlimited real ale.’

‘So
long as they’d got their delivery, Guv.’

‘I’d
make do with bottled, at a push.’

DS
Jones grins and shakes her head.  But if she is forming a reply she adapts
it to accommodate the sight that greets them as they round a bend in the track.

‘Wow,
Guv – this place looks about as scary as the mines.’

While Blackbeck
Castle might disappoint the visitor hoping for an authentic medieval fortress,
it would almost certainly find favour among
Hammer Horror
aficionados.  Not that it is open to the public as an attraction. 
Indeed, the towering wall yields only to wooden gates of an equivalent height, leaving
visible solely the upper storeys of the castle – with its towers, turrets
and battlements.  Built in the early Victorian era for an heiress whose
dubious fortune was built upon the ‘sanitised’ leg of a despicable triangular
trade that shipped rum from the West Indies to Whitehaven, its mock Gothic
Revivalist architecture would equally dismay today’s architect or archaeologist. 
As it is, surrounded by dense forest, supplemented with a preponderance of large
ornamental conifers in its immediate grounds, the unsightly edifice generally goes
unseen by tourists and hillwalkers alike.

The large
gates appear well maintained and are painted in the same shade of grey as the
portal they came across earlier.  Indeed, to their right is a similar
door, with an electronic panel cemented into the wall at head height. 
Skelgill presses a button marked “Call.”  Immediately there is a sound
– but it emanates not from the loudspeaker in the control panel, but from
the smaller gate itself.  The noise sounds like the lifting of a bar, and
then the door swings open – inwards – and the tall figure of a man
steps out.  He has on leads a pair of large German Shepherds.  The
door appears to be sprung, and closes behind him.  The man, whose eyes
have been on his animals, looks up in apparent surprise to see the two
detectives standing so close by.  The dogs, when they might be expected to
exhibit some territorial reaction, in fact are simply watchful.

‘Ah
– may I direct you good people?’

The
man’s accent and clipped enunciation betrays little provenance other than
British public school – though there may be the hint of a foreign brogue
beneath, perhaps Dutch or German.  Aged in his late fifties, he is well
over six feet, and attired in sturdy leather brogues, beige moleskin trousers and
a green quilted shooting jacket with stitched suede shoulder patches –
these garments, in contrast to those of the gamekeeper – are in pristine
condition.  His bearing is very upright, a naval impression that is
emphasised by short-cropped grizzled hair and a matching anchor beard. 
His wide-set eyes stare unblinking astride an aquiline nose.  Though his
opening words are friendly enough, his underlying demeanour – rather akin
to that of the dogs – is entirely neutral, as though he is gauging the
status of these interlopers.  Skelgill produces his warrant card.

‘DI
Skelgill – and this is DS Jones – Cumbria Police.’

Skelgill
says no more – but the man merely returns his gaze, thus obliging him to
elaborate or face a silent standoff.

‘We’re
trying to locate a person who may have been in this area – yesterday
evening or this morning.’

DS
Jones has the passport ready, and holds it up to the man, again covering the
identification details.  He narrows his eyes and retracts his head by a
couple of inches, as though he would prefer to be wearing reading
glasses.  However, he scrutinises the image for several seconds, before
allowing his gaze to trace a path from DS Jones’s neatly manicured nails and
along her bare forearm to her face.  His eyes are a disconcertingly pale
blue and she appears uncomfortable beneath his interrogative stare.

‘Does
the picture ring any bells, sir?’

It is
Skelgill that breaks in, perhaps detecting his sergeant’s discomfort.  The
man turns back to face him.  His expression remains implacable.

‘Neither
I nor any of my staff have been outwith the grounds since yesterday lunchtime,
Inspector – apart from my gamekeeper who is based up towards the quarry.’

‘I
believe we met him on our way down, sir.’

The landowner
inclines his head in acknowledgement.

‘This
man didn’t call here, sir – asking for somebody?’

‘You
are our first visitors since a delivery of wine on Saturday, Inspector.  I
have been at home the whole time myself and I would know.’

Skelgill
gestures with an open palm towards the gates.

‘Is it
remotely possible that he could have wandered into your grounds, sir?’

‘I
think Hansel and Gretel would have soon found him and let me know.’

‘I’m sorry,
sir?’

‘My Alsatians,
Inspector.  They have the run of the place – they tend to be rather
more assertive when they are not under my command.’

Skelgill
glances down.  Unobtrusively, one of the creatures has stepped closer and
is sniffing at his trouser leg.  He looks away, and at the same time
casually lowers the back of a hand.  The dog transfers its attention to
his wrist, but then seems content as Skelgill rubs a knuckle against its mastoid
process.  The man is watching keenly.

‘You
perhaps have been a dog handler, Inspector?’

Skelgill
appears surprised by this remark.  He places his palm gently on the top of
the Alsatian’s head.