Murder by Magic (5 page)

‘The
daffodils look unreal – they’re like birds, Guv – like a great
migration of yellow-headed geese that’s descended on the shoreline in search of
spring grazing.’

‘You’ll
be reciting Wordsworth next, Jones.’

DS
Jones chuckles.

‘This
was where he got the inspiration, wasn’t it?’

‘Aye –
couple of miles further – Glencoyne Bay.’

They
are silent for a moment, Skelgill concentrating upon the curves of the road, DS
Jones watching the crowded banks, amidst the botanical multitude each
individual bloom glowing golden in the late morning sunshine.

‘You
do have to pinch yourself sometimes, Guv – that we can be at work amongst
this scenery.’

‘Aye
– it’s double-edged though.’

‘In
what way?’

‘Well
– look at that.’

He lifts
a hand from the steering wheel to gesture across the mill-pond-flat expanse of
lake to their left.

‘Ullswater,
Guv.’

‘Rising
trout, Jones – and pike and perch – and even schelly.’

DS
Jones grins.  As he pronounces the latter name
skelly
, she can’t be
sure if he is serious.

‘There’s
always the weekend, Guv.’

‘Aye
– and statistically it rains more on Saturdays and Sundays.’

‘I thought
that was an urban myth?’

‘Weekdays,
air pollution from commuters and trucks inhibits precipitation.’

‘Don’t
we have more traffic at weekends?’

Skelgill
grimaces at her unarguable logic.

‘Anyway,
Jones – since when did the weather need any excuse to rain in the Lakes?’

She
nods.

‘Maybe
this dry spell will keep going, Guv?’

‘Don’t
bet on it.’

They
are heading south beside Ullswater, its nine miles of western shore hugged by
the Penrith-to-Windermere trunk road.  Considered by many as the most
beautiful of the national park’s nineteen major lakes (and innumerable tarns),
it owes its existence to not one – not two – but three glaciers
that once rumbled off the Cumbrian mountains, and which gave rise to the
‘stretched-z’ shape that creates a pleasing series of constantly changing
aspects for the traveller.  But their final destination lies a little to
the south.  Reaching the hamlet of Patterdale, and leaving the lake
behind, the gradient steepens and in just a short distance climbs a thousand
feet through Kirkstone Pass, the surroundings a sudden contrast of bleak foreboding
fells and screes, themselves towering another thousand feet above the lonely
road.  Astride the head of the pass, in splendid isolation, crouches the
eponymous coaching inn, a welcome sight for weary wayfarers these past five
hundred years, and it is here that Skelgill brings his car to a crunching
halt.  They disembark, blinking in the bright April light, the sky a
cobalt blue that is unblemished by cloud, the air sharp and ringing with the staccato
treble of meadow pipits.

‘It’s
a couple of minutes down the Struggle – but it’s safer to park here.’

‘
The
Struggle
, Guv?’

Skelgill
is already striding away, weaving between weathered picnic tables that have
been optimistically dragged onto the broad verge opposite the hostelry. 
Deserted now, certainly if the weather holds fair this elevated spot will be
thronged in a few days’ time, as curious holidaymakers venture forth from their
lodgings.  He stretches to point out a junction some fifty yards ahead, a
narrow lane that dives down the fellside and winds away over the shoulder of
Snarker Pike and draws the eye to a tantalising glimpse of Windermere, four
miles hence.

‘It’s
what they call the south side of the pass – the lane up from Ambleside
– it’s one-in-four in places – must have been a killer in the
horsedrawn days when it was an unmetalled track.’

‘For
the poor horses, at least, Guv.’

‘Aye
– though the likes of us would have been hauling our bags barefoot.’

The
Struggle is bordered on each side by dry stone walls and rocky verges, and
admits passing vehicles only with difficulty.  In what Wainwright rather ungenerously
referred to as “the charabanc season” it can be a challenge to make the ascent
from Ambleside to Kirkstone without sustaining damage to the
undercarriage.  But they encounter no such troubles; indeed they stride
down the centre of the deserted lane.  Skelgill is keeping a sharp eye out
for a marker tied by the shepherd who yesterday evening reported the ovine
casualty – a strand of blue baler twine wound unobtrusively around a post. 
After some four hundred or so yards, he spies his object.

‘Here
we go – it’s beyond the opposite wall.’

A line
of decaying stakes, formerly strung with wire, fronts the wall to their left
– but the instruction is that the sheep’s carcase lies hidden from sight
over the right-hand wall.  Skelgill’s attention, however, seems to be
focused on the verge itself.

‘What
is it, Guv?’

‘Tyre
tracks – see?’

The ground
is well draining, and Skelgill’s discovery is not immediately obvious.  He
indicates with a tip of his boot an area of grass, cropped short by rabbits and
perhaps enterprising sheep (which could, of course, account for the fatality,
as road kill).  There is just a faint impression, a pattern of knobbly
indentations.  He digs in his pocket and produces a pound coin, which he
places carefully at the centre of the patch.

‘See
if you can get a photo – you never know, it might be useful.’

‘Sure,
Guv.’

While
DS Jones gets to work with her mobile phone, Skelgill approaches the wall and
leans over.  From his reaction – as he casts about – it is
evident something is amiss.

‘It’s
gone.’

He
scrambles atop and leaps well away from the wall, landing to stoop and examine
the area of vegetation immediately adjacent to the stonework.  There is a
distinct flattening of the clumps of soft rush, and several tufts of
blood-smeared fleece.  DS Jones’s head and shoulders appear above him.

‘Who
would move it, Guv?’

‘More
to the point, Jones – who would know it was here?’

DS
Jones taps her handset against her lips, pensive as she watches Skelgill.

‘Would
it be valuable as meat, Guv?’

Skelgill
is still staring at the undergrowth.  He shakes his head.

‘You
could be talking ten-year-old mutton – there’s no butcher would thank you
for that.’

‘What
would it weigh, Guv?’

Now
Skelgill glances up.

‘About
the same as you lass.’  He grins in a rather macabre fashion.  ‘Less
with the head and innards missing.’

DS
Jones winces by way of response.

‘So
one person could lift it?’

‘Happen
as not.’

‘Do
you think it was heaved over and driven off, Guv?’

Skelgill
has now risen, and cursorily examines the surrounding pasture.  There is
no obvious sign of disturbance, though the harsh mix of rush and grass makes
for an unyielding substrate.  He surveys the fellside that rises above
them, forming the western wall of Kirkstone Pass, a four-mile-long barrier
known as Red Screes.  North of where they stand is the outcrop of Raven
Crag (one of many so-called sites in Lakeland), and as he turns towards the
south he scans the summit of Snarker Pike, the last of four peaks along the
ridge.  Then he seems to freeze, and raises a shading hand to his brow in
a salute to the sun’s rays.  He watches for perhaps two or three seconds,
before he turns purposefully to DS Jones – who still awaits a reply to
her question – and pulls out his car keys.  To her surprise he
tosses them in the air – but her reflexes are quick and though startled she
makes the catch.

‘Get
the car – quick – another quarter of a mile down the lane there’s a
track on the right that comes from a quarry – block the entrance.’

And
with this instruction Skelgill turns away and sets off at a run, making a beeline
towards a scar of cliffs halfway up the hillside.  

‘Guv...
what...?’

‘Go!’

He
does not look back; DS Jones heeds his exhortation and turns to jog up the lane
towards the inn.  The going across the enclosure is uneven and steadily
steepening, and the rough pasture marred by rush and bracken gradually gives
way to rocky scree.  Skelgill, of course, is no stranger to such terrain
– though he would not ordinarily choose heavy walking boots when speed is
of the essence.  The escalating gradient eventually defeats his will to
run, and he is forced to clamber, picking his footholds as best he can –
though he dislodges many a loose boulder – and heaving himself by hand in
places.

It
takes him a good three minutes to cover the five hundred feet of ascent –
and a similar distance in yards – and when he gains his object, the flat
rim of the quarry, he is panting heavily.  Nonetheless he does not break
stride, wiping his brow on his sleeve as he goes.  Directly ahead is the manmade
cliff where for the best part of a century green slate was hewn, and to his
right a cluster of buildings in various states of dilapidation, their roofs
orange with rust, windows bereft of glass, beams fallen across entrances. 
Of his personal ‘quarry’ there is no sign.

He
checks about, taking care where he treads so as to move without incurring the
crack of a stone.  He circles the abandoned buildings, peering into their
dark interiors – pausing while his eyes become accustomed to the stale
gloom.  It takes just two minutes to satisfy himself that he is alone
here, and his coiled demeanour relaxes, if reluctantly so.  He begins to
search more minutely, paying interest to the ground, inspecting behind doorways
and forsaken piles of unworked slate.  He is just leaning over the parapet
of what appears to be a well shaft when the sudden urgent crunch of tyres jerks
him around.  But it is only his own long brown estate – distinctive
for its improvised aerial, bent from a coat hanger into the outline of a fish
– DS Jones behind the wheel, her features visibly anxious even through
the competing reflection of the windscreen.  She slews the vehicle around
– raising an eyebrow from Skelgill – and leans out of the passenger
window.

‘He
went off-road, Guv!’

‘What?’

Skelgill
places his hands on his hips, gunslinger fashion.

‘I did
what you said, Guv – I blocked the gateway – but he spotted me from
a good distance and just drove across the fell – it was an old green Defender,
Guv – short wheelbase.’

‘Did
you get the plate number?’

She
compresses her lips and shakes her head.

‘Too
far away, Guv – I couldn’t even swear it was a male driver.  I drove
up to the point where he went off the track – from there you can see back
down the pass – the wall disintegrates – he must have got through.’

‘So he
headed for Ambleside?’

Now DS
Jones nods.

‘I
phoned for back-up, Guv – but the duty officer for the area has been
called away on an emergency – I was hoping if he was around he’d be able
at least to get the number – maybe intercept the vehicle.’

‘You
could have tailed him.’

DS
Jones looks momentarily crestfallen.

‘I
don’t like the sound of what’s been happening to these sheep, Guv.’

She
refrains from elaborating further – perhaps a more direct expression of
concern for his welfare.  Skelgill for his part folds his arms and exhales
through clenched teeth.  He pulls open the driver’s door and reaches into
the side pocket for his torch.  Then he walks back over to the well. 
Just before he reaches the retaining wall he bends down and picks up an object from
the stony ground.  DS Jones has left her seat and now approaches him.

‘What
is it, Guv?’

He
holds out a tuft of sheep’s wool.  DS Jones indicates towards the well.

‘Think
it’s down there, Guv?’

Skelgill
shrugs.  He leans over and directs the flashlight into the depths of the
shaft.  Perhaps fifty feet down, a black circle of water reflects the
beam.

‘If it
is, it’s not going anywhere in a hurry.’  He raises his palm to his lips
and blows the wool into the opening of the shaft.  ‘But this could have
come from any number of sheep – there’s nothing to stop them scavenging round
here.’

DS
Jones is surveying the abandoned workings.

‘What
made you come up, Guv – how did you know he was here?’

Skelgill
narrows his eyes.

‘He was
watching us – I saw the sun glint off a pair of binoculars.’

DS
Jones nods.

‘Whoever
it was, Guv – he didn’t want to meet us – that was fairly serious
evasive action – even in a Defender.’

Skelgill
runs his fingers through his hair, still damp with perspiration.