Murder in Adland (15 page)

Much as
Skelgill finds great solace in fishing, and frequently seeks refuge from the
world by paddling his trusty craft beyond reach on Bassenthwaite Lake, when he needs
to
really
think, angling can be an unreliable medium.  Though he
might set out with the best intentions to unravel a particular tangled
conundrum, the plain fact is that he can become so engrossed in outwitting some
imaginary monster pike that he will forget about the riddle altogether.

So, for
serious problem solving, Skelgill swears by a good session out on the fells –
not running, mind, but just a steady pull (albeit at a pace that will leave
most casual walkers floundering in his wake).  In this state of autopilot,
requiring just sufficient concentration to preoccupy the conscious mind, the subconscious
is left to its own devices.  He has discussed this state of affairs with
DS Jones, and she has related a similar experience whilst working through a
basket of ironing – a version of the karma that Skelgill admits he is
unlikely to discover.

Notwithstanding,
seven a.m. on this Friday morning finds him chaining his motorbike to the
village sign in Buttermere, whence he sets off thinking.  He speculates
his way south and gains the summit of Red Pike within the hour.  From here
he ponders purposefully in an easterly direction along the roller-coaster of a
ridge that takes in High Stile, High Crag, Seat and, finally, the smaller and
imperfectly formed Haystacks – favourite peak of his favourite Lakeland
author, Alfred Wainwright, and resting place of the great man’s ashes.

Now it is
just before nine a.m.  Sitting with hot flask and cold bacon sandwiches, perched
on a ledge just below the summit, from where he can survey the dale and the lakes
below, Skelgill is giving his grey cells a break.  It can be no
coincidence that Wainwright wrote of this place, “
For the man trying to get
a persistent worry out of his mind, the top of Haystacks is a wonderful cure.” 
Skelgill thumbs through his precious copy of
The Western Fells
,
chuckling at the cantankerous sense of humour that had sustained the writer
throughout his monumental journey.  He casts his eye around.  He must
one day find the perched boulder of which Wainwright had dryly commented,
“Note
the profile in shadow.  Some women have faces like that.”

He returns
the volume carefully to a pocket of his rucksack and leans back against the
rocks.  So much for the best views in London and Edinburgh.  The day is
set fair.  Small white cumulus clouds are beginning to bubble up against a
blue sky, drifting eastwards on a light breeze.  Parachuting from above, a
Meadow Pipit proclaims in plaintive tones its territorial rights.  From
somewhere on the razor edge of Fleetwith Pike the abrupt bark of a Raven
resonates across Warnscale Bottom.  And beneath him, a little to his left,
Buttermere and the more distant Crummock Water lie mirror-like, reflecting the
sapphire sky and emerald fells, a bejewelled composition heaven-sent for the box
of a jigsaw puzzle.

Indeed,
this notion might well bring into clearer focus the paradigm he has been
developing.  As a child he once spent a wearisome wet week in a holiday
caravan near Fort William, where he had misguidedly anticipated the christening
of his new tenth birthday present of a spinning rod; his parents had unwittingly
chosen the spot with the highest recorded annual rainfall in Great
Britain.  The rivers that bounded the site had been in permanent spate,
and every fish surely flushed out to sea.  Marooned indoors, the young
Daniel Skelgill became something of a jigsaw expert; a distraction supplied by
the caravan’s owner, the pieces rather ominously well thumbed.  To the
torrential rumble of rain on the tin roof, and the incessant but soothing hiss
of the gaslights, day after day he had deliberated over Scottish scenes and
traditions.  There were no cover pictures – just a couple of
thousand near-identical pieces scrambled in a blank plywood box.  It had
taken him two days to realise that there was more than one puzzle, and two
further days to determine exactly how many!  But slowly, patiently, he
made judicious progress and, employing the edge-pieces, was able to complete a
series of frames.  Then came the guesswork and intuition.  He built
up little floating fragments – a piper, a kilted soldier, a wildcat, a
distant castle, Nessie, a highland cow.  But where did they go? 
Which fragments fitted inside which frame?

Such is the
paradox of the murder at Bewaldeth Hall.  Like every investigation, it has
thrown up fragments of interest – intrigue, even.  But which of
these belong to the case, and which are purely incidental?  Take the sexy
undies, for instance.  Had they, as Krista Morocco suggests, been stolen
from her luggage – and then planted in Ivan’s bed?  If so, by
whom?  Was it a practical joke by one of the lads who’d had a few too many
beers?  Or is it the work of an agent provocateur?  If so, do their
motives concern the crime, or does it have more to do with matters of the
heart?  Could it have been Krista herself?

Another
perplexing fragment is Ivan Tregilgis’s briefcase.  Thoroughly wiped of
fingerprints, such a meticulous act surely has some connection to the
murder.  And the circumstantial evidence points to Dermott Goldsmith
– at least as far as being the most likely culprit to have rifled its
contents.  However, if others got wind of the sale – and Krista
Morocco certainly had an inkling – then Goldsmith is not the only person
with an interest.  A sale of the company would mean job changes, promotion
opportunities, and redundancies perhaps.

Then there
is the crooked Grendon Smith.  If, as DS Jones would have it, he lurked in
the rhododendrons with his binoculars, perhaps anything of potential value
would catch his magpie’s eye.  What if he had been burgling Room 10 when
he noticed a slumbering Ivan Tregilgis?

Particularly
galling to Skelgill must be his inability to eliminate names from the list of
suspects.  The forensic evidence is compromised, and more than a dozen
people had the opportunity to commit the crime.  Almost as many seem to
have a motive, however tenuous.  And, while other indeterminate frames
overlap Skelgill’s principal jigsaw, the actors in these subsidiary puzzles
remain determinedly guarded.

With a
sudden start Skelgill seems to realise he has drifted into reverie.  The sound
of a boot dislodging a rock has penetrated his daydream.  He turns to see
an unlikely couple – perhaps in their mid forties – just reaching
the summit, thirty or so feet above him.  The man is small and wiry and totes
a large tripod with a tiny camera perched on top.  Despite the warm
weather he wears a blue-and-white bobble hat and a red cagoule, and has round
spectacles with thick lenses and a sticking plaster on one of the hinges. 
The woman, about the same height as her partner, though younger looking, seems
more sensibly attired, in stretch jeans and a close-fitting t-shirt that
highlights her femininity.  A pair of rather overweight chocolate
Labradors stretches her arms out in front of her.  The dogs have spotted
Skelgill and can probably detect his sandwich wrapper.  The couple,
meanwhile, are bantering in a curious Midlands accent.

‘
S’aystacks,
ar tellyer, doll’

‘
Kernt
be cannit?  Tint very big.’

‘Swot yerdo
wi’it, though, intit??

This is
obviously a private joke, for they both burst into laughter.  Then the
woman notices Skelgill and calls down to him.

‘
Yoright,
me duck?’

Skelgill
smiles back and raises a hand.

‘
Lovely,
intit?’

The man joins
in.

‘
Ay up,
mate.’
  He points with the folded legs of his tripod to the ground at
his feet.  ‘
S’aystacks, intit?’

Skelgill
tips his head to one side.

‘Certainly
is.’

The man
turns to his wife.

‘They yar –
toldyer.’

The woman
regards Skelgill with pride in her expression.

‘
E were
right, wernty?’

Before
Skelgill can reply, the man calls down again.

‘Wainwright’s
ashes arrupeer yerknow?’

This time
Skelgill nods politely, but the couple become distracted as the man begins to wrestle
with the tripod.

‘
C’mon
then doll – letsav that foter.’

At this
moment, Skelgill’s phone rings.  He stands and digs for the handset in his
back pocket, and hauls his rucksack upon his shoulder.  Carefully he
begins to pick a route away from the knobbly summit and the garrulous
Midlanders.  He sees that the call is from DS Jones.

‘Guv
– where are you?’  She sounds a little breathless.

Skelgill
grins to himself. 
‘Upaystacks.’

‘I don’t
know what that means, Guv.’

‘“
One
can forget even a raging toothache on Haystacks.
” A Wainwright.’

‘Are you
climbing, Guv?’

‘Thinking.’

‘The Chief
wants to see you – to recap on the case.’

‘It’s my
morning off, Jones – I’ve had no leave for weeks.’

‘That’s
just what she’s threatening, Guv – if we don’t get a move on.’

It is
Saturday, 5:20 a.m.  Like a fox that has gone to earth, Grendon Smith
emerges hesitantly from the unhinged communal door of his apartment block and
stops to sniff the early morning air.  He carries in one hand a smart
black leather holdall, and on his back a small and rather worn green
army-surplus rucksack, matching his fatigues.  Satisfied there are no
lurking threats, and jangling a bunch of keys, he hurries across towards a row
of dew-covered vehicles on the opposite side of the dismal cul-de-sac. 
There is a resonant squawk, and the flash of the hazards of a new-looking crimson
roadster.  He drops his luggage into the passenger footwell, rounds the
bonnet and slides into the low-slung driver’s seat.  The engine fires into
life, wipers flick a film of condensation from the windscreen, and tyres
protest as the car snakes out onto Pentonville Road.

Had Grendon
Smith been inclined to clean his mirrors or rear screen, he might now note that
a predator of sorts is indeed on his tail.  Keeping its distance, but
following the roadster’s every move, is a shabby but deceptively powerful estate,
inconspicuous but for its aerial, which is fashioned from a wire coat hanger into
the shape of a fish.

Squinting,
Skelgill lowers his visor and reaches for his sunglasses.  They are heading
due east.  The sun slants over the rooftops and makes everything look
either black or orange.  There is some respite at Angel as they turn
north, but soon they begin to veer eastwards again, bringing the sun back into
play.  At this time of day there are few cars on the road, and keeping a
low profile is difficult in light traffic.  Skelgill’s dilemma is compounded
by Smith’s penchant for overtaking anything that gets in his way, forcing him
to complete the same unpopular manoeuvres.  At one point Smith gets
himself into a race with a gang of youths in an old
BMW
– and for
a while Skelgill knows his quarry’s attention is elsewhere – but after
some sparring the gang spins off into a housing estate and Smith is freed of
the distraction.

Not long
after, he takes the slip for the M11, and Skelgill might now reasonably
speculate that his destination is Norfolk once again.  Indeed, their
course proves almost arrow-straight (the exception a small dog-leg at
Cambridge), and in due course the Fens flatten out before them.  Above
these agricultural levels Ely cathedral towers like a great gothic spaceship
that has landed from another time, and Skelgill must wonder at how folk live in
this land of lonesome horizons, with not even a hillock for company. 
Joining the A10 they skirt Downham Market, and reaching King’s Lynn Smith holds
his northwards course as he crashes through amber lights at a large island. 
The route is now signposted for Hunstanton – Skelgill recalls mention of
the name in Smith’s statement.

A couple of
miles shy of this cliff-top resort, 115 miles into their journey, the red
roadster takes an abrupt left, towards the adjoining holiday village of
Heacham.  Skelgill has difficulty maintaining contact along the winding
lanes, and only a fortuitous glance to his right gives him a glimpse of Smith’s
car – it has all but disappeared into one of the area’s many sprawling
caravan sites.  He draws to a halt and turns his vehicle.  A
prefabricated shop guards the entrance to the site, with stalls displaying faded
flip-flops and sets of cheap plastic beach-toys.  He pulls onto the hard
standing meant for customers, and switches off his engine.

It is seven
a.m. and Skelgill’s only sustenance has been a bag of toffee éclairs and a bar
of Kendal mint cake.  There is a smell of baking in the air, and he must
yearn for something savoury.  But for the time being he watches the
comings and goings.  The shop appears to be doing a brisk trade, and not
just from occupants of the mobile homes.  A steady trickle of cars brings
mainly elderly folk, who collect newspapers, loaves, milk and paper bags with telltale
grease marks that betray their contents as hot pies or sausage rolls. 
Skelgill is clearly torn.  He has nearly lost Smith once – if he
ventures inside, he will never know whether he has slipped past in those few
vital seconds.  Then a movement in his wing mirror catches his eye. 
A newspaper delivery boy is leaning his bike against the railing next to
Skelgill’s car.  He winds down the window and leans out.

‘Hey up,
son – do us a favour, will you?’

Skelgill
waves a ten-pound note.

The boy’s
brow creases with distrust.

‘It’s
alright, lad – I’m a plain-clothes detective – I can’t leave my
car.  Nip into the shop and get us a couple of pies and a can of
Coke
– and the same for yourself.’

The
incentive seems to do the trick.  The boy approaches – though only
to arm’s length – and gingerly takes the money from Skelgill. 
Skelgill displays his warrant card.

‘Look
– quick as you can, son.’

The boy,
still frowning, and mute, gives a barely perceptible nod.  Then he
retrieves his bike and, taking a wide berth around the car, wheels it over to
the shop doorway, where he lays it on the ground, casts another doubtful look
at Skelgill, and disappears inside.

A moment
later there is the roar of an engine – decelerating, in fact – and
the crunch of gravel as tyres skid on the site’s driveway.  Smith is
leaving, in a hurry.

Skelgill
curses his luck.

As he
selects first gear the paperboy is just emerging from the shop, the requisite
goods cradled in his arms.  Gaping, the lad watches wide-eyed as Skelgill
shoots past him, mouthing the words, “Keep the change.”

*

Skelgill
manages to locate Smith ahead of him on the coast road.  Weekend motorists
are beginning to appear in good numbers, and the narrow Norfolk lanes make
overtaking almost impossible, even for a reckless driver like Smith.  They
pass through Old Hunstanton, Holme-next-the-sea (puzzlingly landlocked) and
Thornham, where an ancient smugglers’ inn is advertised.  Shortly after
leaving this village, Smith turns off towards the coast, down a track
signposted for a bird reserve.  There are a couple of cars coming the
other way who are signalling their intention to follow, and Skelgill flashes
them ahead of him, to put a little space between himself and Smith.

At the end
of the track is an extensive parking area, divided into sections by thick
stands of hawthorn.  Smith’s red car is distinctive, and Skelgill is able
to watch unobserved.  Despite the early hour there is the bustle of
birders hauling boots onto feet and telescopes onto tripods.  Smith
appears to do likewise, and Skelgill sees him depart on foot, heading for the
reserve itself.

Skelgill
climbs out of his car and opens the tailgate.  He is already wearing
outdoor clothing – fishing and birding sharing shades of olive and buff
– and now he complements his outfit with his worn
Tilley
hat and a
pair of antiquated binoculars, the latter surely dating from the era when they were
known as field glasses.  He completes his ensemble with his sunglasses,
and sets off suitably disguised in search of Smith.

To enter
the reserve it is necessary to pass through a small visitor centre.  There
is a shop and – much to his relief – a hatch where a limited
selection of food and beverages may be purchased.  Safe in the knowledge
that Smith cannot leave without passing him, he decides refreshments are called
for.  A smiling, rosy-cheeked woman of about his age greets him from
behind the counter.

‘Beener see
the Hoopoe?’

In her singsong
Norfolk accent, she manages to put an upward inflexion on both syllables of
Hoopoe.

‘Come
again, love?’

‘The Hoopoe
– that’s why everyone’s heyer – boss made us all come in for
seven.’

‘Lucky for
me – I’m starving.’

‘And I had
you down as a twitcher.’

‘First
things first, love.’

Nonetheless,
Skelgill appears secretly pleased that his improvised get-up has him marked out
as one of the birding fraternity.  While his order is assembled a queue
forms behind him – or rather it is a joshing band of four blokes in their
mid-forties.  Skelgill retreats with his breakfast to a picnic bench in
the shade of a sycamore.  Meanwhile the quartet seem to be breaking wind in
turn, largely ignoring one another until one spectacularly tuneful rendering
attracts respectful glances from the others.

‘That’s yer
rabbit for yer.’

This
cryptic observation apparently needs no elaboration, and the men instead get
into an argument about which of them was looking after the communal kitty in
the pub last night.  Since there is only one communal bench, Skelgill
evidently decides to make himself scarce before the Blazing Saddles have him
surrounded.  He returns his empty mug and plate and follows the signs for
the saltmarsh.  The path takes him through a shrubbery and out onto the
marsh, along a raised embankment, a kind of an inland seawall.  Ahead he
spies a crowd of fifty or so birders, a ramshackle posse clad in their baggy greens
and camouflage beiges, crouched at the ready over telescopes and long-lens
cameras, like a regiment of the French Foreign Legion, lined up for their last
stand.

Suddenly a
cry of instruction goes up – evidently the bird has popped its head above
whatever grassy parapet was hiding it – and to a man the twitchers put
their good eyes to their optics.  After a couple of minutes, another exclamation
informs the throng that the Hoopoe is on the wing, and mass observation
switches to binoculars.  It appears that the creature is departing the
area, for one by one the watchers drop their hands, and the gathering loses its
unity.  People begin to mill about, exchanging congratulations of their
new tick.  Skelgill notices the Blazing Saddles – too late – hobbling
and trumpeting from the direction of the visitor centre, hurriedly eating on
the move.

Of Smith
there has been no sign, but suddenly Skelgill realises he is approaching –
he must have been concealed in the midst of the main body of birders, and now
is only five or six yards away.  He threads his way through the dispersing
group, telescope slung over his shoulder in the fashion of a pickaxe. 
Skelgill has mere seconds in which to react – it must be tempting to turn
tail – but instead he braves it out, and walks directly towards the gaunt
figure.  As they close to within a few feet he receives a glare of barely
concealed distaste – though it appears not to be his disguise, but his patently
outmoded binoculars that attract this treatment.

Skelgill
walks on for another twenty yards or so, and then turns around –
pretending, initially that a bird passing overhead has caused him to look
back.  Smith is now some way off, still heading for the visitor
centre.  Casually, Skelgill begins to follow, his pace subtly picking up
as he goes.  When Smith reaches the little cluster of buildings, Skelgill
is sufficiently close to see him enter the toilets.  By the time Smith
returns to his car, Skelgill is once again in position behind the wheel of his
own estate, ready to monitor his target’s next move.

The car
park is otherwise deserted, and rather than immediately climb into his vehicle,
Smith casually saunters across to a new 4X4 that stands nearest to his. 
With a cat burglar’s salute he shades the reflection as he inspects the rear
seat.  Something wins his interest, for now he casts about upon the
ground, as if he is searching for a suitable rock.  Skelgill unfastens his
seatbelt – this is not something he can stand by and ignore – but
just at this moment a new arrival, a van marked with the logo of the bird
reserve, slides into the parking lot, and Smith is forced to abandon his
scheme.

*

Given the
birding theme of his day, the words wild, goose and chase must occur to
Skelgill more than once during the next few hours.  This merry dance along
the Norfolk coast takes in such local attractions as Holkham Hall (for Mandarin
Duck and Hawfinch - the latter heard calling but not observed), Holkham Meals
(for a visiting Serin – neither heard nor seen), Cley Marshes (Garganey
and Spoonbill – both present and correct), Salthouse Heath (singing
Nightingale – not a peep), Weyborne Hope (Ortolan Bunting – already
flown), and a futile dash back to Titchwell (where a report of a singing Marsh
Warbler turned out to be nothing more than its uninteresting cousin the Reed
Warbler).  The trip ends up around six p.m. on Hunstanton cliffs, where
Smith spends a few minutes eating a bag of chips, before hurling the wrapper
angrily at a passing Fulmar.

It seems
without doubt that Smith is a bona fide twitcher.

Now his way
leads back to the caravan park.  Skelgill tails him and once more waits
near the shop.  After half an hour there has been no movement.  He decides
to take a chance.  Starting the engine he drives into the site.  An
ochre track of compacted local carrstone makes a jarring one-way circuit. 
Some ninety or a hundred static caravans, rather aged and stained by the
elements, are arranged in a rudimentary grid pattern.  The grass in
between is in need of mowing.  Here and there stands a car, but on the
whole there are few signs of life.  There is a rendered toilet-block with
cracked windows and peeling paintwork that looks like something from an
abandoned army camp.  Indeed the austere atmosphere conjures a post-war
time warp, where every morning demobbed men in string vests march to perform
their ablutions.