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.

  In the far corner of the site Skelgill finds Smith’s convertible beside one of the caravans. The car is empty and the curtains of the van are drawn. Skelgill notes the number – 88 – and continues driving. He returns to the shop and goes inside. In the absence of customers, a sullen youth at the counter is playing a game on his mobile phone.

  ‘I’m interested in buying one of the caravans. Number eighty-eight. I believe it’s for sale.’

  The youth transfers his empty gaze to Skelgill.

  ‘You’d have to speak to the owner.’

  ‘And how would I get in touch with him?’

  For a moment the youth’s expression suggests this is too demanding a question. Then he turns away and with a grunt brings down a ring binder from the shelf behind him. He hands it to Skelgill.

  ‘It’s in there.’

  The file contains a series of handwritten pages detailing the particulars of the various proprietors.

  ‘Right.’

  Skelgill closes and returns the binder. The youth seems unperturbed by his failure to take a note of the contact details.

  ‘How often does he use it?

  ‘What, the owner?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Hardly ever. His son stays sometimes. Got a flash motor.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Thanks.’

  *

  Skelgill’s next port of call is the fish and chip shop patronised an hour or so earlier by Smith. Having availed himself of several of its offerings, he wipes his hands on the wrapper and drives the short distance to Hunstanton police station. Here he makes the acquaintance of the local bobby with whom DS Jones has been liaising, for the purpose of trying to verify Grendon Smith’s alibi for last Saturday night. Over a welcome pot of tea in the staffroom, Skelgill outlines his day’s findings. While he is unable to shed any more light on the murder investigation, he does provide the news that Smith is masquerading as the son of a Mr Victor Collinson from West Bromwich, and appears to have obtained a key to his caravan – indeed he might well be apprehended there at this very moment. Skelgill also details his observations regarding Smith’s behaviour in the car park of the bird reserve. This is well received, following a spate of thefts of high-value optical equipment from birders’ vehicles – most recently last Saturday night.

  Unconventional as it is for a Detective Inspector to spend his Saturday off shadowing a suspect, the kindly sergeant does not question Skelgill’s entreaty not to mention his presence in Norfolk. The officer does however inquire as to Skelgill’s plans for accommodation – but he has none – he is going home. It is now seven-thirty, and with a fair wind the stroke of midnight should find him back in Cumbria. Having taken his leave, Skelgill pauses at the rear of his car to change his walking boots into something more suitable for driving. As he does so, the sound of an over-revved engine attracts his attention – and flashing past, comfortably exceeding the speed limit, is Smith’s red convertible. It is heading south.

  Skelgill quickly climbs aboard and sets off in pursuit. It is still a couple of hours to dusk, and the crisp evening air affords good visibility. The stretch of coast road that runs parallel to the east side of the Wash is largely straight and true, and Skelgill has no need to get too close. Smith’s route takes him onto the Snettisham bypass, and through the oak woods of Sandringham estate, thence down to the main junctions at King’s Lynn. On this latter stretch Skelgill finds himself closing on Smith and, indeed, when they eventually reach the island where Smith will take the A10 south and Skelgill the A47 west, he approaches to within thirty yards.

  Entering the roundabout first, Smith veers off as expected. Just as Skelgill crosses behind, an arm snakes out of the driver’s window of Smith’s roadster and gives a sporting farewell. Or is it a V-sign?

  29. THE LETTERS

  It is 12:15 p.m. on Monday.

  ‘Guv - guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  Skelgill’s reply is glum sounding.

  ‘Something to cheer you up.’

  ‘I am cheered up.’

  ‘You don’t look it, to be honest Guv.’

  ‘You should have seen me in the pub last night.’

  DS Jones smiles charitably.

  ‘The Met have just been on – when Grendon Smith claims he was driving to Norfolk the evening before the murder, his car was caught by a speed camera heading west out of London – roughly the opposite direction, I’d say.’

  Skelgill lifts his melancholy gaze from his lunch plate and stares at DS Jones. His eyes are bloodshot and he looks tired.

  ‘Was he inside or outside the M25?’

  DS Jones ponders for a moment.

  ‘It would have been inside, why?’

  ‘Well, maybe he was just going out of town that way.’

  ‘Not from Pentonville – surely he would have headed north?’

  ‘We don’t know where he started from. What if he was already over that side of London? He’d have taken the shortest route to the M25 and then driven round clockwise to pick up the M11.’

  DS Jones persists.

  ‘Guv – he could have been going to see Ron Bunce.’

  ‘Jones – it wasn’t Smith. I just know it.’

  ‘Well the Norfolk lads still haven’t managed to find any sign that he was there.’

  Skelgill sighs. As he had anticipated, Friday’s meeting with the Chief had gone about as smoothly as the famously knobbly summit of Haystacks. A brutal killing on their doorstep and the culprit was still at large. In fact not even a prime suspect. No arrests. No murder weapon. Two costly searches. And Skelgill swanning about the country clocking up expenses. To rub salt in the wounds he gets himself in The Scotsman for apprehending one of Edinburgh’s local villains. What was she supposed to tell her superiors – and the press – clamouring for an answer? Her red hair had never looked so fiery and her pale blue eyes never so icy. Thus it had been out of some desperation that he had acted upon DS Jones’s intuition and spent the best part of his weekend in East Anglia.

  ‘Think we should pull someone in, Guv – even if we get the wrong person it might put the real killer off guard? And it would take the heat off for a while.’

  Skelgill sets about a sausage with grim determination – though certainly not his usual enthusiasm. Not patient by nature, if a lifetime of fishing has taught him one thing, it is that if you strike too soon you risk spoiling your chances for good. Spook the fish, reveal your presence, and you may never get a second bite. There is something in this maxim that applies to police work, and at times it makes him – one of the most decisive officers in the force – appear uncharacteristically becalmed. He shakes his head and chews broodingly.

  ‘We need a break, Guv.’

  ‘Hey up, Skelly!’ The balding pate of George, the Desk Sergeant, is poking around the door of the canteen. ‘You’ve got a visitor – Interview Room 3. Bewaldeth case.’

  *

  As Skelgill and DS Jones enter a few minutes later they find Elspeth Goldsmith in the act of brushing crumbs from her lap, having eaten the plate of digestive biscuits supplied by George for all to share.

  ‘Mrs Goldsmith.’ Skelgill shakes her hand and takes a seat across the table. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

  Elspeth Goldsmith composes herself, and intertwines her small chubby fingers like an arrangement of chipolatas.

  ‘Well, as it happens I would have been passing anyway, Inspector. You see, there’s a whole heap of our stuff still at the hotel – the music system, outdoor games – that sort of thing.’

  ‘And you were coming down to collect it?’

  ‘It’s only a couple of hours from Ravelston, Inspector.’

  Skelgill nods, and waits to see if she will be more forthcoming, but it seems she wants to be invited.

  ‘So... er, what exactly did you want to see us about?’

  Now she rubs her hands together excitedly and reaches down into her bag.

  ‘This morning, Inspector,’ (she pauses for dramatic effect) ‘I received this.’

 

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