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
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
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