Murder by Magic Read Online Free PDF Page B

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