Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

True police procedurals — stories that follow a cohort of police officers through the day-today duties of their department — are more common at novel than short story length. The reason is clear: It takes a lot of juggling to fit the stories of the several officers into the overriding crime plot. No one does it more skillfully in the short form than Peter Turnbull.

* * *

Again the man saw the bones. Again he thought nothing of them. Just bones, bones in the heather. He had got used to seeing bones up here. Bones picked clean by scavengers and microorganisms. Up here on Fenwick Moor there were many bones. The moor was Keith Stoddart’s favourite place. Up here, alone, him and his thoughts. He liked it. He lived alone. Didn’t even keep a dog. Keith Stoddart was the gamekeeper for the Apsleys at Cliff Grange House. Part of the land owned by the Apsleys included a generous section of Fenwick Moor. The moor was used for grouse shooting. Large companies purchased shooting rights for a few weeks to entertain clients and potential customers. It meant good money for the Apsleys but only if there were grouse to shoot. In May, the grouse nest and lay eggs. In the May time of the year the stoats attack the grouse nests and suck the eggs. In May, Keith Stoddart goes up to “the tops” and sets and baits grouse snares. It was as he was doing that that he saw the bones. Again.

A rib cage gleaming in the strong sunlight. It was not that he approached them, rather it was that the imaginary line along which he chose to place the snares ran close to the bones. As he drew closer, he saw with detached interest that the bones were human. A full skeleton, complete with grinning skull. He walked on, carefully placing the snares. He had a job to do.

At the close of the day, when all the snares he needed to set had been set, he walked off the tops to his isolated cottage and prepared himself a meal: a simple stew. He ate it, savouring the food. He had, of late, come to enjoy cooking and eating what he had prepared. Then, as evening melted into night, he walked to the hotel. At the hotel he picked up the pay phone in the foyer and dialled the police.

“Found some bones,” he said.

“Bones? Human?”

“Aye. Thought they were sheep bones at first.”

“Where?”

“On the tops.”

“Where?”

“On the tops. Fenwick Moor.”

“That’s a big place.”

“Aye. Big enough.”

“We’ll need more information.”

“I’ll take you.”

“When?”

“Sunday.”

“It’s still only Monday.”

“Aye.”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“Tell you on Sunday.”

“We’ll need to see those bones as soon as...”

“Why? They’re not going anywhere and no one’s going near them. They’re on private land. The only person up there this time of year is me.”

“Who are you?”

“You’ll find out.”

“You could be charged with wasting police time.”

“Sunday. No sooner. No later. That’s my day off. I’m not losing time for anybody and not for a skeleton that’s been there for years anyway.”

“I can only repeat the warning.”

“The white house.”

“The what?”

“On the Kilmarnock/Glasgow Road. As you’re coming south from Glasgow there’s a white house about halfway between Glasgow and Kilmarnock. Send some men. Turn left at the white house. It’s the road to Cliff Grange. I’ll be standing in the road from ten A.M., Sunday. I’ll wait until ten-thirty A.M., then I’ll be away and I won’t be coming back.” Stoddart replaced the phone just lightly enough not to be accused of slamming it down and walked into the bar with piped music and tartan-patterned carpet. He liked a beer at the close of the day.

Stoddart saw the police car the instant that Sergeant Piper and PC Hamilton saw him. From his point of view, the car was a small white vehicle which seemed to prowl along the lane. From the point of view of the occupants of the car, he was a solitary figure, massively built, standing in the centre of the road.

“Not the sort of guy I’d like to meet on a dark night.” Piper slowed the car and halted in front of the man.

“Imagine him with a sawn-off in his hands.” Hamilton got out of the car. As did Piper.

“You’ve come, then?” Stoddart’s eyes were hard, his jaw set firm.

“You’re the gentleman who phoned us?”

“Aye.”

“We do not appreciate being kept waiting. A corpse is a serious matter.”

“It’s not a corpse. It’s a skeleton. Anyway, that’s your lookout.”

“Who are you?”

“Stoddart. I’m the gamekeeper for Cliff Grange House.”

Piper paused. “So where is it?”