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eyes
have been on his animals, looks up in apparent surprise to see the two
detectives standing so close by.  The dogs, when they might be expected to
exhibit some territorial reaction, in fact are simply watchful.
    ‘Ah
– may I direct you good people?’
    The
man’s accent and clipped enunciation betrays little provenance other than
British public school – though there may be the hint of a foreign brogue
beneath, perhaps Dutch or German.  Aged in his late fifties, he is well
over six feet, and attired in sturdy leather brogues, beige moleskin trousers and
a green quilted shooting jacket with stitched suede shoulder patches –
these garments, in contrast to those of the gamekeeper – are in pristine
condition.  His bearing is very upright, a naval impression that is
emphasised by short-cropped grizzled hair and a matching anchor beard. 
His wide-set eyes stare unblinking astride an aquiline nose.  Though his
opening words are friendly enough, his underlying demeanour – rather akin
to that of the dogs – is entirely neutral, as though he is gauging the
status of these interlopers.  Skelgill produces his warrant card.
    ‘DI
Skelgill – and this is DS Jones – Cumbria Police.’
    Skelgill
says no more – but the man merely returns his gaze, thus obliging him to
elaborate or face a silent standoff.
    ‘We’re
trying to locate a person who may have been in this area – yesterday
evening or this morning.’
    DS
Jones has the passport ready, and holds it up to the man, again covering the
identification details.  He narrows his eyes and retracts his head by a
couple of inches, as though he would prefer to be wearing reading
glasses.  However, he scrutinises the image for several seconds, before
allowing his gaze to trace a path from DS Jones’s neatly manicured nails and
along her bare forearm to her face.  His eyes are a disconcertingly pale
blue and she appears uncomfortable beneath his interrogative stare.
    ‘Does
the picture ring any bells, sir?’
    It is
Skelgill that breaks in, perhaps detecting his sergeant’s discomfort.  The
man turns back to face him.  His expression remains implacable.
    ‘Neither
I nor any of my staff have been outwith the grounds since yesterday lunchtime,
Inspector – apart from my gamekeeper who is based up towards the quarry.’
    ‘I
believe we met him on our way down, sir.’
    The landowner
inclines his head in acknowledgement.
    ‘This
man didn’t call here, sir – asking for somebody?’
    ‘You
are our first visitors since a delivery of wine on Saturday, Inspector.  I
have been at home the whole time myself and I would know.’
    Skelgill
gestures with an open palm towards the gates.
    ‘Is it
remotely possible that he could have wandered into your grounds, sir?’
    ‘I
think Hansel and Gretel would have soon found him and let me know.’
    ‘I’m sorry,
sir?’
    ‘My Alsatians,
Inspector.  They have the run of the place – they tend to be rather
more assertive when they are not under my command.’
    Skelgill
glances down.  Unobtrusively, one of the creatures has stepped closer and
is sniffing at his trouser leg.  He looks away, and at the same time
casually lowers the back of a hand.  The dog transfers its attention to
his wrist, but then seems content as Skelgill rubs a knuckle against its mastoid
process.  The man is watching keenly.
    ‘You
perhaps have been a dog handler, Inspector?’
    Skelgill
appears surprised by this remark.  He places his palm gently on the top of
the Alsatian’s head.
    ‘My
own dog is best of pals with one of these, sir.’
    The
man regards the animal with a detached stare.
    ‘They
make good friends – and bad enemies.’
    ‘That
might be why our chaps use them, sir.’
    The
man nods, though his expression remains inscrutable.
    ‘I am
about to walk around the perimeter – it is a route I take some days
– precisely five kilometres.  If I see anything I shall contact you.’
    Skelgill
nods.  There is little they can