Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Read online

  Bruce Beckham

  __________

  Murder on the Edge

  A detective novel

  LUCiUS

  Text copyright 2014 Bruce Beckham

  All rights reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition first published by Lucius 2014

  CreateSpace edition first published by Lucius 2014

  For more details and Rights enquiries contact:

  [email protected]

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Murder on the Edge is the third mystery in the Detective Inspector Skelgill series. It is a stand-alone novel, although its events take place immediately following those described in Murder in School.

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Murder in Adland

  Murder in School

  (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates)

  Murder Mystery Collection

  The Dune

  The Sexopaths

  CONTENTS

  1. WASDALE HEAD – Monday, early morning

  2. SHARP EDGE – Monday, mid-morning

  3. BARRY SEDDON – Monday, midday

  4. LEE HARRIS – Tuesday morning

  5. KENDAL – Tuesday afternoon

  6. PENRITH HQ – Wednesday morning

  7. STRIDING EDGE – Wednesday morning

  8. PENRITH TRUCKSTOP – Wednesday afternoon

  9. ASPATRIA – Wednesday afternoon

  10. DI SKELGILL’S OFFICE – Thursday morning

  11. SHARP EDGE – Thursday, midday

  12. PENRITH TOWN CENTRE – Thursday afternoon

  13. DS JONES CALLS – Thursday evening

  14. LINDA HARRIS – Friday morning

  15. WALTER BARLEY – Friday afternoon

  16. GRASMERE – Saturday morning

  17. GREAT END – Monday morning

  18. KNOTT HALLOO FARM – Monday, mid-morning

  19. SCALES TARN – Monday evening

  20. POLICE HQ – Tuesday morning

  21. FOLLOW-UP MEETING – Tuesday afternoon

  22. BORDER COUNTRY – Tuesday evening

  23. KNOTT HALLOO FARM – Wednesday morning

  24. CLIFF EDGE – Wednesday afternoon

  25. CRUNCH TIME – Thursday morning

  26. THE TAJ MAHAL – Friday evening

  1. WASDALE HEAD – Monday, early morning

  ‘Fancy a stretch of the legs, Jones?’

  DS Jones pirouettes proficiently, crunching loose car park gravel beneath her flat rubber soles. She squints into the bright morning sun beyond Skelgill’s silhouette.

  ‘Oughtn’t we get these under lock and key, Guv?’ She refers to the loose bundle of documents cradled against her thorax.

  Skelgill does not reply immediately. He casts about and sniffs the fresh dewy air. Then pointedly he glances at the sturdy piebald dog that stands obediently at his side, seemingly unconcerned by the fraying length of rustic yarn threaded through its collar.

  ‘I think you’re outvoted, Jones. Cleopatra’s up for it.’

  DS Jones frowns. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’

  Skelgill casually flaps a hand in an easterly direction, towards the silvery grey bulk of Great Gable, its flanks attractively dappled with irregular sliding shadows cast by small fair-weather cumulus. ‘I was thinking we might stroll over to Gladis’s at Seathwaite.’

  Now DS Jones’s voice takes on a distinct note of exasperation. ‘Guv – that’s miles – we’d be hours.’

  Skelgill beams generously. ‘Trust me – I know a short cut. We’ll be there by eight.’

  ‘But what about my car, Guv – and all this evidence?’

  Skelgill shrugs. ‘Lock it in the boot. Leyton needs to take a statement from his lordship. He can bring a DC to drive your motor back to the station this afternoon.’

  ‘And how will we get from Seathwaite to Penrith?’

  ‘Leyton can fetch us. It’s just down the road for him. I’ll text him now.’

  DS Jones continues to protest. She tries a different tack. ‘Guv – I know the case is cracked – but won’t the Chief want to see you first thing – to congratulate you?’

  Skelgill scowls. ‘That’ll be the day.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Guv – you’ll be her blue-eyed boy this morning.’

  Skelgill patently affects diffidence. He stoops so that he is at eye-level with the dog.

  ‘If I am – which I doubt – but let’s say you’re right – then now’s the time to take advantage of our magnificent surroundings.’

  ‘You mean breakfast, Guv.’

  Skelgill looks up with an innocent twinkle in his eye. ‘You’re getting to know me too well.’

  DS Jones shakes her head resignedly and pops open the car boot with her remote.

  ‘After all, you just ate a bacon sandwich – why wouldn’t we go to a café?’

  Skelgill rises and does a little skip, to which the dog responds with a playful sideways bound of its own.

  ‘Mountain air will do us good. I’m still seeing double from Copeland’s sloe gin. Come to think of it, you’re probably over the limit, anyway.’

  DS Jones carefully places the documents into the vehicle, leaning away from Skelgill as if to conceal the rueful grin that plays at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘We’d better not lose Cleopatra, Guv – doesn’t she count as evidence, too?’

  Skelgill deftly wraps the dog’s improvised lead in a clove hitch around a footpath marker-post adjacent to their parking spot.

  ‘I bet she could tell us a thing or two.’

  Now DS Jones squats to stroke the affable creature.

  ‘What will become of her, Guv?’

  Cleopatra gives out a little whine, as if she detects the tenor of their conversation. Skelgill does not reply, and instead turns his attention to retying the laces of his trail shoes.

  ‘Still got your trainers in the car?’

  DS Jones stands and puts a foot forward for him to inspect. She wears what are ostensibly training shoes, but in fact they owe a lot more to fashion than to function.

  ‘Think these will be okay, Guv?’

  Skelgill narrows his eyes and cranes his head sideways to get a look at the sole.

  ‘You’ll do – it’s dry now – there’s a good path. Take it easy, though – you don’t want to sprain your ankle in the middle of the fells.’

  DS Jones has evidently given up trying to talk her superior out of his scheme. Her response is more benign. ‘I thought you had a hotline to the mountain rescue, Guv?’

  Skelgill flashes a reprimanding glance. ‘That would be just too embarrassing. I’d rather cart you out myself.’

  ‘In that case I shall watch my step.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows, and looks momentarily irked, but before he can devise a retort a scraggy border collie slinks between them and stops a yard short of Cleopatra.

  ‘Tha’ a pit-bull?’

  The voice belongs to the gnarled shepherd – or ex-shepherd – who, for the second time in as many visits, has surprised Skelgill with his stealthy approach.

  ‘Bullboxer. Staffie cross.’

  ‘Yourn?’

  ‘Just minding her for me marra.’

 
; DS Jones appears mildly astonished by Skelgill’s hitherto undisclosed canine knowledge (or it could be his sudden descent into Cumbrian dialect). She reaches down, perhaps out of politeness, to pat the matted collie, but Cleopatra selects the same moment to inspect this reticent visitor. With a sudden lunge she summarily snaps her leash, causing the poor creature to dart away with his tail firmly between his legs. Skelgill snatches up the trailing end of string, but it breaks again the moment he applies limiting force.

  ‘Tha’ wunt wuk. Tek this, lad.’

  The old man rummages in a pocket of his baggy trousers and philanthropically presses upon Skelgill a hank of faded but effectively unbreakable blue baler twine.

  ‘Dunt want ’er spookin’ t’yowes. Yon Copeland’s keeper’s a reet trigger happy b–’

  Evidently the next, unfinished word is not bloke, for the old man stops his sentence dead in its tracks. This is presumably in deference to the presence of DS Jones, whom he now paradoxically takes the opportunity to eye somewhat salaciously, as if it is his entitlement for such gentlemanly consideration.

  Skelgill restrains Cleopatra and, employing the baler twine, fastens a slip-knot onto her collar. He has a slightly chastened air about him, as if there is a small public humiliation in being upstaged by the decrepit farmhand.

  ‘I normally keep a reel in my wagon – but I came with–’

  Now it is Skelgill’s turn to dry up. Holding out a palm in her direction, he seems unprepared as to how he should describe his relationship to DS Jones. Whether this is at a personal or professional level is not clear. Notwithstanding, with regard to the latter, the elderly herdsman will soon receive an official visit from DS Leyton, and as yet is unaware of Skelgill’s true interest in his locale. Understandably, therefore, Skelgill might be reluctant to reveal what have been the clandestine motives for his cordiality.

  However, the old man seems to make up his own mind, and cackles something colloquial and largely indeterminate – but possibly along the lines of, ‘Women? Can’t live with them... can’t live with them’ – a hackneyed Saturday night thigh-slapper from Skelgill’s own book of beer-inspired and inadvertently sexist maxims. Then, perhaps not wishing to overstay his welcome, he takes a last leering look at DS Jones and limps away in the direction of his cottage.

  ‘What did he say, Guv?’

  ‘It was something about the dog – I didn’t quite catch it – they speak their own version of English out here.’

  ‘Think he was he serious about Copeland’s gamekeeper?’

  ‘Can’t be too careful. Farmers are within their rights to shoot – if a dog worries their sheep. And you know what divvies townies can be.’

  DS Jones nods. ‘I once had to write an essay about the pros and cons of calling the Lakes a National Park. The word park being the source of contention.’

  Skelgill purses his lips. ‘I’m torn, myself. We’ve got the rescue services pulling idiots off three-thousand-foot fells dressed like they’ve just been to Bondi beach. But, right now, you and I can pick our own route to Gladis’s without fear of his lordship unloading a couple of barrels in our direction for trespassing.’

  ‘So long as we keep Cleopatra in check, Guv.’

  ‘On which note – shall we make tracks, ladies?’

  They set off into the bright sunlight, the cool air jangling with the song of larks and pipits and the mewing of a buzzard as it rises upon a thermal over the slopes of Lingmell. Skelgill glances surreptitiously at his companions, and he must wonder about their relative capacities to deal with the cross-country hill walk ahead. Certainly, the athletic-looking DS Jones should not be too challenged, but Cleopatra seems better equipped for exercise of a more muscular nature – such as bringing down a sheep or two.

  *

  There are no doubt some official restrictions concerning dogs and cafés, but on the Hope family’s isolated farmstead such rules may be considered flexible, especially when it is a long-acquainted policeman that is bending them. In any event, Skelgill has already introduced Cleopatra to the assembled breakfasters as a ‘sniffer dog in training’, implicitly endowing her with access rights in common with guide dogs, and – much to the amusement of Gladis Hope – facetiously crediting the canine for leading him and his colleague to ‘the best fry in the North of England’ (and by definition therefore the whole of England). Cleopatra, of course, is well schooled in petitioning for titbits – her former owner saw to that – and keeps a diplomatically low profile as she moves undercover from table to table.

  ‘So, Guv – doesn’t this place disprove your ten-minute claim?’

  Skelgill produces an inquiring look over the rim of his mug. ‘Come again?’

  ‘The other night – you said, on your patch, you’re never more than ten minutes from a meal.’

  Skelgill ponders for a moment, and then replies, ‘Depends where you start from.’

  ‘Ha-ha, Guv.’

  ‘Anyway – it’s ten minutes from Keswick the way Leyton drives.’ Then a thought obviously enters his mind and he asks, ‘Jones – at the station – have you heard me and Leyton referred to as the North Lakes Sweeney?’

  DS Jones looks suitably perplexed. Skelgill is adept at divining untruths uttered by the crooked mouths of criminals, but is more susceptible to white lies that emanate from fairer lips, so she probably considers herself on fairly safe ground.

  ‘Don’t think so, Guv – why?’

  Skelgill immediately appears disinterested, as if it is now inconsequential.

  On such an apposite cue, however, from an open window comes the sound of a vehicle grinding to a sharp halt, followed by the harsh ratcheting of a handbrake and the heavy-handed slam of a door.

  DS Jones glances knowingly at her superior, who is forced to respond with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘The Sweeney, Guv?’

  Skelgill tuts and checks his wristwatch. ‘He’s earlier than I expected – he must be on the scrounge for breakfast.’

  This might be considered an ironic statement coming from Skelgill, and one that proves to be inaccurate too when DS Leyton’s rather harassed visage appears at the said window.

  ‘Got a minute, Guvnor? Something’s come up.’

  Skelgill nods reluctantly and rises from his chair.

  ‘Jones – settle up with Gladis, will you?’

  DS Jones blinks obediently.

  ‘Make sure she takes the money.’

  ‘Sure, Guv – but what about Leyton?’

  ‘Better get him a takeaway burger.’ Skelgill lingers for a second or two. ‘Make it a couple – never know where I’ll be for lunch.’

  DS Jones grins widely and shakes her head, while the incorrigible Skelgill fishes abstractedly in his pocket for Cleopatra’s makeshift leash. He snares the dog and leads her out into the enclosed farmyard, where DS Leyton loiters uncertainly, his expression somewhere between one of bewilderment and distaste.

  ‘Blimey, Guv – it don’t half pen – it’s enough to put you off your Becks and Posh.’

  Skelgill shrugs nonchalantly. ‘I’ve just ordered you a burger – but never fear, there’s a good home waiting if you can’t face it.’

  DS Leyton eyes the dog suspiciously, but decides to let Skelgill’s ambiguous threat pass. More pressing is the official business that has disrupted their arrangements.

  ‘What it is, Guv – there’s been a climbing death reported this morning – on a fell to the north of Keswick.’

  Skelgill looks annoyed, as though this is no reason to be troubling a Detective Inspector over his breakfast. ‘And?’

  ‘The body was discovered by a couple of elderly walkers at about seven this morning. PC Dodd attended the scene. Apparently he does a bit of rock climbing himself – he called in to suggest that you should have a butcher’s before they move the body.’

  Skelgill frowns. ‘So, what’s he saying – there’s something suspicious?’

  DS Leyton appears a tad browbeaten by his superior’s intolerant manner. ‘I guess so,
Guv – I’ve only got the message indirectly. Apparently HQ have been trying to phone you for the last hour.’

  Skelgill is now further irked. A regular observer of his habits, such as DS Leyton, might suspect he is planning to take advantage of the hiatus that follows the successful conclusion of the Oakthwaite case by disappearing on a fishing trip this morning. Certainly he has the excuse of reinstating his boat to its familiar berth. Skelgill pulls out his mobile and affects to check the screen.

  ‘No signal on my network, Leyton.’

  In fact his phone has been turned off since he and DS Jones left Wasdale Head an hour and a half since.

  ‘How do you want to play it, Guv?’

  Skelgill taps the toe of his left foot against the rim of a large dried cowpat. Then he watches as a swallow hawks for a clegg and disappears into the darkness of a low byre.

  ‘Look, Leyton. My car’s still down at Peel Wyke. It’s as quick that way to Wasdale. Drop me there and I’ll head back to this incident. You take Jones. She can give you a hand with the statements and then recover her own motor.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’ Now DS Leyton becomes a little apprehensive. ‘What about the dog, Guv?’

  They both glance down at Cleopatra. She produces a baleful stare that suggests she grasps the insinuation inherent in DS Leyton’s question, and disapproves accordingly. The sergeant takes half a pace backwards.

  Skelgill shortens the leash by winding it a couple of turns around his fist. ‘I guess she starts on her first case.’

  2. SHARP EDGE – Monday, mid-morning

  Skelgill can’t be surprised to hear that the unfortunate male victim he is en route to inspect lies crumpled below the notorious Sharp Edge, a vicious saw-toothed spine of rock that strikes out from the black cliffs of Foule Crag, itself the cantle of Blencathra’s ‘saddleback’ massif. This locus has been the scene of numerous tragedies down the years, but for all that, he is also probably wondering why the episode is being described as a climbing accident. While, to the layman, the distinction might seem academic, to the outdoorsman there is a wide practical gulf between climbing and its devil-may-care cousin, scrambling. And Sharp Edge – in summer at least – is probably the Lake District’s most popular scramble.