Murder on the Run Read online

  While he mulls over this small but not insignificant claim to fame for his antecedent (and the possibility of basking in its reflected glory), some movement in his field of view spikes his attention. There is a gathering of people in the car park of the inn – it looks rather like the sending off of a bride and groom – folk clustered around a car – it noses out from the crowd and accelerates away, one or two stragglers seeming to try to hang onto it for as long as possible. The people mill about for a few moments, before filing back into the side door that leads to the public bar. The distance is too great for Skelgill to make any identifications – but he gets glimpses of the car, a big white 4x4, as it travels rapidly, taking the bends that snake out of the village down towards Crummock Water, and finally out of sight around Hause Point. Maybe it was one of the hired cortege. That is something that has changed – a century ago a cart and horse served as hearse – or even the men of the family as granite-faced pall-bearers, for cottage to church is but a few hundred yards.

  Skelgill lowers his binoculars, but then immediately raises them again. Another movement has caught his eye. Directly across the valley a figure is traversing the skyline, approaching the summit of Fleetwith Pike, almost level it seems – although he knows the latter fell to be a good two hundred feet higher. He makes an involuntary humming noise – a sign of recognition. It seems he is not alone in seeking sanctuary in the hills. And it does not take a detective of his standing to identify the person. There cannot be many girls hereabouts that sport a green topknot, and surely only one whose slinking familiar is a Border Collie with a matching green tip to its tail. At the wake she had answered him shyly when he had stooped to fuss the dog and ask its name (“Jess”, he thought he heard) – but he too had been reticent, for he could not fathom quite who she was – never mind recall their relationship – she had most likely grown a couple of feet since he last set eyes upon her at some family gathering. Certainly she had the cast of a Graham, the long aquiline nose, pale hooded eyes, and rangy build, tall for a female, hovering somewhere in the midst of teenage.

  He had assumed that she was a ‘goth’, so called, and the diffidence part of the persona – but on reflection that could have been the green hair working in conjunction with black funeral attire and genuine solemnity – for now in running gear she cuts an altogether different jib, eating up the incline with loping strides – impressive if, as it appears, she has just run up Fleetwith Edge; it is a lung-bursting ascent he has scaled many times, although on reflection not recently. The dog trots along easily at her heels. As far as he can tell it is unleashed – in which case obedience will need to be the watchword, for Herdwick ewes are back on the fells with their latest brood of sturdy lambs, for a spirited sheepdog too tempting not to nip, lest they learn ideas above their station. He watches the pair as they crest the distinctive apex and continue apace, heading east towards Black Star above Honister Crag, and he wonders what route the girl will take – presumably down through the old green slate quarries, and back to Buttermere via the hause.

  A thrush-like call – a song in fact – at Skelgill’s shoulder causes him first to freeze and then slowly to turn his head. He finds he is sharing his rocky outcrop with a ring ouzel, the secretive mountain blackbird with its distinctive white bib. It is far from an easy species to spot, and rarely at such proximity. Ironically he has his binoculars in his hand but he doubts they would focus down so close, even if he could raise them without spooking the bird. Its territorial refrain is a mournful air, short plaintive notes repeated three or four times, a sound he is accustomed to hearing from below, indeed one that baffled him as a boy – he privately named it the “high crag whistler” – it would slip away on his approach, he uncertain if it were a bird or a climber or indeed a mountain spirit. Now this cock bird seems to wink at him – although he can only see one eye – and then with a sideways hop it disappears. Skelgill ponders the old shepherds’ saw – that an ouzel was a harbinger of death. He grimaces – these birds haunt the high tops – in times of yore an unfair advantage for the fellsman predisposed to darken the door of the inn bearing an ill omen.

  He rouses himself from his reverie. He realises the girl and her collie have passed from view. He shifts position and feels his calves beginning to cramp. Gingerly he rises and flexes his limbs, his troublesome spine, too. Having seen the girl running he wonders if he is getting out of condition; it is about time he donned his fell shoes for a proper stretch of the legs. He packs away and scrambles, with alacrity nonetheless, back up the crag. However, he seems distracted, and begins to wander fairly aimlessly around the moonscape of the summit. The wind has abated and the cloud base has descended; the air of mystery is enhanced – vaporous wraiths infiltrate the gullies; there is a darkening, an enclosing mantle that creates a sense of isolation. Wainwright refers to a “maze of old sheepwalks” and warns of their unreliability: “The only advice that can be given to a novice lost on Haystacks in mist is that he should kneel down and pray for safe deliverance”. Hunched rock forms could be ghosts of folk doing just that. But Skelgill, in no great hurry, is neither a novice nor lost – though after an indeterminate while he concludes he ought to return to the wake, to wade amidst the flotsam and jetsam of mainly elderly relatives surely now snoring and slavering, stranded by the ebb of overindulgence in their seats around the periphery of the lounge bar. The residual drift of the breeze is enough to give him his bearings, though he knows the way underfoot, between the outcrops a lush weave of bilberry and tormentil and heath bedstraw. He returns to the small summit tarn, eerie like an enchanted pool. The favoured walkers’ route passes just beyond.

  Visited by a further impression of the surreal, a movement ahead of him, he sees what for a second he thinks is a badger – much as his common sense tells him not up here, and not in daylight – but if it is a badger, it has a green tip to its tail, and he realises it is the Border Collie. A troubled look creases Skelgill’s features, as a worrying scenario plays across his mind – but just as he calls out – “Jess – here!” – the dog’s human companion emerges from the mist, crossing the trajectory of his path. She hears his entreaty – she glances at him with recognition, strangely unperturbed given the circumstances – and keeps running, skimming lightly over the uneven ground, with more fairy-likeness. The dog has not responded and continues half a dozen yards ahead – both seem to know where they are going, following the line of disintegrating cairns. Skelgill stands open-mouthed – but the girl seems to understand something of his predicament. Briefly she raises one bare arm – her right – and with her left hand points to her wristwatch.

  Skelgill gets it. She is timing her run. He too raises a hand – a kind of acknowledgement-cum-apology. Then, before he knows it, he finds himself jogging after her. The motivation for this somewhat bizarre response has come to him in a flash – although the girl is apparently unaware that he is tagging along. Wainwright’s advice is to leave the top of Haystacks only by a recognisable route – but Skelgill knows different. Suddenly he bellows at the top of his lungs.

  ‘Veer to your left – between the big rocks!’

  The girl gives a surprised jerk of her head – but to keep running she has to face forwards – and she dips her left shoulder and does his bidding. Skelgill is struggling to keep pace – she has a deceptively long stride, her green topknot swinging with each step like a cheerleader’s pom-pom. He puts in a spurt for he knows they approach the crux of his concern.

  ‘Get ready to jump – it’s six foot onto soft grass – land on all fours!’

  Out of the mist there emerges a ridge in the terrain – it is not immediately apparent what lies beyond it – and Skelgill thinks he sees the girl begin to hesitate.

  ‘Go for it, lass!’

  But she was merely adjusting her stride pattern in order to take off from her favoured foot – she trusts Skelgill’s command and in blind faith launches herself off the edge and drops from sight. By the time he skids to a halt she is below him, already movin
g away – but now she turns to look back. She mouths what might be a breathless “wow!”

  ‘Follow the sheepwalk down to your right – you’ll reach Scarth Gap!’

  She does not reply – though still she seems to hesitate – but her reason becomes clear as the collie – having forged ahead and found itself isolated has rounded upon them – and now brushes against Skelgill’s shins to perch at the precipice. The girl gives a shrill whistle – rather unfeminine – but the dog acts on reflex and makes the leap. The girl watches the dog safely down, casts a final brief glance at Skelgill – and she is away.

  2. THE INN

  Friday, afternoon

  ‘Where were thee when t’were all kickin’ off, lad?’

  ‘Kicking off?’ Skelgill pauses in drying his hands with a paper towel. ‘I thought it were just handbags, Roger.’

  ‘According to oor Susan, that Mouse o’ yourn twatted oor Marty wi’ barstool.’

  Skelgill detects a dash of blame assigned through the choice of words – ‘yourn’ implying the said ‘Mouse’ belongs to Skelgill, while ‘oor Marty’ is a possession of the speaker’s, his uncle Roger Graham. To be reproached by a member of the Graham clan is not entirely surprising, for the said ‘Mouse’ – real name Adrian Oswaldtwistle – is indeed a relative of the Skelgills, and has no blood tie to the hosts. Skelgill nods patiently. He has been regaled with other less graphic accounts of the fracas – the tail end of which he inadvertently witnessed from his lofty perch upon Haystacks, the ‘departure scene’ in the car park being Marty Graham making his exit.

  ‘Aye – I promised Renie I’d have a quiet word with Mouse.’

  The older man nods – and then chuckles with a degree of satisfaction.

  ‘T’wun’t be a Graham wake if there weren’t some gannings-on!’

  With his free hand he lifts down his pint from the sill above the urinals and drains the last of his beer.

  ‘Get you another, Roger?’

  ‘Free bar’s finished, lad.’

  Skelgill balls his paper towel and aims it left-handed at a tall waste bin. Disapproval fleetingly creases his features as the projectile looks like it might lip out – but to his relief it drops inside the rim.

  ‘Happen I’ll stick it on the Skelgills’ slate, Roger.’

  He taps the man on the shoulder and pulls open the door of the gents’. Thinking he might kill two birds with one stone he turns the opposite way to that from which he has entered; a small arrowed sign marked “public bar” gently entreats the tipsy visitor. Therein Skelgill suspects Mouse is more likely to be lurking. Upon entering, however, his plans are disrupted – for at the counter standing with her back to him – no mistaking her despite a third outfit – is the girl with green hair. Now the topknot is released and it cascades down her shoulders, revealing the style to be dip-dyed on black. The outfit appears to confirm his original assessment that she is a goth, an all-charcoal ensemble, frayed denim hot pants over tights and lace-up ankle boots, and a lacy blouse with sleeves that stop halfway down her forearms. The green-tailed collie is with her, sitting at heel. Skelgill sucks air between compressed lips – he makes a sound inaudible to humans, but the dog’s ears prick up and its alert eyes locate him. Now he clicks his fingers.

  ‘Jess.’

  Somewhat to Skelgill’s surprise the girl turns sharply. Indeed she rotates completely to face him, holding a drink in each hand, colas with ice by the look of it. She wears a metallic pendant shield necklace on a leather strap, and has applied heavy eye make-up that belies her youth – though she regards him bashfully, and her gaze falters and falls upon the dog. Skelgill, not endowed with natural conversational skills, sees that it falls to him to make the running. The dog approaches him and he drops to one knee, letting it sniff his hand before attempting to knead two-handed behind its ears. He looks up at the girl, who is watching him anxiously.

  ‘How was your time, lass?’

  ‘I ran a PB.’ Her accent is local, but not pronounced. Her tone is tentative; though there is an inflexion that hints at underlying elation. But she averts her eyes self-consciously. ‘Thanks.’

  Skelgill continues to rough up the dog.

  ‘Did you run the Horseshoe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you clock?’

  The girl seems to swallow. Her grip perhaps tightens on the drinks and she glances nervously at the sports watch on her right wrist – as though it will betray her if she chooses to answer incorrectly.

  ‘33:24’

  Skelgill is on his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

  ‘What! You mean the Warnscale Horseshoe?’ The question is superfluous – he saw with his very own eyes. ‘Where did you start and finish?’

  ‘At Gatesgarth.’

  Skelgill performs a kind of double take – a quick shake of his head, like a horse trying to dislodge persistent blowflies.

  ‘How old are you, lass?’

  ‘I were seventeen, last month.’

  Skelgill now makes a hissing expiration of breath – if it is a word it is verging on the blasphemous – but perhaps he remembers the occasion and contrives to avoid giving offence. The cause for his reaction, however, is well founded. Her time of 33:24 is barely half a minute outside his very own record, one that has stood for two decades. A girl! Female times for fell races are typically ten percent slower than those set by males. When he might feel piqued – and to add insult to injury he probably helped her threaten his record – curiously he encounters no such sentiment. He studies her intently – this girl is his kin. She must be a prodigy! Though her present state of dress gives no clue to her aptitude, he has witnessed her move across rough terrain: the easy, efficient yet dynamic form; the light bodyweight for her height; heart and lungs from the same freak genetic stock as his own, a hidden physiology that continually baffles the doctors when he takes his annual medical, a VO2 max score that has them checking to see if their equipment requires recalibration.

  ‘Are you entering the race?’

  ‘I’ve put my name down.’

  Skelgill takes a half step closer; he lowers his voice.

  ‘You could clean up with a time like that.’

  ‘I think some of the adult men would be faster.’

  Now he glares at her reproachfully.

  ‘Aye – but they don’t know our shortcut – and there’s others. The only rule’s to pass the checkpoints. It’s part of the skill – route-finding.’ He glances around as if doubly to guard against eavesdroppers. ‘I can show you – if you like, lass.’

  Meekly, she meets his gaze.

  ‘Cool.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘There’s plenty of time till the event. Where are you living?’

  ‘I’m from Workington.’ She glances about apprehensively. ‘But I’m staying at my aunt’s at Lorton. I’ve got a job in the shop for the summer.’

  ‘At the grocer’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Skelgill frowns reflectively. It sounds like yet another relative of whom he is not entirely aware – albeit it might be someone on the other side of the girl’s family. He is about to make some flippant remark about the ubiquitous Grahams when he notices a sudden change in her demeanour. Just when she is beginning to appear more at ease in his company, there is a visible setback. She seems to shrink against the bar – and, while her lips form an upturned crescent, the look in her eyes is far from commensurate. But now he realises she is not regarding him, but staring past him, over his shoulder. He turns to see that a youth has entered from the door that leads to the car park, and is sauntering towards them. He is dressed in a grey tracksuit of a popular leisurewear brand – although that is where the athletic impression ends. From the side of a twisted mouth he expels a vestigial lungful of vapour (presumably his reason for being outside), and though he is slim it is an unhealthily skeletal frame beneath the sportswear, a sunken chest and angular joints. What might be the vaping device forms an unsightly bulge in his right trouser pocket. H
is black hair is cut in the current pompadour fashion, shaved at the sides and longer on top; to Skelgill’s eye it has the look of a convict and only serves to highlight the youth’s bad skin; narrow-set eyes have dark brown irises that merge with the pupils, and a slight strabismus produces an evasive quality. As he crosses the bar room he has his gaze fixed on the girl – but upon reaching them he offhandedly addresses Skelgill.

  ‘Alright, cock – so you’re the Dibble, eh?’

  Even allowing for a stoop he is no taller than the girl – maybe five-eight at a stretch. Skelgill guesses the youth is aged in his late teens – but perhaps as much as twenty. He speaks with a coarse Manchester accent, and this, together with his demeanour, reminds Skelgill of his disagreeable colleague DI Smart – a poor man’s version, if there can be such a thing. In tandem with the impertinent colloquialism, it is an impression that finds Skelgill visited by an urge to slam him by the lapels of his shell suit against the nearest wall. Instead he grimaces and looks away, his lips moving, perhaps silently counting to ten.

  ‘And you are?’

  The youth sneers and regards the girl proprietorially. Once more she forces a weak smile.

  ‘You might say I’m one of the out-laws – catch me if you can – hah-ha!’

  For the girl’s benefit Skelgill bites his tongue – not that he has a ready rejoinder – and merely makes an indeterminate humming noise. But the youth seems already to have lost any interest in conversation. He reaches out to snatch one of the drinks from the girl.

  ‘Come on, I’m gaggin.’

  There is an oversized bejewelled watch clasped upon his wrist that must surely be a fake. However Skelgill’s attention falls upon the dog, crouched on the wooden floor in their midst. Its ears are pressed back and it shows the whites of its eyes. Skelgill sees that the girl now takes her lead from the youth, who turns and with a contemptuous jerk of the head indicates she should follow him. She glances sheepishly at Skelgill – the youth crosses towards an unoccupied table – and she seems uneasy about letting the distance between them become too great.