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

  ‘That’s it.’

  A second woman enters immediately, as though she has been waiting outside on the landing. She is considerably taller than her sibling, younger, her figure less comely, her hair dark, though there is a marked facial resemblance. Perhaps ‘lesbian sister dominatrices’ is an honest and truthful marketing description, if not quite legal and decent. Her outfit is similar: thigh-length wet-look boots and a skin-tight basque.

  In one gloved hand she carries a coil of rope.

  The pair settles side-saddle on either flank of Seddon; he initially fixes his attention on the newcomer, squinting in the gloom as if to satisfy himself she represents the goods as advertised.

  She meets his gaze, and her expression is stern.

  ‘You’re here to be punished.’

  Though the phrase sounds more like a statement than a question, Seddon nods eagerly in response, literally champing at the bit.

  ‘Do you remember me, Barry?’

  If Seddon’s limbs were not extended to their maxima, then perhaps at this moment there would be a visible stiffening of his body. Instead it is just his features that freeze. In making his appointment, he has scrupulously avoided revealing his identity, not even his first name – and he has brought nothing about his person that might indicate the same.

  ‘How about me, Barry?’

  It is the first woman who now speaks, though her voice has lost its formerly soothing tone and has acquired a harsh edge.

  Seddon stares, his eyes widening. He glances from one to the other in bewilderment.

  ‘No one knows where you are, do they Barry?’

  Seddon is clearly confused – and frightened – but too late he realises his error, for when he begins vigorously to nod, as if to say, ‘Yes, they do’, the action is unconvincing. Indeed, the only record of the address is in his head, supplied to him in a call he made from a public telephone shortly before his arrival at the supermarket.

  ‘Perhaps you remember me now, Barry?’

  The brunette pulls off her wig to reveal short-cropped fair hair beneath. Beads of sweat are breaking out upon Seddon’s brow and beginning to stream down his temples like proxy tears. The blonde meanwhile reaches to open a drawer of the bedside cabinet. She extracts what appears to be a creased Polaroid and holds it in front of his increasingly terrified face.

  ‘Don’t worry, Barry. Even if you’ve forgotten, we haven’t.’

  The rope is lying beside the brunette. It is thick and firm and of the climbing variety and she easily slides one end between his neck and the PVC sheet, whence her partner draws three arms’ lengths through in climbing fashion. Then free ends are exchanged so that the rope is now crossed over at Seddon’s throat.

  ‘You always liked ropes, didn’t you, Barry?’

  *

  The sudden tautness in the nylon line, contingently wrapped around Skelgill’s wrist, rouses him from his pleasant waterborne slumber. He jerks upright and scrambles for his rod, which is threatening to disappear overboard. Fortunately he has positioned it to lie in the port rowlock, and this device now acts as a brake of sorts and affords him the opportunity to grab the last couple of inches of the butt. Though while he might belatedly get a grip, the pike – for that is what it must be – gets away. Too slow to strike effectively, he finds himself lashing loose line and spray into the air above his head – by the time he has regained contact, he can tell that his quarry is gone.

  ‘Wakey, wakey, Danny,’ he mutters, although not as bad-temperedly as might be expected when such a fish has slipped from his clutches.

  Perhaps on reflection he acknowledges that he can’t be expected to strike in his sleep – although this acceptance has not in the past prevented him from claiming (after a few beers) that it is exactly what he has done on many a late-night-early-morning expedition. Methodically he reels in to inspect the bait for damage – but it is gone: a double getaway. He shrugs phlegmatically and settles back down into the accommodating curvature of the hull.

  4. LEE HARRIS – Tuesday morning

  ‘Guv it’s me.’

  ‘Leyton – where are you?’

  ‘HQ, Guv. Reckon we might have an ID on that body you went to see yesterday.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Name of Lee Harris – ring any bells, Guv?’

  This is a common question asked by DS Leyton of his superior; Skelgill being a local man while the former is an exiled Londoner.

  ‘I’ve got a plug called Harris.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  And this marks the beginnings of a typical exchange between the two, in which Skelgill can be (perhaps intentionally) obtuse, abstruse and antagonistic, while the long-suffering DS Leyton does his best to roll with the punches.

  ‘Plugging, Leyton – it’s a method of pike fishing.’

  Skelgill’s Harris is not an official brand of angling equipment that can be purchased in a tackle shop, but in fact a home-made item that he has fashioned from a paintbrush handle of the same name; nonetheless it is one of his most productive lures.

  ‘Oh, right, Guv.’

  DS Leyton seems to have been knocked out of his stride. After a short pause it is Skelgill that speaks.

  ‘So why should I know of him?’

  ‘He’d be about your age, Guv – our age. Late thirties.’

  ‘Mid thirties.’

  ‘Yeah, Guv – sorry – mid thirties, I mean.’

  Skelgill ponders for a moment – perhaps contemplating how much longer thirty-seven-going-on-thirty-eight will indeed qualify as mid thirties.

  ‘He doesn’t sound local. Where’s he supposed to be from?’

  DS Leyton clears his throat.

  ‘We’ve had a call from an employer – motorbike joint in Kendal. Geezer who owns it heard the description we issued on Radio Cumbria this morning – says it sounds a bit like a mechanic who’s not turned up for work this week. Hasn’t phoned in and they can’t raise him.’

  ‘Biker boots.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv?’

  ‘The dead guy was wearing biker-style ankle boots.’

  ‘Sounds promising, then, Guv?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Er... eleven-twenty, Guv, give or take.’

  ‘Meet me at Tebay at twelve. Bring a photo – one that doesn’t show the rope marks.’

  ‘Sure, Guv.’

  ‘If you’re there first, get me the all-day breakfast, will you?’

  ‘Roger.’

  DS Leyton’s sigh of resignation goes unheard, since Skelgill has cleared the line.

  *

  Motorway service stations have a special place in Britain’s contemporary folk history. Watford Gap, for instance, is cherished by the over-fifties as a symbol of freedom and discovery, having been opened concurrently with the nation’s first motorway, the M1, in 1959. Today, its curious name mystifies many a motorist, suggesting some association with Watford – a large town lying sixty miles and twelve junctions due south in Hertfordshire (and north of which ‘soft southerners’ are reputed never to venture). There is no connection, and the ‘Gap’ refers to a low point between two hills near the tiny Northamptonshire village of Watford.

  Tebay service station is another such institution. Likewise gaining its epithet from its proximity to an ancient and eponymous hamlet, for the vast bulk of the vacationing British public (roughly ninety percent of whom live to the south) Tebay embodies a panoply of emotions and sensory experiences. It is the culmination of a long traffic-bound journey; the first moment of exposure to the sounds and scents that infuse the moorland air – from the song of the skylark to the sour reek of sheep dung; and paradoxically in its mini-mall a last oasis of urban familiarity, before diverting from the wide motorway comfort zone into the claustrophobic single-track lanes and winding passes of the Lake District (to the west) or the Yorkshire Dales (to the east). More prosaically, in its homophonous name it really could have been put there by the bluff northerners to welcome their southern cousins, taking simul
taneously the opportunity to proclaim an indigenous proclivity for the traditional beverage: it literally is a ‘tea bay’, and this notion appears to have passed into popular folklore.

  And it is along such lines that Skelgill is a not infrequent visitor. On this occasion, as DS Leyton foresaw, he casually ambles through the servery, no doubt confidently predicting that his trusty sergeant will have taken care of the eating arrangements. He pauses, however, at the cutlery section, to pocket a handful of sachets of HP sauce. Then he deftly sidesteps a small child who charges at him brandishing a ray gun.

  The accents reaching Skelgill’s ears as he weaves between occupied tables are a mixture of home counties (less pronounced than DS Leyton’s cockney brogue), midland (mainly Brummie), north-western (Manc and Scouse) and indeed Scots – this peculiar combination a result of the fact that, while he and DS Leyton are heading south to Kendal (the next motorway junction down the M6), they have rendezvoused on the northbound services. This apparent paradox – and indeed navigational conundrum – is explained in the knowledge held by most policemen, that such institutions can always be accessed via service back-roads that provide practical and necessary short-cuts for delivery vehicles and staff. Thus when Skelgill suggested to DS Leyton that they should meet at Tebay, the latter took it as read that they would do so at Skelgill’s preferred northern side. Ostensibly this might seem be due to its reputation for better food, although on reflection – as Skelgill would be first to admit – this attribute is ranked no better than third in his list of priorities, well below volume and speed of service.

  Skelgill might be a tad late, but his timing is perfect. DS Leyton has only just queued, paid and sought out a quiet spot in a distant alcove, insulated from the screeches emanating from the kids’ soft play area and the general hubbub of the holidaying hordes. Indeed, this very table is one of their many regular haunts dotted about the county. Now DS Leyton glances uneasily at his plate as if he is wondering whether to begin. Skelgill has not yet come into sight, but will surely reprimand him for not waiting. His gaze drifts out through the great plate glass wall beside which he sits. There is an expansive view of the rising fells, hidden beyond which lies Windermere, and – contrastingly close at hand – a murky ornamental pond that washes right up against the foundations of the building. In comic fashion, swimming like an Egyptian, a moorhen jerks past, pursued by a brood of tiny fluffy black chicks with oversized bills that scrabble across the surface like windblown cotton bolls. Further out, a swarm of house martins swoops and dives for insects that mate or lay or hatch – any of the above an unfortunate moment to become an impromptu meal.

  ‘Hey up, Leyton – still off your food?’

  DS Leyton looks across from his reverie, surprised. Then he cocks his head to the outdoors.

  ‘Nah, Guv – I was just watching those birds catching flies – amazing how they can do that.’

  Skelgill takes a seat, a slightly superior expression crossing his features.

  ‘I’ve hooked a swallow more than once. They especially go for hawthorns.’

  DS Leyton looks suitably impressed.

  ‘Tuck in, Guv – before it goes cold.’

  Skelgill scrutinises the fare on offer. ‘Been waiting long?’

  ‘Just sat down, Guv. Thought I saw your jam jar in the car park when I pulled in.’

  Skelgill keeps his eyes firmly fixed upon his food and feels for his knife and fork. Deftly, he assembles a large forkful.

  ‘Must be a doppelganger.’

  This is an unlikely coincidence, given the idiosyncratic long brown estate with its distinctive replacement aerial: a wire coat-hanger fashioned into the shape of a fish.

  DS Leyton nods, though not with great conviction. More likely Skelgill was waiting for him to get the food in – or poking around the place on some clandestine business of his own.

  After an initial minute or so of silence, punctuated only by the hungry clatter of cutlery, DS Leyton introduces the subject of their inquiry, the late Lee Harris (if it proves to be he).

  ‘I spoke to forensics before I left, Guv – nothing doing so far.’

  ‘In what way nothing?’

  ‘The crime scene – assuming we’re calling it that, Guv – no trace of blood or disturbance, no stones freshly turned over, no vegetation crushed.’

  ‘What about Herdwick?’

  ‘Couldn’t raise him, Guv.’

  Skelgill tuts and swallows.

  ‘Spoke to his assistant, Guv – that dolly bird student they’ve got in – she was a bit cagey. Managed to get her to say that there were no superficial injuries, cuts, breaks, bang to the head, whatever. Doesn’t look like it took much of a fall to kill him, Guv.’

  Skelgill snorts. ‘Leyton – there’s no way he fell. Not a chance.’

  DS Leyton gives Skelgill a wide-eyed look. ‘What makes you so sure, Guv?’

  ‘How long have you got?’

  Skelgill breaks off to stare at a middle-aged man in an olive-green fleece and tan walking trousers who has come to stand beside them bearing a loaded tray. The interloper is alternately eyeing the spare table nearest to the detectives, and glancing back in the direction whence he came, presumably waiting for his accomplice to catch up with him. Skelgill fixes his unwelcome presence with an unwavering glare. After about thirty seconds no one has appeared, and Skelgill’s offensive tactic bears fruit. The man swivels away with a shake of his head and apparently goes in search of his companion. Skelgill returns his attention to DS Leyton.

  ‘For a start, the body was yards from the foot of the slope.’

  ‘Couldn’t it have rolled, Guv?’

  Skelgill shakes his head dismissively. ‘Too rocky. Anyway – like the lass in the lab-coat says – he’d be smashed up. Instead he looked more like he’d settled down to sleep.’

  ‘Could have been moved, Guv?’

  ‘Except you’re telling me forensics found no signs of disturbance.’

  DS Leyton raises a fork in acknowledgement of this contradiction.

  ‘So what, Guv? What did happen?’

  Skelgill is chewing, and doesn’t hurry his mouthful. ‘Which one of my dozen hare-brained ideas do you want to hear first, Leyton?’

  ‘Take your pick, Guv – I’m clueless.’

  Skelgill suppresses a grin that begins to form about his lips. ‘We’re not so far apart, Leyton. But what I do know is you don’t generally get togged up as if you’re off to the pub, then grab a rope and head for the hills.’

  DS Leyton gives the impression this might be how he would dress in such circumstances – like many people, not being in possession of the requisite outdoor gear.

  ‘Well – I take your point about the rope, Guv.’

  Skelgill’s eyes narrow, as though he detects DS Leyton’s reservation. ‘And what climber takes a rope on his own? You climb with a partner.’

  ‘Maybe he went on his own, Guv – topped himself?’

  ‘He’d be dangling, Leyton. There was nowhere to dangle. And why yomp a mile up to Scales Tarn when all you need is a coat hook on the back of your bedroom door?’

  DS Leyton fidgets uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘Could he have just strangled himself with the rope, Guv – on the spot, like?’

  Skelgill frowns, and looks momentarily annoyed at this suggestion.

  ‘Bizarrely, Leyton, that happens to be my least hare-brained explanation at the moment.’

  ‘Oh.’

  DS Leyton looks pleased with himself – although that soon becomes an expression of apprehension, as though he is worried about having usurped one of his boss’s ideas and might be punished accordingly for attempting to steal some of the limelight.

  Skelgill seems to detect his sergeant’s quandary. ‘Look, Leyton – we’re clutching at straws here. Until we get cause and time of death, we can speculate until the cows come home.’

  DS Leyton nods, encouraged. ‘And the ID, too, Guv.’

  ‘True, the ID.’ Skelgill checks his watch a
nd throws his napkin onto his empty plate.

  DS Leyton pushes back his chair, and looks expectantly at his boss.

  ‘If you’re volunteering, Leyton, I reckon there’s just time for tea and a fruit scone.’

  5. KENDAL – Tuesday afternoon

  ‘Aye – that’s Lee right enough.’

  Skelgill is watching closely the garage owner’s reaction as DS Leyton holds the mortuary photograph at arm’s length before him. He is small and wiry, and looks as though he might be almost completely bald beneath a faded navy-blue engine driver’s cap, though he sports several days’ grizzled stubble on his chin and throat.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Looks like a climbing accident, sir.’

  The man shakes his head. He continues to stare at the photograph; his expression is more one of curiosity than horror.

  ‘How well did you know him, sir?’

  Now the man looks up at Skelgill and digs his hands deeper into the pockets of his grease-smeared boiler suit. He shrugs his shoulders somewhat indifferently.

  ‘I’ve got eight mechanics, part-timers. They come and go. Mostly in their twenties and thirties, like Lee. Didn’t know he wo’ a climber.’

  The man could be in his early sixties, and the suggestion of an arm’s-length relationship with his younger and itinerant employees is not unreasonable.

  ‘How long had he been with you?’

  ‘Eighteen months, twenty maybe.’

  ‘We’ll need to trace his wife, girlfriend, next of kin – that sort of thing.’

  Skelgill stares at the man as though this is an instruction, and indeed the latter drags open the top drawer of a grey metal cabinet that dominates one corner of the tiny office. He lifts out a small card-index box and places it upon a desk covered with oily thumb-printed invoices and curling triplicate pads. His stout craftsman’s fingers, ingrained with engine grime, work with surprising dexterity to extract the sought-after record. He hands it to Skelgill.

  ‘That’s your lot, cous.’