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

  ‘Right, Guv – I’ll draft out an action plan.’

  ‘And organise a full forensic inspection of the property.’

  Skelgill stands up and lifts his jacket from the back of his chair.

  ‘I’ll go and break the bad news to the Chief – before she starts allocating all the best staff to Smart. We need bodies, Leyton.’

  7. STRIDING EDGE – Wednesday morning

  It is just after eight-thirty a.m. when Skelgill returns from his mission upon high, to find DS Leyton standing anxiously in his office. Judging by Skelgill’s thunderous expression it does not appear that his request for extra personnel was acceded to.

  ‘Why are you still here, Leyton?’

  ‘Sorry, Guv – it’s this. Someone just rang the incident room.’ DS Leyton flaps a single sheet of paper. ‘I think you tempted fate, Guv.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘When you said bodies – there’s been another one found.’

  Skelgill stares uncomprehendingly. ‘That’s not what I meant, Leyton.’

  ‘No – I know Guv. I’m just saying, like.’

  ‘Well – what is it?’

  ‘Sounds similar to Harris, Guv. Looks like a climbing accident – beneath Striking Edge.’

  ‘There’s no such place.’

  ‘That’s what it says, Guv.’

  ‘Striding Edge, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton holds the page at arm’s length and squints long-sightedly. ‘Maybe it is, Guv – Striking, Striding – this handwriting’s pretty rommel.’

  ‘How long have you lived up here, Leyton?’

  ‘About seven years, Guv.’

  ‘And you’ve not heard of Striding Edge?’

  ‘Don’t think so, Guv.’

  ‘It’s one of the best-known landmarks in the Lake District – everyone’s heard of Striding Edge.’

  ‘I’m not really a great one for the hills, Guv.’

  ‘You don’t like water; you don’t like hills – why didn’t you stay in London, Leyton?

  DS Leyton is beginning to look browbeaten.

  ‘We thought it would be a better place to bring up the kids, Guv.’

  DS Leyton says this somewhat sheepishly, but the honest altruism inherent in the statement must penetrate Skelgill’s bristling exterior; and of course it can only ring true with the deep and fierce pride he harbours for his lifelong surroundings. He continues to scowl, but there is a more subtle concession in his general body language.

  ‘Well – I’ll give you that.’

  DS Leyton knows this is as much as he’ll get by way of apology for Skelgill’s bad temper, and diplomatically he doesn’t press home this moral advantage. Instead he makes it easy for his boss.

  ‘Apart from the dodgy accent they’re getting, Guv.’

  ‘Hark at Mr Kettle.’

  ‘Queen’s English, I speak, Guv.’

  ‘Pearly queen’s, aye.’

  ‘Least neither of us sounds like Smart, eh Guv?’

  DS Leyton is on safe ground with his mutually jingoistic observation. England’s regional rivalries are both complex and irrational, and it is a curious happenstance that finds a Cumbrian and a Cockney in this particular alliance against their abrasive Mancunian colleague.

  ‘Anyway, Leyton – Striding Edge – you were telling me?’

  ‘What it says, Guv – an outward-bound school party from the youth hostel at... Glen...’

  Again he stretches to read, but is thwarted by either the hastily scrawled script or the unfamiliar pronunciation, or indeed perhaps the wish to avoid a second faux pas.

  ‘Glenridding.’

  ‘That’s it, Guv – Glenridding. They set off early this morning – spotted the body just before eight o’clock. The kids have been brought back down to the hostel. The group leader’s waiting up there – called Graham.’

  At the mention of this name Skelgill’s eyebrows flicker, but otherwise he does not react.

  ‘How do we know it’s not a climbing accident?’

  ‘We don’t, Guv – but the duty DC who took the call thought we should be informed straightaway – just in case.’

  Skelgill purses his lips, and swivels to face the window. From his seated angle it is a uniform rectangle of grey and he stares into infinity rather like a lost mariner willing land to appear on a distant horizon. Then he spins around and decisively brings both palms down on the desktop.

  ‘Get your cagoule on, marra – now’s your chance to learn everything you need to know about Striding Edge.’

  *

  The picturesque settlement of Glenridding nestles in a small bay at the southern reaches of Ullswater, and on any occasion its waterside setting makes it a desirable destination. This is especially true for Skelgill, and particularly when he is chauffeured. For eight miles, the winding road from Pooley Bridge (itself just six miles from Penrith) hugs the lake’s western bank, affording excellent eye-level observation and thus prospecting for future fishing forays. A regular raider of the water’s healthy population of wild brown trout, Skelgill spends much of the journey exhorting his sergeant to slow down. For DS Leyton, on the other hand, the main attraction of the route is its snaking trajectory, and the challenge presented to his driving skills. However, he is continually obliged to bow to his superior’s demands, and – much as the significance of rising fish is lost upon him – he becomes enlivened when Skelgill points out the famous ‘steamer’ plying its course, its rippled wake gently creasing the mercury-like surface. Indeed, the entire scene to their left is one of tranquillity, a sense of serenity curiously enhanced by both the mist that wreaths the distant fells and the blur of drizzle in the still air. There are few water-users abroad, a couple of oared craft and a becalmed dinghy; motorboat owners are deterred by today’s pedestrian speed limit – a far cry from the time in 1955 when Sir Donald Campbell burned up a measured mile at over two hundred miles per hour.

  For those reaching the eponymous hamlet on foot, the hike to Glenridding youth hostel has something of a sting in the tail: there is no hostel. Glenridding is not solely a village, indeed it is first and foremost a geological feature – a glen (the old Celtic word for valley). Steep-sided and bordered on its northern flank by formidable screes and crags and disused mine workings, the ‘valley overgrown with bracken’ was carved by ice and water, and now harbours a post-Ice Age remnant in the form of the fast-flowing Glenridding Beck. This cool clear creek darts beneath Rattlebeck Bridge and rushes through the village with considerable haste, to feed Ullswater just beyond. Working back from this point of confluence, the youth hostel is situated the best part of two miles upstream – a height gain of five hundred feet – much to the dismay of the hungry hillwalker.

  Nowadays, of course, many patrons are long in the tooth and longer out of their youth, and travel from hostel to hostel by car – a practice that was once considered as hiking sacrilege. However, in keeping with the times, the Youth Hostels Association now permits such indolent means of arrival, and indeed has accommodated it at this particular location via a bumpy access track. This adds a further dimension to DS Leyton’s novel driving experience in the deceptively powerful pool car.

  ‘Blimey, Guv – glad this ain’t my motor.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Skelgill’s unforthcoming response does not reflect displeasure, merely the pragmatic expedient of clenching his teeth to avoid a bitten tongue, as the vehicle pitches and rolls over the rutted rocky surface.

  ‘You wouldn’t want this to be your drive to work every morning, Guv.’

  ‘I reckon most of the staff live in – apart from the local instructors. They come up according to whatever course is on.’

  ‘We did an outward bound jaunt to North Wales when I was a schoolkid, Guv – we only lasted two days.’

  ‘Get high on the fresh air?’

  ‘Nah, Guv – we were banned – sent home in disgrace. The smokers caused a forest fire, the drinkers got nicked in the local boozer, and the pranksters put a sh
eep in one of the teacher’s dorms.’

  Skelgill eyes his sergeant with a mildly approving grin. ‘And which category did you fall into?’

  ‘Whoa, Silver!’ DS Leyton swings the wheel to avoid an especially vicious pothole. ‘You know me, Guv – good as gold – always kept my nose clean.’

  Skelgill shakes his head. He cranes out of the side window to get a look at the cloud base. ‘No one’s going to be starting a forest fire today – this weather’s set.’

  DS Leyton frowns rather apprehensively, as if suddenly reminded of the task that lies ahead. They are now approaching a cluster of dour grey former-mining properties of which the youth hostel is part. Their altitude is nine hundred feet, and only a short distance beyond these bleak habitations the speckled fellside dissolves gently into the mist. To their left, Glenridding Beck is strewn with jagged boulders, its black waters foaming white as it swells with the steady accumulation of run-off from Helvellyn’s eastern watershed.

  ‘Shall I take the statements at the hostel, Guv?’

  ‘Not so fast, Leyton – if this is another murder – you need to absorb the atmosphere.’

  ‘I reckon I can do a pretty good job of imagining it, Guv.’

  ‘Try imagining yourself getting promoted, Leyton.’

  ‘If I must, Guv.’

  *

  Striding Edge, though not exactly a stroll in the park, is for the average able-bodied person (and in fair weather conditions) a fairly undemanding traverse, requiring no special equipment or skills. An impressive arête with spectacular views, it lacks the deadly exposure of Sharp Edge, and as such is a favoured route to Helvellyn. Thousands of people of all ages cross it each year, and mishaps are few and far between. For many youngsters – as was intended for those led back to Glenridding youth hostel this morning – it forms a memorable initiation to walking in the Lakes.

  It is not an area, however, that offers much in the way of excitement for the rock climber (or even the scrambler), and Skelgill would be somewhat surprised to hear of a genuine climbing accident in this vicinity. Callouts with his mountain rescue hat on have tended to be of the twisted ankle variety, injuries generally self inflicted by impetuous tourists who have set off to climb Helvellyn wearing inappropriate footwear.

  ‘Helvellyn – that sounds Welsh, Guv.’

  Skelgill glances back at his partner, with a shadow of the exasperation that accompanied their earlier discussion concerning DS Leyton’s ignorance of the existence of Striding Edge.

  ‘Aye – that’s because we all spoke Welsh, once – even down in your neck of the woods.’

  DS Leyton takes a lungful of air.

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘When the Romans invaded – the blue-painted reception committee lined up on the White Cliffs of Dover spoke Welsh – or near as damn it.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it, Guv.’

  They march on in a silence punctuated by the heavy panting of DS Leyton and the occasional crack of a stone dislodged by a stumble. Skelgill has kitted out his sergeant in a miscellany of spare gear from the back of his car – including footwear one-and-a-half sizes too large (supplemented by two extra pairs of socks), waterproof trousers a good few inches too long, and an old orange cagoule that DS Leyton has just about managed to zip around his bulk. His arms, however, are caused to stick out by this arrangement, and a he has more than a hint of the penguin about his gait.

  Skelgill must surely be pleasantly surprised by his sergeant’s performance. Despite the sweat that drips from the latter’s heavy brow (it can’t be drizzle, for his hood is up), his continuous asthmatic gasping for breath, and the blisters that are likely forming upon his ill-shod feet, he manages to keep pace with Skelgill’s (albeit moderated) stride pattern. It appears that what DS Leyton lacks in physique and fitness, he more than makes up for in dogged determination. Moreover, he does not complain – and it is this quality that is perhaps most atypical, for he is usually quite adept at finding a subtle way of informing his irascible superior when he is unhappy.

  From Glenridding youth hostel there is a direct path to Red Tarn, a roughly circular pool suspended high in the corrie bounded by Striding Edge, Helvellyn and Swirral Edge. This mountain lakelet is their destination. The deceased is reported to lie near the shore just beneath Striding Edge: a symmetry with the Scales-Tarn-and-Sharp-Edge combination that cannot have escaped Skelgill’s notice.

  They cover the mile-and-a-half in less than thirty minutes, and as Red Tarn suddenly appears dark before them Skelgill lets out a piercing whistle. The sound fills the heavy air all about, its echoes suggesting the presence of the invisible amphitheatre that surrounds the water. Almost before the strains of this summons have died down, a long piping reply, six times repeated, comes from their left. It is the recognised mountain distress signal.

  ‘That must be that Graham bloke, Guv.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  Skelgill is already moving in the direction of the whistle, but he turns briefly to raise an inscrutable eyebrow at DS Leyton. Then rather curiously he pulls down his hood, and with both hands rakes his fingers through his hair, and wipes the dew from his face. And then he is away, picking a rapid path along the shingle at the water’s edge. DS Leyton falls in behind him, but has to trust that Skelgill keeps to this course, for his superior quickly disappears into the mist.

  Indeed, when DS Leyton suddenly comes upon Skelgill and a smaller red-cagouled figure, his eyes widen at the sight of what can only be the unhurried detaching of a seemingly affectionate embrace.

  ‘Leyton – this is Jenny Graham.’

  DS Leyton approaches rather self-consciously, as if he is unsure of whether or not to replicate Skelgill’s style of greeting – clearly his superior knows the woman (and perhaps rather well) – but until now has not taken the trouble to share this information. In the event he settles for a rather clumsy handshake, forced as he is by his undersized overgarment to turn sideways to complete the manoeuvre.

  ‘Leyton’s desperate to climb Helvellyn – I promised we’d nip up when we’re done. Seeing as we’re so close.’

  The girl – for she can be no more than mid-twenties – smiles a broad white grin; she might even be a touch star-struck in Skelgill’s presence. She is pretty, with thick lashes and long dark hair that she now gathers into the hood of her jacket. She doesn’t seem particularly fazed by the circumstances: some two thousand feet up in the fells, amidst inhospitable conditions, for the best part of an hour she has been standing sentry over a corpse. But when she leads them to its location, there is at least a partial explanation for her sanguinity. Beside a substantial rucksack she has erected a portable survival shelter, and visible within are a down sleeping bag and emergency blanket, a two-way radio, along with a gas burner, kettle and mug. As leader of the party of youngsters, she came well equipped. Any casualty would have been in excellent hands, and – in the meantime – she has made herself comfortable.

  ‘Nice little set-up, Jen – thought you’d have a brew ready for us, though.’

  Now the smile becomes a little coy. ‘Not sure I’ve got enough sugar for you, Danny.’

  Skelgill’s high cheekbones are already rosy from effort and exposure – but now they surely take on a deeper hue. DS Leyton, who is perhaps feeling something of a gooseberry, sidles across behind Skelgill and walks the six or seven paces to where the body lies.

  ‘Blimey – have a butcher’s, Guv.’

  Skelgill seems content to receive this summons. He crosses to gaze at the prone figure.

  ‘I take it you’ve not moved anything.’

  The girl joins them, understanding that this question is for her. They stand in line like a bowing royal party politely examining some ghastly tribal exhibit.

  ‘Danny – I could see he was dead before I even got close – look at the eyes.’

  Skelgill nods. The eyes are open and staring, though abnormally opaque.

  ‘I just don’t see ho
w he’s got the rope tangled round his neck like that.’

  This is the girl’s observation, and DS Leyton shoots a sideways glance at Skelgill. But Skelgill shows no flicker of reaction.

  ‘He’s not exactly dressed for it, either.’

  The man is clad in scuffed rigger boots, worn cargo trousers, and a hooded grey sweatshirt.

  ‘You don’t recognise him, Jen?’

  The girl presses her full lips into an arresting pout. She shakes her head slowly.

  ‘I’ve been down at Coniston for the last three days – but he’s not from the hostel – that school party’s taken the whole place.’

  Skelgill goes on bended knee and, as best he can, with minimal interference, pats down the dead man’s pockets – but to no avail – they appear to be empty. Reluctantly, he rises.

  ‘Did the kids see the body?’

  Now the girl turns to face him. For a moment her smooth features are creased with anguish, as though her upbeat positivity has been mere bravado, and he has suddenly pierced the brave façade.

  ‘I turned them straight around before I scrambled down – Pete took them back the way we’d come up.’ She looks at DS Leyton and lifts her hands to her breastbone. ‘I’m a fully qualified rock-climbing instructor – and a first aider.’

  DS Leyton nods vigorously, as though it’s not for him to question her decision-making.

  ‘They just got a glimpse from the ridge – there was a break in the mist – it was by fluke that I spotted him, really.’

  Skelgill gazes up the steep stony bank as far as the limited visibility will allow. At the moment there is no view of Striding Edge above.

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone else?’

  ‘Not a soul – neither here nor on the path. I guess most folk are waiting indoors to see if it clears.’

  ‘They’ve got a long wait.’

  The girl concurs. ‘It’s thicker now than an hour ago.’