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

  Skelgill begins to turn away from the body. He takes the girl’s arm above the elbow and gently shepherds her back to her little encampment.

  ‘We’ve got a uniformed officer about ten minutes behind us. He’ll keep watch until the whole crew gets here. Do you mind leaving your gear for a while?’

  The girl looks momentarily surprised: she realises she is being dismissed from the scene. But she cooperates willingly.

  ‘No problem – make yourselves at home.’

  ‘You head down to civilisation – get yourself dry – have some breakfast. We’ll need a statement later. In the meantime...’

  She seems to know what is coming, and is nodding earnestly before Skelgill completes his request.

  ‘... until we know the cause of death – we’ll be reporting it as a climbing accident – so if you could keep the gory details to yourself.’

  Now her ring of confidence returns. ‘You know me and secrets, Danny.’

  She offers a tentative high-five to Skelgill, which he reciprocates, and she beams a farewell at DS Leyton and turns away. In thirty seconds she has vanished into the mist. Skelgill waits in silence; he seems to be listening to the diminishing crunch of her footsteps as she rounds the edge of the tarn and picks up the path. After a minute or so more he turns to DS Leyton.

  ‘It’s exactly the same rope, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton nods, understanding now that Skelgill did not want to share this conversation with the girl.

  ‘You certain, Guv?’

  Skelgill shrugs. ‘I’ve seen a lot of rope, Leyton.’

  ‘I guess forensics will tell us for sure, Guv.’

  Skelgill clearly disapproves of his sergeant’s questioning of his judgement.

  ‘A tenner says it’s from the same original piece.’

  DS Leyton takes a half step backwards and puts up his hands in a placatory gesture.

  ‘I’ll go with you, Guv.’ With some difficulty he reaches inside the hood of his jacket and scratches his head. ‘But do you mean it’s been cut up?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. Both pieces are about fifty feet.’

  ‘And a hundred’s the norm?’

  ‘Two hundred.’

  DS Leyton folds his arms and blows out his cheeks. After a moment’s exaggerated deliberation he says, ‘That leaves enough for two more, Guv.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about, Leyton.’

  8. PENRITH TRUCKSTOP – Wednesday afternoon

  ‘I thought you were joking about Helvellyn, Guv.’

  ‘When do I joke, Leyton?’

  DS Leyton stirs a heaped spoonful of sugar into the mug of steaming tea that has been set before him.

  ‘Wasn’t so bad, really, Guv. I thought it’d be miles to the top from that lake.’

  ‘Tarn.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv – tarn.’

  ‘Third highest mountain in England, Helvellyn – only Scafell Pike and Sca Fell are higher. Tell that to your kids tonight, Leyton.’

  ‘Pity there wasn’t a view, Guv. My selfie could be anywhere.’

  Skelgill shrugs. ‘You’d never get out if you let the weather decide for you.’

  ‘I’m amazed you found the way, Guv.’

  Skelgill frowns. ‘We were following a path, Leyton.’

  This is not strictly accurate, although the improvised route was no doubt a path of sorts on Skelgill’s mental map of the fells. He had announced – upon PC Dodd’s arrival at the improvised base camp at Red Tarn – that he and DS Leyton were ‘going to recce the surroundings’, and promptly marched his disoriented sergeant up the steep northern flank of Striding Edge. Within fifteen minutes they had gained Helvellyn’s main ridge, the boundary between the old counties of Westmorland and Cumberland. Here the low cloud was probably a blessing in disguise, rescuing DS Leyton from a potentially agonising exposition of the many peaks ordinarily visible. Instead, with little to look at but a cairn, a cross-shaped dry-stone shelter, and a trig point, they did not linger. Skelgill had briskly led the way onto Swirral Edge, to descend by the southern slopes of Catstye Cam, and rejoin the path that had originally brought them to Red Tarn. Here, however, DS Leyton was subjected to a lecture. Evidently the schelly – a curious black-finned freshwater herring, one of Britain’s rarest fish – frequents the tarn and just three other Lakeland waters. While this piscine eulogy was largely wasted upon the fast-flagging non-angler, his ears did prick up at Skelgill’s seemingly unselfconscious pronunciation of the name as ‘skelly’ – a homonym for a disliked nickname used by his colleagues.

  DS Leyton shakes his head in bewilderment at this information – that they followed a path. He attempts to take a swig of tea, but it has been served in the scalding fashion of the truck stop. Yet he will need two or three more of these sizeable mugs to reinstate his normal level of hydration. Of course, it is possible that his disbelief also relates to Skelgill’s congratulatory promise to buy a late lunch, for which they have diverted to a popular lorry drivers’ retreat on the western outskirts of Penrith.

  ‘Fit-looking girl – that Jenny, Guv.’

  DS Leyton’s uninflected observation sounds quite innocent (and to have literal intent), but it may be a subtle invitation to Skelgill to open a door on the patently familiar acquaintanceship.

  ‘You would be, doing her job Leyton.’

  There’s a finality in Skelgill’s retort that suggests the portal is going to remain firmly closed. Perhaps in laddish, beer-fuelled company he might be more forthcoming, or at least feel obliged to join in with the salacious guffaws when some wag mentions her sobriquet of Spinning Jenny. (Or maybe it is this thought that disturbs him.)

  ‘Guess so, Guv. Is she in your mountain rescue team?’

  Skelgill leans sideways and peers beyond DS Leyton, as if he is trying to see if their order is on its way. His reply has a ring of disinterest.

  ‘Most of the local instructors are affiliated. Gives us a bigger pool to call on.’

  ‘She seemed pretty competent, Guv.’

  Skelgill pauses, perhaps to frame a reply. Again he casts about the transport café, surveying its scattering of mid-afternoon patrons: mainly lone drivers whiling away their compulsory break times, mechanically sipping from mugs of tea, heads buried in their red tops.

  ‘You don’t mess with the Grahams.’

  This oblique reference to the feared tribe of English border reivers (who had their wayward heyday in the sixteenth century) holds no great significance for DS Leyton – he can only assume it is a contemporary family of dubious repute. Skelgill could mention – but evidently opts not to enlighten DS Leyton – that his mother’s maiden name is Graham, and that he doubtless hails from the outlawed clan himself.

  ‘It was the Kray family round our manor, Guv – but you’d know that, obviously.’

  Any droll observation that Skelgill might wish to make about DS Leyton’s provenance is pre-empted by the arrival of two plates laden with the mountainous all-day trucker’s breakfast. To the sergeant’s surprise, his boss had earlier eschewed the offer of similar at Glenridding youth hostel – despite its glowing reviews. He might now suspect that Skelgill wished to avoid further contact with the girl – but it is also a fact that the portion size was unlikely to have matched the fare now set before them.

  ‘Blimey, Guv – I shan’t manage my tea – and the missus gets well brassed off if I leave anything.’

  ‘Can’t you have it later?’

  ‘She likes it on the table for six so the kids can eat with us.’

  ‘I can take your sausages off your hands, if it helps.’

  DS Leyton now wavers, a mildly pained expression troubling his features.

  ‘Thing is Guv, they’re my favourite – can’t beat Cumbrian sausages, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Cumberland.’

  ‘Right, Guv – Cumberland.’

  But the sergeant continues to gaze mournfully at the said local delicacy.

  ‘So – do you want them, or not?’
<
br />   DS Leyton sighs. ‘Then she complains I’m putting on weight and it’s bad for my health.’

  ‘You just climbed Helvellyn, Leyton – you’re quids in on the calorie front.’

  ‘How many do you think I used on that walk, Guv?’

  Skelgill ponders his colleague’s plate. ‘Maybe two sausages’ worth?

  ‘How about you take one then, Guv?’

  ‘Done.’

  Skelgill swoops with his fork, impales the sausage and bites off half, as if to insure himself from a change of mind. He chews and nods approvingly, while DS Leyton, still with an expression of regret, begins to tuck in. There now follows a few minutes of industrious consumption, before Skelgill pauses to speak.

  ‘So – what’s it all about, Leyton?’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘Two murders – let’s assume they both are murders – near as damn it identical: the rope, the location, the timing. What’s he trying to tell us?’

  ‘He, Guv?’

  ‘The killer, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton sinks forward onto his elbows, as though fatigued by the effort of eating.

  ‘I can’t quite get my head round it, Guv. I mean, I know you saw that Sherpa carry a load of metal pipe – but lugging a body up there in the dark doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  Skelgill stares thoughtfully at his partner. ‘It could still be done, though, Leyton. Park-up beyond the youth hostel. Ground’s not so bad underfoot. Fireman’s lift.’

  ‘But why’s he gone to all the bother of making them look like climbing accidents?’

  Skelgill shakes his head. ‘Thing is, they don’t.’

  ‘On the face of it, though, Guv?’

  ‘Aye – but if you were going to stage an authentic fall, these are not the places you’d do it. And one glance at the victims’ clothes tells you they’re not walkers or climbers. They look like they’ve been plucked off the street.’

  ‘Maybe some geezer’s got a grudge, Guv.’

  Skelgill can’t help a scornful laugh. ‘What, like a gamekeeper who strings up dead crows on a fence?’

  ‘Why not, Guv? Some eco-warrior nutter – or a sheep farmer gone off his trolley. Had enough of the hillwalkers trampling everywhere.’

  ‘Mind what you say, Leyton – you’re one yourself now.’

  DS Leyton looks a little alarmed at this notion.

  ‘There’ll be all hell breaks loose when this hits the papers, Guv.’

  Skelgill nods ruefully. The entire Lake District economy is underpinned by outdoor tourism. The public panic that could be provoked by the scandal of a random strangler at large cannot have escaped his thinking. And, at some point in the next few days, the police will be obliged to come clean with this news. Perhaps mulling over the prospect, and the attendant pressure that, predictably, will become heaped upon his shoulders, he falls silent and readdresses his meal.

  In due course DS Leyton gives up, defeated by the sheer volume of food (and, perhaps in addition, by some unpleasant domestic hallucination). He excuses himself to pay a visit to the washroom. Skelgill snatches the opportunity to scavenge the best of the forsaken morsels from his sergeant’s plate.

  As DS Leyton comes wandering back he is listening to his mobile phone. His features are creased with concentration, and indeed he stops short of Skelgill at a vacant table and pulls out his pocket notebook. Trapping the handset between shoulder and ear, assiduously he writes down details of the communication. When he rises, his expression tells he is the bearer of news of some import.

  ‘Guv – looks like we might have a lead – person reported missing – fits the description of the Glenridding body.’

  Skelgill appears unimpressed; if anything his features take on a negative hue. Not one of nature’s followers, in a bloody minded way he makes hard labour of others’ candid enthusiasm.

  ‘Miracles never cease.’

  Phlegmatically, DS Leyton resumes his seat. There is a mild flicker of his eyebrows when he notices his plate has been looted, but he straightens the cutlery and slides it to one side. He flips open his notebook upon the flat surface and reads verbatim from his neatly printed if rudimentary script.

  ‘Barry Seddon. Age fifty-four. Jobbing scaffolder – self-employed. Lives at Aspatria. Reported missing by wife. Last seen Monday morning when she left for work.’

  ‘Monday?’ Skelgill’s interjection has the ring of distrust.

  DS Leyton flinches, as if the idiosyncrasy in the evidence is his fault. ‘That’s what the report says, Guv.’

  ‘So he’s been gone for two nights before she gets in touch?’

  Skelgill finishes off his tea and bangs the empty mug angrily upon the chipped Formica table top.

  DS Leyton ventures an ironic grin. ‘Maybe she wasn’t missing him all that much, Guv.’

  Skelgill does not reply. Something seems to have triggered a thought in his mind, and he folds his arms in concentration.

  ‘Perhaps he was working away, Guv?’

  Without obviously switching back into sentient mode, Skelgill places his hands on the table and with an urgent jolt pushes back his chair.

  ‘Let’s go and ask the question. B5305, James.’

  He rises and tugs his waterproof from the seatback. He shakes it vertically as though he is weighing its contents.

  ‘Damn it, Leyton – I’ve left my wallet in my other jacket in my car. I got sidetracked sorting out that gear for you.’ This way, he contrives to make it sound rather like DS Leyton is responsible.

  The sergeant’s stoical expression reveals no hint of surprise. He pats his hip pocket.

  ‘I’ll get it, Guv.’ Then he looks sadly at the substantial leavings on his plate. ‘Feel like I ought ask for a doggy bag.’

  ‘Ah! – well remembered, Leyton – I need to buy some dog food – I’ll nip into that petrol forecourt next door while you sort the tab.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  There is now something of a pregnant pause, and neither officer moves from their station. Skelgill is looking at DS Leyton as though his subordinate ought to know what the delay is all about.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Lend me a fiver, Leyton.’

  9. ASPATRIA – Wednesday afternoon

  ‘Mrs Seddon, we can’t be certain, but – going by this picture – we believe that a body found this morning could be that of your missing husband. You may have to prepare yourself for the worst.’

  DS Leyton sounds uncharacteristically solemn as he delivers these words, and seems to find it difficult to meet the woman’s inquisitive gaze across the small, neat sitting room. He and Skelgill crowd a compact two-seater settee, and appear uncomfortable in such close proximity, while the woman is perched precariously on the edge of a plain wing-back chair. There is a tray of so-far untouched tea and biscuits on a low 1970s style coffee table. The photograph, she has produced following a minute’s rummaging in the drawers of an oak dresser – it is a strip of three identical images of the type used for official applications, such as a passport or driving licence. One glance has confirmed to Skelgill what he needs to know, and the item has been handed on to his subordinate accompanied by a none-too-subtle elbow in the ribs – thus the delegation of the task of breaking the bad news.

  ‘He’s not my husband.’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam?’ Now DS Leyton does look up.

  ‘He’s not my husband – Barry’s my cousin.’

  ‘So, you’re not actually Mrs Seddon?’

  ‘Most people call me Hilda. Hilda Seddon. I never said I was Mrs Seddon.’

  DS Leyton appears confused – or perhaps he is embarrassed by the corollary: a personal question at this time of bad tidings. But Skelgill has no such inhibitions and he intervenes, to avoid confusion using the Christian name she has volunteered.

  ‘Hilda, so you and Barry – you’re not a couple – that’s what you’re telling us?’

  The woman shakes her head – meaning the affirmative – and frowns disapprovingly at the su
ggestion.

  ‘Barry’s my lodger. He’s got his own room.’

  The woman sounds local, though her accent is mild, if unrefined. In her early fifties, she is small and wiry and shares something of the pinched features that characterise Barry Seddon’s passport photo. She wears a knee-length overall rather like that of a hospital orderly, and has the ascetic demeanour of the B&B landlady that is cloned throughout the Lakes and beyond – though this is no B&B as such. The property is scrupulously clean but sparsely furnished; indeed there is a Spartan, waiting-room feel – hard-wearing loop-pile carpets, venetian blinds rather than curtains, few ornaments, and no photographs, paintings or houseplants.

  ‘And you last saw him on Monday?’

  Though the tone of Skelgill’s question does not hint at criticism, her brows knit defensively.

  ‘I didn’t know he was missing.’

  ‘Is it unusual for him to be away overnight?’

  ‘Not since the building trade went bad. He does jobs all over. Reckon he sleeps in his van.’

  ‘Did he say where he was working?’

  ‘He never did.’

  ‘How long’s he been your lodger, Hilda?’

  She sucks in her already hollow cheeks by way of thinking. ‘Ten years or more.’

  ‘What brought him here?’

  ‘He stayed with his old ma over Whitehaven way. She only had a corporation house. When she died he had nowhere to go. He never wed or had kids. So he got in touch – I hadn’t hardly seen him since we were teenagers.’

  ‘Has he been in any kind of trouble – a job gone wrong, money problems?’

  The woman shakes her head abruptly. ‘Always has plenty of cash. Pays his board and lodging regular.’

  They must all be aware that they are still referring to Barry Seddon in the present tense, as if he might arrive at the front door at any moment. Perhaps it is an easier state of affairs, and they continue in this mode. It may be that, were the woman to acknowledge Seddon’s death, her fragile façade would crack and leave her incapable of continuing with the interview. Skelgill is staring at the biscuits – not avariciously, more likely elsewhere in thought – but the woman notices with a start and jerks forward to pour out milk and tea into the three assorted mugs. She hands round the plate of digestives. DS Leyton politely declines. Skelgill takes two. Perhaps he senses this is a good moment to ask a more probing question.