Sharp Edge’s notoriety stems not from its degree of difficulty (it rises barely above the horizontal, and is classed only as a Grade 1 scramble), but from its exposure. A slip on – or, rather, off – Sharp Edge holds the very real risk of a fatal fall. Indeed Skelgill’s literary idol Wainwright serves up this very same warning, and remarks that the sight of the undertaking ahead can cause its beholder to forget even a raging toothache. Amusingly, he adds that, for the faint of heart, there is the alternative threat to one’s tender parts – for those who opt to cross the most razor-like sections of the ridge in the safety-first style known as à cheval.
Driving from the west, Skelgill takes the first though not the shortest point of access, parking just before Scales on the A66, brushing breadcrumbs from his lap, and setting off on a gently rising traverse into Mousthwaite Comb. As the crow flies, his destination is precisely one mile away, though it involves a curving and steepening ascent of some twelve hundred feet. The general public picture the police screeching up to the scene of an investigation amidst a cloud of tyre-smoke and the wailing of sirens, but in rural areas this mode of approach is frequently unavailable (and helicopters few and far between). Thus, while Skelgill might question the statistical bias that sees him dealt more than his fair share of off-road assignments, it is an inequality with which he is content. And no doubt his ego is boosted by its implicit recognition of his obscure if opportune expertise. It might be an inverted busman’s holiday, but at least he’s a busman. Indeed, as he overtakes a small gaggle of fifty-something hillwalkers, they exchange pleasantries regarding the weather, and the thought can’t occur to any of them – seeing his lived-in outdoor attire, and his dog trotting eagerly beside him – that he is a Detective Inspector heading for a nearby corpse.
Skelgill pushes himself, and is breathing hard as he crests the rim of the corrie that holds the indigo waters of Scales Tarn. Over to his right is the smooth grassy shoulder that leads the walker up onto the arête. At the base of the scree below this ridge, adjacent to the rocky shoreline, he spies a small gaggle of men who appear to be skimming stones. There’s a triumphant shout of ‘thirteen!’ and a little war dance from the thrower.
Then one of the group notices Skelgill, and over the next few seconds they gradually assume the collective demeanour of a gang of schoolboys caught smoking behind the bike sheds. There are apprehensive glances cast at the evidence of the receding ripples on the tarn, like the last telltale drift of smoke from hastily stomped cigarette ends. A shirt-sleeved PC Dodd numbers among the conspirators (indeed he is responsible for the most recent, seemingly record-breaking, attempt). Self-consciously he reaches down for his cap and carefully folded duty vest, which items he dons before breaking away and picking a path towards the approaching Skelgill.
‘You winning?
‘Sorry, sir?’ The young constable looks too embarrassed to wipe away a bead of sweat that trickles from his brow and finds its way onto the tip of his nose.
‘I hope you’re not letting that bunch of layabouts beat you.’
‘No, sir.’
Skelgill articulates at the waist to get a look past PC Dodd. Though his expression is stern he raises a palm – and the three remaining confederates each keenly acknowledge him likewise. He knows them all – indeed is a member of the same voluntary mountain rescue fraternity to which DS Jones referred earlier – but his arrival in an official police capacity has him ranking above them, and he shows no inclination to engage further for the time being. The men, perhaps relieved at escaping a reprimand for their inappropriate high jinks, turn their attention to readying their equipment – a stack of bulging rucksacks from which protrude various aluminium struts and poles.
Skelgill eyeballs the anxious-looking PC Dodd. ‘Right, where is it? You’ve pulled me off an important job.’
PC Dodd points to a spot about fifty yards away, where the rough scree beneath Sharp Edge tumbles into the waters of the tarn. ‘You can just see the blue clothing, sir.’
Skelgill squints, taking in the lie of the land.
‘Has the body been moved?’
‘I don’t believe so, sir. The chap who reported it – he’s a retired doctor. He said he could tell instantly the man was dead. Made his wife feel ill – so he pulled her away. He called 999 and they were waiting at the top of the footpath when I arrived.’
‘And no identification?’
‘Not that I could find, sir.’ PC Dodd swallows, as though the act of checking has left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Skelgill nods. He takes a step in the direction of the corpse, but then stops, realising he has Cleopatra on the leash.
‘Hold this, Dodd – in fact, take her over for a drink, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
PC Dodd tentatively slides his hand into the loop at the end of the string.
‘Don’t worry, Dodd – that’s baler twine – virtually unbreakable. You should always carry some.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He strides away, leaving PC Dodd fighting to haul back Cleopatra; she seems determined to stick close to Skelgill. Eventually she yields, and reluctantly allows herself to be led to the shoreline.
Very soon, Skelgill can be heard swearing. Since he is alone at the death scene, the others – PC Dodd especially – must find this behaviour rather disconcerting. Indeed, as Skelgill comes storming back towards him, his face like thunder, the poor PC must be wondering what he has done wrong. It can only be that he has wasted the time of this senior officer, a man known about the station for his fiery temper and intolerance of incompetence.
PC Dodd stands rooted at the edge of the tarn, like a petrified Greek messenger awaiting his fate. Skelgill closes in and raises an accusing finger.
‘Dodd – you should have the courage of your convictions, son.’
Though Skelgill hisses this through gritted teeth, there is just the hint of hope for PC Dodd in the content of the message.
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘You knew there was something wrong, didn’t you?’
‘Well, sir – I just thought what with there being a climbing rope...’
‘And his clothes?’
‘Yes, sir – that as well – plus the footwear...’
‘Exactly.’
‘Yes, sir.’
PC Dodd still appears somewhat disconcerted, his tall gangly frame stretched to attention. At this juncture Skelgill is near enough for Cleopatra to butt his knee with her formidable snout. He glances down at her and seems to be distracted by a moment’s reflection.
‘Okay. So no great loss. At least you didn’t let that bunch of clowns take the body away.’
‘No, sir.’
‘You did right, Dodd.’
‘Yes, sir – thank you, sir.’
Skelgill points his index finger again, though less aggressively. ‘Next time don’t wait for the likes of me. Take a flyer.’
‘Yes, sir.’ PC Dodd looks mightily relieved. Perhaps he tries to convey this gratitude to Skelgill through his body language, though he is probably thinking that taking flyers is no doubt how Inspector Skelgill has earned his reputation – as a maverick who is frequently unpopular with the powers that be.
‘How’s your radio signal?
‘Good, sir.’
‘Get a scene-of-crime team up here pronto. They’re looking for any signs of interference – before or after he died. And make sure someone tracks down Dr Herdwick – I want to know everything possible about time, cause and location of death.’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘And you can probably stand down the rescue crew – no point them skiving off work any longer. Our boys are not going to be finished until late this afternoon, at best.’
‘Okay, sir – I’ll tell them to go.’
‘What’s the griff on the couple who found him?’
‘Doctor and Mrs Lumsden. They’re staying for the week at the Coledale at Braithwaite, sir. Live at Todmorden. I asked them to return and wait at the hote
l until we’d sent someone to speak with them.’
Skelgill nods; he is evidently content with PC Dodd’s simple, quiet efficiency.
‘I’ll call in. It’s on my way.’
PC Dodd probably does not think to analyse this statement, but if Skelgill were meant to be heading to police HQ, Braithwaite is certainly not on the way. Indeed, it lies 180 degrees in the opposite direction along the A66, just a two-minute drive from Skelgill’s mooring beside Bassenthwaite Lake. In any event Cleopatra creates a minor distraction by making a sudden lunge at a grey wagtail that has been working its way boldly towards them around the water’s edge. The little bird flits away, while PC Dodd is almost pulled off his feet.
‘Whoa!’ He recovers his balance and meets Skelgill’s amused gaze. ‘Spirited dog, sir. Is she the one from Oakthwaite?’
Immediately a wary frown creases Skelgill’s features. ‘That didn’t take the jungle drums long.’
PC Dodd grins contritely. ‘She’s taken a shine to you, sir.’
‘Well, Dodd – that makes a change, I can tell you.’
PC Dodd raises his eyebrows, but diplomatically chooses not to comment.
Skelgill, meanwhile, stoops and picks up a smooth mudstone pebble. With an easy flowing left-handed action, he sends it skimming across the flat surface of Scales Tarn. PC Dodd turns and watches over his shoulder, his lips moving as he silently counts the skips, until a little crescendo of splashes marks the stone’s eventual and inevitable descent into the water – but not before it has almost doubled the best score achieved in the mini-competition that was in full swing before Skelgill’s arrival.
On this triumphant note, Skelgill winks at PC Dodd, takes Cleopatra’s lead, and sets off briskly in the direction whence he came, neither pausing nor glancing to see what approbation his feat has drawn from the surely watching trio of rescuers. His parting words are reserved for the dog as, almost fondly, he murmurs, ‘Come on lass – we’ve got a boat to catch.’
3. BARRY SEDDON – Monday, midday
At ten minutes before noon Skelgill is having a swift fish upon Bassenthwaite Lake, no doubt convincing himself it’s only right to confirm his boat is shipshape and none the worse for its overnight mid-water abandonment in the cause of duty. Simultaneously, some twenty miles to the east, in the parking lot of one of Penrith’s supermarkets, Barry Seddon eases his battered builder’s pick-up into a vacant space. Pocked and scarred with dents and patches of rust, its tailgate livery is just legible, Seddon & Son Scaffolding. Fifty-four-year-old Barry is the said son and sole surviving proprietor.
Alighting from the vehicle, he checks the time on his wristwatch. Purposefully he strides into the store and makes a beeline for the kiosk. He purchases twenty cigarettes and a newspaper. Then he joins the short queue in the nearby open-plan cafeteria, dispensing a black coffee from the self-service machine. From the checkout he carries off his tray and places it upon an empty table in one corner of the seating area. Instead of settling down, however, he casually threads his way across to a door marked ‘toilets’, through which he passes. A minute later he reappears, and walks directly out of the store, leaving his coffee untouched.
Returning to his van he rounds to the near side and unlocks the door. Leaning in, he opens his wallet and extracts a wad of notes, from which he counts and pockets two hundred pounds. He returns the balance to the wallet, and secretes it along with his mobile phone among the discarded flotsam of crackling snack wrappers and clanking soft-drink cans that laps about in the passenger footwell. Next he breaks open the cigarettes and lights one up, inhaling tenaciously. Re-locking the vehicle, he stoops to check his appearance in the dust-streaked wing mirror, at the same time surreptitiously placing the keys out of sight beneath the front wheel-arch. He flips up the hood of his grey sweatshirt. Rather more furtively now, he glances about, and then vaults the low dividing wall that separates the car park from the adjacent highway.
Head bowed and hands tucked into his kangaroo pockets, he sets off in a northerly direction, preceded by short puffs of smoke and his truncated shadow, cast by the high noonday sun. He slinks past a parade of run-down shops – newsagent, bookmaker, hairdresser, off licence – but does not glance up until he arrives at a junction some two hundred yards beyond, whereupon he slows to check the street sign. It is marked ‘Ullswater Place’. He turns purposefully into this narrow thoroughfare, which is lined on each side by a low terrace of red brick pre-war houses. Their front doors open directly onto the pavement, and most have net curtains in varying degrees of faded decay shrouding their ground-floor windows. There is no regular position for the house numbers (indeed some owners evidently rely upon their neighbours for the identification of their own address for postal purposes). Seddon’s eyes flick left and right as he proceeds, and it would appear he is unfamiliar with the precise location of his destination.
About half way along the street there is a distinct slowing of his pace, but then he spies a young woman hurriedly pushing a double buggy towards him. Avoiding eye contact he steps off the kerb, and does not respond to her somewhat abashed thank-you. Instead he continues to the end of the terrace – it terminates in a patch of waste ground and a row of run-down lock-up garages with graffiti on their doors – where he wheels around and hesitates as though he has forgotten something. Seeing that the street is now empty, briskly he retraces his steps towards the mid-point. Without breaking stride he gives notice of some impending action by discarding his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter, and indeed he stops abruptly to press the bell of the house marked thirty-seven. Almost immediately the peeling red front door opens and he is admitted without pause for introduction.
*
His boat anchored just forty-five yards out from the wooded slipway at Peel Wyke (where Cleopatra is safely tethered in the cool shade, in reach of the shallows), Skelgill appears to be dozing off. Having removed the forward thwart he has made himself comfortable in the bow, a threadbare Barbour for a pillow, while one hand rests limply on the rod that – with its desiccated and likely ineffectual dead-bait cast shoreward – pays lip service to the act of angling. Sleep has been an unreliable visitor in the past week or so, and its scarcity, allied with the balmy conditions (another prized commodity, in Lakeland) may be conspiring to drive out whatever thoughts wish to occupy his mind regarding the disagreeable scene he has just witnessed upon the slopes of Blencathra.
For there is some thinking to be done. Even before the results of any autopsy or forensic examination of the locus, it is clear to Skelgill that this is no climbing accident. As was recognised by PC Dodd, the deceased was clad in ‘street’ clothes – black zip-up ankle boots (recently polished), stressed blue jeans of a designer label, and a leather bomber jacket; there was not an outdoor brand logo to be seen. His pockets yielded no clues as to his identity. Then there was the incongruity of the climbing rope. Who would carry such an item without the accompaniment of the one other significant and obvious accessory – a climbing partner? Apart from the unlikely need for an emergency abseil, a rope is of little utility to a lone person. Climbers work in pairs. The leader takes the rope, progressively anchoring it as he ascends, while safely belayed by his second below. At the end of the pitch he finds a secure stance, and in turn belays his second, who gathers the protection as he comes. The only other circumstance in which a rope could feasibly be employed is the method known as Alpine short-roping, commonly used by mountain guides, in which the members of a team are literally tied together. The operative word here is team. Thus, as was immediately apparent to Skelgill upon assessing the context of the ‘accident’, more questions were raised than answered by the presence of a rope.
In any event, it was wound tightly around the victim’s neck.
*
The blonde who admitted Barry Seddon to number thirty-seven Ullswater Place has now discarded a flimsy satin ankle-length dressing gown to reveal what might be described as the outfit of a dominatrix, and is presently fastening broad Velcro cuffs arou
nd his wrists and ankles. While his pile of cash lies on the bedside cabinet beside a tube of lubricant and an eye-watering collection of sex toys and attachments, he lies prone and naked upon a black PVC sheet, stretched tightly around the entire king-size mattress. The small interior bedroom is effectively devoid of natural light, and candlelight flickers upon the unevenly artexed ceiling as the woman goes about her work.
‘These won’t leave any marks, honey.’
Seddon is prevented from replying as she presses a ball-gag into his mouth and slides her hands behind his head to tie its retaining straps. Next she returns to check and adjust the spread-eagling restraints, forcefully applying maximum tension to each, stretching his limbs and ligaments to their limits.
‘An hour with the two of us, honey, wasn’t it?’
Seddon grunts his approval.
‘It won’t take that long.’
The woman’s somewhat cryptic comment sees Seddon’s eyebrows narrow, perhaps in mild protest. From the arm of an easy chair she picks up a pair of elbow-length latex gloves. Her hands must be a little damp with perspiration, and it takes a minute of pressing and pulling to achieve a snug fit over her fingers. Seddon watches with anticipation. As yet she has not touched him in what might be the expected titillating manner – especially now that he is helpless – but it is clear that he is becoming aroused.
‘I’ll just see if my sister’s ready.’
Seddon makes an affirmative hum through his nose as the woman rises from the edge of the bed and opens the door a fraction.
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 2