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

by Bruce Beckham

  Printed in uneven capitals in black biro is the name Lee Harris and, beneath, the address of a flat in Kendal and a mobile phone number. Skelgill turns the card but its reverse is blank. He appears for a moment as though he is about to cast it disdainfully away, but then he squints at an out-dated certificate of employer’s liability insurance pinned above the filing cabinet. The man seems to sense disapproval: that his approach to human resources management leaves something to be desired. He inclines his head in the direction of the workshop, which can be glimpsed through a cluttered hatch in the wall.

  ‘Happen some of yon lads might be able to fill you in – personal life, like.’

  Skelgill nods patiently.

  ‘I understand you last saw him on Friday, sir?’

  ‘Aye – then we got four smash repair jobs brought in over t’ weekend.’ The man is now trying harder, and his local accent becomes more pronounced. ‘Lee’s gey tidy wi’ Hondas. I was trying to raise him from first thing yesterday, and again this morning.’

  ‘You rang this number?’ Skelgill flaps the card like a fan.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Woman’s voice – a recording, like – kept saying t’ person were unavailable.’

  ‘Was there anything in his behaviour lately that struck you as unusual?’

  The man’s beady eyes narrow, giving him a guarded ferrety appearance. ‘I thought it wo’ an accident he died of?’

  Skelgill remains impassive. ‘Like I said, sir – it looks that way.’

  There’s the faintest hint of inflection placed upon the word looks, and the man nods slowly, as though he is now wondering if the police are unofficially taking him into their confidence.

  He shrugs once more. ‘Any road, like I said – I divn’t have owt to do wi’ lads. Ars twice their age – more. I just oversee t’ wuk and pay ’em’s wages.’

  ‘Pay cash, do you, sir?’

  ‘It’s all above board.’ Now the man is back on the defensive. ‘Payroll clerk comes in Thursdays – that’s when they get their wage packets.’

  ‘So was Mr Harris paid last week, sir?’

  The man nods, perhaps a little grudgingly, although it seems unlikely that his erstwhile employee was remunerated in advance. ‘Aye – he did more or less a full week. He weren’t short of ackers if that’s what tha’ wondering.’

  Skelgill does not reply directly. Instead he slips the address card into his jacket pocket and checks his wristwatch.

  ‘We shan’t detain you any longer, sir. If you could supply us with contact details for any of your staff that are not here – and if you’ll bear with us my sergeant will just have a quick chat with each of those present. Then we’ll be out of your hair.’

  *

  Leaving DS Leyton to interview sundry swarthy mechanics, Skelgill sets off on foot to seek out Lee Harris’s apartment. However, for the capricious police inspector, the small Lakeland town of Kendal (population circa 28,500) holds several imminent distractions. Not least is its renown for the eponymous mint cake – in fact a high-calorie peppermint-flavoured concoction of sugar and glucose, enjoyed by mountaineers the world over, and reputedly eaten by Hilary and Tensing atop Everest in 1953. Skelgill professes to possess both a savoury and a sweet tooth, and generally justifies a bar of Kendal mint cake on the grounds that it is entirely fat free. Indeed his propensity to snack is driven on the one hand by his pastimes of fell-running and fishing (the latter usually involving an energy-sapping row on his beloved Bassenthwaite Lake), and on the other by his general disregard for normal hours of work, which often finds him arriving home to a desolate fridge and the realisation that all neighbourhood takeaways have long ago closed for the evening. Right now the hour is fast approaching three o’clock, and thus, as he makes his way through the bustling town centre, he must run the gauntlet of spectacular window displays of local confectionery, compounded by the drifting aroma of scones baked to waylay tourists susceptible to the temptation of afternoon teas.

  However, there is a third enticement that exerts even greater magnetism as far as Skelgill is concerned, and that is the River Kent. Neatly bisecting today’s enlarged urban area – it flows north to south, with much of the old town on its west bank – it is the principal game fishing river in the south of the county. As Skelgill lingers upon the Nether Bridge his antennae are clearly twitching, no doubt at the thought of the potential double-figure sea trout that may be passing under his very nose, and perhaps the added frustration that between here and Victoria Bridge is a one-mile stretch of free angling. The water level is arguably a little low, following three or four days of dry weather, but nonetheless he scrutinises the gently rippled surface for signs of aquatic life below. A fine drake goosander sails briefly downstream, its glossed green mane glinting as it twists about and returns to fish the depths between the piers. Skelgill watches in admiration while it dives and then surfaces, a staring minnow secured in its long red saw-bill; a magnificent bird, sleek predator of fast-flowing waters, though little appreciated by human fishers.

  Skelgill has taken a significant detour to indulge his craving and, finally dragging himself away from the allure of the Kent, he heads back into the old town, north along Kirkland. For a main street it is a narrow thoroughfare, lined by an irregular miscellany of two-and-three-storey buildings, mainly stores and public houses, in grey limestone or white-painted stucco. He almost breaks stride as he encounters a fishing tackle shop he has forgotten about, but the road is busy with traffic, and deters him from crossing. Indeed, this is the A6, the old London-to-Carlisle coaching route (taking in Leicester and Manchester), the one-time slow road to the Lakes – before the M6 motorway laid a slick swathe of grand prix tarmac over Shap’s peaceful summit. In any event, shortly he ducks away from the noise and fumes, into a tight cobbled ginnel (in Kendal referred to as a yard) innocuously squeezed between a cheque casher’s and a financial advisor’s.

  More stealthily now he passes silently beneath the property above and out into the open space beyond. While many of these yards once ran down to the river, and are of great antiquity, this one is truncated, blocked by unsightly and angular modern additions of obscure function. Indeed, unlike some of town’s famous yards, which are picturesque and photogenic and visited for such purposes by tourists, the air here is permeated by the stale smell of urine, and an unsightly heap of black bin bags lies torn open by scavenging cats or gulls. The heat from the high June sun isn’t helping, and Skelgill responds to the stifling atmosphere by inhaling through gritted teeth.

  The dwelling he seeks – there appear to be four numbered properties in the yard – is a basement flat, which he reaches by descending a flight of worn stone steps, its diminutive area crowned by a rusting iron balustrade. If anything, the bad odour is worse in this dank stairwell and Skelgill, not one to be bound by protocol, checks about for CCTV and promptly breaks in.

  ‘Hello – police.’

  This precautionary introduction proves unnecessary. The pile of mail and newspapers behind the door tells Skelgill no one is home. A dampness that pervades the empty property deadens his voice. He makes a quick tour to satisfy himself there is no imminent threat – or, perhaps, indeed, no corpse awaiting discovery. From a tiny hall off which open a toilet and separate shower cubicle, there are only two rooms to speak of, conjoined: a kitchenette-diner and a bed-sitting room. The ceilings are low – maybe only seven feet – and the place has the air of a typical cheap rental apartment: poorly fitted linoleum, worn nylon carpets, badly hung curtains, and furniture randomly discarded and acquired.

  Now Skelgill begins a more thoughtful, if ostensibly haphazard perusal of the contents. Taking care not to disturb anything of potentially forensic significance, he has the bemused manner of a visitor to a gallery of modern art – one who is trying to work out whether the mundane household exhibits displayed around him are actually of any merit. His features seem to be fighting disappointment as he casts his eyes over the fat-spattered electric
cooker hob and its accompanying chip pan. A small refrigerator seems relatively well stocked (certainly by Skelgill’s standards), and if truth were told he might reflect that the general level of disarray is probably inferior to that of his own domestic domain.

  Several bloated chocolate cereal rings float in the kitchen sink, and there is an open packet of the same variety on the little dining table. Alongside it is an empty milk carton, but no suicide note propped against either. The milk has a best-before date of last Thursday but, as Skelgill knows from personal experience, you can’t read a lot into that.

  Broadly speaking, there is little to indicate that the flat’s occupant departed with anything other in mind than to return in the near future. The wardrobe and dresser are crammed with clothes, and a newish flat screen TV and a rather dated games console in the bedroom are in standby mode.

  Where Lee Harris’s home differs from Skelgill’s is in that an inspection of the latter would quickly reveal its occupant’s interests: various items of tackle and gear, spilling from shelves and cupboards, and – out of sight of the casual visitor (but not so hidden as to avoid detection by anyone so chosen) – trophies and certificates and framed photographs testifying to outdoor and sporting exploits. Moreover, though not a reader as such – fiction does not register on Skelgill’s radar – he has an extensive collection of maps, manuals and climbing guides (his prized set of Wainwrights at the heart of this), and an assemblage to match covering all methods of angling known to man. Then there are years’ worth of specialist magazines – climbing, fishing, fell walking – with useful articles marked by bent corners or Post-it notes (indicating Skelgill’s as yet unfulfilled intention to scalpel out and file these pages).

  So it would not require Sherlock Holmes to deduce what sort of person Skelgill is, to which clubs and societies he might belong, where he could potentially be found in his leisure time, and with whom he may associate. Not so Lee Harris. Other than the computer games console beside which is stacked the stereotypical array of bloodthirsty killing games (perhaps suggestive of an immature personality, a lack of social engagement, and – in Skelgill’s analysis – a totally incomprehensible wish to be indoors when you could be outside) – apart from this – there is little flesh of biographical detail upon the sparse bones of his existence. In other words, there is not a lot for the police to get their teeth into.

  Skelgill soon finds himself back in the hallway. A washing machine is a considerable obstacle. He notices that a display light is blinking, and with what must be considered a small flash of inspiration (given his limited aptitude for matters domestic) he stoops down and jerks open the clear plastic door. Inside the drum is a sodden but apparently laundered navy serge boiler suit.

  Perhaps encouraged by this find, he gathers up the now crumpled mail that impeded his entry through the front door a few minutes earlier. He places the items on top of the washing machine and sifts through them. The letters are exclusively bills and circulars, pre-printed postage-paid envelopes that offer no clue to the date of their delivery. But there is a local advertiser. Skelgill flattens this out. Beneath the masthead is the slogan ‘Free Every Saturday’.

  The leading article concerns flood defences (the River Kent is notorious for its impromptu visits to the high street) and Skelgill lingers a moment over this. Then he begins to flick through the pages of parochial events and poorly composed display ads. A more professional full-page advertisement for a broadband service seems to hold his attention – indeed it seems to prompt him to turn away and stride decisively back through the kitchen-diner and into the bedroom.

  Clearly he has something in mind. He works his way around the walls and, after a short search, he finds what he is looking for. Behind a small bedside cabinet is a telephone socket, and beneath it upon the carpet a wireless router. A blue light winks at him. He examines the settings on his phone and sure enough the signal is detected. Then he squats down and takes a photograph of the account and password details printed on the rear of the transmitter. So the flat has Wi-Fi, but there is no trace of a receiving device.

  Now Skelgill departs, checking carefully that he has not damaged the rudimentary pin tumbler lock in gaining entry. He seems to be in two minds about pulling the door shut behind him, and casts about in the gloom of the stairwell. There is a worn fibre doormat that resembles hedgehog road-kill, many times run over. On impulse he peels it from the step to reveal a rusty key. With a little effort it proves to fit the lock.

  Skelgill pulls a remorseful face to nobody, pockets the key and jogs up the stone staircase, squinting in the bright sunlight that pulsates about the enclosed yard. The chirrup of sparrows creates a restful atmosphere, and he seems immediately infected, yawning and lingering aimlessly as if wondering what to do next. After a few moments he walks across and rings the bell of one of two doors opposite Lee Harris’s flat. There is no reply. He moves on to the next, but the result is the same. He steps back and regards the properties: on reflection they could be vacant, perhaps recently refurbished and awaiting occupation.

  There is one other apparent residence, a kind of half-basement dwelling with its door set down a short flight of steps. A vagrant Buddleia springs gaily from a crack at the angle of wall and ground. The flat’s one grimy window is hung with what looks suspiciously like sackcloth. There is no number or bell, but as Skelgill approaches he becomes distracted by something beneath his feet. Much of the yard is unevenly cobbled, but here is a level rectangle of concrete hard standing. More or less at its centre is a circular black stain, extending to about a foot in diameter. Skelgill squats and wipes an exploratory finger over the oily substance, but as he does so something catches his eye. The window-drape has twitched.

  He rises and makes his way tentatively down the steps, but before his hand reaches the bell the door jerks open, at least, to the extent that an internal chain allows. In the crack between the jamb a small wizened face appears at a child’s height, but then Skelgill must quickly realise this is a cat. There is a waft of musky air – in fact a quite overpowering aroma of pets – with acrid undertones of something worse.

  ‘What d’yer want – poking about?’

  From behind and above (though not far above) the uncomfortable-looking feline, a second face pitches forward from the darkness. This one is human, albeit somewhat wanting in humanity. The sullen features are lined and pinched, and a considerable mass of matted greying hair is the main impression imparted. It is an old woman, and her accent, spoken in a strained, creaky voice, seems to hint at Merseyside origins, long left behind.

  Skelgill takes a step closer and holds out his palms in a gesture of cooperation. Something less than a sixth sense tells him this is not a moment to declare his profession.

  ‘I’m looking for Lee.’

  ‘Who’s Lee?’

  Now he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Lee. He lives across the yard.’

  ‘Lee.’

  The woman says this as though she is a foreigner trying out the word for the first time.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lee – Lee Harris.’

  ‘I know everything.’

  The old crone’s expression becomes conspiratorial, though she reveals no inclination to share her wisdom.

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Er... we were at school the same time.’

  ‘You’re not taking me cats.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I know their tricks.’

  Skelgill seems to get a hint of what she’s driving at. ‘I’m not the council, love – I’m looking for Lee. I don’t want your cats.’

  ‘You’re not having them. You’re not coming in.’

  Now Skelgill brings both hands to his chest. ‘I love cats. That’s a nice tortoiseshell you’ve got there.’

  This is rather more than a white lie, since Skelgill is engaged in a running battle with a gang of neighbourhood moggies who nightly deplete his ho
lding pond of small roach and dace. In any event, his placatory words fall upon stony ground, for the woman’s mind seems made up about his mission.

  ‘The last one they sent didn’t get in neither. He said he came to read the meter. But I recognise you. You ain’t getting me cats.’

  ‘Look – can you tell me – please – when did you last see Lee from across there?’

  ‘There’s no Lee.’

  ‘I think he was home at the weekend. You just noticed me – surely you’ve seen him?’

  The woman screws up her face and lifts the cat up to her chin. The animal looks like it would dearly love to make a break for freedom, but is restrained by a claw-like grip. Now the woman grimaces, revealing few teeth and plentiful gaps.

  ‘Witches took him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw ’em.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Night time.’

  ‘What – last night?’

  ‘Some night.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Disguised, they were.’

  ‘Was Lee with them?’

  ‘Who’s Lee?’

  At this moment Skelgill’s phone rings. He pulls it from his back pocket and looks at the display. An expression of relief spreads across his troubled features.

  ‘Beam me up, Leyton.’

  *

  ‘What was that all about, Guv?’

  Skelgill has scrambled into the car as DS Leyton holds it momentarily on the double yellow lines of the main street, and now is pressed back against the seat as his sergeant guns the small engine and swings the vehicle back into the traffic.

  ‘Steady on Leyton, this is Kendal, not Brands Hatch.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv – there’s a flippin’ great truck up me jacksie.’

  ‘Unlucky truck.’

  Skelgill shrugs himself into the seat belt. Then he notices a half-eaten packet of crisps that DS Leyton has placed in the dashboard cubby and begins to help himself.

  ‘Some mad woman lives opposite – completely batty – I made the mistake of asking if she’d seen Harris. She insisted I was the council come to confiscate her cats. Then she tried to tell me he’d been abducted by witches.’