DS Leyton chuckles.
‘More likely she saw a hen party caught short, I reckon.’
‘That could have been interesting, Guv.’
‘Behave, Leyton.’
DS Leyton looks like he is still trying to picture the scene, and rather loses concentration, failing to move away as the lights at which they wait turn to green. The lorry that has been tailgating them gives a long blast of its air horn.
‘See what I mean, Guv? You tell me to slow down and everyone else gets uppity.’
‘Well, up theirs.’
To DS Leyton’s evident consternation, Skelgill now finishes off the crisps by tipping the remnants of the bag into his mouth and munching pensively.
‘No one at home at the flat, I take it, Guv?’
Skelgill swallows with some difficulty. ‘Neither alive nor dead.’
‘You got in?’
Skelgill pats his breast pocket. ‘I found a key hidden outside.’
DS Leyton glances across; there’s a hint of suspicion in his eyes, which is not assuaged when Skelgill declines to produce the claimed item.
‘That was handy, Guv.’
‘I reckon he was last there on Saturday morning – going by the newspapers and breakfast stuff lying about.’
‘Oh, well – that’s good to know, surely, Guv?’
‘Is it?’
Skelgill’s tone is harsh, and DS Leyton looks momentarily crestfallen.
‘Well – at least we can rule out anything dodgy at that workshop.’
‘It still leaves the best part of a two-day gap until he was found on Monday.’
‘Perhaps he went away for the weekend, Guv?’
DS Leyton seems to be mulling over this possibility when Skelgill raps sharply on the dashboard.
‘Anyway, no need to dawdle, Leyton. Get a shift on and we’ll have time for a little something back at Tebay before you knock off.’
6. PENRITH HQ – Wednesday morning
‘Morning, Guv.’
‘Jones. You’re up with the lark.’
‘I’m taking a leaf out of your book, Guv – there’s more to the Oakthwaite case than I expected.’
Skelgill invites her to join him by unceremoniously dumping his empty breakfast plate on the next table. He eyes her Tupperware container of fresh fruit rather dubiously as she sets it down.
‘That’s not a leaf out of my book – I don’t know why you’re eating diet stuff.’
DS Jones smiles demurely, an indication that she accepts the oblique compliment. Her reputation for superior admin skills has seen her delegated to tie up the deskwork for Skelgill’s last case. Since this task can be undertaken entirely from HQ she has adopted a comfortable outfit of jeans and sweatshirt – in contrast to recent nightclub assignments when striking and oft more revealing attire was de rigueur. Nonetheless, her stretch denims are figure hugging, and her slender form catches Skelgill’s eye as she settles opposite him.
‘Got an ID on the climber yet, Guv?’
Skelgill makes a so-so head movement as he appraises her over the rim of his mug.
‘We’re pretty certain he’s called Lee Harris. From Kendal. He’s no climber, though – at least, it wasn’t a climbing accident.’
‘Really? What do you think happened?’
‘At the moment I’m in limbo. Until I get something concrete from Herdwick I’m just guessing. Let’s just hope it’s a domestic – preferably suicide.’
DS Jones nods – she understands Skelgill’s point: if, like most such deaths, the incident is a self-contained event, then the investigation can be conducted at leisure. If not, however – and there is a killer on the loose – then time may be of the essence.
‘Struck lucky on that toffs’ school job, I hear, Skel.’
The voice – in the plaintive Mancunian tones of DI Alec Smart – emanates unexpectedly from behind, and Skelgill momentarily flinches. Despite the disciplined fisherman in him, he continually strains not to rise to the bait of DI Smart’s provocative banter. But experience has taught him such verbal skirmishing is not his forte, whereas DI Smart is a master of goading put-downs and mocking one-upmanship. Taciturn at the best of times, in situations of stress Skelgill becomes even more tongue-tied. He is a man of action. Many a criminal opponent – cockily believing they were engaged in a verbal stand off – has been taken painfully unawares by the detective inspector’s trademark left hook. This form of escalation being currently off limits, by way of a displacement tactic Skelgill takes a long, slow swig of his tea.
DI Smart insinuates himself effectively between them, coming to stand at the head of their table. Then he leans back to perch nonchalantly against that to his rear. He fixes a lingering gaze upon DS Jones.
‘Alright, Emma. Not used to seeing you with so many clothes on.’
‘Morning... sir.’
DI Smart pulls a face of mock surprise: that she should address him formally, when he clearly considers they have a familiar relationship. She looks uncomfortable, caught as she is between a rock and a hard place – for now she has to tread a delicate path of diplomacy, littered with obstacles of rank, duty, etiquette (or DI Smart’s lack of) and her own personal feelings.
Skelgill does his best to conceal a pained expression. He clearly wants to intervene, but in the end only does so by conceding a compliment to DI Smart.
‘Looks like you’re dressed to impress, Smart.’
DI Smart does not squander this opportunity to preen. He thumbs his lapels and then opens his jacket to reveal a designer logo stitched onto the inside pocket.
‘Pretty sharp, eh? Armani – pure merino. Picked it up in a new boutique in Manchester. Just near my flat.’ He winks at DS Jones. ‘Next time we’re working down there I’ll show you around – leaves the West End standing, you know.’
DS Jones nods obediently and then steals an apprehensive glance at Skelgill, whose expression is blackening by the second. At this moment, however, respite appears in the shape of George the Desk Sergeant. He pops his distinctive bald pate around the door of the canteen to announce that DI Smart’s lift is waiting at reception. DI Smart dismisses him with a self-important flap of the hand.
‘I’m giving evidence up in Glasgow. Bunch of Jock gangsters I nailed last year, trying to muscle in on my patch. I shall enjoy seeing them go down.’
‘Don’t let us keep you.’
DI Smart begins to walk away without a goodbye, but then he returns to their table. He taps the side of his nose in conspiratorial fashion and puts a hand on DS Jones’s shoulder.
‘I’ve had a word with the Chief. The drugs case could be back on. I’ve requested you as my number two. That would be a step up for you. We make a good team, Emma.’
DS Jones watches him closely as he saunters across the canteen. Skelgill’s eyes are fixed upon his sergeant, perhaps narrowed possessively.
‘If Manchester’s so brilliant, why do all the tourists drive straight past and come to the Lakes?’
DS Jones levels a sympathetic gaze upon Skelgill.
‘Take no notice, Guv.’ Then she giggles.
‘What is it?’
‘He’s got a dollop of tomato ketchup from your plate on the seat of his pants.’
*
Skelgill is not in the best of humours – evidenced by the way he kicks open the door of his office – as he arrives bearing a plastic cup of machine tea. DS Leyton, seemingly loitering behind the said door, jumps to attention, rather in the manner of a schoolboy caught inspecting the headmaster’s private display of photographs. Indeed, he cradles a black plastic trophy crowned by a rather garish silver-plated figurine of a cricketer.
‘Didn’t realise you got man-of-the-match while I was away, Guv. You kept that one quiet.’
Skelgill steps over a pile of ring binders and gains the far side of his cluttered desk. He looks for a space to deposit his drink, but in the end is forced to continue to hold it as he takes a seat. As he sips he inhales to cool the hot liquid.
‘You know me, Leyton. Don’t like to blow my own trumpet.’
‘Course, Guv.’
Now there is a pregnant pause – before DS Leyton suddenly realises he should inquire how Skelgill was awarded the accolade.
‘Did you score a century, Guv?’
‘Leyton, I’m a bowler.’
‘Right, Guv – what then, a hat-trick?’
Skelgill smiles contentedly. ‘I did, as a matter of fact. First one since 1948 in the Carlisle challenge, and that was by a Lancashire ex-pro. I took seven for eighteen in under five overs.’
‘Well played, Guv.’
DS Leyton’s knowledge of cricket’s arcane terminology does not extend much beyond the basic clichés, and now – perhaps to avoid blotting his thus-far clean copybook – he changes the subject to the object of their meeting. He leans over and pats a document in the centre of Skelgill’s desk.
‘There’s the interim autopsy report, Guv. Herdwick says he’ll have more detail this afternoon.’
‘What’s with him – has he taken up golf or something?’
DS Leyton replaces the trophy on Skelgill’s filing cabinet and sits opposite his boss. ‘Maybe he’s getting distracted by that new assistant, Guv. She’s turning a few heads about the place.’
Skelgill grins cynically. ‘Maybe we should arrange a meeting – so you can see what all the fuss is about.’
DS Leyton pulls a face indicating some indifference. ‘Word is that Smart’s already asked her out.’
Skelgill, on the other hand, appears discomfited. But rather than respond further to this apparently unwelcome information he scowls and points a gun-finger at the report.
‘Have you read it?’
‘Er... yeah, Guv.’ DS Leyton sounds unsure as to whether he should have done so in advance of his superior. ‘While I was waiting for you to finish with DS Jones.’
Skelgill leans back in his seat. ‘Fire away, then.’
‘Right, Guv.’ Now DS Leyton rubs his temples, as though this will help to bring the details to the front of his mind. ‘There ain’t a whole lot, really. No injuries or signs that he was involved in a struggle...’
‘I thought we knew that already?’
‘Just confirmation I suppose, Guv – and this covers internal as well as external.’
Skelgill nods grudgingly.
‘Nothing untoward in his blood or urine – alcohol, drugs, poison. No indication of any illness or disease.’
Skelgill looks like he is getting bored with the growing list of negatives, but his attention level rises as DS Leyton suddenly gets to the crux of the matter.
‘Cause of death asphyxiation by strangulation. Possibly but not definitely self-inflicted. Probably but not definitely by the rope found around his neck.’
Skelgill thumps his desk in a gesture of obvious annoyance, and to remove any doubt about his feelings accompanies the blow with a choice expletive.
‘What’s Herdwick playing at? That’s no use to us – possibly... probably – I think you’re right, Leyton – I’d say definitely he’s taken his eye off the ball.’
Skelgill reaches for the handset of his telephone, but in his enhanced state of displeasure he manages to knock it off the cradle and onto the floor on DS Leyton’s side of the desk. The amply proportioned sergeant grunts as he bends forward to retrieve it.
‘There is one thing, Guv – time of death – between noon and midnight on Saturday.’
‘What?’
‘It says they’re ninety-five percent confident about that.’
Skelgill glares at DS Leyton. ‘Why didn’t you say that at the start?’
‘Sorry, Guv – I was just going through the points in the order I could remember ’em.’
Skelgill declines the handset that DS Leyton is still holding out to him, rises and crosses to the window. He hauls up the venetian blind and stares out across the car park towards the woods and rising fields beyond. Rain has returned to Cumbria, and a low blanket of grey stratus is coating the county with a fine precipitation.
‘So it’s murder.’
DS Leyton looks expectantly at his superior, but Skelgill seems preoccupied with the view.
‘Murder, Guv?’
Skelgill spins around. For a moment there’s an expression of impatience upon his face, but then he softens and stalks back around his desk to his seat.
‘If he died on Saturday, Leyton, it wasn’t at Sharp Edge.’
‘What makes you so sure, Guv?’
‘No way could a body have lain there in plain sight and not be spotted from above. Weekends this time of year it’s like Clapham Junction. Not a chance, Leyton.’
DS Leyton nods reflectively. ‘I suppose he was found early doors on Monday, Guv.’
‘Exactly my point – the very first people out on the fell saw him – and they’d not even climbed the ridge.’
And now the puzzling dilemma – with which Skelgill has no doubt already been wrestling – dawns upon DS Leyton:
‘But, Guv – if someone put him there after he was dead – how did they do that?’
‘How, Leyton? And why?’
The detectives both sit in silence for a minute or so. Then DS Leyton stands up.
‘I’ll get us some fresh teas, Guv.’
Skelgill nods distractedly. If there is an irony intended in DS Leyton’s statement – given Skelgill had arrived bearing only one cup – it is not conveyed in his generous intonation. When he returns shortly, Skelgill is poring over an Ordnance Survey map covering the north-eastern quadrant of the Lake District.
‘It’s a mile from the nearest road, Leyton – and, more to the point, Scales Tarn is the thick end of two thousand feet above sea level.’
DS Leyton places the steaming drinks on the window sill and then extracts the autopsy report from beneath the edge of Skelgill’s map. He scans its contents.
‘Says he weighed sixty-seven kilograms, Guv.’
Like most fisherman, obsessed by record weights, Skelgill’s brain is quick to convert this statistic.
‘Ten and a half stone.’
DS Leyton, who weighs in at a good fifty percent more than this figure, self-consciously adjusts his jacket.
‘What are you, Guv?’
‘About twelve.’
‘Right.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I have enough of a job carrying one of my kids up to bed, Guv – if they've fallen asleep watching the telly, like. Eldest can’t be above five stone. How would you have got Harris all the way up that hill – never mind without anyone noticing?’
Skelgill purses his lips. He shrugs.
‘I once did a bit of climbing in the Himalayas, Leyton – Annapurna. I remember following a Tamang porter – five foot two if he was an inch – carrying a load of steel scaffolding poles strapped on a frame across his back. We overtook them – a gang of labourers – but they caught us up at our camp by the end of the day. Guess the weight.’
‘Dunno, Guv – I suppose you’re going to tell me ten stone.’
‘Twenty.’
‘Blimey, Guv – so what are you saying?’
Skelgill opens out his palms in a non-committal gesture.
‘All I’m saying, Leyton, is I’ve seen a guy half your size wearing flip-flops lug more than your weight up a five-thousand-foot mountain path.’
‘A good bit above my weight, Guv.’
‘Whatever.’
Though for DS Leyton this is rather more than a matter of splitting hairs, he opts not to pursue the distinction.
‘Surely it would take at least two people to shift a corpse, though, Guv?’
‘Be easier, sure.’
‘It’s still a load of trouble to go to, Guv – and then not hide the body.’
‘It was left on display, Leyton.’
DS Leyton’s eyes widen at this suggestion. ‘What – for us to find?’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘There’s got to be something symbolic here, Leyton. Why strangle him with
a climbing rope and then take him to a popular scrambling site? Most bodies end up dumped in the nearest convenient ditch.’
DS Leyton nods, though his features remain puzzled.
‘What I still don’t get, Guv, is – if he were murdered – how come it looks like he died peacefully in his sleep? He wasn’t drugged, he wasn’t drunk – and, as you point out, suicide doesn’t fit the facts.’
‘Like the old woman said, Leyton – maybe the witches did it.’
DS Leyton chuckles, but Skelgill has made the remark out of frustration rather than an attempt at humour, and he does not join in with his sergeant’s mirth. Once more they sit in silence, like delayed passengers in a waiting room, unsure of when the awaited train of inspiration might draw haltingly into the station.
After a minute DS Leyton begins to fidget, and then he pipes up, ‘I wouldn’t mind being abducted by a hen party, Guv – if you had to meet your maker, I can think of worse ways to go.’
Skelgill glowers at him, but does not respond.
‘Thing is, Guv – it’s all we’ve got to go on at the moment – what that old girl told you.’
‘She’s not my idea of a reliable eye witness.’
‘Think we should pull her in though, Guv?’
Skelgill looks alarmed. ‘Rather you than me, Leyton.’ Then he shakes his head. ‘She’s a crackpot – she doesn’t know anything. You’d get more sense out of the cats.’
‘Well, where do we start, Guv?’
Skelgill places his elbows on his desk and folds intertwined fingers beneath his chin.
‘We need to go to work on Lee Harris. What he did on Saturday – where he went. Whatever there is to know about him. There’ll be relatives somewhere, maybe a friend or two. Local shopkeepers, hairdresser, dentist, pub landlord. He paid bills; there’ll be a lease on that flat, a bank account. There’s loads to go on.’
DS Leyton is nodding. Skelgill begins to count off his fingers.
‘Other things, Leyton. One: check with the workshop – I reckon he had a motorbike – where is it now? Two: see if we can track any activity on his phone before it was switched off. And, three: where’s his laptop? The was Wi-Fi in the flat, but no sign of a computer.’
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 5