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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What was he like, Hilda?’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to be married to him.’

  Her answer comes without pause for consideration, as if she is accustomed to trotting out this line over shopping bags in casual neighbourly conversation.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s just interested in himself. Doesn’t wonder how food gets on the table, nor washing and ironing done.’

  Skelgill nods. The woman has the inured look of someone long starved of recognition. But if the relationship has survived for a decade or more, there surely must have been some symbiotic return for her.

  ‘Does he have any friends?’

  ‘He works late most days – sometimes drinks on his way back. Weekends, if he’s home, he’s usually watching the racing through in the back, or along at William Hill.’

  ‘What about the weekend past?’

  ‘Aye, he was here the whole time. Never even went out of doors on Saturday. I had to wake him off the couch come bedtime.’

  DS Leyton is unobtrusively taking notes, and Skelgill glances to see that he registers this point.

  ‘Does he have hobbies, Hilda – climbing, for instance?’

  ‘He’s a scaffolder.’

  ‘No – I mean, like mountaineering.’

  The woman looks blank. ‘Never known him do that.’

  Skelgill dunks a biscuit into his mug and just manages to pop it into his mouth before it collapses upon him. He washes it down with a swig of tea. Then the woman catches him eyeing the plate and she offers him another.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do, thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Skelgill forces a smile, but his lips remain compressed. ‘Hilda, it’s possible that Barry was murdered. Can you think of any reason why someone might want to do that?’

  Her features contract further with concern, although there is no real sign of the horror that might be expected at such a revelation.

  ‘He’s not one to speak about his business.’

  Skelgill stares at her – he is probably just framing his next question – but she must find his pale grey-green eyes disconcerting, and visibly she shrinks away.

  ‘It weren’t me – if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s never done nowt to me. Now I’ve lost his money.’

  Her denial, though convincing in its simple repudiation of the major motives for murder, lacks any real impression of underlying grief.

  Skelgill attempts to convey his sympathies through an understanding grimace.

  ‘How about girlfriends – is there anyone at the moment?’

  This question seems to bruise her pride, and in a small way she bridles, her knuckles blanching around the mug she clasps.

  ‘He’s not had a girlfriend while he’s stayed with me. Least not that I’ve known of.’

  ‘What about before?’

  She shakes her head rather vacantly.

  ‘He’s never mentioned no one.’

  ‘Does the name Lee Harris mean anything to you?’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of her.’

  The negation comes without a delay, and Skelgill does not trouble to correct the mistaken gender.

  ‘Hilda – you mentioned Barry’s van.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’ Instinctively she glances towards the window.

  ‘Where does he keep it?’

  ‘Outside, ont’ road.’

  ‘So his van’s missing?’

  She nods unconvincingly, as though this is beyond her remit.

  ‘But he took it – when he left on Monday?’

  ‘It were gone when I came back lunchtime.’

  ‘From work?’

  ‘I clean at the hospital at Wigton, seven till one.’

  ‘Do you drive there?’

  ‘Never learnt. I get the bus.’

  Skelgill places his mug carefully on the coffee table. He stands up and with a groan straightens his back. Then he casts about the room.

  ‘Well, you keep a tidy place, Hilda – I could do with a landlady like you. I should think Barry didn’t know how lucky he was.’

  ‘Happen.’

  Her bleak expression, in the way of a woman unused to compliments, seems to reject this little tribute, though there is something in the softening of her body language that tells otherwise. Skelgill presses home his advantage.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d just like to take a quick look at his room – while Sergeant Leyton gets a few formal details from you – no need for you to get up, love.’

  She is about to rise, but dutifully obeys his downturned palm.

  ‘It’s the front bedroom – there’s only two.’

  Skelgill nods. ‘We’ll need to send a couple of chaps along – but this’ll save me another trip out, you see.’

  The woman nods and watches meekly as Skelgill leaves the parlour, patting his sergeant encouragingly upon the shoulder as he squeezes past him. It might be a signal meaning ‘keep her occupied’.

  *

  ‘She’s relieved, Leyton.’

  ‘What – that we’re gone?’

  ‘No – that Seddon’s gone.’

  DS Leyton does not seem so sure. He turns to stare through the open driver’s window at the house they have just left. Aspatria, an inauspicious former market and mining town, can be found in the nondescript swathe of no-man’s land between the Lake District National Park and the Solway Coast, and sits astride the old Roman road that once linked forts at Maryport and Old Carlisle. Fronting onto this ancient thoroughfare, Hilda Seddon’s end-of-terrace property is of lesser though indeterminate age. There are modern-style PVC replacement windows and unsightly water-stained 1950s harling, but an undulating roof of weathered hand-cut slate hints at more primitive origins. A poorly constructed low wall of ornamental concrete-blocks rather pointlessly encloses a bare rectangle of uneven slabs. In common with many of the homes along the street, the ubiquitous grey satellite dish juts out half way up the rendered wall, sucking in signals that are the methadone of the square-eyed masses.

  ‘Look, Guv.’

  As they watch, the venetian blinds of the sitting room tilt in unison and then snap shut. They might assume this is a response to their continuing presence, but a minute later the curtains above in what was Barry Seddon’s bedroom are pulled to. While it is late afternoon, dusk is still many hours away: Hilda Seddon is at least paying lip service to mourning.

  ‘What did you say to her about a public announcement?’

  ‘Just that it would be on the news, probably tomorrow.’

  ‘What did you get?’

  DS Leyton lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘I reckon she’d know more about the private life of her cat – if she had one. No idea where he drank, whether he’d got any pals, where he’d been working. She hasn’t got a mobile herself, and doesn’t know his number. Not a lot of communication passed between ’em, Guv.’

  ‘That would be the life.’

  Skelgill does not elaborate upon this somewhat cryptic remark, so DS Leyton is left to make of it what he will.

  ‘She did say he normally carried a fairly hefty wad around with him – his board and lodging was a ton a week. I get the impression he did most of his business in cash, Guv.’

  Skelgill nods in a rocking fashion, as if this corresponds with his own assessment. ‘I couldn’t find sign of a bank account.’

  ‘What – in the bedroom, Guv?’

  Now Skelgill grins cynically. ‘Bedrooms.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  ‘I believe her story – looks like they kept to themselves upstairs as well as down. He’s obviously well into horses – gets the Racing Post. No trace of a phone, or wallet, or his keys. Limited wardrobe – no climbing gear.’

  ‘I just don’t get this rope business and whatnot, Guv.’

  Skelgill becomes pensive. ‘We need a break here, Leyton. Two loners dead – and that’s all they’ve got in common. Loners. And dead. Not very helpful.’

  DS Leyton suddenly notices that h
is mobile, perhaps inadvertently switched to silent mode, is now ringing. With a jab of a stubby index finger, he accepts just in time.

  ‘Leyton.’

  There is a short pause while he listens.

  ‘How do you know?’

  Again a pause.

  ‘We’re on our way.’

  He ends the call and turns to his superior.

  ‘A break, Guv? We’ve found his van.’

  ‘Are we sure?’

  ‘Apparently it’s got his name painted on the side, Guv.’

  10. DI SKELGILL’S OFFICE – Thursday morning

  ‘Jones – you’d better speed-read these while we talk – bit of multi-tasking.’

  Skelgill hands over a file that contains the autopsy report on the late Lee Harris, and a provisional, fast-tracked summary of the post-mortem relating to the similarly departed Barry Seddon. DS Jones nods efficiently, observed with some admiration by DS Leyton. The three officers are gathered to review the evidence to date: while Skelgill is battling with limited success for additional troops, he has at least ensured that DS Jones remains under his command for the time being. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, he figures that while she wraps up his Oakthwaite case, she can provide intellectual support in relation to these perplexing mountain murders.

  ‘My missus is like that, Guv.’ DS Leyton chimes in with his usual cheerful London brogue. ‘She’ll be on the old dog and bone, rabbiting ten to the dozen, watching Eastenders – and stone me if she’s not doing the ironing as well.’ He regards his colleagues in wonderment. ‘I mean – imagine talking to the mother-in-law, watching the telly and ironing!’

  Skelgill frowns cynically. ‘Imagine ironing, Leyton.’

  ‘Fair point, Guv.’

  ‘Glad we have our uses.’ DS Jones makes this quip without looking up from the document she holds.

  ‘Leyton’s got his uses – I just haven’t worked out what they are yet.’

  Skelgill seems to be in relatively bright spirits. Not one to hide his feelings from his subordinates – as DS Leyton will readily testify – he might be excused this morning for labouring beneath more gloomy skies. He has two unsolved murders on his watch, and very little to go on. The silver lining from his perspective – albeit a temporary one – must relate to the conclusions of the post-mortem on Barry Seddon. It appears he was killed some time on Monday (“...death probably occurred between the hours of 10:00 and 14:00...”) – only shortly after the discovery of the body of Lee Harris, and before it had been established that the latter was murdered. Thus the police can hardly be accused of failing to react in order to prevent the second crime. Skelgill crunches the chewing end of a biro and taps it on the blank writing pad upon his desk.

  ‘Circumstantially, and MO-wise, there’s categorically a connection between these deaths.’

  ‘The killer, Guv?’

  ‘But that’s about it, Leyton – the killer. At the moment there’s nothing else to link Harris and Seddon. We know what they died of, and roughly when, but we don’t know how, or where, or why.’

  Now DS Jones glances up.

  ‘Perhaps forensics will get a match on fibres on their clothes, Guv?’

  Skelgill screws up his nose doubtingly. ‘How many carpets are there in Cumbria?’

  ‘What if the killer owns a rare breed of dog, Guv?’

  While DS Leyton chuckles at his own joke, Skelgill appears uninterested. He casts a hand back in DS Leyton’s direction.

  ‘Leyton – run us through what we know so far – for Jones’s benefit.’

  DS Leyton shuffles a sheaf of papers that represent the collated efforts of a small team assigned to background desk- and leg-work, until a summarising page of his handwritten notes surfaces.

  ‘Harris – not a lot. A couple of local shopkeepers have recognised him from the mugshot, but don’t know anything about him. No acquaintances identified as yet. No joy tracing his mobile – the number was for a pay-as-you-go SIM. Nothing on a bank account – perhaps he didn’t have one. His work paid cash, as you’ll recall, Guv. The only contract on the address is broadband, and that’s in the landlord’s name. He’s been traced. There’s no tenancy agreement – he owns half a dozen properties and collects the rent himself in cash. Harris was up to date. Landlord doesn’t bother with references. Evidently by the look of him you wouldn’t trust him – nor double-cross him neither.’

  Skelgill is moved to bristle at this. ‘Good enough reason to pull him in, Leyton.’

  DS Jones looks up from her reading. ‘Sounds like this Lee Harris was living under the official radar, Guv. I take it he’s not an illegal or using an alias?’

  Skelgill glances expectantly at DS Leyton.

  ‘Pretty certain he’s British, Guv. His workmates – if you can call them that – reckoned he was from the Midlands. Apparently he supported Leicester City.’

  Now Skelgill raises an eyebrow, but does not elaborate upon its meaning. However, in England, the following of a non-fashionable football club is often a reliable indicator of where a person spent their formative years.

  ‘We need to bottom that, Leyton. What about the motorbike?’

  ‘One of the mechanics thought he was fixing up an insurance write-off.’ He checks his notes. ‘Honda CBR600 – if that means anything to you, Guv.’

  Skelgill nods in a rather superior fashion. ‘Sports bike. Registration?’

  ‘We got a plate number, but the DVLA system shows a Certificate of Destruction against it.’

  ‘There was fresh oil beside his flat, Leyton. And no helmet indoors. Unless that old bat belongs to Hell’s Grannies, that bike must be somewhere.’

  ‘The lad at the garage didn’t reckon it was roadworthy, Guv.’

  ‘Since when did that become a criteria for riding?’

  DS Jones glances up briefly, as though she is tempted to correct Skelgill’s grammar – but silently she resumes her study.

  ‘I’ve got an alert out on it, Guv – hopefully a warden will spot it.’

  ‘Sooner rather than later.’

  This sounds like an instruction – not that the outcome is in DS Leyton’s power, but he nods vigorously all the same.

  ‘Better fill in Jones on the latest on Seddon – the van.’

  DS Jones moves as if to give her undivided attention to DS Leyton, but for a moment some detail on the page detains her and it is a couple of seconds before she raises her eyes.

  ‘We found his truck yesterday in the superstore car park on Scotland Road. His mobile and wallet were locked up inside – looked like he’d put them out of sight. There was £150 in the wallet, and the phone hadn’t been used since Friday. Recent calls all appear to be to and from contacts in the building trade. Monday’s racing newspaper was on the passenger seat. Keys had been left under the wheel-arch.’

  ‘Could he have gone into the store?’

  DS Leyton is nodding. ‘We’re going through the CCTV at the moment – it’s slow work though.’

  ‘If he bought the paper there, they ought to have an electronically timed record – they can’t sell all that many copies.’

  ‘Fair point Jones.’ Skelgill’s interjection is a little terse. ‘But let’s see what the CCTV brings first.’

  DS Jones nods compliantly. With the back of one hand she taps the reports.

  ‘What do you think about the time interval, Guv – I mean between the murders and the bodies being discovered?’

  Skelgill nods sagely, although his reply does not suggest any private intelligence. ‘What are you driving at?’

  ‘Assuming the bodies were dumped in the early hours before they were discovered – it means they were each kept hidden for the best part of a day and a half. There must be an explanation for that. It might tell us something about the killer.’

  The trio sits in silence for a few moments, metaphorically (and DS Leyton literally) scratching their heads, until DS Jones, who perhaps already has a theory up her sleeve but has been exercising diplomacy, speaks
up.

  ‘I was on a forensics course a little while ago, Guv. Rigor mortis sets in three to four hours after death. Maximum stiffness occurs after about twelve hours, and then it dissipates from about twenty-four hours.’

  Skelgill seems engrossed by this thought, and it takes DS Leyton to respond in the vernacular.

  ‘You wouldn’t get a stiff in a saloon car boot, or even a hatchback – it’d take a big estate like yours, Guv.’

  ‘I’ll remember that, Leyton, next time you’re paralytic after a police night out.’ Skelgill projects a reprimanding frown at DS Leyton. ‘Carry on, Jones.’

  ‘You’d need transport to get a body to the foot of the fell. Kill someone during the day. You can’t move them until it’s dark and the neighbours have gone to bed. But on the first night, you’re too late – rigor mortis means the body doesn’t fit in a small car, if you could even move it. So you have to wait until the next night.’

  Skelgill is cupping his chin between upturned palms. He stares hard at DS Jones. ‘So, your something about the killer – he lives in a built-up area, probably residential.’

  DS Jones averts her eyes apprehensively. ‘It’s just an idea that corresponds to the facts, Guv.’

  ‘It’s good thinking.’

  DS Jones shrugs modestly. ‘But it does mean keeping a corpse in your house – that has its complications.’

  ‘What if they were killed in an outbuilding, or a garage?’ This is DS Leyton’s contribution. ‘I’ve been wondering if they went to buy something, Guv.’

  Skelgill sits back in his chair. ‘Leyton – I agree – nine times out of ten we’d be looking at drugs – but this pair seem as clean as whistles in that regard. And Seddon’s wallet was stuffed with cash.’

  ‘So why did he leave it, Guv – and his phone?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Strikes me, Guv – you can’t be mugged of what you ain’t got.’

  Skelgill considers this proposition. ‘I’ve obviously led a more sheltered existence than you, Leyton.’