‘I’m Liz, by the way – Liz Williams.’
She reaches across the hiatus and this time holds out a formal hand.
Skelgill seems reluctant to accept – there is a moment’s unnatural delay – but he realises he must reciprocate.
‘Dan.’
‘Are you local?’
‘Aye.’ He stares at her – then realises he should make conversation. ‘How about you?’
The woman smiles contentedly, as if she senses his awkwardness and feels comfortable in taking the lead. She is very attractive and presumably knows it: there is something oriental in her full lips and rich nut-brown eyes and matching hair pulled tight into a pony tail; a small, slim figure has its curves accentuated by the skin-tight gym outfit she wears. In answer to Skelgill’s question she shakes her head.
‘When I was a kid – for a few years we lived in Keswick – but we’re here on holiday from South Wales, just Rhian and me. I’ve taken her out of school early to beat the crowds.’
‘That’s something well remembered.’
She laughs. ‘We’ll certainly remember today.’
Skelgill seems to relax, and lowers himself down to sit on a dry slab of rock. He inclines his head towards girl and dog. ‘Looks like we’re here for the duration.’
Now facing him, the woman takes the opportunity to appraise his appearance. As she moves to sit beside him – quite close as the rock only seats two – there’s a lively glint in her eye.
‘You're soaked through.’ Her inflection carries an inquiry.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘If we’re here for the duration...’
Skelgill throws her a sideways glance, the sort of stoic gesture that recognises the capacity of women to get their way.
‘Let’s just say I was cooling off.’
‘Do you always cool off fully clothed?’
‘Just as well that I was.’
The woman’s smile is honeyed. She is amused by their banter and perhaps too the comic prospect of being rescued by someone akin to the Naked Rambler. But it is Skelgill who speaks next.
‘Liz, tell me – what the heck were you doing on Sharp Edge?’
Now she is the one to nod ruefully.
‘We do a lot of hillwalking at weekends – we’re only an hour from the Brecon Beacons, you see?’ There is suddenly a strong Welsh lilt in her words. ‘When I was a girl, a little older than Rhian – when I lived in Keswick – I was member of an outward-bound club – I don’t recall too much, but this was one of the places they used to bring us to.’
Skelgill tilts his head from side to side, as if assessing the wisdom of such a policy.
‘It’s an interesting spot – so long as you know what you’re doing.’
The woman presses the tips of her fingers together like she might in prayer. Her hands are slim and her long nails coloured to match the rose pink of her lips.
‘The instructors used to tease us that they’d make us climb Sharp Edge if we misbehaved – like walking the plank. I think my friend and I only joined because we fancied some of the boys – and the instructors, I suppose – it was more of a youth club really – I’ve still got my scrapbook and photographs somewhere – they had a climbing wall at the farm where it was based – and they used to do quad-biking and clay-pigeon shooting for corporate events.’
Skelgill’s antennae seem to become alert as she completes this description.
‘Was that over at the back of Threlkeld, near the lead mine?’
The woman turns out her bottom lip and shakes her head apologetically.
‘My memories are hazy – I would only have been eleven or twelve. My parents used to drive us. It had a queer name.’
‘Knott Halloo?’
‘Of course – that’s right – so it was.’
‘That place burned down the thick end of twenty years ago – went out of business – I heard talk it was arson.’
‘Really? I’m surprised you’re old enough to remember.’
Skelgill immediately looks both embarrassed and flattered by this engineered compliment. If he is correct about the incident at the climbing centre, he would have been in his late teens, which would make his present companion some seven or eight years his junior – and now around the thirty mark.
‘It sparked a bit of news at the time – especially if you moved in climbing circles, I suppose.’
‘You obviously do – that was brilliant how you talked Rhian down.’
Skelgill’s chest swells a little more.
‘You could hear?’
He makes this question sound as though he had not intended to broadcast the exchange.
‘Only some of it.’ The woman backtracks a little, responding with appropriate diplomacy.
‘Climbing’s ninety percent confidence – that’s why there’s such a thing as a confidence rope – you wouldn’t trust one to break your fall – but it works wonders for climbing ability.’
‘And you had a confidence string.’
Skelgill grins at her joke. ‘Baler twine – never without it.’
For a second he looks like he might wish to own up about the shepherd’s recent good advice in this regard, but vanity evidently gets the better of him and he allows the woman to nod admiringly.
‘It certainly did the trick.’
‘Obviously you’d never belay anybody like that – but belaying wasn’t an option. I figured I’d catch her if she slipped – it was just a matter of getting her moving.’
‘You’re quite the expert – you must have a way with women.’
Skelgill affects to adjust one of his laces, though he must feel her gaze upon him. Then he glances fretfully at his wristwatch. The woman immediately responds.
‘Dan – you mustn’t let us keep you.’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘It’s no problem – what are you planning to do?’
The woman stretches, curving her back and running her hands over her glossy scalp, emphasising the contours of her breasts beneath the taut fabric of her sports vest.
‘I think we should head home – have an ice cream to recover from the shock. We’re staying at the caravan site at Braithwaite – just Rhian and me.’
It is the second time she has mentioned her lone parent status. As she rises, the movements of her lissom figure draw Skelgill’s eye; she catches his absorbed gaze and, turning to face him crosses one leg over the other, emphasising its toned musculature. He hauls himself to his feet, and pulls rather self-consciously at his own damp attire.
‘I could walk down with you – that way your daughter gets to lead the dog like I promised.’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Where are you parked? I didn’t see a car the way I came up.’
‘We’re near a pub, I think.’
‘Scales.’
The woman shrugs and grins helplessly.
‘I’ll find it.’
‘I know we can rely on you – you’re our hero.’
And suddenly she steps forward and embraces him – at first with a sob but quickly she lifts up her face and reaches with both hands to pull down his head for a kiss. It is a prolonged kiss and not easily interrupted.
‘Mummy!’
*
When Skelgill wakes, the ceiling above him is out of focus and unfamiliar – it is the inside of the roof of his car. His phone – switched to silent – vibrates loudly beside him, drumming in bursts upon the steel of the flatbed. He lies in a narrow channel between untidy banks of tackle, his bare feet protruding from the vehicle, the tailgate open to the half-clouded heavens. As he sits upright with a pained groan – the beginnings of delayed onset muscle soreness – the inquiring face of Cleopatra rises beyond his long bony toes.
He checks his watch – it is approaching four o’clock, less than an hour since he left the rescued mother and daughter at their car, waving them away with the woman’s entreaty ringing in his ears and, hot in his pocket, her mobile number on a scrap of paper.
He
shuffles forward onto the rear sill of the estate. His shirt and trousers had largely dried out on the walk down. No so his boots, which lie still sodden where he kicked them off. His socks appear suspiciously gathered together and one shows signs of having been lightly gnawed. The probable culprit sits to attention, keenly awaiting their next adventure.
Skelgill licks his dry lips.
‘Want a drink, lass?’
The dog seems to know the word, and dunts his knee approvingly with her broad snout. He rises, emitting more groans, and turns to dip into the debris, dragging out a plastic storage crate. He carries this to the dry-stone wall adjacent to the car. With a clank he extracts a soot-blackened Kelly Kettle and gives it an experimental shake. Removing the cork bung he reaches for the pan of an equally worn Trangia and pours into it a measure of water. While the thirsty hound laps at his feet, he digs for the kettle base and places it upon a suitably flat rock. Next he takes a handful of finely chopped kindling and arranges it in a lattice inside the aluminium base. From a Sigg bottle he sprinkles sparkling violet methylated spirits over the wood. He settles the kettle on the base, checking its balance before completely letting go. Finally he rummages in the crate for matches, strikes one, and drops it through the kettle’s internal chimney. With a whoosh the meths ignites, and flames lick from the mouth of the eccentric contraption.
It takes under two minutes for the water to boil, and within another he is sitting with his back to the wall, sipping tea contemplatively from a tin mug (still containing two tea bags and floating flecks of undissolved powdered milk). He is seemingly oblivious to the temperature of both the scalding liquid and the mug itself. His exertions have perhaps created the right conditions for involuntary musing. And certainly he has plenty to consider.
As his mind appears to drift, his pale eyes become oddly glazed. Their pupils contract and he ceases to blink. Of course, he could be playing out some scenario involving the attractive divorcee, whose lithe Lycra-clad form has no doubt left its impression upon his primeval instincts, and whose further acquaintance remains an open invitation. But Skelgill’s mind is a mystery even to its owner, and perhaps duty is the stronger drive right now. The enigmatic subconscious can solve a conundrum long before it makes public such success. It does so by piecing together seemingly disparate facts, making connections that defy linear, logical thinking. And, though scant clues there may be, vague forms that lurk in the shadowy recesses of the brain, experience has told him that in later hindsight their significance will be sharp and bright and tangible. Perhaps already he has everything he needs. And now, in his semi-trancelike state, Skelgill is apparently mouthing the stanza, ‘Harris Honda, Seddon Scaffolding.’
His reverie is interrupted by the buzz of his phone. He presses a palm above his heart, as if to suppress the vibration in his breast pocket. But it persists, and he rips up the flap.
‘Leyton.’
‘Guv – you missed the press conference – the Chief’s spitting feathers.’
‘Let her spit – I’ve just done a rescue.’
‘A rescue, Guv?’
DS Leyton’s tone is not so much incredulous as exasperated.
‘Behave, Leyton – I’m being dead serious – I just got a seven-year-old kid down off Sharp Edge.’
DS Leyton sighs. ‘Yeah, but what it is, Guv – I told her you had a flat tyre.’
Skelgill is silent for a moment.
‘Oh, well – can’t be helped – good work, anyway, Leyton.’
‘What were you doing up there, Guv – was it an emergency call-out?’
‘I needed to check something.’
‘Right, Guv.’
DS Leyton knows better than to interrogate Skelgill when he produces this kind of bland explanation. Now he is silent for a moment.
‘You rang me?’
‘Ah, yeah, Guv – we’ve got some progress – reckon we’ve found Seddon on the CCTV tapes – midday Monday.’
Skelgill takes a mouthful of tea, perhaps to aid his thinking.
‘He was supposed to be dead by then.’
‘Exactly, Guv – at least, it must have happened not long after – between ten and two, according to the PM.’
‘Where are you, Leyton?’
‘Still at base – I thought you’d want to come.’
‘I’ll swing by and get you on the way – be outside in twenty minutes.’
12. PENRITH TOWN CENTRE – Thursday afternoon
‘You alright, Guv?’
‘Like I said, Leyton – I got involved in a rescue.’
‘You look like you’ve done your back in, Guv.’
Skelgill glares disapprovingly across the roof of his car. Nonetheless, he tries to adjust his posture, but the effect is stilted and military. And it is with restricted freedom of movement that he stoops to check the interior – Cleopatra has already scrambled into the driver’s seat, and gazes forlornly through the two-inch gap by which he has lowered the window.
‘Shan’t be long, lass. Sit tight.’
He has parked in the shade at the side of the store, in a bay marked ‘Deliveries, Keep Clear At All Times’. He rounds the long estate car and follows DS Leyton, who is noticeably hobbling towards the entrance of the building.
‘You’re not exactly the spring chicken yourself, Leyton.’
‘Cor blimey, Guv – you ain’t kidding – my old pins feel like they’ve been run over by the Mile End bus.’
‘You need to get out more, Leyton – buy a dog – do your kids a favour.’
DS Leyton glances suspiciously at his superior. It is unlike Skelgill to be showing a concern – or even an interest – in his wellbeing and domestic life. Perhaps he suspects an ulterior motive, such as the provision of ad hoc boarding for the challenging canine recently acquired.
‘The missus reckons she’s allergic, Guv.’
Skelgill waves away the objection. ‘Get yourself one of those Labradoodles – they’re all the rage apparently.’
‘Pricey, though – so I’ve heard, Guv. Then there’s insurance, vets’ bills, feeding ’em.’
Skelgill nods pensively. ‘Reminds me – I’d better stock up on a few tins of Chum while we’re here.’
DS Leyton winces, presumably in anticipation of being tapped up for a further instalment on his credit facilities.
*
‘Decent scran, this, Leyton – for a supermarket.’
DS Leyton, who has succumbed to a chocolate brownie, nods agreeably as Skelgill tucks into a large plate of sausage, beans, fried eggs and chips. Skelgill has already pointed out that not only did he miss lunch in the line of duty (although no doubt DS Leyton strongly suspects he was walking the dog in lieu of attending the media conference), but also that it is tea time – five p.m. – when, by tradition, working-class British families have their main meal of the day (sometimes called high tea by cafés to differentiate it from the more genteel afternoon tea, which is an upscale and often extravagant cake-centred snack indulged in between luncheon and evening dinner). Of course, Skelgill eats whenever he can – on the principle that often he can’t – and doesn’t generally display any obligation to justify himself to DS Leyton – unless perhaps the latter is footing the bill.
‘So, this is the same table as Seddon, Guv.’
Skelgill nods and chews and points with a fork in the direction of the washrooms, presumably to indicate Barry Seddon’s direction of egress. They have spent the past half-hour with the store manager and the detective constable assigned to interrogate the CCTV records. Once Seddon was spotted, it had been a relatively straightforward task to examine the contemporaneous tapes from other cameras and piece together his movements. While these records do not extend to the car park, it is clear that he entered the store at ten minutes to twelve, and left five minutes later, having briefly visited the cigarette kiosk, the cafeteria and the toilets. Both of the female shop assistants who served him have been interviewed. Although neither have shed any particular light on the matter, the buxom and
somewhat scatterbrained young girl from the cafeteria claims to remember him as ‘a bit pervy’ – evidently he stared overlong at her breasts. They did not attempt to establish what would have been a reasonable period of observation.
‘Why do you reckon he bought a coffee, Guv – and then never touched it?’
Skelgill finishes his mouthful of food and takes a gulp of tea, draining his mug.
‘I’ll need another of these, Leyton, I’m parched.’
‘Have mine, Guv – I just finished one before I left the station – I’m tea’d out, truth be told.’
Skelgill shrugs indifferently and pulls his sergeant’s brimming mug to within comfortable reach.
‘Maybe he thought to use the gents’ you have to buy something.’
DS Leyton does not respond – it is obvious from Skelgill’s tone that this is not a serious suggestion. In any event, Seddon had already paid for cigarettes and a newspaper.
‘Perhaps he didn’t fancy it, after all, Guv.’
Skelgill stops eating and, with unusual decorum, places his cutlery amidst the work in progress on his plate.
‘Leyton – if you were meeting someone – what time would you make it?’
‘I’m not with you, Guv.’
‘Well – say you were going to arrange to meet DS Jones later to discuss this case?’
DS Leyton looks perplexed. But he glances uneasily at his wristwatch and shrugs. ‘I dunno – what – six o’clock?’
‘Precisely.’
‘You sound like the Speaking Clock, Guv.’
‘Ha-ha, Leyton – but watch my lips: six o’clock – on the hour.’
‘Ah.’
‘You make appointments on the hour, don’t you? Not eight minutes to six or eleven minutes past – even if that suits you better.’
Now the penny drops.
‘You reckon he was meeting someone at twelve, Guv?’
‘And if he was, Leyton, he wasn’t going far.’
*
Their respective meals consumed, Skelgill and DS Leyton stroll replete across the store lot to the parking bay where the scaffolder’s pick-up had been located before it was removed for forensic examination. The muggy afternoon is turning into a brighter evening; the sky has cleared and the sun is still respectably high in the west, with plenty of heat to spare. Skelgill cranes his neck to watch a group of swifts that screams and swarms overhead before diving twisting and glistening to skim the slate rooftops of the old town centre beyond the busy road. Though the supermarket is quiet, there is plenty of traffic on the move – folk that are not home are heading whither for their tea. Skelgill sits on the low wall that divides the car park from the sidewalk. With a casual flap of the hand he beckons to DS Leyton to do the same.
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 10