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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘So, Leyton – the sixty-four thousand dollar question – did he walk, or did he get in a car?’

  ‘Maybe someone picked him up, Guv – he parked a long way from the shop. He could just nip over this wall.’

  Skelgill glances over his shoulder.

  ‘Double yellows, though.’

  ‘Wouldn’t stop you, Guv.’

  ‘Aye – but why come into the town centre? There’s plenty of easier meeting points out by the motorway.’

  ‘Well, maybe he did go on foot, Guv.’

  Skelgill ponders for a moment.

  ‘I think it’s more likely – but why not park outside wherever you were going?’

  Again, Skelgill’s question sounds like he already has an answer in mind.

  ‘Well – like you just said – yellow lines, meters, no spaces, whatever – supermarket’s a good place to park free. I do it myself, Guv.’

  ‘It’s one reason.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘His name was painted on his van.’

  DS Leyton nods – evidently he grasps Skelgill’s line of thought. He stands and looks both ways along the road behind Skelgill.

  ‘There’s a bookies up there, Guv. Maybe it opens at twelve?’

  Stiffly, Skelgill rises and stares in the direction indicated by DS Leyton. There is an arcade of shops and the bookmaker’s sign stands out clearly. In his line of sight a fake-tanned twenty-something pair of females are approaching, quite briskly. The taller of the two is dark, and by a few years the younger, though it is her accomplice that wins Skelgill’s attention, her scanty outfit of hot pants and sleeveless t-shirt winning over against the other’s more modest attire. His gaze is drawn to the scarlet straps of her bra, which don’t quite line up with her vest-top. Then he catches her partner’s disapproving eye, and switches his attention a little ostentatiously to his wristwatch. He examines it, frowning, and carefully adjusts the outer dial on its face with a series of clicks.

  ‘Let’s go see, Leyton.’

  The couple are past, perhaps on their way to the grocery store’s pedestrian entrance. Gingerly he straddles the wall. The shorter, heavier DS Leyton struggles over, swearing under his breath.

  ‘Remember his cousin Hilda said he was into betting, Guv? It could explain why he left his wallet in the van. And he’d bought the Racing Post.’

  Certainly this logic is quite compelling: if Seddon didn’t want to advertise his presence in the turf accountant’s, the supermarket car park would be a handy alternative. And, by leaving the balance of his funds in his vehicle, the temptation to lose everything would have been mitigated. However, Skelgill’s stern features reveal little trace of enthusiasm, and indeed when the pair reach the gambling emporium he strides right past without breaking stride.

  ‘Guv – what’s the score?’

  ‘Keep walking, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton scuttles to catch up, hampered by sore thighs.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘What about the bookies?’

  ‘On the way back – right now I’m timing us.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘If he came this way – and fifty-fifty he did – he probably had three or four minutes to get somewhere for twelve.’

  They have to halt for a moment as a car indicates to turn into the side street that interrupts their smooth progress. It is called Ullswater Place. As they cross Skelgill glances along its twin banks of terraced houses, but his gaze is not especially critical. They gain the opposite pavement and continue onward.

  ‘Thing is, Guv...’ (Skelgill is setting a brisk pace and DS Leyton wheezes a little) ‘...that assumes he was punctual.’

  Skelgill scowls. He does not reply and instead checks his watch. They walk on for what must be another minute before he wheels around. The supermarket is now shielded from view by other buildings, though its liveried sign is still recognisable, perhaps four or five hundred yards to the south.

  ‘There’s only so many routes he could have taken, Leyton. We need to plot them on a map and get some boots on the ground. Door-to-door, starting with a five-minute radius. And talk to anyone who’s out and about either side of twelve.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  ‘Better ask his cousin if she knows of anywhere in Penrith he might have had an appointment – something he might have wanted to keep under his hat – doctor, accountant, lawyer.’

  ‘Hairdresser, Guv.’

  Skelgill shakes his head unsympathetically at DS Leyton’s attempt at wit. Indeed, he falls silent as they retrace their steps, and now seems content with a casual gait – which finds favour with DS Leyton. They become visibly more alert as they reach the betting shop; however, the hypothesis that Barry Seddon might have paid a noon visit begins immediately to unravel: on the door is a sign advertising opening hours from nine a.m.

  They enter a plain windowless shoe-box of a room, presently devoid of punters, with plastic chairs lined up against one long wall and a bank of television screens high on the other, displaying horses that race or recover or parade in silence. Overhead, naked fluorescent strip-lighting creates a clinical brightness, though the place is shabby and lacks the modern fast-food feel of the big chain bookmakers, where placing a bet is as easy as buying a burger. Beneath the row of screens, pages from today’s Racing Post have been rudely fixed with masking tape onto the distempered plaster. Below these is a long shelf, on which are placed at intervals jam jars crammed with small ballpoint pens, and little stacks of betting slips. At the far end is a screened counter, whence a small elderly woman eyes them benignly from behind thick-lensed round-rimmed spectacles.

  DS Leyton approaches and makes their introductions. He establishes that she is the manageress and has been running the business single-handed for the past two-and-a-half decades, no less. He explains their purpose and slides a photograph of Barry Seddon beneath the screen.

  ‘Ah hav’nae seen him since April the seventh.’

  Her accent hails from across the border, but probably this side of Glasgow; perhaps Larkhall, a hundred miles up the motorway.

  DS Leyton is nonplussed. In a case that has so far produced vague intimations and doubtful connections, her reply is bizarrely specific.

  ‘You recognise him?’

  The woman nods once, patiently.

  ‘April the seventh – that’s over two months ago.’

  His intonation infers doubt into the accuracy of her recollection.

  ‘Aye – it was the Grand National on the fifth. He collected his winnings on the Monday. Twenty-fives – not many folk napped it.’

  DS Leyton looks a little relieved that there is a less-than-supernatural explanation. With a rank outsider winning the year’s big steeplechase, it had generally been a good Saturday for the bookies – and also a reason to remember those few, if any, successful punters.’

  ‘Hope he didn’t have too much on it.’

  Now DS Leyton sounds sympathetic.

  ‘A ton.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘I laid it off – backed it at thirties wi’ Bettoney’s.’

  DS Leyton chuckles. This discrepancy in the odds means a tidy profit, whatever the outcome. He might wonder at this paradoxical situation: bearing more than a passing resemblance to Mrs Goggins from Postman Pat, the woman looks substantially out of place in this rough-and-ready establishment; but her cunning replies tell him she is more than up to the job.

  ‘So, after the Grand National – that was his last visit?’

  ‘He disnae bet on the flat – prob’ly willnae be back ’til Wetherby in October.’

  DS Leyton glances sideways. Skelgill remains inscrutably silent. DS Leyton gathers that he is to continue in the present tense.

  ‘Does he have any associates – pals he meets here?’

  ‘Not as ah ken.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about him?’

  The woman’s eyes flicker, but it is appa
rent that her attention is becoming divided between the plain-clothes policemen and the five-thirty maiden fillies’ stakes at Haydock, which is just reaching its climax on the screen nearest to the counter. Her shrewd gaze dwells only long enough to take in the 1-2-3, whereupon she seems to relax, suggesting a successful outcome for the house book. She exhales and focuses once more upon DS Leyton.

  ‘He kens whit he’s dae’in’ – disnae stay to watch a race. Puts on a bet and he’s awa’ – he’s nae one fae small talk.’

  DS Leyton nods. He looks again to Skelgill, who gestures with an inclination of the head that they should leave. He hands over his card printed with his contact details. But as he steps away, Skelgill closes in upon the counter.

  ‘You seem pretty observant, madam.’

  ‘It helps tae read a face in ma job.’

  ‘Any new faces lately – last couple of weeks?’

  ‘There’s always one or two – we get some passing trade – especially this time o’ year.’

  ‘You’ll remember if we need to come back?’

  The woman grins conspiratorially. She points beyond her shoulder.

  ‘It’s all on film.’

  She says film in the Scottish way, fill’um, and Skelgill takes a moment to interpret the extra syllable. She means there’s a CCTV system, though it is not apparent on cursory inspection of the rear wall. After a moment he nods, and begins to back away, raising an approving thumb. Then he, too, grins.

  ‘Any tips, before we go?’

  ‘Tips for in here – or tips for taking money off ma competitors?’

  Skelgill laughs. ‘Aye – the latter.’

  The woman purses her lips and squints. ‘There’s a lot of interest in a colt running at Newmarket tomorrow – the four o’clock. Anything above threes is worth taking. You Stupid Boy.’

  ‘That’s got my name written all over it.’

  *

  ‘It was good of you to humour her, Guv – about that tip.’

  ‘I’m deadly serious, Leyton – horse with a name like that.’

  ‘My old uncle was a tic-tac man for a bookie – he reckoned only mugs bet on horses with names they liked.’

  ‘Leyton – You Stupid Boy – have you forgotten who said that?’

  ‘Er... no, Guv – it was Captain Mainwaring, wasn’t it?’

  ‘To?’

  ‘Oh... I get it – Pike.’

  ‘Exactly. The mountain, if not the fish.’ Skelgill slaps DS Leyton between the shoulder blades. ‘Now if you could lend me a tenner, Leyton, I’ll split the winnings with you on Monday.’

  13. DS JONES CALLS – Thursday evening

  Skelgill is inexpertly arranging his damp hair, squinting critically into the film of dust that coats a little-used vanity mirror. From amongst the jumble of clothes on his bed his mobile rings. Naked, and rather pale but for his head, neck and forearms, he braces himself with one arm and rummages to retrieve the intrusive device. He frowns at the display, his lips compressed. The bright screen tells him the same caller has tried three times in the past ten minutes. Then he jabs at the handset with his left index finger.

  ‘Jones?’

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Guv...’

  ‘No problem.’

  The flat tone of Skelgill’s reply hints at something of the opposite sentiment.

  ‘What it is, Guv – I’ve had some thoughts on the case.’

  ‘Aha?’

  DS Jones is silent for a moment; perhaps she has detected his reticence and is recalibrating her approach. Her response is somewhat tentative.

  ‘Well... I wondered – are you free – for a drink... or something?’

  Skelgill hesitates. He casts about the room – though it appears for nothing in particular. He picks up an angling magazine from his nightstand and gazes blankly at the cover, which he holds upside down.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Er... outside, actually, Guv.’

  *

  Only two minutes have passed when Skelgill ducks into the passenger seat of DS Jones’s car. His downward angle of entry causes his gaze to fall naturally upon the area of her lap. She has changed out of the daywear in which he last saw her, into a short black skirt with a floral lilac and pink print, and a simple figure-hugging black t-shirt. Her smooth bronzed legs – slightly parted by accelerator and clutch – are naked but for a pair of black open-toed sandals. There is a subtle, but heady perfume in the air, and he seems momentarily transfixed as he settles himself beside her.

  ‘Nice shirt, Guv.’

  She says this earnestly, but Skelgill creases his features in reprimand.

  ‘Very funny, Jones.’

  The garment, in the style of the season, is one that he acquired with her encouragement.

  She beams warmly. It is apparent that he has just showered; from him there is even a competing hint of after-shave. And his smart-casual attire has more emphasis upon the smart than might normally be encountered. Not a dedicated follower of fashion, as a rule his gear is generally a good few years behind the times; and he wears unashamedly what is most suitably technical for the task in hand – fishing, motorcycling, fell-walking. Now, in an open-necked short-sleeved shirt, stressed jeans and polished brogues, he looks a shade outwith his comfort zone.

  ‘You were quick, Guv.’

  Skelgill harrumphs.

  ‘Aye, well – that depends if we’re talking about quick on the scale of male-getting-ready, or quick on the scale of female-getting-ready.’

  Ds Jones bats her eyelashes contritely.

  ‘I thought you might be out with the dog, Guv – I tried your phone a couple of times. But as I was driving this way...’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘No need tonight – the neighbour’s babysitting her for me.’

  DS Jones glances away, as if this fact raises some incongruity in her mind, and indeed Skelgill uncharacteristically supplies further superfluous details.

  ‘Turns out she’s a part-time dog-walker – does it for a living. I barely knew the job existed. She’s mentioned it before, but I thought she was joking – you know, like people call themselves domestic engineers. She’s got an Alsatian of her own – he’s taken a bit of a shine to Cleopatra – good company for her.’

  DS Jones, her exuberance seemingly a fraction bruised, contrives a grin.

  ‘I hope his intentions are honourable, Guv.’

  ‘I’m assured he’s had the snip.’

  Skelgill makes an affected shudder, in solidarity with members of his gender. He inhales as if to speak, but then holds in the breath; he stares for a moment directly through the windscreen. He might be expected to ask what has brought DS Jones out of her way (when a telephone conversation would surely have sufficed) – and to turn up at his house on spec – but perhaps he decides such information is now irrelevant. He exhales and slaps his thighs purposefully.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Well... not to speak of, Guv – not since morning break.’

  Skelgill stares at her with mild incredulity. In his geography of the day’s meals, she might as well be stranded on the far side of the Grand Canyon.

  ‘Can you find The Yat at Gatewath?

  DS Jones closes her eyes and lays neatly manicured nails gently on the steering wheel, as if she is driving an imagined route in a dreamlike state.

  ‘Is that by the motorway, Guv – just off the old A6?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I always get lost around there – you can’t cross the river for miles – it feels like you’re taking a massive detour.’

  Skelgill looks pleased with himself. He taps his temple with an index finger.

  ‘I have an inbuilt maps app. Start by making a u-turn.’

  *

  Their destination is a smartly whitewashed, low slate-roofed two-storey building with contrasting black window surrounds. It reveals its antiquity as a coaching inn through its worn stone mounting-block, today an inconspicuous seat for a trough of scarlet
geraniums. The main door is open and boisterous chatter spills out. They enter to find a cheerful throng, presumably enticed out by the fine summer’s evening. There is a mix of tourists and locals: a distinction that is seemingly evident to Skelgill, for he nods casually to expectant faces here and there. In turn the newly arrived couple attract some interested stares as they squeeze through to the servery, with most eyes lingering upon DS Jones. It is difficult to discern if this is because she is in tow with Skelgill, or simply a product of her looks in their own right – but maybe it is a combination of both. This latter conclusion is perhaps reinforced when the comely blonde landlady greets Skelgill with a hawkish leer. Her features are aquiline and her eagle-eye is quick to take in DS Jones, scanning its quarry with a single penetrating yet sufficiently respectful sweep. As her gaze returns to meet Skelgill’s it carries a curious glint, both inquisitorial and yet triumphant, as though she is intrigued by the unexpected, and secretly approving of the incorrigible.

  Skelgill introduces DS Jones as ‘Emma’ – which must seem a rarity to her – and she responds with a generous smile. The landlady reciprocates, reaching a hand across the counter, chirping, ‘Veronica, alright my love?’ Skelgill orders drinks and, while he makes no mention of food, Veronica tilts conspiratorially towards them, dividing her ample bosom with a Jenning’s handpump.

  ‘I could have saved you that corner table.’ She gestures with an inclination of her head towards the large inglenook fireplace. Her accent is southern – she says tie-bol – like a moderated version of DS Leyton’s, perhaps suburban Essex. ‘But I thought the bar might be too rowdy – so I’ve put you in the alcove in the back room – a bit more intimate. Go on through and Julie will bring your drinks.’