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

by Bruce Beckham

  Ten minutes more finds Skelgill and DS Leyton parked near the older centre of the town, in a long narrow sloping street of mainly red-brick terraced houses dating from as early as 1900, which matches the satnav’s designation as Queen’s Road. Some of the properties are variously harled and painted; some have low barriers of brick or block or timber enclosing improbably tiny front areas, while others give directly onto the pavement; some have a bay window and others a decorative canopy above the door. Only the satellite dish is an omnipresent constant, but insufficiently so to counteract the overall impression of incongruity. The detectives prise themselves stiffly from the car, and for a moment stand stretching and yawning in the midday sunshine as sparrows chirp unseen from a nearby rooftop. Purposefully, a mongrel dog trots past; while from the sidewalk opposite two small children interrupt a fight to eye them suspiciously.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – if this is Queen’s Road I shouldn’t like to see Pauper’s Avenue.’

  Skelgill scowls as if to disagree. ‘What did you expect, Leyton – the Champs-Élysées?’

  ‘I thought Leicestershire was supposed to be all quaint villages and tally-ho, Guv.’

  Skelgill moves towards the door of the house.

  ‘Let’s hope we’re on the right scent, then.’

  There is no bell and he rattles the aluminium flap of the letterbox. After a few moments there is the scrabbling sound of a chain being released and the door swings inwards to reveal the dressing-gown-clad figure of a woman in her late fifties.

  ‘I’ve bin expectin’ yer.’

  Before Skelgill can make introductions the woman turns slowly, beckoning with her head for them to follow. They see she has a stick with a rubber foot, and she leans heavily to one side as she limps. The front door opens directly into a sitting room. There is a staircase to their left and, on the far side of the small parlour, what appears to be a kitchen. Strains of a local radio station and the smell of a stew cooking percolate from this vector. She indicates with the stick two chairs that back on to the net-curtained window. Skelgill picks the nearest, leaving DS Leyton – after carefully closing the front door – to squeeze past him to the second. Recognising Skelgill as the senior officer, the woman fixes him with a somewhat lopsided stare.

  ‘Like a mash, me duck?’

  Skelgill is about to reply – undoubtedly in the affirmative – but the woman continues.

  ‘’ow about some snap – I can put yerrup a cheese cob?’

  ‘Perfect, thanks, madam.’

  She rotates at the hip, her weight pivoting on the stick, and shambles through into the kitchen. Skelgill looks perplexedly at DS Leyton, but the sergeant spreads his palms and pulls a face to indicate he has no idea what the woman said. The sound of a kettle being filled and the clinking of cutlery emanate from the kitchen. The detectives occupy themselves with looking about, though there is not a lot that would strike the professional investigator as significant: the usual complement of television, coffee table and gas fire; a pair of wooden candlesticks and a moulded brass three-wise-monkeys on the mantelpiece; knitting-in-progress and a copy of The People’s Friend protruding from a magazine rack; and, beside DS Leyton, a square leather pouffe with a round fur stole or hat upon it. DS Leyton absently reaches out to touch the item, and then recoils with a small yelp as it turns out to be a sleeping tabby cat, now awakened. The cat flashes him a malevolent glare and resumes its slumbers, tucking its head out of sight amidst its loins. After a minute more the woman returns bearing a tray. She has abandoned the stick and approaches awkwardly. Skelgill rises to assist, and conveys the tray onto the coffee table. Meanwhile the woman gingerly lowers herself into an upright chair.

  ‘Branston alright foryer?’

  The proprietary pickle had better be alright, since it is already generously layered on top of thickly cut Red Leicester cheese inside the two large white ‘cobs’ (local parlance for bread rolls) that she has ‘put up’ for them.

  ‘My favourite, madam.’ Diplomacy aside, Skelgill is difficult to disappoint when it comes to snacking on the hoof.

  ‘There yergo, me ducks.’

  The woman leans forward and turns the handles of two mugs of tea in the respective directions of Skelgill and DS Leyton, and gives each side plate a small push accordingly. She lifts her own mug and eases herself back into the seat.

  ‘I just ’ave it black – cozzer me MS – they say it’s best to avoid dairy.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, madam.’

  The woman shrugs. ‘Kern’t be ’elped.’

  Both detectives gaze at her, momentarily sharing a collective pained expression. The woman is fleshy without being overweight; her pale skin has a sickly pallor that contrasts against a black mop of wiry shoulder-length hair. Her pupils are dilated, making her dark eyes appear deep-set between heavy brows and half-moon shadows, and her facial muscles languid – perhaps a product of her unfortunate affliction. She has the look of one who lacks exercise and sleep and exposure to daylight.

  Skelgill reaches for his roll across the hiatus. He takes a substantial bite, catching an explosion of crumbs with his free hand, and simultaneously turning to DS Leyton with an inquiring look. DS Leyton realises this is a cue to speak, and tugs the briefing notes from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us, madam – I appreciate it can’t be an easy time.’

  The woman does not appear distressed, and watches him calmly, if a little unsteadily. He takes this as approval to continue. He taps the sheaf of papers with the back of one hand.

  ‘We’ve got the details passed on by your local police – that you fostered Lee in 1988 and that he left you in 1994 when he was sixteen. What we’re trying to find out is whether there’s anything in his background that might help us explain what has happened to him.’

  ‘Din’t ’e ’ave a wife or nowt?’

  The woman speaks from one side of her mouth; her face is rather expressionless – though her tone is noticeably forlorn.

  ‘We don’t believe so, madam. As yet we’ve not been able to trace any acquaintances other than the people in the motorcycle workshop in Kendal.’

  ‘’e always were a bit of a loner. Though ’e were a nat’rel wi’ engines – used ter meck a packet fixin’ stuff fer folks roundabout.’

  ‘You must have been proud of him – a young kid doing that.’

  The woman’s eyes flicker between the detectives before coming to rest again upon DS Leyton.

  ‘It were ’is mam as bought ’im to me.’ She uses the vernacular ‘bought’, meaning brought. ‘It weren’t official, yer know?’

  ‘You mean he wasn’t officially fostered, madam?’

  The woman gives something between a shake and a nod of the head.

  ‘I used ter work in the ’osiery wi’ ’er – it were a bad situation she were in – ’er old man were a drunkard – used ter knock ’em about – Lee were startin’ to get outer control – she were worried ’im and ’is little sister’d be put in care – she used ter give us a few pounds ’ere and there – but I mainly paid for ’im me sen.’

  ‘What became of the family?’

  ‘They moved away to Earl Shilton and I never ’eard no more of ’em.’

  ‘How far is that?’

  ‘Coupler miles, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  DS Leyton looks momentarily nonplussed: that such a small distance of separation could constitute permanence.

  ‘What was the family name?’

  ‘Atkins. Lee’s mam were called Janet.’

  Skelgill has finished his cheese cob, and now he interjects.

  ‘Madam – Linda – alright if we call you Linda?’ (Again the woman produces the ambiguous head movement, which Skelgill takes as a yes.) ‘Linda – did Lee return to his original family?’

  ‘Far as I know he din’t never ’ave owt to do wi’ ’em after. Kept my surname.’

  Skelgill nods. ‘What about with you, Linda – what kind of contact has there been?’

  ‘La
st I saw of ’im were in the summer of ninety-four when ’e went to Skeggy.’

  ‘Skegness?’

  ‘Ar.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘Reckoned ’e’d got a job fixing dodgems on the pleasure beach.’

  ‘So this was when he was sixteen?’

  ‘Just turned.’

  ‘And after that?’ Skelgill opens his palms, and then widens the air-gap between them to indicate whatever extended period she may wish to comment upon.

  ‘Sent me a few postcards – but they dropped off after a while.’

  ‘Were they all from Skegness?’

  The woman closes her eyes briefly, and looks as though she is nodding off to sleep.

  ‘Robin ’ood’s Bay, I remember – and Appleby.’ Her expression fleetingly lights up. ‘That’s where they ’ave the ’orses, in’t it?’

  Skelgill smiles and nods in agreement. The annual Appleby Horse Fair takes place only twenty miles from Penrith – although of course there is also the matter of twenty years between Lee Harris’s flight from his home town and his ignominious coming to rest beneath Sharp Edge.

  ‘Perhaps he’d hooked up with a travelling fair.’

  ‘Lee always loved the fair – they used ter ’ave it in Queen’s Park – ’e’d ’ang around fer ’ours watchin’ the rides.’

  ‘Did he have any other interests?’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘’e quite liked football – used ter ’ave posters of that Gary Linklater on ’is bedroom wall.’

  Skelgill must recall that this Leicester City connection had been mentioned by one of Lee Harris’s workmates. However, it is merely a stepping stone to a potentially more pertinent question.

  ‘Was he interested in hillwalking or climbing, Linda?’

  Now there is a glint of amusement in her eyes.

  ‘’ave yer seen it round ’ere?’

  Skelgill nods, perhaps a little reluctantly. It hasn’t escaped his eye – accustomed to the vertical nature of the Lake District – that this part of the Midlands, with its sprawling fields of rape and wheat, is about as horizontal as the proverbial pancake. He changes tack.

  ‘What about girlfriends, Linda – did he leave a sweetheart behind?’

  ‘Kern’t say as ’e did. ’e were too wrapped up in ’is old motorbike. ’e’d spend ’ours teckin it apart through in the back kitchen.’

  ‘How about his pals – you mentioned he was a bit of a loner?’

  ‘’e were a shy lad – ’e got picked on at school – sagged off a lot. And it wun’t teck nowt ter start ’im blartin’ if I ever told ’im off.’ She sighs and shakes her head, a rueful expression troubling her pallid features. ‘At ’ome ’e’d ’ave got a good beltin’ yer see – an’ I reckon ’e always expected that off’ve me at first. Like a poor maltreated dog, he were.’

  Skelgill drains the last dregs of tea from his mug and replaces it carefully upon the tray.

  ‘Is it possible he kept in touch with anyone in the area? Maybe someone connected with the motorbikes?’

  ‘I wunter thought so – if ’e weren’t bothered about me – why would he bother wi’ anyone else?’

  The woman stares for a few moments into her half-empty mug. Then tears well in her sad eyes and silently trickle down her sallow cheeks.

  *

  ‘What is it, Guv?’

  Skelgill indicates his reason for loitering with a slight inclination of his head. The house opposite to that belonging to Linda Harris is undergoing some renovation. A rudimentary scaffold frames its narrow frontage, and as they watch a bronzed youth wearing only rigger’s boots and cargo shorts swings down gibbon-fashion and drops to the pavement. He flashes a gap-toothed grin at the watching detectives and calls, ‘Yoright?’ before disappearing through the open front door.

  ‘No safety harness. No helmet. Probably no insurance.’

  ‘Small wonder there’s so many accidents in the building trade, Guv.’

  A crooked signboard advertises the fact that the firm is local – the usual father and sons trade name – though Skelgill seems more preoccupied by the Heath Robinson structure itself, as if he is assessing whether he could scale it bare-handed.

  ‘Think it’s an omen, Guv?’

  ‘I think it’s time to find that café, Leyton. What did she say, again?’

  ‘Left at the top of the road, cross over, and it’s down the first jit – whatever that means.’

  15. WALTER BARLEY – Friday afternoon

  As the detectives run the gauntlet of the Friday afternoon rush that converges upon Birmingham’s infamous Spaghetti Junction, Skelgill retrospectively decrees that they should have taken the M6 toll or indeed the A5 past Tamworth, Lichfield and Cannock, as if this collective failure of foresight is entirely DS Leyton’s doing. Thus ensues a colourful argument over the cause of their current jammed predicament. Meanwhile, back in the calm of their traffic-free Cumbrian constituency, sixty-four-year-old retired agricultural labourer Walter Barley is about to begin a different kind of journey.

  Presently, however, he roams distractedly about his cottage. A small border collie, accustomed to various set routines, seems to sense this vacillation, and anxiously trails his master’s every move. In the narrow hallway the man spends some moments uncharacteristically checking his appearance in a mirror. He is clean-shaven and dressed in a sports jacket and slacks that are normally reserved for semi-formal occasions (rare though such may be), and which are slightly too big for his wiry but still vigorous frame. His receding hair, mousy in hue, is combed over sideways in the style sometimes known as a ‘Bobby Charlton’, and he leans forward in a vain effort to inspect his thinning crown. Then, when he might normally be expected (at least, by the dog) to unfasten the door-catch and depart, he returns instead to the sitting room, where a laptop is open upon the surface of an oak dresser. He extracts a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket, and touches the trackpad to waken the screen from sleep mode. A rather lurid image materialises: two scantily clad though masked females titillate an equally anonymous pimply male slave. He stares hungrily at this for some time, his breathing becoming more frequent and faintly wheezy. Then he clicks through a sequence of related photographs, pausing longer on some than others, before eventually exhaling heavily, checking his wristwatch and closing the lid of the machine. On this cue the collie, which has been watching intently (the man, not the screen), excitedly circles the room before trotting into the hall to wait expectantly at the front door. But the dog is disappointed. Its owner, patting his jacket pockets to confirm the presence of miscellaneous personal effects, takes an opposite route via the kitchen and exits through and locks the back door. Against a downpipe leans an old boneshaker of a bicycle, and as its rider freewheels away the forsaken hound is left to watch him out of sight, its snout pressed somewhat forlornly against the smeared pane of the sitting room window.

  Walter Barley’s Victorian stone cottage squats at the periphery of a straggling farmstead on the lower slopes of Blencathra. A quarter of a mile further uphill there is a main farmhouse, and an assortment of sheds, barns and outbuildings of various sizes, ages and states of repair. Not far beyond these the fences and walls give on to the open fell, where ruined nineteenth century mine-workings tell of a time when ores of barium, copper, iron, lead and zinc were raised from beneath the great mountain. All in all, the quasi-industrial appearance of the whole enterprise is not one that complements the spectacular wild backdrop.

  From this locus first a rough track and then a narrow metalled lane leads down to Threlkeld. The topography is such that Walter Barley has no need to pedal as he sails under the influence of gravity towards the village. Threlkeld once lay directly upon the main east-west Penrith to Workington coaching route, and had its own railway station, but today it is bypassed, and the trains, with their regular ebb and flow of passengers, are long gone. Nowadays a quiet backwater, this Friday mid-afternoon sees Walter Barley ride sedately and apparently unnoticed into the midst of the b
ecalmed settlement.

  With a squealing protest from his brakes, he grinds to a halt near one of the village’s public houses, dismounts and wheels the machine around into the deserted patrons’ car park. There is a thick beech hedge running at right angles to the perimeter wall, and he jams the bicycle into the junction where stones meet foliage, largely concealing it from the eye of the casual observer. He returns to the public highway, and the nearby bus stop. He consults his wristwatch, and – although it has now ceased to rain – he chooses to wait inside the rather dilapidated wooden shelter provided for passengers and courting couples.

  The weather is indeed clearing from the south-west, as it has been doing progressively during the day across the whole of England and Wales. Shafts of sun are beginning to strike the immense angular bulk of the Blencathra massif, bringing life with light and shadow to its spectacular buttresses. Of these, Gategill Fell towers above the village like an immense russet pyramid shorn of its apex, while a pair of ravens circles above the silhouetted rocky outcrop known as Knott Halloo. Many a walker down the years has alighted at the bus stop and immediately reached for their camera to capture this striking scene, but for Walter Barley it must seem like old wallpaper – for, as his transport arrives, he does not trouble to cast a glance upon the hills that have watched his life come and go.

  The bus draws away towards the east, heading for its scheduled stops at Troutbeck, Penruddock, Stainton and Rheged en route to the terminus at Penrith. First it disappears from sight. Then the rumble of its engine fades. And, finally, the breeze disperses the sulphurous reek of diesel fumes. As if he has been waiting for confirmation from his senses of the all-clear, a small boy – perhaps aged about twelve – drops elf-like from the leafy lower branches of a sycamore, crunching the gravel of the car park beneath his new-looking trainers. He casts about – but no soul stirs. Hands in pockets, he saunters casually up to the spot where the rear wheel of Walter Barley’s bicycle protrudes from its beech cover. He reaches in and carefully pulls the machine out by its seat. It is large for his pre-pubescent frame, but he confidently mounts and propels the bike in one smooth motion. Now he takes a few turns about the car park, building up speed with each successive lap. On the fourth of these, instead of passing the gateway, he stands in the pedals and rides out onto the road. Then he, too, disappears from sight, albeit in a westerly direction.