*
Having eventually emerged from the choked West Midlands bottleneck, Skelgill and DS Leyton have enjoyed a short spell of relatively open road. However, just when they might breathe easily, brake lights have begun to signal trouble ahead, and it is not long before the motorway is once again at a crawl. On Friday afternoons this Cheshire stretch of the M6 is troublesome at the best of times – as residents of the sprawling Manchester metropolis commute home – but in summer the rush is compounded by an exodus of weekend tourists bound for the contrasting charms of Blackpool and the Lake District. When these forces combine, caravans and all, the great north-south artery becomes inexorably clogged, and radio traffic news presenters resort to the catch-all expression ‘sheer weight’ by way of scant consolation for their captive audience.
Thus a unilateral decision is taken to bide a while at Sandbach services. Once inside the cafeteria, Skelgill quickly darts away on the pretence of ‘saving a window table’ (though there are plenty to be had) leaving his subordinate to queue at the counter and obtain the requisite refreshments. DS Leyton’s protests that he needs to get home for his own tea have been waved away by his boss, on the grounds that teatime would be spent in a line of traffic. Skelgill argues that they may as well sit out the jam, and resume their journey once it has cleared. As usual, he treats regular mealtimes as an entirely moveable feast, so to speak. In the way of the lone wolf, he scavenges opportunistically rather than when hunger calls.
‘The missus’ll go crackers if she delays tea and I don’t eat it, Guv.’
Skelgill frowns at the two crowded plates of cakes that DS Leyton slides onto the table between them.
‘Well, I’ll have yours if it’s going to be a problem, Leyton.’
As has been witnessed, this is a familiar scenario. Customarily, Skelgill is responsible for placing them in a predicament whence overindulgence might ensue; and, typically, DS Leyton remonstrates about such an outcome. Skelgill then rails against any suggestion that it is somehow his fault, and threatens to consume DS Leyton’s portion; at this point the latter generally yields. Unfortunately, his metabolism (and, it must be said, his inactive lifestyle) means that excess consumption tends to head for the waistline, while Skelgill seems ever unaffected.
‘I’ll try the blueberry muffin, Guv – and see how I get on.’
The hint of a grin creases the corners of Skelgill’s mouth. He flaps a hand at the lines of northbound traffic that crawl beneath their vantage point.
‘Beats being stuck in that lot – imagine having to put up with this every Friday.’
DS Leyton nods agreeably as he bites into his muffin.
‘You should see it round the M25, Guv – when we go visiting the mother-in-law, there’s always gridlock – the kids are bouncing off the roof – total nightmare.’
Skelgill slurps at his tea. ‘You ought to get her to come up on the train.’ Then he notices the alarmed expression upon DS Leyton’s face. ‘Maybe not, then.’
‘Jams it is, Guv – least it gives us an excuse to get away early on the Sunday.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow sympathetically. They eat in silence for a minute or two, each drifting with their own thoughts, their heads turned to watch the noiseless vehicles below. It is DS Leyton who speaks in due course.
‘What did you make of Linda Harris – don’t think we got much really, Guv?’
Skelgill shrugs noncommittally and takes a bite of a scone in lieu of replying. DS Leyton is left to develop the conversation.
‘Reckon she was being straight about not hearing from him?’
‘I reckon she was being pretty straight altogether, Leyton – she’s not in a good way – why would she withhold anything?’
DS Leyton is silent for a moment.
‘Think we should track down the birth family, Guv?’
‘Aye – on Monday, see if we can get the local plod onto it – if nothing else we can get a DNA sample to confirm the ID.’
‘Makes you wonder if they’ll even remember him, Guv – no great surprise that he turned out to be a loner as an adult.’
‘Could fix bikes, though, eh? Spoke his own language.’
‘He must have been under age, Guv – if he were riding one himself.’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘Stick on a helmet – so long as you look big enough, nobody knows.’
What Skelgill does not add, is that he talks here from experience, having clandestinely ‘borrowed’ an elder brother’s motorbike on numerous occasions as a young teenager.
‘Looks like he bolted at the first opportunity, Guv – I suppose when you ain’t got no proper home, it’s easy to take to the road.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘His problems started early, didn’t they?’
DS Leyton looks momentarily agitated. He sits upright and folds his arms determinedly.
‘Think someone came after him, Guv – someone from his past?’
‘What kind of someone?’
‘Well – I don’t want to cast aspersions – but there’s geezers among that travelling crowd you wouldn’t want to cross – I mean, look at the bare-knuckle fighting, badger-baiting, pit bulls and all that. And we’ve not long had the Horse Fair, Guv.’
Skelgill is staring penetratingly at DS Leyton.
‘Aye – that’s all very well, Leyton – but where does Seddon come in? To the best of our knowledge he’s been putting up scaffolding all his working life. Why would they be after him?’
DS Leyton looks a little crestfallen. Certainly there is no obvious link in this regard.
‘Maybe he owed money, Guv?’
Skelgill looks doubtful.
‘In his line of work, he’d be the one that was due money – he was a one-man band, remember.’
‘What about gambling debts, Guv? There’s a lot of unofficial stuff goes on – great wads of bangers-and-mash change hands over horses at Appleby.’
Skelgill grimaces and takes a swig of tea.
‘It doesn’t fit, Leyton. Where’s the climbing connection? Where’s the rope?’
DS Leyton suddenly starts and looks momentarily alarmed.
‘Cor blimey – that reminds me Guv.’ He fumbles for his mobile. ‘When I was paying I noticed an email come through from DS Jones – it’s about the rope, I think.’
Skelgill pats his pockets.
‘Left mine in the motor. Think it’s out of gas.’
‘Here we go.’ DS Leyton licks crumbs from an index finger and wipes it on his shirt. ‘Let me just get it bigger so as I can read it. Me old mince pies ain’t what they used to be. Comes to us all, eh, Guv?’
‘Speak for yourself.’
Skelgill looks at the palm of his hand, lifting it improbably close to his eyes, as if to demonstrate his point.
‘Right, Guv – they’ve got some of the tests back – both pieces definitely from the same original rope – consecutive – the cuts match exactly. The section used to strangle Harris was an end piece, and the one for Seddon a middle piece – you were spot on, Guv – there’s some missing.’
DS Leyton glances up, but Skelgill still seems to be checking his focal length.
‘They’ve traced it to an American manufacturer that was founded in 1992 – so that’s the maximum age it could be – there’s a sample on the way to them to see if they can be any more specific. American, Guv?’
Skelgill purses his lips doubtingly.
‘Could be a red herring, Leyton – most climbing ropes used in Britain are made abroad – that’s long been the case. Both of mine are Swiss. And they’re not cheap, so there’s a big second-hand market.’
‘Money for old rope, eh, Guv?’
‘Very funny, Leyton.’ Skelgill allows himself a smile. ‘Another thing – if it’s a rope that’s been passed around, think how much foreign DNA there’s going to be on it. I lose some of the skin off my hands every time I climb.’
DS Leyton nods. He scrolls through the message, his features assuming a
mask of progressive concern.
‘Anything else?’
‘That’s about it, really, Guv.’ The sergeant swallows apprehensively before he continues. ‘DS Jones mentions the Chief’s been trying to get you for an update – says she’s expecting some good news for a Friday afternoon.’
Skelgill’s expression becomes one of severe irritation. While the long trip to the Midlands has not ostensibly been productive – like most of the leads they have followed thus far – there is something about his general offhand demeanour that suggests he at least feels they are making progress. As he is wont to point out, the knack is to know which pieces of jigsaw belong to the puzzle you are trying to solve – often they come to hand at an early stage, but are simply not recognisable as such. Skelgill’s approach to this recurring conundrum is a mystery even to himself – but what he does know is that the connections will snap into place: when either a critical mass has been reached, or some unforeseeable catalyst short-circuits the process. Either way, this is not a paradigm that may easily be forced – much to the frustration of his senior officers. The Chief wants results – which is understandable given a baying media pack and a panicking general public – but Skelgill is not a machine but a mere mortal. And, right now, matters of mortality are about to take a turn for the worse.
*
Walter Barley alights at the bus station in Penrith and heads north on foot through the town centre. He seems to know where he is going, and keeps up a steady pace. He does, however, take a small detour to a public telephone kiosk, where he extracts a slip of paper from his wallet and makes a brief call. Shortly after, he passes the supermarket on Scotland Road, and thus approaches the little arcade of retail businesses. He interrogates his watch, and draws to a halt. Rather self-consciously he wanders over to the first of the premises, a newsagent’s. For a minute or so he window shops, hands in pockets, but then he digs for change and pushes through the door, emerging a minute later tearing at a packet of chewing gum with his teeth whilst also clenching between his fingers a black comb in a clear plastic sleeve. He pops a pellet of gum into his mouth and then slides the comb from its case. Peering again into the shop window he uses his faint reflection to style his equally meagre hair. Once more he checks the time – but still it seems there are some minutes to kill, for now he takes his wallet from his pocket and flicks through its contents. Then he steps purposefully towards the entrance of the next emporium, the bookmaker’s.
16. GRASMERE – Saturday morning
‘It’s getting like a police state – that’s what it is.’
‘No worries, Guv – I’ve got my purse.’
Skelgill does not appear mollified by DS Jones’s generosity.
‘There’s no escape – you can even pay by credit card or mobile. Bloody disgrace.’
DS Jones beams encouragingly. ‘Come on, Guv – maybe one day these cameras will catch us a criminal.’
Skelgill harrumphs.
‘Pity the rope murderer didn’t have the bright idea to come here.’
‘Exactly, Guv – think these cameras operate at night, as well?’
Skelgill’s features are creased into a cynical scowl.
‘Pound to a penny – where there’s money involved.’ He shakes his head. ‘How to make your visitors feel welcome.’
He kills the engine and climbs from his car. He stands for a moment and glares at the number plate recognition cameras that guard the public car park. Gone are the days of the Lakeland stone honesty box. Then he rounds to lift the tailgate and release a relieved looking Cleopatra. The dog tumbles onto the uneven surface, performs a couple of her customary sideways dodges, and then picks up a scent and trots off into the nearby bushes. Skelgill busies himself with his gear, hauling out a jangling rucksack and a pair of walking boots.
‘Think we’ll need waterproofs, Guv?’
‘Is there water in the Lakes?’
Perplexed, DS Jones squints at the largely clear blue morning sky. Skelgill, pulling on extra socks, glances sideways at her – she appears reluctant to take his advice, and indeed she wanders casually away from the vehicle towards the parking payment machine. Skelgill is about to close up the car – then at the last second he reaches in and grabs her cagoule, and stuffs it into one of the side pockets of his rucksack. He swings the heavy bag onto his back and sets off, bisecting DS Jones and the dog, which has reappeared and is mooching about in some long wet grass.
‘Walk this way, ladies.’
Skelgill must, however, be in reasonable fettle; as for a brief moment he goose-steps to accompany his command. A grinning DS Jones hurries across to catch up with him, while the Bullboxer falls in a few yards behind.
‘It says we pay when we leave, Guv.’
‘They’ll be taxing fresh air next.’
The country path begins to weave between clumps of willows and alders, and shortly leads them across a footbridge over a wide though shallow stream into sessile oak woodland. From high in the canopy the energetic trill of a wood warbler, invisible to the eye, attracts Skelgill’s attention – though he does not remark as they stroll beneath.
‘Think Cleopatra will be okay off the lead, Guv?’
Skelgill stares reflectively in the direction of the dog, which has now gambolled ahead.
‘Aye – that’s why I chose here – no sheep to worry about.’
‘Where are we going exactly?’
‘There’s a decent walk – circuit, more or less – up Loughrigg and back beside Grasmere.’
‘Decent for you, Guv – that could be a marathon for me.’
‘No – three miles, at most.’ Skelgill glowers somewhat woodenly. ‘I’ve got to get back for an exercise up at Honister this afternoon.’
DS Jones seems momentarily dismayed by this news, and perhaps it prompts her to be forthcoming with a question she has put off twice already: first when he called her earlier, and subsequently when they rendezvoused in a hotel car park in Grasmere village.
‘So I was wondering, Guv – to what do I owe the honour of being asked along?’
Skelgill does not reply immediately, but stares unblinkingly ahead. Then he jabs at the rucksack with his left elbow, producing a response from its metallic contents.
‘I’ll explain when we stop for a brew.’
DS Jones shrugs phlegmatically. Then, just as she inhales as if to speak, from around a bend in the woodland path there suddenly appears the incongruous sight of a party of Japanese tourists. It is quite a crowd, and must represent the contents of an entire coach. There is no obvious group leader, and at the head is a smiling couple of student age – although the demographic spectrum stretches from the youthful to the positively venerable. Clutching mobiles, tablets and cameras, they are all smartly dressed, and – blinking and somewhat bewildered by their surroundings – they look more like they have lost their way in an airport concourse and have somehow ended up in the woods by mistakenly following a fire escape. As the human snake winds towards them, Skelgill and Jones step aside onto the raised bank. Skelgill bends down on one knee, and takes hold of the dog by her collar, to pre-empt any over-zealous lunges. Now it seems every last one of the Japanese wants to practise their English, and each goes to some lengths to enunciate a stilted greeting. Trapped as he is, Skelgill looks progressively troubled by this predicament – reciprocating twenty-five or thirty ‘good mornings’ severely tries his patience. DS Jones, on the other hand, is highly amused, and can’t help herself from giggling as each couple insists upon having their hello. But eventually the last one passes and they are able to resume their walk.
‘I think they would have liked to take our photo, Guv.’
Skelgill looks relieved that they did not. ‘How come?’
DS Jones hesitates. Perhaps she is searching for a diplomatic answer, when the true response might be that they would have liked to take his photograph. The combination of his threadbare country attire, rucksack, boots, windswept hair and weatherbeaten features – complemented by the fie
rce-looking hound – probably confers the appearance of exactly the kind of authentic ‘wild’ local that foreign visitors would hope to spot in these woods.
‘Well – I mean Cleopatra, really, Guv – she’s quite a novelty breed, isn’t she?’
Skelgill frowns, as though he is not entirely convinced by this explanation.
‘So long as they don’t dump any litter, they’re welcome to photograph whatever they like.’
‘They won’t leave litter, Guv – did you see the Japanese football supporters on the news the other night – they stayed behind after their match to clear up all the rubbish in the stadium.’
‘Good for them.’
‘Think England will ever win the World Cup again, Guv?’
This enquiry seems to fall on deaf ears, for Skelgill does not respond, and marches on in a rather gloomy silence. After a minute, however, he stops, and cranks out an arm to bar DS Jones’s path beside him.
‘What is it, Guv?’
‘Look.’
He points to the undergrowth on one side of the path. A butterfly rests in a splash of sunlight upon the filigree surface of a fresh green fern leaf. Slowly it opens and closes its wings to reveal an attractive chequered pattern of pale spots and false eyes upon a chocolate brown background.
‘Speckled wood.’
‘That’s beautiful, Guv – pity we can’t show our visitors.’
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 14