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

by Bruce Beckham

  Skelgill blinks and shifts the screen back and forth until it is legible. (His focal length is clearly longer than he will publically admit.) He spends several moments silently browsing. He becomes still, his breath hissing between clenched teeth. His complexion retains its warm hue.

  ‘Doesn’t leave much to the imagination.’

  ‘See the menu on the left-hand side, Guv – it lists all the services she’s willing to provide.’

  Skelgill shakes his head forlornly.

  ‘I don’t know what half of these things mean. What’s tea-bagging, for Pete’s sake?’

  DS Jones suppresses a chuckle.

  ‘I don’t think it involves a Kelly Kettle, Guv. There’s a glossary somewhere on the site.’

  Skelgill squints suspiciously.

  ‘How come you’re such an expert, Jones?’

  ‘It was part of the last block of training modules at police college. Prostitution has gone online big-style, Guv.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  Skelgill flicks about, perusing the girl’s profile to the extent that is possible on an unsuitable small screen.

  ‘This one’s got BDSM listed under her likes.’

  ‘Most of them do, Guv.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think they tick pretty much all the boxes – I imagine it’s to maximise income.’

  Skelgill twitches as though a fly is bothering him.

  ‘I don’t suppose we can search for death by strangulation?’

  DS Jones giggles.

  ‘I guess they wouldn’t be that up-front, Guv – but we can find everyone who’s advertising in the area – even down to which town they work from.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah – look, I’ll show you.’

  She takes back the mobile and quickly taps in the requisite instructions.

  ‘Sixty-nine in Cumbria.’

  Skelgill throws her a doubting glance.

  ‘Coincidence, Guv.’

  Then she types again.

  ‘Mostly Carlisle. But twelve in Penrith. Three in Kendal. Two in Keswick.’

  ‘Keswick? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘That’s what it says, Guv.’

  ‘Does it give addresses?’

  DS Jones grins patiently.

  ‘On a lot of these profiles, Guv – they won’t even show their faces. I expect you get the address when you phone to make an appointment. Not everyone advertises all the time. And they regularly change their identities – clients like new girls, apparently.’

  She watches Skelgill closely, but he is implacable in response to this statement.

  ‘That girl you just showed me – it says she’s got over two hundred ratings. What’s that all about?’

  ‘The punters – to use their terminology – leave ratings. They can sign up as members and get ratings themselves from the escorts. And they can request to be contacted about services on offer.’

  Skelgill blows out his cheeks and ruffles the hair at his temples.

  ‘No wonder the missus goes ballistic when she finds this stuff on the husband’s home computer.’

  DS Jones shrugs her shoulders in an ambivalent gesture.

  ‘I reckon most of these profiles will be fake, one way or another, Guv – people set up false identities just like they do on the other social networking sites. And they’d use an anonymous email address via one of the free providers.’

  Skelgill still looks somewhat bewildered.

  ‘You call this social networking?’

  ‘Thing is, Guv – that’s exactly what it is. Just a bit more single minded.’

  Again she eyes him minutely, gauging his reaction. But perhaps he senses her closer attention, for he rises and trudges down to the water’s edge. Cleopatra rouses herself and trots after him, in case a stick-chase is in the offing. But Skelgill stands broodingly looking out across the surface. There is a ripple now, and for the moment the sun has disappeared. Behind him DS Jones shivers, and indeed she lets out an involuntary complaint. She wraps her cardigan about her shoulders. After a minute Skelgill turns and calls back to her.

  ‘Are there blokes on this site?’

  For a second she appears a little coy.

  ‘Girls, guys – and everything in between that’s legal.’

  Large drops of rain are beginning to fall and imitate the rises of feeding trout. Instinctively, Skelgill is compelled to watch for a moment, until he satisfies himself that their source is not piscine. He turns and strides purposefully up the beach.

  ‘We have to consider this.’

  ‘Think we should call in the specialist unit, Guv?’

  Skelgill turns his back to her. Then he kneels and begins collecting up the debris of their camp. He glowers, and silently – though rather forcibly – he jams the various items of picnic paraphernalia into his bag. DS Jones seems to sense that she has touched a raw nerve; she collects the enamel mugs and takes a couple of paces towards the shoreline.

  ‘Shall I rinse them, Guv?’

  ‘No need – I’ll sort this lot when I get back.’

  She hands over the mugs.

  ‘You were right about the Lakes, Guv.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Skelgill’s expression is still one of disquiet.

  ‘The rain, Guv.’

  He glances skywards, and then regards DS Jones, as if he has only now noticed the change in the weather. He sweeps his Barbour jacket from the shingle and raises it to shoulder height.

  ‘I’d offer you mine, but you’d look ridiculous.’

  DS Jones grins rather helplessly.

  ‘I should have listened to you, Guv.’

  Skelgill patiently unfastens a side-pocket of his rucksack. Then with a flourish he pulls out her pink cagoule.

  ‘Recognise this?’

  ‘Aw, Guv – my hero!’

  She jumps forward enthusiastically, perhaps pleased to be able to give him a positive stroke, and mitigate her faux pas. Skelgill reluctantly manufactures a grin.

  ‘All part of the service.’

  ‘You might not be streetwise, Guv – but no one beats you when it comes to being countrywise.’

  Skelgill hauls on his backpack and gives her a sideways look.

  ‘Aye, well – let’s just keep this Streetwise business between ourselves, eh?’

  And he marches away along the shingle.

  17. GREAT END – Monday morning

  ‘It’s the same rope, Guv.’

  Skelgill is grim faced. His eyes are bloodshot and their lower lids swollen. His hair is plastered across his brow and rainwater drips from the tip of his nose. Perhaps it is a trick of the light, a combination of the inclement conditions and insufficient sleep, but he looks haggard beyond his thirty-seven years.

  ‘It’s another middle section, Guv – you can see it’s been cut at both ends.’

  But still Skelgill does not reply. Indeed he seems to have little time for the corpse that DS Leyton inspects, down on one knee on the rocky slope. Instead he stares disdainfully at the angry mountain rising up before them, six hundred feet of slick black cliffs that defy ordinary passage and embody the melancholic conditions. Indeed, the lightning flashes emanating from the scene-of-crime photographer’s camera serve only to emphasise the forbidding gloom. This is Great End, a mecca for climbers and scramblers, the most northerly outlier of the Scafell Pike massif and monumental guardian of Borrowdale, a locus where Wainwright was prompted to note that ‘sunshine never mellows this grim scene but only adds harshness’.

  ‘Any ID?’

  ‘Pockets are all empty, Guv. No ring or watch. Big scar over the right eyebrow.’

  Skelgill bites systematically at his cheek, his eyes narrowing to mere slits.

  ‘When they found Mallory – seventy-five years after he’d fallen to his death – he had a name-tag sewn into his gabardine jacket. Imagine – climbing Everest in a gabardine jacket.’

  ‘Nothing that I can see, Guv.’ DS Leyton, uncomfortable on his haunches, huffs a
nd puffs and seems not to notice the idiosyncrasy in his superior’s remark. He rises to his feet with a grunt and hitches up his waterproof over-trousers. ‘I don’t like to interfere too much before the SOCO boys have finished. Alright, Guv?’

  Skelgill has turned his back, and is gazing vacantly across the mist-wreathed slopes that tumble from their present stance to a small body of water set amidst undulating grass-covered moraine. DS Leyton struggles across the slippery scree to stand beside him.

  ‘Another one of those little lakes, Guv.’

  ‘Tarns.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv – tarns.’

  ‘Sprinkling Tarn.’

  DS Leyton nods briefly to acknowledge Skelgill’s naming of the dark pool, its surface reflecting the charcoal of the lowering sky.

  ‘Could that be a connection, Guv?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Three dead bodies – three tarns.’

  Skelgill sighs contemptuously.

  ‘This is the Lakes, Leyton. What do you expect?’

  DS Leyton folds his arms defensively, tucking his hands into his oxters.

  ‘I realise that, Guv – but we’ve got to find something, soon.’

  Skelgill remains silent, and distracted. DS Leyton’s plaintive appeal paraphrases the words of the Chief, a biting rebuke telephoned earlier while they were in transit, and which now must seem to Skelgill to echo accusingly about the bleak fellside, and not just in the privacy of his head.

  ‘What’s this called, Guv? This mountain.’

  Skelgill continues to stare unblinkingly, and his reply is gruffly extruded from jaws set firm.

  ‘Great End.’

  ‘Not for him, eh, Guv?’

  ‘What, Leyton?’

  ‘Not a great end, Guv.’

  *

  ‘I thought I did pretty well, Guv – I reckon I’m getting the hang of this hill-walking malarkey.’

  Skelgill initially glowers at DS Leyton, but then something about the latter’s indefatigable naivety penetrates his desolate mood and he relents with a suppressed, and ironic, laugh.

  ‘Well – let’s just hope for some more murders, Leyton – you’ll be fit enough for a Bob Graham before the summer’s out.’

  ‘Steady on, Guvnor – careful what you wish for.’

  This remark may be variously interpreted, but presumably DS Leyton refers to the deaths rather than his dubiously improving athletic prowess. Any such elaboration, however, is pre-empted by the arrival of their breakfasts in the form of the celebrated Cumbrian fry, accompanied by a large chipped teapot to replenish their mugs.

  ‘Actually, Leyton – I think my wish has just come true.’

  Skelgill has temporarily commandeered – with the proprietor’s blessing – the somewhat antediluvian farm café at Seathwaite. If there can be a happy coincidence under such circumstances, it is that the hillside eatery is the nearest point of vehicular access to Great End, the site of the discovery of the third and latest victim’s body. This was almost literally stumbled across at just after six a.m. by a group of climbers from Wasdale Head, and Skelgill and DS Leyton were on the scene – by car and foot – some ninety minutes later. Skelgill had lingered there for perhaps only ten minutes – and thus it is now around nine a.m. The farm track branching from the Borrowdale to Buttermere road has been sealed off, and emergency services vehicles have swollen the ranks of half-a-dozen or so cars left overnight by hill-users; folk who may be wild camping, or alternatively have hiked through to lodge in Eskdale, Langdale or Wasdale. Any such walkers, returning with breakfast in mind, are for the moment disappointed, and find themselves detained in a barn for interviews as possible witnesses – a task that DS Jones has been summoned to coordinate.

  Skelgill still bears the visible (and perhaps invisible) scars of what DS Leyton must suspect has been a late night and a few too many pints with his mountain rescue mates. But, as Gladis’s cooking begins to work its magic, at least his boss’s black mood shows signs of dissolving. On this basis, he ventures a question that is perhaps designed further to ease the atmosphere.

  ‘Like one of my sausages, Guv? The missus forced a round of toast on me – no way I’ll eat all this.’

  Skelgill accepts the offered morsel with a nod.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Good grub they do here, Guv.’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘I should maybe bring the family on a nice day – spot of lunch – bit of a stroll – now I know the ropes. What would you recommend?’

  Skelgill glances up from his plate. Most people like to demonstrate their knowledge when it comes to giving directions, and he is no exception. He points with his knife held in his left hand, and sweeps it to and fro to indicate the path beyond the building.

  ‘Past this place is the main route to Scafell Pike – that’s why it’s so popular – most of the Three Peaks crowd come this way.’ He pauses to take a swig of tea. ‘But that’s a bit of a trek for young kids. It’s a good mile over a rocky plateau from Great End. Probably your best bet’s to carry on to Esk Hause, then turn back along the ridge, over Allen Crags and Glaramara – brings you down into Borrowdale village.’

  ‘I’ll have to buy the map, Guv – so you can mark it out for me.’

  ‘Don’t waste your money – I’ll lend you one. If you buy anything, buy a Wainwright – book four you’d need.’

  ‘Right, Guv – will do.’

  The storm that has ravaged Skelgill’s features appears to be subsiding, but now DS Leyton risks a reversion. Rather ostentatiously he checks his wristwatch, and taps its face meaningfully.

  ‘The description ought to be going out on the news any minute, Guv.’

  Hearteningly, Skelgill nods without scowling, though he is preoccupied with loading an improbably large forkful of fried foodstuffs, and does not look up.

  ‘Let’s just hope someone who’s missing him listens to Radio Cumbria, Guv.’

  ‘Someone has to.’

  ‘It would fit the pattern, Guv – what with Harris and Seddon both being from hereabouts.’

  Skelgill opens his improbably large mouth and devours the forkful, leaving DS Leyton to continue his speculation.

  ‘And this new one – he’s no hillwalker, neither, Guv. Dressed like he’s set off for church and gone and got himself lost. Could have been asleep, for the way he’s lying there – apart from the rope, obviously.’ DS Leyton absently aligns some baked beans on his plate. ‘Can’t believe we keep finding ’em, Guv – reminds me of when it rained fish in London when I was a nipper.’

  Skelgill swallows urgently. Any sentence containing the word fish is liable to win his attention.

  ‘What are you talking about, Leyton?’

  ‘Straight up, Guv – one of ’em fell in our back yard – flounder, my old ma reckoned it was, fresh out of the Thames estuary.’

  ‘Sure it wasn’t the neighbour having a laugh?’

  ‘No – it was in all the papers, Guv – and it rained frogs in the nineties – you must have heard about that?’

  Skelgill frowns suspiciously.

  ‘Supposed to be to do with a tornado, Guv. Sucks ’em up in a waterspout and drops ’em down somewhere else. That’s the only explanation.’

  Skelgill shakes his head ruefully.

  ‘I’ve stopped wondering how the bodies get there, Leyton – I just want to know why.’

  DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks in a show of solidarity.

  ‘Reckon he was dumped there overnight, Guv?’

  ‘Had to be – Great End was crawling with scramblers yesterday – I passed by myself on a practice run.’

  For a moment DS Leyton looks a little wide-eyed – perhaps at the notion that Skelgill so casually visited the location they (or at least he) just laboured to and from.

  ‘Apparently there’s folks turning up at the bottom of the lane, Guv – giving PC Dodd some grief because we’ve closed it.’

  Skelgill purses his lips.

  ‘They’ll have to wait –
though I shan’t shut off Gladis’s trade any longer than I need to. I reckon once we’ve identified the owners who’ve parked overnight we can open it up. There’ll be walkers coming through from all directions – we’d need a small army to close off the fells.’

  ‘What did the farmer and his missus say, Guv?’

  Skelgill is a long-term friend and – during his youth – was an informal charge of the Hope family, and thus he has already discussed nocturnal events with the couple, Gladis and her husband Arthur.

  ‘They were up at the crack of dawn – heard nothing in the night and the first vehicle to arrive this morning was one of ours – PC Dodd. This job was done in the small hours again, Leyton. Thing is, even if Arthur had been disturbed by an engine, he’d probably just reckon it was someone doing the Three Peaks.’

  ‘Talking of engines, Guv...’

  DS Leyton, whose seat backs on to a partially open sash window, twists around to steal a look at an approaching vehicle, its presence announced by a throaty roar.

  ‘Guv – that’s DI Sharp’s motor.’

  Skelgill hackles begin to rise.

  ‘What does he think he’s doing here?’

  DS Leyton peers through the narrow gap between sash and frame.

  ‘He’s got DS Jones, Guv – he must have given her a lift.’

  Skelgill leans forward over the table, so that he too can get a view and confirm DS Leyton’s observation. He is just in time to see DS Jones emerge from the extravagant sports coupé and unfurl a collapsible umbrella. As she does so, DI Smart scuttles around the car and joins her, placing an arm around her shoulders so that he can share the intimate protection afforded by its small canopy. Skelgill sits back down, his demeanour blackening by the second. A few moments later the new arrivals enter the old-fashioned parlour, its atmosphere thick with damp over-garments and the cloying haze of fried food seeping from a kitchen hatch. DS Jones comes first, looking suitably sheepish, and immediately steps aside to admit DI Smart. Ostentatiously he brushes raindrops from his shoulders and glances about disparagingly.

  ‘Not exactly The Ritz, Skel – you’re like a pig in shit, mate.’