He has not learned a great deal from the highly-strung lady of the house. While her answers to his questions have not exactly been evasive, certainly the junior officer who will be despatched to take a full statement will have their work cut out to achieve a definitive version. Lucinda’s rambling and slightly hysterical account of her movements since Friday – whilst her husband was away – is full of minor contradictions and selective memories. It seems she leads a lively social life, and spent her weekend very much in the mode of society butterfly, flitting from champagne lunch to afternoon Pimm’s party to evening cocktail bash. Skelgill declined to inquire as to how she managed to conduct herself from one to the next. In the end, he has settled for what he must consider to be the most telling piece of information, which is that she cannot recall having seen Walter Barley since before lunch on Friday... ‘...or was it Thursday, now?’
Skelgill slows the car to a gentle crawl as he approaches the cottage, henceforth untied of its tenant. As he had been led to expect, his search has revealed little. There were no signs of a forced entry, or a burglary, or even a struggle – never mind a murder. ‘Jolly shipshape’ was an accurate description. He paid particular attention, however, to a scullery area, where the sheepdog formerly had its living quarters (it now appears to have taken up residence with two chocolate Labrador bitches in the main house). Both food and water bowls were empty, and the litter tray showed signs of use – though the determination of approximately how recently exceeded Skelgill’s ambition.
A more straightforward observation was the distinct absence of any communications equipment, apart from a telephone. No computer, no modem, no router, no wiring. This may not be considered unusual, except that in answer to Skelgill’s question about how Walter Barley catered for himself, Lucinda had indicated that his groceries were delivered – which rather suggests he ordered them online. This, of course, can be achieved via mobile phone – though that is perhaps unlikely for a man of Walter Barley’s generation. Nevertheless, he was not known to haul large bags of provisions from the local village store, dangling from the handlebars of his bicycle.
Perhaps prompted by this particular reflection, Skelgill knocks his gear lever into neutral and allows the car to rumble slowly past the cottage. It begins to gather speed, and from time to time he is obliged to brake to control its progress. He continues in this manner for some minutes, and in due course the long estate quietly rolls into Threlkeld. He seems to be in no hurry – indeed it might be a fuel-saving experiment – and he waits for the vehicle to decelerate naturally, where the road levels out at a bus stop outside the first of the settlement’s public houses. There is just enough momentum for him to slew into the car park and grind to a halt on the gravel. He sits in thought for a minute, before locking the car and wandering casually across to enter the hostelry.
About forty minutes later Skelgill reappears and, leaving the village in a westerly direction, joins the A66. The first flush of weekend holidaymakers is arriving in the north Lakes from the M6 junction at Penrith. Eschewing a couple of overtaking opportunities, he settles into the steady stream of cars, their rear windscreens jammed with holdalls, duvets and bulging plastic shopping bags. After two miles he swings off at the A591 exit signposted for Keswick and Windermere. It is the former that proves to be his destination, and he follows the general flow of traffic through the town, to park free of charge in a supermarket car park. From here he goes on foot, more briskly now – his regular pace – side-stepping clusters of cagoule-clad visitors who suspiciously eye the heavens and mutter doubting comments about the likelihood of the rain holding off. Skelgill strides the length of Main Street, passes the Moot Hall, and veers off along the narrower St John’s Street, with its century-old picture house. Here he promptly disappears into the Edwardian offices of Pope & Parish, Chartered Surveyors & Land Agents.
Skelgill introduces himself to the matronly receptionist in his official capacity, and these credentials produce an immediate response that sees him shown through into one of the partner’s offices. There is a small brass plaque on the door marked Reginald Pope, MRICS.
‘Chief Inspector Skelgill to see you, sir.’
Skelgill does not trouble to correct his unauthorised promotion. Instead he reciprocates the hand that is extended across a heavily cluttered desk, by a diminutive if plump elderly man, who rises to greet him with a broad grin. He indicates in a friendly manner that Skelgill should take a seat.
‘Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Mr Pope.’
The man starts, and throws up both hands in a gesture of regret.
‘Ah – my apologies – I’m Parish – just borrowing my partner’s computer. If it’s Pope you want, I’m afraid he’s away at our Hawick branch, they’re having some difficulties over the Scots missives regarding a converted chapel – but I can arrange an audience by telephone?’
Behind round-lensed spectacles there is a natural twinkle in the man’s bright blue eyes, and this is perhaps just sufficient to leave Skelgill in doubt as to whether there was an intended pun (or two) in the man’s explanation. He plays a straight bat.
‘We’re trying to trace the seller of a property – a transaction we believe your firm may have handled, sir. Knott Halloo Farm, above Threlkeld.’
Again the man reacts in an animated fashion, an expression of some surprise sweeping across his features, and his left arm automatically reaching out to slide a protective palm over a manila file that nestles among the papers that lie before him.
‘I think you may be ahead of me on this one, Chief Inspector – I must confess.’
He stares evenly at Skelgill, though now there is surely a little upward twitch of the eyebrows. Skelgill in turn frowns quizzically.
‘I’ve just come from there, sir – I’m talking about when the farm was sold towards the end of the nineties.’
‘Aha, I see, Chief Inspector – let me think now.’
The man retracts his hand and brings it together with his other in the manner of prayer. He lowers his chin onto his fingertips and closes his eyes for a moment, as though he is willing some faded dossier to slip from the dusty shelves of his memory. Then his eyes spring open and his face lights up with an expression of some glee.
‘Stewart – Maurice Stewart! If I recall – I dealt with it myself. Had a son called Clifford – he ran some sort of adventure centre from the farm.’
Skelgill looks relieved.
‘Would you by any chance have a forwarding address, sir?’
‘Quite possibly, Chief Inspector – though I am afraid our records from that era are not computerised – Pope actually keeps all the archives with his Châteauneuf-du-Pape.’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘In his wine cellar, Chief Inspector.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘I could probably have it for you first thing in the morning?’
‘That would be excellent, sir – though after all this time the likelihood is they’ll have moved on anyway.’
‘Where there’s faith, there’s hope, Chief Inspector.’
Skelgill shifts and straightens uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Do you recall anything of the people themselves, sir – or perhaps any of their associates? I can tell you that we’re investigating the suspicious death of a former farmworker – Walter Barley – you may have heard the news on the radio this morning.’
The man nods to indicate the affirmative. He moulds his features into an expression of helpful concern, though he begins to shake his head.
‘It was all conducted pretty much at arm’s length, Chief Inspector. And my memory is wearing a little thin.’ He rubs the balding crown of his head, as if to emphasise this deficiency. ‘Our instructions were to find a buyer fast. If I remember correctly, there was a business liquidation involved, due to a fire – I imagine the creditors would have been camped out all around the elder Mr Stewart once they realised he was going to be in funds from the sale of the property.’
‘There was a rumour of arson, sir – though it never became a police matter.’
Parish frowns and now more definitively shakes his head.
‘If one were owed money it would not make a great deal of sense to destroy one’s debtors’ assets. Repossession is the norm, Chief Inspector.’ He resettles his glasses, which have travelled about halfway down the bridge of his nose. ‘And if it had been an inside job, to coin the vernacular – to claim against the insurance – then the limited company would have remained solvent.’
Skelgill nods pensively. There is irrefutable logic in what Parish says. He glances about the small office; the walls are mainly lined with bookshelves, though interspersed by certificates of professional competence – albeit these pertaining to Reginald Pope. His gaze comes full circle and falls upon a pile of glossy sales particulars that lie close to him.
‘They mentioned at the farm that they were looking at a place over at Howtown – are they planning to move, sir?’
‘Oh, no – I shouldn’t think so, Chief Inspector.’ Parish speaks slowly, as though he is only for the first time contemplating this possibility – although perhaps he is conscious that there is client confidentiality to consider. ‘The Howtown property is going to auction in lots – so there will be parcels of land, potential holiday cottages, a main house – even a breeding flock. And there’s a nice bit of lake frontage.’
Skelgill’s body language must transmit a degree of interest, for the land agent’s finely tuned antennae immediately twitch.
‘Do you sail, Chief Inspector?’
‘Angling’s my bag, actually, sir.’
‘Good heavens – a man after my own heart – what’s your particular calling, if I may inquire?’
Skelgill looks like he is caught on the horns of a minor dilemma – it is in his hands to allow the conversation to drift away from the case.
‘Pike mainly, sir – up at Bass Lake.’
The look of expectation that occupies Parish’s countenance fades slightly.
‘Ah – I was hoping you might give me some advice on choice of flies.’
‘For which water, sir?’
‘I have a little mooring on Ullswater – only get out occasionally – and I can never work out which naturals I ought to be using. I know one is supposed to slit the belly of the first trout to discover what they’re feeding upon – but how, pray, does one catch it in the first place?’
Skelgill does not react to the latest ecclesiastical reference, and instead leans forward with a pragmatic air.
‘I shouldn’t worry too much about that, sir – just stock up on a few traditional wets – Peter Ross, Invicta, Kate McLaren – Bloody Butcher’s always pretty lethal, any time of year.’ Skelgill imitates the action of a gentle cast. ‘Or if there’s a bit of a breeze and you want to fish loch-style – casting ahead of your drift – use a team of three – say a Blue Zulu on the bob, a Solicitor on the middle dropper, and a Black Pennel on the point.’
Nodding eagerly, Mr Parish scribbles down these names on an envelope that lies nearest to him on the desk.
‘A Solicitor – there’s not such a thing as a Land Agent is there Chief Inspector?’
Skelgill chuckles.
‘It’s a relatively new Scottish fly, sir – word is it’s doing really well on the middle dropper. It’s good and shiny and sometimes that’s just what you need to rouse a fish.’
‘It rather feels like you are being more help to me than I am to you, Chief Inspector.’
‘Not at all, sir, always happy to talk about fishing.’
‘Well – I realise it’s a tad early, but I normally have afternoon tea and scones brought in – perhaps you would join me – or would that be holding you back from your investigation, Chief Inspector?’
Skelgill affects what he must calculate is a sufficiently convincing act of being torn between duty and necessity.
‘If it’s no trouble – that would be very nice – I haven’t managed any lunch yet. But I shouldn’t like to distract you, either, sir.’
‘Not at all, Chief Inspector – please stay, with my blessing. Would you prefer tea, coffee, hot chocolate, perhaps?’
‘Whatever’s easiest, sir – I’m quite catholic in my tastes.’
As Mr Parish rises to summon refreshments, Skelgill’s remark causes him to perform a minor double take, and a mischievous grin breaks out across his lips.
‘Touché, Chief Inspector!’
‘It’s just plain Inspector, I’m afraid, sir.’
*
‘Leyton, I’ll need to postpone the meeting with you and Jones.’
‘Right, Guv – I’ll tell her. What time until?’
Skelgill pauses before replying. He is facing the window of a shop in Keswick’s main thoroughfare – though it is not his own reflection that distracts him, but the array of fishing tackle laid out before him.
‘Er – tomorrow morning, probably – I’ll text you both.’
‘Oh – righto, Guv.’
‘Leyton – Walter Barley might have left the property on his bike – rusty black Raleigh boneshaker with Sturmey-Archer three-speed gears – get a description circulated – just in case it’s not already at the bottom of Derwentwater.’
‘Sure, Guv.’
‘Anything from Herdwick, yet?’
‘Nothing in writing, Guv – I just rang down to him – his assistant says he’s doing the PM now – I managed to get her to cough that death occurred at least two days before the body was found.’
‘That could be Friday, Leyton.’
‘I know, Guv – I suppose it fits the pattern, though. Do ’em in and dump ’em later.’
‘Eloquently put, Leyton.’
‘Sorry, Guv – you know me – call a spade a spade, and all that.’
Skelgill stoops down and peers closely through the plate-glass at a colourful selection of lures arranged in a budget-priced fly-box.
‘See if you can find anything on a Maurice Stewart or his son Clifford – previous owners of Knott Halloo farm – sold it in 1997 – where they are now, what they’re up to – might have had money problems.’
‘Will do, Guv.’
There is a silence as Skelgill further scrutinises the angling fare on offer.
‘Anything else, Guv?’
‘I’ll be in touch, Leyton.’
Skelgill terminates the call, and advances purposefully into the store.
19. SCALES TARN – Monday evening
Jonathan Otley’s Guide book: A Concise Description of the English Lakes, 1823, is not one to which Skelgill habitually turns, although as he fly-casts doggedly across the mirrored surface of his present location it is a source of reference he might ostensibly do well to heed. ‘Scales Tarn, on the east end of the mountain Saddleback, is an oval piece of water covering an area of three acres and a half, its two diameters being 176 and 124 yards, its depth 18 feet; and uninhabited by the finny tribe.’
This assumes, however, that Skelgill is here to catch such a creature.
When rational analysis has run its course – or perhaps more accurately has become so overloaded by information as to reach a logic-defying log jam – Skelgill can be observed to default to one of his regular displacement activities. Rather like ironing clothes or mowing the lawn, or peeling vegetables or flannel rag quilting, there are some low-intensity, rhythmical tasks that seem to preoccupy one’s superficial consciousness and thus facilitate deeper contemplation: ‘feeling’ for an answer, rather than thinking about it. The poet A.E. Housman was renowned for compositions that ‘came to him’ whilst taking long country walks, often after a pint of ale at lunchtime. It is said he would bemoan those occasions when he returned home ‘empty handed’, so to speak, and was obliged to ‘think up’ the poem for himself!
In Skelgill’s case, angling is not generally a pursuit to which he turns in such circumstances. His obses
sion with the sport, and his fiercely competitive nature, soon sees him entirely immersed in the prospect of outwitting whatever species lurks tantalisingly beneath the water in question. War is declared and all possibilities of subconscious reflection are banished. This might, however, explain why he is prospecting in the ‘uninhabited’ Scales Tarn – since there are no fish, there can be no such distraction, only the habitual going through the motions.
A related idiosyncrasy in Skelgill’s behaviour is his propensity to disappear from the official radar. Admittedly, more often that not his superiors are unaware of such instances, unlike his closer colleagues, who are accustomed to his unannounced abandonment of his post – and the requirement to hold the fort until he reappears. If challenged, Skelgill has a robust defence. He takes few holidays and draws no distinctions where conventional nine-till-five working is concerned (much to the despair of these same long-suffering subordinates). The notion of separate ‘police time’ and ‘Skelgill time’ is not one that he recognises. When he set off earlier, it might have appeared to be going fishing in ‘police time’ – but he would simply argue he is solving the crime, and point to his incontrovertible strike rate. And should he stop ‘solving’ at five p.m.?
Of course, this unilateral construct would hold little water in the face of a disciplinary tribunal, and a vague appreciation of his renegade attitude among the powers-that-be might go some way to explain his continued designation as ‘plain’ Inspector.
The improvement in the weather has been continuous during the day, and now the sky has cleared and there is a bare hint of breeze. As early evening advances, the sun drops behind the great bulk of Blencathra (or Saddleback, as Otley referred to it), and – while the ‘finny tribe’ remains conspicuous by its absence – another biting order of fauna begins to make its presence felt: the Diptera, largely represented by the Lake District’s local variety of Highland midge.
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 18