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

by Bruce Beckham

  Skelgill employs several modes of protection against this near-invisible menace. A mosquito-hat is one, its full-face veil providing an effective barrier – though equally an impediment to good vision, and certainly to the consumption of any food or beverage. A second is a proprietary brand of cosmetic skin softener, a handy spray that has remarkable deterrent properties with none of the unpleasant insecticides found in most dedicated repellents. Skelgill dislikes the latter concoctions for their ability to corrode fishing line, and their vile taste. Third – and his preferred option for more than just its ability to discourage bugs – is his Kelly Kettle. This battered contraption, which is basically a water-filled chimney sleeve, can be fired up in such a way as to produce a robust cloud of smoke. Under calm conditions, such as currently prevail, Skelgill can sit contentedly cocooned, rather like a cuckoo-spit bug, obliging the tiny vampirettes to seek out other fisherman (or sheep) from whom to obtain their blood meal.

  Right now there are neither human nor ovine alternatives available, and thus the defenceless Skelgill is forced to beat a retreat and return to camp. Out of respect he has chosen the opposite bank of Scales Tarn from that where Lee Harris’s body was found a week ago. He shows no sign that the time spent in the repetitive act of cast-and-retrieve has prompted a solution to percolate from the depths of his mind and bubble at the surface of his consciousness. Though something has drawn him back to this particular locus, rather like a hopeful dog that keeps returning to a spot where it once found a juicy morsel.

  Kneeling, he unpacks the Kelly Kettle and, as he must have done in identical fashion on hundreds of similar occasions, begins methodically to build a little lattice of kindling. He is about to sprinkle this structure with methylated spirits (an unnecessary, but safe and effective accelerant), when he stops and rewinds the cap of his Sigg bottle, leans it against his rucksack, and gets to his feet. Arms folded, brows knitted, he trudges broodingly back to the water’s edge. Here he lingers, staring at the calm pool; if he is bothered again by the no-see-ums he does not show it. Reflected before him, a heron beats purposefully overhead, without deviation, confirmation if any were needed that there is no aquatic fare on offer here. Then there is the grey spine of Sharp Edge, mirrored eerily like a stegosaurian monster at rest beneath clear waters. Skelgill stoops down and scrapes up a handful of pebbles, which he casts high in the air. With a rat-a-tat-tat splash the leviathan disappears; ripples form, enlarge and, after a few moments of elegant integrity, intersect to create a sudden maelstrom, as if a small shoal has just surfaced in unison.

  This phenomenon seems to be the catalyst for Skelgill to snap out of his dwam. Purposefully he yanks his phone from his hip pocket and scowls at the screen. He shakes the handset and waves it about – but to no avail – his provider does not serve this rocky corrie. He trudges back to his camp and crams the various items of gear into his rucksack. Hauling this onto one shoulder he picks up his fishing rod and sets off around the tarn. When he reaches the little outfall whence Scales Beck tumbles down to meet the Glenderamackin five hundred feet below, instead of following a similar course towards civilisation, he swings left, and northwards, and climbs the path for Sharp Edge.

  He is about halfway across the arête when hears the first incoming text – the network has found him. Carefully he wedges his rod and backpack into suitable crevices, and then he swings a leg so he is sitting astride the crest, aping Wainwright’s safety-first à cheval method.

  Retrieving his mobile from his pocket, he dials DS Jones.

  There is no reply. He cuts the call as it transfers to voicemail. He is facing Blencathra; a group of walkers is silhouetted against the powder blue of the evening sky, stick figures that seem with exaggerated slowness to traverse Atkinson Pike. If they plan to cross Sharp Edge, they are ten minutes or so from his position. He looks at the handset, at DS Jones’s contact details, as if he is trying to decide whether to try calling again, or use some other means; she will have been off duty a good hour or more by now.

  Skelgill watches the walkers; they begin to descend, one by one dropping from sight beneath the skyline, blending with the dusky hill. He turns his attention back to his mobile phone, and makes a second call.

  A young woman answers; there is lively pop music playing in the background.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Liz?’

  ‘Aha?’

  ‘It’s, er... Dan – from Cumbria. The funny looking one – with the daft dog.’

  ‘That’s not how I remember things.’

  The Welsh lilt gives her voice an engaging cadence.

  ‘Aye, well – the dog’s not so daft, I grant you.’

  The woman laughs, though a little nervously, and there is a pregnant pause, rather like the one they shared in the flesh at this location. After a moment it is the woman who speaks.

  ‘Well – how are you?’

  ‘I need to see you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  There is a further pause, while the ball seems to rest in Skelgill’s court. But as before it is left to her to make the running.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  Skelgill’s terse response is phrased as a statement rather than a question.

  ‘O-kay.’ Her enunciation hints at anticipation tinged with apprehension. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Virtually the same spot that we first met – give or a take a rock or two.’

  ‘But – that’s hours away.’

  ‘Nothing my car can’t solve.’

  ‘So – what time – do you think?’

  ‘By midnight?’

  ‘I’ll have the cocoa on.’

  Skelgill hesitates, as though he is about to comment on this particular beverage.

  ‘Liz – there’s something I have to tell you.’

  *

  The route from Penrith to Penarth – Skelgill’s journey barring a quick detour here and there – is almost exclusively by motorway. Slicing down England’s western flank, it runs parallel with much of the 160-mile-long Welsh border, only dipping into Cymru for the last thirty minutes or so. While the island of Great Britain comes in size-wise between Michigan and Minnesota, Wales is more of a match with the state of New Jersey, and – as Skelgill once put it to a bemused American tourist who had mistakenly found his way into the Lakes when seeking Snowdonia National Park – it is a small country that punches above its weight in rugby, singing, and beautiful women.

  While it seems possible that at least one of these attributes influences Skelgill’s motivation, in the early part of the journey, at least, other more pressing needs preoccupy him. Having called briefly by his own residence, he stops for fuel and provisions at a petrol station, and then – in a manner of speaking – pins back his ears. By the time he has driven on the motorway for half an hour, he has committed enough moving traffic offences to lose his otherwise clean licence.

  The catalogue of misdemeanours at the wheel would include eating, drinking, texting and internet browsing, feeding treats to a dog, and – not least – speeding, combined with minor incidents of road rage. Ironically, he decelerates to avoid becoming prey to a mobile speed camera, housed in a police van parked on a bridge near the Kendal junction, and flashes his main beam liberally, should the operator be a colleague with whom he is acquainted. Once he has passed beneath, however, and regained his illicit cruising velocity, a related thought must strike him – for he quickly snatches up his mobile and calls DS Leyton’s number. It is now past nine o’clock, so – quite reasonably – his sergeant’s phone rings through to voicemail; Skelgill is obliged to leave a message.

  His chosen path skims past the cities of Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham and Bristol. As signs for these conurbations come and go, and the traffic thins out, dusk settles into incomplete summer darkness, a deep violet blue beyond stroboscopic motorway neon. Skelgill nods into a trancelike state, his breathing slow and regular, his eyes glazed and unblinking. Behind him Cleopatra, spread along the seat, dreams fitfully,
perhaps of small brown mammals.

  Yet, as is the way with all long journeys, it comes to an end with a sudden and contrasting finality. Guided by the satnav app on his mobile phone, Skelgill steers his way briskly through the almost-deserted streets of Penarth – itself these days more or less a suburb of the Welsh capital – and slows to an abrupt halt outside a neat three-storey, end-of-terrace house on the hillside overlooking the winking lights of the marina in Cardiff Bay. The sound of his arrival draws the flicker of a curtain, and – by the time he has secured the car and left sufficient ventilation for the dog – the front door is open. A slim figure strikes a feline pose, an inviting shadowy profile against the subdued hall light. Skelgill grins a little sheepishly as he first stretches and then trots up the steps.

  ‘It’s a long way to come to see my etchings.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘I keep them upstairs.’

  ‘Don’t I get my cocoa?’

  20. POLICE HQ – Tuesday morning

  As DS Leyton is about to enter Skelgill’s office he notices, through the small gap between the jamb and the door, left a fraction ajar, that his superior is asleep. Slumped over his desk, Skelgill snores quietly. DS Leyton peers curiously for a second or two, twisting his head sideways so as to obtain a binocular view. He coughs in an exaggerated fashion, but Skelgill shows no sign of response. The sergeant is hampered by brimming mugs of tea, one in each hand, and thus is unable to knock. He could of course push through, but that would expose him to whatever mood in which Skelgill chooses to wake. Instead, he backs away and does a careful about-turn. He begins to retrace his steps in the direction whence he came, but at this moment DS Jones appears hurriedly from around a corner of the corridor; loaded with papers, she is heading for the same meeting.

  ‘Ah, Emma – do us a favour, girl – hold these a mo, will you?’

  DS Jones looks a little perplexed, but nonetheless she obligingly tucks the papers under one arm and takes the proffered mugs. Relieved of his burden, DS Leyton digs in his hip pocket for his mobile phone. He quickly dials a number, and listens until the call goes through. Satisfied, he winks at DS Jones, replaces the handset in his pocket, and takes the two teas from her. Then he leads the way back towards Skelgill’s office. As they approach the door Skelgill’s mobile can be heard ringing, and then Skelgill himself scrabbling about and cursing colourfully when he evidently knocks the item onto the floor. As they enter he is retrieving it from beneath his desk, banging his head in passing. He emerges and struggles into his seat, glaring at the handset and paying no heed to the new arrivals.

  ‘You phoning me, Leyton?’

  ‘Here’s your tea, Guv.’

  DS Leyton is a paragon of innocence, standing as he is with a mug held out in each hand.

  ‘I just got a call from you.’

  DS Leyton shrugs.

  ‘Must be my back pocket, Guv – the missis was saying these trousers are getting too tight – I reckon she deliberately shrinks everything in the wash as an excuse to keep me on starvation rations.’

  He slides both mugs of tea across the desk for his superior’s consideration, and grins self-effacingly about the room. DS Jones looks suitably amused – though this may be due to DS Leyton’s clever ruse, rather than the anecdote about his waistline. Skelgill, however, is not so amenable. He rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands and displays all the signs of having gone without a night’s sleep – not least it must be evident to his subordinates that he is still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

  ‘We need to find Maurice and Clifford Stewart.’

  There is a silence as DS Leyton and DS Jones digest this short sentence, and begin to realise it is all Skelgill has to say on the matter.

  ‘We’re doing the usual checks, Guv.’ DS Leyton folds his arms defensively as he speaks. ‘I’ve already tried that Parish & Pope crowd – but they’re not answering their phone yet. There’s a recorded message that says they open at nine-thirty – I’ll give them another call as soon as we’ve finished here, Guv.’

  Skelgill suppresses a yawn.

  ‘What else have we got – top-line – of importance?’

  The two sergeants exchange glances. DS Leyton nods to indicate that DS Jones should speak first.

  ‘Main thing is time of death for Walter Barley. Confirmed as Friday afternoon around five p.m. Same cause as the other two; no additional injuries.’

  There is a silence, as Skelgill seems to wrestle with the validity of this information. He stares at DS Jones for a moment, but then turns his sights upon DS Leyton.

  ‘What about you, Leyton?’

  ‘Possible sighting of Barry Seddon, Guv – the door-to-door team have found a woman who thinks she saw him in Penrith around noon on the day he disappeared.’

  Again Skelgill is mute for a moment. He picks up the nearest mug of tea and more or less drains it in one gulp. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Then he glances from one colleague to the other.

  ‘Anything else?’

  DS Leyton takes it upon himself to reply.

  ‘I’ve put in a request like you suggested, Guv – to see if we photographed any motorbikes speeding on the day Lee Harris was killed. Should get a report by twelve. ’

  DS Jones leans forward in her chair.

  ‘Won’t that information be computerised?’

  DS Leyton is about to answer, but Skelgill holds up a hand to quieten him.

  ‘Jones – think bike – on the motorway, the cameras shoot head-on.’

  DS Jones taps her glossy crown – now she remembers that for reasons of pedestrian safety British motorbikes do not carry front number-plates, and thus are effectively invisible to such speed traps.

  ‘Of course, Guv.’

  ‘Not that he was likely to have any plates.’ Skelgill combs back his unruly hairdo with the fingers of both hands. ‘What we’re looking for is a photo of a biker matching the description of Harris – at least it might give us a clue to where he went.’

  ‘It’s a nice idea, Guv.’

  Skelgill does not acknowledge DS Jones’s compliment, though he picks up instead on the leading point she has raised.

  ‘So Walter Barley died at most five or six hours after he was last seen.’ He grimaces with sour dissatisfaction. ‘If Lady Lucinda’s memory can be trusted.’

  DS Jones extracts Skelgill’s account of his farm visit from the sheaf of papers balanced on her lap.

  ‘She said she didn’t notice the sheepdog until Sunday, Guv?’

  Skelgill squints blearily.

  ‘I’m surprised she noticed it all, given the alcoholic haze she inhabits.’

  DS Jones scans the details to refresh her mind.

  ‘Could there be something fishy going on up there, Guv?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well – you mention she called at the estate agents – what if they are planning to sell Knott Halloo Farm and they wanted Walter Barley out of their hair?’

  Skelgill scrutinises her, but then his attention wanes and for a few moments he stares vacantly at the surface of his desk. It is only with a sudden jolt that lucidity waxes once more.

  ‘Jones – Walter Barley was murdered by the same person who killed Lee Harris and Barry Seddon.’

  DS Jones raises her hands in a helpless gesture.

  ‘I just wondered, Guv – if the explanation about the dog wasn’t quite the truth.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well – say the woman – Lucinda – went into Walter Barley’s cottage while he was out.’

  Skelgill frowns, ready to point to an obvious shortcoming – but DS Jones continues.

  ‘If the dog escaped past her and ran off – she might have lied about having lost her key – to make it seem like it couldn’t have been her who entered the cottage.’

  Skelgill puts his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers. He leans back and closes his eyes, but after a moment he seems to think the better of this action – as if he migh
t succumb to the allure of sleep – and visibly rouses himself. He reaches for the second mug of tea that DS Leyton has delivered (an act of thoughtfulness as yet unrecognised).

  ‘If only dogs could talk, Guv.’

  Skelgill scowls at DS Leyton’s interjection, though the sergeant is not deterred, and he leans forward with a finger raised in the air.

  ‘Oh, Guv – yeah – one other thing about Walter Barley – I got a shout as I was coming up – no mobile phone contract in his name, but there is a live broadband supply to his cottage.’

  Skelgill folds his arms, as though this information troubles him.

  ‘There was no gear in there at all, Leyton – not even a double phone socket.’

  The three sit in silence for a while. Skelgill’s eyelids droop with increasing frequency. It is DS Jones who speaks first.

  ‘What if that was why Lucinda went into the cottage, Guv – to remove all the communications equipment?’

  Skelgill screws up his face in a gesture of disagreement.

  ‘Then why tell me she thought Barley ordered his groceries online?’ He shakes his head. ‘This is a blind alley.’

  Now DS Leyton rallies pugnaciously to his fellow sergeant’s cause.

  ‘But Lee Harris had no gear neither, Guv – and he’d got broadband, too. And the only phone we’ve found is Barry Seddon’s – and that could be because he locked it in his van and hid the key. Something’s amiss, Guv.’

  Again there is a period of uneasy silence. Eventually Skelgill speaks, though rather unenthusiastically.

  ‘Remind me – what was the computer situation with Barry Seddon?’

  DS Leyton looks a little exasperated. ‘If you remember, Guv – we didn’t find anything at his cousin’s place.’ He is generous with his use of ‘we’, given that it was Skelgill who surreptitiously searched upstairs. ‘She didn’t mention stuff missing. And there’s nothing in the follow-up report.’

  ‘Give her a call, Leyton – that Hilda – find out whether Seddon had a laptop or whatever.’