Skelgill glances at DS Jones to find her already regarding him intently; as he absorbs her gaze it is as if she is willing some thought upon him – perhaps one as yet unshared.
Skelgill shrugs his way out of the metaphysical embrace and turns to face DS Leyton.
‘What about the push-bike?’
‘Nothing as yet, Guv.’
Skelgill cranes around to look up at the map pinned on his wall.
‘Concentrate on Keswick. Barley couldn’t have gone much further than that – and it’s on the way to Borrowdale.’ Then he flings his hands apart. ‘But there’s no real logic – given he was lying dead somewhere for more than two days.’
‘We’re checking all the obvious places – I’m expecting a report back mid-morning – if that’s okay, Guv...?’
Skelgill’s concentration has drifted again, as though there is some parallel discussion running in his mind that keeps distracting him from the matters at hand – compounded no doubt by his obvious tiredness. But then his office door opens by about a foot and the stoat-like countenance of DI Alec Smart insinuates itself into the gap. Skelgill is suddenly alert.
‘Morning campers – alright, are we?’
Out of dutiful loyalty to their present direct report, DS Leyton and DS Jones do not reply, though they are both obliged by weight of rank to return amenable glances. Skelgill is the only one to speak.
‘Smart.’
The single word is a plain identification, lacking friendly undertones. But DI Smart appears not to detect any latent hostility.
‘Message as I’m passing, Skel – Chief wants to see you – as soon as you’ve got a minute.’
Skelgill nods grimly.
‘We’re right in the middle of something.’
‘I should stick an exercise book down your trousers, Skel – I reckon you’re in for a bit of a spanking.’
He cackles salaciously and leers at DS Jones, brazenly taking in her crossed legs and elevated hemline.
‘See you later, alligator.’
The farewell seems to be aimed exclusively at her.
Skelgill waits until the door has been closed and then, one after the other, drains the dregs of tea from his two mugs. He rises and brushes at his crumpled shirt, which has escaped from his trousers.
‘Jones – I want you to pick up these various leads.’ He holds out his left hand and cocks first a thumb, followed by successively raised fingers as he counts. ‘One – the Stewarts. Two – the speed camera files on Harris. Three – Seddon’s cousin Hilda. Four – Barley’s bike. Five – any more forensics that come up.’
‘No worries, Guv.’
DS Jones exudes a confident efficiency that reflects her reputation – she does not need to be asked twice to do something. In contrast DS Leyton looks a little bewildered; perhaps he fears an unofficial demotion is taking place, and that he is somehow being scapegoated for the pressure that is building up on his superior officer.
‘What about me, Guv?’
Skelgill strolls towards the door and inclines his head to indicate DS Leyton should follow.
‘I need a bacon roll and a double espresso – and I’m brassic till payday.’
‘But what about the Chief, Guv?’
‘What about her?’
‘But... Smart said...’
‘Since when did I start taking orders from Smart?’
‘No, Guv – not yet, Guv.’
*
‘Fifty-nine, Ullswater Place, Guv.’
DS Leyton’s reply is in answer to Skelgill’s question about their destination – for once the inspector is at the wheel; it seems he wants to leave no trace of his presence at police headquarters.
‘That’s near the supermarket, Leyton – we crossed the end of it when we walked up Scotland Road.’
‘Right, Guv.’
‘Was he seen actually in the street itself?’
‘I think so, Guv – want me to check the notes?’
DS Leyton makes as if to lean into the back seat of the car to retrieve his faux leather zip-up document wallet.
‘Leave it – we’ll be there in two minutes.’
Skelgill’s favoured transport café is just a short distance from the location, and within his predicted time they pass the supermarket where Barry Seddon’s pick-up was found.
‘I suppose it would be near here, Guv.’
‘Aye.’
DS Leyton watches through the passenger window – then suddenly he swings round to face Skelgill.
‘You Stupid Boy!’
‘Skelgill throws him a perplexed glance; as if he does not quite get what game his sergeant is playing.
‘We’re in the money, Guv!’
‘Come again?’
‘We just passed the bookies, Guv – the old lady who gave us the tip – You Stupid Boy – it romped that race on Friday – eight lengths. I forgot to tell you – I checked the papers at the weekend.’
‘How much?’
‘About forty nicker each, Guv – plus the stake money.’
Skelgill purses his lips in contemplation of this windfall.
‘I could get a decent new reel for that.’
What he doesn’t state is whether he is including in his calculation the ten pounds he ‘borrowed’ from DS Leyton for his share of the bet.
‘Your fishing tackle shop’s just opposite Bettoney’s, Guv.’
‘Might have to pay a quick call when we’re done here, Leyton.’
His use of the adverb here reflects their arrival at the junction with Ullswater Place. He turns flamboyantly into the narrow street, where those residents that own cars observe a sensible convention of parking only against the left-hand kerb. DS Leyton ducks towards the windscreen.
‘Your side, Guv – far end, by the look of it.’
Indeed number fifty-nine is the third-last house in the long terrace. There is no space opposite, and Skelgill steers onto the area of weed-ridden hard standing that fronts a rank of poorly maintained garages.
‘Doesn’t look like these are in use.’
‘Nah – you’ll be fine here, Guv.’
They climb out of the car and survey the scene. Opposite the lock-ups is a patch of waste ground, overgrown with creeping thistles and stinging nettles. It is bordered by the modern larch-lap garden fencing of newly built housing, and there is a tarmac footpath between two properties that provides pedestrian access into this estate. An elderly man wanders past, carrying plastic shopping bags branded in the name of the supermarket.
‘Handy short-cut, Guv – saves going all the way round to reach the main road.’
Skelgill nods. He locks the car and sets off back along Ullswater Place.
‘What’s the lass’s name?’
‘Kelly Smith, Guv – age twenty – local girl.’
Skelgill approaches the property and rattles the letterbox. Clearly audible from within is the distressed wail of a small child, and he has to repeat the action a couple more times before he raises a response. When the occupant does finally open the door she is cradling an infant in one arm, and awkwardly trying to support a feeding bottle with a crooked hand.
‘Police, love – you were expecting us, I believe.’
The young woman is tall and attractive, with wide, high cheekbones and pale unblemished skin; though her lack of make-up and damp long dark hair suggest she has not made any special efforts for their benefit. She wears an all-black outfit of ballet pumps, tight leggings and a low-cut vest top. She steps back to admit the officers. There is something of the bashful schoolgirl about her, waiting outside the Head’s office for a reprimand of unknown severity.
‘Aye, come in – sorry about the mess.’
She lowers her gaze as they squeeze by, whereas in contrast the closely matching pair of large brown eyes of the baby knowingly observes their passage. In the absence of any instructions to the contrary, Skelgill leads the way directly ahead into a small, shabby kitchen, where there is a Formica-topped table and four chairs, plus
a high chair. On the table is a baby changing mat with a sealed-up disposable nappy and a tube of cream. Nostrils twitching, Skelgill takes the initiative and at arm’s length rather gingerly lifts the mat down onto the floor, as DS Leyton eyes him with some amusement.
‘Alright here, love?’
The girl nods a little apprehensively. She seems quite shy, and does not offer them tea or coffee – although perhaps this is a generational failing, such protocols somewhere having slipped from convention. Instead she concentrates on keeping the baby sucking at its bottle, which – given the din it was making a moment earlier – is perhaps a better use of her abridged domestic skills.
‘We won’t detain you a minute, love – can I call you Kelly?’
Again she nods rather than speaks.
‘You’ve identified a person whose movements we’ve been trying to trace.’ (At this she looks even more fearful, as if upon her youthful say-so the outcome of some great legal case hinges.) ‘I’d just like you to tell us again what you saw, Kelly.’
She shifts in her seat and juggles the baby into a more stable position. In doing so she presses it against her bosom and emphasises the shadow of her cleavage between the milky flesh of the exposed tops of her breasts. DS Leyton pointedly averts his gaze, to flick through his notebook, though Skelgill seems not so easily deterred.
‘It weren’t much.’ She shakes her head, though perhaps this is simply to displace strands of hair that have fallen across her face. ‘I were just pushing the buggy along and he were coming towards me.’
‘What made you notice him?’
‘He were smoking – and I don’t like the baby near smoke – she had a bad chest infection all winter and right up to last month.’
‘And what happened?’
‘It’s a double-buggy I’ve got – it takes up all the pavement – and I were a bit late and I remember thinking I was in the way – then he moved off the kerb to let me past.’
‘Did either of you speak?’
‘I just said thanks – he didn’t answer me.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘I thought he were a bit old to be wearing a hoodie – he had the hood up, like.’
‘What about his behaviour, I mean – did he appear happy or sad or relaxed or worried?’
The girl looks up from the baby. Her own large dark eyes flick between Skelgill and DS Leyton, as if she is searching for some cue from real faces that will help her answer this question.
‘Probably he were just thinking – like you do when you’re walking about.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘After he passed you – did you see what he did?’
She shakes her head.
‘I didn’t look back.’ Her body language is suggestive of some culpability, and she huddles protectively over the baby. ‘I had no reason to suspect owt – that I should watch him, like.’
‘Not to worry, love – that’s our job.’ Skelgill reassuringly indicates to himself and DS Leyton. ‘Can you remember where in the street you passed one another?’
‘I’d only just gone out – maybe five or six doors down.’
Skelgill nods encouragingly.
‘And you didn’t see him pay any attention to a particular house?’
At this she shakes her head decisively.
Skelgill glances at DS Leyton, who is taking ponderous notes in his neat though elementary hand.
‘And the time, Kelly – you told our constable it was twelve o’clock? That’s very precise.’
Suddenly her eyes brighten, as though this is something about which she is more confident.
‘I have to collect Jordan – her brother.’ She nods towards the baby. ‘He’s at nursery, mornings nine till twelve – and like I said I were a bit late last Monday because I’d had to wake Jade. It’s only two minutes round the corner but they like you to be there before twelve.’
‘And you weren’t?’
‘It were just – like – a minute to – when I left here.’
There is a large, rather cheap-looking clock on the kitchen wall, and Skelgill follows the girl’s glance up to this. He checks it against his own watch and nods, seemingly satisfied.
‘This man, Kelly – he was a complete stranger to you?’
Again there is a hint of self-reproach that clouds her expression, a little vertical crease forming between the curves of her eyebrows.
‘There’s lots of folk use that ginnel – since they built them new houses. And we’ve only been here since February.’
Skelgill nods, and manufactures an understanding smile. Then he places his palms flat on the table in a gesture of conclusion, and pushes himself to his feet. Immediately the girl’s shoulders relax and she gazes benignly at the baby, who has now drained the bottle and dozes contentedly. Skelgill, too, seems intrigued by this vision.
‘Amazing what a drop of gin can do, eh?’
The girl glances up at him – perhaps she is not sure if he is joking, although there is a conspiratorial glint in her eye, as though he has hit upon some mother’s secret.
‘I must try it on my sergeant some time.’
He steps away from the table, followed by DS Leyton, who grins and tries to look suitably sheepish. Skelgill drops his voice to something of a whisper.
‘Thanks for your help, Kelly – you’ve been very cooperative – we can see ourselves out, love.’
*
‘Nice kid, Leyton.’
‘Difficult not to cop an eyeful, though, eh Guv?’
‘Behave, Leyton – anyway, I meant the baby.’
DS Leyton glances suspiciously at Skelgill, whom he must have noticed was not entirely unmoved by the spectacle of the young woman’s breasts; in any event, Skelgill is surely the last person to comment favourably about a baby.
‘Where are we going, Guv?’
Skelgill has set off in the opposite direction from where their car is parked.
‘The bookie’s – you stupid boy – round the corner.’
‘But – Guv – we put the bet on at Bettoney’s.’
Skelgill shrugs off this protest.
‘To say thanks.’ He grins back at DS Leyton. ‘We might even scrounge a cuppa – seeing as Kelly didn’t put the kettle on.’
DS Leyton, who has fallen a couple paces behind, scuttles to catch up. He fails to appreciate Skelgill’s self-indulgent irony.
‘What do you reckon he was doing in this street, Guv?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Your guess is as good as mine, Leyton – I need to look at a map to see why you might use that ginnel.’
‘Thing is, Guv, the parking’s free – and I bet there’s always spaces. If you were visiting a house on that new estate and didn’t want to leave your motor outside, this would be a handy spot.’
‘So?’
‘So why park at the supermarket?’
Skelgill nods pensively, and remains in silent thought for a few moments; plainly the parking conundrum troubles him: it might be highly significant, or it could be of no importance whatsoever. He stops and looks about. Certainly DS Leyton is correct in that about half of the available kerbside is currently clear of vehicles. This is not an affluent postcode, and car ownership is evidently patchy; indeed, the modest and dated models on display reflect the limited means of local residents. The red brick back-to-backs have seen better days, and in places weeds spring from cracks in the walls. Skelgill notices a family of starlings, slick iridescent adults and their drab loutish juveniles, picking over litter and discarded cigarette ends in the gutter.
‘What about the door-to-door checks in this street, Leyton?’
DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks and shakes his head dejectedly.
‘Not a great strike rate, Guv – it’s not so easy finding folks at home – especially this time of year. Spoken to about two-thirds of ’em so far.’
Skelgill nods grimly.
‘We should redouble our efforts here – especially the high numbers �
�� and then that estate.’
‘Definitely, Guv.’
They round the corner of Ullswater Place; the bookmaker’s shop is just half a minute further, towards the supermarket. Their opening of the door sets off an electronic alert, and the proprietor – the elderly Scotswoman – glances around in surprise; perhaps it is still a little early for her trade to begin. She is busy in the customer area, rearranging the jars of pens and stacks of betting slips. Along with a reel of masking tape and scissors, on a central table there are two copies of the Racing Post that she must be about to display page-by-page upon the walls. Though her features remain implacable she recognises the detectives.
‘I hope ye put that bet on.’
Skelgill grins.
‘Aye, we did, love – though we’re keeping it quiet – don’t want you overrun by CID.’
‘You’d be surprised by how many I ken already.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows in mock disapproval, and then his gaze casually falls upon a half-drunk mug of tea that also rests upon the table. The woman follows his eyes.
‘Like a wee brew?’
‘If you’ve got a minute.’
She grins, rather toothlessly, it must be said, and inclines her head towards the newspapers.
‘Aye – nae bother – but see those papers – just the job for big fellas like youse, eh?’
Skelgill chuckles. Though he stands only a couple of inches above average height, and Leyton a similar measure below, it is plain that the diminutive woman must strain to perform this daily task – presumably with the aid of one of the plastic chairs reserved for punters.
‘It’s a deal. Come on, Leyton – you’re the one supposed to have bookie’s blood in your veins.’
While the detectives set about working to their strengths – DS Leyton patiently separating and tearing the sheets and Skelgill rather roughly taping and affixing them – the woman disappears through a door beyond the security screen.
‘Imagine if the Chief came in and found us doing this, Guv.’
‘Imagine if the Chief came in, full stop, Leyton – I think the moral high ground would be ours.’
‘Right enough, Guv.’ He clears his throat and evidently decides to take this opportunity to raise a question that has surely been nagging at him. ‘Think she is threatening to pass it over to DI Smart, Guv?’
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 20