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

by Bruce Beckham

  Skelgill stiffens in the act of stretching a taped page across its designated space. Certainly there is no hiding from the fact that they have no clear line of enquiry, while the case threatens to spiral out of control – if it has not done so already. Right now he is putting off the evil moment when he must confront his superior virtually empty handed. Perhaps it is an apposite metaphor that sees him presently pinning faint hopes upon a distempered wall. He sets his jaw determinedly.

  ‘It’s the classic Smart wind-up.’ But his tone does not carry much conviction. ‘Anyway, less talk of the Chief.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv.’ DS Leyton turns back to the table and peels off the next page. ‘Here’s the start of Wolverhampton, Guv – evening meeting on the all-weather, mostly handicaps, two-year-olds.’

  Skelgill frowns suspiciously, as if he suspects DS Leyton knows more about the sport of kings than he has hitherto revealed. They finish the wallpapering just as the woman returns with their hot drinks, her own mug convivially recharged. She places a small round tray on the table and casts about to assess their handiwork.

  ‘That’ll pass – call in every morning, if you like.’

  ‘Give us a few more tips like that last one and we might.’

  The woman begins to drag a couple of chairs towards the table, but DS Leyton dodges across to intercept. When they are all seated, Skelgill scratches his head in an apologetic though rather affected manner.

  ‘One of our boys probably came in showing you a couple of photos.’

  The woman nods over her mug.

  ‘Aye – the chap you showed me, and a younger yin I didnae ken.’

  Skelgill nods and sips his tea, more decorously than is his habit. He looks at DS Leyton, and then at the document wallet that lies beside him on the table. But before he can speak the woman perhaps guesses his line of thought.

  ‘I hear on the radio there’s been another.’

  Skelgill scowls and nods reluctantly, then indicates with a hand gesture, snapping his fingers.

  ‘Leyton – the picture. Barley.’

  DS Leyton raises his eyebrows doubtfully, but Skelgill’s stare is fierce and he does as commanded. He unzips the folder and flicks through its contents until he finds the enlarged photograph – a photocopy in fact – of Walter Barley. He hands it to Skelgill, who in turn places it before the woman. Immediately she shows a reaction.

  ‘Aye – he were in on Friday.’

  ‘What?’ The detectives utter this in unison.

  ‘You Stupid Boy – he put two-fifty on it.’

  ‘Pounds?’ This is DS Leyton – now wide-eyed at the prospect of a bet of this magnitude. As the woman nods in the affirmative, he shakes his head. ‘Cor blimey – a string of ponies.’

  Skelgill is unmoved by DS Leyton’s cockney outburst.

  ‘Did he come back to collect his winnings?’

  The woman shakes her head. Behind the thick spectacles, there might just be a hint of guilty jubilation in her shrewd eyes.

  ‘You’ll have a record of the time the bet was placed?’

  ‘I will – but I can tell ye – it was eight minutes before the off – eight minutes to four.’

  ‘Did he leave straight after?’

  The woman chuckles.

  ‘With me right behind him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She now gives Skelgill a rather schoolmarmish look over the top of her glasses.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds at seven-to-two – I had five minutes to lay it off. You’ve never seen me move so fast to Bettoney’s.’

  Skelgill’s eyes are hawkish in their concentration.

  ‘Did you see which way this man went?’

  ‘Aye – when I came out of the shop, he wis jus’ going round the corner intae the next street – Ullswater Place.’

  21. FOLLOW-UP MEETING – Tuesday afternoon

  ‘Well, Guv – how did it go?’

  Skelgill is tight-lipped as he re-enters his office, and gives no indication as to the outcome of his showdown with the Chief. DS Leyton and DS Jones, expectant and fearful, though evidently not in equal measure, are literally on the edge of their seats.

  Skelgill rather self-consciously rubs his hands together and contrives a cheesy grin.

  ‘Leyton – at risk of offending the lady present – I’m pleased to report I’ve still got me knackers.’

  He glances at DS Jones, who flashes him a look of exaggerated relief.

  DS Leyton, however, leans further forward, his features still heavily creased.

  ‘But what about the case, Guv?’

  Skelgill drops theatrically into his chair.

  ‘I appreciate your concern for my well-being, Leyton.’ His tone is liberally laced with sarcasm. ‘The bad news is you’re still answering to me.’

  DS Leyton lets out an audible sigh of relief. He paddles back into a more upright sitting position.

  ‘Thank crikey for that, Guv – I’d as soon as strangle myself as work for DI Smart.’ He turns quickly to DS Jones. ‘No offence, Emma – I know you get on with him.’

  DS Jones raises her palms in protest, though her sculpted cheekbones immediately colour beneath her tan. She glances apprehensively at Skelgill, who is assessing her objection through narrowed eyes.

  DS Leyton perhaps realises he has created this little moment of friction; he claps his hands together enthusiastically.

  ‘So our lucky trip to the bookie’s was in the nick of time, Guv?’

  Skelgill turns to DS Leyton.

  ‘Planned trip to the bookie’s, Leyton.’

  ‘The Chief’s not daft, Guv.’

  Skelgill might wish to contest this view, but to do so would contradict the wisdom of her present decision. He shakes his head in an ambiguous fashion.

  ‘It’s a cushy number up there in the ivory tower, Leyton.’

  ‘The press are having a field day, Guv – I don’t envy her that.’

  Skelgill shrugs languidly.

  ‘We’ve got until close of play Thursday, by the way.’

  DS Leyton looks alarmed. He shakes his head and his heavy jowls follow suit, a fraction delayed.

  ‘Not even three days, Guv – we still need a big break.’

  Silently, DS Jones jolts forward an inch or two, like a sprinter on the cusp of a false start. Her sudden movement attracts the gaze of her colleagues.

  ‘I might have a couple of small breaks, Guv.’

  Skelgill regards her blankly, as though he is wondering what she could mean.

  ‘Shall I go through the points in your order, Guv?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Skelgill, though fortified by various caffeine shots and no doubt the adrenaline of having to face the Chief, is again showing symptoms of fatigue. It is doubtful he can remember the items, let alone in what sequence he listed them. Undeterred, DS Jones refers to her notepad.

  ‘The Stewarts, Guv – previous owners of Knott Halloo Farm. No trace yet of the son, Clifford – but I think I’ve tracked down the father, Maurice.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘Galloway, Guv – a kind of nursing home – I’m just waiting on absolute confirmation from the DC who’s following it up.’

  ‘How did you find him?’

  Again she consults her notes.

  ‘The agents – Pope & Parish – they provided the address of a company that was dissolved shortly after the sale – not much more that a PO Box here in Penrith. So that was a dead-end. Next I tried the National Farmers’ Union – in case they’d stayed in agriculture. Lots of Stewarts – especially in Scotland – but I couldn’t get a match.’

  DS Jones glances up at Skelgill, to see that his attention is flagging.

  ‘Then I phoned my uncle.’

  This left-of-field statement prompts a response from her superior.

  ‘Your uncle?’

  ‘The one who worked as a gardener at Oakthwaite School, Guv?’ Her intonation suggests this question is rhetorical, and she continues without pause.
‘I figured he’d be roughly contemporary with Maurice Stewart – and it turns out he knows of him indirectly. My uncle heard at a family gathering a few years back that Stewart had gone to this old folks’ place – it was through a distant relative who had some connection there.’

  ‘Where in Galloway?’

  ‘Near a village called Glenlochar.’

  Skelgill’s concentration rachets up another notch, albeit from a low base.

  ‘Loch Ken.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv?’

  ‘Glenlochar is beside Loch Ken – I’ve fished it a few times for pike – got snapped up by a monster once – potential Scottish record, I reckon – wouldn’t mind having another dash at that.’

  Skelgill appears to drift off into a little reminiscence; it seems more likely the subject matter is planning for pike than the practicalities of an interview over the border in Galloway.

  ‘Shall I move onto the second point, Guv?’

  He nods forwards; it is hard to tell if this is his approval to proceed or a relapse caused by an attack of sleep. But when DS Jones hesitates, he utters a confirmation.

  ‘Aye – go on.’

  DS Jones lifts her pad and from the loose papers beneath it she separates two identical colour photocopies. The content is a facsimile of a photograph taken by a police speed camera. It features a motorcyclist hunched over his handlebars, bent into the headwind, and clearly wearing a black leather jacket, blue jeans, and black pointed biker-boots. The overprinted data read 104 mph, along with the date and time of the offence. She hands one sheet to each of her colleagues.

  ‘That’s him, Guv!’ DS Leyton flaps the photograph in the air. ‘It’s the same outfit he had on – definitely.’

  Both sergeants look eagerly at Skelgill. He is gazing blearily at the page.

  ‘Surprised that heap would do a ton.’

  ‘It’s him, Guv – he was coming up to Penrith – just like the others!’ DS Leyton is jubilant; he rises and takes a turn about the office. ‘The Milky Bars are on me!’

  He rattles the loose change in his pocket and disappears into the corridor. Though Skelgill’s preference is for a steaming mug of canteen tea, the nearby machine is often called upon for reasons of convenience. There is also an adjoining snacks dispenser. DS Leyton reappears cradling three plastic cups protectively in his large stubby fingers. He passes them around and then deals chocolate bars from his jacket pocket.

  DS Jones holds up her copy of the picture.

  ‘It certainly looks a good match, Guv – under the circumstances it would be a big coincidence. And less than an hour before the earliest possible time of death.’

  Skelgill seems reluctant to become carried away. He stares again at the image, munching introspectively for a few moments before he opines.

  ‘It’s a Honda, that’s for sure.’

  ‘That places all of them in Penrith, Guv.’ DS Leyton is still excited. ‘We can really narrow this wild goose chase down, Guv.’

  ‘All we know, Leyton, is that he came up the motorway. He might have been heading for John O’Groats.’

  Skelgill looks at his wristwatch and gestures to DS Jones that she should continue with her findings.

  ‘What was the next point?’

  ‘Barry Seddon’s iPad, Guv.’

  Skelgill squints suspiciously.

  ‘How do you know he had an iPad?’

  ‘I phoned his cousin, Hilda – like you asked, Guv.’

  ‘Where was it kept?’

  ‘That’s the point, Guv – it’s gone – it’s been taken away.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Jones?’

  ‘On the day after Barry Seddon went missing – on the Tuesday – before anyone knew he was dead – someone came to the house to collect his iPad for repair. Either she’d forgotten about this, or it just didn’t occur to her to mention it to you.’

  ‘Have you traced the supplier?’

  DS Jones looks up, a hint of alarm in her eyes.

  ‘I think the murderer took it, Guv.’

  Skelgill folds his arms, but does not reply.

  ‘A young guy in his twenties called – smartly dressed – in a suit, with a briefcase – said it was arranged that he was to collect a laptop.’

  ‘You said iPad.’

  ‘Exactly, Guv – that’s what you’d expect someone to have, isn’t it? But Barry Seddon didn’t have a laptop or broadband.’ She brushes back locks of hair that fall across her face as she bows to read her notes. ‘There was some discussion and they agreed it must be a mistake and that Seddon must have wanted his iPad repaired – so the guy took that away. Hilda Seddon sounds like she has no clue about this kind of thing – it would be easy to bluff her – she just handed it over – no paperwork, no mention of the firm’s name, nothing.’

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – the sheepdog!’

  This loud interjection is from DS Leyton.

  ‘Sugar rush, Leyton?’

  ‘Who let the dog out, Guv? What if it were the same geezer – took away Walter Barley’s computer gear? Opens the door and the dog does a runner. You’d be happy with that if you were burgling.’

  Skelgill purses his lips and nods grudgingly.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – Barry Seddon hid his keys under his van – so the killer impersonated a computer repair bloke. But he’d have the keys to Barley’s and Harris’s joints.’

  Skelgill permits himself a wry grin.

  ‘According to the old lady across the yard it was the witches that came for Lee Harris.’

  ‘I bet it was a hen party, Guv – this gent’s too clever to get spotted like that.’

  Skelgill turns to DS Jones.

  ‘You got a description?’

  ‘Top-line, Guv – there’s been so much going on in the past couple of hours – there’s still more to tell you. I thought we should probably interview Hilda Seddon and get a proper identikit done.’

  Skelgill considers this and nods his approval.

  DS Leyton crushes the wrapper of his chocolate bar in a raised fist.

  ‘Guv – the killer must be getting rid of all their comms gear so we can’t track him down.’

  Skelgill watches with interest as DS Leyton tosses the ball of paper at the waste bin and misses. He looks as though he would like a shot himself, but as he casts about for his own wrapper it has disappeared.

  ‘Don’t jump the gun. Leyton – for all we know a whole pile of valuables has been stolen – and Hilda’s computer man might yet turn out to be bona fide.’

  There is a moment of silence as they perhaps all row back a little from the edge of the whirlpool of elation that these findings have stirred up. DS Jones slides out another page from her sheaf of documents.

  ‘This is potentially a small fly in the ointment, Guv – we’ve found Walter Barley’s bicycle.’

  ‘How’s that a problem?’

  ‘It was in Keswick – like you guessed, Guv.’

  Skelgill frowns, though at the same time he manages to look pleased with himself.

  ‘Where and when?’

  ‘Reported lunchtime today – dumped in the River Greta below the footbridge into Upper Fitz Park. It had a flat front tyre. We don’t know when or how it got there.’

  ‘Plenty of folks use that bridge – someone must have seen something.’

  DS Jones looks torn.

  ‘I’ve got it on the action list, Guv – but when I heard about your four o’clock sighting of him I figured it was a lesser priority. I didn’t want to pull any resources away from the door-to-door checks in Penrith.’

  Skelgill strokes the bridge of his nose with the fingers of both hands, concealing a yawn between his palms.

  ‘Fairy snuff.’

  DS Leyton is looking up at the map behind Skelgill.

  ‘Think he met someone in Keswick?’

  DS Jones nods encouragingly.

  ‘I was wondering if he caught the bus to Penrith.’

  At this suggestion Skelgill shakes his head vehemently.
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  ‘If he were getting the bus, there’s a stop at Threlkeld – all he’d have to do was freewheel down the hill from the farm to the village – no need to bike four miles to Keswick.’

  ‘Maybe the bike was nicked, Guv?’

  Skelgill yawns and slumps back into his chair.

  ‘You always think the worst of people, Leyton.’

  On this note of light relief they all laugh, and there is a pause for sips and slurps of tea, more the latter in Skelgill’s case. Covetously he eyes DS Jones’s untouched chocolate bar; she notices his interest.

  ‘You’re welcome to that, Guv.’

  Skelgill obliges without further negotiation. As DS Leyton looks on forlornly, his boss tears open the wrapper and takes a bite, then waggles the remaining portion in his female colleague’s direction.

  ‘Dare I ask if there is anything else, Jones?’

  ‘Your last point was the forensics, Guv.’ She traces a line on her notepad with her finely manicured nails. ‘I’ve spoken with Dr Herdwick – he said he’s still mystified at the lack of injuries – but that he thinks all three bodies could have been kept wrapped in some kind of plastic sheets – he’s getting extra tests done.’

  Skelgill seems to become distracted by this information, and stares without expression at the wall between his two sergeants while chewing rhythmically. After a few moments his eyelids begin to droop, and DS Leyton – as if trying to make himself more comfortable – scrapes his chair loudly on the floor. The sound penetrates Skelgill’s drowsy reverie, and he rouses himself and checks his watch once again.

  ‘Jones – have you got those details for the nursing home?’

  ‘I’ll ring down and chase them, Guv – they should be ready.’

  Skelgill stands up and reaches for his jacket. It is approaching the end of their shift, and DS Leyton coughs rather nervously.

  ‘What it is, Guv – I’ve got my youngest’s end-of-term show at five-thirty.’

  Skelgill regards DS Leyton implacably.

  ‘No probs, Leyton – I was planning to go on me tod.’

  DS Jones, watching Skelgill expectantly, looks a little deflated. Rather peremptorily, she gathers up her papers and rises to her feet.