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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘I’ll get you that info, Guv. I’ll email it to you straight away.’

  As DS Jones slips behind him, DS Leyton cranes his neck to watch her depart. Then he shakes his head in silent admiration and leans covertly towards Skelgill.

  ‘No wonder they call her Fast-track, eh, Guv?’

  Skelgill thumbs the lapels of his jacket.

  ‘Aye, well – she just needed pointing in the right direction, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton nods tactfully and takes his own leave.

  Skelgill gathers his personal belongings and effects a swift retreat from the building. However, once car borne, rather than make for the nearest motorway junction he heads north out of Penrith on the A6. After a few minutes he turns off the trunk road into a lane, and shortly from the lane into a narrow, concealed track that enters a small copse, where he draws to a halt. He switches off the engine, rounds the car and re-enters via the passenger door. Then he winds back the passenger seat to its maximum extent, stretches out his legs, and promptly falls fast asleep.

  22. BORDER COUNTRY – Tuesday evening

  The region of Galloway is three times the size of the Lake District, and yet it attracts only a fraction of the visitors. This is curious on the face of it, given the proximity of the two areas, and their marked similarities. Where Lakeland has its meres, dales and becks, Galloway boasts lochs, glens and burns in equal measure. Indeed, Galloway offers crowd-free hillwalking that Cumbrian outdoors folk can only dream of, and its highest peak, The Merrick, a slumbering giant at the heart of a great wilderness, is a match for its much-trodden English counterparts across the shimmering Solway Firth.

  Quite what makes Galloway so forsaken a land (statistically, at least) is hard to fathom. Skelgill’s present journey is perhaps ninety minutes, by good roads. Why few among the holidaying hordes invest such modest time to discover the history, culture and wildlife of this ancient realm is something of a mystery.

  Skelgill’s route, in fact, turns out to be rather more convoluted, for he takes a detour to Aspatria, to spend five minutes with Hilda Seddon. Ironically, this small Cumbrian town lies on the beeline that notionally joins Penrith and Castle Douglas (the nearest substantial settlement to his destination), but the interposing estuary means he must retrace his tracks in order to enter Scotland. It is approaching seven p.m. as he skims over the Esk at Metal Bridge, and such is his level of concentration that he omits his habitual sideways glance to check the state of the tide. He flashes across the border at well above the speed limit, and is obliged to break abruptly when suddenly he becomes aware of the fast-enlarging exit sign for Gretna, its kitschy factory outlets, and the A75 west.

  Clouds have been the order of the day, and now that they darken the landscape with a premature sense of dusk, perhaps the contrast between Galloway and Lakeland becomes more stark. Where the Lakes has its verdant oakwoods, soft and inviting, hugging the contours and blending into the fellsides, Galloway is a manmade patchwork of midnight-green conifer plantations, whose angular margins challenge aesthetics and slice across bog and scree like the arbitrary borders of African countries. Such austerity is amplified in the names of many natural features: Loch Doon, Long Loch of the Dungeon, The Black Water of Dee, Murder Hole, Rigg of the Jarkness, and the Range of the Awful Hand. And where Lakeland towns are thronged with colourful cagoule-clad visitors, who spill chattering from quaint freshly painted pubs adorned with overflowing hanging baskets, an air of melancholy hangs over Galloway; by comparison its villages appear deserted, their buildings in less-than-pristine repair, eaves slowly dripping with black rain; while beyond in the swirling mists mingle the ghosts of Covenanters, lamenting their tragic risings.

  Yet in this isolation resides Galloway’s appeal. It has long been a haven for those seeking solitude and seclusion – the creative and the meditative – and among its farming and foresting inhabitants moves a significant population of artists, artisans and aspiring adherents of various obscure faiths and orders, tenaciously eking a living off the beaten track. Skelgill’s destination – Glenlochar Castle Retreat – has provenance in this regard; now a private retirement home, it was formerly the base of a Buddhist community – a group that departed at the turn of the century when planning permission for a proposed human-waste power generation plant was denied by the local authority. In any event, despite its name, a fortified role has never been one of its functions, although during the war it was occupied as a training centre for the construction of Bailey bridges on nearby Loch Ken.

  Thus, as Skelgill turns into the winding driveway, crowded by straining banks of rhododendrons, he ought not anticipate some grand edifice in Scottish Baronial style. Instead, rounding the final bend, he encounters the incongruous car crash of two social classes, two properties juxtaposed. By far the grander, on the left, is constructed in the Greek Revival style of the mid 1800s, in local greywacke with red sandstone quoins, jambs, lintels and sills; a low-slope hipped slate roof; and a massive central porch, its columns, door and cornicing painted white, and surrounded by long three-over-six sash windows that create the impression of a vacant multi-eyed countenance with an oversized mouth. Standing flush against this building – admittedly in the same severe stone – is a graphically contrasting traditional Galloway farmhouse, also of two storeys (though these much lower), the three dormers of its upper floor jutting from the steep gabled roof, their angled rake edges and those of the porch beneath clashing jauntily with the horizontal lines of the main house.

  Architecture does not rank high among Skelgill’s interests – or even disturb his general sentience – but as he kills the engine he stares at the distressing agglomeration. After a minute he emerges into a fine drizzle that thickens the air and dampens the crunch of his feet on the gravel. He approaches the ostentatious portico and is about to mount its fan of worn steps when, to his right, the front door of the smaller property opens. A cheery-looking woman of late middle age, medium height and stout build, alerted presumably by the dull slam of his car door, leans out and beckons for him to come.

  ‘This way, duck – the reception’s all shut up for the night.’

  She steps back to admit him, only at the last second extending a hand, as if she is unsure how to greet a policeman.

  ‘Veronica – duty housekeeper – I’m on until six in the morning.’

  ‘Skelgill, Cumbria CID. I believe you spoke with one of my colleagues.’

  The woman nods eagerly, closing the door and ushering Skelgill ahead of her into a surprisingly wide hallway furnished with a small settee and an easy chair, and a coffee table angled between them.

  ‘You’re here to see Maurice – he’s expecting you – he’s just finishing off his supper.’ She pulls on the back of the chair, an action suggesting that he should sit. ‘Would you like a cup of tea and a wee cake while you wait – you’ll have had a long journey?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do – if it’s no bother?’

  ‘Och, you just sit yourself down – I shan’t be a wee minute.’

  His acquiescence seems to have an endearing effect. She beams widely and bustles away. Skelgill lowers himself into the seat, an amused smile creasing the corners of his mouth: she has an English accent of a Midlands nature – but, in the way of many an incomer to a foreign region, she has adopted some of the local vernacular, if not quite the pronunciation. Presently, from what must be a small staff kitchen, emanate the promising rumble of a boiling kettle and the ring of a tin – and perhaps the sound of slicing, several times repeated. Indeed, Skelgill is not disappointed when she reappears bearing a well-stocked tray of refreshments, comprising a large steaming mug of tea and a reserve pot, milk and sugar, and a stand with three slices each of carrot cake and Victoria sponge. There is only one side plate.

  ‘You not having some yourself?’

  ‘Och – no, I’ve got to watch my figure.’

  She smoothens the sides of her dress as she settles upon the settee and helps Skelgill to his first slice; there is no doubt tha
t, with just a few inches trimmed off here and there, her now matronly curves would once have turned heads. Skelgill might empathise with the mismatched challenge of idling away long nightshifts, and only a tin of cakes for company.

  ‘You’re not Scottish?’

  ‘We’re from West Bridgford.’

  Skelgill nods as he chews.

  ‘Nottingham.’

  ‘That’s right, duck – not many people up here know that.’

  Skelgill cocks his head to one side.

  ‘Probably not many people up here have fished the Trent.’

  ‘Och – so that’s how you know.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows in affirmation as he takes a gulp of tea.

  ‘You said we?’

  ‘My husband, Bill – he’s the handyman, does the grounds as well – it’ll be four years this September we moved up – we’ve got a little cottage down by the loch. Bill likes his fishing, too.’

  Skelgill nods, perhaps wrestling with the temptation to become sidetracked.

  ‘What’s the set-up here – as regards your patients?’

  The woman’s eyes seem longingly to be following the movements of Skelgill’s side plate, with its diminishing portion of Victoria sponge. Skelgill notices this and changes tack.

  ‘Why don’t you get yourself a mug and a plate – if Mr Stewart is going to be a few minutes – I’m in no rush.’

  ‘Are you sure, duck?’

  But in asking this question she is already rising to her feet and heading for the kitchenette. Returning, she sighs with relief as she makes herself comfortable once more. Skelgill watches with interest as she opts for the sponge, as if he has a little wager with himself resting on this outcome.

  ‘It’s just a gentleman’s retirement home – nothing fancy – for those who’d struggle to manage on their own. Though we don’t provide medical care, so they have to move on if a condition becomes a problem.’ She takes a bite of cake and then, holding one hand over her mouth out of politeness, quickly adds, as if for the official record, ‘We’re all first-aid-trained, of course.’

  Skelgill nods encouragingly.

  ‘And Mr Stewart – was he here before you came?’

  The woman nods.

  ‘About seven years, I think he’s been.’

  ‘Does he have any visitors?’

  Now she shakes her head, and finishes her next mouthful before she replies.

  ‘None at all – but he’s got a mobile phone – we have to buy him top-up vouchers in Castle Douglas when he’s running low.’

  ‘Do you know who he speaks with? We’re trying to trace his son, Clifford.’

  Again there is the cake-induced delay.

  ‘He’s quite secretive, you see – keeps to himself, even among the other chaps – and we’ve only got eight residents altogether at the moment.’

  She leans forward a little conspiratorially, although at first Skelgill must assume she wants a second helping of cake, since he lifts the remaining selection for her consideration.

  ‘Och, I shouldn’t, you know.’

  Skelgill grins at her disarmingly.

  ‘Thing is – I’ll eat it all, if you won’t – and I’m not sure that’s a good idea either.’

  ‘Well, just a wee slice then, to help you out.’

  This wee can only be intended euphemistically, since none of the surviving slices could remotely be described as ungenerous. She opts for the last piece of Victoria sponge, which seems to satisfy Skelgill as he helps himself to carrot cake. The woman resumes her confidential pose, and speaks in something of a hushed tone.

  ‘What I was going to say was – and you’ll see for yourself – he’s a bit strange.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He spends most of his time studying horses – he gets that racing newspaper delivered every day – and he likes to watch the races on the television – when the others will let him.’

  ‘Does he place bets?’

  ‘Not that I know of – I mean he doesn’t leave here.’

  ‘What about online betting?’

  The woman shakes her head decisively.

  ‘I know you can do it with computers these days – but we don’t have any – not even for the staff. My Bill says good riddance – it’s one less thing to go wrong.’

  ‘Could he bet by phone?’

  The woman considers this, but again shakes her head.

  ‘I’m not sure he’s got a credit card – he pays us in cheques and cash.’ She gazes at her empty plate for a moment. ‘He receives regular mail though – thick envelopes that come recorded – he must get his money sent through the post.’

  Skelgill does not respond immediately. Perhaps he is trying to work something out, and is disguising these mental calculations as the process of savouring the carrot cake.

  ‘Excellent, this – did you bake it yourself?’

  The woman looks pleased and nods with affected modesty.

  ‘Wait till I tell my sergeant – he’ll be cooking up an excuse for us to come back.’

  Now she chuckles and perhaps even blushes with pride. Skelgill resumes his stealthy interrogation.

  ‘Veronica – you said he was strange – the business with the horses – that’s not so unusual is it?’

  She nods, recognising that there is an unfinished part to her explanation.

  ‘It’s more Maurice himself, really – it’s like... well, sometimes he’s not quite there – except that you can’t help thinking he’s putting it on.’

  ‘What – as if he’s acting a bit daft in order to be evasive?’

  She nods enthusiastically.

  ‘That’s exactly it.’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘I must admit – it’s a tactic I use myself often enough – sometimes I don’t even know I’m doing it – according to my boss, anyway.’

  She smiles at his little joke. Skelgill casually prods at the crumbs on his plate.

  ‘Veronica – you probably know him better than anybody – do you think I can trust what he says?’

  She has been swift to answer most of Skelgill’s questions, but now she wavers. She leans back in her seat, brushing crumbs from her lap and keeping her eyes on her hands as she interlocks her fingers; she appears undecided.

  ‘Possibly – but I shouldn’t stake your job on it, if I were you, duck.’

  Skelgill nods pensively, and reaches for another slice of carrot cake.

  *

  Skelgill has been guided through the smaller property into the adjoining main house, and now he enters the day room alone. There are five elderly men comfortably seated around a large television, from which blares a popular soap opera – though on reflection not that popular, since they all appear to be sleeping. Two others click dominoes at a card table in one corner; neither looks up as he advances and then exits the lounge through double doors that lead into a large conservatory. Mercifully, the glazing is efficient, and the strident cockney angst is excluded once he closes the doors behind him. The conservatory itself is pleasantly furnished with wicker settees and matching low tables; healthy looking houseplants spill from hanging baskets; beyond the glass there is a view down to the loch, though the misty dusk precludes much detail. Seated in a wheelchair and bent over a desk and facing the same outlook, is a schoolboy-like figure, though closer inspection reveals him to be bald, but for a few wisps of hair forming a crescent at the back of his skull. Maurice Stewart is making notes as Skelgill approaches, and shows no sign that he detects the latter’s presence. A small transistor radio beside him emits the chatter of a sports talk-station. Skelgill takes a slight detour, and grabs the top of a wicker chair, which he drags with him.

  ‘Yu’ve come through at last, then.’

  The man, who seems to have knowledge of Skelgill’s earlier arrival, speaks in a Cumbrian accent, and without glancing up. As Skelgill positions his seat at forty-five degrees to the desk, Maurice Stewart switches off the wireless set and with some effort manipulates th
e wheelchair around to half-face him.

  ‘Mr Stewart – thanks for sparing the time – I waited until the all-weather meeting at Wolverhampton was finished – I figured you’d be following it.’ He grins affably. ‘Besides, your housekeeper bakes a mean carrot cake.’

  The man regards Skelgill with a mixture of scepticism and guarded interest – the former presumably because he knows his visitor is a detective, and the latter perhaps because it must be rare for him to be engaged in terms that acknowledge his pet subject, let alone with some apparent know-how thrown in. While he is formulating a response – if indeed he is – Skelgill presses home the small advantage he might just have gained.

  ‘There was a horse I fancied in the last race – Danny’s Girl, it was called.’

  Skelgill says this casually, though with such intonation to suggest he is interested in the outcome. Maurice Stewart glances briefly at the neat piles of papers arranged on the desk, and then turns back to Skelgill.

  ‘Aye, well – she din’t run, she were withdrawn – so yer saved yerself a few bob there.’

  Skelgill looks a little surprised.

  ‘You wouldn’t have advised it?’

  The man shakes his head. He has a long bulbous nose, a white chin-curtain beard, and brown eyes hazy with a hint of glaucoma. These features, together with his heavy brow and furtive demeanour, create a striking resemblance to a proboscis monkey. Whether of the wise variety or not, remains to be seen, but for the moment he certainly holds his peace, obliging Skelgill to continue.

  ‘I reckoned I had a reliable tip on that – in the bookie’s this morning.’

  The man shifts slightly but still does not comment. Though Skelgill is to some extent playing a game of blind man’s buff, he is at least on firm ground – the filly bearing his own name caught his eye whilst he voluntarily posted up the race cards earlier.

  ‘Same person as gave me You Stupid Boy at Newmarket last Friday.’

  Now Maurice Stewart shows signs of interest.