‘Aye, well – yer did alright there. What did yer get?’
Skelgill is straining the sinews of his gambling knowledge. He is obliged to guess the gist of this question.
‘Four to one.’
The man nods. It is evidently the correct answer. He swivels for a moment and picks up the sheet of lined foolscap on which he has been working. He glances cursorily at the page and then shows it to Skelgill.
‘Nine to two were available.’
He indicates with a bony index finger, tipped with a long brown nail, cracked and curved like a devil’s toenail fossil. There are several matching columns of handwritten figures in jerky black biro, perhaps a hundred pairs of numbers in all. The meaning of the first column is not clear, but the second clearly holds a record of the odds, written in the traditional style – 11/4, 2/1, 13/8 and so on. The nail traces a shaky course down the page, almost to the very bottom of the last column, where the figures 9/2 are written. At the top of the sheet is the heading ‘Naps & Next Best’. Skelgill takes hold of a corner of the page to get a better look; perhaps to his surprise the man releases it to him and slumps against his wheelchair with a small groan of discomfort. Skelgill likewise sits upright and scrutinises the page, frowning in an informed fashion and nodding from time to time. He must be racking his brains for some intelligent comment, but now the man is more forthcoming.
‘Yon figures in red are the losers.’
Skelgill scans the page for a second time, a puzzled expression clouding his features.
‘There aren’t any in red.’
The man throws back his head and cackles jubilantly, though the laughter quickly disintegrates into a chaotic bout of phlegmy coughing that culminates in him spitting profusely into a handkerchief wrestled from (and returned to) a trouser pocket. Skelgill watches implacably through this ostensibly disturbing episode; it seems he senses no distress. When calm is restored, he hands back the page of winners.
‘That’s some system you’ve got, Mr Stewart.’
The man smirks, though there is perhaps the glisten of pride in his dark eyes – unless this is the product of tears that welled up during the coughing fit.
‘Aye, happen I’ve cracked it, eh lad?’
Skelgill folds his arms and shakes his head in admiration.
‘How do you do it – I mean, without revealing your formula?’
The man squints and picks at the back of his head with two hands, as though he is removing a tick.
‘I’ve got all me filters, twelve of ’em – usual things like bloodline, trainer, jockey, form, weight, going.’ He gestures towards a folded copy of the Racing Post that is arrayed with the other materials on the desk. ‘Official ratings, handicaps, tipsters’ predictions, odds ratios.’
He yawns without covering his mouth, revealing unnaturally white dentures top and bottom. Skelgill checks his wristwatch; it is true that the evening is wearing on and quite likely the old man is tiring.
‘Sounds impressive.’
But Maurice Stewart scoffs.
‘That’s nowt – anyone can get that information.’
Skelgill tips his head to one side.
‘But surely the skill is knowing what to do with it?’
The man shrugs dismissively. He leans out of his chair and stretches for a single sheet of paper, this one covered in printed data, with many columns of tiny figures set against horses’ names. He passes the page to Skelgill who, after a couple of moments’ scrutiny, looks up inquiringly. It seems this is a satisfactory response.
‘Time horses – that’s what it’s all about, lad – time horses.’
Skelgill again nods deferentially.
‘You must make a fortune, Mr Stewart.’
The man’s response is an abbreviated version of the cackle-and-cough routine, although this time thankfully not requiring the hanky.
‘I don’t bet, lad.’
Skelgill inhales as if he is about to speak, but in reaching to return the page his gaze drifts beyond Maurice Stewart and he notices a budget-edition mobile phone resting on the far corner of the desk. The man follows Skelgill’s eyes – and instead of replacing the data-sheet in its allocated space, he slides it casually over the handset. He hesitates for a moment before he settles back to face the detective. Now he yawns again, more laboriously this time.
‘Any’ow, lad – thee din’t come to discuss horses – yon Morag’ll be along to pack us off ter kip soon.’
Skelgill holds up a palm in acknowledgment, and then joins both hands together between his knees and assumes a more business-like though still affable posture. Whether he has detected the subtle change in his antagonist’s demeanour is difficult to gauge.
‘Mr Stewart – the main purpose of coming to see you is to ask about your son, Clifford.’
‘Why – what’s he bin up ter?’
Immediately there is the cackle, perhaps with a more manic flourish than before. The apelike eyes seem to glint with amusement.
‘Oh – it’s nothing like that, sir – it’s just that we have reason to believe he might be in danger.’
For a fleeting moment the man’s features seem pained, though the reaction could equally be one of contempt.
‘Danger, eh?’
‘It’s essential we trace him, you see, sir.’
‘Cliff Edge.’
There is a sense of wistful nostalgia conveyed in this short expression, with each word being separately emphasised.
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Cliff Edge – that’s what he called hisself – Dangerous Cliff Edge. He liked that – being the star turn. Lock up your daughters, here comes Dangerous Cliff Edge.’
Skelgill inches closer.
‘Do you mean when you had the outdoor activity centre – and the climbing wall? At Knott Halloo?’
‘Aye, he were a reet good climber were our Cliff.’ The man makes a throaty rattle, as though he is agreeing with himself by agitating the catarrh lining his trachea. ‘Cliff Edge. Ha!’
‘Do you know where we can find him, sir?’
The man pitches forward and pinches the end of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of one hand. Whether this is intended as a confiding gesture it is hard to discern, but his reply suggests such.
‘No one knows where to find Cliff.’
In his enunciation there is a hint of triumph – the accent upon no one – as if Clifford’s whereabouts is a long-held secret in which only he shares and he is flaunting this accomplishment before Skelgill. Suddenly he jerks back upright and again there is the unnerving laughter.
‘Including yourself, sir?’
Now the man shrugs indifferently; he does not seem inclined to answer verbally.
‘When did you last see him?’
Maurice Stewart yawns once more, and closes his eyes for several seconds. Skelgill stares at him with concern, perhaps trying to assess whether he is overcome by sleep. Then the eyes disconcertingly spring open.
‘See who?’
‘Your son Cliff, sir.’
‘What about him?’
‘Has he been in touch with you lately?’
The man sways in his chair; he has an intoxicated air.
‘He speaks to me – don’t they all, eh?’
Once more there is the spluttering cackle and cough. But now a movement attracts Skelgill’s attention. It appears that the staff are shepherding their clients off to bed. A woman unfamiliar to Skelgill – skinny and plain looking, asexual in her uniform of beige smock and matching trousers, dark hair wrung into an ascetic top knot – bangs open and fastens back the interconnecting doors. This must be the aforementioned Morag.
‘Time to turn in, Mr Stewart – cocoa’s already in your room.’
She shoots a severe glance at Skelgill, a clear signal that his presence is now no longer desired – at least as far as she is concerned. Perhaps her shift ends once she has packed away the inmates and, rather like a barmaid trying to clear a pub of its laggards who lo
iter long after last orders, maybe she too undergoes the closing-time transformation from hospitable to hostile. The television through in the day room has been silenced, and she extinguishes the lights in the conservatory. Skelgill rises, but takes the opportunity to step across to the windows, now that the internal reflection has been eliminated. Leaning over, he presses his forehead against the glass and peers out into the darkness, but in his eagerness to see outside he upsets a vase and only just manages to catch it before it tumbles onto the tiled floor. He re-settles it carefully and makes an apologetic mimed gesture – the woman briefly looks askance, but she is more concerned with wrenching round the wheelchair and aiming it at the ramp up into the lounge.
‘He in’t out there, lad!’
Maurice Stewart calls back over his shoulder, seemingly amused by Skelgill’s antics. Skelgill quickens his stride to catch up, and attempts to offer his assistance with the chair – but the silent orderly makes it clear with her nearest shoulder that she requires no help. Skelgill keeps pace and twists around to make eye contact with her charge.
‘Mr Stewart – is there anyone we could ask – who’ll know where Clifford might be?’
The simian features of the old man seem to fill with malevolent glee.
‘Dig all yer like – yer’ll not find Cliff.’
*
Skelgill turns left out of the driveway of Glenlochar Castle Retreat, between square sandstone columns topped by eroded eagles that seem to lurch ominously in the red glow of his tail lights. He changes up into second gear – but no more – and perhaps fifty yards further on he stops alongside a field entrance on the right. Emerging from the vehicle, pulling in his head in tortoise-fashion against the intensifying rain, he puts his shoulder to the rickety wooden gate. It swings easily enough at first, though jams against the uneven ground at the perpendicular. Nonetheless, he returns to the car and manoeuvres it through the gap and swings it hard against the dry-stone wall. Now it is out of sight from the road. Then he clambers into the central passenger section, and drags various items of wet-weather gear from the cargo compartment. In the restricted space there follows a limited struggle, accompanied by unrestrained swearing. But two minutes later he tumbles out clad in wellingtons, leggings, and his dubiously impermeable combination of threadbare Barbour and sagging Tilley hat. He locks the car, checks his powerful flashlight against the palm of one hand, hauls the gate back into its closed position, and sets off in the direction whence he came.
He has obviously decided that the driveway is the most practical route of approach. This seems wise given his meagre knowledge of the surrounding terrain – there could be bogs, bogles, or fields full of bad-tempered Belties – and, now that night has fallen, beneath the heavy cloud cover visibility is almost non-existent. Somewhere, teenage tawny owls, recently fledged, call insistently for fast food; though tonight they may be disappointed. Indeed, the darkness is intense. Neither the country lane nor the driveway is illuminated, and it is no coincidence that sparsely populated Galloway is home to Britain’s first dark sky park. Skelgill feels his way rather drunkenly along the centre of the gravel track, straining to see the tips of his fingers – though naturally unwilling to employ his torch.
And just as well – for about halfway to his destination he is almost caught unawares as headlights suddenly illuminate a bend only thirty yards ahead. Skelgill is hemmed in by the tall banks of seemingly impenetrable rhododendrons – but this is a familiar Lakeland species and, trusting to this knowledge, he covers his face with his arms and throws himself against the hedge just as the bright beam swings after him. The shrubs yield and then spring back into place; he disappears from view and the car rumbles past at a constant velocity. If the driver has seen anything, it can only have been fleetingly, at best a dark form passed off as a roe deer – or perhaps more wishfully as the wandering spirit of a Covenanter abroad – not a sight that most folk would stop to investigate on such an inauspicious night.
Skelgill immediately pokes his head out from the bushes. The vehicle is an old mini of some description, and through the rear glass of the car, silhouetted against the illuminated foreground, the driver’s distinctive hairstyle is recognisable as that of the orderly, Morag; and there is a second female in the passenger seat. Skelgill fights his way into the open and rearranges his attire, which has twisted during his temporary flight. Brushing twiggy debris from his hair he realises he has become separated from his hat. He decides it is safe to use the flashlight. He trains the beam on the foliage, but then notices the missing item lying flat upon the gravel – a condition caused by the hat having been run over. Phlegmatically he punches it back into shape and jams it firmly down upon his head, then raises the collar of his jacket to optimise his waterproofing.
He sets off again in darkness. Perhaps he feels more confident for this episode – certainly it would appear that the evening shift has departed, and only the night staff (solely Veronica?) will remain. And when the property comes into view he is able to get his bearings. Both houses have porch lamps, and from some of the upstairs windows a pale glow is cast. But Skelgill is wary of triggering an intruder light, and he keeps his distance as best he can. He heads right, and takes a wide loop around the smaller structure before making a dash across a well-tended lawn to the rear corner of this building. Rabbits scatter silently before him.
Now he edges cautiously along the back wall, ducking beneath windows as he passes. Reaching the last of these before the junction with the main house, he pauses. From the darkness within there is the homely flicker of a television; peering around the window frame, Skelgill can see that the set is positioned against the far wall of the room. Secure in the knowledge that the watcher will thus be facing away from him, he allows himself a complete view of the interior. Sure enough, there is the back of Veronica’s head. She is comfortably accommodated on a broad settee, with her legs stretched out and her slippered feet supported on a round pouffe. Next to this is a coffee table, upon which there are the tea things familiar from earlier, now supplemented by the addition of a capacious pink cake tin.
Skelgill grins and moves on. Still hugging the building he swiftly finds his way around the jutting profile of the conservatory, to the point opposite Maurice Stewart’s desk. Briefly he probes with the flashlight to satisfy himself that nobody is lurking in the darkened extension. Then he prises open the window he unfastened during his clumsy episode with the vase. Leaning in, almost overbalancing, he can just reach the desk. Deftly, he removes something and slips down onto the grass, hunching over so as to shield the item from the steady rain. Gripping the torch between his teeth, a mad grimace tearing at his features, he yanks out his mobile phone and begins methodically to take photographs.
23. KNOTT HALLOO FARM – Wednesday morning
‘Early bird gets the worm, eh, Danny, lad?’
Skelgill produces a wry grin as he leans over to shake the hand of the man clambering into the passenger seat of his car.
‘Not for long, Jim.’
‘How’s that?’
Skelgill hands over a grease-stained brown paper bag; simultaneously he nods in the direction of the burger van.
‘Look at his tax disc.’
‘Shouldn’t you be doing something about that, Inspector?’
Skelgill nonchalantly takes another bite and makes a scoffing sound through his nose.
‘Marra – I’m working on a triple murder case – about to be quadruple if I don’t get my finger out – I can’t go round nicking folk for their road tax.’
‘S’pose not, lad.’
Skelgill holds up his own half-eaten roll.
‘Anyway, what’s that saying – about cutting off your nose to spite your face?’
The man nods agreeably.
‘Decent burgers, Danny.’
‘Leyton – one of my sergeants – sniffed it out.’ Skelgill shakes his head. ‘If only he had half the nose for crime.’
‘Which I take it is where I come in – is this my tea,
by the way?’
Skelgill indicates and the man extracts one of two polystyrene cups from the centre console.
‘Thanks for meeting up – I shan’t delay you for long.’
‘Don’t worry, Danny – now I’m behind a desk I’m on flexitime – you might just have to buy me another one of these, that’s all.’
‘I’ll keep it brief – had to raid the post office to pay in the first place.’
‘Let’s have it, then.’
The man – some fifteen years the senior – is an employee of Cumbria Fire Service. Once leader of the mountain rescue group to which Skelgill belongs, an accident curtailed his climbing days in both capacities. He is a large man, well over six feet, with tight grizzled curly hair, a strong jaw and small blue eyes that twinkle beneath blond brows.
‘You’ve read about the murders?’
The man nods but remains efficiently tight-lipped.
‘I’m investigating a connection to Knott Halloo Farm – one of the victims lived in a cottage on their land. There was a fire, going back the best part of twenty years – I vaguely remember it, but I was at that age where... well, I suppose local news wasn’t my main priority.’
‘You mean you're not at that age any more?’ The elder man chuckles and nudges Skelgill. ‘I thought you were the Lakes’ answer to Peter Pan?’
Skelgill grins sheepishly.
‘Aye, well – I have my moments. Ask my boss.’
The man shakes his head sympathetically.
‘Well, some of us are old enough to remember – as it happens.’
Skelgill’s eyes narrow.
‘Did you attend?’
‘Aye – though not in the first instance. That summer there was a spate of forest fires – dashing about like blue-arsed flies we were. Caused a delay in getting a tender up to the farm – it was beyond saving by the time our lads got there. But it was an isolated unit – fair old size, like – so there was no risk to the rest of the property, and the immediate surroundings were rough grazing. I was the investigating officer.’
‘Was there much left to investigate?’
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 23