Jim shakes his head.
‘Razed to the ground. It was basically a big wooden barn – some kind of climbing and activity centre – with various timber constructions inside, plus they stored the mechanical equipment in there – if I recall there was quite a little fleet of quad bikes, plus the fuel in jerry cans – that’s what caused it – leaking petrol vapour built up and probably the heat of an engine took it past its flashpoint – or could have been a spark off a battery. There was a pile of hay, too – the place must have gone up like a tinder box.’
‘So foul play wasn’t suspected?’
The man shrugs.
‘Situation like that – you could never say never... but not on the face of it.’
Skelgill looks uneasy.
‘I seem to remember there being stories of arson – I mean, this would have been in the years after – vague gossip over a pint.’
The fireman shakes his head.
‘As I recall, they weren’t insured – which ruled out the usual suspects.’
Skelgill nods several times, to indicate he has considered this possibility.
‘What about malicious arson?’
‘Thing is, Danny – like I say – you can’t rule it out – but when all it would take is to kick over a petrol can that’s already standing there and chuck a fag-end on it – there’s no way of telling. The blaze destroyed everything – even all the metal was melted.’
‘What about injuries – it’s been suggested to us that this guy – the murder victim – was apparently hurt trying to fight the blaze?’
Jim rubs his jutting chin reflectively.
‘I’d need to dig out the report, Danny – but I’m pretty certain there was nowt. With a barn of that size and design – whacking great doors – even if there’s folk inside when the fire starts, it’s unlikely they wouldn’t get out. Happen yon laddo was trying to rescue some of the kit – must have been worth a few bob.’
Skelgill nods, albeit a little reluctantly.
‘I was rather hoping you’d have heard something off the record.’
‘Aye, there’s no fun in the facts, Danny. You know how the rumour mill gets going, especially in these parts.’ The man cocks his head to one side and winks at Skelgill. ‘I even hear talk you’ve had your whites back on.’
Skelgill’s high cheekbones take on a faint tinge of pink.
‘It was a three-line whip; I had no choice.’
‘Word is you skittled Carlisle cops singlehanded.’
Now Skelgill affects a modest simper.
‘That just proves your point about the rumour mill, Jim.’
‘Aye, well – we could do with a bit of help from you, if the old back’s mended – still plenty of games left this season, lad.’
The man might have hung up his climbing boots, but he still turns out for the mountain rescue cricket eleven, as well as providing honorary services that include club secretary, groundsman and chairman of selectors – though with limited resources and frequent injuries, the latter role is more a job of rustling up eleven fit men.
‘Happen I’ll give you a buzz once this case is sorted, Jim.’
The man grins.
‘So how long’s that going to be – next spring?’
Skelgill throws him a wide-eyed glance.
‘You must be joking – if the Chief is to be believed, either I crack it by tomorrow night or I’m on gardening leave.’
The man ponders this statement, pursing his lips and nodding supportively.
‘Course – you could always make that cricketing leave.’
*
‘Morning, Guv – are you on your way in?’
Skelgill is drinking a second cup of tea, and for once has his phone on hands-free as he heads along the A66.
‘Just had a meeting, Jones – next stop Knott Halloo Farm.’
‘Oh, right, Guv.’
DS Jones might be optimistic of being apprised on Skelgill’s interview with Maurice Stewart; however nothing seems to be forthcoming.
‘Er... a few more developments to update you on, Guv – including about the farm – well, the farmer, at least.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘We’ve checked his alibi – he was definitely exhibiting at the agricultural show in Lincolnshire, from midday on the Friday until it closed on Sunday evening. Just him and a young female assistant were staffing the stand.’
‘So where’s the story?’
‘He told you he drove back on the Monday, Guv.’
‘Aye.’
‘On the Sunday night he stayed at a hotel near Lincoln with his wife.’
‘Hold your horses, Jones – his wife was at some posh cocktail party at the Sharrow Bay on Sunday night.’
‘I know, Guv.’
Skelgill is silent for a moment.
‘You’ve not met his wife, have you?’
‘No, Guv.’
‘Jones – if you had, all might become clear.’
‘I see, Guv.’
‘I’ll bear this in mind when I speak to him.’
‘Sure, Guv.’
‘What next?’
DS Jones hesitates as she presumably refers to her notes.
‘Walter Barley’s bike, Guv – a small boy was seen shoving it off the bridge and running away back towards the town – seems like DS Leyton might have been right.’
‘Got a description?’
‘It’s from an old lady, Guv – walking her dog in the park – quite a distance off. Aged about twelve, brown hair, white trainers.’
‘There’s two hundred kids in Keswick fit that description.’
‘I know, Guv.’
‘What about the time?’
‘Just before five – Friday afternoon.’
‘Barley was probably dead by then.’
‘I’ve asked PC Dodd to make inquiries up at Threlkeld, Guv – I figured the bike was most probably taken from the farm, or – like you said – from near to the bus stop. That would narrow down the number of twelve-year-old boys – there’s only a hundred or so houses in the entire village.’
Skelgill is nodding, though he does not seem overly enthused by this information.
‘Okay.’
DS Jones perhaps senses his disinterest, and her disembodied voice takes on a note of urgency in an effort to raise the tempo of their conversation.
‘Next thing, Guv – Leicestershire police have traced Lee Harris’s biological mother – Janet Atkins.’
‘Aye?’
Skelgill’s inflection suggests this subject has struck more of a chord.
‘She’s not in a good way – drinking, that is. The report doesn’t say much – but I just spoke to the WPC who interviewed her. She said there was nothing concrete she could put in writing, but she felt the woman was holding out on her.’
‘In what way?’
‘The official line was that Lee Harris was fostered out because of the alcoholic father – but she got the impression that Lee himself was the problem.’
‘Linda Harris said Lee was starting to misbehave – that’s why they took the action.’
‘Sure, Guv – it’s just a point of subtle emphasis, I suppose. Apparently Janet Atkins kept repeating that he wasn’t a bad boy – in the way that mothers do when they know the opposite.’
Skelgill takes a sip of tea and gazes up at the fells to his left. The cyclonic spell is continuing – indeed the remnants of an Atlantic hurricane have been responsible for the overnight downfall. But now the warm front has passed and a clear, dry day is promised. Lakeland vegetation is reaching its summer peak, and the roadside verges hang heavy with the creamy blossom of meadowsweet. Skelgill lowers his window to admit whatever mixture of natural aromas will come his way.
‘Love and marriage.’
‘Sorry, Guv?’
DS Jones sounds nonplussed.
‘Love and marriage – it’s what they call meadowsweet. Nice scent, until you crush the flower.’
‘Right, Guv.’
/>
Skelgill does not elaborate upon the train of thought – if indeed there is one – that has brought him to this cryptic destination. Meanwhile, DS Jones, who might be wondering whether he refers to Lee Harris’s family circumstances – or in fact if there is some hidden message for her – waits expectantly. She might at least reasonably anticipate a modicum of praise for her diligent work: another late finish and an early start to glean the latest developments for her capricious boss’s delectation. After a lengthy pause, Skelgill’s approbation – if it can be classified as such – is characteristically oblique when it comes.
‘Has Leyton done any work?’
DS Jones is suitably diplomatic in her reply.
‘He’s at his desk now, Guv – shall I transfer you?’
‘Aye – and keep me posted – I don’t know when I’ll be with you.’
‘Sure, Guv – I’ll put you through.’
The line is silent for a few moments – perhaps longer than it might take for a call to be transferred between two colleagues who sit within sight of one another – and thus sufficient for Skelgill to suspect there is some collusion before he is reconnected.
‘Morning, Guv – how’s it going?’
Skelgill does not reply directly, but instead gets directly down to business.
‘What’s the latest on the door-to-door inquiries?’
There is a silence, during which it can be imagined DS Leyton practises various facial expressions.
‘Just getting it up on my screen, Guv – here we go. We’ve moved onto the new estate, fanning out from that walkway – last night we got the last few missing ones in Ullswater Place.’
Skelgill sucks in air between his teeth, rather in the manner of a reformed smoker.
‘I take it I’d have heard if we’d identified an obvious strangler in the street.’
‘It’s all looking above board, Guv. Mostly elderly folks, scattering of young couples, a few girls sharing, three single mothers – like that Kelly we saw – but no single males – at least not under pension age. Then again, how old was Dr Crippen?’
‘Crippen didn’t climb mountains.’
‘Fair point, Guv.’
Skelgill is silent for a moment as he concentrates on an overtaking manoeuvre.
‘Leyton – get someone round all the bookmakers in Kendal – see if anyone recognises Lee Harris, and whether there’s a record of bets he’s placed.’
DS Leyton sounds a little unconvinced, but knows better than question his superior. Instead his voice takes on a more animated note.
‘By the way, Guv – turns out that bookie, the Scotchwoman, she lives in Ullswater Place with her old ma – suppose it’s not surprising seeing as she’s been there so long – handy for her work, like.’
‘Aye, suppose so.’
*
Strictly speaking Knott Halloo Farm is not Skelgill’s next stop, since he makes a short detour to collect a joyous Cleopatra from his dog walker, who has a vet’s appointment (or, at least, the lupine Sammy does). In due course, however, he motors up through Threlkeld and continues until he passes the late Walter Barley’s cottage. He halts beside one of the barns, alongside the navy-blue Defender belonging to the farmer, and where an open door suggests its owner might be found. Beyond, Lucinda’s Range Rover appears to be absent from the main house. Skelgill fastens Cleopatra onto her baler-twine leash before permitting her to leap from beneath his tailgate.
‘Ah, Inspector – it’s a fine morning.’
The farmer has been attracted by sound of Skelgill’s approach, and emerges from the barn wiping his hands on an oily rag.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir.’
‘Oh, it’s no trouble whatsoever – I’m just getting a couple of demonstration models tidied up for the Great Yorkshire, Inspector. Killing a bit of time, if truth be told.’
‘When does it kick off?’
‘Trade day tomorrow, then open to the public through until Sunday.’
‘You’ll be taking the wife, I imagine, sir?’
The man hesitates just long enough to suggest that Skelgill’s innocently aimed question has struck its target. A flicker of alarm darkens his usually bright countenance, and he reaches for the comfort blanket of his neatly trimmed beard.
‘Oh, no, Inspector – she’s not really keen on that kind of thing – all the standing around – and then we have our livestock here to take care of.’
The two men hold one another’s gaze – although it is not an equal contest. Where Skelgill’s is keen and penetrative, the other’s anticipates a second salvo.
Skelgill clicks his fingers in a self-reprimanding manner.
‘Of course, sir – I was forgetting that. Your rare breeds.’
There is palpable relief in the man’s demeanour.
‘So, er... how may I help you this morning, Inspector?’
Skelgill waves a hand vaguely towards the slopes of Blencathra.
‘I just wondered if I might have a bit of a poke around – stretch the legs – I’ve got the dog today, you see, sir.’
‘I do indeed, Inspector – an impressive creature she is, too.’ He bends on one knee to make her acquaintance. ‘Is she a police dog?’
Skelgill grins at this prospect.
‘Let’s say she’s on probation, sir.’
He perhaps thinks the better of explaining Cleopatra’s true provenance, given this man’s connection to her former home.
‘She’s a friendly girl – though you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her, I should venture.’
‘That goes for a few females I could name, sir.’
The man glances up, a wounded look about his countenance.
‘Tell me about it, Inspector.’
Skelgill squats down on his haunches and joins in the patting of the dog; it seems there is some comradely rapport between the two men.
‘What I had in mind, sir – if I could see the site of the climbing barn that burnt down – then I thought I might give her a bit of a run up the fell – if you could put me right as to where you’ve got stock loose.’
‘Certainly, Inspector – we’ll go now, shall we?’
They set off on foot, passing the farmhouse and following a continuation of the main track through a small copse, to the point where it stops at a wooden gate. There are sheep grazing in this enclosure – regulation Lakeland Herdwicks, their thick grey coats ready for shearing. The animals seem unperturbed as the two men and (more significantly) a dog amble through. The line of the track is just visible, and takes them to an exit gate onto unfenced rough pasture. For a minute or so the gradient steepens, but as they pass between small bluffs, the ground levels and widens into a flat area the size of a large gym hall, with an almost vertical wall of chiselled rock rising on the uphill side.
‘I think originally it must have been a quarry, Inspector.’
Skelgill’s gaze slowly scans in an arc from left to right – but, apart from the uncharacteristically even ground, there is little to suggest a substantial building once stood on the site; nature has long seen to that. He perhaps appears disappointed, for the man speaks again, apologetically.
‘I’m afraid there’s not a lot to see – and it’s not an area we ever use – just keep the odd bit of equipment up here from time to time.’
Skelgill nods, his features contemplative.
‘It’s a good distance from the nearest water supply – not the easiest place to put out a fire.’
‘I imagine not, Inspector – I really don’t know whether they would have tried to get the tenders up the track, or run hoses from the farm.’
Skelgill looks at him intently.
‘My sources indicate the barn was pretty far gone by the time the fire bridge arrived, sir.’
The man nods benignly. He has regained his normal easy-going manner.
‘I shouldn’t be surprised, Inspector.’
‘Did Walter Barley ever speak about the incident, sir?’
The man puts his h
ands into the pockets of his corduroys and taps at a loose rock with the toe of a brogue. He shakes his head.
‘I can’t recall that he did, Inspector – he was pretty cagey altogether, if truth be told – he wasn’t one to pass the time of day.’
‘How did you hear about his injury being connected to the fire, sir?’
The man rubs his chin-stubble with the knuckle of a forefinger.
‘I’m honestly not sure, Inspector – it’s going back quite a bit, of course, and when we took over here his tenancy was a fait accompli – Lucinda may have mentioned it to me in passing, but we just treated him as the reclusive neighbour down the road.’
Skelgill is about to respond, but Cleopatra suddenly decides there is something of interest in a nearby patch of bracken; she catches him off guard and to keep his balance he lurches in her desired direction. The attraction turns out to be a dead rabbit, desiccated and long picked over by crows, though its honeyed, musky odour must be a cornucopia of pleasure to a canine snout. When Skelgill turns he sees that the farmer has also moved away; he is down on one knee examining a patch of grass, perhaps three yards square, cropped short by extant herbivores. As Skelgill approaches he begins to pull at some protrusion in one corner.
‘Cliff?’
Skelgill steps nearer.
‘Cliff Edge?’
The man does not react. For a few seconds he continues tugging at whatever it is, but then he looks around in surprise.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector – I was distracted – you said something – about a cliff?’
A sudden look of alarm occupies Skelgill’s face, and his cheekbones redden, like a schoolboy who has blurted out a confession to a blissfully ignorant master when none was needed.
‘Oh, I... er...’ He indicates with a thumb over his shoulder to the rock face that borders the site. ‘I was thinking... they perhaps used that cliff edge as a natural climbing wall – as well as having an artificial one in the barn.’
The man gazes helpfully past Skelgill.
‘Oh, yes – I’m sure that’s quite likely – not that it’s anything I know much about, Inspector.’ Still on his haunches he wipes his hands, and then for illustration purposes pats the end of what appears to be a thick iron link sticking out of the turf. ‘My chain harrow, Inspector – I wondered where it had gone.’
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 24