Skelgill, recovering his composure, squints at the object.
‘What – it’s buried?’
The man struggles to his feet, looking a little sheepish.
‘Well – yes – it has become somewhat overgrown. I remember I towed it up here after the last time I used it.’
‘Must have been a while ago, sir?’
The man thumbs his beard.
‘Probably five years, now you mention it, Inspector. We have a field down towards the village that we used to sow with oats. I ought to give that another go next spring.’
‘Want a hand pulling it out? I reckon we could manage it.’
‘Oh, no, no – no need, Inspector – thanks all the same – I shall bring up the Defender some time and attach it to the winch. No point in putting out one’s back unnecessarily.’
Skelgill, perhaps subconsciously, stretches his spine; there is an old injury that wouldn’t be thanking him for his offer of assistance.
‘Well – I oughtn’t keep you if you’re off to Yorkshire later, sir – I’ll perhaps just give the dog a bit of a run, if you don’t object.’
‘Be my guest, Inspector – we don’t have any stock on this part of the fell – so she can roam freely.’
*
Though Cleopatra is off the leash, she seems content to stick close to Skelgill as he works his way up the hillside, picking a winding course that finds the easier going. Although there is no trodden path, a firm, dry route is indicated by patches of montane flora, dwarf species that thrive in the fast-draining loam: tormentil, heath bedstraw and wild thyme, miniature meadows of yellow, white and purple, a kaleidoscopic blur beneath the feet. Overhead, in contrast, an azure sky is unblemished by cloud or bird; the clouds will come this evening; the birds less predictably – mid-mornings on such summer days deserve a break, when foraging began six hours ago at dawn.
An abrupt roar has Skelgill turning on his heel to gaze out across the broad dale to the south: an RAF Tornado, silent ahead of its wave of noise, rends the vista, like an artist’s knife cutting an unsatisfactory landscape canvas. The eye at first is attracted to the apparent location of the sound, but the fast jet is always several degrees in advance, not easy to spot against the dun fells. He tips a wing at Blencathra, then banks westwards to seek the Irish Sea, beyond Skelgill’s horizon, yet only seconds away by supersonic means.
Skelgill watches the modern marvel out of sight, then turns to approach a work of more rudimentary technology. As the gradient steepens, weathered rocks become prominent among the grass and heather, cracked and pitted and encrusted with ancient lichens and mosses, monochromic in their dotage. Blending naturally into this grizzled patchwork is a doorway into Blencathra. Hand-chipped three hundred years ago, the angular entrance to an adit appears black in the bright sun at Skelgill’s back. There is no approach path; it is as if the miners who hewed this rough portal kept going and never came out, swallowed by the mountain. Today not even sheep have seen fit to beat a track to its shelter.
He calls in the dog and loops the lead through her collar. Obediently, she walks to heel as he ducks into the mouth of the tunnel. Skelgill might wonder what bantam ancestors of his toiled here – if they worked unbowed they must have stood a good half-foot shorter than he. His discomfort is compounded by the lack of a torch – even his mobile phone is still clipped in place to the dashboard of his car. He faces velvet blackness until his pupils adjust from bright sunshine. As such, with his free hand, he fumbles blindly in the void before him, like a subterranean creature would use its antennae.
Though never a caver himself, he is no stranger to this underground world; boyhood dares concerned these places, and his mountain rescue team is summoned likewise on occasion, and trains for all eventualities. In such circumstances he would be fully equipped with helmet, harness, rope and head-torch. Abreast of the horror stories, therefore, his caution is to be expected. Cleopatra, however, knows no such trepidation, and moves ahead in investigative fashion. Of course, her rod-rich retinas endow her with six times the night-vision of her companion, and perhaps sensing this Skelgill lets out a few turns of the leash from his wrist. Where his forbears held forth a canary, he follows a four-legged friend.
In the classical manner, the adit bores horizontally into the hillside, a speculative shot uncannily aimed at pockets of rare metal ores, deposits that had lain undisturbed for millions of years, gathering interest. As Skelgill’s eyes begin to adjust to the lack of light, any gains are offset by the intensifying darkness as he explores further from the entrance. The roof and walls of the passage begin to crowd in, and he opts to run his free hand along the uneven ceiling, as a precaution to warn against a jutting rock.
But it is no such solid protrusion that he encounters – instead something altogether more unearthly – as clammy webbed fingers grasp his palm. What Gollum-like creature can this be? He jerks back with a cry of shock. There is a flutter in the air – and perhaps a tiny guttural breath. It is a bat. Minding its own business, it has found its beauty sleep rudely interrupted by Skelgill’s clumsy fumblings. It beats about for a couple of seconds, and then apparently heads deeper into the tunnel. Cleopatra, momentarily alarmed by Skelgill’s reflex squawk, switches quickly into hunting mode – unlike her master, she can hear the tiny winged mammal’s cries of indignation. She darts forward and – in succumbing to this instinct – takes a leap in the dark that is very nearly her last, for just ahead of them lies an invisible abyss. But one further feature of canine biology delays this undesirable outcome: where two legs would have seen her plummet to her doom, instead only her front paws initially slide over the edge of the shaft. In this hiatus, the length of baler twine attached to Skelgill’s wrist provides a temporary lifeline. Skelgill, after first recoiling from the bat, is now yanked forward in a manner that must seem like the take of a pike to break all records; a take of the kind that catches him blithely off guard, perhaps as he inattentively retrieves after the last cast of the day. As such, what can only be learned behaviour – but which for him has become as good as instinct – kicks in, and he, in a manner of speaking, strikes. This action holds the dog fast – so long as the baler twine will remain intact. Skelgill drops to his knees, and with an angler’s aplomb he winds in the line in short sharp jerks as he crawls towards her, all the time maintaining the tension. Then with one sudden lunge he slides his free hand down the line and grabs her collar. Cleopatra might weigh fifty pounds, and Skelgill might have a latent back injury, but adrenaline is a remarkable substance, and he hauls the dog one-handed over his shoulder and deposits her on the cave floor behind him. He unravels the leash from his wrist and casts down the free end. At this juncture no one can really blame poor Cleopatra for making a bolt for the light at the end of the tunnel.
Skelgill remains on his knees. He turns back to face into the darkness. Cautiously he slides along on his hands until he reaches the edge of the pit. There is nothing to see – it is just a marginally blacker pool that spreads across the dark width of the passageway. Skelgill tuts in self-reprimand; he knows the dangers of these dank places, that their eighteenth century architects were prone to sink shafts seemingly at random. He fumbles about and finds a loose stone. Then he tosses it like a coin, with a flick of his thumb. He counts – one, two, three... splash. Somewhere between one hundred-and-fifty and two hundred feet, and who knows what beneath the water? He backs well away before he rises, cautiously raising his hands above his head to feel his way. Now, however, his eyes are functioning with greater efficiency, and in any event there is the light that filters in from the narrow portal. Cleopatra’s silhouette paces to and fro, eager to greet her rescuer, oblivious to his role in her near downfall.
As much as Skelgill was blinded by the darkness when he entered the cave, the glare of the sun must now seem like a dizzying explosion of light, in which the universe turns white and the stellar blossoms of the bedstraw blend into one all-enveloping Milky Way. Indeed, he clears the mouth of the tunnel and sways across
to a grassy hummock, upon which he sinks gratefully. He grins affectionately at Cleopatra, who joins him and settles down, her death-defying episode as quickly forgotten as her last meal. Skelgill casts about as though he is missing his Kelly Kettle – which, of course, he is. Then he notices the twine trailing from the dog’s collar, and unfastens the loop and absently winds it into a loose hank.
While he is doing this, his gaze falls upon the wrist of his right hand, the one around which he had anchored the lead. There are red welts and strangled creases in his weathered skin. At first his expression is one of mild annoyance. But as he continues to regard the injury, a realisation settles upon his countenance: one of great concern and yet equally magnificent illumination. Shocked, for a moment he sits upright and stares unseeing across the dale. Then a determination sets in. He rises and, with a click of the fingers to the dog, sets off at a trot down the fellside.
24. CLIFF EDGE – Wednesday afternoon
‘Hello?’
‘Er... is that Mary?’
The man seems to have a mild speech disorder; he pronounces the ‘r’ in Mary as a ‘w’.
‘Aha.’
‘Oh, I er... I was reading your profile... on Streetwise.’ Again there is the substituted letter.
‘Aha.’
‘Is it convenient to talk?’
‘Ja.’
Despite her assent, the woman sounds disinterested. Her Eastern European accent does not reflect her quintessentially English pseudonym.
‘I was thinking of making an appointment.’
‘Is sixty for half hour. One hundred one hour.’
‘Okay.’
‘You want come now?’
‘Oh... er, no – I was wondering about tomorrow – I wanted to ask you...’
But the woman has hung up.
The man returns his attention to his computer screen. He exits the profile of ‘Mary’ and returns to a menu page, with thumbnail photographs and abbreviated descriptions – a kind of small ads section for sexual services. He scrolls up and down and then selects one of the dozen or so images. Now he reaches again for the phone, activates the speaker, and taps in the next number. There is a prolonged period of ringing and, once the call is answered, a few seconds in which female and male voices can be heard in the background.
‘Hiya.’
She follows the convention of not answering by name.
‘Belle?’
‘That’s right, darling.’
The woman sounds a little breathless.
‘Is it a bad time just now?’
‘Not at all, darling – I was just saying cheerio to my last gentleman.’
The man hesitates, perhaps momentarily disconcerted by the image of this prosaic detail.
‘I’m phoning – about an appointment – and to ask a few things.’
‘Ask away, chuck.’
The chuck – perhaps a careless lapse from the more intimate ‘darling’ – is suggestive of Mancunian origins, though her accent is hard to discern. Her voice has a note of maturity that does not exactly correlate with her youthful and likely airbrushed photographs.
‘It says on your profile – in your likes – it mentions bondage.’
‘That can be arranged – on you, that is.’
‘Oh – of course – what exactly do you – er, offer?’
The woman sounds accustomed to dealing with nervous prospects; she makes an exaggerated purring sound in the back of her throat.
‘I’ve got lovely metal handcuffs – same as the police use – for your wrists and your ankles – and a policewoman’s outfit – my gentlemen seem to like the short skirt and suspenders when they’re being – arrested.’
Now she laughs salaciously.
‘Well, er – I...’
‘I can pretend to be a policeman, if that’s what you prefer – the truncheon, you know?’
The man’s mouth is dry, and before he can construct a reply the woman speaks again.
‘When did you want to come?’
‘I, er... was thinking of tomorrow – which area of town are you?’
‘In the new motel by the M6 – I’ve got a late checkout until one, so my last appointment will be at twelve – unless you just want the half-hour, darling?’
‘Twelve is fine.’
‘It’s a hundred and thirty for the hour.’
‘Okay.’
‘What name was it, darling?’
‘Oh, it’s er... Cliff.’
‘See you tomorrow at twelve then, Cliff.’
As soon as the call is ended the man returns to the online menu. He browses for a while, clicking to and fro between various profiles. Eventually he settles upon one featuring a shapely blonde described as being in her early twenties – though a veil of hair cleverly obscures her face. Again he engages his speaker function and types in the number. This time the call is answered almost immediately.
‘Hello.’
Once more the voice has an older ring to it than might be expected from the girl pictured.
‘Is that Anna?’
This time it is the woman that hesitates before she replies.
‘You want an appointment?’
‘I was hoping...’
‘I’m fully booked this week.’
Her voice lacks the warmth of the previous respondent. Her accent may be local, though it is relatively neutral.
‘You were recommended to me...’
‘Who by?’
‘I don’t know if they’d want me to mention their names – it’s some of my old pals – connected through Streetwise.’
Again he pronounces the word with difficulty.
‘Are you a member?’
‘I’ve been away – for a long time – I’ve just come back to the area – I’ve only got a couple of ratings – you were recommended to me, you see.’
‘What’s your nickname? We only see members with positive feedback.’
‘Mine is positive – if you want to check it – search under ... Cliff Edge.’
The woman does not reply. It is possible that she too is looking online – perhaps silently upon a tablet. After a few moments she speaks, and now for the first time there is a note of enthusiasm in her tone.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I noticed on your profile page it says you provide bondage.’
‘That’s not on us, you realise?’
‘When you say us...?’
‘It’s a two-girl service.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Are you looking at Streetwise now?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Click on the tab that says Duo.’
There is a pause as the man does as she suggests. Now before him there are lurid images of the blond posing provocatively with a considerably taller, though no less alluring, brunette. They are advertised as sisters, Anna and Alanna. After a few moments he exhales heavily.
‘That’s exactly the kind of thing.’
‘Have you done it before?’
The man, though apprehensive, manages a nervous chuckle.
‘I think you could say I know the ropes.’
Again there is the speech impediment, and he pronounces the final word as wopes. The girl gives the impression that she is listening intently, her breathing now audible down the line.
‘Can you just hold on a second, honey – while I check my sister’s diary?’
‘Sure.’
After perhaps as long as a minute, she comes back on the line.
‘When were you thinking of?’
‘Are you free tomorrow, about midday?’
‘Yes, we can manage that.’
‘Ok, then – I’d like to go ahead.’
‘That’s you booked in, honey.’
‘How about the address?’
‘Will you be coming by car?’
‘I guess, so.’
‘Do you know Penrith, honey?’
‘Reasonably.’
‘There’s a big supermarket o
n Scotland Road.’
‘I think I remember that.’
‘You can park there – it’s free. Cross towards the town centre – there’s a phone box. Call us from that number – then we’ll know you’re not a time-waster.’
‘Okay.’
‘Then we’ll give you the address – you can walk from there.’
‘Perfect.’
As soon as they end the call the man resumes his perusal of the Duo page. On reflection he might note that the woman never mentioned the price.
25. CRUNCH TIME – Thursday morning
DS Leyton and DS Jones, who have not actually laid eyes on their superior for the best part of two days, assemble timeously in his office for an eleven o’clock debriefing. Of Skelgill, however, there is no sign. The sun slants intermittently through the dust-streaked glass of the window, as cloud that brought overnight rain progressively breaks up; DS Jones moves to adjust the blinds accordingly. DS Leyton places a mug of tea on Skelgill’s desk: a precaution to save him being immediately despatched for the same, before a meeting can begin.
After about fifteen minutes – during which the two officers first exchange pleasantries but then begin to share their concerns over the impending deadline for producing tangible progress in the case – there is suddenly an unfamiliar scrabbling sound as something approaches rapidly along the corridor. Enter Cleopatra, dragging her leash. Nosing open the door, she appears delighted to see both of the detectives, and dodges to and fro, uncertain of how to divide her affections between them. (It must be said, DS Leyton is a less-willing recipient.) Skelgill enters a moment later, carrying a worn roll of carpet and the bottom half of a round green bait box that still has a scattering of blowfly pupae stuck to its inner wall.
‘Change of plan – I need you to look after Cleopatra for a bit. Stick her in the corner – she’ll be fine – you can take it in turns to work in here.’
DS Leyton, in particular, looks alarmed at this prospect – and recoils as Skelgill drops the rank-smelling rug onto his lap and hands him the improvised drinking bowl.
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 25