Murder on the Run

by Bruce Beckham

  Jess makes a murmur of agreement.

  ‘Seen your Ma lately – heard from her?’

  The girl shakes her head – but the action is unconvincing. Someone else she does not want to talk about? Skelgill decides to change the subject – harrying her into her shell is not a good idea – she seems withdrawn enough as it is, her expression glum since he picked her up a couple of minutes earlier. But at least he has an ace up his sleeve.

  ‘I just saw Kelly.’

  ‘Did you?’ Suddenly she is animated – hungry for information.

  ‘He’s back on his feet. The vet says she just wants to keep him until she’s a hundred per cent sure there’s no liver damage.’

  He snatches a glance – she is staring at him imploringly.

  ‘Will I have him for the run?’

  Skelgill hesitates. ‘The vet says there’s a chance – but you wouldn’t want to put him at risk, would you?’

  Jess is immediately crestfallen. It seems the veneer of ebullience was fragile. It is a while before she speaks.

  ‘On top of everything – they’re saying Alan Craggs from Langdale Harriers has entered. He’s won all the open races this year. I’ve got no chance against a grown man.’

  Skelgill banks the word ‘everything’ without pausing to wonder what she might mean.

  ‘Jess – you’re a grown woman – you’re as tall as him and your stride’s longer – I’ve seen him – plus he’ll have two stone more to carry up the fells. He might have won all the races but he’s not come up against you. Besides – we’ve got a secret weapon.’

  But the girl does not respond. Her features seem more than usually gaunt, her profile with its prominent aquiline nose makes her look older than her seventeen years; she seems to bear some ancestral burden. For his part, Skelgill remains upbeat.

  ‘I’ve been looking at an old map. There used to be a shepherd’s escape off Haystacks – it means backtracking a few dozen yards after you’ve reached the checkpoint – but if it’s still navigable it’ll kick that other shortcut into the middle of next week.’

  *

  ‘What’s up, lass?’

  Skelgill has been struggling to stay the pace and his entreaty is strained. At his suggestion they have followed the regular tourist path, crossing Peggy’s Bridge and ascending due south towards Scarth Gap. His plan is to pass the summit of Haystacks and then, from the opposite direction, mimicking the race, approach the likely site of the competitors’ tag-drop – whence he intends to lead his protégé across the intricate moonscape to the head of Shepherd’s Rake. Jess had been mainly silent during the twenty-five minute drive down from Low Lorton, occasionally nodding and at best offering a reluctant “aye” to his suggestions for improving her racing performance. Fine rain had begun to spot the windscreen, requiring him to keep flicking the wipers; truth be told it had not felt auspicious as they had neared Gatesgarth, and parked beneath lowering skies that top the loftier trio of Red Pike, High Stile and High Crag, a fuzzy cloud base that threatens to collapse and smother the entire dale. But the breeze is light – and the rain has remained so, too – in many respects ideal conditions for the runner, when on another day in this season it could be eighty degrees with no trace of wind.

  However, Jess has now pulled up, and Skelgill halts at her side.

  ‘Sommat wrong?’

  She does not look at him – just at the stony path under her feet, hands on hips – and shakes her head. She is out of breath – but that is par for the course – yet she seems more depleted than he would expect.

  ‘I just felt a bit faint.’

  ‘You’re alright now?’

  She gives a toss of her head, the green-tipped topknot flapping – it seems to Skelgill more an experimental shake than a negation of his proposition.

  ‘Aye – I think so.’

  Skelgill stares at her for a moment. Seeing her spare frame in the flimsy running kit prompts him to think about her diet – especially on the morning of the race – and he determines to bring a couple of bottles of isotonic drink. As he watches from beneath knitted brows he sees her suddenly shiver – more of a voluntary shudder, in fact, for she surely cannot be cold at this moment. He squints up towards the horizon. They are five minutes from Scarth Gap – and ten more will see them over the rocky bluff onto Haystacks proper. There is no one ahead of them. He looks back – he has a private rule, a superstition never to let anyone overtake him on a climb (unless he is hauling an overnight pack and some runner comes by) – it is a small if illogical matter of principle. There is only one walker – a male figure he thinks, in dark clothing – a good quarter of a mile behind – not finding it easy, by the look of it, doing the struggler’s thing of pushing down with a hand above the knee wherever there is a step in the terrain. He has no rucksack, probably the wrong kind of shoes and he seems to be navigating by phone – just the sort of person the mountain rescue despair of. But whoever it is, he is not going to catch them.

  ‘Tell you what, lass – we’ll power walk the rest. It’s just as good exercise. The main thing tonight’s to find that shortcut.’ Skelgill shrugs off his lightweight cagoule and hands it to the girl. ‘Stick this on so you don’t get a chill. The wind’ll freshen as soon as we hit Scarth Gap. Let’s go.’

  He moves ahead – but she quickly catches him and he allows her to pass – and they pick their own paths up the boulder-strewn slope; he concludes that she is moving okay. They reach Scarth Gap, one of Lakeland’s ancient foot passes, a feature often referred to locally as a hause – and Skelgill is right about the breeze picking up – though they linger for a few seconds to admire the dizzying view down into Ennerdale, where the River Liza snakes through dark coniferous forest. As they hit the steepening rocks Jess maintains a good pace, despite that the gradient requires some hands-on scrambling. They are both momentarily distracted by the roar of an engine – an RAF trainer that passes them at eye level – they can see the pilot and instructor – Skelgill guesses it is a good day for poor-weather flying, when the tops are obscured like this. Short of two thousand feet, however, the summit of Haystacks is clear enough. The view back north resembles a carelessly washed watercolour, not exactly in monotone, but its greens and browns subdued, and Buttermere and Crummock Water like tarnished silver; there is no blue sky for these lakes to reflect, nor sunshine to bring out the rich tones and sharp highlights of the landscape. Skelgill notices the absence of birdsong – when this time of year the ubiquitous pipits can be expected to be displaying.

  There are several points on the disorderly acres of upland that could claim to be the true summit of Haystacks – and Skelgill is reminded that its visual merits, its ‘high rocks’, are best appreciated from Warnscale Bottom. It is to these high rocks that they must now proceed. In his head Skelgill carries a map of the plateau – if he could draw he could probably faithfully replicate Wainwright’s published sketch – indeed having played hide-and-seek here as a boy he could even embellish it with his own details. The revered biographer of Lakes topography has it described variously as a “fairyland” and a “labyrinth”; a place of “great charm” and a place where “black are its bones and black is its flesh” – and yet he is unequivocal in his enthusiasm for its intriguing “maze of old sheepwalks and paths”. It is to one such that Skelgill now turns – and he leads Jess in a south-easterly direction, onto a rocky prominence that is strewn with great jagged boulders, several of them precariously perched on the edge. It is directly below this point that his favourite lookout is located, although to reach that requires a more circuitous northerly approach. He stops for a moment to ponder the route. It strikes him why it might have fallen out of use – no walker would think of going in this direction, nor have a need to do so – knowing in any event that only Haystacks’ impassable cliffs lay ahead – or, rather, below. But sheep have continued to come this way – the creatures go everywhere – for a tasty sprig of heather or juicy clump of sheep’s fescue – and there are telltale droppings now that r
eveal ovine activity. They are on the right tracks. Skelgill notices a small movement in his peripheral vision – it is a ring ouzel that alights upon a tor – a hardy cousin of the blackbirds he rudely disturbed earlier. He reflects that if he were a thrush he would be a ring ouzel – no cosy suburban shed for him – instead the heather-grown bank of a rocky ravine. The bird seems agitated – maybe it too has a brood to hide – it gives its alarm call – a harsh tac-tac-tac – and flits from sight. But now Jess breaks into his musings, her voice plaintive.

  ‘I shan’t remember the way.’

  Skelgill regards her patiently.

  ‘No need, lass – I’ll come up just after the starting gun – I’ll mark it from about here with spots of chalk – I’ll leave a trail like the Hash House Harriers do with flour – you’ve seen them, aye?’

  Jess nods – but her face is grim and she swallows as if with some discomfort. He decides they should dwell no longer.

  ‘Right – come on. Time to take the plunge.’

  He follows where the bird flew – seemingly off the edge – and far as the Warnscale Horseshoe is concerned the direction is entirely counterintuitive. There is in fact a sheepwalk, it zigzags steeply downwards – the conditions slippery underfoot, with loose scree and crumbling, muddy earth – but it seems to peter out at a boulder choke that fills a deep crevice. Indeed Jess is prompted to call out.

  ‘It’s a dead end.’

  But from almost under their noses one of the rocks suddenly shifts – it elicits an alarm cry from Skelgill – but it is a ragtag Herdwick ewe looking like it has worn the same tangled fleece all its life – mottled with every shade of black and grey, and its rump still stained with ochre raddle paint. And Skelgill’s response turns to an exclamation of triumph when the animal – seemingly cornered – bolts from sight beneath the boulder choke.

  ‘Hey up!’

  There is a rising note of anticipation in Skelgill’s voice. He allows gravity to draw him to a halt against the rocks. Sure enough there is a gap – with plenty of clearance all round, if not much headroom. It means going on all fours – a crawl of maybe six feet – but he scrambles through, with Jess at his heels, unwilling to be left behind. He helps her to her feet. Stretching ahead of them, traversing the great cliff on a gently descending line is a narrow but distinctive path. The sheep has stopped thirty yards hence to munch on a clump of greenery. A satisfied grin spreads across Skelgill’s features. The Edwardian cartographer whom John Bartholomew & Son Ltd employed might have overlooked Haystacks, but he somehow found out about Shepherd’s Rake – and now it is rediscovered.

  ‘We’ve cracked it, lass.’

  Jess takes a tentative step.

  ‘Is it safe?’

  The path in places passes between outcrops the height of a human – offering protection from the steep declivity to the right. In others it is clearly exposed – a slip would not be a good thing to contemplate, let alone endure. But the sure-footed Herdwicks that have come this way for a thousand years have trodden a path that is level and compacted – to Skelgill’s fellsman’s eye a perfectly sound proposition.

  ‘You’ve run stuff like this before – just concentrate on your footing – don’t look about – and you’ll be across before you know it. I reckon it could save you two minutes – less the bit of backtracking up on the top – but it’s a good minute, lass. This is a record breaker!’

  Jess nods – but any enthusiasm seems tempered by some other less obvious sentiment. However, she does as he bids and falls in behind him – albeit she moves more gingerly than he – and it must seem to her that Skelgill is uncharacteristically reckless, as he takes in the familiar scenery from a new angle. And thus – the sudden stiffening of his demeanour must be all the greater contrast. He stops, poised – and holds up a warning palm – and cranes to stare up the steep slope to their left.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hush!’

  He does not even grace her with “lass” – and Jess falls silent obediently – this is a scary Skelgill she has not seen before. And now without warning or explanation he turns and manhandles her – pushing her forcibly into a fissure in the rock – and pressing himself against her and wrapping his arms above her head. Before Jess can utter a protest the reason for his actions becomes clear. Possessed of frightening velocity a volley of small rocks hurtles down the slope – one crashes off the overhang above their heads and splinters into fragments that tumble out into the void. It all happens in two seconds – although a scattering of dislodged scree takes longer to pass. Skelgill waits until he is sure the rockfall has ended. Now he curses – something unprintable that ends in “townie”.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I noticed some bloke coming up behind us. He’s probably taking a selfie on that edge. Don’t be surprised if he comes flying past next.’ Skelgill scans the cliff above. Although he can see the rim of both his own ledge and the edge of the outcrop where they had stood a few minutes earlier, there is no sign of the walker. He curses again, more moderately now, perhaps thinking of his companion. ‘Any half-decent fellwalker would shout “below” – you should always give a warning – even if you reckon there’s no one there.’

  Jess is looking at him apprehensively – not that she doubts his explanation, but that the incident has further undermined her confidence. Skelgill reads this.

  ‘Lass – it’s one in a thousand. Lighting won’t strike twice. Don’t let it worry you – just get across and you’ll be in business.’

  He sees that she is shivering again. The rain is becoming heavier – which will not help the underfoot conditions, never mind her fragile state. He is reminded that more is forecast for the weekend, especially for Saturday, the day of the run.’

  ‘Come on – we deserve a drink to celebrate.’

  At least Jess needs little encouragement to start moving – whichever way she looks at it, getting out of here makes sense. For his part, Skelgill is reluctant to acknowledge openly her discomfort, feeling that to indulge it will only make it more real. Besides, it is not the way of the fellfolk either to complain or to cosset. The girl remains subdued during their jogged descent. However she complies with his suggestion that they do some intervals, speeding up to race pace and indeed to a full sprint for what would be the final two hundred yards to the finish line, when she pulls strongly away from him. As they stop to recover, Skelgill watches her carefully. He thinks she looks the better for focusing on the exercise. They walk the last quarter of a mile to the inn in silence, panting to restore their respective oxygen debts, his greater than hers. As they pass through the stile from the public footpath into the parking area, it is Jess that speaks – to Skelgill’s surprise.

  ‘That’s the make of car Connor’s got – and it’s the same colour.’

  She indicates with a glance a metallic silver hatchback – quite innocuous looking, to the casual observer like another five million small cars on Britain’s roads. But Skelgill knows such a thing can be a wolf in sheep’s clothing – indeed this particular model has been de-badged to conceal its specification; and twin exhausts suggest a hidden potential. He is reminded of his own impetuous acquisition – no danger of old Ernie’s motor having been souped-up – unlike his bank overdraft. In a small moment of panic he pats the hip pocket of his tracksuit to check for the presence of the sterling banknote he had secreted earlier; but he feels a reassuring crackle. Now he responds to Jess in rather philosophical tones.

  ‘Aye, well – let’s get this race won first, lass – five days from now and it’ll be done with – then we can think about sorting you out some driving lessons.’

  Jess has one hand pressed against the small of her back, her spine arched. The recuperative pose reminds Skelgill of his own intermittent weakness, and he wonders if these things run in the Graham family, like big noses, long legs and bloody mindedness.

  15. POLICE HQ

  Wednesday, morning

  Skelgill stares at his car’s offside rear tyre.
His expression is perplexed – on the face of it paradoxically so, for there is nothing apparently wrong. There is even ample tread – a motorist’s most common cause for concern – tyre baldness always a good excuse for the police to stop a car, that or inadequate inflation. In fact it is the latter condition that Skelgill has in mind. On Monday evening they had returned on foot from the inn at Buttermere to the public parking area at Gatesgarth to discover the tyre was flat – and not just a little, but as flat as the proverbial pancake. Luckily he had noticed it rather than driven off – not that he would have got far, but it averted any damage to the wheel. He could see neither a protruding nail nor a scraped rim (and could not recall hitting a pothole on the way up from Low Lorton). Watched by Jess – who had seemed momentarily to become disturbed – he had excavated his foot pump from beneath the fishing tackle and camping paraphernalia in the back of his car. The tyre had inflated – and has remained so, despite a couple of hundred miles being put in by Skelgill in the thirty-six hours since. The source of the problem thus remains unexplained. But now he shrugs off any futile speculation and turns to enter police headquarters. He glances around the car park; DS Leyton is here, and DS Eve – and DI Smart’s flashy red convertible is angled across two of the spaces reserved for visiting senior officers. Skelgill growls – but that may be more to do with the absence of DS Jones’s new yellow hatchback.

  His thoughts drift back to Monday evening. He ought to be cock-a-hoop – the Shepherd’s Rake could be the final nail in the coffin for Jess’s competitors, the prolific Alan Craggs included – were she not to beat them for pace in any event. But he has misgivings, as though the cloud of despondency that had shrouded his young protégé has shifted to his own shoulders. While he ordered drinks at the counter – and probably laboured overlong trying to impress the barmaid – Jess had chosen seats in a secluded alcove. By the time he reached her she had sunk into a brown study – and the location had rather cut them off from the jovial atmosphere of the bar.