Murder on the Run

by Bruce Beckham

  He has further to go to reach the level of the cloud, on this side of the valley it is more diffuse and irregular – but all the same the summit of Haystacks is nowhere to be seen. And now he curses the events of the past eighteen hours – that have stranded him in his biker leathers, when he would have preferred to arrive here in mountaineering gear. Jogging uphill in the thick, tight-fitting outfit and biker boots is no easy matter; and there is a further irony, the stuff is keeping him dry – but inside he is sweating like the proverbial pig. He wipes rain from his face and moves on – he is reminded that only a fortnight ago he came up here in his funeral suit.

  Skelgill is nearing the top of the rocky scramble, just below the summit plateau, when his mobile phone rings. He stops and rips open his breast pocket to extract the handset. His fingers are wet and numb and he has difficulty with the manoeuvre – indeed he is too slow and the call diverts. The number was withheld – and he curses under his breath – but almost immediately an alert tells him there is a voicemail – albeit it must be curt. He manages to redial and presses the phone to his right ear. His features are screwed up, as much as anything against the elements – but as he listens his face twists beyond such necessity, like that of a gargoyle hewn from the very stone around him, streaming with rainwater, contorted with horror.

  The caller was Megan Graham.

  *

  The visibility on the top of Haystacks is no more than a dozen yards. This will disadvantage some of the runners, certainly those intending to navigate by the skyline – but it makes little difference to Skelgill, who is at home up here by dark or by daylight. Indeed, he breaks off from the walkers’ path so as to avoid the marshals at the tag-drop beside the summit cairn – and picks his way diagonally towards the precipice from where he has promised to mark the shortcut.

  He checks his watch – his expression shows concern. The lead runners could appear at any moment – led he hopes by Jess – but there is even the small prospect that she has already passed and is finding her own way down to the Shepherd’s Rake.

  In the gloom, swathed in mist and pelted by sheeting rain, the plateau exhibits such qualities as those Wainwright conjured with his keen draughtsman’s eye, the rock formations and gullies at once fairylike and grotesque, inviting and cautioning; the whole an adventure playground and a treacherous labyrinth; together the best and worst of times.

  And as he nears the boulder-strewn cliff Skelgill’s manner changes. When he ought to be reaching for his bag of flour, and being brisk about it, instead he slows and stiffens, his movements stealthy, as though he anticipates some hidden threat.

  And then, as he nears the edge – he freezes.

  Given hindsight he might have crept closer – but the image that has materialised through the mist is too shocking to bear – and he cannot contain himself. A hooded figure – a male of medium height clad in a familiar dark tracksuit – is bent over at the very edge of the cliff – he wields a shovel – and with it he is prising at the base of a great boulder – the rock, perched precariously, is tilting – it is ready to topple. It is directly above the Shepherd’s Rake – indeed directly above the spot where he shielded Jess from the minor rockfall. And what now – what if she is already below?

  ‘Hey – what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Skelgill’s angry voice rings out. He bounds across the uneven terrain. The figure responds – still levering the shovel with one hand he turns, half-crouched. His free hand slips inside his jacket.

  It is a face of pure evil that confronts Skelgill.

  ‘Stay back, Dibble!’

  He pulls out a gun.

  There ensues one of those split-seconds in which time seems to stand still and a thousand thoughts can pass through the mind – and of those that enter Skelgill’s consciousness he even has time to reflect that one in particular piques him – when there are others that might be more salient or more worthy of his ire – such as the facial injury cruelly inflicted upon Megan Graham, or the constant fear that haunts her eyes – the chronic worry borne vicariously by Jess – the teenage boy who still lies in a coma – the sick man, Mr Booth, ruthlessly taken advantage of – the Slovak girl, Anna, who so nearly died – and those poor souls who were not so lucky. And yet the most poignant sentiment for Skelgill is the memory of the seemingly lifeless collie in his arms – the innocent animal, a shepherd’s best friend, broken-hearted Jess’s faithful companion – poisoned in an act of intimidation and sheer malevolence. Red mist descends.

  Skelgill lunges at his opponent.

  The gun is fired.

  He is hit full in the chest, perhaps two inches to the left of centre.

  But there is no stopping his determined shoulder charge.

  A collision is inevitable.

  Momentum carries the pair as one out into the void.

  The shovel is released.

  The boulder settles back into its footing.

  *

  There is darkness.

  Skelgill can feel the rain on his upturned face.

  Unlike the crimson pool that spreads around him, it is cooling. It is fresh, not sticky. But – it will wash away the flour. Wait – did he lay the trail?

  On a small outcrop, six feet above, a bird settles. There now come some plaintive notes; it is the lament of the ring ouzel. Slowly, it fades away.

  20. REWIND

  Thursday, morning – 5 days later

  The rain is still falling; it is so dense it seems to veil the entire field of view.

  All, that is, but a patch at the centre, a rectangle where the image is clear, like steam rubbed from a mirror.

  Yes – there are the lower slopes of Haystacks; there is the plantation; there is Peggy’s Bridge.

  Echoing the babble of water, a background noise – an expectant chatter.

  And then a cry goes up.

  ‘There she is!’

  Suddenly the hubbub becomes a clamour; the more distant voices blend together into the cheer of a crowd; others nearby are more strident.

  ‘Come on, Jess!’

  ‘You can do it, lass!’

  The picture seems to enlarge – like watching through a zoom lens – it homes in on the girl in the green vest.

  She is perhaps a quarter of a mile away; she is out on her own.

  But she looks like she is treading water.

  Her head is nodding; it might be her style – but it is exaggerated.

  Her green-tipped topknot swings wildly from side to side.

  And now there is a collective gasp.

  A yellow-vested runner appears in the background, a male figure, legs and arms pumping furiously.

  The girl’s feet slip and slide in the mud; she seems unable to gain traction.

  ‘She’s lost her shoes! Look – she’s carrying one of them!’

  A hundred yards separates the leading pair.

  Yellow is gaining on Green.

  Two hundred yards to go.

  Yellow is fifty yards behind.

  ‘Come on, Jess!’

  ‘Run for your life, lass!’

  Suddenly the picture is jolted.

  A familiar voice, a London accent:

  ‘Struth! The little eejit – he’s let the flippin’ dog loose! Wait till I get him home!’

  Into the frame hurtles a black-and-white dog, a Border Collie with a green tip to its tail – it makes for the runners.

  It passes Green, circles Yellow – almost causes him to stumble – and spurts to catch up again with Green.

  The collie darts ahead of Green, turns, dips down playfully in front of her – and springs away.

  A hundred yards to go.

  Yellow is twenty-five yards behind.

  The Border Collie streaks for the finish line.

  The girl in the green vest finds something extra.

  Her eyes light up.

  Her stride lengthens.

  ‘She’s sprinting!’

  Then an upper-class voice, also familiar:

/>   ‘The darned dog’s done the trick!’

  Green breaks the tape.

  The crowd goes wild; there is a roar that reaches the outskirts of Cockermouth.

  A fat man runs out onto the track, celebrating as though he has scored a winning goal; he loses his footing and lands on his backside in the mud, but continues to punch the air with both fists.

  Other people are dancing and hugging, seemingly oblivious to the pouring rain.

  The camera pans around and ...

  ... wait a minute – that’s what it is – it’s a camera – this is a recording – Skelgill blinks a few times and licks his lips – he feels dreadfully thirsty – he could murder a pint of Jennings bitter – and as for hunger – there aren’t enough horses in the county. But he keeps watching. Suddenly he begins to recognise the actors in the film playing before him. Jess! Jess – she did it! She won the race! The lass did it! And there she is – borne aloft by her supporters – surrounded by relatives, locals, strangers – he can see she is on the shoulders of his cousin Mouse and his old school pal Jud Hope. And here comes Alan Craggs – he reaches to congratulate her and raise her arm to acknowledge her victory.

  The camera wanders again – it finds Harriet Skipton-James – she is trying to achieve the impossible – to control DS Leyton’s two older kids, who are larking in the mud with Kelly the Border Collie, clearly in his element.

  And now DS Leyton approaches the lens – he beams from ear to ear. Then he throws up his hands in a gesture of frustration.

  ‘What a win! What a pity the Guvnor wasn’t back in time – just as well you filmed it, girl – can you edit that section where I go arse over tit?’

  There is a warm chuckle from the camera operator – and Skelgill remembers his last request to DS Jones. She speaks.

  ‘I wonder what we should do – perhaps we had better call his mobile?’

  DS Leyton moves out of shot – but he sounds like he is doing exactly that – for Skelgill hears his entreaty – ‘Guv – Guv – are you okay?’ But the voice sounds not distant and tinny but close by and suddenly excited. And Skelgill looks up from the computer screen, from the laptop that is balanced on the hospital blanket – and there is DS Leyton’s face – pushed right into his own.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guvnor – you’re back with us!’

  Skelgill scowls disparagingly.

  ‘What are you talking about, Leyton – I haven’t been anywhere.’

  DS Leyton swivels around animatedly. Skelgill’s focus adjusts. And there is DS Jones – her hazel eyes are glistening like horse chestnuts broken fresh from their shells. And standing beside her looking like an awkward teenager is Jess. She displays her goth persona, her all-black outfit – but around her neck is draped a bright gold medal, and she is holding a trophy – a trophy that he once raised in triumph. DS Leyton scrapes a chair alongside the bed and leans closer; now his expression is grave, his voice hushed and a little tremulous.

  ‘Guv – you’ve been in a coma for five days. It’s Thursday. The Warnscale Horseshoe race was last Saturday. We’ve been coming in – talking to you, trying to get you to wake – some of the time you’ve even had your eyes open. It was Jess’s idea to show you the video – and Bob’s your uncle!’

  Skelgill suddenly tries to get up – but now he realises he is connected to supply tubes and cables – and a pain jags across his chest. He winces, and sinks back.

  ‘Guv – you’ve got a fractured sternum. That Kevlar jacket of yours stopped the bullet.’

  Memories are flooding back.

  ‘What happened – to –’

  ‘To Connor Bagman, Guv? Megan Graham’s so-called boyfriend?’

  Skelgill blinks by way of an answer.

  ‘What happened, Guv – is the geezer broke your fall. You landed on top of him – on a ledge about twenty feet below that precipice. Just as well, Guv – you only got concussion. He –’

  DS Leyton glances over his shoulder – conscious of the young girl’s presence. But she takes a pace forward. Her face is determined.

  ‘Connor’s dead – and good riddance.’ She looks like she might be about to spit, but thinks the better of it. ‘He beat me Ma. He poisoned Kelly, didn’t he?’

  Skelgill finds himself nodding grimly. But now DS Leyton elaborates.

  ‘He poisoned more than Kelly, girl.’ He turns back to Skelgill. ‘But some good news on that front, Guv – Anna the Slovak girl’s recovering well – and the kid from Hempstead Avenue – he’s regained consciousness – they reckon he’s going to be all right, an’ all.’

  Skelgill is frowning, his brow furrowed deeply; his eyes close momentarily. DS Leyton regards him with renewed concern.

  ‘Is this too much for you, Guv – tiring, like?’

  Skelgill’s eyes jerk open.

  ‘Leyton – I’m right as rain – how would you feel after five days’ kip?’

  DS Leyton grins phlegmatically. Into his superior’s recalcitrance he reads the stirrings of a rapid recovery.

  ‘Jess has to go in a minute, Guv – she’s meeting her Ma and they’re off for a spot of shopping in the summer sales in Carlisle.’

  Skelgill glances at her, an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

  ‘She wanted to show you the trophy. They’ve engraved it now.’

  Jess rather sheepishly comes forward. Skelgill heaves himself into a more upright position, wincing as he does so.

  ‘Look who’s the invalid now, eh? Got any of those magic pills left, lass?’

  Jess is staring at him solemnly.

  ‘I don’t reckon it were the pills.’

  She seems like she wants to say more – but he can see she is tongue-tied.

  ‘Let’s have it then.’

  She hands over the shining award, it has the figure of a runner astride a rocky globe, a narrow neck and a square base which is turned to display his name amongst the list of previous winners: “D. Skelgill, Buttermere (Record)” – and it is the last time the word record appears in brackets – two decades ago – until he rotates it to read, a shiny new etching, its edges still sharp: “J. Graham, Buttermere (Record)”.

  ‘Buttermere, Jess – you’re from Workington, lass.’

  ‘I ran for Buttermere. I ran for you.’

  She has sparkle in her eye. Skelgill has to swallow a couple of times before he can speak.

  ‘I told you you’d break the record – what was your time?’

  ‘32:39.’

  Skelgill makes a clicking sound with his tongue.

  ‘Fifteen seconds – not bad.’

  DS Leyton interjects.

  ‘Just imagine if she’d worn her shoes all the way, Guv.’

  Skelgill is reminded of the recording of the race – she was barefooted for the last sprint, at least. DS Leyton puts a hand on Jess’s shoulder.

  ‘Tell him what happened, girl.’

  She regards Skelgill a little guiltily, as though she is ashamed of the events she is about to relate.

  ‘I got to Haystacks – the place where you were going to put chalk – and I couldn’t see it. And it were so foggy – so I didn’t dare risk it – so I went back to the tag-drop and carried on from there – but my left shoe came off when I did that jump – the shortcut you showed me the first day you saw me. It bounced away and I couldn’t find it – so I just took off my other one and ran barefoot. It was downhill all the way – that were okay – except after Peggy’s Bridge when it were boggy on the flat. I’m really sorry – that I lost the shoe.’

  Skelgill is frowning – but it is not the missing footwear that causes his consternation.

  ‘The Shepherd’s Rake – you didn’t take it?’

  Jess shakes her head rather timidly. Skelgill wields the trophy above his head.

  ‘So – you had the worst rain in the history of the race. You took a detour on Haystacks. You lost a shoe and ran barefoot. You had shingles all week.’ He looks at Jess – who clearly thinks she is being reprimanded. ‘What kind of time could you h
ave run?’

  DS Leyton now butts in; he might almost be a proud parent.

  ‘Sheffield Athletics Club’s come in for her, Guv.’ He looks at Jess and grins encouragingly. ‘They want her to go for a trial next week. That’s Dame Jessica Ennis-Hill’s old club, Guv – and, meantime, Loughborough Uni are sniffing around – they’re talking about giving her an unconditional offer.’

  In spite of this marvellous news Skelgill seems to have lost concentration – rather agitatedly he casts about. There is a wheeled nightstand beside his bed – with a strangled groan, he leans and pulls open the top drawer. He is correct in thinking the hospital has placed his personal possessions within. He rummages about.

  ‘Come here, lass.’

  Jess takes a tentative step nearer. Skelgill holds out a closed fist.