Murder on the Edge (5 page)

Perhaps
encouraged by this find, he gathers up the now crumpled mail that impeded his
entry through the front door a few minutes earlier.  He places the items
on top of the washing machine and sifts through them.  The letters are
exclusively bills and circulars, pre-printed postage-paid envelopes that offer
no clue to the date of their delivery.  But there is a local advertiser. 
Skelgill flattens this out.  Beneath the masthead is the slogan ‘Free Every
Saturday’.

The
leading article concerns flood defences (the River Kent is notorious for its
impromptu visits to the high street) and Skelgill lingers a moment over
this.  Then he begins to flick through the pages of parochial events and
poorly composed display ads.  A more professional full-page advertisement
for a broadband service seems to hold his attention – indeed it seems to
prompt him to turn away and stride decisively back through the kitchen-diner
and into the bedroom.

Clearly
he has something in mind.  He works his way around the walls and, after a
short search, he finds what he is looking for.  Behind a small bedside cabinet
is a telephone socket, and beneath it upon the carpet a wireless router. 
A blue light winks at him.  He examines the settings on his phone and sure
enough the signal is detected.  Then he squats down and takes a photograph
of the account and password details printed on the rear of the transmitter. 
So the flat has
Wi-Fi
, but there is no trace of a receiving device.

Now Skelgill
departs, checking carefully that he has not damaged the rudimentary pin tumbler
lock in gaining entry.  He seems to be in two minds about pulling the door
shut behind him, and casts about in the gloom of the stairwell.  There is
a worn fibre doormat that resembles hedgehog road-kill, many times run
over.  On impulse he peels it from the step to reveal a rusty key. 
With a little effort it proves to fit the lock.

Skelgill
pulls a remorseful face to nobody, pockets the key and jogs up the stone staircase,
squinting in the bright sunlight that pulsates about the enclosed yard. 
The chirrup of sparrows creates a restful atmosphere, and he seems immediately
infected, yawning and lingering aimlessly as if wondering what to do next. 
After a few moments he walks across and rings the bell of one of two doors
opposite Lee Harris’s flat.  There is no reply.  He moves on to the
next, but the result is the same.  He steps back and regards the
properties: on reflection they could be vacant, perhaps recently refurbished
and awaiting occupation.

There
is one other apparent residence, a kind of half-basement dwelling with its door
set down a short flight of steps.  A vagrant
Buddleia
springs gaily
from a crack at the angle of wall and ground.  The flat’s one grimy window
is hung with what looks suspiciously like sackcloth.  There is no number
or bell, but as Skelgill approaches he becomes distracted by something beneath
his feet.  Much of the yard is unevenly cobbled, but here is a level rectangle
of concrete hard standing.  More or less at its centre is a circular black
stain, extending to about a foot in diameter.  Skelgill squats and wipes
an exploratory finger over the oily substance, but as he does so something
catches his eye.  The window-drape has twitched.

He
rises and makes his way tentatively down the steps, but before his hand reaches
the bell the door jerks open, at least, to the extent that an internal chain
allows.  In the crack between the jamb a small wizened face appears at a
child’s height, but then Skelgill must quickly realise this is a cat. 
There is a waft of musky air – in fact a quite overpowering aroma of pets
– with acrid undertones of something worse.

‘What
d’yer want – poking about?’

From behind
and above (though not far above) the uncomfortable-looking feline, a second
face pitches forward from the darkness.  This one is human, albeit
somewhat wanting in humanity.  The sullen features are lined and pinched,
and a considerable mass of matted greying hair is the main impression imparted. 
It is an old woman, and her accent, spoken in a strained, creaky voice, seems to
hint at Merseyside origins, long left behind.

Skelgill
takes a step closer and holds out his palms in a gesture of cooperation. 
Something less than a sixth sense tells him this is not a moment to declare his
profession.

‘I’m
looking for Lee.’ 

‘Who’s
Lee?’

Now he
jerks a thumb over his shoulder.  ‘Lee.  He lives across the yard.’

‘Lee.’

The
woman says this as though she is a foreigner trying out the word for the first
time.

‘Do
you know him?’

‘Who?’

‘Lee
– Lee Harris.’

‘I
know everything.’

The
old crone’s expression becomes conspiratorial, though she reveals no
inclination to share her wisdom.

‘Have
you seen him?’

‘Who
are you?’

‘Er...
we were at school the same time.’

‘You’re
not taking me cats.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I
know their tricks.’

Skelgill
seems to get a hint of what she’s driving at.  ‘I’m not the council, love
– I’m looking for Lee.  I don’t want your cats.’

‘You’re
not having them.  You’re not coming in.’

Now
Skelgill brings both hands to his chest.  ‘I love cats.  That’s a
nice tortoiseshell you’ve got there.’

This
is rather more than a white lie, since Skelgill is engaged in a running battle
with a gang of neighbourhood moggies who nightly deplete his holding pond of
small roach and dace.  In any event, his placatory words fall upon stony
ground, for the woman’s mind seems made up about his mission.

‘The
last one they sent didn’t get in neither.  He said he came to read the
meter.  But I recognise you.  You ain’t getting me cats.’

‘Look
– can you tell me – please – when did you last see Lee from
across there?’

‘There’s
no Lee.’

‘I
think he was home at the weekend.  You just noticed me – surely
you’ve seen him?’

The
woman screws up her face and lifts the cat up to her chin.  The animal
looks like it would dearly love to make a break for freedom, but is restrained by
a claw-like grip.  Now the woman grimaces, revealing few teeth and
plentiful gaps.

‘Witches
took him.’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘I saw
’em.’

‘When?’

‘Night
time.’

‘What
– last night?’

‘Some
night.’

‘Recently?’

‘Disguised,
they were.’

‘Was
Lee with them?’

‘Who’s
Lee?’

At
this moment Skelgill’s phone rings. He pulls it from his back pocket and looks
at the display.  An expression of relief spreads across his troubled
features.

‘Beam
me up, Leyton.’

*

‘What
was that all about, Guv?’

Skelgill
has scrambled into the car as DS Leyton holds it momentarily on the double
yellow lines of the main street, and now is pressed back against the seat as
his sergeant guns the small engine and swings the vehicle back into the traffic.

‘Steady
on Leyton, this is Kendal, not Brands Hatch.’

‘Sorry,
Guv – there’s a flippin’ great truck up me jacksie.’

‘Unlucky
truck.’

Skelgill
shrugs himself into the seat belt.  Then he notices a half-eaten packet of
crisps that DS Leyton has placed in the dashboard cubby and begins to help
himself.

‘Some
mad woman lives opposite – completely batty – I made the mistake of
asking if she’d seen Harris.  She insisted I was the council come to
confiscate her cats.  Then she tried to tell me he’d been abducted by
witches.’

DS
Leyton chuckles.

‘More
likely she saw a hen party caught short, I reckon.’

‘That
could have been interesting, Guv.’

‘Behave,
Leyton.’

DS
Leyton looks like he is still trying to picture the scene, and rather loses
concentration, failing to move away as the lights at which they wait turn to
green.  The lorry that has been tailgating them gives a long blast of its
air horn.

‘See
what I mean, Guv?  You tell me to slow down and everyone else gets
uppity.’

‘Well,
up
theirs.’

To DS
Leyton’s evident consternation, Skelgill now finishes off the crisps by tipping
the remnants of the bag into his mouth and munching pensively.

‘No
one at home at the flat, I take it, Guv?’

Skelgill
swallows with some difficulty.  ‘Neither alive nor dead.’

‘You
got in?’

Skelgill
pats his breast pocket.  ‘I found a key hidden outside.’

DS
Leyton glances across; there’s a hint of suspicion in his eyes, which is not
assuaged when Skelgill declines to produce the claimed item.

‘That
was handy, Guv.’

‘I reckon
he was last there on Saturday morning – going by the newspapers and
breakfast stuff lying about.’

‘Oh,
well – that’s good to know, surely, Guv?’

‘Is
it?’

Skelgill’s
tone is harsh, and DS Leyton looks momentarily crestfallen.

‘Well
– at least we can rule out anything dodgy at that workshop.’

‘It still
leaves the best part of a two-day gap until he was found on Monday.’

‘Perhaps
he went away for the weekend, Guv?’

DS
Leyton seems to be mulling over this possibility when Skelgill raps sharply on
the dashboard.

‘Anyway,
no need to dawdle, Leyton.  Get a shift on and we’ll have time for a
little something back at Tebay before you knock off.’

‘Morning,
Guv.’

‘Jones. 
You’re up with the lark.’

‘I’m
taking a leaf out of your book, Guv – there’s more to the Oakthwaite case
than I expected.’

Skelgill
invites her to join him by unceremoniously dumping his empty breakfast plate on
the next table.  He eyes her
Tupperware
container of fresh fruit
rather dubiously as she sets it down.

‘That’s
not a leaf out of my book – I don’t know why you’re eating diet stuff.’

DS
Jones smiles demurely, an indication that she accepts the oblique compliment. 
Her reputation for superior admin skills has seen her delegated to tie up the deskwork
for Skelgill’s last case.  Since this task can be undertaken entirely from
HQ she has adopted a comfortable outfit of jeans and sweatshirt – in
contrast to recent nightclub assignments when striking and oft more revealing
attire was
de rigueur
.  Nonetheless, her stretch denims are figure
hugging, and her slender form catches Skelgill’s eye as she settles opposite
him.

‘Got
an ID on the climber yet, Guv?’

Skelgill
makes a
so-so
head movement as he appraises her over the rim of his mug.

‘We’re
pretty certain he’s called Lee Harris.  From Kendal.  He’s no
climber, though – at least, it wasn’t a climbing accident.’

‘Really? 
What do you think happened?’

‘At
the moment I’m in limbo.  Until I get something concrete from Herdwick I’m
just guessing.  Let’s just hope it’s a
domestic
– preferably suicide.’

DS
Jones nods – she understands Skelgill’s point: if, like most such deaths,
the incident is a self-contained event, then the investigation can be conducted
at leisure.  If not, however – and there is a killer on the loose
– then time may be of the essence.

‘Struck
lucky on that toffs’ school job, I hear, Skel.’

The
voice – in the plaintive Mancunian tones of DI Alec Smart – emanates
unexpectedly from behind, and Skelgill momentarily flinches.  Despite the
disciplined fisherman in him, he continually strains not to rise to the bait of
DI Smart’s provocative banter.  But experience has taught him such verbal skirmishing
is not his forte, whereas DI Smart is a master of goading put-downs and mocking
one-upmanship.  Taciturn at the best of times, in situations of stress
Skelgill becomes even more tongue-tied.  He is a man of action.  Many
a criminal opponent – cockily believing they were engaged in a verbal
stand off – has been taken painfully unawares by the detective
inspector’s trademark left hook.  This form of escalation being currently
off limits, by way of a displacement tactic Skelgill takes a long, slow swig of
his tea.

DI
Smart insinuates himself effectively between them, coming to stand at the head
of their table.  Then he leans back to perch nonchalantly against that to his
rear.  He fixes a lingering gaze upon DS Jones.

‘Alright,
Emma.  Not used to seeing you with so many clothes on.’

‘Morning...
sir.’

DI
Smart pulls a face of mock surprise: that she should address him formally, when
he clearly considers they have a familiar relationship.  She looks
uncomfortable, caught as she is between a rock and a hard place – for now
she has to tread a delicate path of diplomacy, littered with obstacles of rank,
duty, etiquette (or DI Smart’s lack of) and her own personal feelings.

Skelgill
does his best to conceal a pained expression.  He clearly wants to
intervene, but in the end only does so by conceding a compliment to DI Smart.

‘Looks
like you’re dressed to impress, Smart.’

DI
Smart does not squander this opportunity to preen.  He thumbs his lapels
and then opens his jacket to reveal a designer logo stitched onto the inside
pocket.

‘Pretty
sharp, eh? 
Armani
– pure merino.  Picked it up in a new
boutique in Manchester.  Just near my flat.’  He winks at DS
Jones.  ‘Next time we’re working down there I’ll show you around – leaves
the West End standing, you know.’

DS
Jones nods obediently and then steals an apprehensive glance at Skelgill, whose
expression is blackening by the second.  At this moment, however, respite
appears in the shape of George the Desk Sergeant.  He pops his distinctive
bald pate around the door of the canteen to announce that DI Smart’s lift is
waiting at reception.  DI Smart dismisses him with a self-important flap
of the hand.

‘I’m
giving evidence up in Glasgow.  Bunch of Jock gangsters I nailed last year,
trying to muscle in on my patch.  I shall enjoy seeing them go down.’

‘Don’t
let us keep you.’

DI
Smart begins to walk away without a goodbye, but then he returns to their
table.  He taps the side of his nose in conspiratorial fashion and puts a
hand on DS Jones’s shoulder.

‘I’ve
had a word with the Chief.  The drugs case could be back on.  I’ve
requested you as my number two.  That would be a step up for you.  We
make a good team, Emma.’

DS
Jones watches him closely as he saunters across the canteen.  Skelgill’s
eyes are fixed upon his sergeant, perhaps narrowed possessively.

‘If
Manchester’s so brilliant, why do all the tourists drive straight past and come
to the Lakes?’

DS
Jones levels a sympathetic gaze upon Skelgill.

‘Take
no notice, Guv.’  Then she giggles.

‘What
is it?’

‘He’s
got a dollop of tomato ketchup from your plate on the seat of his pants.’

*

Skelgill
is not in the best of humours – evidenced by the way he kicks open the
door of his office – as he arrives bearing a plastic cup of machine tea. 
DS Leyton, seemingly loitering behind the said door, jumps to attention, rather
in the manner of a schoolboy caught inspecting the headmaster’s private display
of photographs.  Indeed, he cradles a black plastic trophy crowned by a
rather garish silver-plated figurine of a cricketer.

‘Didn’t
realise you got
man-of-the-match
while I was away, Guv.  You kept
that one quiet.’

Skelgill
steps over a pile of ring binders and gains the far side of his cluttered
desk.  He looks for a space to deposit his drink, but in the end is forced
to continue to hold it as he takes a seat.  As he sips he inhales to cool
the hot liquid.

‘You
know me, Leyton.  Don’t like to blow my own trumpet.’

‘Course,
Guv.’

Now
there is a pregnant pause – before DS Leyton suddenly realises he should inquire
how Skelgill was awarded the accolade.

‘Did
you score a century, Guv?’

‘Leyton,
I’m a bowler.’

‘Right,
Guv – what then, a hat-trick?’ 

Skelgill
smiles contentedly.  ‘I did, as a matter of fact.  First one since
1948 in the Carlisle challenge, and that was by a Lancashire ex-pro.  I took
seven for eighteen in under five overs.’

‘Well
played, Guv.’

DS
Leyton’s knowledge of cricket’s arcane terminology does not extend much beyond
the basic clichés, and now – perhaps to avoid blotting his thus-far clean
copybook – he changes the subject to the object of their meeting. 
He leans over and pats a document in the centre of Skelgill’s desk.

‘There’s
the interim autopsy report, Guv.  Herdwick says he’ll have more detail
this afternoon.’

‘What’s
with him – has he taken up golf or something?’

DS
Leyton replaces the trophy on Skelgill’s filing cabinet and sits opposite his
boss.  ‘Maybe he’s getting distracted by that new assistant, Guv. 
She’s turning a few heads about the place.’

Skelgill
grins cynically.  ‘Maybe we should arrange a meeting – so you can
see what all the fuss is about.’

DS
Leyton pulls a face indicating some indifference.  ‘Word is that Smart’s
already asked her out.’

Skelgill,
on the other hand, appears discomfited.  But rather than respond further
to this apparently unwelcome information he scowls and points a gun-finger at the
report.

‘Have
you read it?’

‘Er...
yeah, Guv.’  DS Leyton sounds unsure as to whether he should have done so in
advance of his superior.  ‘While I was waiting for you to finish with DS
Jones.’

Skelgill
leans back in his seat.  ‘Fire away, then.’

‘Right,
Guv.’  Now DS Leyton rubs his temples, as though this will help to bring
the details to the front of his mind.  ‘There ain’t a whole lot,
really.  No injuries or signs that he was involved in a struggle...’

‘I
thought we knew that already?’

‘Just
confirmation I suppose, Guv – and this covers internal as well as
external.’

Skelgill
nods grudgingly.

‘Nothing
untoward in his blood or urine – alcohol, drugs, poison.  No indication
of any illness or disease.’

Skelgill
looks like he is getting bored with the growing list of negatives, but his
attention level rises as DS Leyton suddenly gets to the crux of the matter.

‘Cause
of death asphyxiation by strangulation.  Possibly but not definitely
self-inflicted.  Probably but not definitely by the rope found around his
neck.’

Skelgill
thumps his desk in a gesture of obvious annoyance, and to remove any doubt
about his feelings accompanies the blow with a choice expletive.

‘What’s
Herdwick playing at?  That’s no use to us – possibly... probably
– I think you’re right, Leyton – I’d say
definitely
he’s
taken his eye off the ball.’

Skelgill
reaches for the handset of his telephone, but in his enhanced state of displeasure
he manages to knock it off the cradle and onto the floor on DS Leyton’s side of
the desk.  The amply proportioned sergeant grunts as he bends forward to
retrieve it.

‘There
is one thing, Guv – time of death – between noon and midnight on
Saturday.’

‘What?’

‘It
says they’re ninety-five percent confident about that.’

Skelgill
glares at DS Leyton.  ‘Why didn’t you say that at the start?’

‘Sorry,
Guv – I was just going through the points in the order I could remember ’em.’

Skelgill
declines the handset that DS Leyton is still holding out to him, rises and
crosses to the window.  He hauls up the venetian blind and stares out
across the car park towards the woods and rising fields beyond.  Rain has
returned to Cumbria, and a low blanket of grey stratus is coating the county with
a fine precipitation.

‘So
it’s murder.’

DS
Leyton looks expectantly at his superior, but Skelgill seems preoccupied with
the view.

‘Murder,
Guv?’

Skelgill
spins around.  For a moment there’s an expression of impatience upon his
face, but then he softens and stalks back around his desk to his seat.

‘If he
died on Saturday, Leyton, it wasn’t at Sharp Edge.’

‘What
makes you so sure, Guv?’

‘No
way could a body have lain there in plain sight and not be spotted from
above.  Weekends this time of year it’s like Clapham Junction.  Not a
chance, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton nods reflectively.  ‘I suppose he
was
found early doors on
Monday, Guv.’

‘Exactly
my point – the very first people out on the fell saw him – and
they’d not even climbed the ridge.’

And
now the puzzling dilemma – with which Skelgill has no doubt already been wrestling
– dawns upon DS Leyton:

‘But,
Guv – if someone put him there after he was dead – how did they do
that?’

‘How,
Leyton?  And why?’

The
detectives both sit in silence for a minute or so.  Then DS Leyton stands
up.

‘I’ll
get us some fresh teas, Guv.’

Skelgill
nods distractedly.  If there is an irony intended in DS Leyton’s statement
– given Skelgill had arrived bearing only one cup – it is not
conveyed in his generous intonation.  When he returns shortly, Skelgill is
poring over an Ordnance Survey map covering the north-eastern quadrant of the
Lake District.

‘It’s
a mile from the nearest road, Leyton – and, more to the point, Scales
Tarn is the thick end of two thousand feet above sea level.’

DS
Leyton places the steaming drinks on the window sill and then extracts the
autopsy report from beneath the edge of Skelgill’s map.  He scans its
contents.

‘Says
he weighed sixty-seven kilograms, Guv.’

Like
most fisherman, obsessed by record weights, Skelgill’s brain is quick to
convert this statistic.

‘Ten
and a half stone.’

DS
Leyton, who weighs in at a good fifty percent more than this figure, self-consciously
adjusts his jacket.

‘What
are you, Guv?’

‘About
twelve.’

‘Right.’