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Authors: Bruce Beckham
Murder on the Edge
Bruce Beckham
__________
Murder on the Edge
A detective novel
LUCiUS
Text copyright 2014 Bruce Beckham
All rights reserved. Bruce
Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this
work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission
from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition first published by
Lucius 2014
CreateSpace edition first
published by Lucius 2014
For more details and Rights
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EDITOR’S NOTE
Murder on the Edge
is the third mystery in the
Detective Inspector Skelgill series. It is a stand-alone novel, although
its events take place immediately following those described in
Murder in
School.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Murder in Adland
Murder in School
(Detective Inspector Skelgill
Investigates)
Murder Mystery Collection
The Dune
The Sexopaths
CONTENTS
1. WASDALE HEAD – Monday, early
morning
2. SHARP EDGE – Monday,
mid-morning
3. BARRY SEDDON – Monday, midday
4. LEE HARRIS – Tuesday morning
6. PENRITH HQ – Wednesday morning
7. STRIDING EDGE – Wednesday
morning
8. PENRITH TRUCKSTOP –
Wednesday afternoon
9. ASPATRIA – Wednesday afternoon
10. DI SKELGILL’S OFFICE –
Thursday morning
11. SHARP EDGE – Thursday, midday
12. PENRITH TOWN CENTRE – Thursday
afternoon
13. DS JONES CALLS – Thursday
evening
14. LINDA HARRIS – Friday morning
15. WALTER BARLEY – Friday afternoon
16. GRASMERE – Saturday
morning
17. GREAT END – Monday morning
18. KNOTT HALLOO FARM – Monday,
mid-morning
19. SCALES TARN – Monday evening
20. POLICE HQ – Tuesday morning
21. FOLLOW-UP MEETING –
Tuesday afternoon
22. BORDER COUNTRY – Tuesday
evening
23. KNOTT HALLOO FARM – Wednesday
morning
24. CLIFF EDGE – Wednesday
afternoon
– Monday, early morning
‘Fancy
a stretch of the legs, Jones?’
DS
Jones pirouettes proficiently, crunching loose car park gravel beneath her flat
rubber soles. She squints into the bright morning sun beyond Skelgill’s silhouette.
‘Oughtn’t
we get these under lock and key, Guv?’ She refers to the loose bundle of
documents cradled against her thorax.
Skelgill
does not reply immediately. He casts about and sniffs the fresh dewy
air. Then pointedly he glances at the sturdy piebald dog that stands obediently
at his side, seemingly unconcerned by the fraying length of rustic yarn
threaded through its collar.
‘I
think you’re outvoted, Jones. Cleopatra’s up for it.’
DS
Jones frowns. ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’
Skelgill
casually flaps a hand in an easterly direction, towards the silvery grey bulk
of Great Gable, its flanks attractively dappled with irregular sliding shadows cast
by small fair-weather cumulus. ‘I was thinking we might stroll over to Gladis’s
at Seathwaite.’
Now DS
Jones’s voice takes on a distinct note of exasperation. ‘Guv –
that’s miles – we’d be hours.’
Skelgill
beams generously. ‘Trust me – I know a short cut. We’ll be
there by eight.’
‘But
what about my car, Guv – and all this evidence?’
Skelgill
shrugs. ‘Lock it in the boot. Leyton needs to take a statement from
his lordship. He can bring a DC to drive your motor back to the station
this afternoon.’
‘And
how will we get from Seathwaite to Penrith?’
‘Leyton
can fetch us. It’s just down the road for him. I’ll text him now.’
DS
Jones continues to protest. She tries a different tack. ‘Guv
– I know the case is cracked – but won’t the Chief want to see you
first thing – to congratulate you?’
Skelgill
scowls. ‘That’ll be the day.’
‘Oh,
come off it, Guv – you’ll be her blue-eyed boy this morning.’
Skelgill
patently affects diffidence. He stoops so that he is at eye-level with
the dog.
‘If I
am – which I doubt – but let’s say you’re right – then now’s
the time to take advantage of our magnificent surroundings.’
‘You
mean breakfast, Guv.’
Skelgill
looks up with an innocent twinkle in his eye. ‘You’re getting to know me
too well.’
DS
Jones shakes her head resignedly and pops open the car boot with her remote.
‘After
all, you just ate a bacon sandwich – why wouldn’t we go to a café?’
Skelgill
rises and does a little skip, to which the dog responds with a playful sideways
bound of its own.
‘Mountain
air will do us good. I’m still seeing double from Copeland’s sloe gin.
Come to think of it, you’re probably over the limit, anyway.’
DS
Jones carefully places the documents into the vehicle, leaning away from
Skelgill as if to conceal the rueful grin that plays at the corners of her
mouth.
‘We’d
better not lose Cleopatra, Guv – doesn’t she count as evidence, too?’
Skelgill
deftly wraps the dog’s improvised lead in a clove hitch around a footpath
marker-post adjacent to their parking spot.
‘I bet
she could tell us a thing or two.’
Now DS
Jones squats to stroke the affable creature.
‘What
will
become of her, Guv?’
Cleopatra
gives out a little whine, as if she detects the tenor of their
conversation. Skelgill does not reply, and instead turns his attention to
retying the laces of his trail shoes.
‘Still
got your trainers in the car?’
DS
Jones stands and puts a foot forward for him to inspect. She wears what
are ostensibly training shoes, but in fact they owe a lot more to fashion than
to function.
‘Think
these will be okay, Guv?’
Skelgill
narrows his eyes and cranes his head sideways to get a look at the sole.
‘You’ll
do – it’s dry now – there’s a good path. Take it easy, though
– you don’t want to sprain your ankle in the middle of the fells.’
DS
Jones has evidently given up trying to talk her superior out of his
scheme. Her response is more benign. ‘I thought you had a hotline
to the mountain rescue, Guv?’
Skelgill
flashes a reprimanding glance. ‘That would be just too
embarrassing. I’d rather cart you out myself.’
‘In
that case I shall watch my step.’
Skelgill
raises his eyebrows, and looks momentarily irked, but before he can devise a
retort a scraggy border collie slinks between them and stops a yard short of
Cleopatra.
‘Tha’
a pit-bull?’
The
voice belongs to the gnarled shepherd – or
ex
-shepherd –
who, for the second time in as many visits, has surprised Skelgill with his
stealthy approach.
‘Bullboxer.
Staffie cross.’
‘Yourn?’
‘Just
minding her for me marra.’
DS
Jones appears mildly astonished by Skelgill’s hitherto undisclosed canine
knowledge (or it could be his sudden descent into Cumbrian dialect). She reaches
down, perhaps out of politeness, to pat the matted collie, but Cleopatra
selects the same moment to inspect this reticent visitor. With a sudden
lunge she summarily snaps her leash, causing the poor creature to dart away
with his tail firmly between his legs. Skelgill snatches up the trailing
end of string, but it breaks again the moment he applies limiting force.
‘Tha’
wunt wuk. Tek this, lad.’
The
old man rummages in a pocket of his baggy trousers and philanthropically
presses upon Skelgill a hank of faded but effectively unbreakable blue baler
twine.
‘Dunt
want ’er spookin’ t’yowes. Yon Copeland’s keeper’s a reet trigger happy b–’
Evidently
the next, unfinished word is not
bloke
, for the old man stops his
sentence dead in its tracks. This is presumably in deference to the
presence of DS Jones, whom he now paradoxically takes the opportunity to eye
somewhat salaciously, as if it is his entitlement for such gentlemanly consideration.
Skelgill
restrains Cleopatra and, employing the baler twine, fastens a slip-knot onto
her collar. He has a slightly chastened air about him, as if there is a
small public humiliation in being upstaged by the decrepit farmhand.
‘I normally
keep a reel in my wagon – but I came with–’
Now it
is Skelgill’s turn to dry up. Holding out a palm in her direction, he
seems unprepared as to how he should describe his relationship to DS Jones.
Whether this is at a personal or professional level is not clear.
Notwithstanding, with regard to the latter, the elderly herdsman will soon
receive an official visit from DS Leyton, and as yet is unaware of Skelgill’s true
interest in his locale. Understandably, therefore, Skelgill might be
reluctant to reveal what have been the clandestine motives for his cordiality.
However,
the old man seems to make up his own mind, and cackles something colloquial and
largely indeterminate – but possibly along the lines of, ‘Women? Can’t
live
with
them... can’t live
with
them’ – a hackneyed
Saturday night thigh-slapper from Skelgill’s own book of beer-inspired and inadvertently
sexist maxims. Then, perhaps not wishing to overstay his welcome, he
takes a last leering look at DS Jones and limps away in the direction of his
cottage.
‘What
did he say, Guv?’
‘It
was something about the dog – I didn’t quite catch it – they speak
their own version of English out here.’
‘Think
he was he serious about Copeland’s gamekeeper?’
‘Can’t
be too careful. Farmers are within their rights to shoot – if a dog
worries their sheep. And you know what divvies townies can be.’
DS
Jones nods. ‘I once had to write an essay about the pros and cons of calling
the Lakes a National Park. The word
park
being the source of
contention.’
Skelgill
purses his lips. ‘I’m torn, myself. We’ve got the rescue services
pulling idiots off three-thousand-foot fells dressed like they’ve just been to Bondi
beach. But, right now, you and I can pick our own route to Gladis’s
without fear of his lordship unloading a couple of barrels in our direction for
trespassing.’
‘So
long as we keep Cleopatra in check, Guv.’
‘On
which note – shall we make tracks, ladies?’
They set
off into the bright sunlight, the cool air jangling with the song of larks and
pipits and the mewing of a buzzard as it rises upon a thermal over the slopes
of Lingmell. Skelgill glances surreptitiously at his companions, and he
must wonder about their relative capacities to deal with the cross-country hill
walk ahead. Certainly, the athletic-looking DS Jones should not be too
challenged, but Cleopatra seems better equipped for exercise of a more muscular
nature – such as bringing down a sheep or two.
*
There are
no doubt some official restrictions concerning dogs and cafés, but on the Hope
family’s isolated farmstead such rules may be considered flexible, especially
when it is a long-acquainted policeman that is bending them. In any
event, Skelgill has already introduced Cleopatra to the assembled breakfasters as
a ‘sniffer dog in training’, implicitly endowing her with access rights in
common with guide dogs, and – much to the amusement of Gladis Hope
– facetiously crediting the canine for leading him and his colleague to ‘the
best fry in the North of England’ (and by definition therefore the
whole
of England). Cleopatra, of course, is well schooled in petitioning for
titbits – her former owner saw to that – and keeps a diplomatically
low profile as she moves undercover from table to table.
‘So,
Guv – doesn’t this place disprove your ten-minute claim?’
Skelgill
produces an inquiring look over the rim of his mug. ‘Come again?’
‘The
other night – you said, on your patch, you’re never more than ten minutes
from a meal.’
Skelgill
ponders for a moment, and then replies, ‘Depends where you start from.’
‘Ha-ha,
Guv.’
‘Anyway
– it’s ten minutes from Keswick the way Leyton drives.’ Then a
thought obviously enters his mind and he asks, ‘Jones – at the station
– have you heard me and Leyton referred to as the
North Lakes Sweeney
?’
DS
Jones looks suitably perplexed. Skelgill is adept at divining untruths uttered
by the crooked mouths of criminals, but is more susceptible to white lies that
emanate from fairer lips, so she probably considers herself on fairly safe
ground.
‘Don’t
think so, Guv – why?’
Skelgill
immediately appears disinterested, as if it is now inconsequential.
On
such an apposite cue, however, from an open window comes the sound of a vehicle
grinding to a sharp halt, followed by the harsh ratcheting of a handbrake and the
heavy-handed slam of a door.
DS
Jones glances knowingly at her superior, who is forced to respond with a raised
eyebrow.
‘The
Sweeney, Guv?’
Skelgill
tuts and checks his wristwatch. ‘He’s earlier than I expected – he
must be on the scrounge for breakfast.’
This
might be considered an ironic statement coming from Skelgill, and one that
proves to be inaccurate too when DS Leyton’s rather harassed visage appears at
the said window.
‘Got a
minute, Guvnor? Something’s come up.’
Skelgill
nods reluctantly and rises from his chair.
‘Jones
– settle up with Gladis, will you?’
DS
Jones blinks obediently.
‘Make
sure she takes the money.’
‘Sure,
Guv – but what about Leyton?’
‘Better
get him a takeaway burger.’ Skelgill lingers for a second or two.
‘Make it a couple – never know where I’ll be for lunch.’
DS
Jones grins widely and shakes her head, while the incorrigible Skelgill fishes
abstractedly in his pocket for Cleopatra’s makeshift leash. He snares the
dog and leads her out into the enclosed farmyard, where DS Leyton loiters
uncertainly, his expression somewhere between one of bewilderment and distaste.
‘Blimey,
Guv – it don’t half pen – it’s enough to put you off your Becks and
Posh.’
Skelgill
shrugs nonchalantly. ‘I’ve just ordered you a burger – but never
fear, there’s a good home waiting if you can’t face it.’
DS
Leyton eyes the dog suspiciously, but decides to let Skelgill’s ambiguous
threat pass. More pressing is the official business that has disrupted
their arrangements.
‘What
it is, Guv – there’s been a climbing death reported this morning – on
a fell to the north of Keswick.’
Skelgill
looks annoyed, as though this is no reason to be troubling a Detective
Inspector over his breakfast. ‘And?’
