Murder on the Edge (11 page)

Soon
the narrow walker’s path swings over the broadening ridge to merge with the
scrambling route, and widens out as it dips down to the tarn and the outfall of
Scales Beck.  Though they are well above the treeline, Skelgill manages to
find a stick – a splinter of charred kindling discarded by a wild camper
– which he tosses ostentatiously into the shallows.  Cleopatra needs
little encouragement to retrieve the item, and in no time the girl is having
great fun in repeating the procedure.

Her
mother and Skelgill stand rather self-consciously a few yards away and a couple
of paces apart, their attention somewhat artificially fixed upon the boisterous
game.  After a longer pause than must be comfortable for either of them,
it is the woman who breaks the silence.

‘I’m
Liz, by the way – Liz Williams.’

She reaches
across the hiatus and this time holds out a formal hand.

Skelgill
seems reluctant to accept – there is a moment’s unnatural delay –
but he realises he must reciprocate.

‘Dan.’

‘Are
you local?’

‘Aye.’ 
He stares at her – then realises he should make conversation.  ‘How
about you?’

The
woman smiles contentedly, as if she senses his awkwardness and feels
comfortable in taking the lead.  She is very attractive and presumably
knows it: there is something oriental in her full lips and rich nut-brown eyes
and matching hair pulled tight into a pony tail; a small, slim figure has its
curves accentuated by the skin-tight gym outfit she wears.  In answer to
Skelgill’s question she shakes her head.

‘When
I was a kid – for a few years we lived in Keswick – but we’re here
on holiday from South Wales, just Rhian and me.  I’ve taken her out of
school early to beat the crowds.’

‘That’s
something well remembered.’

She
laughs.  ‘We’ll certainly remember today.’

Skelgill
seems to relax, and lowers himself down to sit on a dry slab of rock.  He
inclines his head towards girl and dog.  ‘Looks like we’re here for the
duration.’

Now
facing him, the woman takes the opportunity to appraise his appearance. 
As she moves to sit beside him – quite close as the rock only seats two
– there’s a lively glint in her eye.

‘You're
soaked through.’  Her inflection carries an inquiry.

‘It’s
a long story.’

‘If
we’re here for the duration...’

Skelgill
throws her a sideways glance, the sort of stoic gesture that recognises the capacity
of women to get their way.

‘Let’s
just say I was cooling off.’

‘Do
you always cool off fully clothed?’

‘Just
as well that I was.’

The
woman’s smile is honeyed.  She is amused by their banter and perhaps too
the comic prospect of being rescued by someone akin to the Naked Rambler. 
But it is Skelgill who speaks next.

‘Liz,
tell me – what the heck were you doing on Sharp Edge?’

Now she
is the one to nod ruefully.

‘We do
a lot of hillwalking at weekends – we’re only an hour from the Brecon
Beacons, you see?’  There is suddenly a strong Welsh lilt in her
words.  ‘When I was a girl, a little older than Rhian – when I lived
in Keswick – I was member of an outward-bound club – I don’t recall
too much, but this was one of the places they used to bring us to.’

Skelgill
tilts his head from side to side, as if assessing the wisdom of such a policy.

‘It’s
an interesting spot – so long as you know what you’re doing.’

The
woman presses the tips of her fingers together like she might in prayer. 
Her hands are slim and her long nails coloured to match the rose pink of her
lips.

‘The
instructors used to tease us that they’d make us climb Sharp Edge if we
misbehaved – like walking the plank.  I think my friend and I only
joined because we fancied some of the boys – and the instructors, I
suppose – it was more of a youth club really – I’ve still got my
scrapbook and photographs somewhere – they had a climbing wall at the
farm where it was based – and they used to do quad-biking and clay-pigeon
shooting for corporate events.’

Skelgill’s
antennae seem to become alert as she completes this description.

‘Was
that over at the back of Threlkeld, near the lead mine?’

The
woman turns out her bottom lip and shakes her head apologetically.

‘My
memories are hazy – I would only have been eleven or twelve.  My
parents used to drive us.  It had a queer name.’

‘Knott
Halloo?’

‘Of
course – that’s right – so it was.’

‘That place
burned down the thick end of twenty years ago – went out of business
– I heard talk it was arson.’

‘Really? 
I’m surprised
you’re
old enough to remember.’

Skelgill
immediately looks both embarrassed and flattered by this engineered
compliment.  If he is correct about the incident at the climbing centre,
he would have been in his late teens, which would make his present companion
some seven or eight years his junior – and now around the thirty mark.

‘It sparked
a bit of news at the time – especially if you moved in climbing circles,
I suppose.’

‘You
obviously do – that was brilliant how you talked Rhian down.’

Skelgill’s
chest swells a little more.

‘You
could hear?’

He
makes this question sound as though he had not intended to broadcast the
exchange.

‘Only
some of it.’  The woman backtracks a little, responding with appropriate
diplomacy.

‘Climbing’s
ninety percent confidence – that’s why there’s such a thing as a
confidence
rope – you wouldn’t trust one to break your fall – but it works
wonders for climbing ability.’

‘And
you had a confidence
string
.’

Skelgill
grins at her joke.  ‘Baler twine – never without it.’

For a second
he looks like he might wish to own up about the shepherd’s recent good advice
in this regard, but vanity evidently gets the better of him and he allows the
woman to nod admiringly.

‘It
certainly did the trick.’

‘Obviously
you’d never belay anybody like that – but belaying wasn’t an
option.  I figured I’d catch her if she slipped – it was just a
matter of getting her moving.’

‘You’re
quite the expert – you must have a way with women.’

Skelgill
affects to adjust one of his laces, though he must feel her gaze upon
him.  Then he glances fretfully at his wristwatch.  The woman
immediately responds.

‘Dan
– you mustn’t let us keep you.’

Skelgill
shrugs.  ‘It’s no problem – what are you planning to do?’

The
woman stretches, curving her back and running her hands over her glossy scalp,
emphasising the contours of her breasts beneath the taut fabric of her sports
vest.

‘I
think we should head home – have an ice cream to recover from the shock. 
We’re staying at the caravan site at Braithwaite – just Rhian and me.’

It is
the second time she has mentioned her lone parent status.  As she rises, the
movements of her lissom figure draw Skelgill’s eye; she catches his absorbed gaze
and, turning to face him crosses one leg over the other, emphasising its toned
musculature.  He hauls himself to his feet, and pulls rather
self-consciously at his own damp attire.

‘I
could walk down with you – that way your daughter gets to lead the dog
like I promised.’

‘That
would be nice.’

‘Where
are you parked?  I didn’t see a car the way I came up.’

‘We’re
near a pub, I think.’

‘Scales.’

The
woman shrugs and grins helplessly.

‘I’ll
find it.’

‘I
know we can rely on you – you’re our hero.’

And
suddenly she steps forward and embraces him – at first with a sob but
quickly she lifts up her face and reaches with both hands to pull down his head
for a kiss.  It is a prolonged kiss and not easily interrupted.

‘Mummy!’

*

When
Skelgill wakes, the ceiling above him is out of focus and unfamiliar – it
is the inside of the roof of his car.  His phone – switched to
silent – vibrates loudly beside him, drumming in bursts upon the steel of
the flatbed.  He lies in a narrow channel between untidy banks of tackle, his
bare feet protruding from the vehicle, the tailgate open to the half-clouded heavens. 
As he sits upright with a pained groan – the beginnings of delayed onset
muscle soreness – the inquiring face of Cleopatra rises beyond his long
bony toes.

He
checks his watch – it is approaching four o’clock, less than an hour
since he left the rescued mother and daughter at their car, waving them away
with the woman’s entreaty ringing in his ears and, hot in his pocket, her
mobile number on a scrap of paper.

He
shuffles forward onto the rear sill of the estate.  His shirt and trousers
had largely dried out on the walk down.  No so his boots, which lie still
sodden where he kicked them off.  His socks appear suspiciously gathered
together and one shows signs of having been lightly gnawed.  The probable
culprit sits to attention, keenly awaiting their next adventure.

Skelgill
licks his dry lips.

‘Want
a drink, lass?’

The
dog seems to know the word, and dunts his knee approvingly with her broad snout. 
He rises, emitting more groans, and turns to dip into the debris, dragging out a
plastic storage crate.  He carries this to the dry-stone wall adjacent to
the car.  With a clank he extracts a soot-blackened
Kelly Kettle
and gives it an experimental shake.  Removing the cork bung he reaches for
the pan of an equally worn
Trangia
and pours into it a measure of water. 
While the thirsty hound laps at his feet, he digs for the kettle base and
places it upon a suitably flat rock.  Next he takes a handful of finely
chopped kindling and arranges it in a lattice inside the aluminium base. 
From a
Sigg
bottle he sprinkles sparkling violet methylated spirits over
the wood.  He settles the kettle on the base, checking its balance before
completely letting go.  Finally he rummages in the crate for matches,
strikes one, and drops it through the kettle’s internal chimney.  With a
whoosh the meths ignites, and flames lick from the mouth of the eccentric
contraption.

It
takes under two minutes for the water to boil, and within another he is sitting
with his back to the wall, sipping tea contemplatively from a tin mug (still
containing two tea bags and floating flecks of undissolved powdered milk). 
He is seemingly oblivious to the temperature of both the scalding liquid and
the mug itself.  His exertions have perhaps created the right conditions
for involuntary musing.  And certainly he has plenty to consider.

As his
mind appears to drift, his pale eyes become oddly glazed.  Their pupils
contract and he ceases to blink.  Of course, he could be playing out some
scenario involving the attractive divorcee, whose lithe
Lycra
-clad form
has no doubt left its impression upon his primeval instincts, and whose further
acquaintance remains an open invitation.  But Skelgill’s mind is a mystery
even to its owner, and perhaps duty is the stronger drive right now.  The
enigmatic subconscious can solve a conundrum long before it makes public such
success.  It does so by piecing together seemingly disparate facts, making
connections that defy linear, logical thinking.  And, though scant clues
there may be, vague forms that lurk in the shadowy recesses of the brain,
experience has told him that in later hindsight their significance will be
sharp and bright and tangible.  Perhaps already he has everything he
needs.  And now, in his semi-trancelike state, Skelgill is apparently
mouthing the stanza,
‘Harris Honda, Seddon Scaffolding.’

His
reverie is interrupted by the buzz of his phone.  He presses a palm above
his heart, as if to suppress the vibration in his breast pocket.  But it
persists, and he rips up the flap.

‘Leyton.’

‘Guv
– you missed the press conference – the Chief’s spitting feathers.’

‘Let
her spit – I’ve just done a rescue.’

‘A
rescue
,
Guv?’

DS
Leyton’s tone is not so much incredulous as exasperated.

‘Behave,
Leyton – I’m being dead serious – I just got a seven-year-old kid
down off Sharp Edge.’

DS
Leyton sighs.  ‘Yeah, but what it is, Guv – I told her you had a
flat tyre.’

Skelgill
is silent for a moment.

‘Oh,
well – can’t be helped – good work, anyway, Leyton.’

‘What were
you doing up there, Guv – was it an emergency call-out?’

‘I
needed to check something.’

‘Right,
Guv.’

DS
Leyton knows better than to interrogate Skelgill when he produces this kind of
bland explanation.  Now he is silent for a moment.