Murder on the Edge (13 page)

DS
Leyton is nonplussed.  In a case that has so far produced vague intimations
and doubtful connections, her reply is bizarrely specific.

‘You
recognise him?’

The woman
nods once, patiently.

‘April
the seventh – that’s over two months ago.’

His
intonation infers doubt into the accuracy of her recollection.

‘Aye
– it was the Grand National on the fifth.  He collected his winnings
on the Monday.  Twenty-fives – not many folk napped it.’

DS
Leyton looks a little relieved that there is a less-than-supernatural
explanation.  With a rank outsider winning the year’s big steeplechase, it
had generally been a good Saturday for the bookies – and also a reason to
remember those few, if any, successful punters.’

‘Hope
he didn’t have too much on it.’

Now DS
Leyton sounds sympathetic.

‘A
ton.’

‘Ouch.’

‘I
laid it off – backed it at thirties wi’
Bettoney’s
.’

DS
Leyton chuckles.  This discrepancy in the odds means a tidy profit,
whatever the outcome.  He might wonder at this paradoxical situation:
bearing more than a passing resemblance to Mrs Goggins from
Postman Pat
,
the woman looks substantially out of place in this rough-and-ready
establishment; but her cunning replies tell him she is more than up to the job.

‘So,
after the Grand National – that was his last visit?’

‘He
disnae bet on the flat – prob’ly willnae be back ’til Wetherby in October.’

DS
Leyton glances sideways.  Skelgill remains inscrutably silent.  DS
Leyton gathers that he is to continue in the present tense.

‘Does he
have any associates – pals he meets here?’

‘Not as
ah ken.’

‘Is
there anything else you can tell us about him?’

The
woman’s eyes flicker, but it is apparent that her attention is becoming divided
between the plain-clothes policemen and the five-thirty maiden fillies’ stakes
at Haydock, which is just reaching its climax on the screen nearest to the
counter.  Her shrewd gaze dwells only long enough to take in the
1-2-3
,
whereupon she seems to relax, suggesting a successful outcome for the house book. 
She exhales and focuses once more upon DS Leyton.

‘He
kens whit he’s dae’in’ – disnae stay to watch a race.  Puts on a bet
and he’s awa’ – he’s nae one fae small talk.’

DS
Leyton nods.  He looks again to Skelgill, who gestures with an inclination
of the head that they should leave.  He hands over his card printed with
his contact details.  But as he steps away, Skelgill closes in upon the
counter.

‘You
seem pretty observant, madam.’

‘It
helps tae read a face in ma job.’

‘Any
new faces lately – last couple of weeks?’

‘There’s
always one or two – we get some passing trade – especially this
time o’ year.’

‘You’ll
remember if we need to come back?’

The
woman grins conspiratorially.  She points beyond her shoulder.

‘It’s
all on film.’

She
says film in the Scottish way
, fill’um,
and Skelgill takes a moment to interpret
the extra syllable.  She means there’s a CCTV system, though it is not
apparent on cursory inspection of the rear wall.  After a moment he nods,
and begins to back away, raising an approving thumb.  Then he, too, grins.

‘Any
tips, before we go?’

‘Tips
for in here – or tips for taking money off ma competitors?’

Skelgill
laughs.  ‘Aye – the latter.’

The
woman purses her lips and squints.  ‘There’s a lot of interest in a colt
running at Newmarket tomorrow – the four o’clock.  Anything above threes
is worth taking.  Y
ou Stupid Boy
.’

‘That’s
got my name written all over it.’

*

‘It
was good of you to humour her, Guv – about that tip.’

‘I’m
deadly serious, Leyton – horse with a name like that.’

‘My
old uncle was a tic-tac man for a bookie – he reckoned only mugs bet on
horses with names they liked.’

‘Leyton
–
You Stupid Boy
– have you forgotten who said that?’

‘Er...
no, Guv – it was Captain Mainwaring, wasn’t it?’

‘To?’

‘Oh...
I get it –
Pike
.’

‘Exactly. 
The mountain, if not the fish.’  Skelgill slaps DS Leyton between the
shoulder blades.  ‘Now if you could lend me a tenner, Leyton, I’ll split
the winnings with you on Monday.’

Skelgill
is inexpertly arranging his damp hair, squinting critically into the film of
dust that coats a little-used vanity mirror.  From amongst the jumble of
clothes on his bed his mobile rings.  Naked, and rather pale but for his
head, neck and forearms, he braces himself with one arm and rummages to
retrieve the intrusive device.  He frowns at the display, his lips compressed. 
The bright screen tells him the same caller has tried three times in the past
ten minutes.  Then he jabs at the handset with his left index finger.

‘Jones?’

‘Sorry
to bother you, Guv...’

‘No
problem.’

The
flat tone of Skelgill’s reply hints at something of the opposite sentiment.

‘What
it is, Guv – I’ve had some thoughts on the case.’

‘Aha?’

DS
Jones is silent for a moment; perhaps she has detected his reticence and is recalibrating
her approach.  Her response is somewhat tentative.

‘Well...
I wondered – are you free – for a drink... or something?’

Skelgill
hesitates.  He casts about the room – though it appears for nothing
in particular.  He picks up an angling magazine from his nightstand and
gazes blankly at the cover, which he holds upside down.

‘Where
are you?’

‘Er...
outside, actually, Guv.’

*

Only
two minutes have passed when Skelgill ducks into the passenger seat of DS
Jones’s car.  His downward angle of entry causes his gaze to fall
naturally upon the area of her lap.  She has changed out of the daywear in
which he last saw her, into a short black skirt with a floral lilac and pink
print, and a simple figure-hugging black t-shirt.  Her smooth bronzed legs
– slightly parted by accelerator and clutch – are naked but for a
pair of black open-toed sandals.  There is a subtle, but heady perfume in
the air, and he seems momentarily transfixed as he settles himself beside her.

‘Nice shirt,
Guv.’

She
says this earnestly, but Skelgill creases his features in reprimand.

‘Very
funny, Jones.’

The garment,
in the style of the season, is one that he acquired with her encouragement.

She
beams warmly.  It is apparent that he has just showered; from him there is
even a competing hint of after-shave.  And his smart-casual attire has more
emphasis upon the
smart
than might normally be encountered.  Not a
dedicated follower of fashion, as a rule his gear is generally a good few years
behind the times; and he wears unashamedly what is most suitably technical for
the task in hand – fishing, motorcycling, fell-walking.  Now, in an
open-necked short-sleeved shirt, stressed jeans and polished brogues, he looks
a shade outwith his comfort zone.

‘You
were quick, Guv.’

Skelgill
harrumphs. 

‘Aye,
well – that depends if we’re talking about quick on the scale of
male-getting-ready, or quick on the scale of female-getting-ready.’

Ds
Jones bats her eyelashes contritely.

‘I
thought you might be out with the dog, Guv – I tried your phone a couple
of times.  But as I was driving this way...’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘No
need tonight  – the neighbour’s babysitting her for me.’

DS
Jones glances away, as if this fact raises some incongruity in her mind, and
indeed Skelgill uncharacteristically supplies further superfluous details.

‘Turns
out she’s a part-time dog-walker – does it for a living.  I barely
knew the job existed.  She’s mentioned it before, but I thought she was
joking – you know, like people call themselves domestic
engineers. 
She’s got an Alsatian of her own – he’s taken a bit of a shine to
Cleopatra – good company for her.’

DS
Jones, her exuberance seemingly a fraction bruised, contrives a grin.

‘I
hope his intentions are honourable, Guv.’

‘I’m
assured he’s had the snip.’

Skelgill
makes an affected shudder, in solidarity with members of his gender.  He
inhales as if to speak, but then holds in the breath; he stares for a moment
directly through the windscreen.  He might be expected to ask what has
brought DS Jones out of her way (when a telephone conversation would surely have
sufficed) – and to turn up at his house on spec – but perhaps he
decides such information is now irrelevant.  He exhales and slaps his
thighs purposefully.

‘Have
you eaten?’

‘Well...
not to speak of, Guv – not since morning break.’

Skelgill
stares at her with mild incredulity.  In his geography of the day’s meals,
she might as well be stranded on the far side of the Grand Canyon.

‘Can
you find
The Yat
at Gatewath?

DS Jones
closes her eyes and lays neatly manicured nails gently on the steering wheel,
as if she is driving an imagined route in a dreamlike state.

‘Is
that by the motorway, Guv – just off the old A6?’

‘That’s
it.’

‘I
always get lost around there – you can’t cross the river for miles
– it feels like you’re taking a massive detour.’

Skelgill
looks pleased with himself.  He taps his temple with an index finger.

‘I
have an inbuilt maps app.  Start by making a u-turn.’

*

Their
destination is a smartly whitewashed, low slate-roofed two-storey building with
contrasting black window surrounds.  It reveals its antiquity as a
coaching inn through its worn stone mounting-block, today an inconspicuous seat
for a trough of scarlet geraniums.  The main door is open and boisterous
chatter spills out.  They enter to find a cheerful throng, presumably enticed
out by the fine summer’s evening.  There is a mix of tourists and locals: a
distinction that is seemingly evident to Skelgill, for he nods casually to expectant
faces here and there.  In turn the newly arrived couple attract some
interested stares as they squeeze through to the servery, with most eyes
lingering upon DS Jones.  It is difficult to discern if this is because
she is in tow with Skelgill, or simply a product of her looks in their own
right – but maybe it is a combination of both.  This latter
conclusion is perhaps reinforced when the comely blonde landlady greets Skelgill
with a hawkish leer.  Her features are aquiline and her eagle-eye is quick
to take in DS Jones, scanning its quarry with a single penetrating yet
sufficiently respectful sweep.  As her gaze returns to meet Skelgill’s it
carries a curious glint, both inquisitorial and yet triumphant, as though she
is intrigued by the unexpected, and secretly approving of the incorrigible.

Skelgill
introduces DS Jones as ‘Emma’ – which must seem a rarity to her –
and she responds with a generous smile.  The landlady reciprocates,
reaching a hand across the counter, chirping, ‘Veronica, alright my love?’ 
Skelgill orders drinks and, while he makes no mention of food, Veronica tilts
conspiratorially towards them, dividing her ample bosom with a
Jenning’s
handpump.

 ‘I
could have saved you that corner table.’  She gestures with an inclination
of her head towards the large inglenook fireplace.  Her accent is southern
– she says
tie-bol
– like a moderated version of DS
Leyton’s, perhaps suburban Essex.  ‘But I thought the bar might be too
rowdy – so I’ve put you in the alcove in the back room – a bit more
intimate.  Go on through and Julie will bring your drinks.’

Skelgill
nods once, his features inscrutable.  He had, rather covertly, sent a
brief text message during their journey.  He did not mention its purpose
and there was apparently no reply.  Perhaps this exchange provides the
explanation.  DS Jones follows him, looking somewhat perplexed; a sight
that draws a knowing grin from Veronica as she turns her charms upon some newly
arrived prey.

*

‘It’s
funny, Guv – how in the local dialect
yat
means gate.’

Nose
in pint, Skelgill raises a mildly interested eyebrow.  Encouraged, DS
Jones continues to muse.

‘So
this place is technically
The Gate
at Gatewath.’

Skelgill
screws up his face in a comic manner.

‘Ivver
sin a yow lowp a yat?’

DS
Jones laughs at his sudden lapse into Cumbrian.  She thinks for a few
seconds while she translates the vernacular.

‘Ever
seen a sheep jump a gate?’

‘You
do too many crosswords, Jones.’

‘Just
for mental agility, Guv – it’s good brain gym for solving complex
problems.’

‘My
brain doesn’t need a gym – it’s got a mind of its own.’

She
chuckles again.  Only Skelgill can come out with these seemingly
oxymoronic truisms, stated in all seriousness.

‘Anyway,
Guv, it beats listening to DI Smart when you’re trapped for hours on a stakeout.’

‘I’ll
give you that one, Jones.  Stick to your crossword.  Especially if it
mithers him.’

‘You
can be sure of that.’

Skelgill
appears to approve of her stance, but now he shifts back in his seat as their meals
arrive: sea bass and green salad for DS Jones, a hefty portion of home-made
steak-and-ale pie for him, garnished with carrots and chunky fries.  He
has already emptied a basket of its mountain of rustic wholemeal bread,
generously buttered, but shows no sign of a diminished appetite as they both
tuck in while the food is piping hot.  After a minute or two it is DS
Jones who speaks, only now taking the opportunity to raise the subject of work.

‘I saw
DS Leyton’s email about the CCTV, Guv.  And the betting shop.’

Pensively,
Skelgill takes a sup of beer.

‘Treat
the bookie’s as a bit of a red herring.’

‘Think
the owner was telling the truth, Guv?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘No
reason to suspect otherwise.  She virtually offered us her own CCTV
records.  I don’t think Seddon was there on Monday.’

DS
Jones nods acquiescently.

‘Just
the supermarket, then, Guv.’

‘And
not a lot from that, either.  Went back to his van.  Dropped off his
phone and wallet and the newspaper.  Then disappeared into thin air.’

‘Surely
we’ll get a sighting, Guv – once we start asking?  Especially if he
went on foot.  It’s not as though we’re talking Windermere, packed with
tourists.’

‘Let’s
hope so.  It’s our only serious line of enquiry at the moment.’

‘Was
he working in the area, Guv – or maybe on his way to do an estimate?’

‘But
why not just park at the building site?’

DS
Jones frowns.

‘I
know, Guv – that doesn’t really make sense.’

‘Based
on the calls we’ve traced from his phone, last week he had a job at Langwathby. 
He’d put up a scaffold for a big roof repair at a private house.  Looks
like that was all his kit out on hire.  The roofers hadn’t finished on schedule
– what with the rain we’ve had.  So he was probably a free agent
until they gave him the call to dismantle it.’

‘Still,
Guv – at least we’ve got twelve noon nailed down.  Quite possibly he
was killed soon after he left the store – if you take the mid-point of
the estimated range for time of death.’

There
is a candle burning between them, its golden flame steady just below eye
level.  In the low light of the ancient hostelry DS Jones’s smooth tanned
complexion is dark, and her striking features appear as sculpted shadows and
highlights, hinting at an ancient and noble physiognomy.  Skelgill stares broodingly
at her before he speaks.

‘You
said you’d had some thoughts.’

DS
Jones, too, pauses before she replies, like an explorer coming unexpectedly
upon a fork in the path.

‘On
the case?’

Her
question hints at an invitation for him to suggest otherwise.  But
Skelgill sticks to the straight and narrow.

‘Aha.’

Rather
distractedly she shifts the untouched rice on her plate to make a space for her
cutlery – which she places at five-twenty-five to indicate she has eaten
sufficiently.  Then she straightens her back and looks directly across at
Skelgill.

‘It
could be nothing, Guv – it’s just a minor detail.’

Skelgill
frowns, and gestures with open palms to their surroundings, as if to indicate
it has brought them here, and she ought to be forthcoming.  She leans
forward compliantly, lowering her voice a little.

‘The
post-mortem report on Barry Seddon states that his underpants were on back to
front.’

Skelgill
is stern-faced.

‘You
noticed that this morning?’

DS
Jones nods.

‘I
thought I’d wait until I could speak with you.’