Murder on the Edge (16 page)

‘Speak
for yourself.’

Skelgill
looks at the palm of his hand, lifting it improbably close to his eyes, as if
to demonstrate his point.

‘Right,
Guv – they’ve got some of the tests back – both pieces definitely from
the same original rope – consecutive – the cuts match exactly. 
The section used to strangle Harris was an end piece, and the one for Seddon a
middle piece – you were spot on, Guv – there’s some missing.’

DS
Leyton glances up, but Skelgill still seems to be checking his focal length.

‘They’ve
traced it to an American manufacturer that was founded in 1992 – so
that’s the maximum age it could be – there’s a sample on the way to them
to see if they can be any more specific.  American, Guv?’

Skelgill
purses his lips doubtingly.

‘Could
be a red herring, Leyton – most climbing ropes used in Britain are made abroad
– that’s long been the case.  Both of mine are Swiss.  And
they’re not cheap, so there’s a big second-hand market.’

‘Money
for old rope, eh, Guv?’

‘Very
funny, Leyton.’  Skelgill allows himself a smile.  ‘Another thing
– if it’s a rope that’s been passed around, think how much foreign DNA
there’s going to be on it.  I lose some of the skin off my hands every
time I climb.’

DS
Leyton nods.  He scrolls through the message, his features assuming a mask
of progressive concern.

‘Anything
else?’

‘That’s
about it, really, Guv.’  The sergeant swallows apprehensively before he
continues.  ‘DS Jones mentions the Chief’s been trying to get you for an
update – says she’s expecting some good news for a Friday afternoon.’

Skelgill’s
expression becomes one of severe irritation.  While the long trip to the
Midlands has not ostensibly been productive – like most of the leads they
have followed thus far – there is something about his general offhand demeanour
that suggests he at least
feels
they are making progress.  As he is
wont to point out, the knack is to know which pieces of jigsaw belong to the
puzzle you are trying to solve – often they come to hand at an early
stage, but are simply not recognisable as such.  Skelgill’s approach to
this recurring conundrum is a mystery even to himself – but what he does
know is that the connections
will
snap into place: when either a
critical mass has been reached, or some unforeseeable catalyst short-circuits
the process.  Either way, this is not a paradigm that may easily be forced
– much to the frustration of his senior officers.  The Chief wants
results – which is understandable given a baying media pack and a
panicking general public – but Skelgill is not a machine but a mere
mortal.  And, right now, matters of mortality are about to take a turn for
the worse.

*

Walter
Barley alights at the bus station in Penrith and heads north on foot through
the town centre.  He seems to know where he is going, and keeps up a
steady pace.  He does, however, take a small detour to a public telephone
kiosk, where he extracts a slip of paper from his wallet and makes a brief
call.  Shortly after, he passes the supermarket on Scotland Road, and thus
approaches the little arcade of retail businesses.  He interrogates his
watch, and draws to a halt.  Rather self-consciously he wanders over to
the first of the premises, a newsagent’s.  For a minute or so he window
shops, hands in pockets, but then he digs for change and pushes through the
door, emerging a minute later tearing at a packet of chewing gum with his teeth
whilst also clenching between his fingers a black comb in a clear plastic
sleeve.  He pops a pellet of gum into his mouth and then slides the comb
from its case.  Peering again into the shop window he uses his faint
reflection to style his equally meagre hair.  Once more he checks the time
– but still it seems there are some minutes to kill, for now he takes his
wallet from his pocket and flicks through its contents.  Then he steps
purposefully towards the entrance of the next emporium, the bookmaker’s.

‘It’s
getting like a police state – that’s what it is.’

‘No
worries, Guv – I’ve got my purse.’

Skelgill
does not appear mollified by DS Jones’s generosity.

‘There’s
no escape – you can even pay by credit card or mobile.  Bloody
disgrace.’

DS
Jones beams encouragingly.  ‘Come on, Guv – maybe one day these
cameras will catch us a criminal.’

Skelgill
harrumphs.

‘Pity
the rope murderer didn’t have the bright idea to come here.’

‘Exactly,
Guv – think these cameras operate at night, as well?’

Skelgill’s
features are creased into a cynical scowl.

‘Pound
to a penny – where there’s money involved.’  He shakes his
head.  ‘How to make your visitors feel welcome.’

He
kills the engine and climbs from his car.  He stands for a moment and glares
at the number plate recognition cameras that guard the public car park. 
Gone are the days of the Lakeland stone honesty box.  Then he rounds to lift
the tailgate and release a relieved looking Cleopatra.  The dog tumbles onto
the uneven surface, performs a couple of her customary sideways dodges, and
then picks up a scent and trots off into the nearby bushes.  Skelgill
busies himself with his gear, hauling out a jangling rucksack and a pair of
walking boots.

‘Think
we’ll need waterproofs, Guv?’

‘Is
there water in the Lakes?’

Perplexed,
DS Jones squints at the largely clear blue morning sky.  Skelgill, pulling
on extra socks, glances sideways at her – she appears reluctant to take
his advice, and indeed she wanders casually away from the vehicle towards the
parking payment machine.  Skelgill is about to close up the car –
then at the last second he reaches in and grabs her cagoule, and stuffs it into
one of the side pockets of his rucksack.  He swings the heavy bag onto his
back and sets off, bisecting DS Jones and the dog, which has reappeared and is
mooching about in some long wet grass.

‘Walk
this way, ladies.’

Skelgill
must, however, be in reasonable fettle; as for a brief moment he goose-steps to
accompany his command.  A grinning DS Jones hurries across to catch up
with him, while the Bullboxer falls in a few yards behind.

‘It
says we pay when we leave, Guv.’

‘They’ll
be taxing fresh air next.’

The
country path begins to weave between clumps of willows and alders, and shortly leads
them across a footbridge over a wide though shallow stream into sessile oak
woodland.  From high in the canopy the energetic trill of a wood warbler,
invisible to the eye, attracts Skelgill’s attention – though he does not remark
as they stroll beneath.

‘Think
Cleopatra will be okay off the lead, Guv?’

Skelgill
stares reflectively in the direction of the dog, which has now gambolled ahead.

‘Aye
– that’s why I chose here – no sheep to worry about.’

‘Where
are we going exactly?’

‘There’s
a decent walk – circuit, more or less – up Loughrigg and back
beside Grasmere.’

‘Decent
for you, Guv – that could be a marathon for me.’

‘No
– three miles, at most.’  Skelgill glowers somewhat woodenly. 
‘I’ve got to get back for an exercise up at Honister this afternoon.’

DS
Jones seems momentarily dismayed by this news, and perhaps it prompts her to be
forthcoming with a question she has put off twice already: first when he called
her earlier, and subsequently when they rendezvoused in a hotel car park in
Grasmere village.

‘So I
was wondering, Guv – to what do I owe the honour of being asked along?’

Skelgill
does not reply immediately, but stares unblinkingly ahead.  Then he jabs
at the rucksack with his left elbow, producing a response from its metallic
contents.

‘I’ll
explain when we stop for a brew.’

DS
Jones shrugs phlegmatically.  Then, just as she inhales as if to speak,
from around a bend in the woodland path there suddenly appears the incongruous
sight of a party of Japanese tourists.  It is quite a crowd, and must
represent the contents of an entire coach.  There is no obvious group
leader, and at the head is a smiling couple of student age – although the
demographic spectrum stretches from the youthful to the positively venerable. 
Clutching mobiles, tablets and cameras, they are all smartly dressed, and –
blinking and somewhat bewildered by their surroundings – they look more
like they have lost their way in an airport concourse and have somehow ended up
in the woods by mistakenly following a fire escape.  As the human snake
winds towards them, Skelgill and Jones step aside onto the raised bank.  Skelgill
bends down on one knee, and takes hold of the dog by her collar, to pre-empt any
over-zealous lunges.  Now it seems every last one of the Japanese wants to
practise their English, and each goes to some lengths to enunciate a stilted greeting. 
Trapped as he is, Skelgill looks progressively troubled by this predicament
– reciprocating twenty-five or thirty ‘good mornings’ severely tries his
patience.  DS Jones, on the other hand, is highly amused, and can’t help
herself from giggling as each couple insists upon having their hello.  But
eventually the last one passes and they are able to resume their walk.

‘I
think they would have liked to take our photo, Guv.’

Skelgill
looks relieved that they did not.  ‘How come?’

DS
Jones hesitates.  Perhaps she is searching for a diplomatic answer, when
the true response might be that they would have liked to take
his
photograph. 
The combination of his threadbare country attire, rucksack, boots, windswept
hair and weatherbeaten features – complemented by the fierce-looking
hound – probably confers the appearance of exactly the kind of authentic ‘wild’
local that foreign visitors would hope to spot in these woods.

‘Well
– I mean Cleopatra, really, Guv – she’s quite a novelty breed,
isn’t she?’

Skelgill
frowns, as though he is not entirely convinced by this explanation.

‘So
long as they don’t dump any litter, they’re welcome to photograph whatever they
like.’

‘They
won’t leave litter, Guv – did you see the Japanese football supporters on
the news the other night – they stayed behind after their match to clear
up all the rubbish in the stadium.’

‘Good
for them.’

‘Think
England will ever win the World Cup again, Guv?’

This enquiry
seems to fall on deaf ears, for Skelgill does not respond, and marches on in a
rather gloomy silence.  After a minute, however, he stops, and cranks out
an arm to bar DS Jones’s path beside him.

‘What
is it, Guv?’

‘Look.’

He
points to the undergrowth on one side of the path.  A butterfly rests in a
splash of sunlight upon the filigree surface of a fresh green fern leaf. 
Slowly it opens and closes its wings to reveal an attractive chequered pattern
of pale spots and false eyes upon a chocolate brown background.

‘Speckled
wood.’

‘That’s
beautiful, Guv – pity we can’t show our visitors.’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘They’d
photograph it to death.  That’s the trouble when you walk round with a
camera – snap everything and see nothing.’

He sets
off quickly and DS Jones has to scamper to catch up.  The undulating ground
begins to rise more sharply now, and for a few minutes they walk on without
speaking.  Soon the dappled shade of the oak wood comes to an end, and they
pass through a gap in a dry-stone wall and out onto a steep fellside, blanketed
in rampaging bracken, fern’s delinquent cousin.  Skelgill sets a steady
pace, and while he does not appear troubled by the exertion, DS Jones slips off
her cardigan and ties it around her waist.  Cleopatra, meanwhile, seems to
know that she is in the kind of open country where it is expedient to stick
close to her master, if she wants to stay off the leash.  After a moderate
pull the gradient eases and they begin a traverse of the airy bank known as
Loughrigg Terrace.  Skelgill pauses beside a bench where the view north
over Grasmere is perhaps at its best, but instead of admiring this he cranes
his neck to look skywards.  An insistent shrieking birdcall has alerted
him, and he raises an outstretched arm to indicate its source to his companion.

‘Peregrine.’

DS
Jones shades her eyes anxiously, but in due course locates the majestic falcon,
a soaring, circling, scything silhouette.  Then without warning it drops
into an arrowing stoop, homing in upon some unsuspecting prey, to disappear
behind a shoulder of the fell.

‘Wow
– that’s impressive.’

‘Fastest
animal on the planet.’

Skelgill
says this rather proprietorially.

‘How
can you tell it’s a peregrine, Guv?’

He
purses his lips.  ‘It just is.’

‘You’re
quite the naturalist – you could be a tour guide in your spare time, Guv.’

Skelgill
looks askance – they both know he wouldn’t have the patience, though his
reply is ostensibly at odds with this.

‘I’ve
thought about fishing guiding more than once.’  But then he sets his features
grimly and shakes his head.  ‘Ruin it, though.’

DS
Jones nods sympathetically, her expression sharing his pain.  She turns
back to face across the valley.

‘Amazing
view, Guv.’

Skelgill
is pensive.  Certainly the vista is idyllic, a chocolate-box Lakeland
scene, dappled by shadows of wandering clouds; the diminutive Grasmere set like
a sapphire jewel amidst green velvet folds of rippling fells.  Though twice
the size of neighbouring Rydal Water, it is still one of the smallest lakes
– a mere fraction of nearby Windermere, whose waters both of these minnows
share through the sometimes rushing River Rothay.

‘Seen
enough?’

Skelgill
does not wait for a reply, and sets off once again.  Soon he leads them
back into woodland, this time more mature and with less undergrowth than down
in the valley.  A mix of deciduous and conifers, it has that
cathedral-like sense of calm, where dust motes float in shafts of light that
penetrate stained glass – though in this green-hued arbour it is flies
that hover like tiny angels, pinned in space by sunbeams.  To pause is to
allow midges to pounce, but the heady pine-scented ambiance subdues their
urgency, and they amble to the accompaniment of an avian choir: the liquid
warbling falsetto of a blackcap, a faltering, chuntering chiffchaff and, high
above in a larch, the faintest cork-on-glass soprano of a diminutive goldcrest.

They
reach a gate and with a metallic clang the spell is broken.  Skelgill digs
in his pocket for the baler twine that is now Cleopatra’s regular leash. 
It is tied at each end and he slides it beneath her collar and feeds one loop
through the other, forming a slip-knot.  The free loop then goes over the
wrist.

‘Like
to take her?’

He
holds out the lead to DS Jones, who turns from fastening the gate.

‘Sure.’

Their
route now runs along a narrow tarmac lane, bordered on the downhill side by a
well-maintained stone wall.  Periodically they pass a residence –
sometimes close to the road, while others are tucked away more or less out of
sight – these are a mixture of holiday cottages for rent, and full-time
homes for those fortunate enough to lead a life that enables desirability to prevail
over practicality in the battle of location.  They walk on in silence for
maybe half a mile – though DS Jones seems happily occupied engineering
whatever glimpses she can of the properties.  Soon the view on their right
opens out, with meadows beyond the wall running down to Grasmere.  Just as
they approach a woodland brake that will interrupt this prospect, Skelgill draws
to a halt.

‘We
have to improvise here.’

He
inclines his head towards the wall.

‘Climb
over, Guv?’

‘Aye.’

‘What
about the dog?’

‘Pass
the parcel.  Want to go first, or stay this side?’

DS
Jones sizes up the wall.  It is about shoulder height to her.  Then
she eyes Cleopatra.  The dog, though medium-sized, is nothing if not
stocky, and probably weighs in at fifty pounds.

‘I
don’t know if I could lift her, Guv – especially if she makes a fuss.’

Skelgill
grins.  He crouches down beside the wall and forms a stirrup by
interlocking his fingers.

‘Up
you go then, lass.’

DS
Jones duly gets a leg up, and scales the wall without too much difficulty,
despite her tight jeans.  However, balanced precariously on the line of
coping stones, she hesitates.

‘It’s
further down this side, Guv.’

‘That’s
the slope.  Just stay there a mo.’

Without
prior warning, Skelgill stoops and grips the startled canine with his long
fingers spread on either side of her broad thorax, and with a grunt he heaves
her up onto the ridge of the wall.  She scrabbles anxiously for a foothold.