Murder on the Edge (2 page)

‘The
body was discovered by a couple of elderly walkers at about seven this morning. 
PC Dodd attended the scene.  Apparently he does a bit of rock climbing
himself – he called in to suggest that you should have a butcher’s before
they move the body.’

Skelgill
frowns.  ‘So, what’s he saying – there’s something suspicious?’

DS
Leyton appears a tad browbeaten by his superior’s intolerant manner.  ‘I
guess so, Guv – I’ve only got the message indirectly.  Apparently HQ
have been trying to phone you for the last hour.’

Skelgill
is now further irked.  A regular observer of his habits, such as DS
Leyton, might suspect he is planning to take advantage of the hiatus that
follows the successful conclusion of the Oakthwaite case by disappearing on a
fishing trip this morning.  Certainly he has the excuse of reinstating his
boat to its familiar berth.  Skelgill pulls out his mobile and affects to
check the screen.

‘No
signal on my network, Leyton.’

In
fact his phone has been turned off since he and DS Jones left Wasdale Head an
hour and a half since.

‘How
do you want to play it, Guv?’

Skelgill
taps the toe of his left foot against the rim of a large dried cowpat.  Then
he watches as a swallow hawks for a clegg and disappears into the darkness of a
low byre.

‘Look,
Leyton.  My car’s still down at Peel Wyke.  It’s as quick that way to
Wasdale.  Drop me there and I’ll head back to this incident.  You
take Jones.  She can give you a hand with the statements and then recover her
own motor.’

‘Right,
Guv.’  Now DS Leyton becomes a little apprehensive.  ‘What about the
dog, Guv?’

They
both glance down at Cleopatra.  She produces a baleful stare that suggests
she grasps the insinuation inherent in DS Leyton’s question, and disapproves
accordingly.  The sergeant takes half a pace backwards.

Skelgill
shortens the leash by winding it a couple of turns around his fist.  ‘I
guess she starts on her first case.’

Skelgill
can’t be surprised to hear that the unfortunate male victim he is en route to
inspect lies crumpled below the notorious Sharp Edge, a vicious saw-toothed spine
of rock that strikes out from the black cliffs of Foule Crag, itself the cantle
of Blencathra’s ‘saddleback’ massif.  This locus has been the scene of numerous
tragedies down the years, but for all that, he is also probably wondering why
the episode is being described as a
climbing
accident.  While, to
the layman, the distinction might seem academic, to the outdoorsman there is a wide
practical gulf between
climbing
and its devil-may-care cousin,
scrambling
. 
And Sharp Edge – in summer at least – is probably the Lake
District’s most popular scramble.

Sharp
Edge’s notoriety stems not from its degree of difficulty (it rises barely above
the horizontal, and is classed only as a Grade 1 scramble), but from its
exposure.  A slip on – or, rather, off – Sharp Edge holds the
very real risk of a fatal fall.  Indeed Skelgill’s literary idol
Wainwright serves up this very same warning, and remarks that the sight of the
undertaking ahead can cause its beholder to forget even a raging
toothache.  Amusingly, he adds that, for the faint of heart, there is the
alternative threat to one’s tender parts – for those who opt to cross the
most razor-like sections of the ridge in the safety-first style known as
à
cheval
.

Driving
from the west, Skelgill takes the first though not the shortest point of
access, parking just before Scales on the A66, brushing breadcrumbs from his
lap, and setting off on a gently rising traverse into Mousthwaite Comb. 
As the crow flies, his destination is precisely one mile away, though it
involves a curving and steepening ascent of some twelve hundred feet.  The
general public picture the police screeching up to the scene of an
investigation amidst a cloud of tyre-smoke and the wailing of sirens, but in
rural areas this mode of approach is frequently unavailable (and helicopters
few and far between).  Thus, while Skelgill might question the statistical
bias that sees him dealt more than his fair share of off-road assignments, it
is an inequality with which he is content.  And no doubt his ego is
boosted by its implicit recognition of his obscure if opportune expertise. 
It might be an inverted busman’s holiday, but at least he’s a busman. 
Indeed, as he overtakes a small gaggle of fifty-something hillwalkers, they exchange
pleasantries regarding the weather, and the thought can’t occur to any of them
– seeing his lived-in outdoor attire, and his dog trotting eagerly beside
him – that he is a Detective Inspector heading for a nearby corpse.

Skelgill
pushes himself, and is breathing hard as he crests the rim of the corrie that
holds the indigo waters of Scales Tarn.  Over to his right is the smooth
grassy shoulder that leads the walker up onto the arête.  At the base of
the scree below this ridge, adjacent to the rocky shoreline, he spies a small
gaggle of men who appear to be skimming stones.  There’s a triumphant shout
of ‘thirteen!’ and a little war dance from the thrower.

Then
one of the group notices Skelgill, and over the next few seconds they gradually
assume the collective demeanour of a gang of schoolboys caught smoking behind
the bike sheds.  There are apprehensive glances cast at the evidence of
the receding ripples on the tarn, like the last telltale drift of smoke from
hastily stomped cigarette ends.  A shirt-sleeved PC Dodd numbers among the
conspirators (indeed he is responsible for the most recent, seemingly record-breaking,
attempt).  Self-consciously he reaches down for his cap and carefully
folded duty vest, which items he dons before breaking away and picking a path
towards the approaching Skelgill.

‘You
winning?

‘Sorry,
sir?’  The young constable looks too embarrassed to wipe away a bead of
sweat that trickles from his brow and finds its way onto the tip of his nose.

‘I
hope you’re not letting that bunch of layabouts beat you.’

‘No,
sir.’

Skelgill
articulates at the waist to get a look past PC Dodd.  Though his
expression is stern he raises a palm – and the three remaining
confederates each keenly acknowledge him likewise.  He knows them all
– indeed is a member of the same voluntary mountain rescue fraternity to which
DS Jones referred earlier – but his arrival in an official police capacity
has him ranking above them, and he shows no inclination to engage further for
the time being.  The men, perhaps relieved at escaping a reprimand for
their inappropriate high jinks, turn their attention to readying their
equipment – a stack of bulging rucksacks from which protrude various
aluminium struts and poles.

Skelgill
eyeballs the anxious-looking PC Dodd.  ‘Right, where is it?  You’ve
pulled me off an important job.’

PC Dodd
points to a spot about fifty yards away, where the rough scree beneath Sharp
Edge tumbles into the waters of the tarn.  ‘You can just see the blue
clothing, sir.’

Skelgill
squints, taking in the lie of the land.

‘Has
the body been moved?’

‘I
don’t believe so, sir.  The chap who reported it – he’s a retired
doctor.  He said he could tell instantly the man was dead.  Made his
wife feel ill – so he pulled her away.  He called 999 and they were
waiting at the top of the footpath when I arrived.’

‘And
no identification?’

‘Not
that I could find, sir.’  PC Dodd swallows, as though the act of checking
has left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Skelgill
nods.  He takes a step in the direction of the corpse, but then stops,
realising he has Cleopatra on the leash.

‘Hold
this, Dodd – in fact, take her over for a drink, will you?’

‘Yes,
sir.’

PC
Dodd tentatively slides his hand into the loop at the end of the string.

‘Don’t
worry, Dodd – that’s baler twine – virtually unbreakable.  You
should always carry some.’

‘Yes,
sir.’

He
strides away, leaving PC Dodd fighting to haul back Cleopatra; she seems
determined to stick close to Skelgill.  Eventually she yields, and
reluctantly allows herself to be led to the shoreline.

Very
soon, Skelgill can be heard swearing.  Since he is alone at the death
scene, the others – PC Dodd especially – must find this behaviour
rather disconcerting.  Indeed, as Skelgill comes storming back towards
him, his face like thunder, the poor PC must be wondering what he has done wrong. 
It can only be that he has wasted the time of this senior officer, a man known
about the station for his fiery temper and intolerance of incompetence.

PC
Dodd stands rooted at the edge of the tarn, like a petrified Greek messenger
awaiting his fate.  Skelgill closes in and raises an accusing finger.

‘Dodd
– you should have the courage of your convictions, son.’

Though
Skelgill hisses this through gritted teeth, there is just the hint of hope for
PC Dodd in the content of the message.

‘Sorry,
sir?’

‘You
knew there was something wrong, didn’t you?’

‘Well,
sir – I just thought what with there being a climbing rope...’

‘And
his clothes?’

‘Yes,
sir – that as well – plus the footwear...’

‘Exactly.’

‘Yes,
sir.’

PC
Dodd still appears somewhat disconcerted, his tall gangly frame stretched to
attention.  At this juncture Skelgill is near enough for Cleopatra to butt
his knee with her formidable snout.  He glances down at her and seems to
be distracted by a moment’s reflection.

‘Okay. 
So no great loss.  At least you didn’t let that bunch of clowns take the
body away.’

‘No,
sir.’

‘You
did right, Dodd.’

‘Yes,
sir – thank you, sir.’

Skelgill
points his index finger again, though less aggressively.  ‘Next time don’t
wait for the likes of me.  Take a flyer.’

‘Yes,
sir.’  PC Dodd looks mightily relieved.  Perhaps he tries to convey
this gratitude to Skelgill through his body language, though he is probably thinking
that taking flyers is no doubt how Inspector Skelgill has earned his reputation
– as a maverick who is frequently unpopular with the powers that be.

‘How’s
your radio signal?

‘Good,
sir.’

‘Get a
scene-of-crime team up here pronto.  They’re looking for any signs of
interference – before or after he died.  And make sure someone
tracks down Dr Herdwick – I want to know everything possible about time,
cause and location of death.’

‘Will
do, sir.’

‘And
you can probably stand down the rescue crew – no point them skiving off
work any longer.  Our boys are not going to be finished until late this
afternoon, at best.’

‘Okay,
sir – I’ll tell them to go.’

‘What’s
the griff on the couple who found him?’

‘Doctor
and Mrs Lumsden.  They’re staying for the week at the Coledale at
Braithwaite, sir.  Live at Todmorden.  I asked them to return and
wait at the hotel until we’d sent someone to speak with them.’

Skelgill
nods; he is evidently content with PC Dodd’s simple, quiet efficiency.

‘I’ll
call in.  It’s on my way.’

PC
Dodd probably does not think to analyse this statement, but if Skelgill were
meant to be heading to police HQ, Braithwaite is certainly not on the
way.  Indeed, it lies 180 degrees in the opposite direction along the A66,
just a two-minute drive from Skelgill’s mooring beside Bassenthwaite Lake. 
In any event Cleopatra creates a minor distraction by making a sudden lunge at
a grey wagtail that has been working its way boldly towards them around the
water’s edge.  The little bird flits away, while PC Dodd is almost pulled
off his feet.

‘Whoa!’ 
He recovers his balance and meets Skelgill’s amused gaze.  ‘Spirited dog,
sir.  Is she the one from Oakthwaite?’

Immediately
a wary frown creases Skelgill’s features.  ‘That didn’t take the jungle
drums long.’

PC
Dodd grins contritely.  ‘She’s taken a shine to you, sir.’

‘Well,
Dodd – that makes a change, I can tell you.’

PC
Dodd raises his eyebrows, but diplomatically chooses not to comment.

Skelgill,
meanwhile, stoops and picks up a smooth mudstone pebble.  With an easy
flowing left-handed action, he sends it skimming across the flat surface of
Scales Tarn.  PC Dodd turns and watches over his shoulder, his lips moving
as he silently counts the skips, until a little crescendo of splashes marks the
stone’s eventual and inevitable descent into the water – but not before
it has almost doubled the best score achieved in the mini-competition that was in
full swing before Skelgill’s arrival.

On
this triumphant note, Skelgill winks at PC Dodd, takes Cleopatra’s lead, and
sets off briskly in the direction whence he came, neither pausing nor glancing
to see what approbation his feat has drawn from the surely watching trio of
rescuers.  His parting words are reserved for the dog as, almost fondly,
he murmurs, ‘Come on lass – we’ve got a boat to catch.’