Murder on the Edge (20 page)

Skelgill
slows the car to a gentle crawl as he approaches the cottage, henceforth untied
of its tenant.  As he had been led to expect, his search has revealed
little.  There were no signs of a forced entry, or a burglary, or even a struggle
– never mind a murder.  ‘Jolly shipshape’ was an accurate
description.  He paid particular attention, however, to a scullery area,
where the sheepdog formerly had its living quarters (it now appears to have
taken up residence with two chocolate Labrador bitches in the main house). 
Both food and water bowls were empty, and the litter tray showed signs of use
– though the determination of approximately how recently exceeded Skelgill’s
ambition.

A more
straightforward observation was the distinct absence of any communications
equipment, apart from a telephone.  No computer, no modem, no router, no
wiring.  This may not be considered unusual, except that in answer to
Skelgill’s question about how Walter Barley catered for himself, Lucinda had indicated
that his groceries were delivered – which rather suggests he ordered them
online.  This, of course, can be achieved via mobile phone – though
that is perhaps unlikely for a man of Walter Barley’s generation. 
Nevertheless, he was not known to haul large bags of provisions from the local village
store, dangling from the handlebars of his bicycle.

Perhaps
prompted by this particular reflection, Skelgill knocks his gear lever into
neutral and allows the car to rumble slowly past the cottage.  It begins
to gather speed, and from time to time he is obliged to brake to control its
progress.  He continues in this manner for some minutes, and in due course
the long estate quietly rolls into Threlkeld.  He seems to be in no hurry
– indeed it might be a fuel-saving experiment – and he waits for
the vehicle to decelerate naturally, where the road levels out at a bus stop
outside the first of the settlement’s public houses.  There is just enough
momentum for him to slew into the car park and grind to a halt on the
gravel.  He sits in thought for a minute, before locking the car and wandering
casually across to enter the hostelry.

About
forty minutes later Skelgill reappears and, leaving the village in a westerly
direction, joins the A66.  The first flush of weekend holidaymakers is arriving
in the north Lakes from the M6 junction at Penrith.  Eschewing a couple of
overtaking opportunities, he settles into the steady stream of cars, their rear
windscreens jammed with holdalls, duvets and bulging plastic shopping
bags.  After two miles he swings off at the A591 exit signposted for
Keswick and Windermere.  It is the former that proves to be his
destination, and he follows the general flow of traffic through the town, to
park free of charge in a supermarket car park.  From here he goes on foot,
more briskly now – his regular pace – side-stepping clusters of
cagoule-clad visitors who suspiciously eye the heavens and mutter doubting
comments about the likelihood of the rain holding off.  Skelgill strides the
length of Main Street, passes the Moot Hall, and veers off along the narrower St
John’s Street, with its century-old picture house.  Here he promptly
disappears into the Edwardian offices of
Pope & Parish
, Chartered
Surveyors & Land Agents.

Skelgill
introduces himself to the matronly receptionist in his official capacity, and
these credentials produce an immediate response that sees him shown through
into one of the partner’s offices.  There is a small brass plaque on the
door marked
Reginald Pope, MRICS
.

‘Chief
Inspector Skelgill to see you, sir.’

Skelgill
does not trouble to correct his unauthorised promotion.  Instead he
reciprocates the hand that is extended across a heavily cluttered desk, by a diminutive
if plump elderly man, who rises to greet him with a broad grin.  He
indicates in a friendly manner that Skelgill should take a seat.

‘Thank
you for seeing me without an appointment, Mr Pope.’

The
man starts, and throws up both hands in a gesture of regret.

‘Ah
– my apologies – I’m
Parish
– just borrowing my
partner’s computer.  If it’s Pope you want, I’m afraid he’s away at our Hawick
branch, they’re having some difficulties over the Scots missives regarding a
converted chapel – but I can arrange an audience by telephone?’

Behind
round-lensed spectacles there is a natural twinkle in the man’s bright blue
eyes, and this is perhaps just sufficient to leave Skelgill in doubt as to
whether there was an intended pun (or two) in the man’s explanation.  He
plays a straight bat.

‘We’re
trying to trace the seller of a property – a transaction we believe your
firm may have handled, sir.  Knott Halloo Farm, above Threlkeld.’

Again
the man reacts in an animated fashion, an expression of some surprise sweeping
across his features, and his left arm automatically reaching out to slide a
protective palm over a manila file that nestles among the papers that lie
before him.

‘I
think you may be ahead of me on this one, Chief Inspector – I must
confess.’

He
stares evenly at Skelgill, though now there is surely a little upward twitch of
the eyebrows.  Skelgill in turn frowns quizzically.

‘I’ve
just come from there, sir – I’m talking about when the farm was sold
towards the end of the nineties.’

‘Aha,
I see, Chief Inspector – let me think now.’

The
man retracts his hand and brings it together with his other in the manner of prayer. 
He lowers his chin onto his fingertips and closes his eyes for a moment, as
though he is willing some faded dossier to slip from the dusty shelves of his
memory.  Then his eyes spring open and his face lights up with an
expression of some glee.

‘Stewart
– Maurice Stewart!  If I recall – I dealt with it myself. 
Had a son called Clifford – he ran some sort of adventure centre from the
farm.’

Skelgill
looks relieved.

‘Would
you by any chance have a forwarding address, sir?’

‘Quite
possibly, Chief Inspector – though I am afraid our records from that era
are not computerised – Pope actually keeps all the archives with his
Châteauneuf-du-Pape
.’

‘I’m
sorry, sir?’

‘In
his wine cellar, Chief Inspector.’

‘Of
course, sir.’

‘I
could probably have it for you first thing in the morning?’

‘That
would be excellent, sir – though after all this time the likelihood is they’ll
have moved on anyway.’

‘Where
there’s faith, there’s hope, Chief Inspector.’

Skelgill
shifts and straightens uncomfortably in his seat.

‘Do
you recall anything of the people themselves, sir – or perhaps any of their
associates?  I can tell you that we’re investigating the suspicious death
of a former farmworker – Walter Barley – you may have heard the
news on the radio this morning.’

The
man nods to indicate the affirmative.  He moulds his features into an
expression of helpful concern, though he begins to shake his head.

‘It
was all conducted pretty much at arm’s length, Chief Inspector.  And my
memory is wearing a little thin.’  He rubs the balding crown of his head,
as if to emphasise this deficiency.  ‘Our instructions were to find a
buyer fast.  If I remember correctly, there was a business liquidation
involved, due to a fire – I imagine the creditors would have been camped
out all around the elder Mr Stewart once they realised he was going to be in
funds from the sale of the property.’

Skelgill’s
eyes narrow a little, as though his mind is homing in on an emerging
possibility.

‘There
was a rumour of arson, sir – though it never became a police matter.’

Parish
frowns and now more definitively shakes his head.

‘If one
were owed money it would not make a great deal of sense to destroy one’s debtors’
assets.  Repossession is the norm, Chief Inspector.’  He resettles
his glasses, which have travelled about halfway down the bridge of his nose. 
‘And if it had been an inside job, to coin the vernacular – to claim against
the insurance – then the limited company would have remained solvent.’

Skelgill
nods pensively.  There is irrefutable logic in what Parish says.  He
glances about the small office; the walls are mainly lined with bookshelves, though
interspersed by certificates of professional competence – albeit these pertaining
to Reginald Pope.  His gaze comes full circle and falls upon a pile of
glossy sales particulars that lie close to him.

‘They
mentioned at the farm that they were looking at a place over at Howtown –
are they planning to move, sir?’

‘Oh,
no – I shouldn’t think so, Chief Inspector.’  Parish speaks slowly,
as though he is only for the first time contemplating this possibility –
although perhaps he is conscious that there is client confidentiality to
consider.  ‘The Howtown property is going to auction in lots – so
there will be parcels of land, potential holiday cottages, a main house –
even a breeding flock.  And there’s a nice bit of lake frontage.’

Skelgill’s
body language must transmit a degree of interest, for the land agent’s finely
tuned antennae immediately twitch.

‘Do
you sail, Chief Inspector?’

‘Angling’s
my bag, actually, sir.’

‘Good
heavens – a man after my own heart – what’s your particular calling,
if I may inquire?’

Skelgill
looks like he is caught on the horns of a minor dilemma – it is in his
hands to allow the conversation to drift away from the case.

‘Pike
mainly, sir – up at Bass Lake.’

The
look of expectation that occupies Parish’s countenance fades slightly.

‘Ah
– I was hoping you might give me some advice on choice of flies.’

‘For
which water, sir?’

‘I
have a little mooring on Ullswater – only get out occasionally –
and I can never work out which naturals I ought to be using.  I know one
is supposed to slit the belly of the first trout to discover what they’re
feeding upon – but how, pray, does one catch it in the first place?’

Skelgill
does not react to the latest ecclesiastical reference, and instead leans
forward with a pragmatic air.

‘I
shouldn’t worry too much about that, sir – just stock up on a few
traditional wets –
Peter Ross, Invicta, Kate McLaren – Bloody
Butcher’s
always pretty lethal, any time of year.’  Skelgill imitates
the action of a gentle cast.  ‘Or if there’s a bit of a breeze and you
want to fish loch-style – casting ahead of your drift – use a team
of three – say a
Blue Zulu
on the bob, a
Solicitor
on the
middle dropper, and a
Black Pennel
on the point.’

Nodding
eagerly, Mr Parish scribbles down these names on an envelope that lies nearest
to him on the desk.

‘A
Solicitor
– there’s not such a thing as a
Land Agent
is there Chief
Inspector?’

Skelgill
chuckles.

‘It’s
a relatively new Scottish fly, sir – word is it’s doing really well on
the middle dropper.  It’s good and shiny and sometimes that’s just what
you need to rouse a fish.’

‘It
rather feels like you are being more help to me than I am to you, Chief Inspector.’

‘Not
at all, sir, always happy to talk about fishing.’

‘Well
– I realise it’s a tad early, but I normally have afternoon tea and
scones brought in – perhaps you would join me – or would that be
holding you back from your investigation, Chief Inspector?’

Skelgill
affects what he must calculate is a sufficiently convincing act of being torn
between duty and necessity.

‘If
it’s no trouble – that would be very nice – I haven’t managed any
lunch yet.  But I shouldn’t like to distract you, either, sir.’

‘Not
at all, Chief Inspector – please stay, with my blessing.  Would you
prefer tea, coffee, hot chocolate, perhaps?’

‘Whatever’s
easiest, sir – I’m quite catholic in my tastes.’

As Mr
Parish rises to summon refreshments, Skelgill’s remark causes him to perform a minor
double take, and a mischievous grin breaks out across his lips.

‘Touché,
Chief Inspector!’

‘It’s
just plain Inspector, I’m afraid, sir.’

*

‘Leyton,
I’ll need to postpone the meeting with you and Jones.’

‘Right,
Guv – I’ll tell her.  What time until?’

Skelgill
pauses before replying.  He is facing the window of a shop in Keswick’s
main thoroughfare – though it is not his own reflection that distracts
him, but the array of fishing tackle laid out before him.

‘Er
– tomorrow morning, probably – I’ll text you both.’

‘Oh
– righto, Guv.’

‘Leyton
– Walter Barley might have left the property on his bike – rusty
black
Raleigh
boneshaker with
Sturmey-Archer
three-speed gears
– get a description circulated – just in case it’s not already at
the bottom of Derwentwater.’

‘Sure,
Guv.’