Murder on the Edge (22 page)

As DS
Leyton is about to enter Skelgill’s office he notices, through the small gap
between the jamb and the door, left a fraction ajar, that his superior is
asleep.  Slumped over his desk, Skelgill snores quietly.  DS Leyton
peers curiously for a second or two, twisting his head sideways so as to obtain
a binocular view.  He coughs in an exaggerated fashion, but Skelgill shows
no sign of response.  The sergeant is hampered by brimming mugs of tea,
one in each hand, and thus is unable to knock.  He could of course push
through, but that would expose him to whatever mood in which Skelgill chooses
to wake.  Instead, he backs away and does a careful about-turn.  He
begins to retrace his steps in the direction whence he came, but at this moment
DS Jones appears hurriedly from around a corner of the corridor; loaded with
papers, she is heading for the same meeting.

‘Ah,
Emma – do us a favour, girl – hold these a mo, will you?’

DS
Jones looks a little perplexed, but nonetheless she obligingly tucks the papers
under one arm and takes the proffered mugs.  Relieved of his burden, DS
Leyton digs in his hip pocket for his mobile phone.  He quickly dials a
number, and listens until the call goes through.  Satisfied, he winks at
DS Jones, replaces the handset in his pocket, and takes the two teas from
her.  Then he leads the way back towards Skelgill’s office.  As they
approach the door Skelgill’s mobile can be heard ringing, and then Skelgill
himself scrabbling about and cursing colourfully when he evidently knocks the item
onto the floor.  As they enter he is retrieving it from beneath his desk,
banging his head in passing.  He emerges and struggles into his seat,
glaring at the handset and paying no heed to the new arrivals.

‘You
phoning me, Leyton?’

‘Here’s
your tea, Guv.’

DS
Leyton is a paragon of innocence, standing as he is with a mug held out in each
hand.

‘I
just got a call from you.’

DS
Leyton shrugs.

‘Must
be my back pocket, Guv – the missis was saying these trousers are getting
too tight – I reckon she deliberately shrinks everything in the wash as
an excuse to keep me on starvation rations.’

He
slides both mugs of tea across the desk for his superior’s consideration, and
grins self-effacingly about the room.  DS Jones looks suitably amused
– though this may be due to DS Leyton’s clever ruse, rather than the
anecdote about his waistline.  Skelgill, however, is not so amenable. 
He rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands and displays all the signs of
having gone without a night’s sleep – not least it must be evident to his
subordinates that he is still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

‘We need
to find Maurice and Clifford Stewart.’

There
is a silence as DS Leyton and DS Jones digest this short sentence, and begin to
realise it is all Skelgill has to say on the matter.

‘We’re
doing the usual checks, Guv.’  DS Leyton folds his arms defensively as he
speaks.  ‘I’ve already tried that
Parish & Pope
crowd –
but they’re not answering their phone yet.  There’s a recorded message
that says they open at nine-thirty – I’ll give them another call as soon
as we’ve finished here, Guv.’

Skelgill
suppresses a yawn.

‘What
else have we got – top-line – of importance?’

The
two sergeants exchange glances.  DS Leyton nods to indicate that DS Jones
should speak first.

‘Main
thing is time of death for Walter Barley.  Confirmed as Friday afternoon
around five p.m.  Same cause as the other two; no additional injuries.’

There
is a silence, as Skelgill seems to wrestle with the validity of this information. 
He stares at DS Jones for a moment, but then turns his sights upon DS Leyton.

‘What
about you, Leyton?’

‘Possible
sighting of Barry Seddon, Guv – the door-to-door team have found a woman
who thinks she saw him in Penrith around noon on the day he disappeared.’

Again
Skelgill is mute for a moment.  He picks up the nearest mug of tea and
more or less drains it in one gulp.  He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. 
Then he glances from one colleague to the other.

‘Anything
else?’

DS
Leyton takes it upon himself to reply.

‘I’ve
put in a request like you suggested, Guv – to see if we photographed any
motorbikes speeding on the day Lee Harris was killed.  Should get a report
by twelve. ’

DS
Jones leans forward in her chair.

‘Won’t
that information be computerised?’

DS
Leyton is about to answer, but Skelgill holds up a hand to quieten him.

‘Jones
– think bike – on the motorway, the cameras shoot head-on.’

DS
Jones taps her glossy crown – now she remembers that for reasons of
pedestrian safety British motorbikes do not carry front number-plates, and thus
are effectively invisible to such speed traps.

‘Of
course, Guv.’

‘Not
that he was likely to have any plates.’  Skelgill combs back his unruly
hairdo with the fingers of both hands.  ‘What we’re looking for is a photo
of a biker matching the description of Harris – at least it might give us
a clue to where he went.’

‘It’s
a nice idea, Guv.’

Skelgill
does not acknowledge DS Jones’s compliment, though he picks up instead on the
leading point she has raised.

‘So
Walter Barley died at most five or six hours after he was last seen.’  He
grimaces with sour dissatisfaction.  ‘If Lady Lucinda’s memory can be
trusted.’

DS
Jones extracts Skelgill’s account of his farm visit from the sheaf of papers
balanced on her lap.

‘She
said she didn’t notice the sheepdog until Sunday, Guv?’

Skelgill
squints blearily.

‘I’m
surprised she noticed it all, given the alcoholic haze she inhabits.’

DS
Jones scans the details to refresh her mind.

‘Could
there be something fishy going on up there, Guv?’

‘Such
as?’

‘Well
– you mention she called at the estate agents – what if they
are
planning to sell Knott Halloo Farm and they wanted Walter Barley out of their
hair?’

Skelgill
scrutinises her, but then his attention wanes and for a few moments he stares vacantly
at the surface of his desk.  It is only with a sudden jolt that lucidity
waxes once more.

‘Jones
– Walter Barley was murdered by the same person who killed Lee Harris and
Barry Seddon.’

DS
Jones raises her hands in a helpless gesture.

‘I
just wondered, Guv – if the explanation about the dog wasn’t quite the truth.’

‘In
what way?’

‘Well
– say the woman – Lucinda – went into Walter Barley’s cottage
while he was out.’

Skelgill
frowns, ready to point to an obvious shortcoming – but DS Jones
continues.

‘If
the dog escaped past her and ran off – she might have lied about having
lost her key – to make it seem like it couldn’t have been her who entered
the cottage.’

Skelgill
puts his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers.  He leans back
and closes his eyes, but after a moment he seems to think the better of this
action – as if he might succumb to the allure of sleep – and visibly
rouses himself.  He reaches for the second mug of tea that DS Leyton has
delivered (an act of thoughtfulness as yet unrecognised).

‘If
only dogs could talk, Guv.’

Skelgill
scowls at DS Leyton’s interjection, though the sergeant is not deterred, and he
leans forward with a finger raised in the air.

‘Oh,
Guv – yeah – one other thing about Walter Barley – I got a shout
as I was coming up – no mobile phone contract in his name, but there
is
a live broadband supply to his cottage.’

Skelgill
folds his arms, as though this information troubles him.

‘There
was no gear in there at all, Leyton – not even a double phone socket.’

The
three sit in silence for a while.  Skelgill’s eyelids droop with
increasing frequency.  It is DS Jones who speaks first.

‘What
if that was why Lucinda went into the cottage, Guv – to remove all the
communications equipment?’

Skelgill
screws up his face in a gesture of disagreement.

‘Then
why tell me she thought Barley ordered his groceries online?’  He shakes
his head.  ‘This is a blind alley.’

Now DS
Leyton rallies pugnaciously to his fellow sergeant’s cause.

‘But
Lee Harris had no gear neither, Guv – and he’d got broadband, too. 
And the only phone we’ve found is Barry Seddon’s – and that could be because
he locked it in his van and hid the key.  Something’s amiss, Guv.’

Again there
is a period of uneasy silence.  Eventually Skelgill speaks, though rather
unenthusiastically.

‘Remind
me – what was the computer situation with Barry Seddon?’

DS
Leyton looks a little exasperated.  ‘If you remember, Guv – we
didn’t find anything at his cousin’s place.’  He is generous with his use
of ‘we’, given that it was Skelgill who surreptitiously searched upstairs. 
‘She didn’t mention stuff missing.  And there’s nothing in the follow-up report.’

‘Give
her a call, Leyton – that Hilda – find out whether Seddon had a
laptop or whatever.’

Skelgill
glances at DS Jones to find her already regarding him intently; as he absorbs
her gaze it is as if she is willing some thought upon him – perhaps one
as yet unshared.

Skelgill
shrugs his way out of the metaphysical embrace and turns to face DS Leyton.

‘What
about the push-bike?’

‘Nothing
as yet, Guv.’

Skelgill
cranes around to look up at the map pinned on his wall.

‘Concentrate
on Keswick.  Barley couldn’t have gone much further than that – and
it’s on the way to Borrowdale.’  Then he flings his hands apart. 
‘But there’s no real logic – given he was lying dead somewhere for more
than two days.’

‘We’re
checking all the obvious places – I’m expecting a report back mid-morning
– if that’s okay, Guv...?’

Skelgill’s
concentration has drifted again, as though there is some parallel discussion running
in his mind that keeps distracting him from the matters at hand – compounded
no doubt by his obvious tiredness.  But then his office door opens by
about a foot and the stoat-like countenance of DI Alec Smart insinuates itself
into the gap.  Skelgill is suddenly alert.

‘Morning
campers – alright, are we?’

Out of
dutiful loyalty to their present direct report, DS Leyton and DS Jones do not
reply, though they are both obliged by weight of rank to return amenable
glances.  Skelgill is the only one to speak.

‘Smart.’

The single
word is a plain identification, lacking friendly undertones.  But DI Smart
appears not to detect any latent hostility.

‘Message
as I’m passing, Skel – Chief wants to see you – as soon as you’ve
got a minute.’

Skelgill
nods grimly.

‘We’re
right in the middle of something.’

‘I
should stick an exercise book down your trousers, Skel – I reckon you’re
in for a bit of a spanking.’

He
cackles salaciously and leers at DS Jones, brazenly taking in her crossed legs
and elevated hemline.

‘See
you later, alligator.’

The
farewell seems to be aimed exclusively at her.

Skelgill
waits until the door has been closed and then, one after the other, drains the
dregs of tea from his two mugs.  He rises and brushes at his crumpled shirt,
which has escaped from his trousers.

‘Jones
– I want you to pick up these various leads.’  He holds out his left
hand and cocks first a thumb, followed by successively raised fingers as he
counts.  ‘One – the Stewarts.  Two – the speed camera
files on Harris.  Three – Seddon’s cousin Hilda.  Four –
Barley’s bike.  Five – any more forensics that come up.’

‘No
worries, Guv.’

DS
Jones exudes a confident efficiency that reflects her reputation – she
does not need to be asked twice to do something.  In contrast DS Leyton
looks a little bewildered; perhaps he fears an unofficial demotion is taking
place, and that he is somehow being scapegoated for the pressure that is building
up on his superior officer.

‘What
about me, Guv?’

Skelgill
strolls towards the door and inclines his head to indicate DS Leyton should
follow.

‘I
need a bacon roll and a double espresso – and I’m brassic till payday.’

‘But what
about the Chief, Guv?’

‘What
about her?’

‘But...
Smart said...’

‘Since
when did I start taking orders from Smart?’

‘No,
Guv – not yet, Guv.’