Murder on the Edge (27 page)

‘He
in’t out there, lad!’

Maurice
Stewart calls back over his shoulder, seemingly amused by Skelgill’s
antics.  Skelgill quickens his stride to catch up, and attempts to offer
his assistance with the chair – but the silent orderly makes it clear
with her nearest shoulder that she requires no help.  Skelgill keeps pace
and twists around to make eye contact with her charge.

‘Mr
Stewart – is there anyone we could ask – who’ll know where Clifford
might be?’

The
simian features of the old man seem to fill with malevolent glee.

‘Dig
all yer like – yer’ll not find Cliff.’

*

Skelgill
turns left out of the driveway of Glenlochar Castle Retreat, between square
sandstone columns topped by eroded eagles that seem to lurch ominously in the
red glow of his tail lights.  He changes up into second gear – but
no more – and perhaps fifty yards further on he stops alongside a field entrance
on the right.  Emerging from the vehicle, pulling in his head in
tortoise-fashion against the intensifying rain, he puts his shoulder to the rickety
wooden gate.  It swings easily enough at first, though jams against the
uneven ground at the perpendicular.  Nonetheless, he returns to the car
and manoeuvres it through the gap and swings it hard against the dry-stone
wall.  Now it is out of sight from the road.  Then he clambers into
the central passenger section, and drags various items of wet-weather gear from
the cargo compartment.  In the restricted space there follows a limited
struggle, accompanied by unrestrained swearing.  But two minutes later he
tumbles out clad in wellingtons, leggings, and his dubiously impermeable
combination of threadbare
Barbour
and sagging
Tilley
hat. 
He locks the car, checks his powerful flashlight against the palm of one hand, hauls
the gate back into its closed position, and sets off in the direction whence he
came.

He has
obviously decided that the driveway is the most practical route of
approach.  This seems wise given his meagre knowledge of the surrounding
terrain – there could be bogs, bogles, or fields full of bad-tempered
Belties
– and, now that night has fallen, beneath the heavy cloud cover visibility
is almost non-existent.  Somewhere, teenage tawny owls, recently fledged,
call insistently for fast food; though tonight they may be disappointed. 
Indeed, the darkness is intense.  Neither the country lane nor the
driveway is illuminated, and it is no coincidence that sparsely populated
Galloway is home to Britain’s first dark sky park.  Skelgill feels his way
rather drunkenly along the centre of the gravel track, straining to see the
tips of his fingers – though naturally unwilling to employ his torch.

And
just as well – for about halfway to his destination he is almost caught
unawares as headlights suddenly illuminate a bend only thirty yards
ahead.  Skelgill is hemmed in by the tall banks of seemingly impenetrable
rhododendrons – but this is a familiar Lakeland species and, trusting to
this knowledge, he covers his face with his arms and throws himself against the
hedge just as the bright beam swings after him.  The shrubs yield and then
spring back into place; he disappears from view and the car rumbles past at a
constant velocity.  If the driver has seen anything, it can only have been
fleetingly, at best a dark form passed off as a roe deer – or perhaps
more wishfully as the wandering spirit of a Covenanter abroad – not a
sight that most folk would stop to investigate on such an inauspicious night.

Skelgill
immediately pokes his head out from the bushes.  The vehicle is an old
mini of some description, and through the rear glass of the car, silhouetted
against the illuminated foreground, the driver’s distinctive hairstyle is
recognisable as that of the orderly, Morag; and there is a second female in the
passenger seat.  Skelgill fights his way into the open and rearranges his
attire, which has twisted during his temporary flight.  Brushing twiggy
debris from his hair he realises he has become separated from his hat.  He
decides it is safe to use the flashlight.  He trains the beam on the foliage,
but then notices the missing item lying flat upon the gravel – a
condition caused by the hat having been run over.  Phlegmatically he
punches it back into shape and jams it firmly down upon his head, then raises
the collar of his jacket to optimise his waterproofing.

He
sets off again in darkness.  Perhaps he feels more confident for this
episode – certainly it would appear that the evening shift has departed,
and only the night staff (solely Veronica?) will remain.  And when the
property comes into view he is able to get his bearings.  Both houses have
porch lamps, and from some of the upstairs windows a pale glow is cast. 
But Skelgill is wary of triggering an intruder light, and he keeps his distance
as best he can.  He heads right, and takes a wide loop around the smaller structure
before making a dash across a well-tended lawn to the rear corner of this
building.  Rabbits scatter silently before him.

Now he
edges cautiously along the back wall, ducking beneath windows as he
passes.  Reaching the last of these before the junction with the main
house, he pauses.  From the darkness within there is the homely flicker of
a television; peering around the window frame, Skelgill can see that the set is
positioned against the far wall of the room.  Secure in the knowledge that
the watcher will thus be facing away from him, he allows himself a complete
view of the interior.  Sure enough, there is the back of Veronica’s head. 
She is comfortably accommodated on a broad settee, with her legs stretched out
and her slippered feet supported on a round pouffe.  Next to this is a
coffee table, upon which there are the tea things familiar from earlier, now supplemented
by the addition of a capacious pink cake tin.

Skelgill
grins and moves on.  Still hugging the building he swiftly finds his way
around the jutting profile of the conservatory, to the point opposite Maurice Stewart’s
desk.  Briefly he probes with the flashlight to satisfy himself that
nobody is lurking in the darkened extension.  Then he prises open the
window he unfastened during his clumsy episode with the vase.  Leaning in,
almost overbalancing, he can just reach the desk.  Deftly, he removes
something and slips down onto the grass, hunching over so as to shield the item
from the steady rain.  Gripping the torch between his teeth, a mad grimace
tearing at his features, he yanks out his mobile phone and begins methodically
to take photographs.

‘Early
bird gets the worm, eh, Danny, lad?’

Skelgill
produces a wry grin as he leans over to shake the hand of the man clambering
into the passenger seat of his car.

‘Not
for long, Jim.’

‘How’s
that?’

Skelgill
hands over a grease-stained brown paper bag; simultaneously he nods in the
direction of the burger van.

‘Look
at his tax disc.’

‘Shouldn’t
you be doing something about that, Inspector?’

Skelgill
nonchalantly takes another bite and makes a scoffing sound through his nose.

‘Marra
– I’m working on a triple murder case – about to be quadruple if I
don’t get my finger out – I can’t go round nicking folk for their road
tax.’

‘S’pose
not, lad.’

Skelgill
holds up his own half-eaten roll.

‘Anyway,
what’s that saying – about cutting off your nose to spite your face?’

The
man nods agreeably.

‘Decent
burgers, Danny.’

‘Leyton
– one of my sergeants – sniffed it out.’  Skelgill shakes his
head.  ‘If only he had half the nose for crime.’

‘Which
I take it is where I come in – is this my tea, by the way?’

Skelgill
indicates and the man extracts one of two polystyrene cups from the centre
console.

‘Thanks
for meeting up – I shan’t delay you for long.’

‘Don’t
worry, Danny – now I’m behind a desk I’m on flexitime – you might
just have to buy me another one of these, that’s all.’

‘I’ll
keep it brief – had to raid the post office to pay in the first place.’

‘Let’s
have it, then.’

The
man – some fifteen years the senior – is an employee of Cumbria
Fire Service.  Once leader of the mountain rescue group to which Skelgill
belongs, an accident curtailed his climbing days in both capacities.  He
is a large man, well over six feet, with tight grizzled curly hair, a strong
jaw and small blue eyes that twinkle beneath blond brows.

‘You’ve
read about the murders?’

The
man nods but remains efficiently tight-lipped.

‘I’m
investigating a connection to Knott Halloo Farm – one of the victims
lived in a cottage on their land.  There was a fire, going back the best
part of twenty years – I vaguely remember it, but I was at that age
where... well, I suppose local news wasn’t my main priority.’

‘You
mean you're not at that age any more?’  The elder man chuckles and nudges
Skelgill.  ‘I thought you were the Lakes’ answer to
Peter Pan
?’

Skelgill
grins sheepishly.

‘Aye,
well – I have my moments.  Ask my boss.’

The man
shakes his head sympathetically.

‘Well,
some of us are old enough to remember – as it happens.’

Skelgill’s
eyes narrow.

‘Did
you attend?’

‘Aye
– though not in the first instance.  That summer there was a spate
of forest fires – dashing about like blue-arsed flies we were.  Caused
a delay in getting a tender up to the farm – it was beyond saving by the
time our lads got there.  But it was an isolated unit – fair old
size, like – so there was no risk to the rest of the property, and the
immediate surroundings were rough grazing.  I was the investigating
officer.’

‘Was
there much left to investigate?’

Jim
shakes his head.

‘Razed
to the ground.  It was basically a big wooden barn – some kind of
climbing and activity centre – with various timber constructions inside,
plus they stored the mechanical equipment in there – if I recall there
was quite a little fleet of quad bikes, plus the fuel in jerry cans –
that’s what caused it – leaking petrol vapour built up and probably the
heat of an engine took it past its flashpoint – or could have been a
spark off a battery.  There was a pile of hay, too – the place must
have gone up like a tinder box.’

‘So
foul play wasn’t suspected?’

The
man shrugs.

‘Situation
like that – you could never say
never
... but not on the face of
it.’

Skelgill
looks uneasy.

‘I
seem to remember there being stories of arson – I mean, this would have
been in the years after – vague gossip over a pint.’

The fireman
shakes his head.

‘As I
recall, they weren’t insured – which ruled out the usual suspects.’

Skelgill
nods several times, to indicate he has considered this possibility.

‘What
about malicious arson?’

‘Thing
is, Danny – like I say – you can’t rule it out – but when all
it would take is to kick over a petrol can that’s already standing there and
chuck a fag-end on it – there’s no way of telling.  The blaze
destroyed everything – even all the metal was melted.’

‘What
about injuries – it’s been suggested to us that this guy – the
murder victim – was apparently hurt trying to fight the blaze?’

Jim
rubs his jutting chin reflectively.

‘I’d
need to dig out the report, Danny – but I’m pretty certain there was nowt. 
With a barn of that size and design – whacking great doors – even
if there’s folk inside when the fire starts, it’s unlikely they wouldn’t get
out.  Happen yon laddo was trying to rescue some of the kit – must
have been worth a few bob.’

Skelgill
nods, albeit a little reluctantly.

‘I was
rather hoping you’d have heard something off the record.’

‘Aye,
there’s no fun in the facts, Danny.  You know how the rumour mill gets
going, especially in these parts.’  The man cocks his head to one side and
winks at Skelgill.  ‘I even hear talk you’ve had your whites back on.’

Skelgill’s
high cheekbones take on a faint tinge of pink.

‘It
was a three-line whip; I had no choice.’

‘Word
is you skittled Carlisle cops singlehanded.’

Now Skelgill
affects a modest simper.

‘That
just proves your point about the rumour mill, Jim.’

‘Aye,
well – we could do with a bit of help from you, if the old back’s mended
– still plenty of games left this season, lad.’

The
man might have hung up his climbing boots, but he still turns out for the
mountain rescue cricket eleven, as well as providing honorary services that
include club secretary, groundsman and chairman of selectors – though
with limited resources and frequent injuries, the latter role is more a job of rustling
up eleven fit men.

‘Happen
I’ll give you a buzz once this case is sorted, Jim.’

The
man grins.

‘So
how long’s that going to be – next spring?’

Skelgill
throws him a wide-eyed glance.

‘You
must be joking – if the Chief is to be believed, either I crack it by tomorrow
night or I’m on gardening leave.’

The
man ponders this statement, pursing his lips and nodding supportively.

‘Course
– you could always make that
cricketing
leave.’

*

‘Morning,
Guv – are you on your way in?’

Skelgill
is drinking a second cup of tea, and for once has his phone on hands-free as he
heads along the A66.

‘Just
had a meeting, Jones – next stop Knott Halloo Farm.’

‘Oh,
right, Guv.’

DS
Jones might be optimistic of being apprised on Skelgill’s interview with
Maurice Stewart; however nothing seems to be forthcoming.

‘Er...
a few more developments to update you on, Guv – including about the farm
– well, the farmer, at least.’

‘I’m
all ears.’

‘We’ve
checked his alibi – he was definitely exhibiting at the agricultural show
in Lincolnshire, from midday on the Friday until it closed on Sunday evening. 
Just him and a young female assistant were staffing the stand.’

‘So
where’s the story?’

‘He
told you he drove back on the Monday, Guv.’

‘Aye.’

‘On
the Sunday night he stayed at a hotel near Lincoln with his wife.’

‘Hold
your horses, Jones – his wife was at some posh cocktail party at the
Sharrow Bay on Sunday night.’

‘I
know, Guv.’

Skelgill
is silent for a moment.

‘You’ve
not met his wife, have you?’

‘No,
Guv.’

‘Jones
– if you had, all might become clear.’

‘I
see, Guv.’

‘I’ll
bear this in mind when I speak to him.’

‘Sure,
Guv.’

‘What
next?’

DS
Jones hesitates as she presumably refers to her notes.

‘Walter
Barley’s bike, Guv – a small boy was seen shoving it off the bridge and
running away back towards the town – seems like DS Leyton might have been
right.’

‘Got a
description?’

‘It’s from
an old lady, Guv – walking her dog in the park – quite a distance
off.  Aged about twelve, brown hair, white trainers.’

‘There’s
two hundred kids in Keswick fit that description.’

‘I
know, Guv.’

‘What
about the time?’

‘Just
before five – Friday afternoon.’

‘Barley
was probably dead by then.’

‘I’ve
asked PC Dodd to make inquiries up at Threlkeld, Guv – I figured the bike
was most probably taken from the farm, or – like you said – from
near to the bus stop.  That would narrow down the number of
twelve-year-old boys – there’s only a hundred or so houses in the entire
village.’

Skelgill
is nodding, though he does not seem overly enthused by this information.

‘Okay.’

DS
Jones perhaps senses his disinterest, and her disembodied voice takes on a note
of urgency in an effort to raise the tempo of their conversation.

‘Next
thing, Guv – Leicestershire police have traced Lee Harris’s biological
mother – Janet Atkins.’

‘Aye?’

Skelgill’s
inflection suggests this subject has struck more of a chord.

‘She’s
not in a good way – drinking, that is.  The report doesn’t say much
– but I just spoke to the WPC who interviewed her.  She said there
was nothing concrete she could put in writing, but she felt the woman was
holding out on her.’

‘In
what way?’

‘The
official line was that Lee Harris was fostered out because of the alcoholic
father – but she got the impression that Lee himself was the problem.’

 ‘Linda
Harris said Lee was starting to misbehave – that’s why they took the action.’

‘Sure,
Guv – it’s just a point of subtle emphasis, I suppose.  Apparently
Janet Atkins kept repeating that he wasn’t a
bad boy
– in the way
that mothers do when they know the opposite.’

Skelgill
takes a sip of tea and gazes up at the fells to his left.  The cyclonic
spell is continuing – indeed the remnants of an Atlantic hurricane have
been responsible for the overnight downfall.  But now the warm front has
passed and a clear, dry day is promised.  Lakeland vegetation is reaching
its summer peak, and the roadside verges hang heavy with the creamy blossom of
meadowsweet.  Skelgill lowers his window to admit whatever mixture of
natural aromas will come his way.

‘Love
and marriage.’

‘Sorry,
Guv?’

DS
Jones sounds nonplussed.

‘Love
and marriage – it’s what they call meadowsweet.  Nice scent, until
you crush the flower.’

‘Right,
Guv.’

Skelgill
does not elaborate upon the train of thought – if indeed there is one
– that has brought him to this cryptic destination.  Meanwhile, DS
Jones, who might be wondering whether he refers to Lee Harris’s family
circumstances – or in fact if there is some hidden message for her
– waits expectantly.  She might at least reasonably anticipate a
modicum of praise for her diligent work: another late finish and an early start
to glean the latest developments for her capricious boss’s delectation.  After
a lengthy pause, Skelgill’s approbation – if it can be classified as such
– is characteristically oblique when it comes.

‘Has
Leyton done any work?’

DS
Jones is suitably diplomatic in her reply.

‘He’s
at his desk now, Guv – shall I transfer you?’

‘Aye
– and keep me posted – I don’t know when I’ll be with you.’

‘Sure,
Guv – I’ll put you through.’

The
line is silent for a few moments – perhaps longer than it might take for
a call to be transferred between two colleagues who sit within sight of one
another – and thus sufficient for Skelgill to suspect there is some collusion
before he is reconnected.