Murder on the Edge (28 page)

‘Morning,
Guv – how’s it going?’

Skelgill
does not reply directly, but instead gets directly down to business.

‘What’s
the latest on the door-to-door inquiries?’

There
is a silence, during which it can be imagined DS Leyton practises various
facial expressions.

‘Just
getting it up on my screen, Guv – here we go.  We’ve moved onto the
new estate, fanning out from that walkway – last night we got the last
few missing ones in Ullswater Place.’

Skelgill
sucks in air between his teeth, rather in the manner of a reformed smoker.

‘I
take it I’d have heard if we’d identified an obvious strangler in the street.’

‘It’s
all looking above board, Guv.  Mostly elderly folks, scattering of young
couples, a few girls sharing, three single mothers – like that Kelly we
saw – but no single males – at least not under pension age. 
Then again, how old was Dr Crippen?’

‘Crippen
didn’t climb mountains.’

‘Fair
point, Guv.’

Skelgill
is silent for a moment as he concentrates on an overtaking manoeuvre.

‘Leyton
– get someone round all the bookmakers in Kendal – see if anyone
recognises Lee Harris, and whether there’s a record of bets he’s placed.’

DS Leyton
sounds a little unconvinced, but knows better than question his superior. 
Instead his voice takes on a more animated note.

‘By
the way, Guv – turns out that bookie, the Scotchwoman, she lives in
Ullswater Place with her old ma – suppose it’s not surprising seeing as
she’s been there so long – handy for her work, like.’

‘Aye,
suppose so.’

*

Strictly
speaking Knott Halloo Farm is not Skelgill’s next stop, since he makes a short
detour to collect a joyous Cleopatra from his dog walker, who has a vet’s
appointment (or, at least, the lupine Sammy does).  In due course,
however, he motors up through Threlkeld and continues until he passes the late
Walter Barley’s cottage.  He halts beside one of the barns, alongside the navy-blue
Defender belonging to the farmer, and where an open door suggests its owner
might be found.  Beyond, Lucinda’s Range Rover appears to be absent from the
main house.  Skelgill fastens Cleopatra onto her baler-twine leash before permitting
her to leap from beneath his tailgate.

‘Ah,
Inspector – it’s a fine morning.’

The
farmer has been attracted by sound of Skelgill’s approach, and emerges from the
barn wiping his hands on an oily rag.

‘Sorry
to disturb you, sir.’

‘Oh,
it’s no trouble whatsoever – I’m just getting a couple of demonstration
models tidied up for the
Great Yorkshire
, Inspector.  Killing a bit
of time, if truth be told.’

‘When
does it kick off?’

‘Trade
day tomorrow, then open to the public through until Sunday.’

‘You’ll
be taking the wife, I imagine, sir?’

The
man hesitates just long enough to suggest that Skelgill’s innocently aimed question
has struck its target.  A flicker of alarm darkens his usually bright
countenance, and he reaches for the comfort blanket of his neatly trimmed
beard.

‘Oh,
no, Inspector – she’s not really keen on that kind of thing – all
the standing around – and then we have our livestock here to take care
of.’

The
two men hold one another’s gaze – although it is not an equal
contest.  Where Skelgill’s is keen and penetrative, the other’s
anticipates a second salvo.

Skelgill
clicks his fingers in a self-reprimanding manner.

‘Of
course, sir – I was forgetting that.  Your rare breeds.’

There
is palpable relief in the man’s demeanour.

‘So,
er... how may I help you this morning, Inspector?’

Skelgill
waves a hand vaguely towards the slopes of Blencathra.

‘I
just wondered if I might have a bit of a poke around – stretch the legs
– I’ve got the dog today, you see, sir.’

‘I do
indeed, Inspector – an impressive creature she is, too.’  He bends
on one knee to make her acquaintance.  ‘Is she a police dog?’

Skelgill
grins at this prospect.

‘Let’s
say she’s on probation, sir.’

He
perhaps thinks the better of explaining Cleopatra’s true provenance, given this
man’s connection to her former home.

‘She’s
a friendly girl – though you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her,
I should venture.’

‘That
goes for a few females I could name, sir.’

The
man glances up, a wounded look about his countenance.

‘Tell
me about it, Inspector.’

Skelgill
squats down on his haunches and joins in the patting of the dog; it seems there
is some comradely rapport between the two men.

‘What
I had in mind, sir – if I could see the site of the climbing barn that
burnt down – then I thought I might give her a bit of a run up the fell
– if you could put me right as to where you’ve got stock loose.’

‘Certainly,
Inspector – we’ll go now, shall we?’

They
set off on foot, passing the farmhouse and following a continuation of the main
track through a small copse, to the point where it stops at a wooden
gate.  There are sheep grazing in this enclosure – regulation
Lakeland Herdwicks, their thick grey coats ready for shearing.  The
animals seem unperturbed as the two men and (more significantly) a dog amble
through.  The line of the track is just visible, and takes them to an exit
gate onto unfenced rough pasture.  For a minute or so the gradient
steepens, but as they pass between small bluffs, the ground levels and widens
into a flat area the size of a large gym hall, with an almost vertical wall of chiselled
rock rising on the uphill side.

‘I
think originally it must have been a quarry, Inspector.’

Skelgill’s
gaze slowly scans in an arc from left to right – but, apart from the uncharacteristically
even ground, there is little to suggest a substantial building once stood on
the site; nature has long seen to that.  He perhaps appears disappointed,
for the man speaks again, apologetically.

‘I’m
afraid there’s not a lot to see – and it’s not an area we ever use
– just keep the odd bit of equipment up here from time to time.’

Skelgill
nods, his features contemplative.

‘It’s
a good distance from the nearest water supply – not the easiest place to
put out a fire.’

‘I imagine
not, Inspector – I really don’t know whether they would have tried to get
the tenders up the track, or run hoses from the farm.’

Skelgill
looks at him intently.

‘My
sources indicate the barn was pretty far gone by the time the fire bridge
arrived, sir.’

The
man nods benignly.  He has regained his normal easy-going manner.

‘I
shouldn’t be surprised, Inspector.’

‘Did
Walter Barley ever speak about the incident, sir?’

The
man puts his hands into the pockets of his corduroys and taps at a loose rock
with the toe of a brogue.  He shakes his head.

‘I
can’t recall that he did, Inspector – he was pretty cagey altogether, if
truth be told – he wasn’t one to pass the time of day.’

‘How
did you hear about his injury being connected to the fire, sir?’

The
man rubs his chin-stubble with the knuckle of a forefinger.

‘I’m
honestly not sure, Inspector – it’s going back quite a bit, of course,
and when we took over here his tenancy was a
fait accompli
–
Lucinda may have mentioned it to me in passing, but we just treated him as the reclusive
neighbour down the road.’

Skelgill
is about to respond, but Cleopatra suddenly decides there is something of
interest in a nearby patch of bracken; she catches him off guard and to keep
his balance he lurches in her desired direction.  The attraction turns out
to be a dead rabbit, desiccated and long picked over by crows, though its
honeyed, musky odour must be a cornucopia of pleasure to a canine snout. 
When Skelgill turns he sees that the farmer has also moved away; he is down on
one knee examining a patch of grass, perhaps three yards square, cropped short
by extant herbivores.  As Skelgill approaches he begins to pull at some
protrusion in one corner.

‘Cliff?’

Skelgill
steps nearer.

‘Cliff
Edge?’

The
man does not react.  For a few seconds he continues tugging at whatever it
is, but then he looks around in surprise.

‘I’m
sorry, Inspector – I was distracted – you said something –
about a
cliff
?’

A
sudden look of alarm occupies Skelgill’s face, and his cheekbones redden, like
a schoolboy who has blurted out a confession to a blissfully ignorant master
when none was needed.

‘Oh,
I... er...’ He indicates with a thumb over his shoulder to the rock face that
borders the site.  ‘I was thinking... they perhaps used that cliff edge as
a natural climbing wall – as well as having an artificial one in the
barn.’

The
man gazes helpfully past Skelgill.

‘Oh,
yes – I’m sure that’s quite likely – not that it’s anything I know
much about, Inspector.’  Still on his haunches he wipes his hands, and
then for illustration purposes pats the end of what appears to be a thick iron link
sticking out of the turf.  ‘My chain harrow, Inspector – I wondered
where it had gone.’

Skelgill,
recovering his composure, squints at the object.

‘What
– it’s
buried
?’

The
man struggles to his feet, looking a little sheepish.

‘Well
– yes – it has become somewhat overgrown.  I remember I towed
it up here after the last time I used it.’

‘Must
have been a while ago, sir?’

The
man thumbs his beard.

‘Probably
five years, now you mention it, Inspector.  We have a field down towards
the village that we used to sow with oats.  I ought to give that another
go next spring.’

‘Want
a hand pulling it out?  I reckon we could manage it.’

‘Oh,
no, no – no need, Inspector – thanks all the same – I shall bring
up the Defender some time and attach it to the winch.  No point in putting
out one’s back unnecessarily.’

Skelgill,
perhaps subconsciously, stretches his spine; there is an old injury that
wouldn’t be thanking him for his offer of assistance.

‘Well
– I oughtn’t keep you if you’re off to Yorkshire later, sir – I’ll
perhaps just give the dog a bit of a run, if you don’t object.’

‘Be my
guest, Inspector – we don’t have any stock on this part of the fell
– so she can roam freely.’

*

Though
Cleopatra is off the leash, she seems content to stick close to Skelgill as he
works his way up the hillside, picking a winding course that finds the easier
going.  Although there is no trodden path, a firm, dry route is indicated
by patches of montane flora, dwarf species that thrive in the fast-draining loam:
tormentil, heath bedstraw and wild thyme, miniature meadows of yellow, white
and purple, a kaleidoscopic blur beneath the feet.  Overhead, in contrast,
an azure sky is unblemished by cloud or bird; the clouds will come this
evening; the birds less predictably – mid-mornings on such summer days
deserve a break, when foraging began six hours ago at dawn.

An
abrupt roar has Skelgill turning on his heel to gaze out across the broad dale
to the south: an RAF Tornado, silent ahead of its wave of noise, rends the
vista, like an artist’s knife cutting an unsatisfactory landscape canvas. 
The eye at first is attracted to the apparent location of the sound, but the
fast jet is always several degrees in advance, not easy to spot against the dun
fells.  He tips a wing at Blencathra, then banks westwards to seek the
Irish Sea, beyond Skelgill’s horizon, yet only seconds away by supersonic means.

Skelgill
watches the modern marvel out of sight, then turns to approach a work of more rudimentary
technology.  As the gradient steepens, weathered rocks become prominent
among the grass and heather, cracked and pitted and encrusted with ancient
lichens and mosses, monochromic in their dotage.  Blending naturally into
this grizzled patchwork is a doorway into Blencathra.  Hand-chipped three
hundred years ago, the angular entrance to an adit appears black in the bright
sun at Skelgill’s back.  There is no approach path; it is as if the miners
who hewed this rough portal kept going and never came out, swallowed by the
mountain.  Today not even sheep have seen fit to beat a track to its shelter.

He
calls in the dog and loops the lead through her collar.  Obediently, she walks
to heel as he ducks into the mouth of the tunnel.  Skelgill might wonder
what bantam ancestors of his toiled here – if they worked unbowed they
must have stood a good half-foot shorter than he.  His discomfort is
compounded by the lack of a torch – even his mobile phone is still
clipped in place to the dashboard of his car.  He faces velvet blackness until
his pupils adjust from bright sunshine.  As such, with his free hand, he
fumbles blindly in the void before him, like a subterranean creature would use
its antennae.