Murder on the Edge (30 page)

DS
Leyton and DS Jones, who have not actually laid eyes on their superior for the
best part of two days, assemble timeously in his office for an eleven o’clock debriefing. 
Of Skelgill, however, there is no sign.  The sun slants intermittently
through the dust-streaked glass of the window, as cloud that brought overnight rain
progressively breaks up; DS Jones moves to adjust the blinds accordingly. 
DS Leyton places a mug of tea on Skelgill’s desk: a precaution to save him
being immediately despatched for the same, before a meeting can begin.

After
about fifteen minutes – during which the two officers first exchange pleasantries
but then begin to share their concerns over the impending deadline for
producing tangible progress in the case – there is suddenly an unfamiliar
scrabbling sound as something approaches rapidly along the corridor. 
Enter Cleopatra, dragging her leash.  Nosing open the door, she appears
delighted to see both of the detectives, and dodges to and fro, uncertain of
how to divide her affections between them.  (It must be said, DS Leyton is
a less-willing recipient.)  Skelgill enters a moment later, carrying a worn
roll of carpet and the bottom half of a round green bait box that still has a
scattering of blowfly pupae stuck to its inner wall.

‘Change
of plan – I need you to look after Cleopatra for a bit.  Stick her
in the corner – she’ll be fine – you can take it in turns to work
in here.’

DS
Leyton, in particular, looks alarmed at this prospect – and recoils as
Skelgill drops the rank-smelling rug onto his lap and hands him the improvised
drinking bowl.

‘Dog
walker’s got an emergency – took Sammy into the vet yesterday – got
him x-rayed – turns out he’s swallowed an entire cob of sweet corn
– needs an op.’

DS
Leyton now grimaces, perhaps thinking through the corollary of ingesting such
an item.

‘Leave
you to it – got to get to the bank – catch up this
afternoon.’  Skelgill is already heading out of his office, when an
afterthought strikes him.  ‘She’ll need a walk shortly – visit to
the ladies’ – if you know what I mean?’

He
winks and is gone, swiftly closing the door to thwart any prospective canine
escape bid.

DS
Leyton pushes the rug unceremoniously onto the floor.  Cleopatra
approaches and sniffs at it rather despondently.  DS Jones, though shaking
her head, looks amused.

‘I
could do without this, Emma – I’ve got to meet the door-to-door team at
twelve over on that new estate.’

DS
Jones stands up and relieves him of the drinking bowl.

‘Why
don’t I come with you?  I could give the dog a bit of a walk –
there’s that big green in the middle of all the houses.’

DS
Leyton glances at Cleopatra, who seems to know she is the subject of the
discussion and cocks her head on one side, as if she keenly is awaiting his decision.

‘Kills
two birds with one stone, I suppose.’

‘It’s
better than keeping her cooped up in here.  And my team are going to be
busy for the next hour or so.  I can leave them to it.’

DS
Leyton nods decisively.

‘Let’s
do it.’  Cleopatra butts his knee and he reaches out to give her a
tentative pat.  ‘You’re not such a bad old girl, are you?’

DS
Jones inspects the bowl, and grimaces as she notices its unsavoury contents.

‘I’ll
just go and rinse this and get her a drink.’

But as
she reaches to open the door someone from outside beats her to it.  It is
DI Smart.  He smirks at the female officer and casts a patronising nod at the
still-seated DS Leyton.  Then his gaze falls distastefully upon the
Bullboxer, who is cautiously sniffing at the toe of his nearest shoe.

‘I
heard Skelly had his dog in – what is this, an amateur bloodhound?’

Before
either of Skelgill’s sergeants can fashion a reply in his defence, DI Smart
speaks again.

‘Sooner
this larking about’s over the better for all of us – when’s his meeting
with the Chief?’

DS
Leyton fidgets uncomfortably.

‘Close
of play today, sir.’

‘Tidy
– well, on Friday we can start with a clean sheet.’  He takes a step
back, frowning, evidently irritated by the dog’s interest in his footwear. 
Then he reaches down and brushes at the trousers of his designer suit – although
Cleopatra has made no contact with them.  ‘Tell you what – to kick
things off, I’ll treat you to a curry – a good old Ruby Murray eh,
Leyton?  Get the professional show on the road.’

DS
Leyton nods without enthusiasm.  DS Jones is looking stone faced.

‘Won’t
be Manchester standard, I’m afraid – but beggars can’t be choosers, eh?’

And
with this – arguably double-edged observation – he slides out of
the office and pulls the door to behind him.

DS
Leyton can’t help himself from letting go an expletive.

‘Excuse
my French.’

DS
Jones shrugs.  She seems pensive.

‘I wonder
where he has gone.’  She refers to Skelgill.  ‘He didn’t seem too concerned
about the meeting with the Chief.’

‘Maybe
he’s having lunch with her – he was swanky by his usual standards –
salaries go in today – perhaps he’s treating her – trying to win
her over?’

The detectives
each look at one another – there is an exchange of unspoken
thoughts.  They both shake their heads.  Then DS Leyton adds a
caveat.

‘You
know the Guvnor, Emma – anything’s possible.’

*

The
man parks as directed.  It is quite likely that he selects the exact spot
in the supermarket lot where Barry Seddon left his pick-up just ten days ago. 
He vaults easily over the perimeter wall and jogs across the road through a gap
in the traffic.  Some distance off there is a red telephone box.  As
he approaches he digs in his pocket for change, and then checks his
watch.  The kiosk is empty, but he waits a minute or so until it is
precisely ten to twelve.  Then he taps out a number stored on his mobile
phone.

‘Hello?’

It is
the same voice that answered yesterday, although there is perhaps an
apprehensive note, even in the single word of acknowledgement.

‘It’s
Cliff – you said to call from here to get your address.’

The
girl seems to be listening for his distinctive pronunciation.  There is a
pause before she replies.

‘Thirty-seven
Ullswater Place.  We’ll be ready in ten minutes.’

‘Okay,
shall I –?’

But
the woman has rung off.

The
man replaces the receiver in its cradle and exits the booth.  Ullswater Place
is barely two minutes’ brisk walk away.  He stands for a moment and looks
about rather aimlessly, like someone who has missed a bus and is mentally unprepared
for the wait.  The morning is blustery, though mild, with scattered clouds
and bursts of bright sunshine.  He notices a family of swallows resting on
a telegraph wire, jabbering excitedly amongst themselves.  Then he seems
to have an idea, and sets off purposefully back past the supermarket and
crossing towards the arcade of shops.  Here he slows his pace, and
considers each outlet thoughtfully as he passes.  They appear quiet
– indeed the bookmaker’s has a handwritten sign on its door saying ‘Back
Soon’ – though giving no indication as to when that might be.  Reaching
the corner, he turns into Ullswater Place.  Now he consults his wristwatch
again: it is five to twelve.  He walks the length of the street, on the
side of the odd numbers, reaching the row of garages.  Turning, he slowly
retraces his steps, all the way to the corner, en route stepping off the narrow
kerb to enable an old woman pulling a shopping caddy to have right of way. 
One more about turn and he makes his final half-lap of the stretch of pavement. 
Arriving at number thirty-seven he knocks and is promptly admitted.  At a
house opposite, net curtains twitch.

*

While
DS Leyton stands surrounded by an attentive cluster of clipboard-bearing
uniformed police officers, DS Jones strolls unobtrusively at the far side of the
large central grassy area thoughtfully designed for residents of the new
housing scheme.  There is a fenced-off play zone, where a couple of bored-looking
mothers are exercising their boisterous pre-school children, and – at
alternate intervals around the perimeter path – benches and waste bins,
some of the latter specifically designated for dog owners.  DS Jones,
though armed with a polythene carrier bag from the supply in her colleague’s
car boot, as yet has not had to avail herself of this facility.  There are
also young saplings ringing the small park, although several appear the worse
for wear, vandalised in keeping with the general background haze of graffiti
that has colonised most flat surfaces like some inarticulate urban lichen.

Despite
the grass being damp, and in need of a cut, Cleopatra seems more content to
walk on this than the path, which has dried in the light wind.  Being a
female of her species, she shows scant interest in the invisible doggy
messaging that has been layered upon the various upright obstacles thoughtfully
provided by human planners for canine convenience.  But she is none the
less alert to her surroundings, and deals short shrift to any others of her kind
who dare brazenly to inspect her hindquarters.  She is not a dog to be
trifled with.

Following
one such incident she suddenly stiffens, turning to face into the breeze. 
Her ears are pricked and she strains at the leash.  DS Jones appears
bemused, as there is no one – human or canine – to be seen; at
least not until an elderly lady with a wheeled shopping bag emerges from a fenced
walkway between two houses, and continues around the far side of the green
(ignored by the dog).  Then Cleopatra is obliged to fend off another unwanted
advance, and by the time she has made clear her displeasure, whatever raised
her interest appears to have passed.  DS Jones glances across to DS Leyton
– he is still preoccupied with his debriefing, so she sets off on another
lap of the oval.  Perhaps the polythene bag will soon be called upon.

*

The
man – having requested that he keep on his boxer shorts (initially, at
least) – is now spread-eagled upon a PVC sheet in the small dimly lit
room on the first floor at the back of the terraced house.  The remainder
of his clothes are laid over an easy chair, itself draped in a decorative
woollen throw.  His valuables rest upon a nightstand beside the double
bed.

The
blonde woman in the dominatrix outfit works assiduously, systematically tightening
the bands that restrain him, rather in the perfunctory manner of a truck driver
strapping down a load of timber.  The wide
Velcro
cuffs grip his
wrists and ankles, yet as she stretches the sinews of his joints, they make
little if any impression into his flesh: just the job to avoid taking home
telltale signs of an illicit hour’s activity – if indeed one is
going
home.

The subdual
completed to her satisfaction, the woman turns to the various accessories
arranged on the bedside table.  She selects a black rubber ball-gag and,
as the man opens his mouth to protest, pops it into place and reaches behind
his head to secure its straps.  Now she stands back to admire her
handiwork.

‘Time
to fetch Alanna.’

Throughout
this preparatory procedure, her expression has been businesslike and aloof. 
But now her features soften and – despite her stated intent to the
contrary – she does not move away.  Instead she regards the man with
a certain desirous curiosity.  Then she turns and picks up a bottle of oil. 
She flips open the lid and, reaching over him, in an almost experimental
fashion squirts a jet of liquid in a zigzag pattern, working from his chest,
down to – and in fact carelessly over – the fabric of his close-fitting
boxer shorts.  Carefully she re-seals and replaces the bottle.  Now
she begins to smooth the oil over his well-formed pectorals, dwelling on his
nipples with the heel of her hand.  Gradually she moves her attention to
his abdominals – he has a distinct six-pack and no obvious fat –
and thence slides her fingers slowly and deliberately beneath the waistband of
his underwear.  So far the man has not reacted – despite her
attention to his impressively toned muscles, he has not moved one of
them.  But now his body visibly tenses, and for the next few moments he
closes his eyes as the woman explores freely.

Suddenly
there is a single tap on the door.  It might have been a draught –
but the woman reacts instantly, withdrawing her hand and stepping back from the
bed.  She picks up a small towel and, wiping away the oil, she bustles
around the bed.  The man watches dumbly as she opens the door a fraction,
and then steps back to admit a tall brunette, similarly attired.

This
second woman – ‘Alanna’ – is considerably taller, certainly
younger, though she has an altogether different build; when it comes to
feminine curves, it is the elder that has the advantage.  As she enters
the room she pauses to slide a small bolt, before turning to take in the scene before
her.  She notices the glisten of the oil in the candlelight, and perhaps
more than that.