Murder on the Edge (31 page)

‘What’s
going on?’

There
is an accusing note in her voice, which is throaty in tone.

‘Just
teasing him.’

The
blonde – ‘Anna’ – looks a touch abashed.

‘Time
for teasing’s over.’

The
brunette steps forwards purposefully, and clambers onto the bed, kneeling
between the outstretched legs of the man.  As she gains her balance, in
her right hand she brings into his line of sight a length of climbing rope,
wound into a coil.  He eyes this keenly, and makes an unintelligible sound
through the gag.

‘Clifford.’

For a
moment this is the only word she says.  She stares acutely at his strained
features.

‘It’s
been a long wait, Clifford.’

Again there
is a stifled response.

‘I
probably wouldn’t know you if we passed in the street.  Maybe we
have.  I was too young to remember much at all.  But there are some
things you never forget.  I wonder if you remember me, Clifford.’

The
woman drops the rope and with both hands rips back her long dark wig. 
Beneath is short-cropped blonde hair.  Then she gestures to the blonde,
who passes her the hand towel.  Roughly she wipes away her crimson
lipstick, and much of the make-up from her face.  Then she tears open her
black PVC basque and tosses it aside.  Beneath is a distinctly male torso.

‘You
liked little boys, didn’t you, Clifford?’

The
man seems fascinated, staring, transfixed – at the moment stunned by the
revelation.

‘You
liked the girls – you liked my sister, especially – but really you
preferred the boys.  You and your disgusting friends.’

Now
the young man – for that is what he is – holds up the rope close before
his captive’s eyes.  The man seems to be gulping, swallowing the saliva
that must be building up behind the gag.

‘But your
pals have gone, Clifford – we’ve seen to that – they took our bait
– just like you have.  Fancy choosing your old nickname –
Cliff
Edge
.’

The
young man begins to wave the coil of rope to and fro, close to the older man’s
face.

‘We’ve
saved the best until last – the ringleader.  Now it’s your turn to
feel powerless – unable to resist – how do you think that felt
– not daring to tell?

He
giggles rather manically, and glances at the blonde; she looks on implacably.

‘Not
that you’ll be able to tell – we don’t take prisoners – at least,
not for long – you’ve made us what we are, Clifford.’

He
slips off the end of the bed and moves around to one side.  Seen now as an
overtly masculine figure, half-naked yet wearing women’s thigh-length boots and
a matching black PVC thong, he is like a demonic satyr in a distorted burlesque
version of a Greek drama.  He shakes out the rope from its coils and slides
one end beneath the man’s neck, then growls with satisfaction as his sister
pulls several feet through and they exchange the loose ends.  Then the pair
crowd over their victim.  Gradually they draw in their respective sections
of the rope until it begins to tighten around his neck, compressing his
prominent Adam’s apple.

Now,
for the first time, the man begins to protest.  His limbs are stretched to
the extent that his whole body is immobilised – resistance as such is futile
– all he can move is his head, but turning it from side to side serves
little purpose other than to create painful friction against the tightening
rope.  Instead, he resorts to what limited vocal options are available to
him – unintelligible moans as they might be.  And yet, they appear
to win him a moment’s respite, for the young man releases the tension upon the
rope and nods to his sister to do likewise.

‘What
is it, Clifford – trying to say sorry?  It’s a bit late for that.’

But
nevertheless he reaches behind the man’s head and rips open the strap that
retains the ball-gag; he drags the object from the man’s mouth.

‘I’m a
police officer! – let me go! – my colleagues are on their –’

Before
the gasping man can complete the final phrase his captor jams the gag back into
his mouth, forcing it crudely between his bared teeth with both thumbs. 
He sneers malevolently.

‘Nice
try, Clifford – but it’s only you that likes a little bit of
wope
,
isn’t it
Clifford
?’

As he
imitates the man’s distinctive speech impediment, and then places the stress on
his name, he gives the rope a sharp tug, catching his sister unaware, and dragging
the man’s head to one side.  If she has experienced a fleeting doubt, he
does not allow her to dwell upon it.  With malign intent he stares across
his prone victim until – as if she is under some hypnotic spell –
she takes up the slack.

‘Last
one, sis – and then we’ve done it.’  The muscles of his arms contract
as he tightens his grip.  ‘Goodbye Clifford Stewart.’

But it
is not
Goodbye Clifford Stewart
, for the man about to die really is a
police officer, by the name of Detective Inspector Daniel Skelgill.

At
this moment, there is a faint sound from beyond the bedroom door.  Perhaps
the rattle of a letterbox as the midday mail is delivered.  The assassins pay
no attention to this, immersed in their gruesome ritual, their eyes fixed
snakelike upon their victim.  There is a louder sound and the blonde girl
glances up.  Her brother shows no sign of response – he is yet too
engrossed in the task.  But then, all in a rush, there is the clump of rapid
footsteps on the stairs, the rattle of the bedroom door – which of course
is bolted from within – and then an almighty crack as it flies open and
simultaneously the athletic figure of DS Jones follows through with the karate-style
kick that has broken it down.  The door swings around and slams against a mirror,
sending shards scattering about the room.  The two siblings release the
rope and back away on either side of the bed.  DS Jones takes in the scene
and cries out the name of her boss.  A second later, DS Leyton, preceded
by Cleopatra straining violently at her lead, lurches into the room, his boots
heavy on the bare boards.  The young man bends down and picks up a shard
of the mirror, he steps towards the two police officers, wielding it like a
knife.

‘Drop
that – and get down on the floor!’

DS
Leyton’s command, peppered as it is by a string of East End superlatives, stops
the young man in his tracks, but he shows no sign of obeying the command.

‘You’ve
got three seconds, sonny boy! – then I release the pit-bull! – when
I give the code word, she’ll rip out your throat!’

The
man glances down at the dog – certainly she is straining hard and apparently
preparing to spring in his direction.

‘Drop
it – and get down!  Three!  Two!  One–’

And at
the count of one the man does as ordered.  Whether it is from fear of what
fate is about to befall him (for he cannot know that Cleopatra’s only interest
is in leaping upon the bed to greet her master, whose scent she detected so
frustratingly from the park only a few minutes earlier), or because the
realisation strikes home that the captive cannot be their intended victim;
either way, he yields.

‘And
you
– down – flat on the floor!’

DS
Leyton points to the blonde woman, now almost exhausting his lexicon of oaths
for stressful situations; more easily defeated, she obeys compliantly.

DS
Jones leaps onto the bed and reaches frantically over Skelgill’s unmoving torso;
his eyes are closed and saliva drains like a departing life force from one
corner of his purple lips.

‘Guv,
Guv – oh, for God’s sake, Guv!’

She rips
away the gag and the rope and slaps his cheeks.  There is no response.

‘Guv
– please, Guv!’

There
are tears streaming down her face but her training kicks in and she defaults
immediately to first aid mode.  Kneeling upright she places the heel of
one hand upon his breastbone and prepares to begin compressions.  Then his
eyes flick open.

‘What
kept you two?’

‘Jesus,
Guv!’

DS
Jones looks like she is about to slap him again, but then she grabs his face
roughly between her hands and bends over and plants her lips upon his –
mouth to mouth, but not as the British Police First Aid Manual defines it.

‘Sergeant
Jones –
cuffs
!’  DS Leyton ends this sentence with a final
useful phrase that shocks his colleague back to the reality of the situation
– he means they must restrain the suspects.

DS
Jones clambers off the bed and pulls her handcuffs from her belt.  Quickly
she secures the young man, and then rounds to repeat the procedure with the
girl, taking DS Leyton’s proffered handcuffs.  That done, she turns to unfasten
Skelgill’s bonds – these are easily removed – although only if one
has a free hand.  Skelgill sits up, wiping his lips.

‘Back-up?’

‘On
the way, Guv – I radioed just before we entered.  Be here any
second, I reckon.’

Skelgill
now demonstrates just how quickly a man can get dressed, especially when he
knows uniformed police officers are about to burst upon a somewhat compromising
situation.  He pockets his personal belongings and socks, and jams on his
shoes.  Meanwhile DS Leyton has ordered the detainees from the room, and driven
them ahead of him down the stairs.  Cleopatra sits patiently, and now
Skelgill squats down to stroke her behind the ears.  He tugs at his shirt
– the oil is making it stick, and seeping through in darker blotches.

‘How
did you find me?’

DS
Jones perhaps suffering a sudden ebb of adrenaline, sits to face him, lowering
herself onto the end of the bed.  She grins and slowly shakes her
head.  He is incorrigible – his life just saved and it is business
as usual.

‘The
bookmaker, Guv – the Scottish woman.  She lives across the
road.  She’d popped back to help her old mother with something – the
mother spotted you walking up and down the street and thought you were a
suspicious character.  She called her daughter to the window – she
recognised you and saw you come in here.  Then
a
male she
didn’t recognise – the young guy I guess – looked
out of the door a minute or so later – he seemed to be checking that the
street was all clear – then the curtains at the front of the house were
pulled to.  DS Leyton had given her his card.  She phoned us –
we were in the park just through the ginnel.  DS Leyton was briefing his
team – I was walking Cleopatra.  As luck would have it.’

Skelgill
nods pensively.

‘What
made you break in?’

DS
Jones flashes him a bashful glance.

‘Maybe
women’s intuition?’

Skelgill
grins ruefully.

‘More
likely you’re picking up my bad habits.’

That
Skelgill has offered to treat his trusty lieutenants to a Friday night feast,
signing off the week in style, ostensibly owes itself to a celebration of a job
well done, and – though he has played down the
bare
facts, so to
speak – to thank them for their timely intervention at thirty-seven
Ullswater Place. 
Ostensibly
.  With Skelgill, however, nothing
is ever that simple.  Indeed the seasoned (and thus cynical) observer
might also ascribe certain ulterior motives to his generosity, such as
delivering ‘one in the eye’ to his rival DI Smart, and – not least
– the excuse to partake in the virtually unlimited amount of food that
always seems to be a feature of an Indian meal.

And
there is one last pudding to be proved in the eating – whether Skelgill has
remembered his wallet.

The
past thirty hours have been something of an expedition for both sergeants
– as if the great uncharted river they have been navigating has suddenly
flowed majestically into its delta.  The final outcome – its imminent
confluence with the ocean – is no longer in doubt, but the myriad of
channels and connections that have opened up for investigation has almost been
overwhelming.  The arrest has raised as many questions as it has answered.

Skelgill,
on the other hand, has for long periods kept a low profile, paddling away on
his own canoe ‘to get his head round his report’.  Today he reappeared just
before five p.m. with what looked suspiciously like fisherman’s sunburn across
his cheekbones.

In
these respects, the relaxed early-evening gathering at the Taj Mahal provides
the perfect opportunity for the three colleagues to catch up and share their
findings.  DS Leyton, having dipped his nose in the froth atop a pint of
chilled Indian lager, begins in typically self-deprecating style.

‘I
couldn’t have been more wrong, Guv – at the start – thinking it was
some crackpot randomly picking off his victims.’

DS
Jones glances sympathetically at her fellow officer.

‘The
thing is – they did appear totally unconnected.’  She turns to
Skelgill, who sits facing her across the table.  ‘That was amazing how you
made the link, Guv.’

Skelgill
averts his eyes; perhaps he detects an underlying note of inquiry in DS Jones’s
congratulatory remark.  He snaps a poppadum into two and then carefully
pushes the pieces together on his plate to give the impression of an undamaged
whole.

‘We
talked about getting a break – well we got one, but I just didn’t know it
at the time.’  He takes a tentative sip of his own lager, and pulls a
disapproving face before swallowing a second larger mouthful, as if washing
down the unpleasant taste with more of the same is the best remedy.  ‘I
rescue a holidaymaker’s kid up at Sharp Edge – give the mother a hard
time – she claims she used to come up as a schoolgirl – when she
was a member of the outward bound centre – her and her mate had a crush
on the instructors – but she didn’t mention any names, and so there’s no
story at this point.’

Now he
jabs at the poppadum with stiffly spread fingers and causes irreversible
damage.

‘Until
Walter Barley cops it – in ritual style with a climbing rope. 
Suddenly there’s a connection of a sort – Barley used to be a labourer at
a farm where a climbing barn burnt down.  Okay – it’s nearly twenty
years later that he’s murdered, but then we hear he had some involvement at the
time of the fire.’

Skelgill
begins to scoop up sweet mango chutney and sour lime pickle.  He eats it
swiftly before continuing with his monologue.

‘Then
I remembered that Liz –’ (he hesitates for a second, as though using her
first name is some small
faux pas
) ‘Mrs Williams – the little
girl’s mother – said she had a scrapbook and photographs.’

More poppadum-and-pickles
goes the way of the previous.

‘It
was a shot in the dark – but there it was – a kind of team photo
taken in the barn, the kids and the adults – the quad bikes were lined up
in front of the climbing wall – and all the folk sitting on them or
clinging to ropes in various positions.  From teenagers down to primary
school age.’

Now
Skelgill systematically breaks the remaining pieces of poppadum into little
pieces.  He looks up and glances from one colleague to the other.

‘We
have to trace all those kids.’

There
is a sombre moment as both sergeants nod gravely.  After a respectable
silence, DS Jones’s curiosity gets the better of her.

‘How
did you manage to get the photograph, Guv?’

 ‘What?’ 
Skelgill scratches his head absently.  ‘It must have been Monday night I
went down to Wales.’

There
is the unasked question of how he was able to contact ‘Mrs Williams’.  It
appears Skelgill’s account will skirt around this detail.

‘She remembered
Clifford Stewart and Walter Barley by their name first names.  Okay, so
we’d have expected to find them in this photo – but there were two other
adult males in the picture.’

Skelgill
signals to a waiter for more poppadums.

‘I drove
back through the early hours – holding my breath all the way to Hinckley. 
I knocked-up that poor woman Linda Harris at the crack of dawn.  But, sure
enough – she identified Lee Harris – he’d have been about eighteen
at the time.  She showed me a picture of him not much younger.  Then
she even made me a bacon cob, Leyton.’

DS Leyton
grins in a relieved manner.

‘We
thought you were a bit cream-crackered on Tuesday, Guv.’  He glances at DS
Jones.  ‘Either that or we were boring you something rotten.’

‘There’s
never a dull moment when you’re around Leyton.’

‘I’ll
take that as a compliment, Guv.’

Skelgill
produces a wry smile.

‘Then
I took the photo to Hilda Seddon and she picked out Barry Seddon.  So I’d
got a connection between the victims – and that confirmed my suspicion
that Clifford Stewart would be next – but I still had no real idea of what
they’d been up to – why they were being targeted.  Liz mentioned in
passing that the ‘Walter’ character had a bad case of wandering hands, but that
was as far as it went – and she just shrugged it off as par for the
course back in those days.’

Now
Skelgill is pensive for a few moments.  Perhaps without realising, he has
lapsed back into the familiar in referring to Liz Williams by her first
name.  He looks up at DS Jones, who is watching him with interest.

‘Seems
like she was one of the lucky ones.  Jones – your team will need to
pick this up with her.’

DS Jones
nods, and appears satisfied by this act of delegation.

But DS
Leyton is looking puzzled.

‘So,
Guv – Clifford Stewart and Walter Barley, I get – like you say, they
were based on the farm.  But how did the other two become involved?’

‘Think
about it, Leyton – for example, what piece of kit would you need to build
and service a climbing wall?’

DS Leyton
holds up an index finger to indicate his sudden enlightenment.

‘You
mean scaffolding, Guv?’

‘Exactly
– and it doesn’t come cheap.  Even full-time builders hire
scaffolding – so Seddon must have had the contract for Knott Halloo Farm
– would have made regular maintenance visits.  Meanwhile Lee Harris
is the local itinerant Honda expert – in the photo, all the quad bikes
were Hondas.  He must have drifted up north with the travelling fair, and
thereafter stuck around plying his trade – probably had regular jobs at the
adventure centre – service and repairs.  Settled in the area after
it went bust – as we know, was working down at Kendal most recently.’

Skelgill
drinks some more of his lager.

‘So
that connects all of our four victims – if you count Clifford Stewart as
a victim – to Knott Halloo Farm.  Given it burnt down not long after,
and they appear to have dispersed as a group, I figured it was a fair bet that
it was someone from that era that was after them.  Then you have to ask
why?  And why the rope?  To be honest – I only got the answer
to that when it was round my own neck.  An eleventh-hour confession, you
might say.’

The
two sergeants exchange a look of alarm, but DS Leyton tactfully steers the
conversation away from this particular precipice.

‘Talk
of confession – they ain’t singing yet, Guv – but we’re starting to
fill in the gaps.’  He takes a sip of lager like a conference speaker
realising his mouth is dry.  ‘Their real names are Jason and Kaye Lamb
– brother and sister – though both adopted – looks like the
biological parents may have been travellers.  They grew up mainly in the
Penrith area.  She’s apparently been working as an escort around Cumbria for
quite a few years, under a string of aliases.  He’s been living in
Manchester – early indications are that he’s been involved in the
transvestite scene down there, roughly the same line as his sister.  We
think we’ve located him on a couple of dodgy websites.  She’s now
thirty-one and he’s twenty-six – take that back to the time of the fire
and she’d be thirteen and him just eight.  There’s a record of them being taken
into care not long after – followed by some troublesome fosterings. 
Pair of them kept running away and eventually when they were old enough they just
disappeared off Social Services’ radar.’

DS
Jones is listening intently.  She turns her glass of sparkling water so
that the brand logo is facing away from her.

‘Guv,
there’s an ironic parallel with Lee Harris.  I’ve been speaking again with
the liaison officer who contacted his real mother.  She’s had another chat
with her.  She’s still a bit cagey, but reading between the lines, Lee
Harris was being abused and he started mimicking the behaviour –
targeting his little sister.  That’s probably what drove the mother to get
him out of the household.  Might have saved the sister – but looks
like it was too late as far as young Lee was concerned – his path was
laid out.  Start as a victim – then pass it on.

DS
Leyton turns to DS Jones.  ‘What advice do you reckon they’ll
get?’   He knows she has been focusing upon this aspect.

‘I spoke
with the Crown Prosecutors this afternoon – they’re pretty certain the Lambs
will plead guilty once we place the facts before their legal
representatives.  The circumstantial evidence is already piling up. 
We rushed through the forensic tests on the debris collected around the
property – there’s traces of Barry Seddon’s DNA on a cigarette end, and of
Walter Barley’s DNA on a piece of chewing gum.  There’s also a patch of engine
oil that exactly fits the composition of the oil stain beside Lee Harris’s
flat.  It’s like each of them left a calling card outside number
thirty-seven.  Then there’s a fibre match on all their clothing –
from an unusual mohair blanket that was draped over a chair in the bedroom.  We’re
still doing tests on Jason Lamb’s car – but it looks like they moved the
bodies as we’d thought, the next night after each murder, straight from the
front door into the waiting car – it’s barely two yards – wrapped
in PVC sheets like the one that was on the bed when we broke in.’

She
glances apprehensively at Skelgill, but his gaze remains steely.

‘So
there’s already probably enough there, Guv – without even resorting to
the confession they made to you.’

‘Unwitnessed.’

The
two sergeants appreciate Skelgill’s reticence when it comes to the finer
details of how he unmasked the criminals.  DS Leyton now chips in
supportively.

‘And
we’ve got the last piece of rope, Guv – that alone, it’s enough to hang ’em.’

They
all chuckle at this timely intervention, and sit back in their seats as their
generous selection of starters arrives.  Skelgill has overseen the
ordering; he is especially partial to the establishment’s seekh kebab, and
glances about anxiously until he sees that there are sufficient portions. 
He takes one such item, and slides the salad from the plate to make room for
more important fare.  Meanwhile DS Leyton continues the dialogue.

‘How
long do we reckon they’ve been planning all this for?’

Skelgill
looks grim-faced as he considers this question.

‘Probably
two decades, Leyton.’

‘Seriously,
Guv?’

But
now Skelgill shrugs.

‘Maybe
they’ll decide to tell us, Leyton.’

DS
Jones takes a small sip of mineral water.

‘I’ve
been wondering if they were influenced by the wave of celebrity cases in the
last couple of years.  When you think about it, what they actually did wouldn’t
take a lot of organisation.  The crux was luring their victims to Ullswater
Place.’

DS
Leyton is nodding, though he still appears doubtful.  However, DS Jones
continues.

‘The
girl could easily have been seeing one or more of them as clients.  If
she’d surfaced with an alias – what, ten years after the events at the
farm – they’d not recognise her.  And, let’s face it, we know these
guys all shared a common interest.’