Murder on the Edge (7 page)

‘That
must be that Graham bloke, Guv.’

‘Aye.’

‘Do
you know him?’

Skelgill
is already moving in the direction of the whistle, but he turns briefly to
raise an inscrutable eyebrow at DS Leyton.  Then rather curiously he pulls
down his hood, and with both hands rakes his fingers through his hair, and wipes
the dew from his face.  And then he is away, picking a rapid path along
the shingle at the water’s edge.  DS Leyton falls in behind him, but has
to trust that Skelgill keeps to this course, for his superior quickly
disappears into the mist.

Indeed,
when DS Leyton suddenly comes upon Skelgill and a smaller red-cagouled figure, his
eyes widen at the sight of what can only be the unhurried detaching of a seemingly
affectionate embrace.

‘Leyton
– this is Jenny Graham.’

DS
Leyton approaches rather self-consciously, as if he is unsure of whether or not
to replicate Skelgill’s style of greeting – clearly his superior knows
the woman (and perhaps rather well) – but until now has not taken the
trouble to share this information.  In the event he settles for a rather clumsy
handshake, forced as he is by his undersized overgarment to turn sideways to
complete the manoeuvre.

‘Leyton’s
desperate to climb Helvellyn – I promised we’d nip up when we’re done. 
Seeing as we’re so close.’

The
girl – for she can be no more than mid-twenties – smiles a broad
white grin; she might even be a touch star-struck in Skelgill’s presence. 
She is pretty, with thick lashes and long dark hair that she now gathers into
the hood of her jacket.  She doesn’t seem particularly fazed by the circumstances:
some two thousand feet up in the fells, amidst inhospitable conditions, for the
best part of an hour she has been standing sentry over a corpse.  But when
she leads them to its location, there is at least a partial explanation for her
sanguinity.  Beside a substantial rucksack she has erected a portable survival
shelter, and visible within are a down sleeping bag and emergency blanket, a
two-way radio, along with a gas burner, kettle and mug.  As leader of the party
of youngsters, she came well equipped.  Any casualty would have been in excellent
hands, and – in the meantime – she has made herself comfortable.

‘Nice
little set-up, Jen – thought you’d have a brew ready for us, though.’

Now
the smile becomes a little coy.  ‘Not sure I’ve got enough sugar for you,
Danny.’

Skelgill’s
high cheekbones are already rosy from effort and exposure – but now they
surely take on a deeper hue.  DS Leyton, who is perhaps feeling something
of a gooseberry, sidles across behind Skelgill and walks the six or seven paces
to where the body lies.

‘Blimey
– have a butcher’s, Guv.’

Skelgill
seems content to receive this summons.  He crosses to gaze at the prone
figure.

‘I
take it you’ve not moved anything.’

The
girl joins them, understanding that this question is for her.  They stand
in line like a bowing royal party politely examining some ghastly tribal
exhibit.

‘Danny
– I could see he was dead before I even got close – look at the
eyes.’

Skelgill
nods.  The eyes are open and staring, though abnormally opaque.

‘I
just don’t see how he’s got the rope tangled round his neck like that.’

This
is the girl’s observation, and DS Leyton shoots a sideways glance at
Skelgill.  But Skelgill shows no flicker of reaction.

‘He’s
not exactly dressed for it, either.’

The
man is clad in scuffed rigger boots, worn cargo trousers, and a hooded grey
sweatshirt.

‘You
don’t recognise him, Jen?’

The
girl presses her full lips into an arresting pout.  She shakes her head
slowly.

‘I’ve
been down at Coniston for the last three days – but he’s not from the
hostel – that school party’s taken the whole place.’

Skelgill
goes on bended knee and, as best he can, with minimal interference, pats down
the dead man’s pockets – but to no avail – they appear to be
empty.  Reluctantly, he rises.

‘Did
the kids see the body?’

Now
the girl turns to face him.  For a moment her smooth features are creased
with anguish, as though her upbeat positivity has been mere bravado, and he has
suddenly pierced the brave façade.

‘I
turned them straight around before I scrambled down – Pete took them back
the way we’d come up.’  She looks at DS Leyton and lifts her hands to her
breastbone.  ‘I’m a fully qualified rock-climbing instructor – and a
first aider.’

DS
Leyton nods vigorously, as though it’s not for him to question her
decision-making.

‘They
just got a glimpse from the ridge – there was a break in the mist –
it was by fluke that I spotted him, really.’

Skelgill
gazes up the steep stony bank as far as the limited visibility will allow. 
At the moment there is no view of Striding Edge above.

‘And
you didn’t see anyone else?’

‘Not a
soul – neither here nor on the path.  I guess most folk are waiting
indoors to see if it clears.’

‘They’ve
got a long wait.’

The
girl concurs.  ‘It’s thicker now than an hour ago.’

Skelgill
begins to turn away from the body.  He takes the girl’s arm above the
elbow and gently shepherds her back to her little encampment.

‘We’ve
got a uniformed officer about ten minutes behind us.  He’ll keep watch
until the whole crew gets here.  Do you mind leaving your gear for a
while?’

The
girl looks momentarily surprised: she realises she is being dismissed from the
scene.  But she cooperates willingly.

‘No
problem – make yourselves at home.’

‘You head
down to civilisation – get yourself dry – have some breakfast. 
We’ll need a statement later.  In the meantime...’

She
seems to know what is coming, and is nodding earnestly before Skelgill
completes his request.

‘...
until we know the cause of death – we’ll be reporting it as a climbing
accident – so if you could keep the gory details to yourself.’

Now
her ring of confidence returns.  ‘You know me and secrets, Danny.’

She
offers a tentative high-five to Skelgill, which he reciprocates, and she beams a
farewell at DS Leyton and turns away.  In thirty seconds she has vanished
into the mist.  Skelgill waits in silence; he seems to be listening to the
diminishing crunch of her footsteps as she rounds the edge of the tarn and
picks up the path.  After a minute or so more he turns to DS Leyton.

‘It’s
exactly the same rope, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton nods, understanding now that Skelgill did not want to share this conversation
with the girl.

‘You
certain, Guv?’

Skelgill
shrugs.  ‘I’ve seen a lot of rope, Leyton.’

‘I
guess forensics will tell us for sure, Guv.’

Skelgill
clearly disapproves of his sergeant’s questioning of his judgement.

‘A
tenner says it’s from the same original piece.’

DS
Leyton takes a half step backwards and puts up his hands in a placatory
gesture.

‘I’ll
go with you, Guv.’  With some difficulty he reaches inside the hood of his
jacket and scratches his head.  ‘But do you mean it’s been cut up?’

‘That’s
exactly what I mean.  Both pieces are about fifty feet.’

‘And a
hundred’s the norm?’

‘Two
hundred.’

DS
Leyton folds his arms and blows out his cheeks.  After a moment’s
exaggerated deliberation he says, ‘That leaves enough for two more, Guv.’

‘That’s
what I’m worried about, Leyton.’

‘I
thought you were joking about Helvellyn, Guv.’

‘When
do I joke, Leyton?’

DS
Leyton stirs a heaped spoonful of sugar into the mug of steaming tea that has
been set before him.

‘Wasn’t
so bad, really, Guv.  I thought it’d be miles to the top from that lake.’

‘Tarn.’

‘Sorry,
Guv – tarn.’

‘Third
highest mountain in England, Helvellyn – only Scafell Pike and Sca Fell
are higher.  Tell that to your kids tonight, Leyton.’

‘Pity
there wasn’t a view, Guv.  My selfie could be anywhere.’

Skelgill
shrugs.  ‘You’d never get out if you let the weather decide for you.’

‘I’m
amazed you found the way, Guv.’

Skelgill
frowns.  ‘We were following a path, Leyton.’

This
is not strictly accurate, although the improvised route was no doubt a path of
sorts on Skelgill’s mental map of the fells.  He had announced –
upon PC Dodd’s arrival at the improvised base camp at Red Tarn – that he
and DS Leyton were ‘going to recce the surroundings’, and promptly marched his disoriented
sergeant up the steep northern flank of Striding Edge.  Within fifteen
minutes they had gained Helvellyn’s main ridge, the boundary between the old
counties of Westmorland and Cumberland.  Here the low cloud was probably a
blessing in disguise, rescuing DS Leyton from a potentially agonising exposition
of the many peaks ordinarily visible.  Instead, with little to look at but
a cairn, a cross-shaped dry-stone shelter, and a trig point, they did not
linger.  Skelgill had briskly led the way onto Swirral Edge, to descend by
the southern slopes of Catstye Cam, and rejoin the path that had originally
brought them to Red Tarn.  Here, however, DS Leyton
was
subjected
to a lecture.  Evidently the
schelly
– a curious black-finned
freshwater herring, one of Britain’s rarest fish – frequents the tarn and
just three other Lakeland waters.  While this piscine eulogy was largely wasted
upon the fast-flagging non-angler, his ears did prick up at Skelgill’s
seemingly unselfconscious pronunciation of the name as ‘skelly’ – a homonym
for a disliked nickname used by his colleagues.

DS
Leyton shakes his head in bewilderment at this information – that they
followed a path.  He attempts to take a swig of tea, but it has been
served in the scalding fashion of the truck stop.  Yet he will need two or
three more of these sizeable mugs to reinstate his normal level of
hydration.  Of course, it is possible that his disbelief also relates to
Skelgill’s congratulatory promise to buy a late lunch, for which they have
diverted to a popular lorry drivers’ retreat on the western outskirts of
Penrith.

‘Fit-looking
girl – that Jenny, Guv.’

DS
Leyton’s uninflected observation sounds quite innocent (and to have literal
intent), but it may be a subtle invitation to Skelgill to open a door on the patently
familiar acquaintanceship.

‘You
would be, doing her job Leyton.’

There’s
a finality in Skelgill’s retort that suggests the portal is going to remain
firmly closed.  Perhaps in laddish, beer-fuelled company he might be more
forthcoming, or at least feel obliged to join in with the salacious guffaws when
some wag mentions her sobriquet of
Spinning Jenny
.  (Or maybe it is
this thought that disturbs him.)

‘Guess
so, Guv.  Is she in your mountain rescue team?’

Skelgill
leans sideways and peers beyond DS Leyton, as if he is trying to see if their order
is on its way.  His reply has a ring of disinterest.

‘Most
of the local instructors are affiliated.  Gives us a bigger pool to call
on.’

‘She
seemed pretty competent, Guv.’

Skelgill
pauses, perhaps to frame a reply.  Again he casts about the transport
café, surveying its scattering of mid-afternoon patrons: mainly lone drivers whiling
away their compulsory break times, mechanically sipping from mugs of tea, heads
buried in their red tops.

‘You
don’t mess with the Grahams.’

This oblique
reference to the feared tribe of English border reivers (who had their wayward heyday
in the sixteenth century) holds no great significance for DS Leyton – he
can only assume it is a contemporary family of dubious repute.  Skelgill
could mention – but evidently opts not to enlighten DS Leyton –
that his mother’s maiden name is Graham, and that he doubtless hails from the
outlawed clan himself.

‘It
was the Kray family round our manor, Guv – but you’d know that,
obviously.’

Any droll
observation that Skelgill might wish to make about DS Leyton’s provenance is pre-empted
by the arrival of two plates laden with the mountainous all-day trucker’s breakfast. 
To the sergeant’s surprise, his boss had earlier eschewed the offer of similar
at Glenridding youth hostel – despite its glowing reviews.  He might
now suspect that Skelgill wished to avoid further contact with the girl –
but it is also a fact that the portion size was unlikely to have matched the
fare now set before them.

‘Blimey,
Guv – I shan’t manage my tea – and the missus gets well brassed off
if I leave anything.’

‘Can’t
you have it later?’

‘She likes
it on the table for six so the kids can eat with us.’

‘I can
take your sausages off your hands, if it helps.’

DS
Leyton now wavers, a mildly pained expression troubling his features.

‘Thing
is Guv, they’re my favourite – can’t beat Cumbrian sausages, I’ll give
you that.’

‘Cumberland.’

‘Right,
Guv – Cumberland.’

But
the sergeant continues to gaze mournfully at the said local delicacy.

‘So
– do you want them, or not?’

DS
Leyton sighs.  ‘Then she complains I’m putting on weight and it’s bad for
my health.’

‘You
just climbed Helvellyn, Leyton – you’re quids in on the calorie front.’

‘How
many do you think I used on that walk, Guv?’

Skelgill
ponders his colleague’s plate.  ‘Maybe two sausages’ worth?

‘How
about you take one then, Guv?’

‘Done.’

Skelgill
swoops with his fork, impales the sausage and bites off half, as if to insure
himself from a change of mind.  He chews and nods approvingly, while DS
Leyton, still with an expression of regret, begins to tuck in.  There now
follows a few minutes of industrious consumption, before Skelgill pauses to
speak.

‘So
– what’s it all about, Leyton?’

‘Come
again, Guv?’

‘Two
murders – let’s assume they both
are
murders – near as damn
it identical: the rope, the location, the timing.  What’s he trying to
tell us?’

‘
He
,
Guv?’

‘The
killer, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton sinks forward onto his elbows, as though fatigued by the effort of
eating.

‘I
can’t quite get my head round it, Guv.  I mean, I know you saw that Sherpa
carry a load of metal pipe – but lugging a body up there in the dark
doesn’t bear thinking about.’

Skelgill
stares thoughtfully at his partner.  ‘It could still be done, though,
Leyton.  Park-up beyond the youth hostel.  Ground’s not so bad
underfoot.  Fireman’s lift.’

‘But
why’s he gone to all the bother of making them look like climbing accidents?’

Skelgill
shakes his head.  ‘Thing is, they don’t.’

‘On
the face of it, though, Guv?’

‘Aye
– but if you were going to stage an authentic fall, these are not the
places you’d do it.  And one glance at the victims’ clothes tells you they’re
not walkers or climbers.  They look like they’ve been plucked off the
street.’

‘Maybe
some geezer’s got a grudge, Guv.’

Skelgill
can’t help a scornful laugh.  ‘What, like a gamekeeper who strings up dead
crows on a fence?’

‘Why not,
Guv?  Some eco-warrior nutter – or a sheep farmer gone off his
trolley.  Had enough of the hillwalkers trampling everywhere.’

‘Mind
what you say, Leyton – you’re one yourself now.’

DS
Leyton looks a little alarmed at this notion.

‘There’ll
be all hell breaks loose when this hits the papers, Guv.’

Skelgill
nods ruefully.  The entire Lake District economy is underpinned by outdoor
tourism.  The public panic that could be provoked by the scandal of a random
strangler at large cannot have escaped his thinking.  And, at some point
in the next few days, the police will be obliged to come clean with this news. 
Perhaps mulling over the prospect, and the attendant pressure that,
predictably, will become heaped upon his shoulders, he falls silent and
readdresses his meal.

In due
course DS Leyton gives up, defeated by the sheer volume of food (and, perhaps
in addition, by some unpleasant domestic hallucination).  He excuses
himself to pay a visit to the washroom.  Skelgill snatches the opportunity
to scavenge the best of the forsaken morsels from his sergeant’s plate.

As DS
Leyton comes wandering back he is listening to his mobile phone.  His
features are creased with concentration, and indeed he stops short of Skelgill
at a vacant table and pulls out his pocket notebook.  Trapping the handset
between shoulder and ear, assiduously he writes down details of the
communication.  When he rises, his expression tells he is the bearer of
news of some import.

‘Guv
– looks like we might have a lead – person reported missing –
fits the description of the Glenridding body.’

Skelgill
appears unimpressed; if anything his features take on a negative hue.  Not
one of nature’s followers, in a bloody minded way he makes hard labour of
others’ candid enthusiasm.

‘Miracles
never cease.’

Phlegmatically,
DS Leyton resumes his seat.  There is a mild flicker of his eyebrows when
he notices his plate has been looted, but he straightens the cutlery and slides
it to one side.  He flips open his notebook upon the flat surface and
reads verbatim from his neatly printed if rudimentary script.

‘Barry
Seddon.  Age fifty-four.  Jobbing scaffolder – self-employed. 
Lives at Aspatria.  Reported missing by wife.  Last seen Monday
morning when she left for work.’

‘Monday?’ 
Skelgill’s interjection has the ring of distrust.

DS
Leyton flinches, as if the idiosyncrasy in the evidence is his fault. 
‘That’s what the report says, Guv.’

‘So
he’s been gone for two nights before she gets in touch?’

Skelgill
finishes off his tea and bangs the empty mug angrily upon the chipped
Formica
table top.

DS
Leyton ventures an ironic grin.  ‘Maybe she wasn’t missing him all that
much, Guv.’

Skelgill
does not reply.  Something seems to have triggered a thought in his mind,
and he folds his arms in concentration.

‘Perhaps
he was working away, Guv?’

Without
obviously switching back into sentient mode, Skelgill places his hands on the
table and with an urgent jolt pushes back his chair.

‘Let’s
go and ask the question.  B5305, James.’

He
rises and tugs his waterproof from the seatback.  He shakes it vertically
as though he is weighing its contents.

‘Damn
it, Leyton – I’ve left my wallet in my other jacket in my car.  I
got sidetracked sorting out that gear for you.’  This way, he contrives to
make it sound rather like DS Leyton is responsible.

The
sergeant’s stoical expression reveals no hint of surprise.  He pats his
hip pocket.

‘I’ll
get it, Guv.’  Then he looks sadly at the substantial leavings on his
plate.  ‘Feel like I ought ask for a doggy bag.’

‘Ah!
– well remembered, Leyton – I need to buy some dog food –
I’ll nip into that petrol forecourt next door while you sort the tab.’

‘Right,
Guv.’

There
is now something of a pregnant pause, and neither officer moves from their
station.  Skelgill is looking at DS Leyton as though his subordinate ought
to know what the delay is all about.

‘Guv?’

‘Lend
me a fiver, Leyton.’