Murder on the Edge (9 page)

Again
a pause.

‘We’re
on our way.’

He
ends the call and turns to his superior.

‘A
break, Guv?  We’ve found his van.’

‘Are
we sure?’

‘Apparently
it’s got his name painted on the side, Guv.’

‘Jones
– you’d better speed-read these while we talk – bit of multi-tasking.’

Skelgill
hands over a file that contains the autopsy report on the late Lee Harris, and
a provisional, fast-tracked summary of the post-mortem relating to the similarly
departed Barry Seddon.  DS Jones nods efficiently, observed with some
admiration by DS Leyton.  The three officers are gathered to review the
evidence to date: while Skelgill is battling with limited success for
additional troops, he has at least ensured that DS Jones remains under his command
for the time being.  Possession being nine-tenths of the law, he figures that
while she wraps up his Oakthwaite case, she can provide intellectual support in
relation to these perplexing mountain murders.

‘My
missus is like that, Guv.’  DS Leyton chimes in with his usual cheerful
London brogue.  ‘She’ll be on the old dog and bone, rabbiting ten to the
dozen, watching
Eastenders
– and stone me if she’s not doing the
ironing as well.’  He regards his colleagues in wonderment.  ‘I mean
– imagine talking to the mother-in-law, watching the telly
and
ironing!’

Skelgill
frowns cynically.  ‘Imagine ironing, Leyton.’

‘Fair
point, Guv.’

‘Glad
we have our uses.’  DS Jones makes this quip without looking up from the
document she holds.

‘Leyton’s
got his uses – I just haven’t worked out what they are yet.’

Skelgill
seems to be in relatively bright spirits.  Not one to hide his feelings
from his subordinates – as DS Leyton will readily testify – he
might be excused this morning for labouring beneath more gloomy skies.  He
has two unsolved murders on his watch, and very little to go on.  The silver
lining from his perspective – albeit a temporary one – must relate
to the conclusions of the post-mortem on Barry Seddon.  It appears he was
killed some time on Monday
(“...death probably occurred between the hours of
10:00 and 14:00...”)
– only shortly after the discovery of the body
of Lee Harris, and before it had been established that the latter was
murdered.  Thus the police can hardly be accused of failing to react in
order to prevent the second crime.  Skelgill crunches the chewing end of a
biro and taps it on the blank writing pad upon his desk.

‘Circumstantially,
and MO-wise, there’s categorically a connection between these deaths.’

‘The
killer, Guv?’

‘But
that’s about it, Leyton – the killer.  At the moment there’s nothing
else to link Harris and Seddon.  We know what they died of, and roughly
when, but we don’t know how, or where, or why.’

Now DS
Jones glances up.

‘Perhaps
forensics will get a match on fibres on their clothes, Guv?’

Skelgill
screws up his nose doubtingly.  ‘How many carpets are there in Cumbria?’

‘What
if the killer owns a rare breed of dog, Guv?’

While
DS Leyton chuckles at his own joke, Skelgill appears uninterested.  He
casts a hand back in DS Leyton’s direction.

‘Leyton
– run us through what we know so far – for Jones’s benefit.’

DS
Leyton shuffles a sheaf of papers that represent the collated efforts of a small
team assigned to background desk- and leg-work, until a summarising page of his
handwritten notes surfaces.

‘Harris
– not a lot.  A couple of local shopkeepers have recognised him from
the mugshot, but don’t know anything about him.  No acquaintances identified
as yet.  No joy tracing his mobile – the number was for a pay-as-you-go
SIM.  Nothing on a bank account – perhaps he didn’t have one. 
His work paid cash, as you’ll recall, Guv.  The only contract on the address
is broadband, and that’s in the landlord’s name.  He’s been traced. 
There’s no tenancy agreement – he owns half a dozen properties and
collects the rent himself in cash.  Harris was up to date.  Landlord
doesn’t bother with references.  Evidently by the look of him you wouldn’t
trust him – nor double-cross him neither.’

Skelgill
is moved to bristle at this.  ‘Good enough reason to pull him in, Leyton.’

DS
Jones looks up from her reading.  ‘Sounds like this Lee Harris was living
under the official radar, Guv.  I take it he’s not an
illegal
or
using an alias?’

Skelgill
glances expectantly at DS Leyton.

‘Pretty
certain he’s British, Guv.  His workmates – if you can call them
that – reckoned he was from the Midlands.  Apparently he supported Leicester
City.’

Now
Skelgill raises an eyebrow, but does not elaborate upon its meaning. 
However, in England, the following of a non-fashionable football club is often
a reliable indicator of where a person spent their formative years.

‘We
need to bottom that, Leyton.  What about the motorbike?’

‘One
of the mechanics thought he was fixing up an insurance write-off.’  He
checks his notes.  ‘Honda CBR600 – if that means anything to you,
Guv.’

Skelgill
nods in a rather superior fashion.  ‘Sports bike.  Registration?’

‘We
got a plate number, but the DVLA system shows a Certificate of Destruction
against it.’

‘There
was fresh oil beside his flat, Leyton.  And no helmet indoors.  Unless
that old bat belongs to Hell’s Grannies, that bike must be somewhere.’

‘The
lad at the garage didn’t reckon it was roadworthy, Guv.’

‘Since
when did that become a criteria for riding?’

DS
Jones glances up briefly, as though she is tempted to correct Skelgill’s
grammar – but silently she resumes her study.

‘I’ve
got an alert out on it, Guv – hopefully a warden will spot it.’

‘Sooner
rather than later.’      

This
sounds like an instruction – not that the outcome is in DS Leyton’s power,
but he nods vigorously all the same.

‘Better
fill in Jones on the latest on Seddon – the van.’

DS Jones moves as if to give her undivided attention to DS Leyton,
but for a moment some detail on the page detains her and it is a couple of
seconds before she raises her eyes.

‘We found his truck
yesterday in the superstore car park on Scotland Road. 
His mobile and wallet were locked up inside – looked like he’d put them
out of sight.  There was £150 in the wallet, and the phone hadn’t been
used since Friday.  Recent calls all appear to be to and from contacts in
the building trade.  Monday’s racing newspaper was on the passenger seat. 
Keys had been left under the wheel-arch.’

‘Could
he have gone into the store?’

DS
Leyton is nodding.  ‘We’re going through the CCTV at the moment –
it’s slow work though.’

‘If he
bought the paper there, they ought to have an electronically timed record
– they can’t sell all that many copies.’

‘Fair
point Jones.’  Skelgill’s interjection is a little terse.  ‘But let’s
see what the CCTV brings first.’

DS
Jones nods compliantly.  With the back of one hand she taps the reports.

‘What
do you think about the time interval, Guv – I mean between the murders
and the bodies being discovered?’

Skelgill
nods sagely, although his reply does not suggest any private intelligence. 
‘What are you driving at?’

‘Assuming
the bodies were dumped in the early hours before they were discovered – it
means they were each kept hidden for the best part of a day and a half. 
There must be an explanation for that.  It might tell us something about
the killer.’

The trio
sits in silence for a few moments, metaphorically (and DS Leyton literally)
scratching their heads, until DS Jones, who perhaps already has a theory up her
sleeve but has been exercising diplomacy, speaks up.

‘I was
on a forensics course a little while ago, Guv.  Rigor mortis sets in three
to four hours after death.  Maximum stiffness occurs after about twelve
hours, and then it dissipates from about twenty-four hours.’

Skelgill
seems engrossed by this thought, and it takes DS Leyton to respond in the
vernacular.

‘You
wouldn’t get a stiff in a saloon car boot, or even a hatchback – it’d
take a big estate like yours, Guv.’

‘I’ll remember
that, Leyton, next time you’re paralytic after a police night out.’  Skelgill
projects a reprimanding frown at DS Leyton.  ‘Carry on, Jones.’

‘You’d
need transport to get a body to the foot of the fell.  Kill someone during
the day.  You can’t move them until it’s dark and the neighbours have gone
to bed.  But on the first night, you’re too late – rigor mortis
means the body doesn’t fit in a small car, if you could even move it.  So
you have to wait until the next night.’

Skelgill
is cupping his chin between upturned palms.  He stares hard at DS
Jones.  ‘So, your
something
about the killer – he lives in a
built-up area, probably residential.’

DS
Jones averts her eyes apprehensively.  ‘It’s just an idea that corresponds
to the facts, Guv.’

‘It’s
good thinking.’

DS
Jones shrugs modestly.  ‘But it does mean keeping a corpse in your house
– that has its complications.’

‘What
if they were killed in an outbuilding, or a garage?’  This is DS Leyton’s
contribution.  ‘I’ve been wondering if they went to buy something, Guv.’

Skelgill
sits back in his chair.  ‘Leyton – I agree – nine times out of
ten we’d be looking at drugs – but this pair seem as clean as whistles in
that regard.  And Seddon’s wallet was stuffed with cash.’

‘So
why did he leave it, Guv – and his phone?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘Strikes
me, Guv – you can’t be mugged of what you ain’t got.’

Skelgill
considers this proposition.  ‘I’ve obviously led a more sheltered
existence than you, Leyton.’

‘But say
he just took the amount of cash he needed?  If it were for some dodgy
deal, he’d maybe think he couldn’t be double-crossed.  Look at Harris
– his phone and wallet are gone, there might be a laptop missing, and no
trace of his motorbike.’

Skelgill
seems uncomfortable with the notion of petty robbery as a motive.  His features
agonise as he takes a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling, before he speaks.

‘Easy
enough to lose a bike in a lake, Leyton.’

Again
there is a hiatus, before DS Jones raises another question.

‘And
no sightings of vehicles near the disposal sites, Guv?’

With
an inclination of his head, Skelgill refers her inquiry to DS Leyton.

‘They
were all spark out at the youth hostel.  The staff bunk down early because
they have to be up first thing – and you know how hard it is to wake teenagers
once they’re asleep.’

DS
Jones looks rather amused by this statement.

‘That’s
me, still.’

‘Lucky
you – wait till you’ve got some little ’uns bouncing on your head at six
in the morning.’

DS
Jones glances at Skelgill, but his expression is inscrutable.  DS Leyton
continues.

‘The
other place – to get up to Sharp Edge by the shortest route – it’s
along a tiny back road to nowhere.  There’s a rough parking area for
hillwalkers.  A car left overnight wouldn’t look especially out of place –
and the chances of anyone passing in the early hours are ten percent of nothing. 
We’re checking with local farmers, but no takers so far.’

DS
Jones leans back and crosses her legs – it is warmer today and she has
opted for just a short skirt and ballet-style pumps, with a sleeveless t-shirt
top.  She must notice that she has drawn the gaze of both of her
colleagues, for she self-consciously places the papers on the edge of
Skelgill’s desk and reaches forward to clasp her hands around her uppermost
knee.

‘It seems
a heck of a lot of trouble – to take a body into the hills.’

‘That’s
what’s bugging us, Jones.’  Skelgill stretches skywards and rests his
hands for a moment behind his head.  There are fresh droplets of sweat spotting
the armpits of his shirt.  ‘It’s the crux of the case.’

‘In
what way, Guv?’  DS Jones strives to maintain eye contact.

‘There’s
a message here, for someone – us, maybe.’

Skelgill’s
subordinates unite in a respectful silence to acknowledge the gravity of his
statement.  After half a minute it is DS Jones who finally voices a
thought.

‘When
is the news going to be released, Guv?’

‘There’s
a conference at one.’

‘Are
you involved, Guv?’

Skelgill
scowls and leans back and stares at the ceiling.  ‘I feel a puncture coming
on.’

DS
Jones glances surreptitiously at DS Leyton, who raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘upon
his own head be it’.  They know well Skelgill’s antipathy to journalistic
gatherings, but the Chief will be expecting him to be present – if not to
address the press pack directly.

‘It
might flush something out, at least, Guv – as far as the victims are
concerned.’