Murder on the Edge (17 page)

‘Hold
her there – grab her collar.’

Cleopatra
is clearly not happy and begins to whine, but DS Jones gets a sufficient grip
while Skelgill swarms over the wall – almost as though there is no
obstacle.  He drops down easily into the pasture.  Rising, he swivels
and reaches out to cradle the dog, but this invitation proves too much, and she
leaps prematurely, striking him full in the chest and pulling a wide-eyed DS
Jones with her.  As Skelgill begins to topple backwards – drawn by the
weight of his backpack – Cleopatra springs over his shoulder and flies a
short distance before coming to rest on all fours.  But DS Jones’s
momentum is irreversible and she can only scream and crash onto Skelgill, and
the pair of them go down in a flailing, slightly comic, embrace, a landing
thankfully cushioned by the long dewy grass.

For a
few seconds they lie entwined, and who knows what might happen next – but
Cleopatra intervenes, darting in to lick faces that can only have been placed at
ground level for her enjoyment.  DS Jones rolls away spluttering and protesting
– and laughing, too – for she must be able to tell that Skelgill is
unharmed.  She rises to her knees and balls her fists on her hips.

‘You
did say improvise, Guv.’

Skelgill
pushes himself up into a sitting position.  He wipes his face on his
sleeve and glares with exasperation at Cleopatra, who is now waiting
expectantly on her haunches for the next round of this new jumping game.

‘I
forgot she was called the canine cannonball.’  He manipulates his head
between his two hands, as if to check all is in place.

‘You
okay, Guv?’

‘I’m
fine – it's the
Kelly
I’m worried about.’  He jiggles the
rucksack, but seems reassured by the clanking and sloshing of water. 
‘Mind you, it’s pretty indestructible – no moving parts.  I’ve
fallen a lot further than that with it on my back.’

‘Maybe
not with a dog and another person on top of you?’

‘The dog’s
a first.’

DS
Jones flashes him an expectant look, as though she hopes he might
elaborate.  But Skelgill’s thoughts apparently remain fixed upon his
equipment.

‘Anyway
– we’ll soon find out – I could murder a cuppa.’

He extends
a hand and they exchange a grip on one another’s wrists, pulling together to
raise themselves to their feet.  Grasmere lies just a stone’s throw away,
and meeting the lake they veer in a southerly direction, back towards their
point of origin.  A sandy path now hugs the shoreline.  To their left
the water is calm, for this is the west bank and the breeze drifts in from
their right.  Skelgill’s pale eyes dart about, watching the surface for
traces of aquatic life.  Cleopatra trots along the water’s edge, pausing
occasionally to lap.  She disturbs a small piebald bird from a rocky perch. 
It bounds airily into a gnarled hawthorn tree.  Skelgill stops and shakes
his head reflectively.

‘What
is it, Guv?’

‘A pied
wagtail – but I was looking at the haws.’

‘Excuse
me?’

DS
Jones’s tone of voice is intentionally scandalised, but Skelgill does not play
along.

‘H-a-w-s.’ 
He spells it out.  ‘Seems like only last week the May was blooming. 
Now look at the berries – they’re almost ripe.’

‘Doesn’t
that mean we’re in for a hard winter, Guv?’

‘It’s about
as good a way of forecasting as any.’  He screws up his features contemptuously. 
‘Where’s the barbecue summer the boffins promised us?’

 ‘Actually,
it hasn’t been that bad, Guv – we had that hot spell in June.  And
it’s nice today.’

Skelgill
raises a sceptical eye to the heavens.  Although the sun is still shining
there is a distinct build up of nimbostratus in the west, and he shrugs
cynically.

‘Better
make hay, then.’

DS
Jones raises her eyebrows.  Skelgill sees this gesture, but turns and
marches on.  After about ten minutes’ steady walking, they emerge from
beneath shady bankside alders onto a broad stretch of pale shingle, extending perhaps
fifty yards or so to the neck where Grasmere’s outflow, the River Rothay, slips
beneath a footbridge.  For the time being, they are the sole occupants of
this tiny haven.

‘A private
beach, Guv.’

DS Jones’s
voice has the ring of an excited child; Skelgill looks pleased with himself for
providing such a surprise.

‘Can
we paddle?’

‘I’d
have brought my bathers if I’d known you were so keen.’

She flashes
him an impish look.

‘I
could always dare you, Guv.’

Skelgill
flinches, presumably at the thought of his underwear appearing on public
display.

‘I’ll
leave the water sports to you – I’ve got work to do.’

He
swings the rucksack down onto the stones and begins to unpack its
contents.  DS Jones picks up a stick and – much to the unbounded joy
of Cleopatra – tosses it into the shallows.  This quickly develops
into a game of fetch – and it is hard to tell which of them is having
more fun.  Skelgill observes for a moment, perhaps reflecting that the
nimble DS Jones is not so long out of girlhood to have lost this basic hedonistic
aptitude – or maybe he considers that she has an unusually good throwing
action for a female.

She
catches him watching; he pretends to busy himself with firing up the
Kelly
Kettle
.  He has brought supplies of newspaper, kindling and methylated
spirits, two enamel mugs and the requisite components for tea.  As the
contraption begins to spit and boil, DS Jones skips back from the lake’s edge,
Cleopatra trotting beside her.  Skelgill eyes the dripping canine
apprehensively, as though he anticipates a shake coming on.

‘You’ll
be pleased to know I’ve carried four pints of fresh water – especially
for you.’

‘What
other kind of water is there, Guv?’

Skelgill
inclines his head towards the shore.

‘Aw,
yuck – what about all the ducks?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘It’s
never done me any harm – it all gets boiled.’

He
taps a knuckle against the battered aluminium cylinder and then lifts it from
its smoking base.  He has drilled the mugs into the shingle to prevent them
from toppling over.  His
Barbour
is spread out as a crude picnic
blanket, and he indicates to DS Jones that she should make herself comfortable.

‘You
sure, Guv?’

By way
of reply he digs into the rucksack and produces a roll of foam, which he
flattens into a sit-mat for himself.  Next he pulls out a small tin that
formerly held a well-known brand of tea, and flips open the lid.

‘Flapjack? 
It’s home-made.’

‘Thanks.’ 
DS Jones nibbles a corner of the rustic treat.  ‘It’s good.’

‘Cheers.’

Skelgill
munches a piece himself, and they are silent for a few moments.

‘Make
it yourself, Guv?’

‘Er...
no – my neighbour.’  Perhaps Skelgill was going to claim the credit,
unless asked.  ‘I took Sammy out last night.’

‘Sammy?’

Her
question carries a forced inflection, as though she is trying to moderate her
curiosity.

‘Her
dog – he’s pals with Cleopatra.’

‘Oh
– that’s right – you said.’

‘Whacking
great Alsatian – so she claims.  Looks half-wolf, to me.’  He
waves his flapjack wistfully.  ‘My kind of dog, actually.’

‘Poor
Cleopatra.’

Skelgill
shakes his head briskly, as if to dismiss any suggestion of a comparison.

‘She’s
a one-off.’

As if
to confirm his admiration for the quirky Bullboxer he snaps the flapjack and
offers half to her.  It must be noted that she has shown great restraint
thus far – perhaps Skelgill’s regime is tempering her penchant for
scrounging.  He pats her heartily and dips so she can lick his ear.

‘There’s
no accounting for taste, Jones.’

DS
Jones observes him contemplatively.

‘No,
Guv – there’s not.’

Absently
she tries her tea, but recoils.  Made with only powdered milk it is far
too hot for all but Skelgill’s asbestos-lined digestive tract.  She returns
the mug to its niche in the shingle and settles back upon the jacket, placing
her cardigan as a pillow.  The sun is strung between clouds, and closing
her eyes she stretches out luxuriously to absorb its warmth.  Skelgill’s
gaze falls upon her trendy plimsolls and slowly travels north: trainer socks encircle
slim ankles; white stretch denims sheathe her legs and accentuate their
athletic musculature; she wears no belt, and the hipsters are loose about her
slender waistline, a glimpse of white underwear revealed beneath; her exposed stomach
is a tanned camber where her blouse has rucked, its flimsy material clinging
faithfully to the curves of her breasts.

‘You
were going to tell me, Guv...’

She
speaks languidly, with eyes closed, but nonetheless she seems to know she has
his attention.

‘...
what it was you’d been thinking about?’

Skelgill
jerks back from his avid study and hurriedly takes a gulp of tea, as though all
along he has been drinking purposefully.  He swallows, and then he clears
his throat.

‘The
other night – Thursday – at
The Yat
– we never managed
to finish the conversation.’

‘Aha?’

‘Aye
– well, it was the sex thing, actually.’

DS
Jones opens one eye.  Skelgill can have a blunt way with words, especially
when he is feeling tongue-tied, and she can be excused for wondering which
direction the conversation is about to take.  However, he must sense her
anticipation, for he quickly clarifies his position.

‘I
mean – what you said about the killings.’

DS Jones
is silent for a moment, eyes again shut.

‘I
wondered if it were that.’  Her tone is a little flat.

Skelgill
brings up his knees and clasps his arms around them, and stares directly ahead
across the lake.

‘If you’re
right, assuming we’ve got victims who aren’t connected – it suggests
they’ve been preyed upon.’

‘Aha.’

‘So
what would be the possible scenarios?’

DS
Jones remains in sunbathing mode.  She runs her tongue slowly around her
lips.

‘It
wouldn’t be the first time a working girl has despatched a client, Guv.’

Skelgill
frowns.

‘But
how did she do it?’

There
is another pause before DS Jones speaks.

‘If
the customer were into certain sexual practices?  You did touch on that,
Guv.  We kind of got off the subject.’

Skelgill
shifts rather uncomfortably.

‘But
why would you let someone throttle you without putting up a fight?’

‘Apparently
on the point of blacking out the intensity of orgasm is much greater.’

DS
Jones’s analysis comes without hesitation or discomfiture – perhaps it is
easier from behind the veil of her closed lids, distanced as she is by her
disembodiment.  Skelgill, on the other hand, appears frozen, either out of
embarrassment, or he is held in the grip of the image she conjures.  Then
he turns to stare at his companion, and for a moment his eyes are wild and seem
to be feasting upon her lithe form, prone and vulnerable as it is.  The
silence prompts her to open her eyes, and she responds with an expression that
might be a wave of alarm mixed with an undercurrent of delight.  There is
a momentary standoff before Skelgill regains his composure and speaks as though
nothing has passed between them.

‘How
would we begin to investigate this?’

DS
Jones is silent for a moment.

‘What
about
Streetwise
, Guv?’

‘Come
again?’

Now
she glances at him in a rather doe-eyed manner, as though she is politely
suggesting he is being disingenuous.

‘
Streetwise
.’

‘Obviously
I’m not, Jones.’

She
concertinas smoothly into an upright position, mirroring Skelgill’s rowing pose. 
She reaches for her tea, and takes a tentative sip.

‘It’s
the website sex-workers use to advertise their services.’

‘That’s
a new one on me.’

Again
she gives him something of an old-fashioned look.  She rolls sideways, for
a second or two exposing the smooth curves of her buttocks.  She slides
her phone from a back pocket.

‘I’ll
show you, Guv – if there’s enough signal.’

Skelgill
has finished his tea, and while DS Jones is tapping away at her mobile he
occupies himself by aiming small stones at the
Kelly Kettle
, which
stands askew a few yards beyond them.  Cleopatra has curled up in a
depression in the shingle, but she raises her nose, perhaps assessing whether
this is a game in which she should become involved.  Shortly, DS Jones
passes the handset to Skelgill.