Murder on the Edge (18 page)

‘There
you go, Guv – that’s just a random girl.  One of forty-seven
thousand profiles that are live on the UK site today.’

Skelgill
blinks and shifts the screen back and forth until it is legible.  (His focal
length is clearly longer than he will publically admit.)  He spends several
moments silently browsing.  He becomes still, his breath hissing between
clenched teeth.  His complexion retains its warm hue.

‘Doesn’t
leave much to the imagination.’

‘See
the menu on the left-hand side, Guv – it lists all the services she’s
willing to provide.’

Skelgill
shakes his head forlornly.

‘I
don’t know what half of these things mean.  What’s
tea-bagging
, for
Pete’s sake?’

DS
Jones suppresses a chuckle.

‘I
don’t think it involves a
Kelly Kettle
, Guv.  There’s a glossary
somewhere on the site.’

Skelgill
squints suspiciously.

‘How
come you’re such an expert, Jones?’

‘It
was part of the last block of training modules at police college.  Prostitution
has gone online big-style, Guv.’

‘I can
see that.’

Skelgill
flicks about, perusing the girl’s profile to the extent that is possible on an
unsuitable small screen.

‘This
one’s got BDSM listed under her likes.’

‘Most
of them do, Guv.’

‘Oh?’

‘I
think they tick pretty much all the boxes – I imagine it’s to maximise
income.’

Skelgill
twitches as though a fly is bothering him.

‘I
don’t suppose we can search for death by strangulation?’

DS Jones
giggles.

‘I guess
they wouldn’t be that up-front, Guv – but we can find everyone who’s
advertising in the area – even down to which town they work from.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah
– look, I’ll show you.’

She
takes back the mobile and quickly taps in the requisite instructions.

‘Sixty-nine
in Cumbria.’

Skelgill
throws her a doubting glance.

‘Coincidence,
Guv.’

Then
she types again.

‘Mostly
Carlisle.  But twelve in Penrith.  Three in Kendal.  Two in
Keswick.’

‘Keswick? 
I don’t believe it.’

‘That’s
what it says, Guv.’

‘Does
it give addresses?’

DS
Jones grins patiently.

‘On a
lot of these profiles, Guv – they won’t even show their faces.  I
expect you get the address when you phone to make an appointment.  Not
everyone advertises all the time.  And they regularly change their
identities – clients like new girls, apparently.’

She
watches Skelgill closely, but he is implacable in response to this statement.

‘That
girl you just showed me – it says she’s got over two hundred
ratings.  What’s that all about?’

‘The
punters – to use their terminology – leave ratings.  They can
sign up as members and get ratings themselves from the escorts.  And they
can request to be contacted about services on offer.’

Skelgill
blows out his cheeks and ruffles the hair at his temples.

‘No wonder
the missus goes ballistic when she finds this stuff on the husband’s home computer.’

DS
Jones shrugs her shoulders in an ambivalent gesture.

‘I
reckon most of these profiles will be fake, one way or another, Guv –
people set up false identities just like they do on the other social networking
sites.  And they’d use an anonymous email address via one of the free
providers.’

Skelgill
still looks somewhat bewildered.

‘You
call this social networking?’

‘Thing
is, Guv – that’s exactly what it is.  Just a bit more single minded.’

Again
she eyes him minutely, gauging his reaction.  But perhaps he senses her
closer attention, for he rises and trudges down to the water’s edge. 
Cleopatra rouses herself and trots after him, in case a stick-chase is in the
offing.  But Skelgill stands broodingly looking out across the
surface.  There is a ripple now, and for the moment the sun has
disappeared.  Behind him DS Jones shivers, and indeed she lets out an
involuntary complaint.  She wraps her cardigan about her shoulders. 
After a minute Skelgill turns and calls back to her.

‘Are
there blokes on this site?’

For a
second she appears a little coy.

‘Girls,
guys – and everything in between that’s legal.’

Large
drops of rain are beginning to fall and imitate the rises of feeding trout. 
Instinctively, Skelgill is compelled to watch for a moment, until he satisfies
himself that their source is not piscine.  He turns and strides
purposefully up the beach. 

‘We
have to consider this.’

‘Think
we should call in the specialist unit, Guv?’

Skelgill
turns his back to her.  Then he kneels and begins collecting up the debris
of their camp.  He glowers, and silently – though rather forcibly
– he jams the various items of picnic paraphernalia into his bag. 
DS Jones seems to sense that she has touched a raw nerve; she collects the
enamel mugs and takes a couple of paces towards the shoreline.

‘Shall
I rinse them, Guv?’

‘No
need – I’ll sort this lot when I get back.’

She
hands over the mugs.

‘You
were right about the Lakes, Guv.’

‘What’s
that?’  Skelgill’s expression is still one of disquiet.

‘The
rain, Guv.’

He
glances skywards, and then regards DS Jones, as if he has only now noticed the
change in the weather.  He sweeps his
Barbour
jacket from the
shingle and raises it to shoulder height.

‘I’d
offer you mine, but you’d look ridiculous.’

DS
Jones grins rather helplessly.

‘I
should have listened to you, Guv.’

Skelgill
patiently unfastens a side-pocket of his rucksack.  Then with a flourish
he pulls out her pink cagoule.

‘Recognise
this?’

‘Aw,
Guv – my hero!’

She
jumps forward enthusiastically, perhaps pleased to be able to give him a
positive stroke, and mitigate her
faux pas
.  Skelgill reluctantly
manufactures a grin.

‘All
part of the service.’

‘You
might not be streetwise, Guv – but no one beats you when it comes to
being countrywise.’

Skelgill
hauls on his backpack and gives her a sideways look.

‘Aye,
well – let’s just keep this
Streetwise
business between ourselves,
eh?’

And he
marches away along the shingle.

‘It’s
the same rope, Guv.’

Skelgill
is grim faced.  His eyes are bloodshot and their lower lids swollen. 
His hair is plastered across his brow and rainwater drips from the tip of his
nose.  Perhaps it is a trick of the light, a combination of the inclement
conditions and insufficient sleep, but he looks haggard beyond his thirty-seven
years.

‘It’s
another middle section, Guv – you can see it’s been cut at both ends.’

But
still Skelgill does not reply.  Indeed he seems to have little time for
the corpse that DS Leyton inspects, down on one knee on the rocky slope. 
Instead he stares disdainfully at the angry mountain rising up before them, six
hundred feet of slick black cliffs that defy ordinary passage and embody the melancholic
conditions.  Indeed, the lightning flashes emanating from the
scene-of-crime photographer’s camera serve only to emphasise the forbidding
gloom.  This is Great End, a mecca for climbers and scramblers, the most
northerly outlier of the Scafell Pike massif and monumental guardian of
Borrowdale, a locus where Wainwright was prompted to note that
‘sunshine
never mellows this grim scene but only adds harshness’
.

‘Any
ID?’

‘Pockets
are all empty, Guv.  No ring or watch.  Big scar over the right
eyebrow.’

Skelgill
bites systematically at his cheek, his eyes narrowing to mere slits.

‘When
they found Mallory – seventy-five years after he’d fallen to his death
– he had a name-tag sewn into his gabardine jacket.  Imagine –
climbing Everest in a gabardine jacket.’

‘Nothing
that I can see, Guv.’  DS Leyton, uncomfortable on his haunches, huffs and
puffs and seems not to notice the idiosyncrasy in his superior’s remark. 
He rises to his feet with a grunt and hitches up his waterproof
over-trousers.  ‘I don’t like to interfere too much before the SOCO boys
have finished.  Alright, Guv?’

Skelgill
has turned his back, and is gazing vacantly across the mist-wreathed slopes
that tumble from their present stance to a small body of water set amidst
undulating grass-covered moraine.  DS Leyton struggles across the slippery
scree to stand beside him.

‘Another
one of those little lakes, Guv.’

‘Tarns.’

‘Sorry,
Guv – tarns.’

‘Sprinkling
Tarn.’

DS
Leyton nods briefly to acknowledge Skelgill’s naming of the dark pool, its
surface reflecting the charcoal of the lowering sky.

‘Could
that be a connection, Guv?’

‘In
what way?’

‘Three
dead bodies – three tarns.’

Skelgill
sighs contemptuously.

‘This
is the Lakes, Leyton.  What do you expect?’

DS
Leyton folds his arms defensively, tucking his hands into his oxters.

‘I
realise that, Guv – but we’ve got to find something, soon.’

Skelgill
remains silent, and distracted.  DS Leyton’s plaintive appeal paraphrases the
words of the Chief, a biting rebuke telephoned earlier while they were in
transit, and which now must seem to Skelgill to echo accusingly about the bleak
fellside, and not just in the privacy of his head.

‘What’s
this called, Guv?  This mountain.’

Skelgill
continues to stare unblinkingly, and his reply is gruffly extruded from jaws
set firm.

‘Great
End.’

‘Not
for him, eh, Guv?’

‘What,
Leyton?’

‘Not a
great end, Guv.’

*

‘I
thought I did pretty well, Guv – I reckon I’m getting the hang of this
hill-walking malarkey.’

Skelgill
initially glowers at DS Leyton, but then something about the latter’s
indefatigable naivety penetrates his desolate mood and he relents with a
suppressed, and ironic, laugh.

‘Well
– let’s just hope for some more murders, Leyton – you’ll be fit
enough for a Bob Graham before the summer’s out.’

‘Steady
on, Guvnor – careful what you wish for.’

This
remark may be variously interpreted, but presumably DS Leyton refers to the deaths
rather than his dubiously improving athletic prowess.  Any such
elaboration, however, is pre-empted by the arrival of their breakfasts in the
form of the celebrated Cumbrian fry, accompanied by a large chipped teapot to
replenish their mugs.

‘Actually,
Leyton – I think my wish has just come true.’

Skelgill
has temporarily commandeered – with the proprietor’s blessing – the
somewhat antediluvian farm café at Seathwaite.  If there can be a happy
coincidence under such circumstances, it is that the hillside eatery is the
nearest point of vehicular access to Great End, the site of the discovery of the
third and latest victim’s body.  This was almost literally stumbled across
at just after six a.m. by a group of climbers from Wasdale Head, and Skelgill
and DS Leyton were on the scene – by car and foot – some ninety
minutes later.  Skelgill had lingered there for perhaps only ten minutes
– and thus it is now around nine a.m.  The farm track branching from
the Borrowdale to Buttermere road has been sealed off, and emergency services
vehicles have swollen the ranks of half-a-dozen or so cars left overnight by
hill-users; folk who may be wild camping, or alternatively have hiked through
to lodge in Eskdale, Langdale or Wasdale.  Any such walkers, returning
with breakfast in mind, are for the moment disappointed, and find themselves
detained in a barn for interviews as possible witnesses – a task that DS
Jones has been summoned to coordinate.

Skelgill
still bears the visible (and perhaps invisible) scars of what DS Leyton must
suspect has been a late night and a few too many pints with his mountain rescue
mates.  But, as Gladis’s cooking begins to work its magic, at least his boss’s
black mood shows signs of dissolving. On this basis, he ventures a question
that is perhaps designed further to ease the atmosphere.

‘Like
one of my sausages, Guv?  The missus forced a round of toast on me –
no way I’ll eat all this.’

Skelgill
accepts the offered morsel with a nod.

‘Cheers.’

‘Good
grub they do here, Guv.’

‘The
best.’

‘I
should maybe bring the family on a nice day – spot of lunch – bit
of a stroll – now I know the ropes.  What would you recommend?’

Skelgill
glances up from his plate.  Most people like to demonstrate their
knowledge when it comes to giving directions, and he is no exception.  He
points with his knife held in his left hand, and sweeps it to and fro to
indicate the path beyond the building.

‘Past
this place is the main route to Scafell Pike – that’s why it’s so popular
– most of the Three Peaks crowd come this way.’  He pauses to take a
swig of tea.  ‘But that’s a bit of a trek for young kids.  It’s a
good mile over a rocky plateau from Great End.  Probably your best bet’s to
carry on to Esk Hause, then turn back along the ridge, over Allen Crags and
Glaramara – brings you down into Borrowdale village.’

‘I’ll
have to buy the map, Guv – so you can mark it out for me.’

‘Don’t
waste your money – I’ll lend you one.  If you buy anything, buy a
Wainwright
– book four you’d need.’

‘Right,
Guv – will do.’

The
storm that has ravaged Skelgill’s features appears to be subsiding, but now DS
Leyton risks a reversion.  Rather ostentatiously he checks his wristwatch,
and taps its face meaningfully.

‘The
description ought to be going out on the news any minute, Guv.’

Hearteningly,
Skelgill nods without scowling, though he is preoccupied with loading an
improbably large forkful of fried foodstuffs, and does not look up.

‘Let’s
just hope someone who’s missing him listens to
Radio Cumbria
, Guv.’

‘Someone
has to.’

‘It
would fit the pattern, Guv – what with Harris and Seddon both being from
hereabouts.’

Skelgill
opens his improbably large mouth and devours the forkful, leaving DS Leyton to continue
his speculation.

‘And
this new one – he’s no hillwalker, neither, Guv.  Dressed like he’s
set off for church and gone and got himself lost.  Could have been asleep,
for the way he’s lying there – apart from the rope, obviously.’  DS
Leyton absently aligns some baked beans on his plate.  ‘Can’t believe we keep
finding ’em, Guv – reminds me of when it rained fish in London when I was
a nipper.’

Skelgill
swallows urgently.  Any sentence containing the word fish is liable to win
his attention.

‘What are
you talking about, Leyton?’

‘Straight
up, Guv – one of ’em fell in our back yard – flounder, my old ma
reckoned it was, fresh out of the Thames estuary.’

‘Sure
it wasn’t the neighbour having a laugh?’

‘No
– it was in all the papers, Guv – and it rained frogs in the
nineties – you must have heard about that?’

Skelgill
frowns suspiciously.

‘Supposed
to be to do with a tornado, Guv.  Sucks ’em up in a waterspout and drops ’em
down somewhere else.  That’s the only explanation.’

Skelgill
shakes his head ruefully.

‘I’ve
stopped wondering how the bodies get there, Leyton – I just want to know
why.’

DS
Leyton puffs out his cheeks in a show of solidarity.

‘Reckon
he was dumped there overnight, Guv?’

‘Had
to be – Great End was crawling with scramblers yesterday – I passed
by myself on a practice run.’

For a
moment DS Leyton looks a little wide-eyed – perhaps at the notion that
Skelgill so casually visited the location they (or at least he) just laboured
to and from.

‘Apparently
there’s folks turning up at the bottom of the lane, Guv – giving PC Dodd
some grief because we’ve closed it.’

Skelgill
purses his lips.

‘They’ll
have to wait – though I shan’t shut off Gladis’s trade any longer than I need
to.  I reckon once we’ve identified the owners who’ve parked overnight we
can open it up.  There’ll be walkers coming through from all directions –
we’d need a small army to close off the fells.’

‘What
did the farmer and his missus say, Guv?’

Skelgill
is a long-term friend and – during his youth – was an informal
charge of the Hope family, and thus he has already discussed nocturnal events
with the couple, Gladis and her husband Arthur.

‘They
were up at the crack of dawn – heard nothing in the night and the first
vehicle to arrive this morning was one of ours – PC Dodd.  This job
was done in the small hours again, Leyton.  Thing is, even if Arthur had
been disturbed by an engine, he’d probably just reckon it was someone doing the
Three Peaks.’

‘Talking
of engines, Guv...’

DS
Leyton, whose seat backs on to a partially open sash window, twists around to
steal a look at an approaching vehicle, its presence announced by a throaty
roar.

‘Guv
– that’s DI Sharp’s motor.’

Skelgill
hackles begin to rise.

‘What
does he think he’s doing here?’

DS
Leyton peers through the narrow gap between sash and frame.

‘He’s
got DS Jones, Guv – he must have given her a lift.’

Skelgill
leans forward over the table, so that he too can get a view and confirm DS
Leyton’s observation.  He is just in time to see DS Jones emerge from the extravagant
sports coupé and unfurl a collapsible umbrella.  As she does so, DI Smart
scuttles around the car and joins her, placing an arm around her shoulders so
that he can share the intimate protection afforded by its small canopy. 
Skelgill sits back down, his demeanour blackening by the second.  A few
moments later the new arrivals enter the old-fashioned parlour, its atmosphere
thick with damp over-garments and the cloying haze of fried food seeping from a
kitchen hatch.  DS Jones comes first, looking suitably sheepish, and
immediately steps aside to admit DI Smart.  Ostentatiously he brushes
raindrops from his shoulders and glances about disparagingly.

‘Not
exactly
The Ritz
, Skel – you’re like a pig in shit, mate.’

Even
by DI Smart’s standards, this slur seems designed to wound, a thrust that might
invite the observer to wonder what authority gives him such nerve.  He
takes a few paces around the small room, and slides a paper napkin from a table
setting and uses it to dab some flecks of farmyard mud from his trendy pointed
shoes.  He is informally attired, wearing slim designer jeans and a black
zip-up cardigan, and he draws attention to this outfit when Skelgill fails to
respond to his opening gambit.

‘I’m
on a day’s leave, Skel – but I’d called in to drop off a report for the Chief
– heard Emma needed a
ride
.’  He drawls the last word and
then pauses to leer salaciously in her direction.  ‘Saves the Force a few
bob, eh?’