Murder on the Edge (19 page)

He
laughs cynically.  That his motivation is altruistic is unlikely to ring
true with his reluctant audience.  DS Jones is still loitering near the
entrance, looking as though she wishes she weren’t there at all.  DI Smart
fixes his weaselly stare upon Skelgill.

‘Murderer’s
giving you the run-around, eh, Skel?  All these places he keeps leaving
bodies – I hear you’re thinking of naming a hill-race after him.’

He
cackles at his own joke.

‘It’s
no laughing matter, Smart.’

DI
Smart seems vaguely affronted by Skelgill’s unwillingness to play along. 
His demeanour hardens and he brushes his hands over his slicked-back hair.

‘Chief’s
certainly not laughing, Skel – I had a bit of a pow-wow with her
earlier.’  He takes another turn about the room, disdainfully squinting at
the pictures and flicking at the seventies’ curtains.  He knows he has their
attention.  ‘I reckon she buys my theory, Skel.’

Skelgill
is bristling, his face colouring red from his cheekbones down.

‘And
what’s that, exactly?’

‘Sex
killings, obviously.’

Skelgill
shoots an accusing glance at DS Jones, who stiffens like a rabbit caught in the
headlights.  But DI Smart can observe this interchange, and all she can do
is to gaze imploringly at Skelgill.  There might be the faintest shake of
the head, a tremor through her shoulder-length locks, but she is unable to
utter the words that would deny she has been persuaded to confide her own notion,
perhaps en route.

Skelgill
reverts to DI Smart.  ‘Why
obviously
?’

‘You’ve
got a homophobic psychopath on your hands, Skel – it’s got all the
hallmarks.’  DI Smart pulls out a chair and sits astride it, facing the
back.  ‘I told the Chief – this’ll have its roots in the gay
community in Manchester – my home turf, mate.’

Now
Skelgill seems to recognise DI Smart’s strategy – he is making a play for
the case.

‘It’s
a local affair, Smart.’

DI
Smart shrugs indifferently.

‘Suit
yourself, Skel – but I think you’ll find I’m being lined up – for when
your country lane peters out.’

Skelgill’s
patience must be wearing dangerously thin.  As a man of few words but volatile
temper, at this juncture his subordinates can be excused for hunkering down. 
DI Smart’s offensive tactics might be
de rigueur
– most probably
he lacks the empathy to appreciate his foul expertise in finding a chink in an
opponent’s armour and winkling away at it with his stiletto wit – but to
do so in Skelgill’s own backyard, so to speak, is certainly risking the incendiary
moment.

But
such an eventuality does not come to pass, for the shrill ring of DS Leyton’s
mobile suddenly releases the tension.  And immediately that the sergeant
responds to the call, it becomes clear from his reaction that there is
significant news.  He leans towards Skelgill and places a hand on his
forearm.

‘Possible
ID on the body, Guv – farm labourer from over Threlkeld way.’

Skelgill
glances at DI Smart; perhaps there is a hint of triumph in his narrowed
eyes.  He rises decisively.

‘Jones
– I’ll take you over to get started on the witnesses.’

He
nods at DS Leyton to indicate they are to depart.

DI
Smart remains seated and again casts about the small room.

‘I
think I’ll stay for a breakfast, Skel – leave you local chaps to it.’

As DS
Jones pulls open the door into the hallway, she almost collides with Gladis, overbalancing
and apparently on her way to clear empty plates.  Skelgill grins with
satisfaction and winks resolutely at the elderly lady.  Then he calls back
over his shoulder to DI Smart.

‘We’ve
had the last of the breakfasts, Smart – the delivery can’t get through
until I open the cordon.’

*

With
DS Jones briefed accordingly, Skelgill joins DS Leyton, who is waiting in his
car, having earlier chauffeured Skelgill down from their meeting point in
Keswick.’

‘That’s
DI Smart away, Guv.’

‘Good
riddance.’

‘What
do you want to do now, Guv – fetch your motor?’

‘Aye
– then you get back to your desk and finish these vehicle checks. 
I’ll call in at Threlkeld and catch up with you and Jones later.’

‘Roger,
Guv.’

As DS
Leyton decelerates at the bottom of the farm track, Skelgill winds down the
window to speak with the uniformed constable.  The rain has now abated and
he appears in reasonable spirits.

‘Alright,
Dodd.’

‘Sir?’

‘What
did DI Smart say when he came through?’

‘Asked
me if I ever thought I’d get a car like his, sir.’  The constable sounds
more than a little vexed.

Skelgill
nods.

‘Dodd
– anyone who wants past – take their details and tell them they can
go to the café for breakfast – but no further for the next hour.’

‘Right,
sir.’

Rather
than draw away, however, PC Dodd lingers beside the car.

‘What
is it, Dodd?’

‘Er...
how’s the dog, sir?’

Skelgill
squints, clearly taken by surprise.

‘She’s
fine – I’ve got a dog walker looks after her.’

PC
Dodd nods enthusiastically.  Again he exhibits a curious reluctance to end
the conversation.  Finally, however, he steps back, but not without
sticking up a supportive thumb to the senior officer.

‘We
know you’ll crack it, sir.’

A very
brief and barely perceptible expression of gratitude flickers across Skelgill’s
severe features, before his normal self-control is restored.

‘Aye
– like Mallory climbed Everest.’

He
winds up the window and the car pulls away, leaving PC Dodd looking suitably puzzled
by this cryptic remark.

‘So it
was the sheepdog that alerted you, sir?’

‘Well,
my wife actually, Inspector.  She noticed the beast roaming about. 
She’d spotted it yesterday and hadn’t thought too much about it, but it was
still there this morning.’

‘What
times would that have been, sir?’

‘Around
nine both days – we have a couple of Herdwick lambs we’ve been keeping an
eye on in the holding paddock behind Walter’s cottage.’

‘So
would that be unusual, sir – for the dog to be out on its own?’

‘I
should say so, Inspector.  In any event it prompted Lucinda to try the
back door – and the place was locked up.  Walter would only do that
if he went away – but he certainly wouldn’t have left the collie to its
own devices.’

‘Was he
in the habit of going away, sir?’

‘Not
especially – occasionally he’d cycle down to the pub in the village
– oh, by the way, his bicycle isn’t here.’

Skelgill
nods, his brow creasing as he assimilates this new information.

‘Could
the dog have escaped from the cottage, sir?’

The
man raises a hand to his chin and rubs the short tawny beard that merges
seamlessly into swept-back hair and gives him a lupine appearance.  Of roughly
an age with Skelgill, medium height and slim build, he is neatly groomed, and sports
the familiar country uniform of heavy-soled antiqued leather brogues, smart corduroy
trousers (in this case a rather flamboyant purple) and a well-matched
Tattersall shirt.  His nails are carefully manicured, and Skelgill’s gaze
lingers on fingers that are slim and callus-free; these are not characteristic
of a typical Lakeland farmer.  Then again, nor is the clipped public
school accent.

‘I
don’t believe so, Inspector.  I’ll show you around – but when I
looked myself I didn’t notice any open windows.’

‘When
did you last see Mr Barley, sir?’

The
man hesitates, and turns to stare rather hopefully down the track that leads
away from the farmstead.

‘Ah
– well, Inspector – I was at the Winterton Show all weekend –
over in Lincolnshire – travelled up this morning, you know?’

‘So
your wife was the last person to see him?’

The
man nods and in a rather agitated manner checks his wristwatch.

‘She
said she’d be back by now – she popped down to Keswick for a meeting with
our land agent – we’re looking at a property over towards Howtown.’

‘Ullswater.’

‘That’s
correct, Inspector.’

Skelgill
for a fleeting moment appears irked by what – to him – is the superfluous
ratification of his remark.  He returns to the matter in hand.

‘It’s
important we piece together his movements, sir.  Can you think where else
he might have cycled to – did he have any friends, for instance?’

Again
the man rubs his beard for inspiration.

‘Not
that I know of, Inspector.  Certainly nobody ever came up here to see him,
as far as I’m aware.  He was jolly sedentary in his habits, now I think
about it.’

‘Does
either of the names Lee Harris or Barry Seddon mean anything to you, sir?’

The
man delays his reply, but he holds Skelgill’s gaze, as if he is trying to read
a clue from the detective’s expression.  Then he shakes his head slowly.

‘He
worked for you, I take it – Mr Barley?’

That
they are conversing in the past tense as far as Walter Barley is concerned
reflects an earlier telephone discussion between one of Skelgill’s constables
and the farmer, which on the basis of physical description appears to confirm,
provisionally at least, the identity of the deceased.  Now the man looks a
little alarmed, as though the idea of an employer-employee relationship confers
a degree of responsibility for the tragedy.

‘Oh,
no – no, Inspector.  He hadn’t worked at all since before we arrived
– he was in receipt of some sort of invalidity benefit.  Though one
wouldn’t know it to look at him.’

‘But
it’s your property – the cottage?’

‘That’s
correct, Inspector.  I mean, technically, he was our tenant – but we
didn’t charge him rent – a bit of an anachronism – stems from the
deal that Lucinda’s pater struck when he bought the place.  Walter came as
part of the fixtures and fittings.’

‘How
did that happen – if you don’t mind me asking, sir?’

‘Not
at all, Inspector.  I met Lucinda up at Oxford.  Her father had his
family pile in Somerset – Lucinda’s elder brother is the Earl now –
and he was looking for a bit of a project for her.  This place came on the
market – I had been schooled locally and knew the area – so that
perhaps helped things along.  Along with the farm there was an outdoor
adventure business based here.  A barn burnt down and they lost all their tackle
– quad bikes and whatnot – the whole enterprise went bust.  So
his Lordship got the place for a song – but part of the arrangement was
that Walter Barley would be able to stay on in perpetuity.  I believe he
was injured trying to fight the fire.’

Skelgill
nods as this tale unfolds, his expression one of careful attention, as if the
details fill gaps in his own incomplete knowledge of events.

‘But
he was just a worker here at the time?’

‘So I
understand, Inspector.  One assumes the former owner took pity on Walter
on account of his injuries – in the line of duty, so to speak.’

‘What
became of him – the owner?’

‘I
believe he left the district, Inspector – the original selling agents may
know – the same ones we use –
Pope & Parish
in Keswick.’

Skelgill
bows his head to indicate he has noted this fact.

‘And you
and your wife have run the farm since then, sir?’

For
the first time the man glances rather uneasily away.  He casts his eyes
across the misty fellside that rises beyond the farmhouse.

‘Since
1997 in Lucinda’s case, Inspector.  She was a couple of years ahead of me
at Oxford.  I didn’t come down until ninety-nine.’

Skelgill
follows the man’s gaze.  What little of Blencathra that is visible beneath
the cloud base is a patchwork of bracken and grass, with no livestock to be
seen.

‘Predominantly
sheep is it, sir?’

The
man turns to Skelgill, his features still a little strained.

‘Not
on a commercial scale, Inspector.  Lucinda tinkers – we have some
rare breeds.  She has – you see – well... a private income.’ 
He digs his hands into his trouser pockets, and jangles coins, as though this
is a symbolic act to reflect his inferior position.  ‘My main line is in
farm machinery – that’s why I was over at the Winterton Show – then
I’m due at the
Great Yorkshire
later in the week.’

‘What
kind of equipment do you deal in, sir?’

The
man looks a little surprised that Skelgill is showing an interest.  He
gestures towards a rather ramshackle barn, its sides tiled with rusting sheets
of corrugated iron.

‘I can
show you, if you would like.  I import a weed-wiper from New
Zealand.  Damn good piece of kit.  You can tow it behind a
quad.  Ideal for these hill farms that want to clean out their rough
grazing.  Targets the likes of ragweed and thistles – leaves the
grass intact – doubles the viable acreage.’

Skelgill
nods, a faintly bemused expression creasing his features as the man unconsciously
launches into his sales spiel.

‘I
perhaps ought to have a look around the cottage, first – if you don’t
mind, sir.’

‘Oh, naturally,
Inspector – my apologies.  Let me take you.  Want to ride down
in the Defender?’

‘I’m
fine to walk, sir – if you are.’

‘Certainly,
Inspector.’

They set
off downhill along the farm track, passing more large sheds where weed-wipers
are presumably stored.  Outside the first of these is parked a navy-blue
long-wheelbase Land Rover, with a trailer attached and goods covered by a tarpaulin
– a set-up that lends credence to the farmer’s story.

‘You mentioned
you were at school in the area, sir?’

‘Oakthwaite,
for my sins.’

Something
about Skelgill’s reaction must betray his recent connection with the eminent
establishment.  The farmer glances at him apprehensively, and clears his
throat to speak.

‘Rum
deal over old Querrell, Inspector – though I appreciate you’re probably
bound by protocol to keep mum.’

‘That’s
about it, I’m afraid, sir.’  Skelgill nonetheless looks as though he would
like to elaborate.  ‘You knew him, I take it, sir?’

‘Who
didn’t, Inspector?  Querrell
was
the school – heart and soul
of everything the place stood for.  I hear they’ve gone all international
under the new regime.’

Skelgill
nods, but perhaps decides he doesn’t have anything to add.  They walk on
in silence for a minute, and when they reach the cottage the farmer leads the
way around to the rear of the building.  He produces a key from his pocket
and unlocks the back door, leaving the key in position.  Skelgill steps
forward – not impolitely, but sufficiently so as to make his intention
clear.

‘If
you don’t object, sir – I’d rather go in alone.’

‘Of
course, Inspector.’

‘Sir,
when you entered earlier – did you disturb anything?’

The
man shakes his head decisively.

‘No,
Inspector – all I did was have a scout around – just to check that Walter
wasn’t here.  Lucinda had heard the appeal for information on the wireless
– but she couldn’t find her key and had to wait until I arrived
back.  She called me just as I reached Threlkeld, so I stopped by the
cottage as I was driving up.  I couldn’t have been inside for more than a
minute.  In fact, it crossed my mind that I probably shouldn’t contaminate
the scene, so it’s really just door handles that I touched where necessary.’

‘Excellent,
sir.  And did anything strike you as unusual?’

Now
the farmer reverts to the rubbing of his beard.

‘I honestly
can’t remember the last time I went beyond the kitchen, Inspector.  Maybe
it was a couple of winters ago to help with a burst pipe?  Walter led his
own separate life.  But certainly nothing struck me as odd – the
place is all jolly shipshape as far as one can see.’  He glances somewhat
cautiously at Skelgill.  ‘Obviously – to your trained eye it might
look entirely different.’

Skelgill
produces a modest smile.

‘I
shouldn’t bank on it, sir.’

Now from
beyond the cottage a sound begins to grow – it is the rumble of wide
tyres and the roar of an engine, eight cylinders that announce an important
arrival.

‘That’ll
be Lucinda, Inspector.’

The
vehicle passes and Skelgill gets a glimpse of a new-plate Range Rover that bounces
up the hill track, rather too fast for the conditions, crashing through
potholes and spraying water and mud.  The two men exchange pained glances.

‘Do
you have children, sir?’

There
is a noticeable intake of breath before the man replies.

‘No
– we don’t, Inspector.’  Now the hint of a sigh.  ‘Thankfully.’

Skelgill
diplomatically turns towards the door.

‘I
perhaps ought to hold onto the key for the time being, sir.’

‘Be my
guest, Inspector.’

The
man gestures with an outstretched palm, and then begins to step away.

‘I’ll
let Lucinda know you’ll be up shortly, shall I, Inspector?’

‘Thank
you, sir.’

*

‘We
don’t see salesmen on Mondays.’

An
ironic smile threatens to crease Skelgill’s severe countenance as he takes his
leave of Knott Halloo Farm.  Perhaps these words reverberate, or perhaps
it is the raised voices that now reach him by some circuitous means – an
open window at the rear of the substantial property?  Preeminent in this
cacophony is the far-carrying war cry of Lucinda, whose terse reception had him
misidentified as an unwelcome representative of a feedstuffs supplier.  Now
he pauses beside his car to listen for a moment, but it appears that the content
of the domestic disagreement is unintelligible, for he shakes his head and
climbs into the driver’s seat.

He has
not learned a great deal from the highly-strung lady of the house.  While
her answers to his questions have not exactly been evasive, certainly the
junior officer who will be despatched to take a full statement will have their
work cut out to achieve a definitive version.  Lucinda’s rambling and
slightly hysterical account of her movements since Friday – whilst her
husband was away – is full of minor contradictions and selective memories. 
It seems she leads a lively social life, and spent her weekend very much in the
mode of society butterfly, flitting from champagne lunch to afternoon
Pimm’s
party to evening cocktail bash.  Skelgill declined to inquire as to how
she managed to conduct herself from one to the next.  In the end, he has
settled for what he must consider to be the most telling piece of information,
which is that she cannot recall having seen Walter Barley since before lunch on
Friday... ‘...
or was it Thursday, now?’