Murder on the Edge (21 page)

‘Anything
from Herdwick, yet?’

‘Nothing
in writing, Guv – I just rang down to him – his assistant says he’s
doing the PM now – I managed to get her to cough that death occurred at
least two days before the body was found.’

‘That
could be
Friday
, Leyton.’

‘I
know, Guv – I suppose it fits the pattern, though.  Do ’em in and
dump ’em later.’

‘Eloquently
put, Leyton.’

‘Sorry,
Guv – you know me – call a spade a spade, and all that.’

Skelgill
stoops down and peers closely through the plate-glass at a colourful selection
of lures arranged in a budget-priced fly-box.

‘See
if you can find anything on a Maurice Stewart or his son Clifford –
previous owners of Knott Halloo farm – sold it in 1997 – where they
are now, what they’re up to – might have had money problems.’

‘Will
do, Guv.’

There
is a silence as Skelgill further scrutinises the angling fare on offer.

‘Anything
else, Guv?’

‘I’ll
be in touch, Leyton.’

Skelgill
terminates the call, and advances purposefully into the store.

Jonathan
Otley’s
Guide book: A Concise Description of the English Lakes, 1823,
is
not one to which Skelgill habitually turns, although as he fly-casts doggedly
across the mirrored surface of his present location it is a source of reference
he might ostensibly do well to heed.  ‘
Scales Tarn, on the east end of
the mountain Saddleback, is an oval piece of water covering an area of three
acres and a half, its two diameters being 176 and 124 yards, its depth 18 feet;
and uninhabited by the finny tribe
.’

This
assumes, however, that Skelgill is here to
catch
such a creature.

When
rational analysis has run its course – or perhaps more accurately has
become so overloaded by information as to reach a logic-defying log jam –
Skelgill can be observed to default to one of his regular displacement
activities.  Rather like ironing clothes or mowing the lawn, or peeling
vegetables or flannel rag quilting, there are some low-intensity, rhythmical tasks
that seem to preoccupy one’s superficial consciousness and thus facilitate
deeper contemplation: ‘feeling’ for an answer, rather than thinking about it. 
The poet A.E. Housman was renowned for compositions that ‘came to him’ whilst
taking long country walks, often after a pint of ale at lunchtime.  It is
said he would bemoan those occasions when he returned home ‘empty handed’, so
to speak, and was obliged to ‘think up’ the poem for himself!

In
Skelgill’s case, angling is not generally a pursuit to which he turns in such
circumstances.  His obsession with the sport, and his fiercely competitive
nature, soon sees him entirely immersed in the prospect of outwitting whatever
species lurks tantalisingly beneath the water in question.  War is declared
and all possibilities of subconscious reflection are banished.  This
might, however, explain why he is prospecting in the ‘uninhabited’ Scales Tarn
– since there are no fish, there can be no such distraction, only the habitual
going through the motions.

A
related idiosyncrasy in Skelgill’s behaviour is his propensity to disappear
from the official radar.  Admittedly, more often that not his superiors
are unaware of such instances, unlike his closer colleagues, who are accustomed
to his unannounced abandonment of his post – and the requirement to hold
the fort until he reappears.  If challenged, Skelgill has a robust
defence.  He takes few holidays and draws no distinctions where
conventional nine-till-five working is concerned (much to the despair of these
same long-suffering subordinates).  The notion of separate ‘police time’
and ‘Skelgill time’ is not one that he recognises.  When he set off
earlier, it might have appeared to be going fishing in ‘police time’ –
but he would simply argue he is solving the crime, and point to his incontrovertible
strike rate.  And should he stop ‘solving’ at five p.m.?

Of
course, this unilateral construct would hold little water in the face of a
disciplinary tribunal, and a vague appreciation of his renegade attitude among
the powers-that-be might go some way to explain his continued designation as
‘plain’ Inspector.

The
improvement in the weather has been continuous during the day, and now the sky
has cleared and there is a bare hint of breeze.  As early evening advances,
the sun drops behind the great bulk of Blencathra (or
Saddleback
, as
Otley referred to it), and – while the ‘finny tribe’ remains conspicuous
by its absence – another biting order of fauna begins to make its
presence felt: the
Diptera
, largely represented by the Lake District’s
local variety of Highland midge.

Skelgill
employs several modes of protection against this near-invisible menace.  A
mosquito-hat is one, its full-face veil providing an effective barrier –
though equally an impediment to good vision, and certainly to the consumption
of any food or beverage.  A second is a proprietary brand of cosmetic skin
softener, a handy spray that has remarkable deterrent properties with none of
the unpleasant insecticides found in most dedicated repellents.  Skelgill dislikes
the latter concoctions for their ability to corrode fishing line, and their vile
taste.  Third – and his preferred option for more than just its
ability to discourage bugs – is his
Kelly Kettle.
  This
battered contraption, which is basically a water-filled chimney sleeve, can be
fired up in such a way as to produce a robust cloud of smoke.  Under calm
conditions, such as currently prevail, Skelgill can sit contentedly cocooned,
rather like a cuckoo-spit bug, obliging the tiny vampirettes to seek out other
fisherman (or sheep) from whom to obtain their blood meal.

Right
now there are neither human nor ovine alternatives available, and thus the defenceless
Skelgill is forced to beat a retreat and return to camp.  Out of respect
he has chosen the opposite bank of Scales Tarn from that where Lee Harris’s
body was found a week ago.  He shows no sign that the time spent in the repetitive
act of cast-and-retrieve has prompted a solution to percolate from the depths
of his mind and bubble at the surface of his consciousness.  Though
something has drawn him back to this particular locus, rather like a hopeful dog
that keeps returning to a spot where it once found a juicy morsel.

Kneeling,
he unpacks the
Kelly Kettle
and, as he must have done in identical
fashion on hundreds of similar occasions, begins methodically to build a little
lattice of kindling.  He is about to sprinkle this structure with
methylated spirits (an unnecessary, but safe and effective accelerant), when he
stops and rewinds the cap of his
Sigg
bottle, leans it against his
rucksack, and gets to his feet.  Arms folded, brows knitted, he trudges broodingly
back to the water’s edge.  Here he lingers, staring at the calm pool; if
he is bothered again by the no-see-ums he does not show it.  Reflected
before him, a heron beats purposefully overhead, without deviation,
confirmation if any were needed that there is no aquatic fare on offer
here.  Then there is the grey spine of Sharp Edge, mirrored eerily like a
stegosaurian monster at rest beneath clear waters.  Skelgill stoops down
and scrapes up a handful of pebbles, which he casts high in the air.  With
a rat-a-tat-tat splash the leviathan disappears; ripples form, enlarge and,
after a few moments of elegant integrity, intersect to create a sudden
maelstrom, as if a small shoal has just surfaced in unison.

This phenomenon
seems to be the catalyst for Skelgill to snap out of his dwam.  Purposefully
he yanks his phone from his hip pocket and scowls at the screen.  He
shakes the handset and waves it about – but to no avail – his
provider does not serve this rocky corrie.  He trudges back to his camp
and crams the various items of gear into his rucksack.  Hauling this onto
one shoulder he picks up his fishing rod and sets off around the tarn. 
When he reaches the little outfall whence Scales Beck tumbles down to meet the
Glenderamackin five hundred feet below, instead of following a similar course towards
civilisation, he swings left, and northwards, and climbs the path for Sharp
Edge.

He is
about halfway across the arête when hears the first incoming text – the
network has found him.  Carefully he wedges his rod and backpack into
suitable crevices, and then he swings a leg so he is sitting astride the crest,
aping Wainwright’s safety-first
à cheval
method.

Retrieving
his mobile from his pocket, he dials DS Jones.

There
is no reply.  He cuts the call as it transfers to voicemail.  He is
facing Blencathra; a group of walkers is silhouetted against the powder blue of
the evening sky, stick figures that seem with exaggerated slowness to traverse
Atkinson Pike.  If they plan to cross Sharp Edge, they are ten minutes or
so from his position.  He looks at the handset, at DS Jones’s contact
details, as if he is trying to decide whether to try calling again, or use some
other means; she will have been off duty a good hour or more by now.

Skelgill
watches the walkers; they begin to descend, one by one dropping from sight
beneath the skyline, blending with the dusky hill.  He turns his attention
back to his mobile phone, and makes a second call.

A
young woman answers; there is lively pop music playing in the background.

‘Hello?’

‘Liz?’

‘Aha?’

‘It’s,
er... Dan – from Cumbria.  The funny looking one – with the
daft dog.’

‘That’s
not how I remember things.’

The
Welsh lilt gives her voice an engaging cadence.

‘Aye,
well – the dog’s not so daft, I grant you.’

The
woman laughs, though a little nervously, and there is a pregnant pause, rather
like the one they shared in the flesh at this location.  After a moment it
is the woman who speaks.

‘Well
– how are you?’

‘I
need to see you.’

‘Sure.’

There
is a further pause, while the ball seems to rest in Skelgill’s court.  But
as before it is left to her to make the running.

‘When?’

‘Tonight.’

Skelgill’s
terse response is phrased as a statement rather than a question.

‘O-kay.’ 
Her enunciation hints at anticipation tinged with apprehension.  ‘Where
are you?’

‘Virtually
the same spot that we first met – give or a take a rock or two.’

‘But
– that’s hours away.’

‘Nothing
my car can’t solve.’

‘So
– what time – do you think?’

‘By
midnight?’

‘I’ll
have the cocoa on.’

Skelgill
hesitates, as though he is about to comment on this particular beverage.

‘Liz
– there’s something I have to tell you.’

*

The
route from Penrith to Penarth – Skelgill’s journey barring a quick detour
here and there – is almost exclusively by motorway.  Slicing down
England’s western flank, it runs parallel with much of the 160-mile-long Welsh
border, only dipping into
Cymru
for the last thirty minutes or so. 
While the island of Great Britain comes in size-wise between Michigan and Minnesota,
Wales is more of a match with the state of New Jersey, and – as Skelgill
once put it to a bemused American tourist who had mistakenly found his way into
the Lakes when seeking Snowdonia National Park – it is a small country
that punches above its weight in rugby, singing, and beautiful women.

While
it seems possible that at least one of these attributes influences Skelgill’s
motivation, in the early part of the journey, at least, other more pressing
needs preoccupy him.  Having called briefly by his own residence, he stops
for fuel and provisions at a petrol station, and then – in a manner of
speaking – pins back his ears.  By the time he has driven on the
motorway for half an hour, he has committed enough moving traffic offences to
lose his otherwise clean licence.

The
catalogue of misdemeanours at the wheel would include eating, drinking, texting
and internet browsing, feeding treats to a dog, and – not least –
speeding, combined with minor incidents of road rage.  Ironically, he decelerates
to avoid becoming prey to a mobile speed camera, housed in a police van parked on
a bridge near the Kendal junction, and flashes his main beam liberally, should
the operator be a colleague with whom he is acquainted.  Once he has
passed beneath, however, and regained his illicit cruising velocity, a related thought
must strike him – for he quickly snatches up his mobile and calls DS
Leyton’s number.  It is now past nine o’clock, so – quite reasonably
– his sergeant’s phone rings through to voicemail; Skelgill is obliged to
leave a message.

His chosen
path skims past the cities of Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham and
Bristol.  As signs for these conurbations come and go, and the traffic
thins out, dusk settles into incomplete summer darkness, a deep violet blue beyond
stroboscopic motorway neon.  Skelgill nods into a trancelike state, his
breathing slow and regular, his eyes glazed and unblinking.  Behind him
Cleopatra, spread along the seat, dreams fitfully, perhaps of small brown
mammals.

Yet,
as is the way with all long journeys, it comes to an end with a sudden and
contrasting finality.  Guided by the satnav app on his mobile phone,
Skelgill steers his way briskly through the almost-deserted streets of Penarth
– itself these days more or less a suburb of the Welsh capital –
and slows to an abrupt halt outside a neat three-storey, end-of-terrace house
on the hillside overlooking the winking lights of the marina in Cardiff
Bay.  The sound of his arrival draws the flicker of a curtain, and –
by the time he has secured the car and left sufficient ventilation for the dog
– the front door is open.  A slim figure strikes a feline pose, an
inviting shadowy profile against the subdued hall light.  Skelgill grins a
little sheepishly as he first stretches and then trots up the steps.

‘It’s
a long way to come to see my etchings.’

‘That’s
one way of putting it.’

‘I
keep them upstairs.’

‘Don’t
I get my cocoa?’