Murder on the Edge (25 page)

‘Maybe
the bike was nicked, Guv?’

Skelgill
yawns and slumps back into his chair.

‘You
always think the worst of people, Leyton.’

On
this note of light relief they all laugh, and there is a pause for sips and slurps
of tea, more the latter in Skelgill’s case.  Covetously he eyes DS Jones’s
untouched chocolate bar; she notices his interest.

‘You’re
welcome to that, Guv.’

Skelgill
obliges without further negotiation.  As DS Leyton looks on forlornly, his
boss tears open the wrapper and takes a bite, then waggles the remaining
portion in his female colleague’s direction.

‘Dare
I ask if there is anything else, Jones?’

‘Your
last point was the forensics, Guv.’  She traces a line on her notepad with
her finely manicured nails.  ‘I’ve spoken with Dr Herdwick – he said
he’s still mystified at the lack of injuries – but that he thinks all
three bodies could have been kept wrapped in some kind of plastic sheets
– he’s getting extra tests done.’

Skelgill
seems to become distracted by this information, and stares without expression
at the wall between his two sergeants while chewing rhythmically.  After a
few moments his eyelids begin to droop, and DS Leyton – as if trying to
make himself more comfortable – scrapes his chair loudly on the
floor.  The sound penetrates Skelgill’s drowsy reverie, and he rouses
himself and checks his watch once again.

‘Jones
– have you got those details for the nursing home?’

‘I’ll ring
down and chase them, Guv – they should be ready.’

Skelgill
stands up and reaches for his jacket.  It is approaching the end of their
shift, and DS Leyton coughs rather nervously.

‘What
it is, Guv – I’ve got my youngest’s end-of-term show at five-thirty.’

Skelgill
regards DS Leyton implacably.

‘No
probs, Leyton – I was planning to go on me tod.’

DS
Jones, watching Skelgill expectantly, looks a little deflated.  Rather
peremptorily, she gathers up her papers and rises to her feet.

‘I’ll
get you that info, Guv.  I’ll email it to you straight away.’

As DS
Jones slips behind him, DS Leyton cranes his neck to watch her depart. 
Then he shakes his head in silent admiration and leans covertly towards
Skelgill.

‘No
wonder they call her
Fast-track
, eh, Guv?’

Skelgill
thumbs the lapels of his jacket.

‘Aye,
well – she just needed pointing in the right direction, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton nods tactfully and takes his own leave.

Skelgill
gathers his personal belongings and effects a swift retreat from the
building.  However, once car borne, rather than make for the nearest
motorway junction he heads north out of Penrith on the A6.  After a few
minutes he turns off the trunk road into a lane, and shortly from the lane into
a narrow, concealed track that enters a small copse, where he draws to a halt. 
He switches off the engine, rounds the car and re-enters via the passenger
door.  Then he winds back the passenger seat to its maximum extent,
stretches out his legs, and promptly falls fast asleep.

The
region of Galloway is three times the size of the Lake District, and yet it
attracts only a fraction of the visitors.  This is curious on the face of
it, given the proximity of the two areas, and their marked similarities. 
Where Lakeland has its meres, dales and becks, Galloway boasts lochs, glens and
burns in equal measure.  Indeed, Galloway offers crowd-free hillwalking
that Cumbrian outdoors folk can only dream of, and its highest peak, The Merrick,
a slumbering giant at the heart of a great wilderness, is a match for its
much-trodden English counterparts across the shimmering Solway Firth.

Quite what
makes Galloway so forsaken a land (statistically, at least) is hard to fathom. 
Skelgill’s present journey is perhaps ninety minutes, by good roads.  Why
few among the holidaying hordes invest such modest time to discover the
history, culture and wildlife of this ancient realm is something of a mystery.

Skelgill’s
route, in fact, turns out to be rather more convoluted, for he takes a detour
to Aspatria, to spend five minutes with Hilda Seddon.  Ironically, this
small Cumbrian town lies on the beeline that notionally joins Penrith and
Castle Douglas (the nearest substantial settlement to his destination), but the
interposing estuary means he must retrace his tracks in order to enter
Scotland.  It is approaching seven p.m. as he skims over the Esk at Metal
Bridge, and such is his level of concentration that he omits his habitual
sideways glance to check the state of the tide.  He flashes across the
border at well above the speed limit, and is obliged to break abruptly when
suddenly he becomes aware of the fast-enlarging exit sign for Gretna, its kitschy
factory outlets, and the A75 west.

Clouds
have been the order of the day, and now that they darken the landscape with a
premature sense of dusk, perhaps the contrast between Galloway and Lakeland
becomes more stark.  Where the Lakes has its verdant oakwoods, soft and
inviting, hugging the contours and blending into the fellsides, Galloway is a
manmade patchwork of midnight-green conifer plantations, whose angular margins
challenge aesthetics and slice across bog and scree like the arbitrary borders
of African countries.  Such austerity is amplified in the names of many
natural features: Loch Doon, Long Loch of the Dungeon, The Black Water of Dee,
Murder Hole, Rigg of the Jarkness, and the Range of the Awful Hand.  And where
Lakeland towns are thronged with colourful cagoule-clad visitors, who spill
chattering from quaint freshly painted pubs adorned with overflowing hanging
baskets, an air of melancholy hangs over Galloway; by comparison its villages appear
deserted, their buildings in less-than-pristine repair, eaves slowly dripping with
black rain; while beyond in the swirling mists mingle the ghosts of Covenanters,
lamenting their tragic risings.

Yet in
this isolation resides Galloway’s appeal.  It has long been a haven for
those seeking solitude and seclusion – the creative and the meditative
– and among its farming and foresting inhabitants moves a significant
population of artists, artisans and aspiring adherents of various obscure
faiths and orders, tenaciously eking a living off the beaten track. 
Skelgill’s destination – Glenlochar Castle Retreat – has provenance
in this regard; now a private retirement home, it was formerly the base of a Buddhist
community – a group that departed at the turn of the century when
planning permission for a proposed human-waste power generation plant was
denied by the local authority.  In any event, despite its name, a
fortified role has never been one of its functions, although during the war it
was occupied as a training centre for the construction of Bailey bridges on
nearby Loch Ken.

Thus,
as Skelgill turns into the winding driveway, crowded by straining banks of
rhododendrons, he ought not anticipate some grand edifice in Scottish Baronial
style.  Instead, rounding the final bend, he encounters the incongruous
car crash of two social classes, two properties juxtaposed.  By far the
grander, on the left, is constructed in the Greek Revival style of the mid
1800s, in local greywacke with red sandstone quoins, jambs, lintels and sills; a
low-slope hipped slate roof; and a massive central porch, its columns, door and
cornicing painted white, and surrounded by long three-over-six sash windows
that create the impression of a vacant multi-eyed countenance with an oversized
mouth.  Standing flush against this building – admittedly in the
same severe stone – is a graphically contrasting traditional Galloway
farmhouse, also of two storeys (though these much lower), the three dormers of
its upper floor jutting from the steep gabled roof, their angled rake edges and
those of the porch beneath clashing jauntily with the horizontal lines of the
main house.

Architecture
does not rank high among Skelgill’s interests – or even disturb his general
sentience – but as he kills the engine he stares at the distressing agglomeration. 
After a minute he emerges into a fine drizzle that thickens the air and dampens
the crunch of his feet on the gravel.  He approaches the ostentatious
portico and is about to mount its fan of worn steps when, to his right, the front
door of the smaller property opens.  A cheery-looking woman of late middle
age, medium height and stout build, alerted presumably by the dull slam of his car
door, leans out and beckons for him to come.

‘This
way, duck – the reception’s all shut up for the night.’

She
steps back to admit him, only at the last second extending a hand, as if she is
unsure how to greet a policeman.

‘Veronica
– duty housekeeper – I’m on until six in the morning.’

‘Skelgill,
Cumbria CID.  I believe you spoke with one of my colleagues.’

The
woman nods eagerly, closing the door and ushering Skelgill ahead of her into a
surprisingly wide hallway furnished with a small settee and an easy chair, and
a coffee table angled between them. 

‘You’re
here to see Maurice – he’s expecting you – he’s just finishing off
his supper.’  She pulls on the back of the chair, an action suggesting
that he should sit.  ‘Would you like a cup of tea and a wee cake while you
wait – you’ll have had a long journey?’

‘Don’t
mind if I do – if it’s no bother?’

‘Och,
you just sit yourself down – I shan’t be a wee minute.’

His acquiescence
seems to have an endearing effect.  She beams widely and bustles
away.  Skelgill lowers himself into the seat, an amused smile creasing the
corners of his mouth: she has an English accent of a Midlands nature –
but, in the way of many an incomer to a foreign region, she has adopted some of
the local vernacular, if not quite the pronunciation.  Presently, from
what must be a small staff kitchen, emanate the promising rumble of a boiling kettle
and the ring of a tin – and perhaps the sound of slicing, several times
repeated.  Indeed, Skelgill is not disappointed when she reappears bearing
a well-stocked tray of refreshments, comprising a large steaming mug of tea and
a reserve pot, milk and sugar, and a stand with three slices each of carrot
cake and Victoria sponge.  There is only one side plate.

‘You
not having some yourself?’

‘Och
– no, I’ve got to watch my figure.’

She smoothens
the sides of her dress as she settles upon the settee and helps Skelgill to his
first slice; there is no doubt that, with just a few inches trimmed off here
and there, her now matronly curves would once have turned heads.  Skelgill
might empathise with the mismatched challenge of idling away long nightshifts, and
only a tin of cakes for company.

‘You’re
not Scottish?’

‘We’re
from West Bridgford.’

Skelgill
nods as he chews.

‘Nottingham.’

‘That’s
right, duck – not many people up here know that.’

Skelgill
cocks his head to one side.

‘Probably
not many people up here have fished the Trent.’

‘Och
– so that’s how you know.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows in affirmation as he takes a gulp of tea.

‘You
said
we
?’

‘My
husband, Bill – he’s the handyman, does the grounds as well – it’ll
be four years this September we moved up – we’ve got a little cottage down
by the loch.  Bill likes his fishing, too.’

Skelgill
nods, perhaps wrestling with the temptation to become sidetracked.

‘What’s
the set-up here – as regards your patients?’

The
woman’s eyes seem longingly to be following the movements of Skelgill’s side
plate, with its diminishing portion of Victoria sponge.  Skelgill notices
this and changes tack.

‘Why
don’t you get yourself a mug and a plate – if Mr Stewart is going to be a
few minutes – I’m in no rush.’

‘Are
you sure, duck?’

But in
asking this question she is already rising to her feet and heading for the
kitchenette.  Returning, she sighs with relief as she makes herself
comfortable once more.  Skelgill watches with interest as she opts for the
sponge, as if he has a little wager with himself resting on this outcome.

‘It’s
just a gentleman’s retirement home – nothing fancy – for those who’d
struggle to manage on their own.  Though we don’t provide medical care, so
they have to move on if a condition becomes a problem.’  She takes a bite
of cake and then, holding one hand over her mouth out of politeness, quickly
adds, as if for the official record, ‘We’re all first-aid-trained, of course.’

Skelgill
nods encouragingly.

‘And Mr
Stewart – was he here before you came?’

The
woman nods.

‘About
seven years, I think he’s been.’

‘Does
he have any visitors?’

Now
she shakes her head, and finishes her next mouthful before she replies.

‘None
at all – but he’s got a mobile phone – we have to buy him top-up
vouchers in Castle Douglas when he’s running low.’

‘Do
you know who he speaks with?  We’re trying to trace his son, Clifford.’

Again
there is the cake-induced delay.

‘He’s
quite secretive, you see – keeps to himself, even among the other chaps
– and we’ve only got eight residents altogether at the moment.’

She
leans forward a little conspiratorially, although at first Skelgill must assume
she wants a second helping of cake, since he lifts the remaining selection for
her consideration.

‘Och,
I shouldn’t, you know.’

Skelgill
grins at her disarmingly.

‘Thing
is – I’ll eat it all, if you won’t – and I’m not sure that’s a good
idea either.’

‘Well,
just a wee slice then, to help you out.’

This
wee
can only be intended euphemistically, since none of the surviving slices could
remotely be described as ungenerous.  She opts for the last piece of
Victoria sponge, which seems to satisfy Skelgill as he helps himself to carrot
cake.  The woman resumes her confidential pose, and speaks in something of
a hushed tone.

‘What
I was going to say was – and you’ll see for yourself – he’s a bit
strange.’

‘In
what way?’

‘He
spends most of his time studying horses – he gets that racing newspaper
delivered every day – and he likes to watch the races on the television
– when the others will let him.’

‘Does
he place bets?’

‘Not
that I know of – I mean he doesn’t leave here.’

‘What
about online betting?’

The
woman shakes her head decisively.

‘I
know you can do it with computers these days – but we don’t have any –
not even for the staff.  My Bill says good riddance – it’s one less
thing to go wrong.’

‘Could
he bet by phone?’

The
woman considers this, but again shakes her head.

‘I’m
not sure he’s got a credit card – he pays us in cheques and cash.’ 
She gazes at her empty plate for a moment.  ‘He receives regular mail
though – thick envelopes that come recorded – he must get his money
sent through the post.’

Skelgill
does not respond immediately.  Perhaps he is trying to work something out,
and is disguising these mental calculations as the process of savouring the
carrot cake.

‘Excellent,
this – did you bake it yourself?’

The
woman looks pleased and nods with affected modesty.

‘Wait
till I tell my sergeant – he’ll be cooking up an excuse for us to come
back.’

Now she
chuckles and perhaps even blushes with pride.  Skelgill resumes his stealthy
interrogation.

‘Veronica
– you said he was
strange
– the business with the horses
– that’s not so unusual is it?’

She nods,
recognising that there is an unfinished part to her explanation.

‘It’s
more Maurice himself, really – it’s like... well, sometimes he’s not
quite there – except that you can’t help thinking he’s putting it on.’

‘What
– as if he’s acting a bit daft in order to be evasive?’

She
nods enthusiastically.