Murder on the Edge (26 page)

‘That’s
exactly it.’

Skelgill
grimaces.

‘I
must admit – it’s a tactic I use myself often enough – sometimes I
don’t even know I’m doing it – according to my boss, anyway.’

She
smiles at his little joke.  Skelgill casually prods at the crumbs on his
plate.

‘Veronica
– you probably know him better than anybody – do you think I can
trust what he says?’

She
has been swift to answer most of Skelgill’s questions, but now she wavers. 
She leans back in her seat, brushing crumbs from her lap and keeping her eyes
on her hands as she interlocks her fingers; she appears undecided.

‘Possibly
– but I shouldn’t stake your job on it, if I were you, duck.’

Skelgill
nods pensively, and reaches for another slice of carrot cake.

*

Skelgill
has been guided through the smaller property into the adjoining main house, and
now he enters the day room alone.  There are five elderly men comfortably
seated around a large television, from which blares a popular soap opera
– though on reflection not
that
popular, since they all appear to
be sleeping.  Two others click dominoes at a card table in one corner;
neither looks up as he advances and then exits the lounge through double doors
that lead into a large conservatory.  Mercifully, the glazing is
efficient, and the strident cockney angst is excluded once he closes the doors
behind him.  The conservatory itself is pleasantly furnished with wicker
settees and matching low tables; healthy looking houseplants spill from hanging
baskets; beyond the glass there is a view down to the loch, though the misty
dusk precludes much detail.  Seated in a wheelchair and bent over a desk
and facing the same outlook, is a schoolboy-like figure, though closer
inspection reveals him to be bald, but for a few wisps of hair forming a
crescent at the back of his skull.  Maurice Stewart is making notes as
Skelgill approaches, and shows no sign that he detects the latter’s presence. 
A small transistor radio beside him emits the chatter of a sports talk-station.
 Skelgill takes a slight detour, and grabs the top of a wicker chair,
which he drags with him.

‘Yu’ve
come through at last, then.’

The
man, who seems to have knowledge of Skelgill’s earlier arrival, speaks in a
Cumbrian accent, and without glancing up.  As Skelgill positions his seat
at forty-five degrees to the desk, Maurice Stewart switches off the wireless
set and with some effort manipulates the wheelchair around to half-face him.

‘Mr
Stewart – thanks for sparing the time – I waited until the
all-weather meeting at Wolverhampton was finished – I figured you’d be
following it.’  He grins affably.  ‘Besides, your housekeeper bakes a
mean carrot cake.’

The
man regards Skelgill with a mixture of scepticism and guarded interest –
the former presumably because he knows his visitor is a detective, and the latter
perhaps because it must be rare for him to be engaged in terms that acknowledge
his pet subject, let alone with some apparent know-how thrown in.  While
he is formulating a response – if indeed he is – Skelgill presses
home the small advantage he might just have gained.

‘There
was a horse I fancied in the last race –
Danny’s Girl
, it was
called.’

Skelgill
says this casually, though with such intonation to suggest he is interested in
the outcome.  Maurice Stewart glances briefly at the neat piles of papers arranged
on the desk, and then turns back to Skelgill.

‘Aye,
well – she din’t run, she were withdrawn – so yer saved yerself a
few bob there.’

Skelgill
looks a little surprised.

‘You
wouldn’t have advised it?’

The
man shakes his head.  He has a long bulbous nose, a white chin-curtain
beard, and brown eyes hazy with a hint of glaucoma.  These features,
together with his heavy brow and furtive demeanour, create a striking resemblance
to a proboscis monkey.  Whether of the wise variety or not, remains to be
seen, but for the moment he certainly holds his peace, obliging Skelgill to
continue.

‘I reckoned
I had a reliable tip on that – in the bookie’s this morning.’

The
man shifts slightly but still does not comment.  Though Skelgill is to some
extent playing a game of blind man’s buff, he is at least on firm ground
– the filly bearing his own name caught his eye whilst he voluntarily posted
up the race cards earlier.

‘Same
person as gave me
You Stupid Boy
at Newmarket last Friday.’

Now
Maurice Stewart shows signs of interest.

‘Aye,
well – yer did alright there.  What did yer get?’

Skelgill
is straining the sinews of his gambling knowledge.  He is obliged to guess
the gist of this question.

‘Four
to one.’

The
man nods.  It is evidently the correct answer.  He swivels for a
moment and picks up the sheet of lined foolscap on which he has been working. 
He glances cursorily at the page and then shows it to Skelgill.

‘Nine
to two were available.’

He indicates
with a bony index finger, tipped with a long brown nail, cracked and curved
like a devil’s toenail fossil.  There are several matching columns of
handwritten figures in jerky black biro, perhaps a hundred pairs of numbers in
all.  The meaning of the first column is not clear, but the second clearly
holds a record of the odds, written in the traditional style – 11/4, 2/1,
13/8 and so on.  The nail traces a shaky course down the page, almost to
the very bottom of the last column, where the figures
9/2
are
written.  At the top of the sheet is the heading
‘Naps & Next Best’
. 
Skelgill takes hold of a corner of the page to get a better look; perhaps to
his surprise the man releases it to him and slumps against his wheelchair with
a small groan of discomfort.  Skelgill likewise sits upright and
scrutinises the page, frowning in an informed fashion and nodding from time to
time.  He must be racking his brains for some intelligent comment, but now
the man is more forthcoming.

‘Yon
figures in red are the losers.’

Skelgill
scans the page for a second time, a puzzled expression clouding his features.

‘There
aren’t any in red.’

The
man throws back his head and cackles jubilantly, though the laughter quickly disintegrates
into a chaotic bout of phlegmy coughing that culminates in him spitting
profusely into a handkerchief wrestled from (and returned to) a trouser
pocket.  Skelgill watches implacably through this ostensibly disturbing
episode; it seems he senses no distress.  When calm is restored, he hands
back the page of winners.

‘That’s
some system you’ve got, Mr Stewart.’

The
man smirks, though there is perhaps the glisten of pride in his dark eyes
– unless this is the product of tears that welled up during the coughing
fit.

‘Aye,
happen I’ve cracked it, eh lad?’

Skelgill
folds his arms and shakes his head in admiration.

‘How
do you do it – I mean, without revealing your formula?’

The
man squints and picks at the back of his head with two hands, as though he is
removing a tick.

‘I’ve
got all me filters, twelve of ’em – usual things like bloodline, trainer,
jockey, form, weight, going.’  He gestures towards a folded copy of the
Racing
Post
that is arrayed with the other materials on the desk.  ‘Official ratings,
handicaps, tipsters’ predictions, odds ratios.’

He
yawns without covering his mouth, revealing unnaturally white dentures top and
bottom.  Skelgill checks his wristwatch; it is true that the evening is
wearing on and quite likely the old man is tiring.

‘Sounds
impressive.’

But Maurice
Stewart scoffs.

‘That’s
nowt – anyone can get that information.’

Skelgill
tips his head to one side.

‘But
surely the skill is knowing what to do with it?’

The
man shrugs dismissively.  He leans out of his chair and stretches for a
single sheet of paper, this one covered in printed data, with many columns of tiny
figures set against horses’ names.  He passes the page to Skelgill who,
after a couple of moments’ scrutiny, looks up inquiringly.  It seems this
is a satisfactory response.

‘Time
horses – that’s what it’s all about, lad – time horses.’

Skelgill
again nods deferentially.

‘You
must make a fortune, Mr Stewart.’

The
man’s response is an abbreviated version of the cackle-and-cough routine,
although this time thankfully not requiring the hanky.

‘I
don’t bet, lad.’

Skelgill
inhales as if he is about to speak, but in reaching to return the page his gaze
drifts beyond Maurice Stewart and he notices a budget-edition mobile phone resting
on the far corner of the desk.  The man follows Skelgill’s eyes – and
instead of replacing the data-sheet in its allocated space, he slides it casually
over the handset.  He hesitates for a moment before he settles back to
face the detective.  Now he yawns again, more laboriously this time.

‘Any’ow,
lad – thee din’t come to discuss horses – yon Morag’ll be along to
pack us off ter kip soon.’

Skelgill
holds up a palm in acknowledgment, and then joins both hands together between
his knees and assumes a more business-like though still affable posture. 
Whether he has detected the subtle change in his antagonist’s demeanour is
difficult to gauge.

‘Mr
Stewart – the main purpose of coming to see you is to ask about your son,
Clifford.’

‘Why
– what’s he bin up ter?’

Immediately
there is the cackle, perhaps with a more manic flourish than before.  The apelike
eyes seem to glint with amusement.

‘Oh
– it’s nothing like that, sir – it’s just that we have reason to
believe he might be in danger.’

For a
fleeting moment the man’s features seem pained, though the reaction could
equally be one of contempt.

‘Danger,
eh?’

‘It’s
essential we trace him, you see, sir.’

‘
Cliff
Edge
.’

There
is a sense of wistful nostalgia conveyed in this short expression, with each
word being separately emphasised.

‘I beg
your pardon, sir?’

‘Cliff
Edge – that’s what he called hisself –
Dangerous Cliff Edge
. 
He liked that – being the star turn.  Lock up your daughters, here
comes Dangerous Cliff Edge.’

Skelgill
inches closer.

‘Do
you mean when you had the outdoor activity centre – and the climbing
wall?  At Knott Halloo?’

‘Aye,
he were a reet good climber were our Cliff.’  The man makes a throaty
rattle, as though he is agreeing with himself by agitating the catarrh lining
his trachea.  ‘Cliff Edge.  Ha!’

‘Do
you know where we can find him, sir?’

The
man pitches forward and pinches the end of his nose between the thumb and
forefinger of one hand.  Whether this is intended as a confiding gesture
it is hard to discern, but his reply suggests such.

‘No
one knows where to find Cliff.’

In his
enunciation there is a hint of triumph – the accent upon
no one
– as if Clifford’s whereabouts is a long-held secret in which only he
shares and he is flaunting this accomplishment before Skelgill.  Suddenly
he jerks back upright and again there is the unnerving laughter.

‘Including
yourself, sir?’

Now
the man shrugs indifferently; he does not seem inclined to answer verbally.

‘When
did you last see him?’

Maurice
Stewart yawns once more, and closes his eyes for several seconds. 
Skelgill stares at him with concern, perhaps trying to assess whether he is
overcome by sleep.  Then the eyes disconcertingly spring open.

‘See who?’

‘Your
son Cliff, sir.’

‘What
about him?’

‘Has
he been in touch with you lately?’

The
man sways in his chair; he has an intoxicated air.

‘He speaks
to me – don’t they all, eh?’

Once
more there is the spluttering cackle and cough.  But now a movement
attracts Skelgill’s attention.  It appears that the staff are shepherding
their clients off to bed.  A woman unfamiliar to Skelgill – skinny
and plain looking, asexual in her uniform of beige smock and matching trousers,
dark hair wrung into an ascetic top knot – bangs open and fastens back
the interconnecting doors.  This must be the aforementioned Morag.

‘Time
to turn in, Mr Stewart – cocoa’s already in your room.’

She shoots
a severe glance at Skelgill, a clear signal that his presence is now no longer
desired – at least as far as she is concerned.  Perhaps her shift
ends once she has packed away the inmates and, rather like a barmaid trying to
clear a pub of its laggards who loiter long after last orders, maybe she too undergoes
the closing-time transformation from hospitable to hostile.  The
television through in the day room has been silenced, and she extinguishes the
lights in the conservatory.  Skelgill rises, but takes the opportunity to step
across to the windows, now that the internal reflection has been eliminated. 
Leaning over, he presses his forehead against the glass and peers out into the
darkness, but in his eagerness to see outside he upsets a vase and only just
manages to catch it before it tumbles onto the tiled floor.  He re-settles
it carefully and makes an apologetic mimed gesture – the woman briefly
looks askance, but she is more concerned with wrenching round the wheelchair and
aiming it at the ramp up into the lounge.