Murder on the Edge (29 page)

Though
never a caver himself, he is no stranger to this underground world; boyhood
dares concerned these places, and his mountain rescue team is summoned likewise
on occasion, and trains for all eventualities.  In such circumstances he
would be fully equipped with helmet, harness, rope and head-torch.  Abreast
of the horror stories, therefore, his caution is to be expected. 
Cleopatra, however, knows no such trepidation, and moves ahead in investigative
fashion.  Of course, her rod-rich retinas endow her with six times the night-vision
of her companion, and perhaps sensing this Skelgill lets out a few turns of the
leash from his wrist.  Where his forbears held forth a canary, he follows
a four-legged friend.

In the
classical manner, the adit bores horizontally into the hillside, a speculative
shot uncannily aimed at pockets of rare metal ores, deposits that had lain
undisturbed for millions of years, gathering interest.  As Skelgill’s eyes
begin to adjust to the lack of light, any gains are offset by the intensifying
darkness as he explores further from the entrance.  The roof and walls of
the passage begin to crowd in, and he opts to run his free hand along the
uneven ceiling, as a precaution to warn against a jutting rock.

But it
is no such solid protrusion that he encounters – instead something
altogether more unearthly – as clammy webbed fingers grasp his palm. 
What
Gollum
-like creature can this be?  He jerks back with a cry of
shock.  There is a flutter in the air – and perhaps a tiny guttural
breath.  It is a bat.  Minding its own business, it has found its beauty
sleep rudely interrupted by Skelgill’s clumsy fumblings.  It beats about
for a couple of seconds, and then apparently heads deeper into the
tunnel.  Cleopatra, momentarily alarmed by Skelgill’s reflex squawk,
switches quickly into hunting mode – unlike her master, she can hear the
tiny winged mammal’s cries of indignation.  She darts forward and –
in succumbing to this instinct – takes a leap in the dark that is very
nearly her last, for just ahead of them lies an invisible abyss.  But one
further feature of canine biology delays this undesirable outcome: where two
legs would have seen her plummet to her doom, instead only her front paws initially
slide over the edge of the shaft.  In this hiatus, the length of baler
twine attached to Skelgill’s wrist provides a temporary lifeline.  Skelgill,
after first recoiling from the bat, is now yanked forward in a manner that must
seem like the take of a pike to break all records; a take of the kind that
catches him blithely off guard, perhaps as he inattentively retrieves after the
last cast of the day.  As such, what can only be learned behaviour –
but which for him has become as good as instinct – kicks in, and he, in a
manner of speaking, strikes.  This action holds the dog fast – so
long as the baler twine will remain intact.  Skelgill drops to his knees, and
with an angler’s aplomb he winds in the line in short sharp jerks as he crawls
towards her, all the time maintaining the tension.  Then with one sudden
lunge he slides his free hand down the line and grabs her collar. 
Cleopatra might weigh fifty pounds, and Skelgill might have a latent back
injury, but adrenaline is a remarkable substance, and he hauls the dog
one-handed over his shoulder and deposits her on the cave floor behind
him.  He unravels the leash from his wrist and casts down the free
end.  At this juncture no one can really blame poor Cleopatra for making a
bolt for the light at the end of the tunnel.

Skelgill
remains on his knees.  He turns back to face into the darkness. 
Cautiously he slides along on his hands until he reaches the edge of the
pit.  There is nothing to see – it is just a marginally blacker pool
that spreads across the dark width of the passageway.  Skelgill tuts in
self-reprimand; he knows the dangers of these dank places, that their eighteenth
century architects were prone to sink shafts seemingly at random.  He
fumbles about and finds a loose stone.  Then he tosses it like a coin,
with a flick of his thumb.  He counts – one, two, three...
splash
. 
Somewhere between one hundred-and-fifty and two hundred feet, and who knows
what beneath the water?  He backs well away before he rises, cautiously
raising his hands above his head to feel his way.  Now, however, his eyes
are functioning with greater efficiency, and in any event there is the light
that filters in from the narrow portal.  Cleopatra’s silhouette paces to
and fro, eager to greet her rescuer, oblivious to his role in her near
downfall.

As
much as Skelgill was blinded by the darkness when he entered the cave, the
glare of the sun must now seem like a dizzying explosion of light, in which the
universe turns white and the stellar blossoms of the bedstraw blend into one
all-enveloping Milky Way.  Indeed, he clears the mouth of the tunnel and sways
across to a grassy hummock, upon which he sinks gratefully.  He grins
affectionately at Cleopatra, who joins him and settles down, her death-defying episode
as quickly forgotten as her last meal.  Skelgill casts about as though he
is missing his
Kelly Kettle
– which, of course, he is.  Then
he notices the twine trailing from the dog’s collar, and unfastens the loop and
absently winds it into a loose hank.

While
he is doing this, his gaze falls upon the wrist of his right hand, the one around
which he had anchored the lead.  There are red welts and strangled creases
in his weathered skin.  At first his expression is one of mild
annoyance.  But as he continues to regard the injury, a realisation
settles upon his countenance: one of great concern and yet equally magnificent
illumination.  Shocked, for a moment he sits upright and stares unseeing across
the dale.  Then a determination sets in.  He rises and, with a click
of the fingers to the dog, sets off at a trot down the fellside.

‘Hello?’

‘Er...
is that
Mary
?’

The
man seems to have a mild speech disorder; he pronounces the ‘r’ in Mary as a
‘w’.

‘Aha.’

‘Oh, I
er... I was reading your profile... on
Streetwise
.’  Again there is
the substituted letter.

‘Aha.’

‘Is it
convenient to talk?’

‘Ja.’

Despite
her assent, the woman sounds disinterested.  Her Eastern European accent
does not reflect her quintessentially English pseudonym.

‘I was
thinking of making an appointment.’

‘Is
sixty for half hour.  One hundred one hour.’

‘Okay.’

‘You
want come now?’

‘Oh...
er, no – I was wondering about tomorrow – I wanted to ask you...’

But
the woman has hung up.

The
man returns his attention to his computer screen.  He exits the profile of
‘Mary’ and returns to a menu page, with thumbnail photographs and abbreviated
descriptions – a kind of small ads section for sexual services.  He scrolls
up and down and then selects one of the dozen or so images.  Now he
reaches again for the phone, activates the speaker, and taps in the next
number.  There is a prolonged period of ringing and, once the call is
answered, a few seconds in which female and male voices can be heard in the
background.

‘Hiya.’

She
follows the convention of not answering by name.

‘
Belle
?’

‘That’s
right, darling.’

The
woman sounds a little breathless.

‘Is it
a bad time just now?’

‘Not
at all, darling – I was just saying cheerio to my last gentleman.’

The
man hesitates, perhaps momentarily disconcerted by the image of this prosaic
detail.

‘I’m phoning
– about an appointment – and to ask a few things.’

‘Ask
away, chuck.’

The
chuck
– perhaps a careless lapse from the more intimate ‘darling’ – is suggestive
of Mancunian origins, though her accent is hard to discern.  Her voice has
a note of maturity that does not exactly correlate with her youthful and likely
airbrushed photographs.

‘It
says on your profile – in your likes – it mentions bondage.’

‘That
can be arranged – on you, that is.’

‘Oh
– of course – what exactly do you – er, offer?’

The
woman sounds accustomed to dealing with nervous prospects; she makes an
exaggerated purring sound in the back of her throat.

‘I’ve
got lovely metal handcuffs – same as the police use – for your wrists
and
your ankles – and a policewoman’s outfit – my gentlemen
seem to like the short skirt and suspenders when they’re being –
arrested
.’

Now
she laughs salaciously.

‘Well,
er – I...’

‘I can
pretend to be a policeman, if that’s what you prefer – the
truncheon
,
you know?’

The
man’s mouth is dry, and before he can construct a reply the woman speaks again.

‘When
did you want to
come
?’

‘I,
er... was thinking of tomorrow – which area of town are you?’

‘In
the new motel by the M6 – I’ve got a late checkout until one, so my last
appointment will be at twelve – unless you just want the half-hour,
darling?’

‘Twelve
is fine.’

‘It’s a
hundred and thirty for the hour.’

‘Okay.’

‘What
name was it, darling?’

‘Oh,
it’s er... Cliff.’

‘See
you tomorrow at twelve then, Cliff.’

As
soon as the call is ended the man returns to the online menu.  He browses
for a while, clicking to and fro between various profiles.  Eventually he
settles upon one featuring a shapely blonde described as being in her early
twenties – though a veil of hair cleverly obscures her face.  Again
he engages his speaker function and types in the number.  This time the
call is answered almost immediately.

‘Hello.’

Once
more the voice has an older ring to it than might be expected from the girl
pictured.

‘Is
that Anna?’

This
time it is the woman that hesitates before she replies.

‘You
want an appointment?’

‘I was
hoping...’

‘I’m
fully booked this week.’

Her
voice lacks the warmth of the previous respondent.  Her accent may be
local, though it is relatively neutral.

‘You
were recommended to me...’

‘Who by?’

‘I
don’t know if they’d want me to mention their names – it’s some of my old
pals – connected through
Streetwise
.’

Again
he pronounces the word with difficulty.

‘Are
you a member?’

‘I’ve
been away – for a long time – I’ve just come back to the area
– I’ve only got a couple of ratings – you were recommended to me,
you see.’

‘What’s
your nickname?  We only see members with positive feedback.’

‘Mine
is positive – if you want to check it – search under ...
Cliff
Edge
.’

The
woman does not reply.  It is possible that she too is looking online
– perhaps silently upon a tablet.  After a few moments she speaks,
and now for the first time there is a note of enthusiasm in her tone.

‘What
did you have in mind?’

‘I
noticed on your profile page it says you provide bondage.’

‘That’s
not on us, you realise?’

‘When
you say
us...
?’

‘It’s
a two-girl service.’

‘Oh,
right.’

‘Are
you looking at
Streetwise
now?’

‘I am,
yes.’

‘Click
on the tab that says
Duo
.’

There
is a pause as the man does as she suggests.  Now before him there are
lurid images of the blond posing provocatively with a considerably taller,
though no less alluring, brunette.  They are advertised as sisters, Anna
and Alanna.  After a few moments he exhales heavily.

‘That’s
exactly the kind of thing.’

‘Have
you done it before?’

The
man, though apprehensive, manages a nervous chuckle.

‘I
think you could say I know the ropes.’

Again
there is the speech impediment, and he pronounces the final word as
wopes
. 
The girl gives the impression that she is listening intently, her breathing now
audible down the line.

‘Can
you just hold on a second, honey – while I check my sister’s diary?’

‘Sure.’

After
perhaps as long as a minute, she comes back on the line.

‘When
were you thinking of?’

‘Are
you free tomorrow, about midday?’

‘Yes,
we can manage that.’

‘Ok,
then – I’d like to go ahead.’

‘That’s
you booked in, honey.’

‘How
about the address?’

‘Will
you be coming by car?’

‘I
guess, so.’

‘Do
you know Penrith, honey?’

‘Reasonably.’

‘There’s
a big supermarket on Scotland Road.’

‘I
think I remember that.’

‘You
can park there – it’s free.  Cross towards the town centre –
there’s a phone box.  Call us from that number – then we’ll know
you’re not a time-waster.’

‘Okay.’

‘Then
we’ll give you the address – you can walk from there.’

‘Perfect.’

As
soon as they end the call the man resumes his perusal of the
Duo
page.  On reflection he might note that the woman never mentioned the
price.