Murder on the Edge (32 page)

DS
Leyton leans forward a little.

‘Do
you think they were still acting as some kind of ring?’

Skelgill
puts a second kebab on hold to interject.’

‘I
reckon anything like that ended with the fire at Knott Halloo Farm – but
probably there was a bond between them.  And then there’s the gambling
connection through Maurice Stewart.  The numbers I got from his mobile
suggest he was supplying Harris, Seddon and Barley with tips.  So if they
were sharing betting information – who knows what else?’

DS
Jones looks animated – she holds up a palm like an eager student.

‘The
computers, Guv – I think there could be more to the thefts than covering
their tracks.’

‘Aye?’

‘Once
they got hold of them, they’d be able to impersonate their victims – access
their address books and send emails or social messages pretending to be
them.  For instance, that old lady in Kendal – what if the ‘witches’
she saw
were
the Lambs stealing Lee Harris’s laptop on the Saturday
night after they’d killed him?  On the Sunday they could have contacted
Barry Seddon, pretending to be Harris – recommending he try their
services.  They could have sent the same kind of messages to Walter Barley
and Clifford Stewart.  That might explain how they managed to get them to
come in a cluster.’

Skelgill
is listening with interest, though he raises a hand in a cautionary manner.

‘Aye,
well – hold your horses as far as Clifford Stewart is concerned –
remember that was me.’  He frowns with disapproval as he discovers the
samosa he is eating is one of the vegetarian batch that DS Jones
requested.  ‘But then again – I did tell them I was acting on a referral
from old pals – and that helped to do the trick.’

‘So, you
could be right, Emma.’  DS Leyton regards his colleague with
admiration.  ‘If only we can find where they’ve dumped all the phones and
computer gear, we might get the answer.  We’re trying to identify the
owners of those lock-ups – before we start breaking in to ’em. 
That’s where my money is.’

DS
Jones grins modestly.  She rises and passes dishes to her colleagues
before serving herself a small helping of tandoori chicken accompanied by mixed
salad.  Skelgill’s plate – and to a lesser extent that of DS Leyton
– looks like it holds an entire main course.

DS
Leyton begins to speak, but simultaneously biting into a parcel of uncertain
composition he is taken unawares by its spicy nature and is forced to dive for
his cooling beer.  The others look on in amusement.  He mops his brow
with his serviette and makes an attempt to appear composed.

‘What
I don’t get though, Guv – the Lambs took the risk of warning off their
next victim – once the deaths hit the news.’

Skelgill
shakes his head, simultaneously tearing at an unyielding chapatti.

‘Aye
– but think of the timing, Leyton.  Harris you can forget – he
was first.  But Seddon was killed on the same day we found Harris’s body
– Monday.  We didn’t release the names until the Thursday
night.  Barley was murdered the next day, Friday.  Aye, he must have
missed the news – or decided he was going ahead anyway – we didn’t
give out details of how they were killed, other than apparent climbing
accidents.  He had no reason to make the sinister connection.’

DS
Leyton purses his lips and nods slowly in acceptance of this logic.

‘But
they still thought they’d reel in Clifford Stewart, Guv?’

‘Aye
– well, who knows how they were going to play that one.  But I
reckon they were getting over-confident.  Probably thought we hadn’t got a
clue – so time was on their side.’

DS
Leyton is nothing if not persistent when it comes to ironing out the wrinkles
in the modus operandi of the suspects.  Again a thought clouds his
features.

‘Thing
is, Guv – why go to all the trouble of displaying the bodies like they
did – surely the reason would be to strike the fear of God into the next
victim?  From what you’ve pointed out, there wasn’t even time for that
– apart from Clifford Stewart.’

Skelgill
waves an acknowledging fork at DS Leyton, indicating he has the solution to
this conundrum.

‘It’s
a good question, Leyton – and a lot of trouble to go to.  I carried
an equivalent weight up to Scales Tarn – thank God I did, else I’d never
have met Liz – Williams.’  (He adds the surname under scrutiny from
DS Jones.)  ‘It’s do-able, but a killer – excuse the pun.  But
Jason is obviously a fit young lad.’

DS
Leyton nods in agreement.

‘Actually,
Guv – one of the reports on him mentioned he was a promising fell-runner as
a youth and that they were trying to encourage that.’

Skelgill
indicates with an open palm that this bears out his point.

‘A fit
young lad – but also a
disturbed
young lad.  We don’t know
what happened to these kids – but we do know that places like Sharp Edge
were used to scare the living daylights out of them – to control
them.  Liz Williams actually joked about it when she told me – but
it must have been terrifying for those they’d singled out for special treatment.’

DS
Jones is staring hard at Skelgill.

‘So,
Guv – do you think in some way it was about taking back control?’

Skelgill
is eating again, but he shakes his head decisively.

‘I go
along with the idea of it being a message – but not to their next target
for murder, nor us.  I reckon it was a signal to all their fellow victims.’

DS
Leyton regards Skelgill intently.

‘How
do you mean, Guv?

Skelgill
stares back squarely.

‘What’s
the biggest frustration in the case of the unmentionable disc jockey?’

‘That
he died before he could be punished.’

‘Exactly. 
And if Lee Harris had died in a motorbike accident, and Barry Seddon had fallen
off his scaffolding, and Walter Barley had been savaged by a sheep... you get
my drift?’

The
two sergeants nod in silence.  Skelgill continues.

‘But
when they’re found murdered –
executed
– with a climbing rope
around their necks, and then dumped at a particular landmark – a place
that strikes fear into your own heart – if you’d been a victim and you
heard that on the news – think about it.’  He pauses for dramatic
effect, and then bangs his fist hard on the table.  ‘Justice has been
done.’

Again
there is a hush as they each consider the possibility that the terrible
retribution wreaked by the Lambs has some underlying sense of twisted
righteousness – unproven as any such misdemeanours by the murder victims
may yet be.

‘But
what about Clifford Stewart, Guv – we’ve still got him to find?  We
can’t let him escape justice.’

Skelgill’s
features crease into an expression of distaste.

‘I
suspect he already has done, Leyton.’

‘How’s
that, Guv?’

‘I believe
he died in the fire.  I reckon if we find anything of Clifford Stewart
it’ll be a bunch of charred bones down the mine beyond Knott Halloo
Farm.’  Skelgill folds his arms and glares angrily.  ‘Maybe Maurice
Stewart will come clean – or maybe he’s half-cracked and not capable of
speaking sense.  But I think that fire was a deliberate act.’

‘Set
by whom, Guv?’  DS Jones is the first to speak.

Skelgill
squints into the shadowy middle distance of the intimately lit
restaurant.  It is steadily filling up, though the patrons are mostly
local couples and there is a subdued air about the place.

‘Your
guess is as good as mine, Jones.  Maybe there was a falling out. 
Maybe it was Maurice Stewart who uncovered what was going on – blamed it
on his son.  Maybe Clifford did it and it went wrong – perhaps he actually
committed suicide.  Maybe even it was an angry parent.’

DS
Leyton methodically folds his cutlery onto his plate.

‘So
that would mean it was hushed up, Guv?’

‘Aye
– and that fits the facts.  There was no insurance claim.  The
Stewart family – whatever was left of them – abandoned the area
like rats from a sinking ship.  Walter Barley got a cottage for life out
of it – for keeping mum, perhaps.’

‘But
what about Clifford Stewart, Guv – I mean his death going unnoticed?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘If
his body was removed from the scene and he was never reported missing –
who was to know he’d not gone away?   The fire brigade got there too late
– they were up to their necks in forest fires and were content to sign it
off as spontaneous combustion caused by petrol fumes.’

DS
Jones leans forward.

‘And,
Guv – the Lambs – they wouldn’t know Clifford was dead.’

Skelgill
nods slowly.

‘I
told them I’d been away for a long time.  They didn’t question that.’

‘You
must have been the icing on the cake, Guv.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows in a self-conscious gesture.  But before his
embarrassment can be compounded white-jacketed waiters arrive in synchrony to
clear the table of debris.  The detectives now sway from one side to the
other, like diners on a rolling cruise ship, to enable the staff to reach past
them.  As this task is completed, DS Leyton glances at his wristwatch and places
his hands on the table as if he is about to rise.

‘If
you don’t mind, Guv – my pass-out is about to expire – I’ve got to meet
the mother-in-law off the nine o’clock from Euston.’

Though
he winks at Skelgill, his superior looks alarmed.

‘What
about your dinner – we’ve only had the starters?’

‘Guv
– I’m stuffed already – and, anyway – I’ve got a cunning
plan.’

‘Such
as?’

‘Well
– you know what I told you about DI Smart threatening to bring us here
– talking this place down – and gloating about the case?’

‘Aye.’

‘I
thought maybe if we left a nice doggy-bag on his desk for him to find first
thing on Monday morning – he’d blame you, of course, Guv.’

Skelgill
seems amused – though such a sentiment must be tinged with the regretful
prospect of good food going to waste.

‘Fair
enough, Leyton – we’ll see what we can do, eh, Jones?’

This
statement appears to leave a window ajar should he opt to raid the now-superfluous
order.

DS
Leyton climbs to his feet and slips his jacket from the back of his
chair.  He reaches inside and pulls out his wallet.  He extracts a
generous wad of notes and is about to lay them on the table when Skelgill stands
up and intervenes.

‘Put
that back, Leyton – this is my treat.’

‘You
sure, Guv?’

Skelgill
waves away DS Leyton’s protests.

‘I
told you it was – besides, I’m flush.’  He resumes his seat looking pleased
with himself.  ‘There was one other thing I got from Maurice Stewart,
though he doesn’t know it – the winner of the two-thirty at Lingfield
this afternoon.’

DS
Leyton grins widely and shakes his head.

‘Blimey,
Guv – I hope you didn’t back it at the Scotchwoman’s shop.’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘No
– but I told her.’  He chuckles.  ‘Between us I reckon we
cleaned out Bettoney’s.’

‘Nice
one, Guv.’

DS
Leyton does not appear to bear any resentment for not being let in on the hot tip. 
With a parting wave, and a word of thanks to the effusive manager at the door,
he takes his leave.  There is a proud glint in Skelgill’s eye as he
watches his sergeant lumbering bravely off into the night, to an uncertain fate.

‘Impressive
arrest you two made.’  The tone of Skelgill’s voice suggests he could
almost be talking to himself.  ‘He’s as soft as putty – but you’d
want him alongside you in a tight corner.’

DS
Jones is leaning forward across the table, her own dark eyes glistening in the
flicker of the candlelight.  She appears fascinated by her boss’s rare
display of fraternal affection – although her next statement perhaps
belies her underlying emotions.

‘I
still can’t believe you did it, Guv.’

Skelgill
frowns dismissively.

‘Well
– if you recall,
Miss
Jones – it was a little bird not so far
from where I’m sitting that told me all about
Streetwise
in the first
place.’

DS
Jones gives him an imploring look, as if she means to suggest it is one huge
leap from such knowledge to the radical approach he clandestinely adopted. 
Skelgill casually swallows the last of his lager and waves for refills.

‘You
know, the more I thought about Barry Seddon’s last recorded movements –
the more I felt they had the hallmarks of someone paying a visit to – how
shall I put it? – a lady of ill-repute.’

DS
Jones feigns concern – perhaps that he would easily recognise such signs.

‘I
didn’t imagine you’d take it so seriously, Guv.  How
did
you
convince them you were Clifford Stewart?’