Murder on the Edge (8 page)

‘Mrs
Seddon, we can’t be certain, but – going by this picture – we
believe that a body found this morning could be that of your missing
husband.  You may have to prepare yourself for the worst.’

DS
Leyton sounds uncharacteristically solemn as he delivers these words, and seems
to find it difficult to meet the woman’s inquisitive gaze across the small,
neat sitting room.  He and Skelgill crowd a compact two-seater settee, and
appear uncomfortable in such close proximity, while the woman is perched
precariously on the edge of a plain wing-back chair.  There is a tray of
so-far untouched tea and biscuits on a low 1970s style coffee table.  The
photograph, she has produced following a minute’s rummaging in the drawers of
an oak dresser – it is a strip of three identical images of the type used
for official applications, such as a passport or driving licence.  One glance
has confirmed to Skelgill what he needs to know, and the item has been handed on
to his subordinate accompanied by a none-too-subtle elbow in the ribs – thus
the delegation of the task of breaking the bad news.

‘He’s
not my husband.’

‘I’m
sorry, madam?’  Now DS Leyton does look up.

‘He’s
not my husband – Barry’s my cousin.’

‘So,
you’re not actually Mrs Seddon?’

‘Most
people call me Hilda.  Hilda Seddon.  I never said I was
Mrs
Seddon.’

DS
Leyton appears confused – or perhaps he is embarrassed by the corollary: a
personal question at this time of bad tidings.  But Skelgill has no such
inhibitions and he intervenes, to avoid confusion using the Christian name she
has volunteered.

‘Hilda,
so you and Barry – you’re not a couple – that’s what you’re telling
us?’

The
woman shakes her head – meaning the affirmative – and frowns
disapprovingly at the suggestion.

‘Barry’s
my lodger.  He’s got his own room.’

The
woman sounds local, though her accent is mild, if unrefined.  In her early
fifties, she is small and wiry and shares something of the pinched features that
characterise Barry Seddon’s passport photo.  She wears a knee-length
overall rather like that of a hospital orderly, and has the ascetic demeanour
of the B&B landlady that is cloned throughout the Lakes and beyond –
though this is no B&B as such.  The property is scrupulously clean but
sparsely furnished; indeed there is a Spartan, waiting-room feel – hard-wearing
loop-pile carpets, venetian blinds rather than curtains, few ornaments, and no photographs,
paintings or houseplants.

‘And
you last saw him on Monday?’

Though
the tone of Skelgill’s question does not hint at criticism, her brows knit
defensively.

‘I
didn’t know he was missing.’

‘Is it
unusual for him to be away overnight?’

‘Not
since the building trade went bad.  He does jobs all over.  Reckon he
sleeps in his van.’

‘Did
he say where he was working?’

‘He
never did.’

‘How
long’s he been your lodger, Hilda?’

She sucks
in her already hollow cheeks by way of thinking.  ‘Ten years or more.’

‘What
brought him here?’

‘He stayed
with his old ma over Whitehaven way.  She only had a corporation house.  When
she died he had nowhere to go.  He never wed or had kids.  So he got
in touch – I hadn’t hardly seen him since we were teenagers.’

‘Has
he been in any kind of trouble – a job gone wrong, money problems?’

The
woman shakes her head abruptly.  ‘Always has plenty of cash.  Pays
his board and lodging regular.’

They
must all be aware that they are still referring to Barry Seddon in the present
tense, as if he might arrive at the front door at any moment.  Perhaps it
is an easier state of affairs, and they continue in this mode.  It may be
that, were the woman to acknowledge Seddon’s death, her fragile façade would crack
and leave her incapable of continuing with the interview.  Skelgill is
staring at the biscuits – not avariciously, more likely elsewhere in
thought – but the woman notices with a start and jerks forward to pour
out milk and tea into the three assorted mugs.  She hands round the plate
of digestives.  DS Leyton politely declines.  Skelgill takes
two.  Perhaps he senses this is a good moment to ask a more probing question.

‘What
was he like, Hilda?’

‘You
wouldn’t want to be married to him.’

Her
answer comes without pause for consideration, as if she is accustomed to
trotting out this line over shopping bags in casual neighbourly conversation.

‘Oh?’

‘He’s
just interested in himself.  Doesn’t wonder how food gets on the table,
nor washing and ironing done.’

Skelgill
nods.  The woman has the inured look of someone long starved of
recognition.  But if the relationship has survived for a decade or more,
there surely must have been some symbiotic return for her.

‘Does
he have any friends?’

‘He
works late most days – sometimes drinks on his way back.  Weekends,
if he’s home, he’s usually watching the racing through in the back, or along at
William Hill
.’

‘What
about the weekend past?’

‘Aye,
he was here the whole time.  Never even went out of doors on
Saturday.  I had to wake him off the couch come bedtime.’

DS
Leyton is unobtrusively taking notes, and Skelgill glances to see that he
registers this point.

‘Does
he have hobbies, Hilda – climbing, for instance?’

‘He’s a
scaffolder.’

‘No
– I mean, like mountaineering.’

The
woman looks blank.  ‘Never known him do that.’

Skelgill
dunks a biscuit into his mug and just manages to pop it into his mouth before
it collapses upon him.  He washes it down with a swig of tea.  Then
the woman catches him eyeing the plate and she offers him another.

‘Don’t
mind if I do, thanks.’

‘You’re
welcome.’

Skelgill
forces a smile, but his lips remain compressed.  ‘Hilda, it’s possible
that Barry was murdered.  Can you think of any reason why someone might
want to do that?’

Her
features contract further with concern, although there is no real sign of the horror
that might be expected at such a revelation.

‘He’s
not one to speak about his business.’

Skelgill
stares at her – he is probably just framing his next question – but
she must find his pale grey-green eyes disconcerting, and visibly she shrinks
away.

‘It
weren’t me – if that’s what you’re thinking.  He’s never done nowt
to me.  Now I’ve lost his money.’

Her
denial, though convincing in its simple repudiation of the major motives for
murder, lacks any real impression of underlying grief.

Skelgill
attempts to convey his sympathies through an understanding grimace.

‘How
about girlfriends – is there anyone at the moment?’

This
question seems to bruise her pride, and in a small way she bridles, her
knuckles blanching around the mug she clasps.

‘He’s
not had a girlfriend while he’s stayed with me. Least not that I’ve known of.’

‘What
about before?’

She shakes
her head rather vacantly.

‘He’s
never mentioned no one.’

‘Does
the name Lee Harris mean anything to you?’

‘Can’t
say I’ve heard of her.’

The negation
comes without a delay, and Skelgill does not trouble to correct the mistaken
gender.

‘Hilda
– you mentioned Barry’s van.’

‘Aye,
that’s right.’  Instinctively she glances towards the window.

‘Where
does he keep it?’

‘Outside,
ont’ road.’

‘So
his van’s missing?’

She
nods unconvincingly, as though this is beyond her remit.

‘But
he took it – when he left on Monday?’

‘It
were gone when I came back lunchtime.’

‘From
work?’

‘I
clean at the hospital at Wigton, seven till one.’

‘Do
you drive there?’

‘Never
learnt.  I get the bus.’

Skelgill
places his mug carefully on the coffee table.  He stands up and with a
groan straightens his back.  Then he casts about the room.

‘Well,
you keep a tidy place, Hilda – I could do with a landlady like you. 
I should think Barry didn’t know how lucky he was.’

‘Happen.’

Her bleak
expression, in the way of a woman unused to compliments, seems to reject this little
tribute, though there is something in the softening of her body language that tells
otherwise.  Skelgill presses home his advantage.

‘If
you don’t mind, I’d just like to take a quick look at his room – while
Sergeant Leyton gets a few formal details from you – no need for you to
get up, love.’

She is
about to rise, but dutifully obeys his downturned palm.

‘It’s
the front bedroom – there’s only two.’

Skelgill
nods.  ‘We’ll need to send a couple of chaps along – but this’ll
save me another trip out, you see.’

The
woman nods and watches meekly as Skelgill leaves the parlour, patting his
sergeant encouragingly upon the shoulder as he squeezes past him.  It
might be a signal meaning ‘keep her occupied’.

*

‘She’s
relieved, Leyton.’

‘What
– that we’re gone?’

‘No
– that Seddon’s gone.’

DS
Leyton does not seem so sure.  He turns to stare through the open driver’s
window at the house they have just left.  Aspatria, an inauspicious former
market and mining town, can be found in the nondescript swathe of no-man’s land
between the Lake District National Park and the Solway Coast, and sits astride the
old Roman road that once linked forts at Maryport and Old Carlisle.  Fronting
onto this ancient thoroughfare, Hilda Seddon’s end-of-terrace property is of lesser
though indeterminate age.  There are modern-style PVC replacement windows
and unsightly water-stained 1950s harling, but an undulating roof of weathered hand-cut
slate hints at more primitive origins.  A poorly constructed low wall of
ornamental concrete-blocks rather pointlessly encloses a bare rectangle of
uneven slabs.  In common with many of the homes along the street, the
ubiquitous grey satellite dish juts out half way up the rendered wall, sucking
in signals that are the methadone of the square-eyed masses.

‘Look,
Guv.’

As
they watch, the venetian blinds of the sitting room tilt in unison and then
snap shut.  They might assume this is a response to their continuing
presence, but a minute later the curtains above in what was Barry Seddon’s
bedroom are pulled to.  While it is late afternoon, dusk is still many
hours away: Hilda Seddon is at least paying lip service to mourning.

‘What
did you say to her about a public announcement?’

‘Just
that it would be on the news, probably tomorrow.’

‘What
did you get?’

DS
Leyton lets out an exasperated sigh.  ‘I reckon she’d know more about the
private life of her cat – if she had one.  No idea where he drank,
whether he’d got any pals, where he’d been working.  She hasn’t got a
mobile herself, and doesn’t know his number.  Not a lot of communication
passed between ’em, Guv.’

‘That
would be the life.’

Skelgill
does not elaborate upon this somewhat cryptic remark, so DS Leyton is left to
make of it what he will.

‘She
did say he normally carried a fairly hefty wad around with him – his
board and lodging was a ton a week.  I get the impression he did most of
his business in cash, Guv.’

Skelgill
nods in a rocking fashion, as if this corresponds with his own
assessment.  ‘I couldn’t find sign of a bank account.’

‘What
– in the bedroom, Guv?’

Now Skelgill
grins cynically.  ‘Bedrooms.’

‘Right,
Guv.’

‘I
believe her story – looks like they kept to themselves upstairs as well
as down.  He’s obviously well into horses – gets the
Racing Post
. 
No trace of a phone, or wallet, or his keys.  Limited wardrobe – no
climbing gear.’

‘I
just don’t get this rope business and whatnot, Guv.’

Skelgill
becomes pensive.  ‘We need a break here, Leyton.  Two loners dead
– and that’s all they’ve got in common.  Loners.  And dead. 
Not very helpful.’

DS
Leyton suddenly notices that his mobile, perhaps inadvertently switched to
silent mode, is now ringing.  With a jab of a stubby index finger, he accepts
just in time.

‘Leyton.’

There
is a short pause while he listens.

‘How
do you know?’