Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 53
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
PC Dodd still appears somewhat disconcerted, his tall gangly frame stretched to attention. At this juncture Skelgill is near enough for Cleopatra to butt his knee with her formidable snout. He glances down at her and seems to be distracted by a moment’s reflection.
‘Okay. So no great loss. At least you didn’t let that bunch of clowns take the body away.’
‘No, sir.’
‘You did right, Dodd.’
‘Yes, sir – thank you, sir.’
Skelgill points his index finger again, though less aggressively. ‘Next time don’t wait for the likes of me. Take a flyer.’
‘Yes, sir.’ PC Dodd looks mightily relieved. Perhaps he tries to convey this gratitude to Skelgill through his body language, though he is probably thinking that taking flyers is no doubt how Inspector Skelgill has earned his reputation – as a maverick who is frequently unpopular with the powers that be.
‘How’s your radio signal?
‘Good, sir.’
‘Get a scene-of-crime team up here pronto. They’re looking for any signs of interference – before or after he died. And make sure someone tracks down Dr Herdwick – I want to know everything possible about time, cause and location of death.’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘And you can probably stand down the rescue crew – no point them skiving off work any longer. Our boys are not going to be finished until late this afternoon, at best.’
‘Okay, sir – I’ll tell them to go.’
‘What’s the griff on the couple who found him?’
‘Doctor and Mrs Lumsden. They’re staying for the week at the Coledale at Braithwaite, sir. Live at Todmorden. I asked them to return and wait at the hotel until we’d sent someone to speak with them.’
Skelgill nods; he is evidently content with PC Dodd’s simple, quiet efficiency.
‘I’ll call in. It’s on my way.’
PC Dodd probably does not think to analyse this statement, but if Skelgill were meant to be heading to police HQ, Braithwaite is certainly not on the way. Indeed, it lies 180 degrees in the opposite direction along the A66, just a two-minute drive from Skelgill’s mooring beside Bassenthwaite Lake. In any event Cleopatra creates a minor distraction by making a sudden lunge at a grey wagtail that has been working its way boldly towards them around the water’s edge. The little bird flits away, while PC Dodd is almost pulled off his feet.
‘Whoa!’ He recovers his balance and meets Skelgill’s amused gaze. ‘Spirited dog, sir. Is she the one from Oakthwaite?’
Immediately a wary frown creases Skelgill’s features. ‘That didn’t take the jungle drums long.’
PC Dodd grins contritely. ‘She’s taken a shine to you, sir.’
‘Well, Dodd – that makes a change, I can tell you.’
PC Dodd raises his eyebrows, but diplomatically chooses not to comment.
Skelgill, meanwhile, stoops and picks up a smooth mudstone pebble. With an easy flowing left-handed action, he sends it skimming across the flat surface of Scales Tarn. PC Dodd turns and watches over his shoulder, his lips moving as he silently counts the skips, until a little crescendo of splashes marks the stone’s eventual and inevitable descent into the water – but not before it has almost doubled the best score achieved in the mini-competition that was in full swing before Skelgill’s arrival.
On this triumphant note, Skelgill winks at PC Dodd, takes Cleopatra’s lead, and sets off briskly in the direction whence he came, neither pausing nor glancing to see what approbation his feat has drawn from the surely watching trio of rescuers. His parting words are reserved for the dog as, almost fondly, he murmurs, ‘Come on lass – we’ve got a boat to catch.’
3. BARRY SEDDON
Monday, midday
At ten minutes before noon Skelgill is having a swift fish upon Bassenthwaite Lake, no doubt convincing himself it’s only right to confirm his boat is shipshape and none the worse for its overnight mid-water abandonment in the cause of duty. Simultaneously, some twenty miles to the east, in the parking lot of one of Penrith’s supermarkets, Barry Seddon eases his battered builder’s pick-up into a vacant space. Pocked and scarred with dents and patches of rust, its tailgate livery is just legible, Seddon & Son Scaffolding. Fifty-four-year-old Barry is the said son and sole surviving proprietor.
Alighting from the vehicle, he checks the time on his wristwatch. Purposefully he strides into the store and makes a beeline for the kiosk. He purchases twenty cigarettes and a newspaper. Then he joins the short queue in the nearby open-plan cafeteria, dispensing a black coffee from the self-service machine. From the checkout he carries off his tray and places it upon an empty table in one corner of the seating area. Instead of settling down, however, he casually threads his way across to a door marked ‘toilets’, through which he passes. A minute later he reappears, and walks directly out of the store, leaving his coffee untouched.
Returning to his van he rounds to the near side and unlocks the door. Leaning in, he opens his wallet and extracts a wad of notes, from which he counts and pockets two hundred pounds. He returns the balance to the wallet, and secretes it along with his mobile phone among the discarded flotsam of crackling snack wrappers and clanking soft-drink cans that laps about in the passenger footwell. Next he breaks open the cigarettes and lights one up, inhaling tenaciously. Re-locking the vehicle, he stoops to check his appearance in the dust-streaked wing mirror, at the same time surreptitiously placing the keys out of sight beneath the front wheel-arch. He flips up the hood of his grey sweatshirt. Rather more furtively now, he glances about, and then vaults the low dividing wall that separates the car park from the adjacent highway.
Head bowed and hands tucked into his kangaroo pockets, he sets off in a northerly direction, preceded by short puffs of smoke and his truncated shadow, cast by the high noonday sun. He slinks past a parade of run-down shops – newsagent, bookmaker, hairdresser, off licence – but does not glance up until he arrives at a junction some two hundred yards beyond, whereupon he slows to check the street sign. It is marked ‘Ullswater Place’. He turns purposefully into this narrow thoroughfare, which is lined on each side by a low terrace of red brick pre-war houses. Their front doors open directly onto the pavement, and most have net curtains in varying degrees of faded decay shrouding their ground-floor windows. There is no regular position for the house numbers (indeed some owners evidently rely upon their neighbours for the identification of their own address for postal purposes). Seddon’s eyes flick left and right as he proceeds, and it would appear he is unfamiliar with the precise location of his destination.
About half way along the street there is a distinct slowing of his pace, but then he spies a young woman hurriedly pushing a double buggy towards him. Avoiding eye contact he steps off the kerb, and does not respond to her somewhat abashed thank-you. Instead he continues to the end of the terrace – it terminates in a patch of waste ground and a row of run-down lock-up garages with graffiti on their doors – where he wheels around and hesitates as though he has forgotten something. Seeing that the street is now empty, briskly he retraces his steps towards the mid-point. Without breaking stride he gives notice of some impending action by discarding his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter, and indeed he stops abruptly to press the bell of the house marked thirty-seven. Almost immediately the peeling red front door opens and he is admitted without pause for introduction.
*
His boat anchored just forty-five yards out from the wooded slipway at Peel Wyke (where Cleopatra is safely tethered in the cool shade, in reach of the shallows), Skelgill appears to be dozing off. Having removed the forward thwart he has made himself comfortable in the bow, a threadbare Barbour for a pillow, while one hand rests limply on the rod that – with its desiccated and likely ineffectual dead-bait cast shoreward – pays lip service to the act of angling. Sleep has been an unreliable visitor in the past week or so, and its scarcity, allied with the balmy conditions (another prized commodity, in Lakeland) may be conspiring to drive out whatever thoughts wish to occupy his mind regarding the disagreeable scene he has just witnessed upon the slopes of Blencathra.
For there is some thinking to be done. Even before the results of any autopsy or forensic examination of the locus, it is clear to Skelgill that this is no climbing accident. As was recognised by PC Dodd, the deceased was clad in ‘street’ clothes – black zip-up ankle boots (recently polished), stressed blue jeans of a designer label, and a leather bomber jacket; there was not an outdoor brand logo to be seen. His pockets yielded no clues as to his identity. Then there was the incongruity of the climbing rope. Who would carry such an item without the accompaniment of the one other significant and obvious accessory – a climbing partner? Apart from the unlikely need for an emergency abseil, a rope is of little utility to a lone person. Climbers work in pairs. The leader takes the rope, progressively anchoring it as he ascends, while safely belayed by his second below. At the end of the pitch he finds a secure stance, and in turn belays his second, who gathers the protection as he comes. The only other circumstance in which a rope could feasibly be employed is the method known as Alpine short-roping, commonly used by mountain guides, in which the members of a team are literally tied together. The operative word here is team. Thus, as was immediately apparent to Skelgill upon assessing the context of the ‘accident’, more questions were raised than answered by the presence of a rope.
In any event, it was wound tightly around the victim’s neck.
*
The blonde who admitted Barry Seddon to number thirty-seven Ullswater Place has now discarded a flimsy satin ankle-length dressing gown to reveal what might be described as the outfit of a dominatrix, and is presently fastening broad Velcro cuffs around his wrists and ankles. While his pile of cash lies on the bedside cabinet beside a tube of lubricant and an eye-watering collection of sex toys and attachments, he lies prone and naked upon a black PVC sheet, stretched tightly around the entire king-size mattress. The small interior bedroom is effectively devoid of natural light, and candlelight flickers upon the unevenly artexed ceiling as the woman goes about her work.
‘These won’t leave any marks, honey.’
Seddon is prevented from replying as she presses a ball-gag into his mouth and slides her hands behind his head to tie its retaining straps. Next she returns to check and adjust the spread-eagling restraints, forcefully applying maximum tension to each, stretching his limbs and ligaments to their limits.
‘An hour with the two of us, honey, wasn’t it?’
Seddon grunts his approval.
‘It won’t take that long.’
The woman’s somewhat cryptic comment sees Seddon’s eyebrows narrow, perhaps in mild protest. From the arm of an easy chair she picks up a pair of elbow-length latex gloves. Her hands must be a little damp with perspiration, and it takes a minute of pressing and pulling to achieve a snug fit over her fingers. Seddon watches with anticipation. As yet she has not touched him in what might be the expected titillating manner – especially now that he is helpless – but it is clear that he is becoming aroused.
‘I’ll just see if my sister’s ready.’
Seddon makes an affirmative hum through his nose as the woman rises from the edge of the bed and opens the door a fraction.
‘That’s it.’
A second woman enters immediately, as though she has been waiting outside on the landing. She is considerably taller than her sibling, younger, her figure less comely, her hair dark, though there is a marked facial resemblance. Perhaps ‘lesbian sister dominatrices’ is an honest and truthful marketing description, if not quite legal and decent. Her outfit is similar: thigh-length wet-look boots and a skin-tight basque.
In one gloved hand she carries a coil of rope.
The pair settles side-saddle on either flank of Seddon; he initially fixes his attention on the newcomer, squinting in the gloom as if to satisfy himself she represents the goods as advertised.
She meets his gaze, and her expression is stern.
‘You’re here to be punished.’
Though the phrase sounds more like a statement than a question, Seddon nods eagerly in response, literally champing at the bit.
‘Do you remember me, Barry?’
If Seddon’s limbs were not extended to their maxima, then perhaps at this moment there would be a visible stiffening of his body. Instead it is just his features that freeze. In making his appointment, he has scrupulously avoided revealing his identity, not even his first name – and he has brought nothing about his person that might indicate the same.
‘How about me, Barry?’
It is the first woman who now speaks, though her voice has lost its formerly soothing tone and has acquired a harsh edge.
Seddon stares, his eyes widening. He glances from one to the other in bewilderment.
‘No one knows where you are, do they Barry?’
Seddon is clearly confused – and frightened – but too late he realises his error, for when he begins vigorously to nod, as if to say, ‘Yes, they do’, the action is unconvincing. Indeed, the only record of the address is in his head, supplied to him in a call he made from a public telephone shortly before his arrival at the supermarket.
‘Perhaps you remember me now, Barry?’
The brunette pulls off her wig to reveal short-cropped fair hair beneath. Beads of sweat are breaking out upon Seddon’s brow and beginning to stream down his temples like proxy tears. The blonde meanwhile reaches to open a drawer of the bedside cabinet. She extracts what appears to be a creased Polaroid and holds it in front of his increasingly terrified face.
‘Don’t worry, Barry. Even if you’ve forgotten, we haven’t.’
The rope is lying beside the brunette. It is thick and firm and of the climbing variety and she easily slides one end between his neck and the PVC sheet, whence her partner draws three arms’ lengths through in climbing fashion. Then free ends are exchanged so that the rope is now crossed over at Seddon’s throat.
‘You always liked ropes, didn’t you, Barry?’
*
The sudden tautness in the nylon line, contingently wrapped around Skelgill’s wrist, rouses him from his pleasant waterborne slumber. He jerks upright and scrambles for his rod, which is threatening to disappear overboard. Fortunately he has positioned it to lie in the port rowlock, and this device now acts as a brake of sorts and affords him the opportunity to grab the last couple of inches of the butt. Though while he might belatedly get a grip, the pike – for that is what it must be – gets away. Too slow to strike effectively, he finds himself lashing loose line and spray into the air above his head – by the time he has regained contact, he can tell that his quarry is gone.
‘Wakey, wakey, Danny,’ he mutters, although not as bad-temperedly as might be expected when such a fish has slipped from his clutches.
Perhaps on reflection he acknowledges that he can’t be expected to strike in his sleep – although this acceptance has not in the past prevented him from claiming (after a few beers) that it is exactly what he has done on many a late-night-early-morning expedition. Methodically he reels in to inspect the bait for damage – but it is gone: a double getaway. He shrugs phlegmatically and settles back down into the accommodating curvature of the hull.
4. LEE HARRIS
Tuesday morning
‘Guv it’s me.’
‘Leyton – where are you?’
‘HQ, Guv. Reckon we might have an ID on that body you went to see yesterday.’
‘Aye?’
‘Name of Lee Harris – ring any bells, Guv?’
This is a common question asked by DS Leyton of his superior; Skelgill being a local man while the former is an exiled Londoner.
‘I’ve got a plug called Harris.’
‘Come again, Guv?’
And this marks the beginnings of a typical exchange between the two, in which Skelgill can be (perhaps intentionally) obtuse, abstruse and antagonistic, while the long-suffering DS Leyton does his best to roll with the punches.
‘Plugging, Leyton – it’s a method of pike fishing.’
Skelgill’s Harris is not an official brand of angling equipment that can be purchased in a tackle shop, but in fact a home-made item that he has fashioned from a paintbrush handle of the same name; nonetheless it is one of his most productive lures.
‘Oh, right, Guv.’
DS Leyton seems to have been knocked out of his stride. After a short pause it is Skelgill that speaks.
‘So why should I know of him?’
‘He’d be about your age, Guv – our age. Late thirties.’
‘Mid thirties.’
‘Yeah, Guv – sorry – mid thirties, I mean.’
Skelgill ponders for a moment – perhaps contemplating how much longer thirty-seven-going-on-thirty-eight will indeed qualify as mid thirties.
‘He doesn’t sound local. Where’s he supposed to be from?’
DS Leyton clears his throat.
‘We’ve had a call from an employer – motorbike joint in Kendal. Geezer who owns it heard the description we issued on Radio Cumbria this morning – says it sounds a bit like a mechanic who’s not turned up for work this week. Hasn’t phoned in and they can’t raise him.’
‘Biker boots.’
‘Sorry, Guv?’
‘The dead guy was wearing biker-style ankle boots.’
‘Sounds promising, then, Guv?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Er... eleven-twenty, Guv, give or take.’
‘Meet me at Tebay at twelve. Bring a photo – one that doesn’t show the rope marks.’
‘Sure, Guv.’
‘If you’re there first, get me the all-day breakfast, will you?’
‘Roger.’
DS Leyton’s sigh of resignation goes unheard, since Skelgill has cleared the line.
*
Motorway service stations have a special place in Britain’s contemporary folk history. Watford Gap, for instance, is cherished by the over-fifties as a symbol of freedom and discovery, having been opened concurrently with the nation’s first motorway, the M1, in 1959. Today, its curious name mystifies many a motorist, suggesting some association with Watford – a large town lying sixty miles and twelve junctions due south in Hertfordshire (and north of which ‘soft southerners’ are reputed never to venture). There is no connection, and the ‘Gap’ refers to a low point between two hills near the tiny Northamptonshire village of Watford.
