Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 54
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
Tebay service station is another such institution. Likewise gaining its epithet from its proximity to an ancient hamlet, for the vast bulk of the vacationing British public (roughly ninety percent of whom live to the south) Tebay embodies a panoply of emotions and sensory experiences. It is the culmination of a long traffic-bound journey; the first moment of exposure to the sounds and scents that infuse the moorland air – from the song of the skylark to the sour reek of sheep dung; and paradoxically in its mini-mall a last oasis of urban familiarity, before diverting from the wide motorway comfort zone into the claustrophobic single-track lanes and winding passes of the Lake District (to the west) or the Yorkshire Dales (to the east). More prosaically, in its homophonous name it really could have been put there by the bluff northerners to welcome their southern cousins, taking simultaneously the opportunity to proclaim an indigenous proclivity for the traditional beverage: it literally is a ‘tea bay’, and this notion appears to have passed into popular folklore.
And it is along such lines that Skelgill is a not infrequent visitor. On this occasion, as DS Leyton foresaw, he casually ambles through the servery, no doubt confidently predicting that his trusty sergeant will have taken care of the eating arrangements. He pauses, however, at the cutlery section, to pocket a handful of sachets of HP sauce. Then he deftly sidesteps a small child who charges at him brandishing a ray gun.
The accents reaching Skelgill’s ears as he weaves between occupied tables are a mixture of home counties (less pronounced than DS Leyton’s cockney brogue), midland (mainly Brummie), north-western (Manc and Scouse) and indeed Scots – this peculiar combination a result of the fact that, while he and DS Leyton are heading south to Kendal (the next motorway junction down the M6), they have rendezvoused on the northbound services. This apparent paradox – and indeed navigational conundrum – is explained in the knowledge held by most policemen, that such institutions can always be accessed via service back-roads that provide practical and necessary short-cuts for delivery vehicles and staff. Thus when Skelgill suggested to DS Leyton that they should meet at Tebay, the latter took it as read that they would do so at Skelgill’s preferred northern side. Ostensibly this might seem to be due to its reputation for better food, although on reflection – as Skelgill would be first to admit – this attribute is ranked no better than third in his list of priorities, well below volume and speed of service.
Skelgill might be a tad late, but his timing is perfect. DS Leyton has only just queued, paid and sought out a quiet spot in a distant alcove, insulated from the screeches emanating from the kids’ soft play area and the general hubbub of the holidaying hordes. Indeed, this very table is one of their many regular haunts dotted about the county. Now DS Leyton glances uneasily at his plate as if he is wondering whether to begin. Skelgill has not yet come into sight, but will surely reprimand him for not waiting. His gaze drifts out through the great plate glass wall beside which he sits. There is an expansive view of the rising fells, hidden beyond which lies Windermere, and – contrastingly close at hand – a murky ornamental pond that washes right up against the foundations of the building. In comic fashion, swimming like an Egyptian, a moorhen jerks past, pursued by a brood of tiny fluffy black chicks with oversized bills that scrabble across the surface like windblown cotton bolls. Further out, a swarm of house martins swoops and dives for insects that mate or lay or hatch – any of the above an unfortunate moment to become an impromptu meal.
‘Hey up, Leyton – still off your food?’
DS Leyton looks across from his reverie, surprised. Then he cocks his head to the outdoors.
‘Nah, Guv – I was just watching those birds catching flies – amazing how they can do that.’
Skelgill takes a seat, a slightly superior expression crossing his features.
‘I’ve hooked a swallow more than once. They especially go for hawthorns.’
DS Leyton looks suitably impressed.
‘Tuck in, Guv – before it goes cold.’
Skelgill scrutinises the fare on offer. ‘Been waiting long?’
‘Just sat down, Guv. Thought I saw your jam jar in the car park when I pulled in.’
Skelgill keeps his eyes firmly fixed upon his food and feels for his knife and fork. Deftly, he assembles a large forkful.
‘Must be a doppelganger.’
This is an unlikely coincidence, given the idiosyncratic long brown estate with its distinctive replacement aerial: a wire coat-hanger fashioned into the shape of a fish.
DS Leyton nods, though not with great conviction. More likely Skelgill was waiting for him to get the food in – or poking around the place on some clandestine business of his own.
After an initial minute or so of silence, punctuated only by the hungry clatter of cutlery, DS Leyton introduces the subject of their inquiry, the late Lee Harris (if it proves to be he).
‘I spoke to forensics before I left, Guv – nothing doing so far.’
‘In what way nothing?’
‘The crime scene – assuming we’re calling it that, Guv – no trace of blood or disturbance, no stones freshly turned over, no vegetation crushed.’
‘What about Herdwick?’
‘Couldn’t raise him, Guv.’
Skelgill tuts and swallows.
‘Spoke to his assistant, Guv – that dolly bird student they’ve got in – she was a bit cagey. Managed to get her to say that there were no superficial injuries, cuts, breaks, bang to the head, whatever. Doesn’t look like it took much of a fall to kill him, Guv.’
Skelgill snorts. ‘Leyton – there’s no way he fell. Not a chance.’
DS Leyton gives Skelgill a wide-eyed look. ‘What makes you so sure, Guv?’
‘How long have you got?’
Skelgill breaks off to stare at a middle-aged man in an olive-green fleece and tan walking trousers who has come to stand beside them bearing a loaded tray. The interloper is alternately eyeing the spare table nearest to the detectives, and glancing back in the direction whence he came, presumably waiting for his accomplice to catch up with him. Skelgill fixes his unwelcome presence with an unwavering glare. After about thirty seconds no one has appeared, and Skelgill’s offensive tactic bears fruit. The man swivels away with a shake of his head and apparently goes in search of his companion. Skelgill returns his attention to DS Leyton.
‘For a start, the body was yards from the foot of the slope.’
‘Couldn’t it have rolled, Guv?’
Skelgill shakes his head dismissively. ‘Too rocky. Anyway – like the lass in the lab-coat says – he’d be smashed up. Instead he looked more like he’d settled down to sleep.’
‘Could have been moved, Guv?’
‘Except you’re telling me forensics found no signs of disturbance.’
DS Leyton raises a fork in acknowledgement of this contradiction.
‘So what, Guv? What did happen?’
Skelgill is chewing, and doesn’t hurry his mouthful. ‘Which one of my dozen hare-brained ideas do you want to hear first, Leyton?’
‘Take your pick, Guv – I’m clueless.’
Skelgill suppresses a grin that begins to form about his lips. ‘We’re not so far apart, Leyton. But what I do know is you don’t generally get togged up as if you’re off to the pub, then grab a rope and head for the hills.’
DS Leyton gives the impression this might be how he would dress in such circumstances – like many people, not being in possession of the requisite outdoor gear.
‘Well – I take your point about the rope, Guv.’
Skelgill’s eyes narrow, as though he detects DS Leyton’s reservation. ‘And what climber takes a rope on his own? You climb with a partner.’
‘Maybe he went on his own, Guv – topped himself?’
‘He’d be dangling, Leyton. There was nowhere to dangle. And why yomp a mile up to Scales Tarn when all you need is a coat hook on the back of your bedroom door?’
DS Leyton fidgets uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Could he have just strangled himself with the rope, Guv – on the spot, like?’
Skelgill frowns, and looks momentarily annoyed at this suggestion.
‘Bizarrely, Leyton, that happens to be my least hare-brained explanation at the moment.’
‘Oh.’
DS Leyton looks pleased with himself – although that soon becomes an expression of apprehension, as though he is worried about having usurped one of his boss’s ideas and might be punished accordingly for attempting to steal some of the limelight.
Skelgill seems to detect his sergeant’s quandary. ‘Look, Leyton – we’re clutching at straws here. Until we get cause and time of death, we can speculate until the cows come home.’
DS Leyton nods, encouraged. ‘And the ID, too, Guv.’
‘True, the ID.’ Skelgill checks his watch and throws his napkin onto his empty plate.
DS Leyton pushes back his chair, and looks expectantly at his boss.
‘If you’re volunteering, Leyton, I reckon there’s just time for tea and a fruit scone.’
5. KENDAL
Tuesday afternoon
‘Aye – that’s Lee right enough.’
Skelgill is watching closely the garage owner’s reaction as DS Leyton holds the mortuary photograph at arm’s length before him. He is small and wiry, and looks as though he might be almost completely bald beneath a faded navy-blue engine driver’s cap, though he sports several days’ grizzled stubble on his chin and throat.
‘What happened to him?’
‘Looks like a climbing accident, sir.’
The man shakes his head. He continues to stare at the photograph; his expression is more one of curiosity than horror.
‘How well did you know him, sir?’
Now the man looks up at Skelgill and digs his hands deeper into the pockets of his grease-smeared boiler suit. He shrugs his shoulders somewhat indifferently.
‘I’ve got eight mechanics, part-timers. They come and go. Mostly in their twenties and thirties, like Lee. Didn’t know he wo’ a climber.’
The man could be in his early sixties, and the suggestion of an arm’s-length relationship with his younger and itinerant employees is not unreasonable.
‘How long had he been with you?’
‘Eighteen months, twenty maybe.’
‘We’ll need to trace his wife, girlfriend, next of kin – that sort of thing.’
Skelgill stares at the man as though this is an instruction, and indeed the latter drags open the top drawer of a grey metal cabinet that dominates one corner of the tiny office. He lifts out a small card-index box and places it upon a desk covered with oily thumb-printed invoices and curling triplicate pads. His stout craftsman’s fingers, ingrained with engine grime, work with surprising dexterity to extract the sought-after record. He hands it to Skelgill.
‘That’s your lot, cous.’
Printed in uneven capitals in black biro is the name Lee Harris and, beneath, the address of a flat in Kendal and a mobile phone number. Skelgill turns the card but its reverse is blank. He appears for a moment as though he is about to cast it disdainfully away, but then he squints at an out-dated certificate of employer’s liability insurance pinned above the filing cabinet. The man seems to sense disapproval: that his approach to human resources management leaves something to be desired. He inclines his head in the direction of the workshop, which can be glimpsed through a cluttered hatch in the wall.
‘Happen some of yon lads might be able to fill you in – personal life, like.’
Skelgill nods patiently.
‘I understand you last saw him on Friday, sir?’
‘Aye – then we got four smash repair jobs brought in over t’ weekend.’ The man is now trying harder, and his local accent becomes more pronounced. ‘Lee’s gey tidy wi’ Hondas. I was trying to raise him from first thing yesterday, and again this morning.’
‘You rang this number?’ Skelgill flaps the card like a fan.
‘Aye.’
‘And?’
‘Woman’s voice – a recording, like – kept saying t’ person were unavailable.’
‘Was there anything in his behaviour lately that struck you as unusual?’
The man’s beady eyes narrow, giving him a guarded ferrety appearance. ‘I thought it wo’ an accident he died of?’
Skelgill remains impassive. ‘Like I said, sir – it looks that way.’
There’s the faintest hint of inflection placed upon the word looks, and the man nods slowly, as though he is now wondering if the police are unofficially taking him into their confidence.
He shrugs once more. ‘Any road, like I said – I divn’t have owt to do wi’ lads. Ars twice their age – more. I just oversee t’ wuk and pay ’em’s wages.’
‘Pay cash, do you, sir?’
‘It’s all above board.’ Now the man is back on the defensive. ‘Payroll clerk comes in Thursdays – that’s when they get their wage packets.’
‘So was Mr Harris paid last week, sir?’
The man nods, perhaps a little grudgingly, although it seems unlikely that his erstwhile employee was remunerated in advance. ‘Aye – he did more or less a full week. He weren’t short of ackers if that’s what tha’ wondering.’
Skelgill does not reply directly. Instead he slips the address card into his jacket pocket and checks his wristwatch.
‘We shan’t detain you any longer, sir. If you could supply us with contact details for any of your staff that are not here – and if you’ll bear with us my sergeant will just have a quick chat with each of those present. Then we’ll be out of your hair.’
*
Leaving DS Leyton to interview sundry swarthy mechanics, Skelgill sets off on foot to seek out Lee Harris’s apartment. However, for the capricious police inspector, the small Lakeland town of Kendal (population circa 28,500) holds several imminent distractions. Not least is its renown for the eponymous mint cake – in fact a high-calorie peppermint-flavoured concoction of sugar and glucose, enjoyed by mountaineers the world over, and reputedly eaten by Hilary and Tensing atop Everest in 1953. Skelgill professes to possess both a savoury and a sweet tooth, and generally justifies a bar of Kendal mint cake on the grounds that it is entirely fat free. Indeed his propensity to snack is driven on the one hand by his pastimes of fell-running and fishing (the latter usually involving an energy-sapping row on his beloved Bassenthwaite Lake), and on the other by his general disregard for normal hours of work, which often finds him arriving home to a desolate fridge and the realisation that all neighbourhood takeaways have long ago closed for the evening. Right now the hour is fast approaching three o’clock, and thus, as he makes his way through the bustling town centre, he must run the gauntlet of spectacular window displays of local confectionery, compounded by the drifting aroma of scones baked to waylay tourists susceptible to the temptation of afternoon teas.
However, there is a third enticement that exerts even greater magnetism as far as Skelgill is concerned, and that is the River Kent. Neatly bisecting today’s enlarged urban area – it flows north to south, with much of the old town on its west bank – it is the principal game fishing river in the south of the county. As Skelgill lingers upon the Nether Bridge his antennae are clearly twitching, no doubt at the thought of the potential double-figure sea trout that may be passing under his very nose, and perhaps the added frustration that between here and Victoria Bridge is a one-mile stretch of free angling. The water level is arguably a little low, following three or four days of dry weather, but nonetheless he scrutinises the gently rippled surface for signs of aquatic life below. A fine drake goosander sails briefly downstream, its glossed green mane glinting as it twists about and returns to fish the depths between the piers. Skelgill watches in admiration while it dives and then surfaces, a staring minnow secured in its long red saw-bill; a magnificent bird, sleek predator of fast-flowing waters, though little appreciated by human fishers.
Skelgill has taken a significant detour to indulge his craving and, finally dragging himself away from the allure of the Kent, he heads back into the old town, north along Kirkland. For a main street it is a narrow thoroughfare, lined by an irregular miscellany of two-and-three-storey buildings, mainly stores and public houses, in grey limestone or white-painted stucco. He almost breaks stride as he encounters a fishing tackle shop he has forgotten about, but the road is busy with traffic, and deters him from crossing. Indeed, this is the A6, the old London-to-Carlisle coaching route (taking in Leicester and Manchester), the one-time slow road to the Lakes – before the M6 motorway laid a slick swathe of grand prix tarmac over Shap’s peaceful summit. In any event, shortly he ducks away from the noise and fumes, into a tight cobbled ginnel (in Kendal referred to as a yard) innocuously squeezed between a cheque casher’s and a financial advisor’s.
More stealthily now he passes silently beneath the property above and out into the open space beyond. While many of these yards once ran down to the river, and are of great antiquity, this one is truncated, blocked by unsightly and angular modern additions of obscure function. Indeed, unlike some of the town’s famous yards, which are picturesque and photogenic and visited for such purposes by tourists, the air here is permeated by the stale smell of urine, and an unsightly heap of black bin bags lies torn open by scavenging cats or gulls. The heat from the high June sun isn’t helping, and Skelgill responds to the stifling atmosphere by inhaling through gritted teeth.
The dwelling he seeks – there appear to be four numbered properties in the yard – is a basement flat, which he reaches by descending a flight of worn stone steps, its diminutive area crowned by a rusting iron balustrade. If anything, the bad odour is worse in this dank stairwell and Skelgill, not one to be bound by protocol, checks about for CCTV and promptly breaks in.
