Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 55
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
‘Hello – police.’
This precautionary introduction proves unnecessary. The pile of mail and newspapers behind the door tells Skelgill no one is home. A dampness that pervades the empty property deadens his voice. He makes a quick tour to satisfy himself there is no imminent threat – or, perhaps, indeed, no corpse awaiting discovery. From a tiny hall off which open a toilet and separate shower cubicle, there are only two rooms to speak of, conjoined: a kitchenette-diner and a bed-sitting room. The ceilings are low – maybe only seven feet – and the place has the air of a typical cheap rental apartment: poorly fitted linoleum, worn nylon carpets, badly hung curtains, and furniture randomly discarded and acquired.
Now Skelgill begins a more thoughtful, if ostensibly haphazard perusal of the contents. Taking care not to disturb anything of potentially forensic significance, he has the bemused manner of a visitor to a gallery of modern art – one who is trying to work out whether the mundane household exhibits displayed around him are actually of any merit. His features seem to be fighting disappointment as he casts his eyes over the fat-spattered electric cooker hob and its accompanying chip pan. A small refrigerator seems relatively well stocked (certainly by Skelgill’s standards), and if truth were told he might reflect that the general level of disarray is probably inferior to that of his own domestic domain.
Several bloated chocolate cereal rings float in the kitchen sink, and there is an open packet of the same variety on the little dining table. Alongside it is an empty milk carton, but no suicide note propped against either. The milk has a best-before date of last Thursday but, as Skelgill knows from personal experience, you can’t read a lot into that.
Broadly speaking, there is little to indicate that the flat’s occupant departed with anything other in mind than to return in the near future. The wardrobe and dresser are crammed with clothes, and a newish flat screen TV and a rather dated games console in the bedroom are in standby mode.
Where Lee Harris’s home differs from Skelgill’s is in that an inspection of the latter would quickly reveal its occupant’s interests: various items of tackle and gear, spilling from shelves and cupboards, and – out of sight of the casual visitor (but not so hidden as to avoid detection by anyone so chosen) – trophies and certificates and framed photographs testifying to outdoor and sporting exploits. Moreover, though not a reader as such – fiction does not register on Skelgill’s radar – he has an extensive collection of maps, manuals and climbing guides (his prized set of Wainwrights at the heart of this), and an assemblage to match covering all methods of angling known to man. Then there are years’ worth of specialist magazines – climbing, fishing, fell walking – with useful articles marked by bent corners or Post-it notes (indicating Skelgill’s as yet unfulfilled intention to scalpel out and file these pages).
So it would not require Sherlock Holmes to deduce what sort of person Skelgill is, to which clubs and societies he might belong, where he could potentially be found in his leisure time, and with whom he may associate. Not so Lee Harris. Other than the computer games console beside which is stacked the stereotypical array of bloodthirsty killing games (perhaps suggestive of an immature personality, a lack of social engagement, and – in Skelgill’s analysis – a totally incomprehensible wish to be indoors when you could be outside) – apart from this – there is little flesh of biographical detail upon the sparse bones of his existence. In other words, there is not a lot for the police to get their teeth into.
Skelgill soon finds himself back in the hallway. A washing machine is a considerable obstacle. He notices that a display light is blinking, and with what must be considered a small flash of inspiration (given his limited aptitude for matters domestic) he stoops down and jerks open the clear plastic door. Inside the drum is a sodden but apparently laundered navy serge boiler suit.
Perhaps encouraged by this find, he gathers up the now crumpled mail that impeded his entry through the front door a few minutes earlier. He places the items on top of the washing machine and sifts through them. The letters are exclusively bills and circulars, pre-printed postage-paid envelopes that offer no clue to the date of their delivery. But there is a local advertiser. Skelgill flattens this out. Beneath the masthead is the slogan ‘Free Every Saturday’.
The leading article concerns flood defences (the River Kent is notorious for its impromptu visits to the high street) and Skelgill lingers a moment over this. Then he begins to flick through the pages of parochial events and poorly composed display ads. A more professional full-page advertisement for a broadband service seems to hold his attention – indeed it seems to prompt him to turn away and stride decisively back through the kitchen-diner and into the bedroom.
Clearly he has something in mind. He works his way around the walls and, after a short search, he finds what he is looking for. Behind a small bedside cabinet is a telephone socket, and beneath it upon the carpet a wireless router. A blue light winks at him. He examines the settings on his phone and sure enough the signal is detected. Then he squats down and takes a photograph of the account and password details printed on the rear of the transmitter. So the flat has Wi-Fi, but there is no trace of a receiving device.
Now Skelgill departs, checking carefully that he has not damaged the rudimentary pin tumbler lock in gaining entry. He seems to be in two minds about pulling the door shut behind him, and casts about in the gloom of the stairwell. There is a worn fibre doormat that resembles hedgehog road-kill, many times run over. On impulse he peels it from the step to reveal a rusty key. With a little effort it proves to fit the lock.
Skelgill pulls a remorseful face to nobody, pockets the key and jogs up the stone staircase, squinting in the bright sunlight that pulsates about the enclosed yard. The chirrup of sparrows creates a restful atmosphere, and he seems immediately infected, yawning and lingering aimlessly as if wondering what to do next. After a few moments he walks across and rings the bell of one of two doors opposite Lee Harris’s flat. There is no reply. He moves on to the next, but the result is the same. He steps back and regards the properties: on reflection they could be vacant, perhaps recently refurbished and awaiting occupation.
There is one other apparent residence, a kind of half-basement dwelling with its door set down a short flight of steps. A vagrant Buddleia springs gaily from a crack at the angle of wall and ground. The flat’s one grimy window is hung with what looks suspiciously like sackcloth. There is no number or bell, but as Skelgill approaches he becomes distracted by something beneath his feet. Much of the yard is unevenly cobbled, but here is a level rectangle of concrete hard standing. More or less at its centre is a circular black stain, extending to about a foot in diameter. Skelgill squats and wipes an exploratory finger over the oily substance, but as he does so something catches his eye. The window-drape has twitched.
He rises and makes his way tentatively down the steps, but before his hand reaches the bell the door jerks open, at least, to the extent that an internal chain allows. In the crack between the jamb a small wizened face appears at a child’s height, but then Skelgill must quickly realise this is a cat. There is a waft of musky air – in fact a quite overpowering aroma of pets – with acrid undertones of something worse.
‘What d’yer want – poking about?’
From behind and above (though not far above) the uncomfortable-looking feline, a second face pitches forward from the darkness. This one is human, albeit somewhat wanting in humanity. The sullen features are lined and pinched, and a considerable mass of matted greying hair is the main impression imparted. It is an old woman, and her accent, spoken in a strained, creaky voice, seems to hint at Merseyside origins, long left behind.
Skelgill takes a step closer and holds out his palms in a gesture of cooperation. Something less than a sixth sense tells him this is not a moment to declare his profession.
‘I’m looking for Lee.’
‘Who’s Lee?’
Now he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Lee. He lives across the yard.’
‘Lee.’
The woman says this as though she is a foreigner trying out the word for the first time.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Who?’
‘Lee – Lee Harris.’
‘I know everything.’
The old crone’s expression becomes conspiratorial, though she reveals no inclination to share her wisdom.
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Er... we were at school the same time.’
‘You’re not taking me cats.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I know their tricks.’
Skelgill seems to get a hint of what she’s driving at. ‘I’m not the council, love – I’m looking for Lee. I don’t want your cats.’
‘You’re not having them. You’re not coming in.’
Now Skelgill brings both hands to his chest. ‘I love cats. That’s a nice tortoiseshell you’ve got there.’
This is rather more than a white lie, since Skelgill is engaged in a running battle with a gang of neighbourhood moggies who nightly deplete his holding pond of small roach and dace. In any event, his placatory words fall upon stony ground, for the woman’s mind seems made up about his mission.
‘The last one they sent didn’t get in neither. He said he came to read the meter. But I recognise you. You ain’t getting me cats.’
‘Look – can you tell me – please – when did you last see Lee from across there?’
‘There’s no Lee.’
‘I think he was home at the weekend. You just noticed me – surely you’ve seen him?’
The woman screws up her face and lifts the cat up to her chin. The animal looks like it would dearly love to make a break for freedom, but is restrained by a claw-like grip. Now the woman grimaces, revealing few teeth and plentiful gaps.
‘Witches took him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I saw ’em.’
‘When?’
‘Night time.’
‘What – last night?’
‘Some night.’
‘Recently?’
‘Disguised, they were.’
‘Was Lee with them?’
‘Who’s Lee?’
At this moment Skelgill’s phone rings. He pulls it from his back pocket and looks at the display. An expression of relief spreads across his troubled features.
‘Beam me up, Leyton.’
*
‘What was that all about, Guv?’
Skelgill has scrambled into the car as DS Leyton holds it momentarily on the double yellow lines of the main street, and now is pressed back against the seat as his sergeant guns the small engine and swings the vehicle back into the traffic.
‘Steady on Leyton, this is Kendal, not Brands Hatch.’
‘Sorry, Guv – there’s a flippin’ great truck up me jacksie.’
‘Unlucky truck.’
Skelgill shrugs himself into the seat belt. Then he notices a half-eaten packet of crisps that DS Leyton has placed in the dashboard cubby and begins to help himself.
‘Some mad woman lives opposite – completely batty – I made the mistake of asking if she’d seen Harris. She insisted I was the council come to confiscate her cats. Then she tried to tell me he’d been abducted by witches.’
DS Leyton chuckles.
‘More likely she saw a hen party caught short, I reckon.’
‘That could have been interesting, Guv.’
‘Behave, Leyton.’
DS Leyton looks like he is still trying to picture the scene, and rather loses concentration, failing to move away as the lights at which they wait turn to green. The lorry that has been tailgating them gives a long blast of its air horn.
‘See what I mean, Guv? You tell me to slow down and everyone else gets uppity.’
‘Well, up theirs.’
To DS Leyton’s evident consternation, Skelgill now finishes off the crisps by tipping the remnants of the bag into his mouth and munching pensively.
‘No one at home at the flat, I take it, Guv?’
Skelgill swallows with some difficulty. ‘Neither alive nor dead.’
‘You got in?’
Skelgill pats his breast pocket. ‘I found a key hidden outside.’
DS Leyton glances across; there’s a hint of suspicion in his eyes, which is not assuaged when Skelgill declines to produce the claimed item.
‘That was handy, Guv.’
‘I reckon he was last there on Saturday morning – going by the newspapers and breakfast stuff lying about.’
‘Oh, well – that’s good to know, surely, Guv?’
‘Is it?’
Skelgill’s tone is harsh, and DS Leyton looks momentarily crestfallen.
‘Well – at least we can rule out anything dodgy at that workshop.’
‘It still leaves the best part of a two-day gap until he was found on Monday.’
‘Perhaps he went away for the weekend, Guv?’
DS Leyton seems to be mulling over this possibility when Skelgill raps sharply on the dashboard.
‘Anyway, no need to dawdle, Leyton. Get a shift on and we’ll have time for a little something back at Tebay before you knock off.’
6. PENRITH HQ
Wednesday morning
‘Morning, Guv.’
‘Jones. You’re up with the lark.’
‘I’m taking a leaf out of your book, Guv – there’s more to the Oakthwaite case than I expected.’
Skelgill invites her to join him by unceremoniously dumping his empty breakfast plate on the next table. He eyes her Tupperware container of fresh fruit rather dubiously as she sets it down.
‘That’s not a leaf out of my book – I don’t know why you’re eating diet stuff.’
DS Jones smiles demurely, an indication that she accepts the oblique compliment. Her reputation for superior admin skills has seen her delegated to tie up the deskwork for Skelgill’s last case. Since this task can be undertaken entirely from HQ she has adopted a comfortable outfit of jeans and sweatshirt – in contrast to recent nightclub assignments when striking and oft more revealing attire was de rigueur. Nonetheless, her stretch denims are figure hugging, and her slender form catches Skelgill’s eye as she settles opposite him.
‘Got an ID on the climber yet, Guv?’
Skelgill makes a so-so head movement as he appraises her over the rim of his mug.
‘We’re pretty certain he’s called Lee Harris. From Kendal. He’s no climber, though – at least, it wasn’t a climbing accident.’
‘Really? What do you think happened?’
‘At the moment I’m in limbo. Until I get something concrete from Herdwick I’m just guessing. Let’s just hope it’s a domestic – preferably suicide.’
DS Jones nods – she understands Skelgill’s point: if, like most such deaths, the incident is a self-contained event, then the investigation can be conducted at leisure. If not, however – and there is a killer on the loose – then time may be of the essence.
‘Struck lucky on that toffs’ school job, I hear, Skel.’
The voice – in the plaintive Mancunian tones of DI Alec Smart – emanates unexpectedly from behind, and Skelgill momentarily flinches. Despite the disciplined fisherman in him, he continually strains not to rise to the bait of DI Smart’s provocative banter. But experience has taught him such verbal skirmishing is not his forte, whereas DI Smart is a master of goading put-downs and mocking one-upmanship. Taciturn at the best of times, in situations of stress Skelgill becomes even more tongue-tied. He is a man of action. Many a criminal opponent – cockily believing they were engaged in a verbal stand off – has been taken painfully unawares by the detective inspector’s trademark left hook. This form of escalation being currently off limits, by way of a displacement tactic Skelgill takes a long, slow swig of his tea.
DI Smart insinuates himself effectively between them, coming to stand at the head of their table. Then he leans back to perch nonchalantly against that to his rear. He fixes a lingering gaze upon DS Jones.
‘Alright, Emma. Not used to seeing you with so many clothes on.’
‘Morning... sir.’
DI Smart pulls a face of mock surprise: that she should address him formally, when he clearly considers they have a familiar relationship. She looks uncomfortable, caught as she is between a rock and a hard place – for now she has to tread a delicate path of diplomacy, littered with obstacles of rank, duty, etiquette (or DI Smart’s lack of) and her own personal feelings.
Skelgill does his best to conceal a pained expression. He clearly wants to intervene, but in the end only does so by conceding a compliment to DI Smart.
‘Looks like you’re dressed to impress, Smart.’
DI Smart does not squander this opportunity to preen. He thumbs his lapels and then opens his jacket to reveal a designer logo stitched onto the inside pocket.
‘Pretty sharp, eh? Armani – pure merino. Picked it up in a new boutique in Manchester. Just near my flat.’ He winks at DS Jones. ‘Next time we’re working down there I’ll show you around – leaves the West End standing, you know.’
DS Jones nods obediently and then steals an apprehensive glance at Skelgill, whose expression is blackening by the second. At this moment, however, respite appears in the shape of George the Desk Sergeant. He pops his distinctive bald pate around the door of the canteen to announce that DI Smart’s lift is waiting at reception. DI Smart dismisses him with a self-important flap of the hand.
‘I’m giving evidence up in Glasgow. Bunch of Jock gangsters I nailed last year, trying to muscle in on my patch. I shall enjoy seeing them go down.’
‘Don’t let us keep you.’
DI Smart begins to walk away without a goodbye, but then he returns to their table. He taps the side of his nose in conspiratorial fashion and puts a hand on DS Jones’s shoulder.
