Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 57
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
Nowadays, of course, many patrons are long in the tooth and longer out of their youth, and travel from hostel to hostel by car – a practice that was once considered as hiking sacrilege. However, in keeping with the times, the Youth Hostels Association now permits such indolent means of arrival, and indeed has accommodated it at this particular location via a bumpy access track. This adds a further dimension to DS Leyton’s novel driving experience in the deceptively powerful pool car.
‘Blimey, Guv – glad this ain’t my motor.’
‘Aye.’
Skelgill’s unforthcoming response does not reflect displeasure, merely the pragmatic expedient of clenching his teeth to avoid a bitten tongue, as the vehicle pitches and rolls over the rutted rocky surface.
‘You wouldn’t want this to be your drive to work every morning, Guv.’
‘I reckon most of the staff live in – apart from the local instructors. They come up according to whatever course is on.’
‘We did an outward bound jaunt to North Wales when I was a schoolkid, Guv – we only lasted two days.’
‘Get high on the fresh air?’
‘Nah, Guv – we were banned – sent home in disgrace. The smokers caused a forest fire, the drinkers got nicked in the local boozer, and the pranksters put a sheep in one of the teacher’s dorms.’
Skelgill eyes his sergeant with a mildly approving grin. ‘And which category did you fall into?’
‘Whoa, Silver!’ DS Leyton swings the wheel to avoid an especially vicious pothole. ‘You know me, Guv – good as gold – always kept my nose clean.’
Skelgill shakes his head. He cranes out of the side window to get a look at the cloud base. ‘No one’s going to be starting a forest fire today – this weather’s set.’
DS Leyton frowns rather apprehensively, as if suddenly reminded of the task that lies ahead. They are now approaching a cluster of dour grey former-mining properties of which the youth hostel is part. Their altitude is nine hundred feet, and only a short distance beyond these bleak habitations the speckled fellside dissolves gently into the mist. To their left, Glenridding Beck is strewn with jagged boulders, its black waters foaming white as it swells with the steady accumulation of run-off from Helvellyn’s eastern watershed.
‘Shall I take the statements at the hostel, Guv?’
‘Not so fast, Leyton – if this is another murder – you need to absorb the atmosphere.’
‘I reckon I can do a pretty good job of imagining it, Guv.’
‘Try imagining yourself getting promoted, Leyton.’
‘If I must, Guv.’
*
Striding Edge, though not exactly a stroll in the park, is for the average able-bodied person (and in fair weather conditions) a fairly undemanding traverse, requiring no special equipment or skills. An impressive arête with spectacular views, it lacks the deadly exposure of Sharp Edge, and as such is a favoured route to Helvellyn. Thousands of people of all ages cross it each year, and mishaps are few and far between. For many youngsters – as was intended for those led back to Glenridding youth hostel this morning – it forms a memorable initiation to walking in the Lakes.
It is not an area, however, that offers much in the way of excitement for the rock climber (or even the scrambler), and Skelgill would be somewhat surprised to hear of a genuine climbing accident in this vicinity. Callouts with his mountain rescue hat on have tended to be of the twisted ankle variety, injuries generally self inflicted by impetuous tourists who have set off to climb Helvellyn wearing inappropriate footwear.
‘Helvellyn – that sounds Welsh, Guv.’
Skelgill glances back at his partner, with a shadow of the exasperation that accompanied their earlier discussion concerning DS Leyton’s ignorance of the existence of Striding Edge.
‘Aye – that’s because we all spoke Welsh, once – even down in your neck of the woods.’
DS Leyton takes a lungful of air.
‘Come again, Guv?’
‘When the Romans invaded – the blue-painted reception committee lined up on the White Cliffs of Dover spoke Welsh – or near as damn it.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Guv.’
They march on in a silence punctuated by the heavy panting of DS Leyton and the occasional crack of a stone dislodged by a stumble. Skelgill has kitted out his sergeant in a miscellany of spare gear from the back of his car – including footwear one-and-a-half sizes too large (supplemented by two extra pairs of socks), waterproof trousers a good few inches too long, and an old orange cagoule that DS Leyton has just about managed to zip around his bulk. His arms, however, are caused to stick out by this arrangement, and he has more than a hint of the penguin about his gait.
Skelgill must surely be pleasantly surprised by his sergeant’s performance. Despite the sweat that drips from the latter’s heavy brow (it can’t be drizzle, for his hood is up), his continuous asthmatic gasping for breath, and the blisters that are likely forming upon his ill-shod feet, he manages to keep pace with Skelgill’s (albeit moderated) stride pattern. It appears that what DS Leyton lacks in physique and fitness, he more than makes up for in dogged determination. Moreover, he does not complain – and it is this quality that is perhaps most atypical, for he is usually quite adept at finding a subtle way of informing his irascible superior when he is unhappy.
From Glenridding youth hostel there is a direct path to Red Tarn, a roughly circular pool suspended high in the corrie bounded by Striding Edge, Helvellyn and Swirral Edge. This mountain lakelet is their destination. The deceased is reported to lie near the shore just beneath Striding Edge: a symmetry with the Scales-Tarn-and-Sharp-Edge combination that cannot have escaped Skelgill’s notice.
They cover the mile-and-a-half in less than thirty minutes, and as Red Tarn suddenly appears dark before them Skelgill lets out a piercing whistle. The sound fills the heavy air all about, its echoes suggesting the presence of the invisible amphitheatre that surrounds the water. Almost before the strains of this summons have died down, a long piping reply, six times repeated, comes from their left. It is the recognised mountain distress signal.
‘That must be that Graham bloke, Guv.’
‘Aye.’
‘Do you know him?’
Skelgill is already moving in the direction of the whistle, but he turns briefly to raise an inscrutable eyebrow at DS Leyton. Then rather curiously he pulls down his hood, and with both hands rakes his fingers through his hair, and wipes the dew from his face. And then he is away, picking a rapid path along the shingle at the water’s edge. DS Leyton falls in behind him, but has to trust that Skelgill keeps to this course, for his superior quickly disappears into the mist.
Indeed, when DS Leyton suddenly comes upon Skelgill and a smaller red-cagouled figure, his eyes widen at the sight of what can only be the unhurried detaching of a seemingly affectionate embrace.
‘Leyton – this is Jenny Graham.’
DS Leyton approaches rather self-consciously, as if he is unsure of whether or not to replicate Skelgill’s style of greeting – clearly his superior knows the woman (and perhaps rather well) – but until now has not taken the trouble to share this information. In the event he settles for a rather clumsy handshake, forced as he is by his undersized overgarment to turn sideways to complete the manoeuvre.
‘Leyton’s desperate to climb Helvellyn – I promised we’d nip up when we’re done. Seeing as we’re so close.’
The girl – for she can be no more than mid-twenties – smiles a broad white grin; she might even be a touch star-struck in Skelgill’s presence. She is pretty, with thick lashes and long dark hair that she now gathers into the hood of her jacket. She doesn’t seem particularly fazed by the circumstances: some two thousand feet up in the fells, amidst inhospitable conditions, for the best part of an hour she has been standing sentry over a corpse. But when she leads them to its location, there is at least a partial explanation for her sanguinity. Beside a substantial rucksack she has erected a portable survival shelter, and visible within are a down sleeping bag and emergency blanket, a two-way radio, along with a gas burner, kettle and mug. As leader of the party of youngsters, she came well equipped. Any casualty would have been in excellent hands, and – in the meantime – she has made herself comfortable.
‘Nice little set-up, Jen – thought you’d have a brew ready for us, though.’
Now the smile becomes a little coy. ‘Not sure I’ve got enough sugar for you, Danny.’
Skelgill’s high cheekbones are already rosy from effort and exposure – but now they surely take on a deeper hue. DS Leyton, who is perhaps feeling something of a gooseberry, sidles across behind Skelgill and walks the six or seven paces to where the body lies.
‘Blimey – have a butcher’s, Guv.’
Skelgill seems content to receive this summons. He crosses to gaze at the prone figure.
‘I take it you’ve not moved anything.’
The girl joins them, understanding that this question is for her. They stand in line like a bowing royal party politely examining some ghastly tribal exhibit.
‘Danny – I could see he was dead before I even got close – look at the eyes.’
Skelgill nods. The eyes are open and staring, though abnormally opaque.
‘I just don’t see how he’s got the rope tangled round his neck like that.’
This is the girl’s observation, and DS Leyton shoots a sideways glance at Skelgill. But Skelgill shows no flicker of reaction.
‘He’s not exactly dressed for it, either.’
The man is clad in scuffed rigger boots, worn cargo trousers, and a hooded grey sweatshirt.
‘You don’t recognise him, Jen?’
The girl presses her full lips into an arresting pout. She shakes her head slowly.
‘I’ve been down at Coniston for the last three days – but he’s not from the hostel – that school party’s taken the whole place.’
Skelgill goes on bended knee and, as best he can, with minimal interference, pats down the dead man’s pockets – but to no avail – they appear to be empty. Reluctantly, he rises.
‘Did the kids see the body?’
Now the girl turns to face him. For a moment her smooth features are creased with anguish, as though her upbeat positivity has been mere bravado, and he has suddenly pierced the brave façade.
‘I turned them straight around before I scrambled down – Pete took them back the way we’d come up.’ She looks at DS Leyton and lifts her hands to her breastbone. ‘I’m a fully qualified rock-climbing instructor – and a first aider.’
DS Leyton nods vigorously, as though it’s not for him to question her decision-making.
‘They just got a glimpse from the ridge – there was a break in the mist – it was by fluke that I spotted him, really.’
Skelgill gazes up the steep stony bank as far as the limited visibility will allow. At the moment there is no view of Striding Edge above.
‘And you didn’t see anyone else?’
‘Not a soul – neither here nor on the path. I guess most folk are waiting indoors to see if it clears.’
‘They’ve got a long wait.’
The girl concurs. ‘It’s thicker now than an hour ago.’
Skelgill begins to turn away from the body. He takes the girl’s arm above the elbow and gently shepherds her back to her little encampment.
‘We’ve got a uniformed officer about ten minutes behind us. He’ll keep watch until the whole crew gets here. Do you mind leaving your gear for a while?’
The girl looks momentarily surprised: she realises she is being dismissed from the scene. But she cooperates willingly.
‘No problem – make yourselves at home.’
‘You head down to civilisation – get yourself dry – have some breakfast. We’ll need a statement later. In the meantime...’
She seems to know what is coming, and is nodding earnestly before Skelgill completes his request.
‘... until we know the cause of death – we’ll be reporting it as a climbing accident – so if you could keep the gory details to yourself.’
Now her ring of confidence returns. ‘You know me and secrets, Danny.’
She offers a tentative high-five to Skelgill, which he reciprocates, and she beams a farewell at DS Leyton and turns away. In thirty seconds she has vanished into the mist. Skelgill waits in silence; he seems to be listening to the diminishing crunch of her footsteps as she rounds the edge of the tarn and picks up the path. After a minute or so more he turns to DS Leyton.
‘It’s exactly the same rope, Leyton.’
DS Leyton nods, understanding now that Skelgill did not want to share this conversation with the girl.
‘You certain, Guv?’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘I’ve seen a lot of rope, Leyton.’
‘I guess forensics will tell us for sure, Guv.’
Skelgill clearly disapproves of his sergeant’s questioning of his judgement.
‘A tenner says it’s from the same original piece.’
DS Leyton takes a half step backwards and puts up his hands in a placatory gesture.
‘I’ll go with you, Guv.’ With some difficulty he reaches inside the hood of his jacket and scratches his head. ‘But do you mean it’s been cut up?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. Both pieces are about fifty feet.’
‘And a hundred’s the norm?’
‘Two hundred.’
DS Leyton folds his arms and blows out his cheeks. After a moment’s exaggerated deliberation he says, ‘That leaves enough for two more, Guv.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about, Leyton.’
8. PENRITH TRUCKSTOP
Wednesday afternoon
‘I thought you were joking about Helvellyn, Guv.’
‘When do I joke, Leyton?’
DS Leyton stirs a heaped spoonful of sugar into the mug of steaming tea that has been set before him.
‘Wasn’t so bad, really, Guv. I thought it’d be miles to the top from that lake.’
‘Tarn.’
‘Sorry, Guv – tarn.’
‘Third highest mountain in England, Helvellyn – only Scafell Pike and Sca Fell are higher. Tell that to your kids tonight, Leyton.’
‘Pity there wasn’t a view, Guv. My selfie could be anywhere.’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘You’d never get out if you let the weather decide for you.’
‘I’m amazed you found the way, Guv.’
Skelgill frowns. ‘We were following a path, Leyton.’
This is not strictly accurate, although the improvised route was no doubt a path of sorts on Skelgill’s mental map of the fells. He had announced – upon PC Dodd’s arrival at the improvised base camp at Red Tarn – that he and DS Leyton were ‘going to recce the surroundings’, and promptly marched his disoriented sergeant up the steep northern flank of Striding Edge. Within fifteen minutes they had gained Helvellyn’s main ridge, the boundary between the old counties of Westmorland and Cumberland. Here the low cloud was probably a blessing in disguise, rescuing DS Leyton from a potentially agonising exposition of the many peaks ordinarily visible. Instead, with little to look at but a cairn, a cross-shaped dry-stone shelter, and a trig point, they did not linger. Skelgill had briskly led the way onto Swirral Edge, to descend by the southern slopes of Catstye Cam, and rejoin the path that had originally brought them to Red Tarn. Here, however, DS Leyton was subjected to a lecture. Evidently the schelly – a curious black-finned freshwater herring, one of Britain’s rarest fish – frequents the tarn and just three other Lakeland waters. While this piscine eulogy was largely wasted upon the fast-flagging non-angler, his ears did prick up at Skelgill’s seemingly unselfconscious pronunciation of the name as ‘skelly’ – a homonym for a disliked nickname used by his colleagues.
DS Leyton shakes his head in bewilderment at this information – that they followed a path. He attempts to take a swig of tea, but it has been served in the scalding fashion of the truck stop. Yet he will need two or three more of these sizeable mugs to reinstate his normal level of hydration. Of course, it is possible that his disbelief also relates to Skelgill’s congratulatory promise to buy a late lunch, for which they have diverted to a popular lorry drivers’ retreat on the western outskirts of Penrith.
‘Fit-looking girl – that Jenny, Guv.’
DS Leyton’s uninflected observation sounds quite innocent (and to have literal intent), but it may be a subtle invitation to Skelgill to open a door on the patently familiar acquaintanceship.
‘You would be, doing her job Leyton.’
There’s a finality in Skelgill’s retort that suggests the portal is going to remain firmly closed. Perhaps in laddish, beer-fuelled company he might be more forthcoming, or at least feel obliged to join in with the salacious guffaws when some wag mentions her sobriquet of Spinning Jenny. (Or maybe it is this thought that disturbs him.)
‘Guess so, Guv. Is she in your mountain rescue team?’
Skelgill leans sideways and peers beyond DS Leyton, as if he is trying to see if their order is on its way. His reply has a ring of disinterest.
‘Most of the local instructors are affiliated. Gives us a bigger pool to call on.’
‘She seemed pretty competent, Guv.’
Skelgill pauses, perhaps to frame a reply. Again he casts about the transport café, surveying its scattering of mid-afternoon patrons: mainly lone drivers whiling away their compulsory break times, mechanically sipping from mugs of tea, heads buried in their red tops.
‘You don’t mess with the Grahams.’
This oblique reference to the feared tribe of English border reivers (who had their wayward heyday in the sixteenth century) holds no great significance for DS Leyton – he can only assume it is a contemporary family of dubious repute. Skelgill could mention – but evidently opts not to enlighten DS Leyton – that his mother’s maiden name is Graham, and that he doubtless hails from the outlawed clan himself.
