Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 59
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
‘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?’
Again a pause.
‘We’re on our way.’
He ends the call and turns to his superior.
‘A break, Guv? We’ve found his van.’
‘Are we sure?’
‘Apparently it’s got his name painted on the side, Guv.’
10. DI SKELGILL’S OFFICE
Thursday morning
‘Jones – you’d better speed-read these while we talk – bit of multi-tasking.’
Skelgill hands over a file that contains the autopsy report on the late Lee Harris, and a provisional, fast-tracked summary of the post-mortem relating to the similarly departed Barry Seddon. DS Jones nods efficiently, observed with some admiration by DS Leyton. The three officers are gathered to review the evidence to date: while Skelgill is battling with limited success for additional troops, he has at least ensured that DS Jones remains under his command for the time being. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, he figures that while she wraps up his Oakthwaite case, she can provide intellectual support in relation to these perplexing mountain murders.
‘My missus is like that, Guv.’ DS Leyton chimes in with his usual cheerful London brogue. ‘She’ll be on the old dog and bone, rabbiting ten to the dozen, watching Eastenders – and stone me if she’s not doing the ironing as well.’ He regards his colleagues in wonderment. ‘I mean – imagine talking to the mother-in-law, watching the telly and ironing!’
Skelgill frowns cynically. ‘Imagine ironing, Leyton.’
‘Fair point, Guv.’
‘Glad we have our uses.’ DS Jones makes this quip without looking up from the document she holds.
‘Leyton’s got his uses – I just haven’t worked out what they are yet.’
Skelgill seems to be in relatively bright spirits. Not one to hide his feelings from his subordinates – as DS Leyton will readily testify – he might be excused this morning for labouring beneath more gloomy skies. He has two unsolved murders on his watch, and very little to go on. The silver lining from his perspective – albeit a temporary one – must relate to the conclusions of the post-mortem on Barry Seddon. It appears he was killed some time on Monday (“...death probably occurred between the hours of 10:00 and 14:00...”) – only shortly after the discovery of the body of Lee Harris, and before it had been established that the latter was murdered. Thus the police can hardly be accused of failing to react in order to prevent the second crime. Skelgill crunches the chewing end of a biro and taps it on the blank writing pad upon his desk.
‘Circumstantially, and MO-wise, there’s categorically a connection between these deaths.’
‘The killer, Guv?’
‘But that’s about it, Leyton – the killer. At the moment there’s nothing else to link Harris and Seddon. We know what they died of, and roughly when, but we don’t know how, or where, or why.’
Now DS Jones glances up.
‘Perhaps forensics will get a match on fibres on their clothes, Guv?’
Skelgill screws up his nose doubtingly. ‘How many carpets are there in Cumbria?’
‘What if the killer owns a rare breed of dog, Guv?’
While DS Leyton chuckles at his own joke, Skelgill appears uninterested. He casts a hand back in DS Leyton’s direction.
‘Leyton – run us through what we know so far – for Jones’s benefit.’
DS Leyton shuffles a sheaf of papers that represent the collated efforts of a small team assigned to background desk- and leg-work, until a summarising page of his handwritten notes surfaces.
‘Harris – not a lot. A couple of local shopkeepers have recognised him from the mugshot, but don’t know anything about him. No acquaintances identified as yet. No joy tracing his mobile – the number was for a pay-as-you-go SIM. Nothing on a bank account – perhaps he didn’t have one. His work paid cash, as you’ll recall, Guv. The only contract on the address is broadband, and that’s in the landlord’s name. He’s been traced. There’s no tenancy agreement – he owns half a dozen properties and collects the rent himself in cash. Harris was up to date. Landlord doesn’t bother with references. Evidently by the look of him you wouldn’t trust him – nor double-cross him neither.’
Skelgill is moved to bristle at this. ‘Good enough reason to pull him in, Leyton.’
DS Jones looks up from her reading. ‘Sounds like this Lee Harris was living under the official radar, Guv. I take it he’s not an illegal or using an alias?’
Skelgill glances expectantly at DS Leyton.
‘Pretty certain he’s British, Guv. His workmates – if you can call them that – reckoned he was from the Midlands. Apparently he supported Leicester City.’
Now Skelgill raises an eyebrow, but does not elaborate upon its meaning. However, in England, the following of a non-fashionable football club is often a reliable indicator of where a person spent their formative years.
‘We need to bottom that, Leyton. What about the motorbike?’
‘One of the mechanics thought he was fixing up an insurance write-off.’ He checks his notes. ‘Honda CBR600 – if that means anything to you, Guv.’
Skelgill nods in a rather superior fashion. ‘Sports bike. Registration?’
‘We got a plate number, but the DVLA system shows a Certificate of Destruction against it.’
‘There was fresh oil beside his flat, Leyton. And no helmet indoors. Unless that old bat belongs to Hell’s Grannies, that bike must be somewhere.’
‘The lad at the garage didn’t reckon it was roadworthy, Guv.’
‘Since when did that become a criteria for riding?’
DS Jones glances up briefly, as though she is tempted to correct Skelgill’s grammar – but silently she resumes her study.
‘I’ve got an alert out on it, Guv – hopefully a warden will spot it.’
‘Sooner rather than later.’
This sounds like an instruction – not that the outcome is in DS Leyton’s power, but he nods vigorously all the same.
‘Better fill in Jones on the latest on Seddon – the van.’
DS Jones moves as if to give her undivided attention to DS Leyton, but for a moment some detail on the page detains her and it is a couple of seconds before she raises her eyes.
‘We found his truck yesterday in the superstore car park on Scotland Road. His mobile and wallet were locked up inside – looked like he’d put them out of sight. There was £150 in the wallet, and the phone hadn’t been used since Friday. Recent calls all appear to be to and from contacts in the building trade. Monday’s racing newspaper was on the passenger seat. Keys had been left under the wheel-arch.’
‘Could he have gone into the store?’
DS Leyton is nodding. ‘We’re going through the CCTV at the moment – it’s slow work though.’
‘If he bought the paper there, they ought to have an electronically timed record – they can’t sell all that many copies.’
‘Fair point Jones.’ Skelgill’s interjection is a little terse. ‘But let’s see what the CCTV brings first.’
DS Jones nods compliantly. With the back of one hand she taps the reports.
‘What do you think about the time interval, Guv – I mean between the murders and the bodies being discovered?’
Skelgill nods sagely, although his reply does not suggest any private intelligence. ‘What are you driving at?’
‘Assuming the bodies were dumped in the early hours before they were discovered – it means they were each kept hidden for the best part of a day and a half. There must be an explanation for that. It might tell us something about the killer.’
The trio sits in silence for a few moments, metaphorically (and DS Leyton literally) scratching their heads, until DS Jones, who perhaps already has a theory up her sleeve but has been exercising diplomacy, speaks up.
‘I was on a forensics course a little while ago, Guv. Rigor mortis sets in three to four hours after death. Maximum stiffness occurs after about twelve hours, and then it dissipates from about twenty-four hours.’
Skelgill seems engrossed by this thought, and it takes DS Leyton to respond in the vernacular.
‘You wouldn’t get a stiff in a saloon car boot, or even a hatchback – it’d take a big estate like yours, Guv.’
‘I’ll remember that, Leyton, next time you’re paralytic after a police night out.’ Skelgill projects a reprimanding frown at DS Leyton. ‘Carry on, Jones.’
‘You’d need transport to get a body to the foot of the fell. Kill someone during the day. You can’t move them until it’s dark and the neighbours have gone to bed. But on the first night, you’re too late – rigor mortis means the body doesn’t fit in a small car, if you could even move it. So you have to wait until the next night.’
Skelgill is cupping his chin between upturned palms. He stares hard at DS Jones. ‘So, your something about the killer – he lives in a built-up area, probably residential.’
DS Jones averts her eyes apprehensively. ‘It’s just an idea that corresponds to the facts, Guv.’
‘It’s good thinking.’
DS Jones shrugs modestly. ‘But it does mean keeping a corpse in your house – that has its complications.’
‘What if they were killed in an outbuilding, or a garage?’ This is DS Leyton’s contribution. ‘I’ve been wondering if they went to buy something, Guv.’
Skelgill sits back in his chair. ‘Leyton – I agree – nine times out of ten we’d be looking at drugs – but this pair seem as clean as whistles in that regard. And Seddon’s wallet was stuffed with cash.’
‘So why did he leave it, Guv – and his phone?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘Strikes me, Guv – you can’t be mugged of what you ain’t got.’
Skelgill considers this proposition. ‘I’ve obviously led a more sheltered existence than you, Leyton.’
‘But say he just took the amount of cash he needed? If it were for some dodgy deal, he’d maybe think he couldn’t be double-crossed. Look at Harris – his phone and wallet are gone, there might be a laptop missing, and no trace of his motorbike.’
Skelgill seems uncomfortable with the notion of petty robbery as a motive. His features agonise as he takes a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling, before he speaks.
‘Easy enough to lose a bike in a lake, Leyton.’
Again there is a hiatus, before DS Jones raises another question.
‘And no sightings of vehicles near the disposal sites, Guv?’
With an inclination of his head, Skelgill refers her inquiry to DS Leyton.
‘They were all spark out at the youth hostel. The staff bunk down early because they have to be up first thing – and you know how hard it is to wake teenagers once they’re asleep.’
DS Jones looks rather amused by this statement.
‘That’s me, still.’
‘Lucky you – wait till you’ve got some little ’uns bouncing on your head at six in the morning.’
DS Jones glances at Skelgill, but his expression is inscrutable. DS Leyton continues.
‘The other place – to get up to Sharp Edge by the shortest route – it’s along a tiny back road to nowhere. There’s a rough parking area for hillwalkers. A car left overnight wouldn’t look especially out of place – and the chances of anyone passing in the early hours are ten percent of nothing. We’re checking with local farmers, but no takers so far.’
DS Jones leans back and crosses her legs – it is warmer today and she has opted for just a short skirt and ballet-style pumps, with a sleeveless t-shirt top. She must notice that she has drawn the gaze of both of her colleagues, for she self-consciously places the papers on the edge of Skelgill’s desk and reaches forward to clasp her hands around her uppermost knee.
‘It seems a heck of a lot of trouble – to take a body into the hills.’
‘That’s what’s bugging us, Jones.’ Skelgill stretches skywards and rests his hands for a moment behind his head. There are fresh droplets of sweat spotting the armpits of his shirt. ‘It’s the crux of the case.’
‘In what way, Guv?’ DS Jones strives to maintain eye contact.
‘There’s a message here, for someone – us, maybe.’
Skelgill’s subordinates unite in a respectful silence to acknowledge the gravity of his statement. After half a minute it is DS Jones who finally voices a thought.
‘When is the news going to be released, Guv?’
‘There’s a conference at one.’
‘Are you involved, Guv?’
Skelgill scowls and leans back and stares at the ceiling. ‘I feel a puncture coming on.’
DS Jones glances surreptitiously at DS Leyton, who raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘upon his own head be it’. They know well Skelgill’s antipathy to journalistic gatherings, but the Chief will be expecting him to be present – if not to address the press pack directly.
‘It might flush something out, at least, Guv – as far as the victims are concerned.’
Skelgill sits forward again and with a flourish of his pen casually scrawls four rough circles on his desk pad.
‘What worries me, Jones, is that the killings are random.’ He marks a cross between the circles. ‘If they are, even their unabridged autobiographies won’t help us.’
Again a silence pervades the office. Skelgill has the window ajar, and the song of a blackbird quite close at hand fills the temporary void with its melodic mourning lilt. All three detectives appreciate only too well the spectre Skelgill has raised: there is a certain type of serial killer for whom only one thing makes them stop – and that is getting caught.
DS Jones clears her throat and her colleagues glance her way.
‘What do you think about there being an accomplice, Guv?’
‘Quite possible.’
Skelgill’s instantaneous reply catches DS Leyton by surprise.
‘Really, Guv?’
Plainly it is news to him that his boss is thinking along these lines – when Skelgill has thus far been determined that a single person could transport the bodies. DS Leyton remains wide-eyed but he does not protest further – the idea of one person hauling the dead weight of a grown man has clearly been at odds with his estimation.
‘Stands to reason, Leyton.’ Skelgill springs to his feet and snatches up the car keys that rest on top of his towering in-tray. He strides out of the door with a parting shot. ‘Takes four fit blokes to stretcher a casualty off the fells – and that’s downhill. You’d want certifying to take the weight the other way.’
11. SHARP EDGE
Thursday, midday
At the parking place along the ‘tiny back road to nowhere’ (as DS Leyton put it), Skelgill, who has changed into outdoor gear, is methodically loading stones from a collapsed wall into a large army surplus backpack. He has lined this with a sturdy woven rubble-sack, and chooses with care, weighing each boulder in turn, rejecting some as either too light or too heavy (or perhaps too angular), before lowering them into position. The rucksack stands upright on the flatbed of his estate car, about a foot from the rear sill. The car’s suspension creaks a protest with each new addition. On the face of it, he might be making a collection for some gardening project – a rockery, perhaps.
But, no. When the bag is almost full, he tightens the drawstring, buckles down the hood, and turns to sit with his back against it. He shrugs his shoulders into the straps and adjusts them to fit. Without further ado – other than taking a deep breath and bearing his teeth in a fearsome grimace – he pitches forward, pivoting at the hips and levering the burden from the car. As he intimated to DS Leyton, it is a method he has marvelled at when employed by diminutive Tamang porters – lifting huge composite bundles of trekkers’ rucksacks held only by a head-strap or naamlo. On occasion it takes a giggling gaggle of kinsmen to raise one man to his feet and set him in motion.
Without such assistance Skelgill staggers drunkenly, alarmingly in fact, and only the close proximity of a wooden farm gate prevents him from toppling over and ending up on his back, kicking like a stranded beetle. Swearing colourfully, beads of perspiration breaking out upon his brow, he clings on to the uppermost bar of the gate until he steadies himself. But this is no time to dwell. He wrenches up the bandana that he wears around his neck to form a sweatband, and, bent over like the crooked man of the nursery rhyme, unsteadily retraces his steps to his car. He drags his walking poles clattering from amongst the untidy debris of assorted tackle. Using one of the poles he tries to snag the hank of baler twine – Cleopatra’s makeshift leash – that hangs from one of the rear coat-pegs. This proves tricky and he is almost defeated, but at what might be the final attempt he manages to hook it and transfer it to his back pocket. Finally, reaching up blind, with outstretched fingertips he just obtains sufficient purchase to wrench down the tailgate. Then he produces a short piercing whistle.
