Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 61
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
‘That would be nice.’
‘Where are you parked? I didn’t see a car the way I came up.’
‘We’re near a pub, I think.’
‘Scales.’
The woman shrugs and grins helplessly.
‘I’ll find it.’
‘I know we can rely on you – you’re our hero.’
And suddenly she steps forward and embraces him – at first with a sob but quickly she lifts up her face and reaches with both hands to pull down his head for a kiss. It is a prolonged kiss and not easily interrupted.
‘Mummy!’
*
When Skelgill wakes, the ceiling above him is out of focus and unfamiliar – it is the inside of the roof of his car. His phone – switched to silent – vibrates loudly beside him, drumming in bursts upon the steel of the flatbed. He lies in a narrow channel between untidy banks of tackle, his bare feet protruding from the vehicle, the tailgate open to the half-clouded heavens. As he sits upright with a pained groan – the beginnings of delayed onset muscle soreness – the inquiring face of Cleopatra rises beyond his long bony toes.
He checks his watch – it is approaching four o’clock, less than an hour since he left the rescued mother and daughter at their car, waving them away with the woman’s entreaty ringing in his ears and, hot in his pocket, her mobile number on a scrap of paper.
He shuffles forward onto the rear sill of the estate. His shirt and trousers had largely dried out on the walk down. Not so his boots, which lie still sodden where he kicked them off. His socks appear suspiciously gathered together and one shows signs of having been lightly gnawed. The probable culprit sits to attention, keenly awaiting their next adventure.
Skelgill licks his dry lips.
‘Want a drink, lass?’
The dog seems to know the word, and dunts his knee approvingly with her broad snout. He rises, emitting more groans, and turns to dip into the debris, dragging out a plastic storage crate. He carries this to the dry-stone wall adjacent to the car. With a clank he extracts a soot-blackened Kelly Kettle and gives it an experimental shake. Removing the cork bung he reaches for the pan of an equally worn Trangia and pours into it a measure of water. While the thirsty hound laps at his feet, he digs for the kettle base and places it upon a suitably flat rock. Next he takes a handful of finely chopped kindling and arranges it in a lattice inside the aluminium base. From a Sigg bottle he sprinkles sparkling violet methylated spirits over the wood. He settles the kettle on the base, checking its balance before completely letting go. Finally he rummages in the crate for matches, strikes one, and drops it through the kettle’s internal chimney. With a whoosh the meths ignites, and flames lick from the mouth of the eccentric contraption.
It takes under two minutes for the water to boil, and within another he is sitting with his back to the wall, sipping tea contemplatively from a tin mug (still containing two tea bags and floating flecks of undissolved powdered milk). He is seemingly oblivious to the temperature of both the scalding liquid and the mug itself. His exertions have perhaps created the right conditions for involuntary musing. And certainly he has plenty to consider.
As his mind appears to drift, his pale eyes become oddly glazed. Their pupils contract and he ceases to blink. Of course, he could be playing out some scenario involving the attractive divorcee, whose lithe Lycra-clad form has no doubt left its impression upon his primeval instincts, and whose further acquaintance remains an open invitation. But Skelgill’s mind is a mystery even to its owner, and perhaps duty is the stronger drive right now. The enigmatic subconscious can solve a conundrum long before it makes public such success. It does so by piecing together seemingly disparate facts, making connections that defy linear, logical thinking. And, though scant clues there may be, vague forms that lurk in the shadowy recesses of the brain, experience has told him that in later hindsight their significance will be sharp and bright and tangible. Perhaps already he has everything he needs. And now, in his semi-trancelike state, Skelgill is apparently mouthing the stanza, ‘Harris Honda, Seddon Scaffolding.’
His reverie is interrupted by the buzz of his phone. He presses a palm above his heart, as if to suppress the vibration in his breast pocket. But it persists, and he rips up the flap.
‘Leyton.’
‘Guv – you missed the press conference – the Chief’s spitting feathers.’
‘Let her spit – I’ve just done a rescue.’
‘A rescue, Guv?’
DS Leyton’s tone is not so much incredulous as exasperated.
‘Behave, Leyton – I’m being dead serious – I just got a seven-year-old kid down off Sharp Edge.’
DS Leyton sighs. ‘Yeah, but what it is, Guv – I told her you had a flat tyre.’
Skelgill is silent for a moment.
‘Oh, well – can’t be helped – good work, anyway, Leyton.’
‘What were you doing up there, Guv – was it an emergency call-out?’
‘I needed to check something.’
‘Right, Guv.’
DS Leyton knows better than to interrogate Skelgill when he produces this kind of bland explanation. Now he is silent for a moment.
‘You rang me?’
‘Ah, yeah, Guv – we’ve got some progress – reckon we’ve found Seddon on the CCTV tapes – midday Monday.’
Skelgill takes a mouthful of tea, perhaps to aid his thinking.
‘He was supposed to be dead by then.’
‘Exactly, Guv – at least, it must have happened not long after – between ten and two, according to the PM.’
‘Where are you, Leyton?’
‘Still at base – I thought you’d want to come.’
‘I’ll swing by and get you on the way – be outside in twenty minutes.’
12. PENRITH TOWN CENTRE
Thursday afternoon
‘You alright, Guv?’
‘Like I said, Leyton – I got involved in a rescue.’
‘You look like you’ve done your back in, Guv.’
Skelgill glares disapprovingly across the roof of his car. Nonetheless, he tries to adjust his posture, but the effect is stilted and military. And it is with restricted freedom of movement that he stoops to check the interior – Cleopatra has already scrambled into the driver’s seat, and gazes forlornly through the two-inch gap by which he has lowered the window.
‘Shan’t be long, lass. Sit tight.’
He has parked in the shade at the side of the store, in a bay marked ‘Deliveries, Keep Clear At All Times’. He rounds the long estate car and follows DS Leyton, who is noticeably hobbling towards the entrance of the building.
‘You’re not exactly the spring chicken yourself, Leyton.’
‘Cor blimey, Guv – you ain’t kidding – my old pins feel like they’ve been run over by the Mile End bus.’
‘You need to get out more, Leyton – buy a dog – do your kids a favour.’
DS Leyton glances suspiciously at his superior. It is unlike Skelgill to be showing a concern – or even an interest – in his wellbeing and domestic life. Perhaps he suspects an ulterior motive, such as the provision of ad hoc boarding for the challenging canine recently acquired.
‘The missus reckons she’s allergic, Guv.’
Skelgill waves away the objection. ‘Get yourself one of those Labradoodles – they’re all the rage apparently.’
‘Pricey, though – so I’ve heard, Guv. Then there’s insurance, vets’ bills, feeding ’em.’
Skelgill nods pensively. ‘Reminds me – I’d better stock up on a few tins of Chum while we’re here.’
DS Leyton winces, presumably in anticipation of being tapped up for a further instalment on his credit facilities.
*
‘Decent scran, this, Leyton – for a supermarket.’
DS Leyton, who has succumbed to a chocolate brownie, nods agreeably as Skelgill tucks into a large plate of sausage, beans, fried eggs and chips. Skelgill has already pointed out that not only did he miss lunch in the line of duty (although no doubt DS Leyton strongly suspects he was walking the dog in lieu of attending the media conference), but also that it is tea time – five p.m. – when, by tradition, working-class British families have their main meal of the day (sometimes called high tea by cafés to differentiate it from the more genteel afternoon tea, which is an upscale and often extravagant cake-centred snack indulged in between luncheon and evening dinner). Of course, Skelgill eats whenever he can – on the principle that often he can’t – and doesn’t generally display any obligation to justify himself to DS Leyton – unless perhaps the latter is footing the bill.
‘So, this is the same table as Seddon, Guv.’
Skelgill nods and chews and points with a fork in the direction of the washrooms, presumably to indicate Barry Seddon’s direction of egress. They have spent the past half-hour with the store manager and the detective constable assigned to interrogate the CCTV records. Once Seddon was spotted, it had been a relatively straightforward task to examine the contemporaneous tapes from other cameras and piece together his movements. While these records do not extend to the car park, it is clear that he entered the store at ten minutes to twelve, and left five minutes later, having briefly visited the cigarette kiosk, the cafeteria and the toilets. Both of the female shop assistants who served him have been interviewed. Although neither have shed any particular light on the matter, the buxom and somewhat scatterbrained young girl from the cafeteria claims to remember him as ‘a bit pervy’ – evidently he stared overlong at her breasts. They did not attempt to establish what would have been a reasonable period of observation.
‘Why do you reckon he bought a coffee, Guv – and then never touched it?’
Skelgill finishes his mouthful of food and takes a gulp of tea, draining his mug.
‘I’ll need another of these, Leyton, I’m parched.’
‘Have mine, Guv – I just finished one before I left the station – I’m tea’d out, truth be told.’
Skelgill shrugs indifferently and pulls his sergeant’s brimming mug to within comfortable reach.
‘Maybe he thought to use the gents’ you have to buy something.’
DS Leyton does not respond – it is obvious from Skelgill’s tone that this is not a serious suggestion. In any event, Seddon had already paid for cigarettes and a newspaper.
‘Perhaps he didn’t fancy it, after all, Guv.’
Skelgill stops eating and, with unusual decorum, places his cutlery amidst the work in progress on his plate.
‘Leyton – if you were meeting someone – what time would you make it?’
‘I’m not with you, Guv.’
‘Well – say you were going to arrange to meet DS Jones later to discuss this case?’
DS Leyton looks perplexed. But he glances uneasily at his wristwatch and shrugs. ‘I dunno – what – six o’clock?’
‘Precisely.’
‘You sound like the Speaking Clock, Guv.’
‘Ha-ha, Leyton – but watch my lips: six o’clock – on the hour.’
‘Ah.’
‘You make appointments on the hour, don’t you? Not eight minutes to six or eleven minutes past – even if that suits you better.’
Now the penny drops.
‘You reckon he was meeting someone at twelve, Guv?’
‘And if he was, Leyton, he wasn’t going far.’
*
Their respective meals consumed, Skelgill and DS Leyton stroll replete across the store lot to the parking bay where the scaffolder’s pick-up had been located before it was removed for forensic examination. The muggy afternoon is turning into a brighter evening; the sky has cleared and the sun is still respectably high in the west, with plenty of heat to spare. Skelgill cranes his neck to watch a group of swifts that screams and swarms overhead before diving twisting and glistening to skim the slate rooftops of the old town centre beyond the busy road. Though the supermarket is quiet, there is plenty of traffic on the move – folk that are not home are heading whither for their tea. Skelgill sits on the low wall that divides the car park from the sidewalk. With a casual flap of the hand he beckons to DS Leyton to do the same.
‘So, Leyton – the sixty-four thousand dollar question – did he walk, or did he get in a car?’
‘Maybe someone picked him up, Guv – he parked a long way from the shop. He could just nip over this wall.’
Skelgill glances over his shoulder.
‘Double yellows, though.’
‘Wouldn’t stop you, Guv.’
‘Aye – but why come into the town centre? There’s plenty of easier meeting points out by the motorway.’
‘Well, maybe he did go on foot, Guv.’
Skelgill ponders for a moment.
‘I think it’s more likely – but why not park outside wherever you were going?’
Again, Skelgill’s question sounds like he already has an answer in mind.
‘Well – like you just said – yellow lines, meters, no spaces, whatever – supermarket’s a good place to park free. I do it myself, Guv.’
‘It’s one reason.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘His name was painted on his van.’
DS Leyton nods – evidently he grasps Skelgill’s line of thought. He stands and looks both ways along the road behind Skelgill.
‘There’s a bookies up there, Guv. Maybe it opens at twelve?’
Stiffly, Skelgill rises and stares in the direction indicated by DS Leyton. There is an arcade of shops and the bookmaker’s sign stands out clearly. In his line of sight a fake-tanned twenty-something pair of females are approaching, quite briskly. The taller of the two is dark, and by a few years the younger, though it is her accomplice that wins Skelgill’s attention, her scanty outfit of hot pants and sleeveless t-shirt winning over against the other’s more modest attire. His gaze is drawn to the scarlet straps of her bra, which don’t quite line up with her vest-top. Then he catches her partner’s disapproving eye, and switches his attention a little ostentatiously to his wristwatch. He examines it, frowning, and carefully adjusts the outer dial on its face with a series of clicks.
‘Let’s go see, Leyton.’
The couple are past, perhaps on their way to the grocery store’s pedestrian entrance. Gingerly he straddles the wall. The shorter, heavier DS Leyton struggles over, swearing under his breath.
‘Remember his cousin Hilda said he was into betting, Guv? It could explain why he left his wallet in the van. And he’d bought the Racing Post.’
Certainly this logic is quite compelling: if Seddon didn’t want to advertise his presence in the turf accountant’s, the supermarket car park would be a handy alternative. And, by leaving the balance of his funds in his vehicle, the temptation to lose everything would have been mitigated. However, Skelgill’s stern features reveal little trace of enthusiasm, and indeed when the pair reach the gambling emporium he strides right past without breaking stride.
‘Guv – what’s the score?’
‘Keep walking, Leyton.’
DS Leyton scuttles to catch up, hampered by sore thighs.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Search me.’
‘What about the bookies?’
‘On the way back – right now I’m timing us.’
‘Come again, Guv?’
‘If he came this way – and fifty-fifty he did – he probably had three or four minutes to get somewhere for twelve.’
They have to halt for a moment as a car indicates to turn into the side street that interrupts their smooth progress. It is called Ullswater Place. As they cross Skelgill glances along its twin banks of terraced houses, but his gaze is not especially critical. They gain the opposite pavement and continue onward.
‘Thing is, Guv...’ (Skelgill is setting a brisk pace and DS Leyton wheezes a little) ‘...that assumes he was punctual.’
Skelgill scowls. He does not reply and instead checks his watch. They walk on for what must be another minute before he wheels around. The supermarket is now shielded from view by other buildings, though its liveried sign is still recognisable, perhaps four or five hundred yards to the south.
‘There’s only so many routes he could have taken, Leyton. We need to plot them on a map and get some boots on the ground. Door-to-door, starting with a five-minute radius. And talk to anyone who’s out and about either side of twelve.’
‘Right, Guv.’
‘Better ask his cousin if she knows of anywhere in Penrith he might have had an appointment – something he might have wanted to keep under his hat – doctor, accountant, lawyer.’
‘Hairdresser, Guv.’
Skelgill shakes his head unsympathetically at DS Leyton’s attempt at wit. Indeed, he falls silent as they retrace their steps, and now seems content with a casual gait – which finds favour with DS Leyton. They become visibly more alert as they reach the betting shop; however, the hypothesis that Barry Seddon might have paid a noon visit begins immediately to unravel: on the door is a sign advertising opening hours from nine a.m.
They enter a plain windowless shoe-box of a room, presently devoid of punters, with plastic chairs lined up against one long wall and a bank of television screens high on the other, displaying horses that race or recover or parade in silence. Overhead, naked fluorescent strip-lighting creates a clinical brightness, though the place is shabby and lacks the modern fast-food feel of the big chain bookmakers, where placing a bet is as easy as buying a burger. Beneath the row of screens, pages from today’s Racing Post have been rudely fixed with masking tape onto the distempered plaster. Below these is a long shelf, on which are placed at intervals jam jars crammed with small ballpoint pens, and little stacks of betting slips. At the far end is a screened counter, whence a small elderly woman eyes them benignly from behind thick-lensed round-rimmed spectacles.
DS Leyton approaches and makes their introductions. He establishes that she is the manageress and has been running the business single-handed for the past two-and-a-half decades, no less. He explains their purpose and slides a photograph of Barry Seddon beneath the screen.
