Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 76
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
Skelgill remains on his knees. He turns back to face into the darkness. Cautiously he slides along on his hands until he reaches the edge of the pit. There is nothing to see – it is just a marginally blacker pool that spreads across the dark width of the passageway. Skelgill tuts in self-reprimand; he knows the dangers of these dank places, that their eighteenth century architects were prone to sink shafts seemingly at random. He fumbles about and finds a loose stone. Then he tosses it like a coin, with a flick of his thumb. He counts – one, two, three... splash. Somewhere between one hundred-and-fifty and two hundred feet, and who knows what beneath the water? He backs well away before he rises, cautiously raising his hands above his head to feel his way. Now, however, his eyes are functioning with greater efficiency, and in any event there is the light that filters in from the narrow portal. Cleopatra’s silhouette paces to and fro, eager to greet her rescuer, oblivious to his role in her near downfall.
As much as Skelgill was blinded by the darkness when he entered the cave, the glare of the sun must now seem like a dizzying explosion of light, in which the universe turns white and the stellar blossoms of the bedstraw blend into one all-enveloping Milky Way. Indeed, he clears the mouth of the tunnel and sways across to a grassy hummock, upon which he sinks gratefully. He grins affectionately at Cleopatra, who joins him and settles down, her death-defying episode as quickly forgotten as her last meal. Skelgill casts about as though he is missing his Kelly Kettle – which, of course, he is. Then he notices the twine trailing from the dog’s collar, and unfastens the loop and absently winds it into a loose hank.
While he is doing this, his gaze falls upon the wrist of his right hand, the one around which he had anchored the lead. There are red welts and strangled creases in his weathered skin. At first his expression is one of mild annoyance. But as he continues to regard the injury, a realisation settles upon his countenance: one of great concern and yet equally magnificent illumination. Shocked, for a moment he sits upright and stares unseeing across the dale. Then a determination sets in. He rises and, with a click of the fingers to the dog, sets off at a trot down the fellside.
24. CLIFF EDGE
Wednesday afternoon
‘Hello?’
‘Er... is that Mary?’
The man seems to have a mild speech disorder; he pronounces the ‘r’ in Mary as a ‘w’.
‘Aha.’
‘Oh, I er... I was reading your profile... on Streetwise.’ Again there is the substituted letter.
‘Aha.’
‘Is it convenient to talk?’
‘Ja.’
Despite her assent, the woman sounds disinterested. Her Eastern European accent does not reflect her quintessentially English pseudonym.
‘I was thinking of making an appointment.’
‘Is sixty for half hour. One hundred one hour.’
‘Okay.’
‘You want come now?’
‘Oh... er, no – I was wondering about tomorrow – I wanted to ask you...’
But the woman has hung up.
The man returns his attention to his computer screen. He exits the profile of ‘Mary’ and returns to a menu page, with thumbnail photographs and abbreviated descriptions – a kind of small ads section for sexual services. He scrolls up and down and then selects one of the dozen or so images. Now he reaches again for the phone, activates the speaker, and taps in the next number. There is a prolonged period of ringing and, once the call is answered, a few seconds in which female and male voices can be heard in the background.
‘Hiya.’
She follows the convention of not answering by name.
‘Belle?’
‘That’s right, darling.’
The woman sounds a little breathless.
‘Is it a bad time just now?’
‘Not at all, darling – I was just saying cheerio to my last gentleman.’
The man hesitates, perhaps momentarily disconcerted by the image of this prosaic detail.
‘I’m phoning – about an appointment – and to ask a few things.’
‘Ask away, chuck.’
The chuck – perhaps a careless lapse from the more intimate ‘darling’ – is suggestive of Mancunian origins, though her accent is hard to discern. Her voice has a note of maturity that does not exactly correlate with her youthful and likely airbrushed photographs.
‘It says on your profile – in your likes – it mentions bondage.’
‘That can be arranged – on you, that is.’
‘Oh – of course – what exactly do you – er, offer?’
The woman sounds accustomed to dealing with nervous prospects; she makes an exaggerated purring sound in the back of her throat.
‘I’ve got lovely metal handcuffs – same as the police use – for your wrists and your ankles – and a policewoman’s outfit – my gentlemen seem to like the short skirt and suspenders when they’re being – arrested.’
Now she laughs salaciously.
‘Well, er – I...’
‘I can pretend to be a policeman, if that’s what you prefer – the truncheon, you know?’
The man’s mouth is dry, and before he can construct a reply the woman speaks again.
‘When did you want to come?’
‘I, er... was thinking of tomorrow – which area of town are you?’
‘In the new motel by the M6 – I’ve got a late checkout until one, so my last appointment will be at twelve – unless you just want the half-hour, darling?’
‘Twelve is fine.’
‘It’s a hundred and thirty for the hour.’
‘Okay.’
‘What name was it, darling?’
‘Oh, it’s er... Cliff.’
‘See you tomorrow at twelve then, Cliff.’
As soon as the call is ended the man returns to the online menu. He browses for a while, clicking to and fro between various profiles. Eventually he settles upon one featuring a shapely blonde described as being in her early twenties – though a veil of hair cleverly obscures her face. Again he engages his speaker function and types in the number. This time the call is answered almost immediately.
‘Hello.’
Once more the voice has an older ring to it than might be expected from the girl pictured.
‘Is that Anna?’
This time it is the woman that hesitates before she replies.
‘You want an appointment?’
‘I was hoping...’
‘I’m fully booked this week.’
Her voice lacks the warmth of the previous respondent. Her accent may be local, though it is relatively neutral.
‘You were recommended to me...’
‘Who by?’
‘I don’t know if they’d want me to mention their names – it’s some of my old pals – connected through Streetwise.’
Again he pronounces the word with difficulty.
‘Are you a member?’
‘I’ve been away – for a long time – I’ve just come back to the area – I’ve only got a couple of ratings – you were recommended to me, you see.’
‘What’s your nickname? We only see members with positive feedback.’
‘Mine is positive – if you want to check it – search under ... Cliff Edge.’
The woman does not reply. It is possible that she too is looking online – perhaps silently upon a tablet. After a few moments she speaks, and now for the first time there is a note of enthusiasm in her tone.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I noticed on your profile page it says you provide bondage.’
‘That’s not on us, you realise?’
‘When you say us...?’
‘It’s a two-girl service.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Are you looking at Streetwise now?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Click on the tab that says Duo.’
There is a pause as the man does as she suggests. Now before him there are lurid images of the blond posing provocatively with a considerably taller, though no less alluring, brunette. They are advertised as sisters, Anna and Alanna. After a few moments he exhales heavily.
‘That’s exactly the kind of thing.’
‘Have you done it before?’
The man, though apprehensive, manages a nervous chuckle.
‘I think you could say I know the ropes.’
Again there is the speech impediment, and he pronounces the final word as wopes. The girl gives the impression that she is listening intently, her breathing now audible down the line.
‘Can you just hold on a second, honey – while I check my sister’s diary?’
‘Sure.’
After perhaps as long as a minute, she comes back on the line.
‘When were you thinking of?’
‘Are you free tomorrow, about midday?’
‘Yes, we can manage that.’
‘Ok, then – I’d like to go ahead.’
‘That’s you booked in, honey.’
‘How about the address?’
‘Will you be coming by car?’
‘I guess, so.’
‘Do you know Penrith, honey?’
‘Reasonably.’
‘There’s a big supermarket on Scotland Road.’
‘I think I remember that.’
‘You can park there – it’s free. Cross towards the town centre – there’s a phone box. Call us from that number – then we’ll know you’re not a time-waster.’
‘Okay.’
‘Then we’ll give you the address – you can walk from there.’
‘Perfect.’
As soon as they end the call the man resumes his perusal of the Duo page. On reflection he might note that the woman never mentioned the price.
25. CRUNCH TIME
Thursday morning
DS Leyton and DS Jones, who have not actually laid eyes on their superior for the best part of two days, assemble timeously in his office for an eleven o’clock debriefing. Of Skelgill, however, there is no sign. The sun slants intermittently through the dust-streaked glass of the window, as cloud that brought overnight rain progressively breaks up; DS Jones moves to adjust the blinds accordingly. DS Leyton places a mug of tea on Skelgill’s desk: a precaution to save him being immediately despatched for the same, before a meeting can begin.
After about fifteen minutes – during which the two officers first exchange pleasantries but then begin to share their concerns over the impending deadline for producing tangible progress in the case – there is suddenly an unfamiliar scrabbling sound as something approaches rapidly along the corridor. Enter Cleopatra, dragging her leash. Nosing open the door, she appears delighted to see both of the detectives, and dodges to and fro, uncertain of how to divide her affections between them. (It must be said, DS Leyton is a less-willing recipient.) Skelgill enters a moment later, carrying a worn roll of carpet and the bottom half of a round green bait box that still has a scattering of blowfly pupae stuck to its inner wall.
‘Change of plan – I need you to look after Cleopatra for a bit. Stick her in the corner – she’ll be fine – you can take it in turns to work in here.’
DS Leyton, in particular, looks alarmed at this prospect – and recoils as Skelgill drops the rank-smelling rug onto his lap and hands him the improvised drinking bowl.
‘Dog walker’s got an emergency – took Sammy into the vet yesterday – got him x-rayed – turns out he’s swallowed an entire cob of sweet corn – needs an op.’
DS Leyton now grimaces, perhaps thinking through the corollary of ingesting such an item.
‘Leave you to it – got to get to the bank – catch up this afternoon.’ Skelgill is already heading out of his office, when an afterthought strikes him. ‘She’ll need a walk shortly – visit to the ladies’ – if you know what I mean?’
He winks and is gone, swiftly closing the door to thwart any prospective canine escape bid.
DS Leyton pushes the rug unceremoniously onto the floor. Cleopatra approaches and sniffs at it rather despondently. DS Jones, though shaking her head, looks amused.
‘I could do without this, Emma – I’ve got to meet the door-to-door team at twelve over on that new estate.’
DS Jones stands up and relieves him of the drinking bowl.
‘Why don’t I come with you? I could give the dog a bit of a walk – there’s that big green in the middle of all the houses.’
DS Leyton glances at Cleopatra, who seems to know she is the subject of the discussion and cocks her head on one side, as if she keenly is awaiting his decision.
‘Kills two birds with one stone, I suppose.’
‘It’s better than keeping her cooped up in here. And my team are going to be busy for the next hour or so. I can leave them to it.’
DS Leyton nods decisively.
‘Let’s do it.’ Cleopatra butts his knee and he reaches out to give her a tentative pat. ‘You’re not such a bad old girl, are you?’
DS Jones inspects the bowl, and grimaces as she notices its unsavoury contents.
‘I’ll just go and rinse this and get her a drink.’
But as she reaches to open the door someone from outside beats her to it. It is DI Smart. He smirks at the female officer and casts a patronising nod at the still-seated DS Leyton. Then his gaze falls distastefully upon the Bullboxer, who is cautiously sniffing at the toe of his nearest shoe.
‘I heard Skelly had his dog in – what is this, an amateur bloodhound?’
Before either of Skelgill’s sergeants can fashion a reply in his defence, DI Smart speaks again.
‘Sooner this larking about’s over the better for all of us – when’s his meeting with the Chief?’
DS Leyton fidgets uncomfortably.
‘Close of play today, sir.’
‘Tidy – well, on Friday we can start with a clean sheet.’ He takes a step back, frowning, evidently irritated by the dog’s interest in his footwear. Then he reaches down and brushes at the trousers of his designer suit – although Cleopatra has made no contact with them. ‘Tell you what – to kick things off, I’ll treat you to a curry – a good old Ruby Murray eh, Leyton? Get the professional show on the road.’
DS Leyton nods without enthusiasm. DS Jones is looking stone faced.
‘Won’t be Manchester standard, I’m afraid – but beggars can’t be choosers, eh?’
And with this – arguably double-edged observation – he slides out of the office and pulls the door to behind him.
DS Leyton can’t help himself from letting go an expletive.
‘Excuse my French.’
DS Jones shrugs. She seems pensive.
‘I wonder where he has gone.’ She refers to Skelgill. ‘He didn’t seem too concerned about the meeting with the Chief.’
‘Maybe he’s having lunch with her – he was swanky by his usual standards – salaries go in today – perhaps he’s treating her – trying to win her over?’
The detectives each look at one another – there is an exchange of unspoken thoughts. They both shake their heads. Then DS Leyton adds a caveat.
‘You know the Guvnor, Emma – anything’s possible.’
*
The man parks as directed. It is quite likely that he selects the exact spot in the supermarket lot where Barry Seddon left his pick-up just ten days ago. He vaults easily over the perimeter wall and jogs across the road through a gap in the traffic. Some distance off there is a red telephone box. As he approaches he digs in his pocket for change, and then checks his watch. The kiosk is empty, but he waits a minute or so until it is precisely ten to twelve. Then he taps out a number stored on his mobile phone.
‘Hello?’
It is the same voice that answered yesterday, although there is perhaps an apprehensive note, even in the single word of acknowledgement.
‘It’s Cliff – you said to call from here to get your address.’
The girl seems to be listening for his distinctive pronunciation. There is a pause before she replies.
‘Thirty-seven Ullswater Place. We’ll be ready in ten minutes.’
‘Okay, shall I –?’
But the woman has rung off.
The man replaces the receiver in its cradle and exits the booth. Ullswater Place is barely two minutes’ brisk walk away. He stands for a moment and looks about rather aimlessly, like someone who has missed a bus and is mentally unprepared for the wait. The morning is blustery, though mild, with scattered clouds and bursts of bright sunshine. He notices a family of swallows resting on a telegraph wire, jabbering excitedly amongst themselves. Then he seems to have an idea, and sets off purposefully back past the supermarket and crossing towards the arcade of shops. Here he slows his pace, and considers each outlet thoughtfully as he passes. They appear quiet – indeed the bookmaker’s has a handwritten sign on its door saying ‘Back Soon’ – though giving no indication as to when that might be. Reaching the corner, he turns into Ullswater Place. Now he consults his wristwatch again: it is five to twelve. He walks the length of the street, on the side of the odd numbers, reaching the row of garages. Turning, he slowly retraces his steps, all the way to the corner, en route stepping off the narrow kerb to enable an old woman pulling a shopping caddy to have right of way. One more about turn and he makes his final half-lap of the stretch of pavement. Arriving at number thirty-seven he knocks and is promptly admitted. At a house opposite, net curtains twitch.
*
While DS Leyton stands surrounded by an attentive cluster of clipboard-bearing uniformed police officers, DS Jones strolls unobtrusively at the far side of the large central grassy area thoughtfully designed for residents of the new housing scheme. There is a fenced-off play zone, where a couple of bored-looking mothers are exercising their boisterous pre-school children, and – at alternate intervals around the perimeter path – benches and waste bins, some of the latter specifically designated for dog owners. DS Jones, though armed with a polythene carrier bag from the supply in her colleague’s car boot, as yet has not had to avail herself of this facility. There are also young saplings ringing the small park, although several appear the worse for wear, vandalised in keeping with the general background haze of graffiti that has colonised most flat surfaces like some inarticulate urban lichen.
