Skelgill shrugs.
‘They’d photograph it to death. That’s the trouble when you walk round with a camera – snap everything and see nothing.’
He sets off quickly and DS Jones has to scamper to catch up. The undulating ground begins to rise more sharply now, and for a few minutes they walk on without speaking. Soon the dappled shade of the oak wood comes to an end, and they pass through a gap in a dry-stone wall and out onto a steep fellside, blanketed in rampaging bracken, fern’s delinquent cousin. Skelgill sets a steady pace, and while he does not appear troubled by the exertion, DS Jones slips off her cardigan and ties it around her waist. Cleopatra, meanwhile, seems to know that she is in the kind of open country where it is expedient to stick close to her master, if she wants to stay off the leash. After a moderate pull the gradient eases and they begin a traverse of the airy bank known as Loughrigg Terrace. Skelgill pauses beside a bench where the view north over Grasmere is perhaps at its best, but instead of admiring this he cranes his neck to look skywards. An insistent shrieking birdcall has alerted him, and he raises an outstretched arm to indicate its source to his companion.
‘Peregrine.’
DS Jones shades her eyes anxiously, but in due course locates the majestic falcon, a soaring, circling, scything silhouette. Then without warning it drops into an arrowing stoop, homing in upon some unsuspecting prey, to disappear behind a shoulder of the fell.
‘Wow – that’s impressive.’
‘Fastest animal on the planet.’
Skelgill says this rather proprietorially.
‘How can you tell it’s a peregrine, Guv?’
He purses his lips. ‘It just is.’
‘You’re quite the naturalist – you could be a tour guide in your spare time, Guv.’
Skelgill looks askance – they both know he wouldn’t have the patience, though his reply is ostensibly at odds with this.
‘I’ve thought about fishing guiding more than once.’ But then he sets his features grimly and shakes his head. ‘Ruin it, though.’
DS Jones nods sympathetically, her expression sharing his pain. She turns back to face across the valley.
‘Amazing view, Guv.’
Skelgill is pensive. Certainly the vista is idyllic, a chocolate-box Lakeland scene, dappled by shadows of wandering clouds; the diminutive Grasmere set like a sapphire jewel amidst green velvet folds of rippling fells. Though twice the size of neighbouring Rydal Water, it is still one of the smallest lakes – a mere fraction of nearby Windermere, whose waters both of these minnows share through the sometimes rushing River Rothay.
‘Seen enough?’
Skelgill does not wait for a reply, and sets off once again. Soon he leads them back into woodland, this time more mature and with less undergrowth than down in the valley. A mix of deciduous and conifers, it has that cathedral-like sense of calm, where dust motes float in shafts of light that penetrate stained glass – though in this green-hued arbour it is flies that hover like tiny angels, pinned in space by sunbeams. To pause is to allow midges to pounce, but the heady pine-scented ambiance subdues their urgency, and they amble to the accompaniment of an avian choir: the liquid warbling falsetto of a blackcap, a faltering, chuntering chiffchaff and, high above in a larch, the faintest cork-on-glass soprano of a diminutive goldcrest.
They reach a gate and with a metallic clang the spell is broken. Skelgill digs in his pocket for the baler twine that is now Cleopatra’s regular leash. It is tied at each end and he slides it beneath her collar and feeds one loop through the other, forming a slip-knot. The free loop then goes over the wrist.
‘Like to take her?’
He holds out the lead to DS Jones, who turns from fastening the gate.
‘Sure.’
Their route now runs along a narrow tarmac lane, bordered on the downhill side by a well-maintained stone wall. Periodically they pass a residence – sometimes close to the road, while others are tucked away more or less out of sight – these are a mixture of holiday cottages for rent, and full-time homes for those fortunate enough to lead a life that enables desirability to prevail over practicality in the battle of location. They walk on in silence for maybe half a mile – though DS Jones seems happily occupied engineering whatever glimpses she can of the properties. Soon the view on their right opens out, with meadows beyond the wall running down to Grasmere. Just as they approach a woodland brake that will interrupt this prospect, Skelgill draws to a halt.
‘We have to improvise here.’
He inclines his head towards the wall.
‘Climb over, Guv?’
‘Aye.’
‘What about the dog?’
‘Pass the parcel. Want to go first, or stay this side?’
DS Jones sizes up the wall. It is about shoulder height to her. Then she eyes Cleopatra. The dog, though medium-sized, is nothing if not stocky, and probably weighs in at fifty pounds.
‘I don’t know if I could lift her, Guv – especially if she makes a fuss.’
Skelgill grins. He crouches down beside the wall and forms a stirrup by interlocking his fingers.
‘Up you go then, lass.’
DS Jones duly gets a leg up, and scales the wall without too much difficulty, despite her tight jeans. However, balanced precariously on the line of coping stones, she hesitates.
‘It’s further down this side, Guv.’
‘That’s the slope. Just stay there a mo.’
Without prior warning, Skelgill stoops and grips the startled canine with his long fingers spread on either side of her broad thorax, and with a grunt he heaves her up onto the ridge of the wall. She scrabbles anxiously for a foothold.
‘Hold her there – grab her collar.’
Cleopatra is clearly not happy and begins to whine, but DS Jones gets a sufficient grip while Skelgill swarms over the wall – almost as though there is no obstacle. He drops down easily into the pasture. Rising, he swivels and reaches out to cradle the dog, but this invitation proves too much, and she leaps prematurely, striking him full in the chest and pulling a wide-eyed DS Jones with her. As Skelgill begins to topple backwards – drawn by the weight of his backpack – Cleopatra springs over his shoulder and flies a short distance before coming to rest on all fours. But DS Jones’s momentum is irreversible and she can only scream and crash onto Skelgill, and the pair of them go down in a flailing, slightly comic, embrace, a landing thankfully cushioned by the long dewy grass.
For a few seconds they lie entwined, and who knows what might happen next – but Cleopatra intervenes, darting in to lick faces that can only have been placed at ground level for her enjoyment. DS Jones rolls away spluttering and protesting – and laughing, too – for she must be able to tell that Skelgill is unharmed. She rises to her knees and balls her fists on her hips.
‘You did say improvise, Guv.’
Skelgill pushes himself up into a sitting position. He wipes his face on his sleeve and glares with exasperation at Cleopatra, who is now waiting expectantly on her haunches for the next round of this new jumping game.
‘I forgot she was called the canine cannonball.’ He manipulates his head between his two hands, as if to check all is in place.
‘You okay, Guv?’
‘I’m fine – it's the Kelly I’m worried about.’ He jiggles the rucksack, but seems reassured by the clanking and sloshing of water. ‘Mind you, it’s pretty indestructible – no moving parts. I’ve fallen a lot further than that with it on my back.’
‘Maybe not with a dog and another person on top of you?’
‘The dog’s a first.’
DS Jones flashes him an expectant look, as though she hopes he might elaborate. But Skelgill’s thoughts apparently remain fixed upon his equipment.
‘Anyway – we’ll soon find out – I could murder a cuppa.’
He extends a hand and they exchange a grip on one another’s wrists, pulling together to raise themselves to their feet. Grasmere lies just a stone’s throw away, and meeting the lake they
veer in a southerly direction, back towards their point of origin. A sandy path now hugs the shoreline. To their left the water is calm, for this is the west bank and the breeze drifts in from their right. Skelgill’s pale eyes dart about, watching the surface for traces of aquatic life. Cleopatra trots along the water’s edge, pausing occasionally to lap. She disturbs a small piebald bird from a rocky perch. It bounds airily into a gnarled hawthorn tree. Skelgill stops and shakes his head reflectively.
‘What is it, Guv?’
‘A pied wagtail – but I was looking at the haws.’
‘Excuse me?’
DS Jones’s tone of voice is intentionally scandalised, but Skelgill does not play along.
‘H-a-w-s.’ He spells it out. ‘Seems like only last week the May was blooming. Now look at the berries – they’re almost ripe.’
‘Doesn’t that mean we’re in for a hard winter, Guv?’
‘It’s about as good a way of forecasting as any.’ He screws up his features contemptuously. ‘Where’s the barbecue summer the boffins promised us?’
‘Actually, it hasn’t been that bad, Guv – we had that hot spell in June. And it’s nice today.’
Skelgill raises a sceptical eye to the heavens. Although the sun is still shining there is a distinct build up of nimbostratus in the west, and he shrugs cynically.
‘Better make hay, then.’
DS Jones raises her eyebrows. Skelgill sees this gesture, but turns and marches on. After about ten minutes’ steady walking, they emerge from beneath shady bankside alders onto a broad stretch of pale shingle, extending perhaps fifty yards or so to the neck where Grasmere’s outflow, the River Rothay, slips beneath a footbridge. For the time being, they are the sole occupants of this tiny haven.
‘A private beach, Guv.’
DS Jones’s voice has the ring of an excited child; Skelgill looks pleased with himself for providing such a surprise.
‘Can we paddle?’
‘I’d have brought my bathers if I’d known you were so keen.’
She flashes him an impish look.
‘I could always dare you, Guv.’
Skelgill flinches, presumably at the thought of his underwear appearing on public display.
‘I’ll leave the water sports to you – I’ve got work to do.’
He swings the rucksack down onto the stones and begins to unpack its contents. DS Jones picks up a stick and – much to the unbounded joy of Cleopatra – tosses it into the shallows. This quickly develops into a game of fetch – and it is hard to tell which of them is having more fun. Skelgill observes for a moment, perhaps reflecting that the nimble DS Jones is not so long out of girlhood to have lost this basic hedonistic aptitude – or maybe he considers that she has an unusually good throwing action for a female.
She catches him watching; he pretends to busy himself with firing up the Kelly Kettle. He has brought supplies of newspaper, kindling and methylated spirits, two enamel mugs and the requisite components for tea. As the contraption begins to spit and boil, DS Jones skips back from the lake’s edge, Cleopatra trotting beside her. Skelgill eyes the dripping canine apprehensively, as though he anticipates a shake coming on.
‘You’ll be pleased to know I’ve carried four pints of fresh water – especially for you.’
‘What other kind of water is there, Guv?’
Skelgill inclines his head towards the shore.
‘Aw, yuck – what about all the ducks?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘It’s never done me any harm – it all gets boiled.’
He taps a knuckle against the battered aluminium cylinder and then lifts it from its smoking base. He has drilled the mugs into the shingle to prevent them from toppling over. His Barbour is spread out as a crude picnic blanket, and he indicates to DS Jones that she should make herself comfortable.
‘You sure, Guv?’
By way of reply he digs into the rucksack and produces a roll of foam, which he flattens into a sit-mat for himself. Next he pulls out a small tin that formerly held a well-known brand of tea, and flips open the lid.
‘Flapjack? It’s home-made.’
‘Thanks.’ DS Jones nibbles a corner of the rustic treat. ‘It’s good.’
‘Cheers.’
Skelgill munches a piece himself, and they are silent for a few moments.
‘Make it yourself, Guv?’
‘Er... no – my neighbour.’ Perhaps Skelgill was going to claim the credit, unless asked. ‘I took Sammy out last night.’
‘Sammy?’
Her question carries a forced inflection, as though she is trying to moderate her curiosity.
‘Her dog – he’s pals with Cleopatra.’
‘Oh – that’s right – you said.’
‘Whacking great Alsatian – so she claims. Looks half-wolf, to me.’ He waves his flapjack wistfully. ‘My kind of dog, actually.’
‘Poor Cleopatra.’
Skelgill shakes his head briskly, as if to dismiss any suggestion of a comparison.
‘She’s a one-off.’
As if to confirm his admiration for the quirky Bullboxer he snaps the flapjack and offers half to her. It must be noted that she has shown great restraint thus far – perhaps Skelgill’s regime is tempering her penchant for scrounging. He pats her heartily and dips so she can lick his ear.
‘There’s no accounting for taste, Jones.’
DS Jones observes him contemplatively.
‘No, Guv – there’s not.’
Absently she tries her tea, but recoils. Made with only powdered milk it is far too hot for all but Skelgill’s asbestos-lined digestive tract. She returns the mug to its niche in the shingle and settles back upon the jacket, placing her cardigan as a pillow. The sun is strung between clouds, and closing her eyes she stretches out luxuriously to absorb its warmth. Skelgill’s gaze falls upon her trendy plimsolls and slowly travels north: trainer socks encircle slim ankles; white stretch denims sheathe her legs and accentuate their athletic musculature; she wears no belt, and the hipsters are loose about her slender waistline, a glimpse of white underwear revealed beneath; her exposed stomach is a tanned camber where her blouse has rucked, its flimsy material clinging faithfully to the curves of her breasts.
‘You were going to tell me, Guv...’
She speaks languidly, with eyes closed, but nonetheless she seems to know she has his attention.
‘... what it was you’d been thinking about?’
Skelgill jerks back from his avid study and hurriedly takes a gulp of tea, as though all along he has been drinking purposefully. He swallows, and then he clears his throat.
‘The other night – Thursday – at The Yat – we never managed to finish the conversation.’
‘Aha?’
‘Aye – well, it was the sex thing, actually.’
DS Jones opens one eye. Skelgill can have a blunt way with words, especially when he is feeling tongue-tied, and she can be excused for wondering which direction the conversation is about to take. However, he must sense her anticipation, for he quickly clarifies his position.
‘I mean – what you said about the killings.’
DS Jones is silent for a moment, eyes again shut.
‘I wondered if it were that.’ Her tone is a little flat.
Skelgill brings up his knees and clasps his arms around them, and stares directly ahead across the lake.
‘If you’re right, assuming we’ve got victims who aren’t connected – it suggests they’ve been preyed upon.’
‘Aha.’
‘So what would be the possible scenarios?’
DS Jones remains in sunbathing mode. She runs her tongue slowly around her lips.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time a working girl has despatched a client, Guv.’
Skelgill frowns.
‘But how did she do it?’
There is another pause before DS Jones speaks.
‘If the customer were into certain sexual practices? You did touch on that, Guv.
We kind of got off the subject.’
Skelgill shifts rather uncomfortably.
‘But why would you let someone throttle you without putting up a fight?’
‘Apparently on the point of blacking out the intensity of orgasm is much greater.’
DS Jones’s analysis comes without hesitation or discomfiture – perhaps it is easier from behind the veil of her closed lids, distanced as she is by her disembodiment. Skelgill, on the other hand, appears frozen, either out of embarrassment, or he is held in the grip of the image she conjures. Then he turns to stare at his companion, and for a moment his eyes are wild and seem to be feasting upon her lithe form, prone and vulnerable as it is. The silence prompts her to open her eyes, and she responds with an expression that might be a wave of alarm mixed with an undercurrent of delight. There is a momentary standoff before Skelgill regains his composure and speaks as though nothing has passed between them.
‘How would we begin to investigate this?’
DS Jones is silent for a moment.
‘What about Streetwise, Guv?’
‘Come again?’
Now she glances at him in a rather doe-eyed manner, as though she is politely suggesting he is being disingenuous.
‘Streetwise.’
‘Obviously I’m not, Jones.’
She concertinas smoothly into an upright position, mirroring Skelgill’s rowing pose. She reaches for her tea, and takes a tentative sip.
‘It’s the website sex-workers use to advertise their services.’
‘That’s a new one on me.’
Again she gives him something of an old-fashioned look. She rolls sideways, for a second or two exposing the smooth curves of her buttocks. She slides her phone from a back pocket.
‘I’ll show you, Guv – if there’s enough signal.’
Skelgill has finished his tea, and while DS Jones is tapping away at her mobile he occupies himself by aiming small stones at the Kelly Kettle, which stands askew a few yards beyond them. Cleopatra has curled up in a depression in the shingle, but she raises her nose, perhaps assessing whether this is a game in which she should become involved. Shortly, DS Jones passes the handset to Skelgill.
‘There you go, Guv – that’s just a random girl. One of forty-seven thousand profiles that are live on the UK site today.’
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 15
