Even by DI Smart’s standards, this slur seems designed to wound, a thrust that might invite the observer to wonder what authority gives him such nerve. He takes a few paces around the small room, and slides a paper napkin from a table setting and uses it to dab some flecks of farmyard mud from his trendy pointed shoes. He is informally attired, wearing slim designer jeans and a black zip-up cardigan, and he draws attention to this outfit when Skelgill fails to respond to his opening gambit.
‘I’m on a day’s leave, Skel – but I’d called in to drop off a report for the Chief – heard Emma needed a ride.’ He drawls the last word and then pauses to leer salaciously in her direction. ‘Saves the Force a few bob, eh?’
He laughs cynically. That his motivation is altruistic is unlikely to ring true with his reluctant audience. DS Jones is still loitering near the entrance, looking as though she wishes she weren’t there at all. DI Smart fixes his weaselly stare upon Skelgill.
‘Murderer’s giving you the run-around, eh, Skel? All these places he keeps leaving bodies – I hear you’re thinking of naming a hill-race after him.’
He cackles at his own joke.
‘It’s no laughing matter, Smart.’
DI Smart seems vaguely affronted by Skelgill’s unwillingness to play along. His demeanour hardens and he brushes his hands over his slicked-back hair.
‘Chief’s certainly not laughing, Skel – I had a bit of a pow-wow with her earlier.’ He takes another turn about the room, disdainfully squinting at the pictures and flicking at the seventies’ curtains. He knows he has their attention. ‘I reckon she buys my theory, Skel.’
Skelgill is bristling, his face colouring red from his cheekbones down.
‘And what’s that, exactly?’
‘Sex killings, obviously.’
Skelgill shoots an accusing glance at DS Jones, who stiffens like a rabbit caught in the headlights. But DI Smart can observe this interchange, and all she can do is to gaze imploringly at Skelgill. There might be the faintest shake of the head, a tremor through her shoulder-length locks, but she is unable to utter the words that would deny she has been persuaded to confide her own notion, perhaps en route.
Skelgill reverts to DI Smart. ‘Why obviously?’
‘You’ve got a homophobic psychopath on your hands, Skel – it’s got all the hallmarks.’ DI Smart pulls out a chair and sits astride it, facing the back. ‘I told the Chief – this’ll have its roots in the gay community in Manchester – my home turf, mate.’
Now Skelgill seems to recognise DI Smart’s strategy – he is making a play for the case.
‘It’s a local affair, Smart.’
DI Smart shrugs indifferently.
‘Suit yourself, Skel – but I think you’ll find I’m being lined up – for when your country lane peters out.’
Skelgill’s patience must be wearing dangerously thin. As a man of few words but volatile temper, at this juncture his subordinates can be excused for hunkering down. DI Smart’s offensive tactics might be de rigueur – most probably he lacks the empathy to appreciate his foul expertise in finding a chink in an opponent’s armour and winkling away at it with his stiletto wit – but to do so in Skelgill’s own backyard, so to speak, is certainly risking the incendiary moment.
But such an eventuality does not come to pass, for the shrill ring of DS Leyton’s mobile suddenly releases the tension. And immediately that the sergeant responds to the call, it becomes clear from his reaction that there is significant news. He leans towards Skelgill and places a hand on his forearm.
‘Possible ID on the body, Guv – farm labourer from over Threlkeld way.’
Skelgill glances at DI Smart; perhaps there is a hint of triumph in his narrowed eyes. He rises decisively.
‘Jones – I’ll take you over to get started on the witnesses.’
He nods at DS Leyton to indicate they are to depart.
DI Smart remains seated and again casts about the small room.
‘I think I’ll stay for a breakfast, Skel – leave you local chaps to it.’
As DS Jones pulls open the door into the hallway, she almost collides with Gladis, overbalancing and apparently on her way to clear empty plates. Skelgill grins with satisfaction and winks resolutely at the elderly lady. Then he calls back over his shoulder to DI Smart.
‘We’ve had the last of the breakfasts, Smart – the delivery can’t get through until I open the cordon.’
*
With DS Jones briefed accordingly, Skelgill joins DS Leyton, who is waiting in his car, having earlier chauffeured Skelgill down from their meeting point in Keswick.’
‘That’s DI Smart away, Guv.’
‘Good riddance.’
‘What do you want to do now, Guv – fetch your motor?’
‘Aye – then you get back to your desk and finish these vehicle checks. I’ll call in at Threlkeld and catch up with you and Jones later.’
‘Roger, Guv.’
As DS Leyton decelerates at the bottom of the farm track, Skelgill winds down the window to speak with the uniformed constable. The rain has now abated and he appears in reasonable spirits.
‘Alright, Dodd.’
‘Sir?’
‘What did DI Smart say when he came through?’
‘Asked me if I ever thought I’d get a car like his, sir.’ The constable sounds more than a little vexed.
Skelgill nods.
‘Dodd – anyone who wants past – take their details and tell them they can go to the café for breakfast – but no further for the next hour.’
‘Right, sir.’
Rather than draw away, however, PC Dodd lingers beside the car.
‘What is it, Dodd?’
‘Er... how’s the dog, sir?’
Skelgill squints, clearly taken by surprise.
‘She’s fine – I’ve got a dog walker looks after her.’
PC Dodd nods enthusiastically. Again he exhibits a curious reluctance to end the conversation. Finally, however, he steps back, but not without sticking up a supportive thumb to the senior officer.
‘We know you’ll crack it, sir.’
A very brief and barely perceptible expression of gratitude flickers across Skelgill’s severe features, before his normal self-control is restored.
‘Aye – like Mallory climbed Everest.’
He winds up the window and the car pulls away, leaving PC Dodd looking suitably puzzled by this cryptic remark.
18. KNOTT HALLOO FARM – Monday, mid-morning
‘So it was the sheepdog that alerted you, sir?’
‘Well, my wife actually, Inspector. She noticed the beast roaming about. She’d spotted it yesterday and hadn’t thought too much about it, but it was still there this morning.’
‘What times would that have been, sir?’
‘Around nine both days – we have a couple of Herdwick lambs we’ve been keeping an eye on in the holding paddock behind Walter’s cottage.’
‘So would that be unusual, sir – for the dog to be out on its own?’
‘I should say so, Inspector. In any event it prompted Lucinda to try the back door – and the place was locked up. Walter would only do that if he went away – but he certainly wouldn’t have left the collie to its own devices.’
‘Was he in the habit of going away, sir?’
‘Not especially – occasionally he’d cycle down to the pub in the village – oh, by the way, his bicycle isn’t here.’
Skelgill nods, his brow creasing as he assimilates this new information.
‘Could the dog have escaped from the cottage, sir?’
The man raises a hand to his chin and rubs the short tawny beard that merges seamlessly into swept-back hair and gives him a lupine appearance. Of roughly an age with Skelgill, medium height and slim build, he is neatly groomed, and sports the familiar country uniform of heavy-soled antiqued leather brogues, smart corduroy trousers (in this case a rather flamboyant purple) and a well-matched Tattersall shirt. His nails are carefully manicured, and Skelgill�
��s gaze lingers on fingers that are slim and callus-free; these are not characteristic of a typical Lakeland farmer. Then again, nor is the clipped public school accent.
‘I don’t believe so, Inspector. I’ll show you around – but when I looked myself I didn’t notice any open windows.’
‘When did you last see Mr Barley, sir?’
The man hesitates, and turns to stare rather hopefully down the track that leads away from the farmstead.
‘Ah – well, Inspector – I was at the Winterton Show all weekend – over in Lincolnshire – travelled up this morning, you know?’
‘So your wife was the last person to see him?’
The man nods and in a rather agitated manner checks his wristwatch.
‘She said she’d be back by now – she popped down to Keswick for a meeting with our land agent – we’re looking at a property over towards Howtown.’
‘Ullswater.’
‘That’s correct, Inspector.’
Skelgill for a fleeting moment appears irked by what – to him – is the superfluous ratification of his remark. He returns to the matter in hand.
‘It’s important we piece together his movements, sir. Can you think where else he might have cycled to – did he have any friends, for instance?’
Again the man rubs his beard for inspiration.
‘Not that I know of, Inspector. Certainly nobody ever came up here to see him, as far as I’m aware. He was jolly sedentary in his habits, now I think about it.’
‘Does either of the names Lee Harris or Barry Seddon mean anything to you, sir?’
The man delays his reply, but he holds Skelgill’s gaze, as if he is trying to read a clue from the detective’s expression. Then he shakes his head slowly.
‘He worked for you, I take it – Mr Barley?’
That they are conversing in the past tense as far as Walter Barley is concerned reflects an earlier telephone discussion between one of Skelgill’s constables and the farmer, which on the basis of physical description appears to confirm, provisionally at least, the identity of the deceased. Now the man looks a little alarmed, as though the idea of an employer-employee relationship confers a degree of responsibility for the tragedy.
‘Oh, no – no, Inspector. He hadn’t worked at all since before we arrived – he was in receipt of some sort of invalidity benefit. Though one wouldn’t know it to look at him.’
‘But it’s your property – the cottage?’
‘That’s correct, Inspector. I mean, technically, he was our tenant – but we didn’t charge him rent – a bit of an anachronism – stems from the deal that Lucinda’s pater struck when he bought the place. Walter came as part of the fixtures and fittings.’
‘How did that happen – if you don’t mind me asking, sir?’
‘Not at all, Inspector. I met Lucinda up at Oxford. Her father had his family pile in Somerset – Lucinda’s elder brother is the Earl now – and he was looking for a bit of a project for her. This place came on the market – I had been schooled locally and knew the area – so that perhaps helped things along. Along with the farm there was an outdoor adventure business based here. A barn burnt down and they lost all their tackle – quad bikes and whatnot – the whole enterprise went bust. So his Lordship got the place for a song – but part of the arrangement was that Walter Barley would be able to stay on in perpetuity. I believe he was injured trying to fight the fire.’
Skelgill nods as this tale unfolds, his expression one of careful attention, as if the details fill gaps in his own incomplete knowledge of events.
‘But he was just a worker here at the time?’
‘So I understand, Inspector. One assumes the former owner took pity on Walter on account of his injuries – in the line of duty, so to speak.’
‘What became of him – the owner?’
‘I believe he left the district, Inspector – the original selling agents may know – the same ones we use – Pope & Parish in Keswick.’
Skelgill bows his head to indicate he has noted this fact.
‘And you and your wife have run the farm since then, sir?’
For the first time the man glances rather uneasily away. He casts his eyes across the misty fellside that rises beyond the farmhouse.
‘Since 1997 in Lucinda’s case, Inspector. She was a couple of years ahead of me at Oxford. I didn’t come down until ninety-nine.’
Skelgill follows the man’s gaze. What little of Blencathra that is visible beneath the cloud base is a patchwork of bracken and grass, with no livestock to be seen.
‘Predominantly sheep is it, sir?’
The man turns to Skelgill, his features still a little strained.
‘Not on a commercial scale, Inspector. Lucinda tinkers – we have some rare breeds. She has – you see – well... a private income.’ He digs his hands into his trouser pockets, and jangles coins, as though this is a symbolic act to reflect his inferior position. ‘My main line is in farm machinery – that’s why I was over at the Winterton Show – then I’m due at the Great Yorkshire later in the week.’
‘What kind of equipment do you deal in, sir?’
The man looks a little surprised that Skelgill is showing an interest. He gestures towards a rather ramshackle barn, its sides tiled with rusting sheets of corrugated iron.
‘I can show you, if you would like. I import a weed-wiper from New Zealand. Damn good piece of kit. You can tow it behind a quad. Ideal for these hill farms that want to clean out their rough grazing. Targets the likes of ragweed and thistles – leaves the grass intact – doubles the viable acreage.’
Skelgill nods, a faintly bemused expression creasing his features as the man unconsciously launches into his sales spiel.
‘I perhaps ought to have a look around the cottage, first – if you don’t mind, sir.’
‘Oh, naturally, Inspector – my apologies. Let me take you. Want to ride down in the Defender?’
‘I’m fine to walk, sir – if you are.’
‘Certainly, Inspector.’
They set off downhill along the farm track, passing more large sheds where weed-wipers are presumably stored. Outside the first of these is parked a navy-blue long-wheelbase Land Rover, with a trailer attached and goods covered by a tarpaulin – a set-up that lends credence to the farmer’s story.
‘You mentioned you were at school in the area, sir?’
‘Oakthwaite, for my sins.’
Something about Skelgill’s reaction must betray his recent connection with the eminent establishment. The farmer glances at him apprehensively, and clears his throat to speak.
‘Rum deal over old Querrell, Inspector – though I appreciate you’re probably bound by protocol to keep mum.’
‘That’s about it, I’m afraid, sir.’ Skelgill nonetheless looks as though he would like to elaborate. ‘You knew him, I take it, sir?’
‘Who didn’t, Inspector? Querrell was the school – heart and soul of everything the place stood for. I hear they’ve gone all international under the new regime.’
Skelgill nods, but perhaps decides he doesn’t have anything to add. They walk on in silence for a minute, and when they reach the cottage the farmer leads the way around to the rear of the building. He produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the back door, leaving the key in position. Skelgill steps forward – not impolitely, but sufficiently so as to make his intention clear.
‘If you don’t object, sir – I’d rather go in alone.’
‘Of course, Inspector.’
‘Sir, when you entered earlier – did you disturb anything?’
The man shakes his head decisively.
‘No, Inspector – all I did was have a scout around – just to check that Walter wasn’t here. Lucinda had heard the appeal for information on the wireless – but she couldn’t find her key and had to wait until I arrived back. She called me just as I reached Threlkeld, so I stopped by the cottage as I was driving up. I couldn’t have been inside for more than a minute. In fact, it cross
ed my mind that I probably shouldn’t contaminate the scene, so it’s really just door handles that I touched where necessary.’
‘Excellent, sir. And did anything strike you as unusual?’
Now the farmer reverts to the rubbing of his beard.
‘I honestly can’t remember the last time I went beyond the kitchen, Inspector. Maybe it was a couple of winters ago to help with a burst pipe? Walter led his own separate life. But certainly nothing struck me as odd – the place is all jolly shipshape as far as one can see.’ He glances somewhat cautiously at Skelgill. ‘Obviously – to your trained eye it might look entirely different.’
Skelgill produces a modest smile.
‘I shouldn’t bank on it, sir.’
Now from beyond the cottage a sound begins to grow – it is the rumble of wide tyres and the roar of an engine, eight cylinders that announce an important arrival.
‘That’ll be Lucinda, Inspector.’
The vehicle passes and Skelgill gets a glimpse of a new-plate Range Rover that bounces up the hill track, rather too fast for the conditions, crashing through potholes and spraying water and mud. The two men exchange pained glances.
‘Do you have children, sir?’
There is a noticeable intake of breath before the man replies.
‘No – we don’t, Inspector.’ Now the hint of a sigh. ‘Thankfully.’
Skelgill diplomatically turns towards the door.
‘I perhaps ought to hold onto the key for the time being, sir.’
‘Be my guest, Inspector.’
The man gestures with an outstretched palm, and then begins to step away.
‘I’ll let Lucinda know you’ll be up shortly, shall I, Inspector?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
*
‘We don’t see salesmen on Mondays.’
An ironic smile threatens to crease Skelgill’s severe countenance as he takes his leave of Knott Halloo Farm. Perhaps these words reverberate, or perhaps it is the raised voices that now reach him by some circuitous means – an open window at the rear of the substantial property? Preeminent in this cacophony is the far-carrying war cry of Lucinda, whose terse reception had him misidentified as an unwelcome representative of a feedstuffs supplier. Now he pauses beside his car to listen for a moment, but it appears that the content of the domestic disagreement is unintelligible, for he shakes his head and climbs into the driver’s seat.
Murder on the Edge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 3) Page 17
