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
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
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