missing, and no
trace of his motorbike.’
Skelgill
seems uncomfortable with the notion of petty robbery as a motive. His features
agonise as he takes a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling, before he speaks.
‘Easy
enough to lose a bike in a lake, Leyton.’
Again
there is a hiatus, before DS Jones raises another question.
‘And
no sightings of vehicles near the disposal sites, Guv?’
With
an inclination of his head, Skelgill refers her inquiry to DS Leyton.
‘They
were all spark out at the youth hostel. The staff bunk down early because
they have to be up first thing – and you know how hard it is to wake teenagers
once they’re asleep.’
DS
Jones looks rather amused by this statement.
‘That’s
me, still.’
‘Lucky
you – wait till you’ve got some little ’uns bouncing on your head at six
in the morning.’
DS
Jones glances at Skelgill, but his expression is inscrutable. DS Leyton
continues.
‘The
other place – to get up to Sharp Edge by the shortest route – it’s
along a tiny back road to nowhere. There’s a rough parking area for
hillwalkers. A car left overnight wouldn’t look especially out of place –
and the chances of anyone passing in the early hours are ten percent of nothing.
We’re checking with local farmers, but no takers so far.’
DS
Jones leans back and crosses her legs – it is warmer today and she has
opted for just a short skirt and ballet-style pumps, with a sleeveless t-shirt
top. She must notice that she has drawn the gaze of both of her
colleagues, for she self-consciously places the papers on the edge of
Skelgill’s desk and reaches forward to clasp her hands around her uppermost
knee.
‘It seems
a heck of a lot of trouble – to take a body into the hills.’
‘That’s
what’s bugging us, Jones.’ Skelgill stretches skywards and rests his
hands for a moment behind his head. There are fresh droplets of sweat spotting
the armpits of his shirt. ‘It’s the crux of the case.’
‘In
what way, Guv?’ DS Jones strives to maintain eye contact.
‘There’s
a message here, for someone – us, maybe.’
Skelgill’s
subordinates unite in a respectful silence to acknowledge the gravity of his
statement. After half a minute it is DS Jones who finally voices a
thought.
‘When
is the news going to be released, Guv?’
‘There’s
a conference at one.’
‘Are
you involved, Guv?’
Skelgill
scowls and leans back and stares at the ceiling. ‘I feel a puncture coming
on.’
DS
Jones glances surreptitiously at DS Leyton, who raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘upon
his own head be it’. They know well Skelgill’s antipathy to journalistic
gatherings, but the Chief will be expecting him to be present – if not to
address the press pack directly.
‘It
might flush something out, at least, Guv – as far as the victims are
concerned.’
Skelgill
sits forward again and with a flourish of his pen casually scrawls four rough
circles on his desk pad.
‘What
worries me, Jones, is that the killings are random.’ He marks a cross
between the circles. ‘If they are, even their unabridged autobiographies
won’t help us.’
Again
a silence pervades the office. Skelgill has the window ajar, and the song
of a blackbird quite close at hand fills the temporary void with its melodic
mourning lilt. All three detectives appreciate only too well the spectre
Skelgill has raised: there is a certain type of serial killer for whom only one
thing makes them stop – and that is getting caught.
DS
Jones clears her throat and her colleagues glance her way.
‘What
do you think about there being an accomplice, Guv?’
‘Quite
possible.’
Skelgill’s
instantaneous reply catches DS Leyton by surprise.
‘Really,
Guv?’
Plainly
it is news to him that his boss is thinking along these lines – when Skelgill
has thus far been determined that a single person could transport the bodies.
DS Leyton remains wide-eyed but he does not
trace of his motorbike.’
Skelgill
seems uncomfortable with the notion of petty robbery as a motive. His features
agonise as he takes a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling, before he speaks.
‘Easy
enough to lose a bike in a lake, Leyton.’
Again
there is a hiatus, before DS Jones raises another question.
‘And
no sightings of vehicles near the disposal sites, Guv?’
With
an inclination of his head, Skelgill refers her inquiry to DS Leyton.
‘They
were all spark out at the youth hostel. The staff bunk down early because
they have to be up first thing – and you know how hard it is to wake teenagers
once they’re asleep.’
DS
Jones looks rather amused by this statement.
‘That’s
me, still.’
‘Lucky
you – wait till you’ve got some little ’uns bouncing on your head at six
in the morning.’
DS
Jones glances at Skelgill, but his expression is inscrutable. DS Leyton
continues.
‘The
other place – to get up to Sharp Edge by the shortest route – it’s
along a tiny back road to nowhere. There’s a rough parking area for
hillwalkers. A car left overnight wouldn’t look especially out of place –
and the chances of anyone passing in the early hours are ten percent of nothing.
We’re checking with local farmers, but no takers so far.’
DS
Jones leans back and crosses her legs – it is warmer today and she has
opted for just a short skirt and ballet-style pumps, with a sleeveless t-shirt
top. She must notice that she has drawn the gaze of both of her
colleagues, for she self-consciously places the papers on the edge of
Skelgill’s desk and reaches forward to clasp her hands around her uppermost
knee.
‘It seems
a heck of a lot of trouble – to take a body into the hills.’
‘That’s
what’s bugging us, Jones.’ Skelgill stretches skywards and rests his
hands for a moment behind his head. There are fresh droplets of sweat spotting
the armpits of his shirt. ‘It’s the crux of the case.’
‘In
what way, Guv?’ DS Jones strives to maintain eye contact.
‘There’s
a message here, for someone – us, maybe.’
Skelgill’s
subordinates unite in a respectful silence to acknowledge the gravity of his
statement. After half a minute it is DS Jones who finally voices a
thought.
‘When
is the news going to be released, Guv?’
‘There’s
a conference at one.’
‘Are
you involved, Guv?’
Skelgill
scowls and leans back and stares at the ceiling. ‘I feel a puncture coming
on.’
DS
Jones glances surreptitiously at DS Leyton, who raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘upon
his own head be it’. They know well Skelgill’s antipathy to journalistic
gatherings, but the Chief will be expecting him to be present – if not to
address the press pack directly.
‘It
might flush something out, at least, Guv – as far as the victims are
concerned.’
Skelgill
sits forward again and with a flourish of his pen casually scrawls four rough
circles on his desk pad.
‘What
worries me, Jones, is that the killings are random.’ He marks a cross
between the circles. ‘If they are, even their unabridged autobiographies
won’t help us.’
Again
a silence pervades the office. Skelgill has the window ajar, and the song
of a blackbird quite close at hand fills the temporary void with its melodic
mourning lilt. All three detectives appreciate only too well the spectre
Skelgill has raised: there is a certain type of serial killer for whom only one
thing makes them stop – and that is getting caught.
DS
Jones clears her throat and her colleagues glance her way.
‘What
do you think about there being an accomplice, Guv?’
‘Quite
possible.’
Skelgill’s
instantaneous reply catches DS Leyton by surprise.
‘Really,
Guv?’
Plainly
it is news to him that his boss is thinking along these lines – when Skelgill
has thus far been determined that a single person could transport the bodies.
DS Leyton remains wide-eyed but he does not
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