Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 3 by Bruce Beckham

Author:Bruce Beckham [Beckham, Bruce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lucius
Published: 2020-07-15T22:00:00+00:00

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“Codling are taking lug – every other cast.”

All week in absent moments the words of the local Flimby angler who discovered Roger Alcock’s kayak have been nagging at Skelgill. Thus – Plan B, that really ought to have been Plan A – he has parked opposite the unmanned rail halt and now waits for a gap in the speeding traffic to haul his rod and tackle and flat-tined potato fork (for digging for lugworm without spearing them) across the narrow coast road. A man, loosely accompanied by two sinister-looking Lurchers, ambles up the concrete ramp that leads to the footbridge; but when Skelgill issues the command to “Go, lass” Cleopatra trots ahead, unperturbed by the presence of the much larger dogs.

As he reaches the base of the steep iron staircase he is surprised to see that the man and his canine entourage (Cleopatra now incorporated) are already on the other side of the rail tracks – in fact the fellow has had time to strike up a cigarette. They can only have crossed the line. Then he realises sleepers are laid between the rails to form a kind of boardwalk. The hand of the authorities – yielding to the inevitable rebellious anarchy of human nature – with nobody watching, why would anyone climb the bridge? A sign affixed to a brick pillar of the bridge states: “Stop. Look. Listen. Beware of trains.” And then he spies, in bizarre contradiction, a second smaller notice, the figure of a striding man inside a slashed red prohibition circle: “Passengers must not pass this point or cross the line.” This one has been targeted with an airgun – pellet marks cluster around the human silhouette.

Of course, the fisherman was waiting for him and DS Leyton on the bridge – so naturally they mounted the steps to meet him and then descended on the other side. Now Skelgill takes the shortcut. Passage at ground level brings another revelation – also overlooked last time – a weathered pine fingerpost designated, “England Coast Path”. To his left, southwards, “Workington 4¼ miles”; to his right, northwards, “Maryport 2 miles”.

For a dedicated outdoorsman, Skelgill harbours an irrational disregard for footpaths. This logic becomes even more perverse on account of his role as volunteer in the mountain rescue services – for if only walkers would stick to the paths he would have a lot more time fishing. But therein lies the paradox: footpaths equal folk. For Skelgill read loner. Of course, he would not dispute the benefits to society of fresh air and exercise – just not in his back yard (a hardly sustainable stance for a denizen of Britain’s most popular National Park). To compound matters, in recent years there has been a fashion for the invention and promotion of long-distance trails – as folk seek to fill their retirement, but lack the imagination to pioneer original routes.

With these thoughts and others massing like clouds in his mind, threatening thunder – some kind of brainstorm occurs – and Skelgill reacts in typically unpredictable fashion.

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