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sought-after record.  He hands it
to Skelgill.
    ‘That’s
your lot, cous.’
    Printed
in uneven capitals in black biro is the name Lee Harris and, beneath, the
address of a flat in Kendal and a mobile phone number.  Skelgill turns the
card but its reverse is blank.  He appears for a moment as though he is
about to cast it disdainfully away, but then he squints at an out-dated certificate
of employer’s liability insurance pinned above the filing cabinet.  The
man seems to sense disapproval: that his approach to human resources management
leaves something to be desired.  He inclines his head in the direction of
the workshop, which can be glimpsed through a cluttered hatch in the wall.
    ‘Happen
some of yon lads might be able to fill you in – personal life, like.’
    Skelgill
nods patiently.
    ‘I
understand you last saw him on Friday, sir?’
    ‘Aye
– then we got four smash repair jobs brought in over t’ weekend.’ 
The man is now trying harder, and his local accent becomes more pronounced.  ‘Lee’s gey tidy wi’ Hondas.  I was trying to raise him from first thing yesterday, and again this morning.’
    ‘You
rang this number?’  Skelgill flaps the card like a fan.
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Woman’s
voice – a recording, like – kept saying t’ person were unavailable.’
    ‘Was
there anything in his behaviour lately that struck you as unusual?’
    The
man’s beady eyes narrow, giving him a guarded ferrety appearance.  ‘I
thought it wo’ an accident he died of?’
    Skelgill
remains impassive.  ‘Like I said, sir – it looks that way.’
    There’s
the faintest hint of inflection placed upon the word looks , and the man
nods slowly, as though he is now wondering if the police are unofficially taking
him into their confidence.
    He
shrugs once more.  ‘Any road, like I said – I divn’t have owt to do
wi’ lads.  Ars twice their age – more.  I just oversee t’ wuk
and pay ’em’s wages.’
    ‘Pay
cash, do you, sir?’
    ‘It’s
all above board.’  Now the man is back on the defensive.  ‘Payroll
clerk comes in Thursdays – that’s when they get their wage packets.’
    ‘So
was Mr Harris paid last week, sir?’
    The
man nods, perhaps a little grudgingly, although it seems unlikely that his
erstwhile employee was remunerated in advance.  ‘Aye – he did more
or less a full week.  He weren’t short of ackers if that’s what tha’
wondering.’
    Skelgill
does not reply directly.  Instead he slips the address card into his
jacket pocket and checks his wristwatch.
    ‘We
shan’t detain you any longer, sir.  If you could supply us with contact
details for any of your staff that are not here – and if you’ll bear with
us my sergeant will just have a quick chat with each of those present. 
Then we’ll be out of your hair.’
     
    *
     
    Leaving
DS Leyton to interview sundry swarthy mechanics, Skelgill sets off on foot to seek
out Lee Harris’s apartment.  However, for the capricious police inspector,
the small Lakeland town of Kendal (population circa 28,500) holds several
imminent distractions.  Not least is its renown for the eponymous mint
cake – in fact a high-calorie peppermint-flavoured concoction of sugar
and glucose, enjoyed by mountaineers the world over, and reputedly eaten by
Hilary and Tensing atop Everest in 1953.  Skelgill professes to possess
both a savoury and a sweet tooth, and generally justifies a bar of Kendal mint
cake on the grounds that it is entirely fat free.  Indeed his propensity
to snack is driven on the one hand by his pastimes of fell-running and fishing
(the latter usually involving an energy-sapping row on his beloved
Bassenthwaite Lake), and on the other by his general disregard for normal hours
of work, which often finds him arriving home to a desolate fridge and the realisation
that all neighbourhood takeaways have long ago closed for the evening.  Right
now the hour is fast approaching three o’clock, and thus, as he