Read Murder on the Edge for Free Online Page A

makes his way
through the bustling town centre, he must run the gauntlet of spectacular window
displays of local confectionery, compounded by the drifting aroma of scones
baked to waylay tourists susceptible to the temptation of afternoon teas.
    However,
there is a third enticement that exerts even greater magnetism as far as
Skelgill is concerned, and that is the River Kent.  Neatly bisecting
today’s enlarged urban area – it flows north to south, with much of the
old town on its west bank – it is the principal game fishing river in the
south of the county.  As Skelgill lingers upon the Nether Bridge his
antennae are clearly twitching, no doubt at the thought of the potential
double-figure sea trout that may be passing under his very nose, and perhaps
the added frustration that between here and Victoria Bridge is a one-mile
stretch of free angling.  The water level is arguably a little low,
following three or four days of dry weather, but nonetheless he scrutinises the
gently rippled surface for signs of aquatic life below.  A fine drake
goosander sails briefly downstream, its glossed green mane glinting as it
twists about and returns to fish the depths between the piers.  Skelgill watches
in admiration while it dives and then surfaces, a staring minnow secured in its
long red saw-bill; a magnificent bird, sleek predator of fast-flowing waters,
though little appreciated by human fishers.
    Skelgill
has taken a significant detour to indulge his craving and, finally dragging himself
away from the allure of the Kent, he heads back into the old town, north along
Kirkland.  For a main street it is a narrow thoroughfare, lined by an
irregular miscellany of two-and-three-storey buildings, mainly stores and
public houses, in grey limestone or white-painted stucco.  He almost breaks
stride as he encounters a fishing tackle shop he has forgotten about, but the
road is busy with traffic, and deters him from crossing.  Indeed, this is
the A6, the old London-to-Carlisle coaching route (taking in Leicester and
Manchester), the one-time slow road to the Lakes – before the M6 motorway
laid a slick swathe of grand prix tarmac over Shap’s peaceful summit.  In
any event, shortly he ducks away from the noise and fumes, into a tight cobbled
ginnel (in Kendal referred to as a yard ) innocuously squeezed between a cheque
casher’s and a financial advisor’s.
    More
stealthily now he passes silently beneath the property above and out into the
open space beyond.  While many of these yards once ran down to the river,
and are of great antiquity, this one is truncated, blocked by unsightly and
angular modern additions of obscure function.  Indeed, unlike some of
town’s famous yards, which are picturesque and photogenic and visited for such
purposes by tourists, the air here is permeated by the stale smell of urine,
and an unsightly heap of black bin bags lies torn open by scavenging cats or
gulls.  The heat from the high June sun isn’t helping, and Skelgill
responds to the stifling atmosphere by inhaling through gritted teeth.
    The
dwelling he seeks – there appear to be four numbered properties in the
yard – is a basement flat, which he reaches by descending a flight of worn
stone steps, its diminutive area crowned by a rusting iron balustrade. 
If anything, the bad odour is worse in this dank stairwell and Skelgill, not
one to be bound by protocol, checks about for CCTV and promptly breaks in.
    ‘Hello
– police.’
    This
precautionary introduction proves unnecessary.  The pile of mail and
newspapers behind the door tells Skelgill no one is home.  A dampness that
pervades the empty property deadens his voice.  He makes a quick tour to
satisfy himself there is no imminent threat – or, perhaps, indeed, no
corpse awaiting discovery.  From a tiny hall off which open a toilet and
separate shower cubicle, there are only two rooms to speak of, conjoined: a
kitchenette-diner and a bed-sitting room.  The ceilings are low