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–
maybe only seven feet – and the place has the air of a typical cheap
rental apartment: poorly fitted linoleum, worn nylon carpets, badly hung
curtains, and furniture randomly discarded and acquired.
    Now
Skelgill begins a more thoughtful, if ostensibly haphazard perusal of the
contents.  Taking care not to disturb anything of potentially forensic
significance, he has the bemused manner of a visitor to a gallery of modern art
– one who is trying to work out whether the mundane household exhibits
displayed around him are actually of any merit.  His features seem to be
fighting disappointment as he casts his eyes over the fat-spattered electric
cooker hob and its accompanying chip pan.  A small refrigerator seems
relatively well stocked (certainly by Skelgill’s standards), and if truth were
told he might reflect that the general level of disarray is probably inferior
to that of his own domestic domain.
    Several
bloated chocolate cereal rings float in the kitchen sink, and there is an open
packet of the same variety on the little dining table.  Alongside it is an
empty milk carton, but no suicide note propped against either.  The milk
has a best-before date of last Thursday but, as Skelgill knows from personal
experience, you can’t read a lot into that.
    Broadly
speaking, there is little to indicate that the flat’s occupant departed with
anything other in mind than to return in the near future.  The wardrobe
and dresser are crammed with clothes, and a newish flat screen TV and a rather
dated games console in the bedroom are in standby mode.
    Where
Lee Harris’s home differs from Skelgill’s is in that an inspection of the
latter would quickly reveal its occupant’s interests: various items of tackle
and gear, spilling from shelves and cupboards, and – out of sight of the
casual visitor (but not so hidden as to avoid detection by anyone so chosen)
– trophies and certificates and framed photographs testifying to outdoor
and sporting exploits.  Moreover, though not a reader as such –
fiction does not register on Skelgill’s radar – he has an extensive
collection of maps, manuals and climbing guides (his prized set of Wainwrights at the heart of this), and an assemblage to match covering all methods of
angling known to man.  Then there are years’ worth of specialist magazines
– climbing, fishing, fell walking – with useful articles marked by
bent corners or Post-it notes (indicating Skelgill’s as yet unfulfilled
intention to scalpel out and file these pages).
    So it
would not require Sherlock Holmes to deduce what sort of person Skelgill is, to
which clubs and societies he might belong, where he could potentially be found
in his leisure time, and with whom he may associate.  Not so Lee
Harris.  Other than the computer games console beside which is stacked the
stereotypical array of bloodthirsty killing games (perhaps suggestive of an
immature personality, a lack of social engagement, and – in Skelgill’s
analysis – a totally incomprehensible wish to be indoors when you could
be outside) – apart from this – there is little flesh of
biographical detail upon the sparse bones of his existence.  In other
words, there is not a lot for the police to get their teeth into.
    Skelgill
soon finds himself back in the hallway.  A washing machine is a
considerable obstacle.  He notices that a display light is blinking, and
with what must be considered a small flash of inspiration (given his limited
aptitude for matters domestic) he stoops down and jerks open the clear plastic
door.  Inside the drum is a sodden but apparently laundered navy serge
boiler suit.
    Perhaps
encouraged by this find, he gathers up the now crumpled mail that impeded his
entry through the front door a few minutes earlier.  He places the items
on top of the washing machine and sifts through them.  The letters are
exclusively bills and circulars, pre-printed postage-paid envelopes that offer
no clue to the date of their