‘I’ve got the same edition as this. They’re good, these two-and-a-half inchers.’
With practised aplomb he unfolds, partially refolds and lays the map the table surface. He stands over it at the head of the table.
‘The cave’s not marked on – so if you’re not sure the safest bet is to find where Odin’s Beck comes down into the Derwent.’ He indicates with a finger. ‘There – just downstream of the Bowder Stone – see?’
The young man is nodding. But Skelgill suddenly seems to stiffen, and his voice sounds distant as he issues his next instruction.
‘Follow the beck up into the woods.’
And now he jerks his finger a few inches, just over a mile to the west, and taps the sheet urgently.
‘See that – High Spy? You know the old folk call it Scawdale Fell? Scawdel, they’d say.’
Nick Wilson’s gaze has been drawn to the spot where Skelgill’s finger insistently taps. He appears bemused, not understanding the significance of this abrupt change of subject. But Skelgill is determined.
‘I’ve got an old map in the car.’ Now he reaches and pats DS Leyton on the shoulder. ‘Leyton – do us a favour – nip and get it for us. It’s in the glove box.’
DS Leyton looks even more perplexed than the boy – but he knows Skelgill well enough not to question his order; somewhat inelegantly he shuffles from his seat.
‘Righto, Guv – won’t be two ticks.’
Skelgill calls after him.
‘There’s half a dozen. Bring the lot, Leyton – save getting the wrong one and having to go back.’
In fact it takes DS Leyton barely a minute to reach the car and return with a wad of maps – he finds in progress some small talk about haystacks. Skelgill has folded away Nick Wilson’s map and now he slides this to the far end of the table. From the selection retrieved by DS Leyton he chooses a much older specimen, small and printed on fraying cloth, with a Prussian blue cover and the word ‘Cumberland’ prominent in orange. It is perfectly distinctive and DS Leyton is sure he could easily have identified it. However, with some reverence Skelgill now lays it out.
‘Family heirloom, this. Printed in 1920 – but the survey was done between 1897 and 1903. A masterpiece, aye? And they hadn’t even invented flying.’
He turns the pastel coloured square of cloth so that it is angled towards Nick Wilson, and points triumphantly to a chocolate brown smudge in the dun contoured terrain to the south- west of the turquoise diamond that is Derwentwater.
‘It’s tiny print – it’s two miles to the inch – but you’ll have good eyes.’
Nick Wilson cranes over, his face close to the page. He seems to have no difficulty with the short focal length that is required. And yet he appears confounded.
‘What does it say?’
Skelgill has no need to read the legend; he knows it.
‘Scawdale Fell, 2143. No trace of High Spy. Where did that name spring from?’
DS Leyton seems to share the boy’s misgivings.
‘Sounds like something dreamed up by a marketing executive, Guv. High Spy with my little eye – hah!’
Skelgill makes a disparaging tut and, looking at the boy, jerks his head towards his sergeant.
‘He’s missed his vocation. He wants to be a copywriter.’
The young man glances at DS Leyton – it seems to ascertain if Skelgill is being serious; the sergeant, standing a little behind his superior, makes a face of affable resignation.
Skelgill carefully gathers up and folds away his antique map. Nick Wilson remains seated; he seems uncertain of quite what is going on – perhaps wondering if he has not done very well in some obscure test. And there ensues another left-of-field demand from Skelgill.
‘Any chance you could stick on a mash? I’m parched.’
Nick Wilson regards Skelgill rather blankly – but after a moment’s hesitation he begins to prise his long limbs out of the seating arrangement.
‘Aye. But I’ve only got powdered milk.’
He crosses over to the kitchenette section. With his back to the detectives he lifts a kettle from the gas hob and pumps vigorously at the tap – a procedure that intrigues DS Leyton who therefore does not notice Skelgill extract an Ordnance Survey map from his own pile and slide it into the shelf, and tuck the one from the table under his arm with the rest. Then there is a sudden change in his demeanour.
‘Tell you what, Nick – second thoughts, don’t bother. Finish your bait – your Gaffer’ll be wanting you back on that clutch. We can go round to the farm café.’
The young man stops what he is doing. Again he is unsure of how to react, but Skelgill steps over to the door.
‘You’ve got my number – otherwise, we’ll keep you posted.’
A trace of anxiety seems to have crept into Nick Wilson’s pale eyes. Skelgill endeavours to be reassuring.
‘And don’t believe everything they say, right?’
The boy is still nodding dutifully as DS Leyton pulls shut the door. They hear his steps; the hollow caravan like a great bass sound box – and they might assume he is coming to the bay window to observe their departure. But then music strikes up – it could be the transistor radio had they not seen the guitar. The notes seem jumbled at first, almost experimental, but they coalesce into a discernable structure and there is a surge in tempo. To Skelgill’s dismay, his none-too-nimble colleague breaks into a ‘Cockney Walk’ – a mini pantomime of four or five swanky steps, as though he is powerless in responding to the energy of the tune. Skelgill is equally powerless in letting loose a phrase of Anglo-Saxon origin.
Unfazed by the adverse nature of such critical acclaim, DS Leyton concludes his performance with a click of his heels and falls in alongside his superior.
‘Django Rheinhart.’
‘Come again, Leyton?’
‘It’s jazz, Guv – I’ll See You In My Dreams by Django Rheinhart.’
They round the end of van number 2 and the melody fades.
‘Are you taking the you-know-what, Leyton?’
‘Straight up, Guv. I had an uncle used to play in Ronnie Scott’s back in the day – trumpeter, he was. Kenny, his name. Used to dodge over to our gaff on a Sunday for his dinner with his missus. I was given some of his record collection when he popped his clogs.’
Skelgill is silent as they pass in Indian file down the side of the workshop and split to reach their respective doors of his car.
‘So, he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Sounded like it to me, Guv – jazz guitar takes a lot of practice.’
There is a brief hiatus as they clamber into the long brown shooting brake that had attracted the attention of the proprietor. Skelgill makes an observation, his tone introspective.
‘I didn’t see a telly. Nor any books.’
DS Leyton detects some unease in his superior’s manner. He contrives to sound at once chiding and admiring.
‘That card you gave him, Guv – you flippin’ signed it DI Odinsgill!’
‘Hark at Sherlock Holmes.’ Skelgill forces a grimace. He starts the engine and begins to reverse using his mirrors, back towards a gateway where he can perform a turn. ‘It’s got my name on the front, Leyton. No need to give away my signature. If Dodd’s not sure he can phone me.’
He pulls the car deep into the opening, out of sight of the garage. He yanks on the handbrake. On his lap he has the wad of maps.
‘Leyton – in the glove box – are there any poly bags?’
‘Yeah, I noticed some, Guv.’
He leans forward with a grunt and pulls down the flap.
‘Chuck us one over.’
DS Leyton does as bidden – he extracts a clear plastic evidence bag. Skelgill exchanges it for the pack of maps, first retaining that which refers to their locality. He puts the bag momentarily aside and pulls open the map like a concertina.
‘Look at this.’
DS Leyton gazes somewhat cluelessly at the sheet. Skelgill jabs a finger, but without actually t
ouching the paper.
‘There – that’s where the Kissing Cave is.’
‘Like you showed him, Guv.’
Skelgill has used up his day’s quota of patience with the boy.
‘Look harder, you donnat! Oily fingerprint – bang on the spot.’
DS Leyton still does not quite get it. He frowns and stares even harder, like a schoolboy confounded by the Pythagorean theorem. Skelgill spells it out.
‘Leyton – I switched the maps. This is his. Mine’s on his shelf.’
Now the penny drops. DS Leyton stares at the smudge and then casts about the corrugated sheet, as if to satisfy himself that this is not a widespread phenomenon. The map is aged; its white background is slightly faded, but generally clean. There can be no doubt that someone has pressed a finger onto the precise location of Friggeshol.
‘Cor blimey – so he knows something, Guv?’
Skelgill inhales forebodingly. This is a step too far. He carefully refolds the map and slips it into the evidence bag.
‘Here – stick that away. Like I said, I’m parched.’
They have only to drive a couple of hundred yards to reach the tiny rural emporium, farm shop and café of Skelgill’s acquaintance, ‘Debs’. Rain is beginning to fall from an enigmatic sky, so Skelgill opts to dine inside; though a windowless barn conversion, it is a surprisingly bright and cheerful space, its slate walls hung with engaging Herdwick caricatures, the labours of a local watercolourist. Beside the counter a refrigerator retails homespun produce, bleaberry jam and heather honey, and various vacuum-packed cuts of lamb. But Skelgill has his eye on the hot counter, and is decisive in ordering tea and a Cumberland sausage bloomer; DS Leyton follows suit for convenience.
‘There you go, Leyton.’
Skelgill gestures to a glass display cabinet. Between ‘Sticky Toffee Pudding’ and ‘Ginger & Rum Nicky’ are boldly labelled, ‘Bowder Scones’.
‘Ah.’ DS Leyton looks pleased with himself. ‘All they need now are some Scafell Pikelets, Guv.’
‘Don’t push it, Leyton.’
Skelgill leads the way to a secluded table tucked in what would have been a cattle stall beneath a hayloft – although at this juncture they are the only patrons. The elderly lady who took their order, whom Skelgill does not know is prompt in serving their lunch. He immediately tucks in, pre-empting any discussion of their findings. So it is after a suitable period of consumption that DS Leyton judges he can tentatively venture a question.
‘Reckon it’s a coincidence – that fingerprint?’
After a long pause Skelgill replies.
‘Probably.’
Then after an even longer pause he qualifies his answer.
‘Possibly.’
DS Leyton is nodding. He wonders if he waits long enough will Skelgill graduate to something even more definite – but when no further adjustment is forthcoming he makes a light-hearted quip.
‘Maybe’s he’s a bit of a psychic, an’ all, Guv.’
Curiously, Skelgill does not baulk at this; whether it is the boy’s unforeseen musical talent that lends some credibility to the improbable suggestion, or that Skelgill draws upon his own experiences that certain places in the fells send an inexplicable shiver down his spine, and he has more than once wondered if some momentous fate befell an ancestor there. On the journey from Penrith they had heard on the radio of the latest attempt to corner Nessie – by sampling the free-floating DNA in the great Caledonian loch. It had concluded the ‘monster’ is in fact a giant eel. Skelgill’s ears had pricked up for more reasons than one – not least that he fishes, and that DNA is prominent in their present enquiry. Though he had listened to the piece without comment, he was struck by the futility of the quest – why would they think science could solve a conundrum that is plainly supernatural?
Engrossed in such thoughts – and there also being competition for his faculties in the deconstruction of his sausage sandwich – it is left to his partner to progress the conversation.
‘Queer set up, that, eh? Living like a monk in a caravan when his old granny’s got a half-decent cottage a mile down the road. I reckon she’d be happy to be looking after him.’
Skelgill is chewing vigorously, but his face manages to suggest disagreement. As an outdoorsman ascetic self-sufficiency harbours a certain appeal – and, he must confess, for him the “queer set up” conjured a pang of nostalgia. The only childhood holidays his parents could afford were to a caravan at Silloth, overlooking the bleak Solway, accommodation only slightly less primitive than that he has just visited. It had recalled the soporific hiss of the gaslights and the cosy thrum of rain upon the aluminium roof. And, despite the overcrowding and the fug, a curious sense of family harmony, of collaborative board games and jigsaws, gin rummy and knockout whist with no punches thrown – until, of course, cabin fever, insidious, surreptitiously began to take a grip. Thus four Skelgill brothers were booted out to wreak havoc upon the surrounding district.
‘Like the old lady said – he probably needed his independence.’
‘I suppose that’s how he’s so good on the guitar, Guv – ain’t got much else to do.’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘He probably works long hours in that sweatshop.’
DS Leyton nods.
‘That cove Walter Dickson’s not exactly laying out the red carpet for his holidaymakers, neither.’
‘Walter Dickson’s dead, Leyton. I spoke to me Ma last night. That was Jake Dickson – a nephew. Seems he runs the show now.’ Skelgill squints reflectively, his mind’s eye focused upon some distant object. ‘He were a half-decent fell runner in his day. Until I beat –’
But Skelgill’s revelation will have to wait. It is the arrival of an effusive Debs bearing dessert, on the house: Bowder Scones, no less – in celebration that she has sold two dozen since re-branding them. DS Leyton remarks that they are selling like hotcakes, but the lady’s favouritism seems to lie with Skelgill. Indeed, during the course of the ensuing exchange he gets the distinct idea that Skelgill has claimed the credit – and unashamedly makes no attempt to introduce his subordinate as the creative genius behind the name. But such is the life of a sidekick, and when the young woman departs he gets on with the job of his unfinished Cumberland sausage bloomer.
‘I’m stuffed, Guv – reckon I’ll need a doggy bag for that scone.’
Skelgill’s wolfish surveillance of the table is an indication that he will be prepared to attempt to clear it. DS Leyton digs in his heels.
‘I might take it back for Emma. She weren’t half tucking in yesterday – I nearly asked her if she were eating for two.’ He sees the look of alarm in Skelgill’s eyes, and launches into something of a monologue. ‘Joking, like, Guv. I remember the missus had a craving for chocolate cake her first time. Mind you, that’s nothing – there was a woman in her maternity group who was chomping through a packet of Kleenex every couple of days.’
This unlikely claim penetrates Skelgill’s disquiet.
‘What – eating them?’
‘Yeah – her GP had to contact the manufacturer to make sure they weren’t harmful. Pink, she preferred.’
Skelgill ponders the fact.
‘Tissue paper – it’s mainly wood.’
‘High fibre diet, Guv.’
Their conversation tails off, and in due course they depart; it is later than Skelgill had casually predicted in response to DS Jones’s query about their return; now he feels a sense of urgency to get back. As such he is driving rather too fast, an act incompatible with the winding lane and his compulsion to survey the River Derwent; as it skirts Cummacatta Wood it belies its title as one of Europe’s fastest rivers – instead, crystal clear and serene, it holds trout that burgle chironomids from the taut meniscus and have Skelgill twitching to suppress an involuntary casting reflex.
‘That was that geezer Minto’s car, Guv.’
‘What?’
Skelgill’s wandering gaze is jolted back to the road – and just as well,
for it requires a rapid adjustment of the steering wheel to avoid a curving verge. His eyes flash to the rear-view mirror, but he is too late.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Reckon so – fancy red convertible, letters “KM” in the reg.’
Skelgill makes a resigned hissing sound. He knows there is little they can do to prevent the media poking about. He is secretly hoping for torrential rain, as at least that might put off some of the less hardy hacks. But Minto is a tenacious little blighter, although those are not the generous terms in which Skelgill now thinks of him.
‘One interview and the jungle drums will be thumping all round the dale.’ Skelgill makes a growl of frustration. ‘Happen we should have got Jones to make more of the serial killer angle.’
DS Leyton, who has been watching the road for his own safety, glances across at his superior, whose suggestion contradicts his attitude hitherto.
‘You mean to put the journos off the scent, Guv?’
But Skelgill seems distracted; his reply is unconvincing.
‘Aye – something like that.’
DS Leyton sinks back in his seat and folds his arms pensively.
‘We could get DS Jones to issue an update, Guv – say a new lead has come up.’
This time Skelgill does not answer at all – but his colleague’s words prove prophetic, for when they reach headquarters he notices that DS Jones’s car, parked close to his when they left, is no longer in the constabulary lot. Moreover there is a terse note on his desk that castigates him for failing to respond to mobile communications and summons him to an audience with the Chief.
When Skelgill returns he routes through the open plan offices and is conscious of eyes upon him; those surreptitious looks that try to read the emotions of one who may have suffered some trauma. For his part, his features are implacable (a clue in itself) and his eyes staring, as he accosts DS Leyton and peremptorily interrupts his conversation with a young detective constable. Back in Skelgill’s office DS Leyton finds his superior nursing a face like thunder.
‘Careful what you wish for, Leyton.’
DS Leyton senses he is getting the blame for something he hasn’t actually wished for, and beneath his peaceable exterior he is scrabbling to gird his loins. He is wondering to which aspect of their earlier conversation Skelgill may refer. All he knows is where his boss has just been, that sparks can fly in such encounters, and that the Chief doesn’t do coming off second best.
Murder at the Meet Page 9