‘Over to you, Leyton.’
DS Leyton hurriedly engages the defensive shield of his warrant card.
‘Mrs Robinson?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m DS Leyton and this is DI Skelgill, from Cumbria CID, madam – you spoke with one of our colleagues earlier – about your missing guest – Mr Leonard?’
‘He isn’t here.’
‘Yes madam – that’s why we’ve called.’
The woman glowers disapprovingly, although she is already scrutinising their shoes as if she is resigned to having to admit them.
‘We’d like to know a little bit about him for our files.’
‘Well, I don’t see how I can help.’
‘Perhaps – if we could see his room – you told the duty officer he’d left some belongings?’
‘There’s no wallet – he hasn’t paid, you know.’
The woman appears quite unabashed by her revelation of this knowledge.
‘Well – maybe if we can track him down, madam – we can get that sorted out.’
This suggestion seems to win a modicum of approval, and rather grudgingly she moves aside and allows the detectives to enter. A loud electronic alert sounds as the door closes behind them. The hallway is narrow and tiled in a chequered Victorian style; there is a smell of disinfectant, and from beneath knitted brows the woman frowns at their footprints. They pass a doorway on the right marked ‘Residents’ Lounge’ (subtitled, “Locked at 9pm”). Skelgill catches a glimpse of a firm-looking sofa that has clear plastic stretched over the seat cushions, and the shade of a table lamp with its pleated cellophane wrap still in place. Ahead on the left is a staircase, and beyond doors of what might be a breakfast room (“Wait to be seated”) and the kitchen (“Keep out”). Beneath the stairs is an austere upright chair and beside it on a stand a telephone and a gnome piggy bank – the latter labelled “Honesty box” with the word honesty underlined twice.
They are led to a small single bedroom on the second floor, in the eaves at the rear of the house. The air is stuffy and Skelgill automatically gravitates to the window; it faces north and has pleasing views to Skiddaw. He raises the sash and leans out, as if to satisfy himself that the browbeaten lodger has not made some escape bid and is hiding on a flat roof – but there is a sharp drop, perhaps thirty feet, to a paved courtyard. When he turns back, DS Leyton is unzipping a worn black sports holdall that sits at the foot of the apparently undisturbed bed. The landlady is in close attendance, gnawing at a fingernail.
‘Mrs Robinson?’
The woman twitches. Skelgill gestures to a mahogany wardrobe.
‘Could you show me inside, please?’
He is perfectly capable of looking for himself; it seems he wishes to divert her attention away from DS Leyton.
‘It is quite empty, Inspector.’
She tugs at one of the doors, causing its ill-fitting twin to swing open at the same time. Other than half-a-dozen odd coat hangers the cupboard is bare.
‘How about the dresser?’
One by one she pulls open the drawers. Like the wardrobe this item is warped by age; it has lost its original shape and each action is met with a shriek of protest.
‘And there was nothing left in the bathroom – if he even went in there. Everything is in the bag, Inspector.’
Skelgill nods. DS Leyton, perhaps fearing sharp objects, is gingerly working his way through its contents.
‘So, when did you last see Mr Leonard, madam?’
The woman reverts to her meerkat pose – as if she believes she will be held responsible for his disappearance.
‘Actually, it was when he arrived.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Four fifty-eight.’
Skelgill nods implacably. She would have noticed exactly.
‘And when did he go out?’
‘I thought he had stayed in his room until bedtime. I don’t understand how I did not hear the exit alarm.’ She wrings her hands in self-reproach. ‘And this morning I cooked his breakfast – a complete waste.’
For a moment Skelgill appears as though he might beg to differ – but he overcomes his instinct for food and deals with the matter in hand.
‘There’s a back entrance?’
The woman’s scowl suggests she would not let someone give her the slip so easily.
‘Through the kitchen – but I was there most of the time.’
‘Where are your quarters, madam?’
‘I have a bed-sitting arrangement – in the basement.’
‘Perhaps you were down there?’
‘But the bells are also wired to my rooms.’
‘Is it possible he left at the same time as some other folk?’
‘My only additional guests last night were an elderly couple – and they watched television in the lounge until nine – after which they went directly to their room on the first floor – at the front. Before they left I asked them if they had seen Mr Leonard, and they said not.’
Skelgill rubs his chin with a knuckle. The stubble makes a rasping sound and the landlady narrows her eyes disapprovingly.
‘Did he suggest he might want go somewhere in particular – you mentioned hillwalking when you called us?’
She folds her arms, as though offended that her report is being called into question.
‘There was a map sticking out of the side pocket of his jacket.’
‘Did you see the title or the sheet number?’
‘It just said, “Derwentwater” – it looked like an old one, a Bartholomew.’
Skelgill nods.
‘It was observant of you to notice, madam.’
The woman looks away, and bends down to straighten the corner of a rug that Skelgill has inadvertently scuffed. It seems that she has shied away from the compliment, unaccustomed to such. Meticulously, she arranges the little carpet tassels. Skelgill, meanwhile, is watching DS Leyton, who has discovered a concealed zip on the base of the holdall: it is in fact a flat compartment housing straps that enable the bag to convert into a rucksack. He slides his hand inside and, after a second or two of exploration, pulls out a small rectangular plastic wallet. The two detectives exchange glances, and DS Leyton hands the item to Skelgill.
‘You said he was called Mr Leonard, madam?’
Skelgill has opened the wallet and is squinting at the contents. Then he folds it and places his hands casually behind his back as the woman rises and straightens her overall. Her features have regained their pained aspect, and constrict further as she is asked to repeat this particular fact.
‘That is correct, Inspector.’
‘Did he have a reservation?’
She shakes her head.
‘Until the Bank Holiday, most of my trade is walk-up. It falls late this year.’
‘Did he sign in?’
‘I don’t have a visitors’ book, Inspector – I found it was being abused.’
Skelgill nods grimly. Out of the woman’s line of sight DS Leyton is smirking.
‘What else did he say to you?’
She compresses her thin lips.
‘Very little, Inspector – he was somewhat taciturn. He just asked if I had a room available for one night, and listened in silence when I explained the house rules. He probably paid no attention. I left him here and that was the last time I saw him.’
‘Where was he from?’
‘I have no idea.’
Now the woman appears nonplussed – that she should be expected to know this. Evidently she dispensed with the regular pleasantries in greeting the new guest.
‘What about his accent?’
‘I couldn’t say, Inspector.’
‘Well – did he sound British?’
She folds her arms and gives them a little shake of what might be frustration.
‘These days it is quite frankly impossible to tell – I understand there are thousands of British people in the country who barely speak a word of English.’
Skelgill does no
t respond to this observation but instead he produces and holds open the passport – for that is what it is.
‘Is this the man, madam?’
*
‘So much for “Mr Leonard”, Guv.’
‘I suppose it was near enough.’
‘Think he didn’t want to let on he’s a foreigner, Guv?’
Skelgill takes a sip from his cup and grimaces – he has commandeered the residents’ lounge, perhaps hoping that Mrs Robinson would feel obliged to extend her hospitality to the second of the two B’s – but all that has been forthcoming is a rather stewed and tepid concoction masquerading as tea. He shrugs in response to DS Leyton’s question. He is carefully perusing the pages of the passport. Its owner – identified by the landlady as a look-alike for the pixelated image – is in fact a twenty-four-year-old Ukrainian citizen by the name of Leonid Pavlenko, birthplace Donetsk. Superficially, he could pass as British – his longish wavy brown hair and blue eyes would blend in – and perhaps only critical analysis of his mildly Slavic brows would raise any doubt. Skelgill hands the passport to his sergeant.
‘Leyton – unless my eyes deceive me, there’s no UK visa in here.’
‘So he’s an illegal, Guv?’
DS Leyton begins to thumb through the passport, however his stout fingers lack Skelgill’s fisherman’s dexterity and he finds it difficult to separate the pages. He pulls off the plastic cover to make the job easier. As he does so, a photograph flutters onto the surface of the table. It lands face up – and a striking portrait it presents: a girl, early twenties, with long combed blonde hair centre-parted, a tanned complexion, immaculate make up, and – beneath curving pencilled brows – penetrating pale-blue irises with distinct black borders. It is a model shot, taken professionally, and its subject could be naked, for she poses provocatively, her delicate chin resting upon a bare shoulder, an enigmatic smile creasing her full pink lips, and in her eyes just the hint of an invitation.
‘Girlfriend, Guv?’
‘He’s a lucky lad if she is.’
Skelgill picks up the photograph and flips it over. He frowns: there is some handwritten lettering – two words – but it is written in Cyrillic script and makes no sense. He rotates it so DS Leyton can see.
‘Maybe her name, Guv?’ DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks as though he is defeated by the prospect, but then holds up a forefinger to indicate an idea has struck him. ‘DS Jones might know.’
‘What?’
‘DS Jones, Guv – ain’t her old granny from the Ukraine?’
Skelgill looks irked.
‘News to me, Leyton.’
DS Leyton appears a little uncomfortable – that he should know this ahead of his superior.
‘We were discussing it the other day, Guv – in the canteen. What with all this independence malarkey –I was saying I’ve got ancestors from Scotland, Wales, Ireland – in years gone by they flocked from all over to work on the docks – and DS Jones reckons she’s a quarter Ukrainian – and a quarter Welsh.’ He scratches his head absently. ‘And two quarters English, Guv.’
Skelgill looks perplexed, as if he has hitherto assumed his sergeants Leyton and Jones are one hundred per cent pure Cockney and Cumbrian respectively.
‘I mean, Guv – it’s a Welsh name, ain’t it, Jones?’
Skelgill does not respond, but instead he pulls out his mobile phone and uses it to take a photograph of the inscription on the back of the picture. He taps in a short message and transmits the image.
‘Let’s see if you’re right, Leyton.’
It can only be a matter of two or three minutes before his phone rings. It is lying on the coffee table and he engages the loudspeaker function.
‘Jones – got you on speaker so Leyton can hear.’
‘Sure, Guv.’
‘Make any sense? Leyton here tells me you’re fluent in Ukrainian.’
DS Jones chuckles.
‘Trokhy.’
‘Come again?’
‘It means a little, Guv.’
‘You’ve kept that quiet.’
‘It’s not often it comes up in conversation.’
‘Aye, well – maybe now’s your chance.’
‘Don’t expect too much, Guv.’
‘So what about this name?’
‘It’s not a name – it’s not even Ukrainian.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been checking it online – it doesn’t make sense – the letters are random.’
‘It must mean something, Jones.’
‘I can tell you what it sounds like, Guv – in case it’s phonetic.’
Skelgill hesitates for a moment.
‘Aye?’
‘The first word could be block or black, and the second back or beck.’
DS Leyton leans forward.
‘A black-back’s a seagull, ain’t it?’
Skelgill stares at him rather disparagingly. He speaks to DS Jones.
‘What makes you think it could be phonetic?’
‘If you wanted to ask for something in a foreign country, Guv – you’d write it down so you could pronounce it – so the locals would understand.’ She makes a tentative cough. ‘Or if someone had told you a name over the phone – you’d write it the way it sounded.’
Skelgill is staring out of the window, his eyes narrowed.
‘So it could be black beck?’
‘It could be, Guv.’
‘There is such a place.’
There is a silence while Skelgill’s subordinates wait for him to elaborate. In fact he rises and stalks across to a bookshelf. He extracts a folded map from among a section of dated visitors’ guides and discarded paperbacks. Efficiently he locates what he is looking for and scrutinises it for a moment or two. Then he returns to the sofa and lays the quartered map on the coffee table.
‘There’s a thousand becks in the Lakes and more than one Black Beck – but the best known’s a bit of an unofficial attraction – Blackbeck copper and slate mines over in Little Langdale. The beck joins the Brathay and runs into Elter Water.’
He indicates with a finger so that DS Leyton can see the locale. DS Leyton does not have Skelgill’s lifelong relationship with the Ordnance Survey and frowns with consternation.
‘It says Blackbeck Castle, Guv.’
‘Aye – that’s a private estate – the abandoned mine workings are up the valley towards Coniston Old Man.’
DS Jones now chips in.
‘Do you think he might have gone there, Guv?’
Skelgill hesitates.
‘It’s that or we’re talking needles and haystacks.’
Skelgill suddenly chuckles to himself – for he has just named two specific topographic features of the Lakeland fells – but he does not elucidate for the benefit of his colleagues.
‘Jones – you head over this way – rendezvous at Threlkeld in half an hour. We’ll go down through St John’s in the Vale. My car keys are on my desk – grab my boots, will you – and there’s a torch in the driver’s door pocket.’
‘Sure, Guv.’
Skelgill terminates the call and scoops up the handset. Then he picks his jacket from the arm of the settee.
‘Er, Guv –’ DS Leyton lifts a leg rather forsakenly. ‘I’ve just got ordinary shoes.’
‘Leyton – which one of you two speaks Ukrainian?’
‘Well – not me, Guv – obviously.’
Skelgill holds out his hands in a gesture of the obvious.
‘So drop me at Threlkeld and get back to your desk – see what you can find out from Immigration.’
DS Leyton glowers disapprovingly as he falls in behind his superior. They exit the B&B unannounced. As they descend the steep steps DS Leyton holds back for a second and, with the tip of a toe, delivers a gentle prod to the big-nosed gnome with the fishing rod, despatching it into a small ornamental pond.
3. BLACKBECK MINES
Although Cumbria is England’s third largest ceremonial county, by area the Lake Distr
ict is only slightly larger than medium-sized counties like Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire or Warwickshire. Indeed, at 885 square miles, it would fit within a grid of sides just 30 miles long. That said, journeys in the Lakes are measured not by distance, but by time. Arthur Hope’s farm at Seathwaite is a little over three miles as the crow flies from the inn at Wasdale Head – but it is an hour-and-a-half’s drive on a good day. It is a topography that could never have endeared itself to Roman road-builders, though they left their mark with a string of forts across the region. And travel times will soar in a few days, when the Easter vacation brings a tenfold increase in traffic, choking Cumbria’s winding lanes and white-knuckle passes.
In a similar vein, to reach Little Langdale from Penrith – DS Jones’s journey, via Threlkeld to collect Skelgill – takes a good hour, despite the modest mileage. And that does not allow for Skelgill’s impromptu halt in order to solicit a takeaway lunch from his chef cousin at the kitchen door of a Grasmere hotel. By the time they reach the nadir known as Fell Foot, at the bottom of Wrynose Pass, the clock has ticked over to one p.m. – high noon according to recently inaugurated British Summer Time. Skelgill directs his colleague to park on a rather rocky verge beside a dry stone wall, in the shade of a mixed wood of budding native oak and introduced Sitka.
‘I expected there to be some information signs, Guv – I looked up Blackbeck mines before I left – they’re obviously popular with climbers and cavers.’
‘Aye, well – you might say this is the trade entrance.’
DS Jones is lacing her trail shoes, an amused smile forming on her lips.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 2