Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Thinking of Bassenthwaite Lake, Guv?’

  Skelgill yawns imperiously.

  ‘When aren’t I?’

  17. UNDER COVER

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss – you can’t just turn up to see a senior officer – Inspector Skelgill’s a very busy man.’

  To say that George, the desk sergeant at Penrith Police HQ, is a little hot under the collar would perhaps be something of an understatement. Monday morning generally witnesses a gasket or two blown – when members of the public jostle to demand the whereabouts of their carelessly lost pets or to brandish “outrageous” parking fines (issued by an altogether different authority). Today has been no exception, compounded by an influx of Easter tourists asking for sightseeing recommendations. And now his thermostat is additionally challenged by the undoubtedly alluring though insistent young foreigner of striking appearance – spiked peroxide hair and heavy mascara, skin-tight white hipsters, jaunty silver ankle boots, matching metallic-and-black leather jacket slung casually over one bare shoulder, a figure-hugging vest-top in shocking pink with a Rolling Stones motif – who taps slender pink talons casually upon the counter. Her look of insouciance seems to grow as his complexion reddens and a film of perspiration forms a glossy sheen upon his bald crown.

  Skelgill might be a busy man – but at this moment he happens to be crossing the foyer amidst a band of darkly muttering colleagues, having attended the Chief’s Monday sermon – and the exasperated mention of his name has his antennae twitching. And others’.

  ‘You’ve got a biker chick on your case, Skel – grease-up the old machine at the weekend, eh?’

  DI Smart is quick to quip, the snide insinuation in his voice all too apparent – but as Skelgill rounds upon him disparagingly he cannot fail to notice his fellow inspector’s eyes are elsewhere engaged, and upon proverbial stalks.

  ‘I’ll see to her – if you’re too busy with your sheep, Skel.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Skelgill, his jaw set firm, pushes past DI Smart and steps swiftly towards the girl. But whatever baser instincts drive him – competition with DI Smart being among them – his eagerness is suddenly dampened. Rather ineptly, he assumes a casual stance, and digs his hands into his trouser pockets, and makes a face that suggests he has known (whatever it is) all along.

  ‘It’s alright George, she’s got an appointment.’

  He levels a hostile stare at the loitering DI Smart. After a moment’s standoff the latter shrugs indifferently and backs off, employing a series of gunslinger finger gestures, with a flourish blowing imaginary smoke from the barrels. It is not entirely apparent what this means, and all the time his gaze is fixed on the girl, who watches him with bafflement. He tips an invisible hat, spins on his heel and disappears through the interconnecting doors.

  DS Jones bursts into laughter. For it is she – the mystery caller – and Skelgill, if she deceived him with radically altered hair and striking make-up, has perhaps recognised the ensemble. This was purchased for the purposes of authenticity – along with other such new and second-hand personal possessions – while he kicked his heels outside various Kiev emporia on Friday morning. She turns back to the counter and raises her palms in apology.

  ‘Sorry, George – I couldn’t resist it.’ Her regular Cumbrian accent has returned, with additional emphasis.

  ‘Emma – is that you lass?’

  She beams endearingly.

  ‘You’ve been a big help – I figured who better to test my disguise on.’ She shoots a tentative glance at Skelgill, who is now scrutinising her as if he disapproves of most aspects of her appearance. ‘I have to get the photo done, Guv – so I thought I may as well try the whole look.’

  Skelgill nods grimly; he cannot really object to this logic.

  ‘Aye – you’d better shoot downstairs and get it sent.’ Now he grins reluctantly. ‘I’ll see you in my office – you can play the same trick on Leyton.’

  ‘I’ll bring canteen teas, Guv.’

  She nods at George and glides from reception, her departure observed in thoughtful silence by the two males.

  ‘You’ve got your hands nicely full there, Skelly lad.’

  *

  ‘Morning, Emma.’

  For the second time in fifteen minutes DS Jones breaks out into laughter. DS Leyton has greeted her with his usual phlegmatic cheeriness.

  ‘You’re supposed to ask who I am.’

  He taps the side of his nose with an index finger.

  ‘Shall I tell you the giveaway, girl?’

  She nods, still smiling.

  ‘Four mugs of tea, three people. Only you would know that.’ (She holds out the said offering.) ‘Much obliged – plus I was in the car park – listening to the end of the sports report – saw you hop out of your motor.’

  DS Jones places the tray on Skelgill’s desk and slides it with his double ration to within his reach (he makes a vague grunt of acknowledgement, though it is clear his thoughts are still disturbed by her appearance) and then she takes her regular seat at the window – albeit with more than usual care, for her jeans are exceptionally snug. DS Leyton raises his mug to Skelgill in a celebratory gesture.

  ‘Brainwave, Guv – this undercover job – stroke of genius how you’ve pulled that off.’ He tries to drink but the liquid is too hot. ‘And here’s me thinking you’ve swanned off to the Ukraine ’cause you couldn’t think of anything better.’

  Skelgill’s countenance presents conflicted emotions: a clear willingness to take the credit for the idea (but a certain embarrassment under the amused gaze of DS Jones) and yet consternation at DS Leyton’s revealing remark. In the end he settles for a scowl.

  ‘Ukraine.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘It’s just Ukraine – not the Ukraine.’ Skelgill glances at DS Jones, who is still smirking. ‘You don’t say the Poland, do you?’

  DS Leyton is momentarily flummoxed.

  ‘You say the Lakes, Guv.’

  With this spanner thrown into the works Skelgill’s attention reverts by default to DS Jones. Over the weekend, of her own accord, she has undergone a radical haircut and bleaching in the line of duty, and – while it must be said – she carries well the provocative look, it is an uncompromising departure from her usual serene appearance. She detects his scrutiny, and begins to shuffle her papers self-consciously. Watching on, DS Leyton assumes responsibility for rebooting the conversation.

  ‘So – how did it go in Kiev, then, Guv? From what I see on the news it’s pretty hairy.’

  ‘What?’ Skelgill wrestles to free his thoughts. ‘Uneventful, Leyton. We met Shevchenko and his sidekick – sorted out this plan – quick walk round while Jones was buying her outfit – no sooner we were there than it was time to fly home. These trips are not all they’re bulled up to be.’

  DS Leyton nods, though he appears rather unconvinced by this explanation. However, he turns to DS Jones and waves a hand in reference to her get-up.

  ‘Well, if this is how the girls look, Kiev must be one big disco.’

  DS Jones glances over at him.

  ‘I think it’s fair to say they’re a little less conservative than us Brits.’

  ‘Well, you hoodwinked DI Smart.’ DS Leyton turns back to Skelgill. ‘He passed here a minute before you came back, Guvnor – he was rabbiting away about some... er – young lady you were making a fuss over in reception.’

  Skelgill glowers. He knows “young lady” is unlikely to have been the phrase employed by DI Smart.

  ‘Aye – and she fooled George, as well.’

  ‘So we should have no bother with Wolfstein, Guv.’

  Skelgill is startled by this suggestion.

  ‘Hold your horses, Leyton – who said anything about Wolfstein?’

  DS Leyton is taken aback by his superior’s vehemence.

  ‘But, Guv – I thought it was pretty obvious it must be him – that’s why you’ve been sniffing around Blackbeck Castle – and getting me to researc
h into him – and Pavlenko had the name of Wolfstein’s gaff written on that photograph.’

  Skelgill is again frowning.

  ‘That might have said “black beck”, Leyton – but there was nothing about the castle.’

  DS Leyton seems alarmed.

  ‘He’s the only foreigner we’ve got in our sights, Guv.’

  ‘Aye – but he’s not Polish, is he?’ Skelgill waves a dismissive hand. ‘He might be eccentric but he’s hardly gangmaster material.’

  Now DS Leyton licks a finger and flicks through his notes.

  ‘Actually, Guv – the boys have come up with a bit of biography on him.’ He folds over a couple of pages. ‘Far as we can gather – he comes from a wealthy German family that lived in what was Czechoslovakia – he was sent to school in England – but went back and studied at college in Prague. All the career references have him as an academic – but I reckon there’s definitely something dodgy about him leaving his last job at the university.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘If it ain’t being lost in translation – they’re being cagey about what they’ll tell us – claiming the parties are bound by a compromise agreement – whatever that is when it’s at home.’

  Automatically, Skelgill and DS Leyton glance to their female colleague. (She has done all the courses – and paid attention.) She looks startled, as though they have caught her entertaining inappropriate thoughts that are readable on her face – but then she demonstrates her mind has at worst been multi-tasking.

  ‘I think it’s to preserve confidentiality – when someone leaves a job and they have information that might prejudice their former employer – especially if they go to work for a competitor.’

  Skelgill ponders for a moment.

  ‘What about vice versa?’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible, Guv. I guess there’d need to be something on both sides to reach a compromise in the first place.’

  Left handed, Skelgill picks up his first mug of tea and swallows its remaining contents.

  ‘Anyway, Leyton – I can’t see Wolfstein turning up in person to meet Jones – he’d send the kung fu twins.’

  ‘At least we’d know straightaway, Guv.’ DS Jones gestures towards her boss’s desktop telephone. ‘Maybe Kiev will be able to tell us what to expect – if Yashin has come up with the rendezvous.’

  Skelgill turns to DS Leyton.

  ‘What time’s Shevchenko supposed to call?’

  ‘He sent me an email at the crack of dawn, Guv – reckoned he’d phone about ten-thirty.’ He checks his watch. ‘Quarter of an hour – what are they, two hours ahead?’

  DS Jones nods to confirm this fact.

  DS Leyton looks hopefully towards Skelgill.

  ‘Couple of things I can fill you in with in the meantime, Guv?’

  Over the rim of his fresh mug, Skelgill nods his assent.

  ‘First off – and this might be significant, Guv – Leonid Pavlenko’s mobile.’

  ‘Have we found it?’

  DS Leyton shakes his head with slow reluctance.

  ‘Nah, Guv – but we got a trace – it was switched on for a couple of hours near Coniston on the Thursday – eleven days ago.’

  Skelgill stares blankly at his subordinate.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘That’s it, Guv.’

  ‘Remind me when he was reported missing?’

  ‘Not till the Monday, Guv, this time last week.’

  Skelgill remains pensive. DS Leyton continues.

  ‘He was knocking around the Coniston area three days before he checked into the B&B at Keswick.’

  Skelgill has his eyes screwed up; the action emphasizes the puffy bags beneath that indicate a deficit of sleep.

  ‘A phone signal doesn’t prove he was there, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton holds out a palm in appeal.

  ‘Surely, though, Guv – add that to the necklace, what the old geezer had hold of – plus “black beck” written on the photo – it’s some coincidence, all together.’

  However, Skelgill’s doubts are now embellished with a series of deep furrows that line his brow.

  ‘So why didn’t he use the phone after Thursday?’

  DS Leyton’s expression becomes conspiratorial.

  ‘Maybe he was mugged, Guv?’

  ‘What – by a seventy-five-year-old tramp?’

  ‘He might not have had a UK adaptor.’ This is DS Jones that chips in. ‘The phone could have run out of charge.’

  Skelgill looks questioningly at DS Leyton.

  ‘Right enough – I don’t recall one being in his bag, Guv.’

  DS Jones offers another suggestion.

  ‘Perhaps he ran out of credit?’

  Skelgill shrugs hopelessly; he knows this is a blind alley.

  ‘There’s half a dozen possible explanations.’ He appears unwilling to iterate what these may be.

  Now a silence descends. DS Leyton frowns and peruses his notes rather glumly. However, after a minute he perks up.

  ‘We’ve got more on that Jed Tarr character, Guv.’

  He waits for his superior to show some interest.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘He’s an ex-miner – worked at Haig colliery at Whitehaven until it closed after the miner’s strike. Bit of a firebrand by all accounts. Did a six-month stretch for grievous – lorry driver tried to cross a picket line and he whacked him with an axe handle.’

  Skelgill is making grotesque faces that suggest he is imagining some confrontation. This unfavourable reaction is not ameliorated by DS Leyton’s supplementary information.

  ‘Five years ago he got a caution for suspected involvement in a dog-fighting ring – there wasn’t enough evidence to press charges but the fact he took the caution suggests he was up to no good. There’s mention of badger baiting in the case reports.’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to be a small mammal on his patch then, Leyton.’

  ‘Not even a large one, Guv. There’s a bunch of complaints from walkers and cavers about his aggressive behaviour – folks who’ve got perfect rights to be on the land – him carrying a shotgun and all.’

  Skelgill folds his arms and slumps back in his chair.

  ‘Trouble is, Leyton, so long as he’s on the estate he’s got a perfect right to tote a twelve-bore.’

  DS Leyton is nodding – but now he has been reminded of another point.

  ‘On the animal cruelty front, Guv – your farmer chum Arthur Hope left a voice message over the weekend.’

  ‘Another killing?’

  ‘Rustled, Guv.’ He consults his notes. ‘He said from Dunnerdale – “Herdwick tup” – I expect that makes sense to you?’

  Skelgill is already nodding in a slightly superior way.

  ‘A tup’s a ram, Leyton – you can pay upwards of three thousand guineas for a show champion.’

  DS Leyton raises his thick eyebrows and grins mischievously.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – that’s an expensive lamb chop.’

  Skelgill frowns disapprovingly.

  ‘Leyton – tups are not bred for eating.’

  DS Leyton looks rather sheepish.

  ‘Sorry, Guv.’

  Skelgill shakes his head resignedly. He ponders this new information, his features undergoing more variations – but these freeze into an unreceptive scowl as his office door opens and the angular, sharp-suited figure of DI Alec Smart slides into the space beside DS Leyton’s seat. His stoat-like eyes dart about, after each scan returning to dwell upon DS Jones, as though she is some favoured prey item.

  ‘Just got wind of your jape, Skel.’

  Skelgill takes a second to respond.

  ‘It’s no jape – it’s dead serious.’

  DI Smart seems not to detect the hostility in Skelgill’s tone.

  ‘The Chief just had a quiet word – asked me to put a couple of my lads on standby.’ He casts about the room with a disparaging smile. ‘Since your crew’s a bit thin on
the ground.’

  Unsurprisingly, Skelgill is no more endeared by this observation.

  ‘I think we’ll cope, Smart.’

  DI Smart brushes a sleeve of his jacket and glances down in an admiring way at his own outfit.

  ‘Chief said you might need a tail – my lads are city boys, they’re used to it – and we don’t want our next Inspector coming to any harm.’ He sneers fawningly at DS Jones and, without taking his eyes off her, places a patronising hand on DS Leyton’s shoulder. ‘No offence, mate.’

  Skelgill’s expression has darkened to the extent that it is a wonder there is no rumble of thunder. But at this juncture his telephone rings, and his sergeants both lean forward expectantly, knowing this will be the call they have awaited. Skelgill ignores DI Smart and picks up the receiver and, though he does not speak, he listens to the operator.

  ‘Ask him to hold thirty seconds – I’ve got someone just leaving.’

  While he shows no urgency, it must be evident even to the thick-skinned DI Alec Smart that Skelgill has supplied him with his marching orders. He takes a last lingering look at DS Jones, a wry smile curving his thin lips into a spare crescent, makes a telephone gesture to Skelgill with the thumb and little finger of one hand and, ignoring DS Leyton entirely, sidles out of the office leaving the door ajar. DS Leyton quickly reaches across and slaps it shut with a bang. Although there is clearly a desire among the small coterie to exchange some comradely disapproval in relation to DI Smart’s uninvited intervention, there is no time – Skelgill presses a button on the telephone base and replaces the handset.

  ‘Captain – I’ve got you on loudspeaker – Jones and Leyton are with me.’

  Immediately the harsh eastern voice with its curious American drawl crackles into their midst.

  ‘Crazy new look, Anya.’

  Shevchenko has dispensed with introductions. DS Jones seems momentarily discomfited, as if he has inadvertently revealed some pet name of theirs. She replies with a tentative, ‘Anya?’

  ‘We have your internal passport – it will arrive by courier tomorrow morning – the name is Anya Davydenko – she is known to Irina Yanukovych – a contemporary from college.’