Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Or walking with a limp.’

  Though Skelgill says this sardonically his sergeant appreciates that the joke accommodates his hypothesis. He chuckles, and evidently feels sufficiently reassured to pose a significant question of his own.

  ‘Reckon we should interview her, Guv?’

  ‘Her being?’

  ‘Meredith Bale, Guv.’

  This proposal does provoke a reaction from Skelgill. He draws a sudden breath, and holds it for several seconds before exhaling with a long hiss through his nostrils, like a reformed smoker who has not yet shed the automatous habit.

  ‘She’d love that.’

  ‘How do you mean, Guv?’

  ‘Let’s just pretend for a minute she’s involved – think how she’d be gloating, watching us floundering around – the fact that we were interviewing her would tell her we hadn’t got a shred of evidence to go on.’

  DS Leyton ponders this scenario.

  ‘So you think not, eh, Guv?’

  Skelgill shakes his head – meaning he concurs with this view.

  ‘But not for that reason.’

  Now DS Leyton waits to see if Skelgill will elaborate upon his analysis, but it seems he is keeping whatever cards he might hold close to his chest. (Unless he deems it so obvious to his sergeant that it does not merit explanation.) After a few moments, DS Leyton proffers a supporting observation.

  ‘I suppose the thing is, Guv – if it were her – what’s the worst we can do?’ He laughs a little hysterically. ‘Stick her in a high-security mental hospital?’

  ‘Stop, Leyton!’

  DS Leyton does as he is bid, swerving the car onto the verge and grinding to a bumpy halt.

  ‘What is it, Guv?’ His eyes are wide and he looks to Skelgill as though he must have experienced a brainwave. But Skelgill is unruffled and appears bemused by his sergeant’s agitation.

  ‘The Lune, Leyton.’ Skelgill gestures to the bridge ahead of them. ‘I want another gander. We’re down here so often I may as well get a permit. Especially with sea trout running at the moment.’

  DS Leyton grins but fails to conceal a certain degree of exasperation. Dutifully, however, he exits the car and trails his superior to the centre of the bridge. Like on their last stopover the water is high, streaming from the fells and hastening to the coast. Skelgill, as always in these situations, seems immediately entranced. He appears to engage a sixth sense to the exclusion of his other five. The rain has abated, and there is just the hint of drizzle in the air. The temperature is mild, and the conditions not unpleasant. After a minute or two DS Leyton clears his throat as a warning that he wishes to interrupt his superior’s contemplation.

  ‘Since it’s a river, Guv – why do you call ’em sea trout?’

  Skelgill, bent over with arms resting upon the parapet, turns sharply to his colleague.

  ‘They’re anadromous, Leyton – like salmon. They come into fresh water to breed. Same species as the Brownie otherwise. Bigger, though – we call them Mort in Cumbria, you know.’

  DS Leyton looks a little flattered that Skelgill has honoured him with this explanation without resorting to his patronising lecturer’s tone.

  ‘And do they eat any better, Guv? I always reckon trout taste like spuds you ain’t washed properly.’

  Skelgill shakes his head stoically.

  ‘Old boy I used to fish with, he had a saying, “You can tek trout out t’river, but yer kernt tek t’river out of trout.” So you might be disappointed, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton puffs out his fleshy jowls and joins Skelgill in gazing into the mesmeric flow of the Lune. It seems not to occur to him that this maxim does not hold good with the salmon, which shares the ‘anadromous’ habits of the sea trout. However, if there are any such creatures passing beneath them, working their way upstream, today is not the day for fish spotting, since the Lune is coloured by the peat and silt it carries oceanwards, and its sliding surface reflects the impenetrable grey of the skies above.

  The detectives watch in silence, lulled by the sensation of false movement, like train travellers captivated by the blur of the embankment, reluctant to prise themselves from their places and collect their bags in preparation for a stop and the stresses it will bring. Until – at least as far as DS Leyton is concerned – the concentration is broken. As a curious sound begins to reach their ears, he raises his head and stares with no little trepidation in the direction of Haresfell’s security fence, looming indistinct and ominous in the mist.

  ‘What’s that, Guv?’

  Skelgill takes no notice for a few moments, detained by the climax of some scene in his daydream. But the unearthly noise winds up in volume – almost literally so – for it is the yowl of a klaxon – indeed of several such devices that must be set apart so that they create an unsynchronised stereophonic effect. The initial start-up wail settles into a rhythmical two-tone signal, like an ambulance or fire engine without any Doppler effect, although many times more powerful.

  ‘Sounds like the war, Guv.’

  Skelgill pushes himself upright from his position bent over the water. He looks displeased by the interruption.

  ‘It’s the weekly test – I’ve heard it before – we did a mountain rescue exercise down here a couple of years back.’

  ‘It’s one heck of a racket, Guv – how long does it last?’

  Skelgill pulls a knowledgeable face, though the seasoned observer might suspect some improvisation coming on.

  ‘Two minutes like it is now, the escape alarm – then they sound the all-clear – a continuous tone, for another two minutes.’ He looks at his wristwatch. ‘Come on, Leyton, no point getting our lugs panned in by this racket.’

  They retreat to DS Leyton’s car. He seems unnerved by the siren, and is in no hurry to drive the last stretch – a loop behind a ridge of high ground that defeats any view of Haresfell until the last moment when they swing around and the main gates come into sight.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv.’

  The apprehensive note in DS Leyton’s exclamation owes itself to the vision that greets them. Whereas a single operator normally mans the outer barrier, now a dozen black-clad security staff mill about the gatehouse, dressed for action like paramilitaries in shin-high boots and bulging anti-stab vests. They are called in by a senior officer and form a huddle ready for briefing.

  DS Leyton noses the car up against the barrier and lowers the passenger window. Immediately the two detectives are hit by the intense sound that fills the air – still blaring out, a good ten minutes after starting up, is the sinister two-tone escape alarm.

  15. ESCAPE

  ‘He is called Harry Krille.’

  There is no need for Briony Boss to elaborate. It might have been over thirty years ago that this name hit the headlines – when Skelgill and DS Leyton were running around in short trousers – but its mention still sends a chill down the spine of every police officer in Great Britain, and that of a good many citizens besides. Harry Krille was a ruthless murderer, and whilst on the run three policemen were among his victims. There is a period of each-to-their-own-thoughts, until Skelgill breaks what is in danger of becoming a deafening silence.

  ‘He must be pushing sixty.’

  ‘Fifty-seven. He was incarcerated at the age of twenty-six.’

  ‘How long has he been at Haresfell?’

  The Director glances across her desk at the detectives, their faces alert. Her own expression is uncharacteristically strained – perhaps exaggerated because her hair is tied back and she wears little of her usual mascara or lipstick, and a tailored pinstripe jacket that together with her skirt makes a severe two-piece. It is as if she has arrived at work accustomed to completing her toilet here, and has now been denied the opportunity.

  ‘He was committed initially to prison – Frankland – but his behaviour began to deteriorate and eventually he was moved to Broadmoor. About two-and-a-half years ago his doctors felt our regime might be more suitable and he was transferred here. It was a low-ke
y procedure – which is why you may not have picked up the news of it. There has been significant progress – within a year he was able to graduate from a High Dependency unit into Assertive Rehab – Bassenthwaite Ward.’

  Skelgill grimaces on hearing this unwelcome association – though the Director can only assume that his reaction concerns the notorious patient in question.

  ‘What sort of condition is he in?’

  ‘Do you mean physically?’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Extremely fit for his age – I understand he has been a regular patron of the gym – and of course since his promotion to a more progressive regime he has applied himself enthusiastically to our horticultural therapy.’

  Skelgill shakes his head ruefully – and Briony Boss is forced to raise her palms in a gesture of supplication – for they have been informed that the patient has absconded during this very activity.

  ‘When was it noticed he was missing?’

  The Director glances at a lined pad decorated with hastily scribbled notes.

  ‘The four patients gardening were due back on their wards at ten a.m. Harry Krille had asked the supervising therapist if he could return his tools to the storage shed a few minutes before the others, because he had injured an ankle whilst digging and was in some discomfort. There is a bench where they can drink their flask of tea if the weather is poor. The therapist agreed and observed Harry Krille enter the shed. A minute later one of the other patients suffered a seizure and fell to the ground. The therapist went to his aid and radioed for medical assistance. But in the few moments his attention was distracted it seems Harry Krille slipped away. When he went to check inside the shed it was empty.’

  ‘Were the tools there?’

  Again she consults her notes.

  ‘Yes. I am advised there is nothing obviously missing – at least, not from today.’

  Skelgill looks at his watch and cross-references it against a clock on the wall. The time is now ten twenty-five.

  ‘So this was maybe half an hour ago?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And when was Harry Krille last seen?’

  ‘As I have described – by the horticultural therapist.’

  ‘Nothing on CCTV?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘The allotments are not covered. CCTV is concentrated upon entrances and exits – the bottlenecks where people must inevitably pass.’

  ‘And the fence.’ Skelgill voices this as a statement of fact.

  The Director folds her hands upon her lap, her expression showing signs of discomfort.

  ‘The fence is almost five miles long. Our budgets do not extend to such measures. We had security consultants conduct a risk analysis and their report identified the most likely points of attempted escape – and these are monitored continuously.’

  Skelgill’s thoughts might hark back to his conversation with Alice Wright-Fotheringham, who eulogised the incumbent cost-cutting regime at Haresfell. But he is not a man to dwell upon bolts and stable doors, preferring instead to focus his energies upon the fast-disappearing horse.

  ‘Is he not most likely to be hiding within the hospital grounds?’

  ‘We have a full-scale lockdown, and a systematic search is taking place. It is a procedure we rehearse every quarter.’

  ‘But nothing yet.’ Again a statement from Skelgill.

  She indicates to a two-way radio resting in a charging unit on her desk.

  ‘I would be informed immediately.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘And what about... let’s call it a stowaway situation – or even a hijack?’

  Once more she shakes her head.

  ‘No vehicles passed out of the gates in the time between Harry Krille’s disappearance and the alarm being raised. We are talking of only about five minutes. In any event, the entrance is on the north-east side, and the allotments on the south-west. The distance would seem prohibitive.’

  Skelgill rises from his chair and strides purposefully to the windows that overlook the grounds. Below him are the allotments, quite an extensive area, a patchwork dotted with sheds and small outbuildings and greenhouses, and various paths that link them and divide the plots. Beyond, open grassland – recently mown and striped with ragged lines of damp and yellowing cuttings – rolls downhill towards the River Lune, its progress of course interrupted by the triple barrier of the perimeter. He stands in silence staring out, arms at his sides, his head motionless. Without turning he speaks.

  ‘He was a survival fanatic.’

  Briony Boss is midway through taking a sip from a coffee in a takeaway cup. She swallows and clears her throat.

  ‘More of a fantasist, Inspector – going by the reports.’ She reaches out and lays her manicured fingers upon a slim folder. ‘I have a copy of his file for you.’

  Skelgill glances around, and looks at DS Leyton, who understands he is to take possession of the documents. He accepts them from the Director with a polite nod. Skelgill returns to the desk, but instead of resuming his seat he stands behind it as though he has other plans.

  ‘Was he still into that sort of thing?’

  ‘Only to the extent that it figured amongst his permitted reading.’ She flutters her eyelashes in the rather coy manner that she seems to have reserved for several of her interactions with Skelgill. ‘It is generally regarded to be therapeutic to allow patients to explore their interests – provided such are considered harmless to themselves and others.’

  Skelgill responds with a correspondingly deferential bow of his head.

  ‘As we arrived – there was a security team setting out.’

  ‘They are first checking the perimeter for any breach or signs of escape. Then there is an established sequence of searching likely routes leading away from the hospital. Local communities have been informed – there is only really Hare’s Beck Foot – and a handful of farms. And of course the recognised procedure for mobilisation of your own force’s resources was immediately activated.’

  Skelgill does not appear particularly appeased by this explanation, wide-ranging though it may sound. He knows, for instance, that the immediate police involvement is limited to a handful of local officers and motorised units, and that their capabilities will be stretched like a spider’s gossamer across a web of empty lanes linking isolated farms and hamlets – infrequent patrols that would be easily evaded. With a backwards tilt of his head he indicates the position he has just vacated at the window.

  ‘I’d like to take a look at the fence – straightaway.’

  There seems to be a flash of disapproval in Briony Boss’s dark eyes. Perhaps she reads into the request a criticism of the hospital’s own security operation. However, she reaches for the telephone on her desk.

  ‘I shall see if Eric Blacklock might spare somebody to take you out.’

  Skelgill nods, though now his expression suggests he means business – there will be no ‘might’ about it. With a second jerk of the head he indicates to DS Leyton that he should rise.

  *

  ‘But, Guv – how could anyone climb that – without a ladder?’

  ‘Exactly, Leyton.’

  While DS Leyton cranes his neck and grimaces fearfully at the top of the towering central security fence, Skelgill is looking back impatiently towards the direction of the hospital. From their lowered elevation, only the very tops of the taller buildings are visible, though he can see the windows of the Director’s office, opaque as they reflect the grey morning light. Then a figure comes into sight over the grassy horizon, hurrying down the meadow, carrying a bright blue bundle two-handed like a rugby ball. Skelgill now joins with his sergeant’s skywards gaze.

  ‘He went over here. Pound to a penny.’

  ‘What makes you so sure, Guv?’

  ‘Two reasons, Leyton.’ Skelgill stares imperiously at the barrier. ‘For a start it’s the lowest point, almost in the flood plain – virtually hidden from view by the lie of the land – apart from those top-
floor offices.’

  This latter aspect seems to give him pause for thought, and he falls silent for a moment.

  ‘What else, Guv?’

  Skelgill snaps out of his musing and stares with surprise at his sergeant.

  ‘I could see a clear line of tracks in the loose grass cuttings, leading directly down from the allotments.’

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – how did you spot that?’

  Skelgill responds to DS Leyton’s wonderment with a rather disparaging glare – as though it would have been both a failure of common sense and a dereliction of duty to do otherwise. But now the runner arrives panting. He is a junior member of the security staff, assigned to chaperone the detectives, and returns from an errand briefed by Skelgill. He stops just short and addresses Skelgill with fresh-faced enthusiasm.

  ‘From the stores, sir – the quartermaster says they’re exactly the same as they’ve been using for gardening.’

  Skelgill relieves him of the bundle – it proves to be a hefty reel of shrink-wrapped synthetic blue twine. Its label reads, “7200 feet – tensile strength 297 lbs”. Then from a pocket the man produces and hands over a pair of gardening secateurs.

  Skelgill drops the reel on the ground, and slits open the film with one blade of the pruners. Swiftly he strips out a score of arm spans of twine and cuts the length free, and then proceeds to snip off a dozen pieces of perhaps thirty inches each. Next, working with a bewildering hand-speed he ties the shorter lengths to the longer as DS Leyton and the security officer watch with amazement and – in DS Leyton’s case – a certain proprietorial pride.

  ‘He’s in the mountain rescue.’

  ‘These are dropper knots, Leyton.’

  That Skelgill somewhat unreasonably punctures his sergeant’s bubble is to some extent mitigated by the fact that neither onlooker comprehends his meaning: the knots owe themselves not to rock climbing but to fly fishing. Indeed, DS Leyton seems about to lavish further praise – but Skelgill rises to his feet, hauling the line into a loose hank.

  ‘Time me, Leyton.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’