DS Leyton’s baffled expression suggests his pun is unwitting – but Skelgill’s exhortations seem to do the trick, and setting his jaw determinedly he takes on the flood. His misgivings, however, are soon corroborated as the peaty water rises above the sills, and only the integrity of the door seals stands between DS Leyton and a good tongue-lashing. Skelgill, meanwhile, makes various unintelligible but enthusiastic-sounding noises to offset DS Leyton’s tormented groans.
‘Just get round the bend, Leyton – I know the lie of the land – this is always the worst spot.’
DS Leyton is too preoccupied to speak – or perhaps even to listen – but, sure enough, Skelgill’s prediction proves to be accurate, and his sergeant lets out a gasp of relief as he sees the level ebb.
‘It’s dropping, Guv!’
‘Nice work, Leyton – you’ve cracked it.’
DS Leyton looks pleased with himself, and even accelerates triumphantly, raising great arcs of spray as they emerge from the shallows. His mood lightens immediately.
‘What happens to the fish, Guv – I mean, when it floods – do they swim off on a little adventure?’
Skelgill looks suddenly pensive.
‘Happen they do, Leyton – it’s a common enough sight to find dead salmon dried up in depressions in a floodplain meadow.’
DS Jones has been leaning forwards between the two front seats for a better view of this amphibious stage of their journey.
‘That section would have been impassable, Guv – anyone living above here would have been cut off until now.’
Skelgill nods grimly.
‘That’s why plenty of folk drive Defenders.’
Their conversation dwindles as DS Leyton pilots them uneventfully the last mile to Sadgill. Just as Skelgill has foretold, the route directly ahead crumbles into gravel – this is a disused mining track that once served Wrengill green slate quarry beneath Harter Fell. The metalled lane itself hangs a left across the Sprint, bounding over an ancient packhorse bridge to its terminus at the farmstead. They draw to a halt in the shadow of a great old stone bank barn, traditionally used for fattening drove cattle from Scotland, but now more likely to be pressed into service for lambing and the keeping of sheep. Skelgill lowers his window and listens keenly – but at the moment there are no farmyard sounds, either animal or mechanical.
‘Where exactly are we, Guv – I mean, on the map?’
It is DS Jones that poses this question, her voice hushed by the atmosphere of uncertainty that has descended upon them. Skelgill stretches his arms and produces a nonchalant yawn – but it is not convincing and hints of pre-match nerves.
‘If you’d carried on up that track – on foot, like – go three miles due north over Gatescarth Pass and you’re into Mardale – you come down by the southern tip of Haweswater.’
DS Jones nods; however DS Leyton chips in with an eager declaration.
‘That’s where the bothy was, Guv – that Harry Krille torched.’
Skelgill regards his sergeant with eyes narrowed. He shakes his head slowly.
‘That was Hayeswater, Leyton – it’s to the north-west – maybe five miles.’ He points a finger in approximately the right direction. ‘Still no distance, though.’
DS Jones is looking thoughtful.
‘What about Tebay, Guv – how far is that across country?’
‘As the crow flies, seven miles, I’d say.’
‘So, Guv – the suspected presence of Harry Krille – we’re kind of at a midpoint between those sites?’
Skelgill shrugs. His features suggest only a limited interest.
‘It’s one way to think about it.’
‘But places that are quite easy to reach from here? And vice versa.’
‘Aye – provided you’re prepared to stick your walking boots on.’
There is another silence as they contemplate the implications of DS Jones’s analysis. Skelgill has been no more forthcoming on what they may expect to encounter here in Longsleddale, and thus there is ample scope for his subordinates’ imaginations to range freely. On this basis, it is not surprising that it is DS Leyton who pipes up anxiously.
‘What do we do, Guv?’
‘Find the cottage – I reckon it’s beyond the farm, couple of hundred yards, at the edge of a little brake – I remember it being a ruin. They must have done it up.’
DS Leyton drums out a restless beat with his fingers upon the steering wheel.
‘Wouldn’t this be a good time to call for back-up, Guv – just in case? We’re right out in the sticks – it might take them a while to get here.’
Skelgill takes out his phone, consults the screen, and looks from one to the other of his colleagues with a curiously contorted facial expression. He makes a short, rather hysterical laugh.
‘Anyone got a signal?’
*
‘Crikey, Guv – there’s the red Volvo, right enough!’
‘Hush, Leyton – and keep your head down.’
Skelgill has led them on foot through the apparently deserted farmstead, and then tangentially across a boggy pasture to skirt an adjoining broad-leaved copse. Hidden from sight on the north side of this nestles an old shepherd’s cottage, single storey, with a heavy roof of local green slate. The building appears to have been restored to a decent standard, although a tumbledown structure to one side serves as a rudimentary log store and carport. A stone wall encircles the property – the standard first line of defence against voracious Herdwicks – and a muddy track from the farm swings around to meet a five-barred gate. The garden is mainly given over to lawn, although borders of rosemary and lavender line a narrow gravel footpath that connects the front door to a small gate cut into in the wall. The grass is in need of a trim, and the borders of a good weeding, although the overall impression is of a quaint Lakeland cottage. Around the door is an open porch, painted green, with a triangular canopy, from which hangs a hand-painted sign, ‘Sadgill Nook’. There is a chimney pot at either end of the house, and from the right-hand of these a weak column of smoke rises for a dozen feet before drifting away on a light westerly breeze.
Skelgill jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
‘I’ve kipped here – when it was abandoned. We used to do exercises down this way. There’s a mountain rescue post in the wood.’
‘What’s that for, Guv?’ DS Leyton sounds hopeful.
Skelgill manufactures a macabre grin.
‘You never know when you might need a stretcher, Leyton.’
‘Forget I asked, Guv.’
But Skelgill is already craning to get a glimpse of the property.
‘There’s a room each side of the entrance, and that’s about it. Maybe they’ve got bunks in the loft. Going by the smoke, I’m guessing they’ve made that the kitchen on the right.’
All three detectives crouch behind the wall to one side of the gate. There is a silence while Skelgill seems to be debating with himself as to the optimum tactics. DS Leyton, perhaps swayed by the proximity of their quarry, now seems resigned to their acting alone.
‘What do you reckon, Guv – take ’em by surprise?’
Skelgill appears to nod.
‘Unless they’ve changed it, there’s no windows or door at the back – but we’d better check.’ Without taking his eyes off the cottage he lays a hand upon DS Jones’s upper arm. ‘Jones – sneak round the wall and have a dekko. Leyton, you wait here – stay hidden.’
‘What about you, Guv?’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘I want to get a look inside.’ He taps DS Jones to indicate she should move. ‘Let’s go.’
DS Jones sets off commando style, bent over so that her head remains below the uneven crest of the wall. Skelgill is right behind her, but he halts as soon as he reaches the plane of the front of the building. He hisses an instruction to his colleague.
‘Meet back at the gate beside Leyton.’
DS Jones raises a hand in affirmation and continues on her way. Skelgill cautiously rises, b
ut when he sees the coast is clear he swarms decisively over the wall and darts across the lawn to the corner of the cottage. Now he presses his spine against stone and edges along the frontage as if he is traversing a narrow ledge on a rock face. He reaches the left-hand window and in slow motion leans to peer through the glass. The room must be empty, for now he slides across without ducking. He has taken maybe two more steps to reach the angle of the porch when the front door suddenly opens and a woman emerges. In one hand she dangles an empty log basket – and in the other a shotgun. It is the unmistakeable ginger suedehead, Meredith Bale.
DS Leyton has been observing Skelgill’s progress through a slit in the warped planks of the gate. Now he sees his superior stiffen, spread-eagled against the cottage wall like a gnarled wisteria. Meredith Bale’s gait is ponderous – she is a big woman and carries excess weight. Her beady black eyes fix disconcertingly upon his hiding place – although she cannot possibly see him. However, rather than cross to the log store she takes several paces down the path towards his place of concealment. Then she halts and swings around. Her movements are robotic. Seeing Skelgill, she drops the log basket and raises the gun. Behind her, DS Leyton noiselessly pushes open the gate.
There now ensues a prolonged standoff. Meredith Bale is statuesque, her expression implacable, her eyes glazed. And so it falls to Skelgill to make the first move. But just when he might be expected to stoop for a stone or a handful of soil (or, more sensibly, complete a sideways roll and a zigzagging dash for safety), he detaches himself from the wall, thrusts his hands into his pockets, lowers his gaze to the ground between them, and begins to saunter casually towards her. He might even be whistling. DS Leyton can restrain himself no longer.
‘Guv – she’s a serial killer!’
‘Is she.’
Skelgill’s muttered retort carries no hint of a question. He walks directly up to Meredith Bale, takes hold of the twin barrels, and gently tilts the gun until it points skywards. Meekly, she releases it into his possession. He smiles graciously and steps even closer. She is almost as tall as him and they are face to face. Suddenly, she begins to blink – she looks most disconcerted – it as though he has just roused her from a confusing daydream. Skelgill addresses her in a matter of fact manner.
‘Where’s Harry?’
‘He hasn’t come.’
Skelgill looks past her to DS Leyton, who strides up the path, his features a confusion of alarm and bewilderment. Skelgill flips the gun and presents it stock first to his colleague. Meredith Bale looks on benignly. Skelgill turns on his heel and stalks into the cottage.
The front door opens directly into the right-hand room. It has been knocked through from the entrance hall to create a reasonably spacious living kitchen. There are several well-worn easy chairs, a square oak farmhouse table and matching carvers, a log-burning stove in the hearth and, against the back wall an array of kitchen appliances, including a modern take on the old-fashioned range cooker. Beside this, in one of the carvers, sits a frantically writhing Dr Agnetha Walker. There is a sweatshirt discarded upon the flagged floor and she wears only a translucent white bra and faded blue hipster jeans – her blonde hair is unkempt and she grimaces beneath a gag improvised from an elasticated hairband – she is struggling frantically to liberate her hands from behind her. As Skelgill enters she wrenches herself free, arises awkwardly, and hauls down the gag from her mouth.
‘Oh – Dan – thank heavens!’ She stares at him with great intensity. ‘When you think of the fishes.’ There is a curiously imploring note in her voice, bordering on prurient.
Skelgill’s trajectory seems momentarily disrupted – but he lurches forwards with indecent haste and she topples willingly into his arms. His palms slide down to her buttocks and he pulls her hard against him – but then there is a curious metallic sound and he steps away. Dr Agnetha Walker seems frozen; she gazes at him, her distinctive eyebrows high with alarm, her mouth open – but words fail her. Now she looks down to her side with disbelief: she is handcuffed by one wrist to the solid stainless steel towel rail of the cooker. Skelgill regards her for a moment, and then without a word turns and stalks away.
DS Leyton is standing guard beside Meredith Bale. They both squint into the sunshine as Skelgill approaches. The sergeant now has the shotgun broken over his right forearm.
‘It wasn’t loaded, Guv.’
Skelgill holds out his bandaged left fist. He unfurls his fingers to reveal two live cartridges.
‘The safety was on, Leyton.’
DS Leyton exhales deeply and shakes his head. He has overheard Meredith Bale state that Harry Krille is not here – but now he has the presence of mind to realise they should make doubly sure.
‘I’ll just have a quick butcher’s, Guv.’
Skelgill nods, understanding his sergeant’s intent. For good measure he hands him the cartridges.
‘Where’s Jones?’
‘She’s legged it to the farmhouse, Guv. She said she’d noticed telegraph poles along the lane – they must have a landline.’
DS Leyton disappears into the cottage, leaving Skelgill alone with a subdued Meredith Bale. He seems disinclined to restrain her – not that she would get far in this terrain. He frowns in a companionable way, rather as though they were two passengers on a platform when it has just been announced that their train is indefinitely delayed.
‘I never wanted this. They brainwashed me.’
Skelgill nods slowly, his brow still furrowed. It is hard to discern if he is affecting sympathy or mulling over the meaning of her statement.
‘So what’s our friend Harry up to?’
Meredith Bale shrugs somewhat helplessly.
‘Unfinished business. That’s all I know.’
She makes it sound like she is quoting directly from her fellow inmate. But something suddenly dawns on Skelgill. He curses under his breath and turns away. He sees DS Jones running athletically along the uneven track that leads from the farm. She clears puddles and dodges ruts with a succession of graceful leaps and bounds. Leaving a stationary Meredith Bale, he strides away to intercept his colleague at the five-barred gate.
‘What’s the story?’
‘We’re in luck, Guv.’ DS Jones rests her forearms on the gate and dips her head while she gulps air. ‘There was a patrol just passing the junction where we turned off. They’re in a 4x4 – they’ll be here in ten minutes – fewer. And two more units on the way from Kendal. They reckon twenty minutes.’
Skelgill nods. His face is grim and there is an uncharacteristically harried look in his grey-green eyes.
‘As soon as the first car arrives – we fly.’
DS Jones lifts a surprised face; her cheeks flushed pink with exertion.
‘Where to, Guv?’
‘Keswick. And we need to find Pettigrew.’
26. EARL GREY
‘Which house is it, Guv?’
‘The one on the end.’
‘At least we can get round the back.’
Skelgill makes a pained face – he seems now to doubt whatever is his hunch, and is uncertain of what should be their course of action. Perhaps drained by their dramatic discovery at Sadgill and their abrupt departure and ensuing dash to Keswick, the detectives sit rather becalmed in DS Leyton’s car. They are parked in The Heads, a pleasant airy street of triple-storey slate-built Victorian guest houses with ornate porches and balconies, and multiple gables, and narrow terraced frontages that overlook the grassy expanse of Hope Park, beyond which is Crow Park, Derwentwater, and the undulating backdrop of the Cumbrian mountains. Skelgill gnaws at a thumbnail and gazes at the distant skyline. The fells look inviting today, swathed in verdant summer vegetation, their colours and contours picked out by the burgeoning sunshine. He squints and can see tiny figures, antlike, wending their way up the path to Catbells’ distinctive pike. Down here in the town, tourists have shed their cagoules, and to some extent blend with locals as the latter go about their business. Though tourists tend to walk with a
more aimless gait, wear small backpacks, and sport smears of chocolate ice cream on their faces.
‘Look, Guv.’
DS Jones brings their attention to a courier van that has drawn up just ahead. Its livery advertises a private healthcare provider, and a woman emerges from the driver’s side. She holds a clipboard and wears a smart white overall and a nurse’s cap that bears the company logo, and attached to a lanyard around her neck is an ID badge. She opens the rear doors, selects a package from within, locks the vehicle, and strides purposefully up the front path of an adjacent property. The detectives watch in silence as she rings the doorbell and, after a short delay, exchanges the medicine for a signature from an ageing male resident. Briskly, she trots down the steps to the sidewalk, and returns to her vehicle. Skelgill looks questioningly at DS Jones. She nods decisively.
At the end house the garden is more extensive. There is a small plateau of lawn, and matching ornamental conifers that stand sentry on either side of the front door. The nurse seems a little unfamiliar with the workings of the antiquated brass bell-pull – but she gets it after a couple of tries. From within comes a tinkling, and the more distant bark of dogs. She waits patiently. In time footsteps shuffle closer, and then a faint scratching – someone is looking through the peephole. Finally there is the clunk of a mortise lock.
The elderly woman that opens the door does so only to the extent of a safety chain. Despite the time of day she wears a long flannelette nightgown beneath a thick towelling dressing gown, and carpet slippers upon her feet. Her face is heavily lined, and although her skin is tanned, her features are drawn and her eyes bloodshot, as if through lack of sleep. She seems alarmed by the presence of her caller, wary and on edge. The health visitor, however, takes this in her stride.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Wright-Fotheringham – your diabetes medication to be signed for.’
The older woman’s eyes widen – she appears confused – she takes a deep breath, and rather nervously glances over her right shoulder. There is a moment’s delay and she looks back at the nurse and nods – perhaps she is feeling self-conscious in her nightclothes – but she unfastens the door and opens it a little wider. The nurse offers the clipboard and pen for signature, balanced upon it a little packet marked with a printed sticker – however, two high steps mean she is out of reach and the householder has to lean outwards and downwards. And thus at this very second two small boys cycling past must think they have chanced upon a scene being played out on a movie set.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 50