Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5)

by Bruce Beckham

  DS Leyton inhales wheezily and looks expectantly to Skelgill. But his superior is preoccupied with the remnants of his bacon roll – he jams the last of it into his mouth and casts about for a napkin – and in the absence of such he settles for a less-than-clandestine wipe of the fingers on his trousers. It is DS Jones who speaks next.

  ‘Going by what we saw, Wolfstein has certainly invested. The décor was fully restored – and that art collection in the hall must be worth a small fortune.’

  Skelgill is nodding.

  ‘Aye – the boundary wall’s been made good – and the gates and electronic entry system wouldn’t come cheap.’

  ‘He surely must have money behind him, Guv – my lecturers were always pleading poverty.’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘Unless he’s famous on the continent – why would we know that?’

  Now DS Leyton chips in.

  ‘Not much comes up online, Guv – we’re waiting for the university in Prague to get back to us – the boys found some academic papers that have been archived as pdfs – but we’d need to get them translated from Czech or whatever it is.’

  Skelgill appears uninterested in this prospect. His subordinates wait in silence as he ponders – he seems reluctant to move on, and yet it must appear to them that the connection of Blackbeck estate and its idiosyncratic proprietor to the matters they are investigating is largely circumstantial, and any ‘foreign’ commonality – hardly rare these days, as DS Leyton has pointed out – no more than a coincidence.

  ‘What about the local plod?’

  DS Leyton nods, his fleshy jowls absorbing the downward movements of his square jaw.

  ‘He’s asked around, Guv – not that there’s many folk lives over there – but he’s a Langdale lad.’

  Skelgill, knowing this, waves an impatient hand.

  ‘What he’s gleaned bears out the press report, Guv – apparently this Doctor Wolfstein hosts academic conferences – some of the delegates lodge at the Langdale Arms – kind of overflow accommodation.’ DS Leyton glances at his notes. ‘Also he’s pally with one of the regular UPS drivers – he reckons they get shipments of historical artefacts up to the castle from time to time.’

  DS Jones is nodding.

  ‘That could be what we saw being delivered.’

  DS Leyton looks pleased with this corroboration.

  ‘There’s some word the locals have got the hump, Guv – like it says in the paper, there must have been a few hotel jobs lost – but what can you expect – it had gone bust, after all. Just ’cause he’s employing foreigners – who doesn’t these days?’

  ‘The keeper’s got a Whitehaven accent.’

  Skelgill makes this observation but does not elaborate. After a few moments DS Jones offers a suggestion.

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s a skill you could so easily, import – wouldn’t you need local knowledge and experience, Guv?’

  That she phrases her remark as a question appeals to Skelgill’s vanity.

  ‘Aye – to do it well, you would.’ He leans forward, elbows on his desk. ‘But why does he need a gamekeeper at all if he’s a boffin?’

  His subordinates assume they are to play devil’s advocate. DS Jones is first to make a suggestion.

  ‘It might just be his hobby – it appears he could afford it – and he dresses like a country gent.’

  DS Leyton proposes another angle.

  ‘Maybe they still do some shooting, Guv – as part of the conferences – you know how these team-building jaunts are all the rage.’

  Skelgill puckers his lips. He does not appear convinced. He stares challengingly at DS Jones.

  ‘How many pheasants did we see?’

  ‘Pheasants?’

  ‘When we walked up through the woods and down from the mines?’

  DS Jones looks a little uneasy.

  ‘I didn’t notice, Guv – there were those deer, and the tracks.’

  Skelgill transfers his gaze to the rolling farmland beyond the office window.

  ‘This time of year you’d expect cock pheasants to be crowing all over the place – I didn’t hear one.’

  DS Leyton chuckles.

  ‘Maybe Wolfstein’s potted ’em all, Guv?’

  Skelgill scowls.

  ‘Either way, his keeper’s not done much of a job.’

  DS Jones is frowning.

  ‘When we met him, Guv – he could have had no idea we were about to turn up – but he looked the part – and he was repairing those bird traps you warned him about.’

  Now Skelgill shrugs, as though this argument proves nothing to him. DS Leyton – perhaps unintentionally – tests his superior’s attitude.

  ‘Want me to run a check on him, Guv?’

  Skelgill ponders for a moment.

  ‘So long as you don’t rattle his cage.’

  ‘Righto, Guv.’ DS Leyton nods, understanding the caveat, though he sounds a little disappointed. He scans his notes and turns a couple of pages. ‘That’s about it for Doctor Wolfstein – got a bit more juice on Pavlenko, though – I’ve had an email from a new contact in Kiev – seems like he’s on the ball.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Captain Shevchenko, Guv.’

  DS Leyton grins expectantly, but Skelgill – far less of a soccer aficionado than his sergeant – appears not to grasp the allusion and returns a rather accusatory stare. DS Leyton affects a cough to cover his awkwardness. He blinks several times before he continues.

  ‘It appears Pavlenko is no angel, Guv – he’s got a string of petty convictions for handling stolen goods – and as of now is officially wanted for jumping bail – on suspicion of smuggling.’

  Skelgill is rubbing a knuckle pensively against his unshaven chin.

  ‘Any bright ideas what he might be doing here?’

  DS Leyton leafs through his papers until he comes to a page printed in colour, an enlarged photograph of rather grainy quality. He reaches with a grunt and slides it across the surface of Skelgill’s desk.

  ‘The officer forwarded this, Guv – from social media, taken about a month ago – that’s Pavlenko on the right.’

  Skelgill glowers as he considers the image. Certainly Leonid Pavlenko is recognisable, albeit more animated than in his passport photograph – a laugh that reveals a missing upper left premolar, his prominent eyebrows curved upwards, his hair longer and more unkempt. He raises a celebratory beer bottle, and three-quarters in shot is another male who reciprocates – though with some reluctance it seems, for he is mirthless, his bulging eyes empty of emotion, and he leans away from his companion as if he might wish to escape the frame of the camera.

  ‘The other geezer, Guv – he’s got underworld connections – Captain Shevchenko’s tracked him down – reckons he’s meeting him tomorrow.’

  Skelgill’s taciturn features reveal little of his thoughts. After a few more moments he releases the page into the air and it planes towards DS Jones, making a last-second loop that defies her attempt to catch it. He watches as she reaches to retrieve it from the floor; her hair falls to cover her face, and she has to brush away stray strands before she can examine the picture in comfort.

  ‘We’ve got a mobile number, Guv.’ DS Leyton raps his file with his knuckles. ‘Believed to be Pavlenko’s – we’re expecting a report later today – should be able to tell if it was used in the area.’

  Skelgill nods, though again his expression reverts toward the sceptical.

  ‘How difficult is it to pick up a pay-as-you-go phone?’

  DS Leyton shrugs rather helplessly.

  ‘It’s all we can do, Guv – it’s worth a try.’

  ‘Guv.’

  The cautioning inflexion in DS Jones’s softly spoken entreaty has both of her male colleagues turning abruptly from their exchange. Her eyes are wide with disbelief. Now her voice rises.

  ‘Guv – he’s wearing the necklace – the amber charm!’

  She stands and holds the photograph for Skelgill to see. But he
rises too and pulls it from her and crosses to the window. He tilts the image to catch the daylight, his eyes narrowed to slits.

  ‘It could be.’

  DS Jones looks a little crestfallen – for his tone lacks enthusiasm – though it may be he chastises himself for missing the obvious.

  ‘Some factory in Shanghai probably turns these out by the thousand, Jones.’

  He hands the page absently to DS Leyton, who is hungry for a look.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – it’s one heck of a coincidence if it is one – if you get my drift.’ He grins sheepishly at his tautology. ‘It’s even got the same leather strap like a square bootlace.’

  Skelgill resumes his seat and pitches back to scrutinise the ceiling, gnawing at a thumbnail. But DS Leyton is eager to advance the debate.

  ‘So how did old Ticker get hold of that, then, Guv?’

  Skelgill folds his arms; he looks rather like an unwilling patient in a dentist’s chair.

  ‘If it’s the same one.’

  ‘It must prove Pavlenko was knocking around Little Langdale, Guv – Ticker couldn’t have roamed all that far – not as his age.’

  Skelgill twitches his shoulders in a gesture of ambivalence.

  ‘The local bobby said he’d seen him in Coniston – that’s five miles.’

  DS Leyton squints hopefully at the map on the wall above his boss.

  ‘It’s near as dammit, Guv – same neck of the woods.’

  DS Jones clears her throat – since Skelgill’s underwhelming response to her ‘discovery’ she has remained silent, but now she appears to have gathered her thoughts.

  ‘Given what we know about William Thymer’s –’ (she hesitates, realising she is restricted in what she can say in front of DS Leyton) ‘ – superstitions... it would suggest he understood the purpose of the charm.’

  She regards Skelgill keenly, and then glances at DS Leyton; he has the look of one who realises he is in the dark. Skelgill decides to enlighten him – on a limited basis, at least.

  ‘When I found the tramp’s shelter – it was decked with branches of elder – and there was a circle marked around it, called a pentagram – these are supposed to ward off... spirits.’ He fishes behind him into a jacket pocket and extracts the necklace, still in its polythene bag. ‘So is an amber charm, apparently.’

  DS Leyton’s pained expression suggests he would like to understand how his superior has arrived at such wisdom – but that he knows it is not for him to ask. After a moment he grins amiably, and shifts his bulk with a groan.

  ‘You sure he wasn’t batty, Guv? I mean, twenty-five years in the forest – if you’d asked him he’d probably have told you Mrs Thatcher was still prime minister.’

  Skelgill looks perplexed.

  ‘Is she not?’

  DS Leyton seems relieved, and laughs at Skelgill’s jest – but now DS Jones seems determined to keep the discussion on a more serious track.

  ‘Logically, Guv – he could only have been given it, found it, or stolen it.’

  Skelgill is unmoved.

  ‘Charity shop?’

  Though just plausible, this suggestion seems more designed to avoid jumping to one of the other conclusions offered by DS Jones. It is typical of Skelgill – and frustrating for his subordinates – that he will resist linear thinking at all costs – sometimes apparently flying in the face of perfectly good reasoning. At this moment he looks content to accept what is a quite startling piece of new evidence – that there may have been some interaction between Leonid Pavlenko and William Thymer – and then to park it, so to speak.

  However, when the smug countenance of DI Smart insinuates itself between the jamb and the door of his office, evidently preparing to deliver some bad news, Skelgill casually rises from his seat, dispenses a curt, “Don’t go away” to his bemused sergeants, and barges past his adversary without a greeting, apology or farewell.

  He reappears about ten minutes later to find his subordinates have done his bidding, and DI Smart gone. Their glum and guilty expressions, however, portend of an outcome they are each reluctant to impart. Skelgill, on the other hand, is strangely exuberant. He dons his jacket and loads its pockets with his essential accessories.

  ‘Right Jones – let’s go.’

  ‘Go, Guv – but DI Smart said –’

  ‘Smart’s overruled. I’ve just seen the Chief. Come on.’

  ‘But... where, Guv?’

  ‘You’re going home – toothbrush, passport, overnight bag.’

  DS Jones rises; she holds out her arms in an appeal for more information.

  Skelgill, already at the door, turns back.

  ‘Manchester airport – noon flight for Kiev – via Schiphol.’

  Now DS Leyton apes his female colleague’s pose.

  ‘What about me, Guv?’

  ‘Leyton – you’re giving me déjà vu – is it you that speaks Ukrainian, or Jones?’

  ‘But, Guv –’

  ‘Leyton – I need you here – we’ll be back tomorrow night – in the meantime email your Captain Shevchenko and tell him we’re coming to his meeting.’

  15. KIEV

  ‘There’s a McDonald’s!’

  ‘Shouldn’t we get checked in, Guv – in case there’s any problem with the reservation – you know what Admin can be like?’

  ‘I’m starving, Jones – those in-flight meals wouldn’t feed a hamster.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of cafés for a snack – our hotel’s near the city centre.’

  Skelgill sinks back reluctantly in his seat. The taxi driver, surly and swarthy in equal measure, shows no indication that he comprehends his hungry passenger’s wishes. The interior of the cab smells of stale cigarette smoke; the creamy tan upholstery is creaky and cracked with age; and there are no rear seatbelts. Externally, the speed limit appears to be optional. With a hawk-like anxiety Skelgill has been watching passing sights en route from Boryspil – unkempt farmland stretching flat to the horizon, the sudden high-rise shock of Darnytsia Raion with its quarter-of-a-million inhabitants, and the colossus Rodina-Mat, an Iron Lady of sorts, a severe stainless steel amazon rising with sword and shield from the silvery Dneiper’s wooded banks on the outskirts of the city proper. As they strike through the suburbs his expression of alienation grows with the proliferation of signs, Cyrillic script shrouding the mundane in secrecy; thus good old McDonald’s has double cheeseburger appeal. He voices his concern.

  ‘Aye – but what are you getting? – this is all gobbledegook.’

  ‘I can read some of it, Guv – look – over there, for instance.’

  A rank of cloud is invading from the east, hastening the arrival of dusk; in anticipation, Kiev is lighting up. DS Jones indicates a huge yellow neon ahead and to their left that runs along the roof of what resembles a grand Parisian hotel: it reads both ARENA CITY and APEHA CITI. Skelgill ducks to get a better view, screwing up his face.

  ‘So what are you saying – P is R and H is N?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Y is U, Guv.’

  Skelgill is about to berate her, but he notices the grin that she is unable to suppress.

  ‘I think I’ll leave this up to you.’

  He folds his arms and resumes his twitchy surveillance. The traffic is dense; ubiquitous moulded saloons jostle with luxury limousines and SUVs, and battered boxy Soviet-style vehicles, an amalgam that is foreign to his eye and in the wrong carriageway. There are plenty of pedestrians abroad – the weather, at least, seems not dissimilar to that they have left behind, now cooling to single digit Celsius; most figures wear dark coats, though younger females he notices splash colour, a gold bag, a silver jacket motif, extravagant spangled boots with bouncing trimmings. The architecture thus far has been irregular and unremarkable, largely twentieth century; sporadic high rise, chimneys, aerials; more often austere-looking apartment blocks, generally five or six stories in poor repair, an assortment of precarious balcony extensions stealing ra
mshackle air space; occasional shabby shops at the ground floor; cranes and bill-stickered hoardings mark work in progress; indeed he is reminded of Manchester – and their hotel, a concrete 1990s tribute to Soviet-style architecture, built on an island of high ground in correspondingly inauspicious surroundings, reinforces this impression. They halt beneath utilitarian cement arches that must surely conjure fast food. The driver abandons them to clamber out unassisted, though when DS Jones tips him a Euro note in exchange for their bags his countenance illuminates and he wishes them a successful visit, in impeccable English.

  Skelgill’s appetite thus further subliminally whetted, he insists they register, drop their bags in their rooms, and meet in “two minutes” to head straight out. However, while DS Jones more or less complies with their compact, he keeps her waiting a short while. When he arrives in the lobby she is resting in a casual seating area that overlooks the vehicular approach and car park; he notices she has attracted the attention of a couple of brown-suited porters who loiter untidily inside the sliding glass doors. They observe his movements as he picks her up and together the detectives cross the broad floor; however, when approached they straighten respectfully and give a coordinated bow of their heads.