Skelgill, seated, glances habitually at his wristwatch.
‘No sign of Shevchenko – it’s twenty past eight – we don’t want to miss this meet.’
DS Jones hovers uncertainly a couple of yards short; she wears a fresh white vest top with narrow shoulder straps, and there is a flush upon her chest and throat and cheeks that might be a residual effect from the banya.
‘I need to explain something, Guv.’
‘Aye?’
‘When I went out – with Juri – for such a long time – why he won’t be meeting us this morning –’
She seems unsure of how to broach the subject that drives her desire for confession; Skelgill looks away and stares at the unsightly apartment block that rises up beyond the hotel parking lot like a cliff of dull grey limestone, cracked and crumbling and streaked by the stains of half a hundred faulty cisterns.
‘He took me to meet someone, Guv – the fixer, he called him – Leonid Pavlenko’s contact.’
‘What?’
Skelgill turns back, dumfounded.
‘The meeting wasn’t meant to be this morning, Guv – or rather it was this morning – in the early hours – but Juri had this brilliant idea –’
Her voice tails off. Skelgill is glaring furiously – although it is impossible for her to discern what exactly might underlie his ire – it could be anything along a broad spectrum of issues: his hangover, which must surely be stellar – or that she has unilaterally met the gangster he has travelled almost two thousand miles to interview – or that she disappeared with Shevchenko and now is on intimate ‘Juri’ terms with him – or even that, when he had rebelliously unpeeled himself from the sticky honey-cling-film treatment and escaped the cell in which it was applied, in tiptoeing past the ‘lather room’ he had heard her throaty chuckle, and a minute later, upon retrieving his damp boxer shorts from the back of a lounger in the central pool area, he had discovered her silky white underwear neatly folded, bra and briefs.
‘What brilliant idea?’
DS Jones casts about – as if for a waiter. There is a bar at the far end of the extensive reception zone; a dark head bobs busily but makes no attempt to court custom. She takes a step towards Skelgill, her arms extended in an appeal.
‘We can penetrate this business, Guv – I can go undercover.’
Leaving him to digest this startling suggestion, she turns and with her elegant figure skater’s poise bisects the reflective millpond of the lobby, leaving him staring, becalmed in her wake. She waits at the counter while the order is prepared, returning with two tall milky coffees upon a small round tray.
‘What do you mean, undercover?’
DS Jones, given a choice of seats opposite and perpendicular to Skelgill, opts to settle beside him on the same settee. Whether this is a gesture of reconciliation or a tactic to avoid direct eye contact is a matter for conjecture. She arranges their drinks as she seeks to compose a reply.
‘It’s trafficking, Guv – Ukrainian girls – Juri knows a lot more than he admitted in writing to DS Leyton.’
Skelgill scowls.
‘Let’s stick to calling him Shevchenko, eh?’
‘Sure, Guv.’
‘So what was his bright idea?’
‘He introduced me – they were speaking Russian – the fixer’s a Russian Pole called Yashin and he couldn’t tell I wasn’t Ukrainian – Jur –’ (she corrects herself) ‘Shevchenko – told him I was a mutual friend, of his and the girl in the photo – that I wanted to go to the same place in England and team up with her.’
‘What’s Shevchenko on – doing deals with a crook?’
Studiously, DS Jones stirs the froth into her latte.
‘That was his idea, Guv – on the spur of the moment – he’d been asking me what we knew about the case – he said we could meet this guy officially – as British police – but he doubted if he’d tell us anything useful – or truthful.’
Skelgill’s expression has moderated to mildly peeved.
‘Where was this?’
‘A flat nearby, Guv – I don’t know if it belongs to Shevchenko or if it’s just one the police use. We waited about forty minutes and Yashin appeared.’
Again a frown clouds Skelgill’s features. He fiddles with a spoon – he has not yet tried his coffee.
‘Why would he trust a cop?’
DS Jones glances up, as if surprised by his question.
‘Like Shevchenko says, Guv – this is Ukraine – the land of blurred lines.’
Skelgill appears uncomfortable with this reference. He takes a deep breath, as if it is the precursor to a sigh.
‘So, what’s the story?’
DS Jones gathers herself; it is plain she is eager to get to the heart of the matter.
‘He was dead cocky – Yashin – but I could see he was scared of Shevchenko.’ She brushes away an unruly strand of hair from her eyes. ‘He said we were in luck – his contact in the Lake District – he actually spoke it in English – is looking for someone else – to work as a chambermaid.’
She turns to face Skelgill, and holds his gaze as he searches for underlying meaning.
‘I don’t suppose he named the contact?’
There is a cynical note in his voice that anticipates the negative.
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘Jur – Shevchenko – said there’s no way he’d reveal his network – he reckons he’s got people all over Europe – most probably Poles, too – he said the guy considers himself as a kind of international recruitment consultant.’
Skelgill is looking pensive; but now his thoughts are jumping ahead.
‘So what’s supposed to happen?’
‘Shevchenko told him that he’d take care of getting me across the borders – he said he didn’t want me suffocating in the boot of a car – it’s the job and accommodation at the British end he wants arranged.’
‘What’s the catch – the price?’
DS Jones shrugs.
‘I don’t think there’s either, Guv – I guess the fixer considers there’s a quid pro quo – Shevchenko’s got tabs on him, so if he does him a favour it gives him some leverage.’
‘Why would Shevchenko take the risk – are you sure we can trust him?’
Now it is DS Jones’s turn to frown.
‘He wants to nail him, Guv – this might be a way of doing it – if we can get witnesses who are prepared to testify. Shevchenko believes he’s responsible for hundreds of Ukrainian girls going missing.’
Skelgill is silent for a moment as he considers this proposition.
‘And what about Pavlenko?’
‘Shevchenko thinks Yashin doesn’t know Leonid Pavlenko went after the girl – neither of them mentioned him – as far as I could gather.’
‘So where does Pavlenko fit in?’
‘Shevchenko believes he and the girl must have been an item – of sorts – but that she fell for Yashin’s story of easy money – she suspected Pavlenko would object, since he knew the Pole’s game – and left without telling him.’
‘And then found our grass not so green.’
‘That’s it, Guv – but instead of handing herself in to the authorities, she must have called Pavlenko to get her out, undetected.’
Skelgill, despite his reservations, is evidently making some analysis.
‘I doubt Pavlenko would have told this fixer – pal or not – in case he’d warned his British contact he was coming.’ He at last takes a long draught of his drink. ‘But if he’d disappeared from Kiev it wouldn’t take a genius to guess where he might have gone.’
DS Jones is nodding.
‘I know, Guv. He might have been intercepted.’
Skelgill puts down his latte glass and punches a fist into the opposing palm.
‘If only we could get the British contact.’
‘But I can lead us to him, Guv.’ She raises the spread fingers of both hands to her chest. ‘All I have to do is turn up at a meeting point in England – Shevchenk
o is going to let us know.’
‘But they’ll blow your cover in an instant.’
‘No, Guv – I can easily pretend I only speak Ukrainian – and the chances of a Pole speaking Ukrainian are low.’
‘But what about ID? That’s the first thing I’d ask for.’
‘Shevchenko says he can sort it – a Ukrainian identity card. We just need to email a photo of me and wire him four hundred dollars.’
‘Four hundred dollars!’
‘If we want it done express, Guv – otherwise it takes a month through the official channels.’
Skelgill is shaking his head.
‘How do I explain that one to the Chief?’
DS Jones grins.
‘She would expect nothing less, Guv.’
*
‘Aw, Guv – look at that – how cute.’
Skelgill is already staring with eyes narrowed – though it might be the acute morning sunshine that rakes between stuccoed buildings, as much as the curious sight to which his colleague draws his attention. They have ambled from their hotel shirt-sleeved, amidst crowds in bright spring garb, through unexpected heat, covering the kilometre of Khreschatyk to the Maidan, and thence uphill to marvel at the shimmering golden domes and twirling white brides of St Sophia’s cathedral. Now arriving at the foot of Andriyivskyy Descent, having run the gauntlet of eager artisans touting multi-coloured crafts, they happen upon an altogether different appeal for their money – and one that, as he digs into a back pocket, breaks Skelgill’s hitherto stern resistance.
For here is a Mother Theresa of sorts – a bag woman who has struck camp in the shade of a peeling, bill-stickered wall, where she squats surrounded by some fifteen slumbering dogs, splayed listlessly over the cobbles, half black, a quarter toffee, and a quarter unclassified, though hairy. Her collection of bulging carrier bags is mostly stacked at the foot of the wall, though a couple hang straining from a truncated zinc downpipe at head height – perhaps foodstuffs judiciously placed beyond reach of hungry hounds on hind legs.
Despite the growing warmth the woman – diminutive, perhaps late fifties – wears the greatcoat characteristic of so many of her compatriots; this one is camel, and seems nearly new, but it is oversized and she has the cuffs turned back. Beneath is a navy blue ankle-length dress with paler hoops; she has a matching woollen muffler around her neck, and a black headscarf emblazoned with a bright red and green rose print. Her brown face is wrinkled like a prune, but she looks clean and her attire freshly laundered. The same cannot be said of the snoring pack, whose coats are tinged with grime and oil, and whose fitful itching suggests the presence of an unseen class of micro-fauna. That DS Jones has cooed over this scene of dubious charm relates to the ostentatious raising by the woman of a sleepy pup by the scruff of its neck, and its repositioning in a more suitable spot – although the cynic might submit this is a well-practised move calculated to win the hearts of passers-by. If so, it has worked. Skelgill extracts from his wallet two five-hundred hryvnia notes.
‘That’s thirty pounds, Guv.’
‘Better she has it – I’ll only spend it on ale.’
DS Jones suddenly chuckles, for the woman has stooped to swig from a brown bottle – a brand of Ukrainian beer. Skelgill shrugs and steps forward. Propped up by a wooden crate and held fast by two uneven cobbles, a large rectangle of torn cardboard advertises a proposition in neat marker-pen lettering. In front of it sits a cut-off plastic water bottle for donations. This arrangement is guarded on either side by a massive recumbent mongrel, their broad muscular heads and malevolent slits for eyes leaving little to the imagination as far as biting an uncharitable hand is concerned. Allowing the sleeping dogs to lie, Skelgill gingerly releases the notes and retreats.
‘There you go, love.’
The woman raises the bottle in a gesture of thanks and bows her head. Then she settles on a folding stool and picks up a hardback book. Judging by its monochrome cover – a bare-breasted woman striking a stiff Edwardian pose – it is not the kind of reading one might have anticipated. Skelgill however is staring at the hand-printed sign.
‘What does it say?’
‘Something about gullible foreign tourists, Guv.’
‘Ha-ha, Jones – wait till you start shopping.’
DS Jones grins.
‘I look like a local, remember, Guv.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
Skelgill saunters away – he is following his nose and senses the river is not too far from their present location. They cross a tram stop, an open siding where pitted iron rails buckle from irregular rows of piano key paving. A massive-billed piebald bird is picking at something between the tracks, standing astride a bloody splatter of crimson entrails and grey feathers.
‘Look at that – a hoodie – we only get them in Scotland.’
‘What’s it eating, Guv?’
‘A slow pigeon.’
‘Aw, gross.’
In recoiling she places an involuntary hand on Skelgill’s upper arm – and perhaps her lingering contact acknowledges that, in revealing his chagrin a moment ago, he has opened a little door on his unspoken feelings. She keeps in step, close alongside him. Then as a preface to speaking, she makes a nervous giggle.
‘It was probably down to me that we ended up in the sauna, Guv – I insisted we went back to the hotel – I think they might have had other plans for us.’
Skelgill jerks his head in a gesture of accord, though he continues to gaze ahead, unblinking.
‘I figured you’re a big girl.’
DS Jones shrugs coyly.
‘Not always, Guv.’
He looks sharply at her; as though her tone bears a nuance he cannot read. If he is reviewing events post-midnight through the fractured kaleidoscope of his recall – then perhaps the revelation that it was she who was responsible for their homeward transition, albeit from frying pan to fire, casts a modicum of clarity upon a confusing maelstrom of emotions. Indeed, when he responds, his concerns appear to have shifted from the immediate past to the near future.
‘Having second thoughts?’
‘You mean about...?’ But DS Jones has not made the same leap, and it takes a moment for her to realise what he is talking about. ‘Oh – look – I know you – you guys – will be watching over me.’
Her frank admission draws from Skelgill a paternal frown.
‘Beats me how you think you’ll get past first base – what if the contact is someone we’ve met already? They’ll take one look at you and leg it.’
‘But – whoever it is almost certainly Polish, Guv – in which case we surely haven’t met him – plus he’ll be expecting a Ukrainian.’
Skelgill clearly harbours doubts about the scheme – and perhaps new concerns surface with each passing minute’s cogent analysis.
‘We’re going to have to think this through, lass.’
DS Jones nods obediently – but all of a sudden they are distracted, as jay walking becomes a necessity. They have reached the busy Naberezhne Highway that borders the west bank of the Dneiper and Skelgill – in contrast to his apprehension for her safety a moment ago – is striding out with scant regard for the vehicles that flash past them. In a series of jerky darts they reach the sanctuary of the promenade, marked off from the hurtling traffic by motorway-style Armco. Skelgill makes directly for the waterside balustrade, and gazes across the river.
He appears mesmerised by the vast body of water; like a great lava flow from some distant eruption it slides past, silent and ominous, solid and mercurial, with the opacity of molten glass. There is a conflict unfolding before them, a battle of nature’s force and human industry, an inland port of girders and pontoons, rusting wharves and cranes, stone breakwaters and steel buoys – yet amidst these manmade obstructions graceful terns flit and twist and dive for fry, and beyond, a third of a mile away, conscientious objectors basking in the sun speckle yellow beaches backed by the thick green mangrove shrub of Trukhaniv island.
‘Thinki
ng 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.’
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 17