‘Where are the Manc no-marks?’
‘They’re in place, Guv – like you told ’em.’
‘Did you get hold of Whitehaven?’
‘They’re checking their emails now, Guv – this time of night there’s only one duty officer in the admin section.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Just getting into position, Guv – nothing passed me on the way in – how about you?’
‘I’m about a minute behind – what about the transmitter?’
There now comes a delay before DS Leyton responds – as if he is hoping something will happen while he formulates a response.
‘I’m waiting to hear, Guv – I’m keeping the radio channel clear – no report for a few minutes.’
‘I want to know about every single bleep, Leyton.’ Skelgill hisses the words between gritted teeth. ‘Call them up.’
He has reached the eastern edge of Keswick, and is now obliged to decelerate – though his manoeuvres remain unpopular with those motorists he both overtakes and forces into evasive action. Despite the reduced wind noise, he cannot hear properly DS Leyton’s two-way radio conversation with police HQ, and has to wait in frustration for his sergeant to return to the mobile phone line.
‘Come on, Leyton.’
‘Nothing for six minutes, Guv.’
Skelgill does not reply. The implications of this news must come as another strangling wrench of the icy dread that has gripped his insides since things began to go awry some fifteen minutes ago. Has the device failed? Has DS Jones turned it off? Has it been discovered and destroyed?
But then – respite of a kind.
‘Leyton – I see the Porsche.’
‘Jeez, Guv – where?’
‘It’s coming out of town – heading east on Penrith Road.’
‘He must have turned round, Guv – I’m on my way.’
Again Skelgill is silent. Behind his visor his grey-green eyes stare icily. The car passes within touching distance of his right hand.
‘Stay put, Leyton.’
‘Guv – but – why?’
‘There’s no passenger.’
‘What if she’s in the back, Guv... or – ?’ In scrabbling for an explanation DS Leyton arrives at a possibility he cannot contemplate.
‘Leyton – head for the town centre – in case there’s another signal from there.’
DS Leyton inhales to protest – he is torn between his instincts to join the chase and his superior’s pragmatism.
‘Are you following, Guv?’
‘I’m just turning – I don’t want to make it obvious.’
‘Right, Guv. What about stopping it?’
There is a delay before Skelgill replies. He is concentrating on the Porsche, which is several cars ahead, and hemmed in itself by a couple more vehicles. It would be easy at this point for Skelgill to pull alongside, as a motorcyclist might slice through suburban traffic – but the car’s windows are heavily tinted, and in the dark the reflection of streetlamps is all he is likely to see.
‘Leyton – he’s taking the Windermere road – I’ve not got enough battery to give you a running commentary – hang up the call – I’ll phone you as soon as it’s clear what his game is.’
‘But, Guv –’
‘Leyton – we haven’t got the resources to cover all the options – he can’t lose me on these roads.’
‘Have you got plenty of petrol, Guv?’
‘Hang up, Leyton.’
DS Leyton reluctantly does as he is bid and Skelgill’s phone, safely though somewhat uncomfortably tucked into his helmet, lapses into resting mode. As the line of traffic that has turned south climbs out of Keswick and leaves the last habitation behind, it becomes evident that the Porsche driver is not going to settle for travelling in slow convoy. At the first opportunity he pulls out and overtakes the two cars ahead of him – notwithstanding the approach of a sharp left-hand bend. On this occasion the road remains clear, though Skelgill watches with consternation; he might not mind if the driver ploughs himself into another wall – but if DS Jones is with him...
And now he faces an additional conundrum. Keeping up with the car is not a problem – with nine hundred CCs throbbing between his legs, Skelgill has power to burn, and only on the motorway could the 4X4 outrun him. But it is more a matter of remaining inconspicuous. Though he has the cover of darkness, it is also his enemy, for a continuous single headlight in the rear-view mirror is far more distinctive than a pair.
Skelgill’s response to the dilemma is characteristically counter-intuitive. Rather than hang back at the furthest possible distance, trying his best not to draw attention to himself, he does precisely the opposite. He clears the intervening traffic, switches on his full beam, and races up close behind his quarry. As Lakeland roads go the A591 from Keswick, at least as far as Grasmere, is generally a fast one – it bisects the dale that holds Thirlmere reservoir (an unnatural lake and Skelgill’s least favourite for angling), sweeps beneath the screes of Helvellyn, and even boasts a section of dual carriageway as it crosses the pass at Dunmail Raise, where a massive cairn of mythical origins rises between the divided lanes. But Skelgill has little time for his surroundings, rich though they may be in interest. Instead he appears intent upon intimidating the Porsche driver, and persistently tailgates him as they hurtle due south.
Skelgill’s bravado elicits an intriguing though not entirely unpredictable response. His actions prove to be something of a red rag to the proverbial bull, who – rather than give way and let his pursuer past – accelerates violently at every opportunity and, where he must slow down, hogs the road such that he blocks the overtake. Skelgill plays along with this game of cat and mouse. He attempts passes and permits the car to thwart him, and allows the driver to believe he has superior acceleration each time they reach a short straight. When the Porsche speeds through Grasmere and subsequently Ambleside, ignoring the statutory limits, Skelgill drops off, as though he draws the line at such flagrant law breaking.
Given the Porsche driver’s reaction, it may be surmised that Skelgill’s tactic of hiding in plain sight is working. And surely any remaining flicker of doubt must be extinguished when the truck-and-trailer of car and bike part company at the junction marked Little Langdale. Unsurprisingly there is no indication from the Porsche as it slows to turn right – but Skelgill seems to be anticipating the manoeuvre. He undertakes the car, passing its damaged front wing, and raises his right hand in the traditional English archer’s two-fingered salute. The driver blasts his horn – it would seem in anger rather than in comradely recognition of a road race well run – and the pair parts company.
For a few moments, at least.
Skelgill continues for just another hundred yards before he turns the Triumph around and draws to a halt. He kicks the gear up into neutral. Bending forward he tugs off his helmet and retrieves his mobile phone. Quickly he summons DS Leyton.
‘Guv.’ He sounds relieved, though somewhat wheezy.
‘Leyton – he’s taken the turn for Little Langdale.’
‘We’ve got an ID on the car, Guv – keeper by the name of Peter Henry Rick – owns a building company – home address just outside of Gosforth, near Seascale.’
‘What about Jones – the trace?’
‘Nothing since those two from Keswick, Guv.’ Now there is a discernable tremor in the sergeant’s voice.
Skelgill hisses, though he does not speak.
‘Want me to send a team round to his house, Guv? Won’t take them long from the coast road.’
Skelgill ponders for maybe five seconds. Then his response is decisive.
‘Hold off just now. I need to go before I lose him. I’ll call you back.’
Skelgill waits neither for further questions, nor DS Leyton’s words of caution. He ends the call and slips the handset into a breast pocket of his weatherbeaten Barbour. He hooks his left forearm through the helmet, switches off the lights of his bike, and shoots away, his hair streaming in the wind.
He knows well the narrow lane that winds towards Little Langdale, and it is barely a minute before he begins to glimpse ahead the impatient red flash of brake lights, as the Porsche lumbers around one tight bend after another. Following in the darkness he will be virtually invisible to the driver – and for his part he employs engine braking to further conceal his presence. With his helmet off he can hear the car, too – its discs emit a high-pitched squeal each time they are rudely pressed into use. He seems unperturbed by the lack of illumination – the sky is cloudless and the waxing moon a sliver shy of full; it casts a wan light across the rising fellsides. And as for oncoming traffic he is trusting to luck and judgement: that at this hour there will be few if any travellers with cause to use such an obscure route.
After some ten minutes the Porsche passes the gated track that leads up to Blackbeck mines. Skelgill seems to take this as his cue to close the gap. Half a minute more and there looms a shadowy recess in the wooded roadside. It is the mouth of Blackbeck Castle’s driveway. The car’s brake lights flicker and the vehicle slows – but then it slides past the opening and swings round the next corner. Skelgill, tense and hunched over his handlebars, relaxes, stretching out his arms and flexing his stiffening back.
Thus the Porsche and its grumbling shadow pass through the scattered hamlet of Little Langdale. There is an occasional light in a cottage window, and half a dozen cars outside the pub – perhaps more than Skelgill might expect for a quarter to ten on a Tuesday night – but on the road the only sign of life is a dog fox that slinks towards the tarn, hurrying from Skelgill’s unlit approach in search of moorhen chicks for supper.
Peter Henry Rick – if it is he driving – shows no inclination to take it easy. Indeed, as the landscape opens out on the approach to Wrynose Pass, and the absence of headlamps reveals a clear road ahead, he travels as fast as the terrain allows, alternately accelerating and braking as successive bends are negotiated. Skelgill is now able to hang well back and, on the sole occasion that a vehicle approaches from the west, he has ample warning to pull into a passing place, dismount, and pretend he is attending to some call of nature.
Skelgill takes care in descending the sharp diving switchbacks of Hard Knott Pass – a frost is not out of the question on such a night. He skims past the Roman fort, and as he spies the scattered lights of Eskdale he must call to mind that it is just six days since he and DS Jones came this way, in high spirits following their snack stop at Boot. Now the circumstances could hardly be more inauspicious. He grimaces – though it might be the cold that is taking its toll. Riding is a chilling experience at the best of times; the air temperature has fallen to low single figures and he is poorly kitted out for the job. But Gosforth lies just eight miles due west, so he has at least broken the back of the ordeal.
In fact it is a good mile short of the village – although well beyond the bend on which the Porsche formerly had its accident – that Peter Henry Rick turns abruptly into a driveway. Skelgill coasts to a halt behind the boundary wall and kills his engine. He drops his helmet upon the grass verge and scrambles for a clear view. The property is set back from the lane by some fifty yards. There is a large detached brick-built residence of modern design and a series of outbuildings to one side and beyond, where a floodlit compound holds stacks of construction materials and a yellow backhoe loader of an American make. The house itself is in darkness. Skelgill watches intently as the driver gets out and triggers with his movement a security light; he ducks lower, raising a crooked forearm to shield his pale brow from sight.
Instead of entering the house, as might be expected, the man strides across the crunching gravel of the drive and unlocks the door of the nearest outbuilding. There must be a staircase within, for a light now comes on in a first floor window, and there is a glimpse of his head and shoulders as he apparently takes some item from a shelf and sits down. After about thirty seconds more, the security light trips off. Skelgill decides to act. He kneels beside his motorcycle and tugs free from beneath the seat a tubular aluminium torch.
There is lawn on either side of the driveway and he choses this for its forgiving nature underfoot. Commando fashion he runs along its margin until he reaches the point where the gravel opens out into a turning area. He has noted that the car itself did not set off the spotlight, and now he crouches and approaches gingerly, almost on all fours, keeping the vehicle directly between himself and the wall-mounted light fitting. Reaching his target, slowly he rises. Across the interior of the Porsche he can just discern that the office light is still on – although that the driver apparently did not lock the car suggests he might return at any moment. Now Skelgill raises his torch. Cupping the lens with one hand, he angles the powerful beam down through the smoked glass.
The back seat and rear compartment are both empty. Wherever DS Jones might be, she did not leave Keswick in this car.
Retracing his steps Skelgill returns to his bike. Squatting behind the boundary wall he takes out his mobile, only to silently curse his luck: on this occasion there really is no signal. Be careful of what you wish for. He taps out a text to DS Leyton nonetheless – perhaps hoping that the phone will be smart enough to despatch the message at the faintest hint of one bar. Hooking an arm through his helmet, he kicks the bike off its stand and, bending his back to the task, heaves its near quarter ton of metal onto the tarmac and begins to push. Only when he has rounded two bends, a good furlong from the entrance to the driveway, and separated by a thick belt of trees, does he relent and pause for breath.
Now he may depart without revealing his presence. He depresses the electric starter, but though the engine turns over a dozen times it does not fire. His eyes narrow. He throws a leg across the seat and sits astride the machine, flicking up the stand with his left heel. He adjusts the choke and squeezes the clutch and tries again. The battery is strong yet there is no ignition. He reaches down on his left side to turn the petrol tap to reserve – only to sit up with a look of consternation: in his haste to leave home he failed to notice that the switch was already set to reserve. He is out of fuel.
He kicks down the stand and dismounts, then he checks his mobile again – but still there is no signal. He wipes both hands hard across his face – it is a gesture of frustration, though he smears the perspiration that is a product of his efforts. He folds his arms and stares with a grimace at the bright moon. There is a service station just north of Gosforth on the main A595 coast road – maybe three miles from his present position – but at this time of night in such a rural district it is likely to be closed. His eyes begin to dart aimlessly about the heavens, drawn to those familiar constellations not outshone by the moon. But then a light of another kind offers a glimmer of hope. Slowly moving towards him, perhaps half a mile away, a single headlamp is winding down the lane.
Skelgill reaches for his torch. Such is the biker’s code that no knight of the road could ever pass another in distress – it is an unwritten duty to help a fellow enthusiast. Here is a chance of the couple of pints of fuel that will get him to the nearest garage (he even carries a coiled length of syphon tubing for such purpose, and has obliged others on occasion). He steps into the road with his torch at his side, and prepares to flag down the approaching rider.
But when the dazzling light rounds the final bend and forces him to raise a shading hand in a salute, his shoulders sag. It is not a motorbike, but a Morris Minor shooting-brake, a timbered pre-63 registration with a split windshield and only one functioning headlamp, on main beam, at that. The car draws to a halt and its engine stalls. For some obscure reason, the wipers graunch back and forth across the dry screen. Skelgill has retreated to the verge, on the driver’s side of the narrow lane.
‘This is as far as it goes.’
‘I beg your pardon, madam?’
That Skelgill uses the term madam reflects the fact that an elderly woman addresses him. She is wearing a dark headscarf from which spills a mass of unruly grey curls. She has a fawn mackintosh buttoned up around her throat. S
he squints at him from behind thick-lensed horn-rimmed spectacles, through a gap of a couple of inches between the glass and the top of the doorframe. Her accent is pukka RP.
‘The window – it doesn’t wind down any further – nor up, come to that – hasn’t for the best part of thirty years – heater doesn’t work either – and there’s only a pouffe for the passenger seat – so don’t expect any home comforts.’
Skelgill is nonplussed. He gestures rather pathetically across to his motorcycle.
‘I’ve run out of fuel.’
The woman glares at him furiously.
‘Well – what are you waiting for? Hop in, man – I keep a spare can for my Kawasaki – you may have that – though you shall have to walk back – I can’t possibly drive – I’ve had four double whiskies.’
19. BECALMED
‘It’s like she vanished into thin air, Guv.’
Skelgill is bent over his desk; his hangs wrung together, his funereal countenance is a mask of concern. It is now eight a.m. on Wednesday morning and there has been no sighting of DS Jones since she disembarked from the bus bound for Workington almost twelve hours ago. Skelgill has slept fitfully in his office, every so often waking and pacing to the control room where her tracking device is being monitored; but the last signal sounded in the centre of Keswick just before nine p.m.
He did not return to headquarters until almost two a.m. Having secured the precious gallon of petrol offered by the eccentric gentlewoman – establishing in the process that she does indeed own a Kawasaki (and that four whiskies was probably a conservative estimate on her part) – there was still much to do. He had trudged back to his bike, and subsequently returned the empty jerry can, and then he had driven the much quicker coastal route, filling up his tank at an all-night garage on the outskirts of Whitehaven. He had not revealed to the woman that he is a detective. Although it seems unlikely she would spread any such hot gossip – she had been entirely uninquiring of his presence in the vicinity – he does not want to take the chance of Peter Henry Rick hearing talk of a police officer stranded in the lane outside his property. With a similar aim in mind, and a restored mobile signal, he had called DS Leyton. As he had anticipated, his sergeant was champing at the bit to search the premises of Rick & Co – and thus he cautioned him against any such precipitous action.
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 20