There has been a powerful crashing hit on her line, mid-retrieve, and the carbon fibre rod is bent into a crazy arc as she struggles with all her might to hang on. She seems to welcome Skelgill’s intervention, and dips her backside against him, so that he is able to hook his right arm about her midriff for a more secure hold.
The unseen fish is giving no quarter, and by the look of the angle of the line, is diving away from the boat. A snap seems inevitable and Skelgill reaches round with his left hand to ease the drag on the reel, but just as he does so the creature changes its tactics, turns abruptly and leaps towards them out of the water. It is a spectacular moment – a mammoth specimen, comfortably above the target figure – indeed a rare sight as it tail-dances over the surface – but a wonder paid for at the cost of losing the fish, for it succeeds in slipping the hook and celebrating with a backflip.
‘Look out!’
Skelgill’s warning seems in vain, for the lure, suddenly released, comes flying like a lethal missile as the rod springs into shape and the pair of them staggers backwards as one. But in the nick of time – a split second before it hits Dr Agnetha Walker between the eyes (or, worse, in an eye) – Skelgill raises his left hand and blocks its trajectory with the flat of his palm.
‘Aargh ya b – !’
With this abridged oath he releases his shocked companion and collapses in an ungainly manner onto the centre thwart.
‘Oh, no – what is it?’
Dr Agnetha Walker drops her rod and falls to her knees in front of him. Their uncoordinated movements have the boat rocking rather alarmingly, and she has to take hold of the gunwale on either side to steady herself. Skelgill is grimacing and inspecting his hand, home-made pike lure attached.
‘I’ve hooked myself.’
Sure enough, one of the prongs of a treble hook is embedded in the centre of his palm. Dr Agnetha Walker glares with concern, though a certain calm seems to possess her now, as if this minor medical emergency is more akin to her experience.
‘It looks painful – it is past the barb – but it is not bleeding badly.’
Skelgill inhales grimly.
‘There’s a kit in the stern compartment – marked First Aid.’
She turns and kneels on the rear thwart, and leans over to rummage in the storage box. Skelgill, baring his teeth, watches patiently. In their entwined wrestle with the fish he has displaced the waistband of her leggings, and the top of a sleek stretch satin thong is revealed against her pale Scandinavian skin at the base of her curving spine.
‘It is heavy.’ She faces him holding a rusty box. She places it on the bottom boards between his boots and prises open the lid. ‘Oh.’
Skelgill chuckles, despite his discomfort. The tin contains only tools.
‘Pass me those pliers, will you?’
She glances up with alarm in her eyes.
‘You cannot pull it out – it will tear your flesh.’
He shakes his head, but nonetheless indicates she should give him the tool.
‘Plan B – you’ll see.’
Reluctantly she obliges. The pliers are a chunky pair, long-nosed with red rubber grips. He takes them in his right hand and tilts his left so that the lure dangles in mid air. Then he slides the open jaws between lure and palm and with a grunt he makes a sudden jerking movement and the lure falls away.
‘What happened?’
Skelgill grins – but rather ruefully. He offers his hand so she can see. The lure might be free but half an inch of gleaming silver shaft still protrudes from his palm. He has used the side cutter to snip the hook below the eye. A thick trickle of crimson blood seeps from the entry point.
‘Looks a bit tidier, eh?’
She takes hold of his fingers and draws his hand closer.
‘I wish at this moment I were the other kind of doctor.’
‘Now’s your chance.’
‘Dan – what on earth do you mean?’
‘It’s in my left hand – I’m hopeless with my right – I need you to push the point round and out – then the shaft will slip through.’
He juggles the pliers and presents them to her grips first. She hesitates, and stares anxiously at the hook.
‘I don’t know if I can do it.’
‘It’s either that or row the mile back.’
Under such sufferance she takes the tool. Apprehensively she gets a grip of the hook. Then she glances about the lake, as if she is having second thoughts. ‘I’ve rowed before. The harbour is hidden in the trees over there, is it not?’ As Skelgill scans the distant bank for the exact spot she suddenly plunges with the pliers.
‘Aargh!’
She has taken him unawares – and though Skelgill recoils in pain and shock she has done the job – a proficient tweak has the barbed point of the hook now protruding from his palm – carefully he draws it out with his teeth it out and spits it overboard, then dips his hand into the cooling water.
‘I’m sorry – did that hurt?’
‘About ten per cent of what it would if we’d pulled it out backwards.’
He wipes his palm on his t-shirt and inspects the wound – now it oozes blood from both exit and entry points like the bite of a vampire bat.
‘It requires a dressing.’
‘I reckon there’s plasters in my car.’
She runs her hands over her hips and the bodice of her zipper top. ‘I don’t even have a tissue.’
‘No worries.’ Skelgill takes hold of the frayed hem of his t-shirt and with a sharp wrench tears off a horizontal strip. ‘Here we go.’ He splits one end and bandages his palm, then holds it out to her.
‘Could you just tie that – it’ll last while we catch that fish.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve still got three quarters of an hour till six – can’t let that one get the better of us.’
She looks alarmed.
‘Oh, no – Daniel – we must go back – you could get an infection – we have a whole day left for fishing.’
Skelgill regards her suspiciously – though beneath his scowl there is perhaps a hint of relief.
‘You’ve just got the knack of that plugging.’
She smiles modestly.
‘That is praise indeed from such an expert angler – but my arms are tired and I feel that a hot bath and relaxation are what I need.’
Skelgill ducks away from her returned compliment and reaches rather laboriously for one oar after the other.
‘She who pays the piper.’
‘Oh – it is not like that – I have enjoyed myself immensely – so far.’
There is something in her tone that makes Skelgill glance up.
‘You’re not wishing you’d gone for the spin in the sports car and the posh meal?’
She regards him with what might be a reprimanding expression.
‘I suspected an ulterior motive – it was a rather blatant appeal, don’t you think?’
Skelgill is leaning into his strokes, apparently none the worse for his hand injury. His breath is beginning to be in short supply, and he has to time his response accordingly.
‘I shouldn’t – like to say.’
His reply is curiously neutral – when a jibe at DI Smart was on offer. It is as if her analysis has caused him to pull in his own horns. But now she seems amused, and her lips press into a rosebud as she suppresses a smile.
‘Besides, you were in higher demand – it brought out my competitive spirit.’
Skelgill appears uncharacteristically discomfited by this notion, and he concentrates upon consolidating his hand and foot positions, as if his disquiet has spread through his limbs. A thoughtful silence descends upon the pair, punctuated by the regular swish and splash of the oars, and Skelgill’s rhythmical breathing. Facing him, she leans back with her hands behind her on the stern, emphasising the curves of her breasts beneath the tight fabric of her top. Her eyes seem to glaze over, though with a strange light, her gaze fixed upon Skelgill’s midriff – the trim mu
sculature of his stomach exposed by the torn t-shirt at each stroke, his jeans tight around his groin above the tops of his leggings.
‘You could have Scandinavian ancestors.’
‘Come again?’
Her sudden break from reflection has taken him by surprise.
‘If I saw you in the street in Stockholm – I would think you were a local.’
Skelgill seems unsure of how to respond to this observation, and pulls harder at the oars. He raises his eyebrows apologetically, as if he has no breath spare for conversation. However, she is intent upon developing the point.
‘I have been swotting up on my local history – the Vikings ruled here once, did they not?’
Skelgill gasps an “Aye” but it seems her question is rhetorical, for she continues.
‘This landing place – for instance – Wyke – it is the same word in Swedish, except we pronounce it with a “V” and spell it v-i-k – and of course the Vikings were so-called for their camps in hidden bays and coves. And certainly your name – it must be from the Old Norse.’
Skelgill frowns and responds disjointedly between gulps of air.
‘My old Ma – she swears it’s – from the bible.’
Dr Agnetha Walker giggles.
‘I do not mean your Christian name!’
Skelgill raises his head in a rather dumb show of acknowledgement, but they have almost come upon the little harbour and he has to crane around to line up the prow with the narrow entrance. As he had done some nine hours earlier, he deftly guides the craft with just sufficient momentum for it to come to a gentle rest against the retaining bank. He grabs hold of a mooring post and then reaches back to hand his passenger to shore. She accepts his assistance, though she is nimble and springs lightly from the boat. As Skelgill turns to busy himself with the painter and oars and fishing gear, she appears in no hurry and drifts across to study a public information sign that details conservation measures being taken to preserve the lake’s unique ecosystem. Skelgill calls up to her, though he is preoccupied with detaching a reel from a rod.
‘Sorry we never cracked it today, Annie.’
‘Oh, don’t worry – I have faith in my pheromones – we females are renowned for catching big fish, are we not?’
Skelgill harrumphs indignantly, as though he might be piqued by such profligacy on Mother Nature’s part – although perhaps it is just his failure to deliver. He wipes perspiration from his brow with the back of his bandaged hand. The humidity of the afternoon and the stillness of the clearing, combined with his exertions, make for uncomfortably clammy conditions. He is now kneeling in the boat, and she is out of his line of sight. Thus her voice must seem disembodied as it reaches him through the resonant ether.
‘You asked if I came from the inn – in fact I have rented a cottage just beyond there, for the duration of my assignment.’
‘Aye?’ He sounds surprised to hear this so late in the day.
‘It is a short walk – but if you would care to give me a lift I can find some antiseptic for your wound.’
Skelgill hesitates; he is critically examining the offending lure with its repair in mind. He scowls as though he is inclined to refuse the offer of her ministrations on the grounds of unnecessary pampering – but perhaps it strikes him that it would be discourteous not to run her home. Before he can reply her voice comes again.
‘After all – you saved me from certain injury – perhaps I can repay you with something stereotypically Swedish.’
Skelgill half-rises and turns her way, still frowning doubtfully. She has removed her zipper top to reveal bare shoulders and a tight-fitting white sporty vest, clearly worn braless. She regards him with her interrogative stare and calmly lights up a cigarette.
6. POLICE HQ
‘So – how’d it go, Guv – catch the Loch Ness Monster?’
Skelgill, his nose buried in a plastic cup of unsatisfactory machine tea, sniffs grumpily.
‘A cold’s just about all I caught, Leyton – it hossed it down most of the time.’
DS Leyton looks a little perplexed.
‘I thought Sunday was alright, Guv – we took our nippers on the Ullswater steamer – like you’ve been recommending.’
Skelgill is bleary eyed – unusually for him as an early riser. He cranes around rather stiffly and stares at the map of the Lake District on the wall behind him.
‘Aye, well – happen we didn’t fish Sunday – the doctor had something come up – we’ve postponed the second day till maybe next weekend.’ He shrugs resignedly. ‘See what the weather’s like.’
They both gaze out of his office window. Heavy cloud has returned, great looming battalions that marched in overnight and now shed a hail of dark arrows. Rivulets stream down the pane, blurring what little view remains; in miniature, a distant tractor battles the elements. Even for a seasoned local like Skelgill, he looks like he finds it hard to believe this is July. Yet, in a week the English schools will break up, and hardy families from the great conurbations of Birmingham and Leeds will flood into Cumbria undeterred and underprepared.
‘Morning.’
The two male heads are turned by the arrival of DS Jones; fresh from her holiday, suntanned in a short skirt and sleeveless top, she breezes into Skelgill’s office bearing a tray loaded with frothy cappuccinos (the canteen’s proud new offering) and bacon rolls.
Skelgill, rather than seeming pleased to see her – or at very least the breakfast she has thoughtfully procured – regards her with alarm, as if she is an uninvited stranger making some brazen entrance. His brows become severe cowls for eyes that scrutinise her bronzed limbs and the golden highlights in her glossy shoulder-length hair – and though he appears most captivated by her appearance, it is DS Leyton that makes a complimentary observation.
‘Cor blimey, Emma – you’d take a tan in a flash photo.’
She is indeed naturally honey-skinned, and fair-haired, but has returned as an enhanced and glowing version of herself. She grins apologetically at her colleague.
‘They say it’s been much drier down in the south-east.’
She places the tray on Skelgill’s desk and retreats with just a mug to her regular seat by the window. Skelgill makes a kind of nod of acknowledgement and half-heartedly forces a simper. DS Jones, however, is clearly perplexed by his guarded reaction – she might wonder if he is seeing her with fresh eyes and is disconcerted by the accentuation of the decade that separates them.
‘Morning campers.’
Any further interrogation of DS Jones and her vacation – and how she defied the British weather – is put on hold. Around the door the gaunt face of DI Alec Smart has materialised in the haunting fashion of Alice’s Cheshire cat. Indeed, the grinning countenance appears disembodied, until his skinny form slides around the jamb, pressing close against the wall, half cocky, half apprehensive, like a crafty fox entering a well-stocked coop, knowing the limits of the dog’s leash.
The ‘dog’ glowers his disapproval from behind his desk, thus obliging his pack to observe restraint in any greeting, though DI Smart ranks as their senior. The ‘fox’ casts furtively about the office; inevitably his gaze comes to rest upon DS Jones, whose bare legs – crossed demurely – present easy pickings for his narrowed eyes. However, when he speaks it is clear he directs his remark at Skelgill’s rather than DS Jones’s recent exploits.
‘Surprised to see you in one piece, cock. Word is she had all the top brass eating out of her hand at that dinner.’
He glances slyly at Skelgill and – having thus emasculated him – saunters across to the window and leans against the sill beside DS Jones. Certainly Skelgill seems tongue-tied. His sergeants watch him with differing shades of interest – DS Leyton with an intrigued frown (he realises that DI Smart, for all his repugnance, has dislodged some stone Skelgill would rather remain unturned) – and DS Jones for perhaps more complex reasons.
‘Happen I can look after myself, Smart – comes with the territory when you’re the chose
n one.’
Skelgill seems to think this is a clever comeback, and begins to look pleased with himself – without overtly stating it, he has reminded his adversarial colleague that it was he who was selected in the auction. However, DI Smart shrugs off the retort by simply ignoring it and transferring his attention to an examination of DS Jones’s tan, from his elevated position beside her.
‘How was Ibiza?’ His Mancunian drawl has the word coming out as “Eye-bee-thoh.” He chuckles salaciously. ‘I hear virgins go free on homebound flights.’
DS Jones does not respond initially – as though it does not register that the question is aimed at her. But she notices Skelgill’s sudden glower, and looks up at DI Smart with some consternation.
‘Sir, I was just –’
But DI Smart waves away her explanation and interjects before she can say any more. Confident now that he has subdued his audience, he steps into the centre of the room.
‘Got a nice job for someone – cleared with the Chief, Skel.’ He straightens the lapels of his designer jacket and checks the tips of his pointed shoes as if he is posing in some trendy bar. ‘Manchester mafia are muscling in on the Cumbrian licensed trade – we need to do a bit of undercover work down there.’ He preens himself and glances at Skelgill and then at DS Jones. ‘Always best when it’s a pukka couple – who look the part – cool, if you know what I mean.’ He glances with a sideways sneer at Skelgill, who can’t help an involuntary brushing movement of one hand against his own, rather more rustic, attire.
‘We’re just going through the workload.’ Skelgill’s expression has progressively blackened during DI Smart’s pitch. ‘We’ve been a man down for a week, so I can’t see it.’
Smart performs a pirouette and clicks his heels. He moves casually towards the door. Once again he looks at DS Jones but addresses Skelgill.
‘Let us know, Skel. Expenses all approved – boutique hotels, top restaurants, swish clubs – got to go to the places this crowd hangs out. I only need a volunteer for a few days.’ Then he stares disparagingly at DS Leyton, as though he has only now noticed his presence. ‘Can’t see you having the dance moves, cock.’
Murder in the Mind Page 5