All three are silent as he departs the office – but he leaves the door wide open and his footsteps diminish slowly down the corridor. Then they stop altogether, as though he may be eavesdropping – and then they begin to return. His head reappears around the door.
‘Just remembered, Skel – got a joke for you – you can use it to impress your lady shrink – if it’s not too late – ha!’ He makes a nudge-nudge wink-wink gesture. ‘Hear about the prisoner with a stutter who kept absconding? He couldn’t finish his sentences!’
He throws back his head and laughs at own joke. Then the head retracts and the footsteps once more beat a Doppler retreat, more purposefully now. Skelgill emerges from behind his desk to close the door. He makes no comment as he resumes his seat. He raises his bacon roll two-handed and rotates it to assess the most propitious angle of attack. He glances up at DS Leyton as he takes an oversized bite.
‘So – what have we got?’
DS Leyton jolts – he is not quite prepared to run through the live cases. More likely he anticipates some fallout from DI Smart’s raid upon Skelgill’s territory – a show of exasperation or anger – but Skelgill exhibits neither, and prompts him with an expectant jerk of the eyebrows. DS Leyton gathers his papers from the cabinet beside him and scans the top page, blinking and inhaling like a novice best man about to make a wedding speech.
‘Er, righto, Guv – well, same old stuff as we were on last week – then a few things what have come up over the weekend.’ He glances at DS Jones, who nods to indicate he has her attention. ‘Gunpoint robbery yesterday at the petrol station on Scotland Road – poor cashier girl got pistol-whipped – fake weapon – then an off-duty constable recognised the plonkers’ getaway van outside a chippy in Carlisle – so they’re in custody. Assault at Tiffany’s nightclub on Saturday night – two suspects still unidentified. Three cars broken into near the railway station – a satnav taken from one of them. Pair of mountain bikes nicked from an unlocked shed along Folly Lane. Industrial unit broken into down Gilwilly Road – nothing reported stolen but an estimated thousand gallons of diesel drained from a storage tank. Toolbox taken from a shed on Salkeld Road. And twenty-six prize pedigree Swaledales rustled from a field along Beacon Edge – farmer reckons they’re worth fifty grand.’
DS Leyton is getting a little wheezy as he nears the end of this monologue; he takes a deep breath, and slumps against his seat. Skelgill has listened implacably, with a disinterest that suggests he has heard this story rehashed a thousand times. The sergeant taps his page with his pen – for he has not quite finished – but before he can resume Skelgill makes a pronouncement.
‘That’s no amateur job – it’d take plenty of dog power, plus shepherding skills.’
DS Leyton waits expectantly, but his superior apparently has nothing to add. After a moment he re-locates his place on his page.
‘Last of all, Guv – just phoned in this morning – and here’s a coincidence,’ (he tips his head on one side to emphasise the happenstance) ‘report of some thefts from that mental hospital – Haresfell.’
Skelgill’s attention level appears suddenly to heighten. He straightens his spine and folds his arms.
‘What kind of thefts – medicines?’
‘Nah, Guv – garden tools and what have you – and bulk foodstuffs.’
Skelgill glares at his half-eaten roll as though it has acquired a bad taste. The hiatus provides DS Leyton the opportunity to speculate. He grins cheerfully.
‘Sounds like some geezer’s stocking up to tunnel out, eh, Guv?’
But Skelgill is not inclined to go along with the jest – rather he appears focused upon the facts of the matter.
‘It’s going to be a member of staff, Leyton – where would an inmate hide bulk foodstuffs?’
‘Dunno, Guv – bury ’em with the tools?’ But then he looks perplexed. ‘Mind you, how would you bury the shovel?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Leyton – if we’re ever prisoners of war together remind me not to be on the same escape committee as you.’
‘Very good, Guv.’
While DS Leyton takes this banter in good humour, DS Jones has remained silent; she has her eyes fixed interrogatively on Skelgill. And that her woman’s intuition has detected some anomaly in his behaviour is perhaps borne out by his next pronouncement. He checks his wristwatch in a business like manner.
‘We’ll pay them a visit.’
‘Really, Guv?’ DS Leyton is clearly surprised that Skelgill would prioritise such a trivial matter.
‘Can’t be too careful with a history like theirs.’ However, his explanation does not have an entirely convincing ring to it. He turns to DS Jones and addresses her somewhat brusquely. ‘Me and Leyton will go – save messing about – they’ve got our ID on their system.’
‘Sure, Guv.’
She tries to sound upbeat but it is clear she is a little crestfallen that she is the one being left behind.
‘Make sure someone follows up all the victims on Leyton’s list, in person – then if you’re still free have a word with Smart – tell him I can spare you till the end of the week, but that’s his lot.’
DS Jones is nodding determinedly through her disappointment – but as Skelgill drops the bombshell that he is willing to second her into DI Smart’s clutches she is unable to conceal a look of alarm.
‘But, Guv – you mean – go down to Manchester with him?’
Skelgill’s features remain taciturn.
‘Jones – you’ve told me before – you can handle him. If I show a bit of give and take every now and then it’ll keep the Chief off my case – next week the grockles arrive and we’ll be back to normal. Happen as not we’ll need some of Smart’s lot.’
She nods and looks down at her notes. DS Leyton seems to sense the tension between his colleagues, and with an ostentatious groan he hauls himself to his feet.
‘I’ll pull my gear together, Guv – want me to drive this time?’
Skelgill ponders for a second or two.
‘Aye – if you promise to take it steady.’
DS Leyton hesitates at the door; he looks back with a frown, as if he is about to remind Skelgill of their last journey. But then he changes tack.
‘Guv – what was that all about – DI Smart’s gag – the lady shrink?’
Skelgill begins to busy himself for departure, gathering up his phone and wallet and keys before putting them down again. His reply is somewhat offhand.
‘He means the doctor who won the auction – she’s a criminal psychologist.’
DS Leyton raises his eyebrows, rather exaggerating his interest. Then he flashes a look of parting resignation at DS Jones.
‘Meet you in the car park in ten, Guv?’
‘Aye.’
DS Jones rises, though she too loiters at the open door, as if she is waiting until her colleague’s footsteps fade.
‘I tried to call you on Sunday morning, Guv – in case you wanted to catch up on things.’
Skelgill is still fiddling rather aimlessly with his personal possessions.
‘Aye – I was on Bass Lake till late on Saturday – the phone ran out of juice – you know what they’re like – I must have forgot to charge it.’
7. HARESFELL
‘I wouldn’t have minded if you’d swapped me for DS Jones, Guv – you know what I’m like about this place. I’d be over the moon to get on the tail of those sheep.’
DS Leyton glances about fretfully. He and Skelgill have been left to wait in an alcove of a larger communal area. There is a small coffee bar and clusters of casual seating arranged around low tables, some of which are occupied, and there is a general background hubbub of quiet conversation, and the continual tread of passers-by on the polished tile floor. Before Skelgill can assuage his sergeant’s fears they are interrupted by a short, elderly, rather portly man, with a round face of unremarkable features and thinning mousy hair combed across his pate in the style known as a ‘Bobby Charlton
’. He wears pinstripe trousers and, beneath a maroon cardigan, a formal shirt with a bow tie. He has bustled into their recess, and halts a little breathlessly facing them.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you gentlemen, I think I may have left my identity card here a while earlier – I was sitting where you are, sir.’
He is well spoken – received pronunciation that gives no clue to his provenance – and he holds out an upturned palm to indicate he refers to Skelgill’s chair. Both officers rise and turn to examine their seats, and Skelgill kneels to check beneath his – but to no avail.
‘Not to worry, it must be in my office – I’m Dr Gerald Bumfrey – Head of Psychiatry?’
He extends a hand to each of the detectives, who announce themselves in their formal capacity. The inflexion in his voice has made a question of his own introduction, and Skelgill nods as though he recognises the significance of the man’s name and title. Meanwhile the doctor indicates they should be seated again, and takes the chair opposite. Then he assumes a distinctly conspiratorial manner, bending towards them and lowering his voice.
‘I think you’ll find you have your work cut out here, officers.’
‘In what respect, sir?’ It is Skelgill that replies.
‘Well, first of all – ’ (he checks over his shoulder to make sure nobody can overhear) ‘ – to get any sense out of a bunch of loonies – it is a perpetual challenge, I can tell you.’
He looks from one detective to the other, and – seeing their consternation at his lack of political correctness – he breaks into a broad smile, revealing two rows of rather uneven teeth.
‘Oh, don’t worry – even the patients call themselves loonies – they may be bonkers, but they’re far from stupid – they know why they are here.’
‘I see, sir.’
‘But what I really mean, Inspector, is the medication – the doses some of them are on – dulls the senses, plays tricks with the memory – and, of course, that’s why the devils are so fat.’
Skelgill seems uncertain as to how he ought to receive this information, and perhaps inadvertently glances sideways at DS Leyton, who folds his arms and frowns defiantly.
‘Due to the medication?’
‘Eighty-nine per cent were classed as overweight or obese in the last study. One of the side effects of psychiatric medication is to heighten the appetite for sugary foods – it’s impossible to get the blighters to eat healthily – and then of course they stock up with junk from the hospital shop.’
There follows a somewhat awkward silence, during which the doctor, grinning rather inanely, looks from one policeman to the other as though he is awaiting some further question. When none is forthcoming he pats his own ample stomach and continues.
‘Of course, who isn’t partial to the odd iced bun? I know I am – and on the plus side it rules out most of them from using the tunnel.’
Skelgill can evidently sense that DS Leyton is staring at him expectantly. He leans forwards and rests his forearms upon his thighs, and intertwines his fingers.
‘The tunnel, sir?’
The doctor mirrors Skelgill’s pose. He lowers his voice to a hoarse whisper.
‘They think I don’t know – they’re digging an escape tunnel from inside one of the garden sheds – heading down towards the river – about halfway there, I believe they are.’
Skelgill stares hard at the other man.
‘Does anyone else know about this – I mean, Security?’
The doctor sits upright and shrugs unconcernedly.
‘Oh, they probably do – but they’re all on the take.’
‘You mean being bribed, sir? By who?’
‘By the inmates.’ He pauses for a moment, as if he is reconsidering his use of the term. Then he nods decisively. ‘We refer to them officially as patients, but let’s face it, they’ve been locked up for doing something unprintable – however that doesn’t stop them having bank accounts – and what else can they spend their money on?’
‘But how would they manage their accounts – and obtain cash?’
‘Oh, it’s all online these days, Inspector.’
‘But, surely there’s no unsupervised internet access?’
‘Do you have a mobile phone, Inspector?’
Skelgill pats his pockets.
‘Aye – but we’ve had to leave them at the security gate.’
The doctor gives him an old fashioned look
‘Inspector – last year there were seventy-three recorded breaches of security – the report was hushed up, of course – can’t have HM’s Inspectorate getting hold of that sort of information – the Director would tell you it was staff playing the game, trying to get the top management fired – but we all know what’s going on.’
He taps the side of his nose with an index finger – but just at this moment there is the patter of hurriedly approaching footsteps.
‘Frank! What on earth are you doing here? Your drama class began ten minutes ago.’
The stentorian voice belongs to a matronly woman in her mid thirties; her hospital ID perches conspicuously on an ample bosom and she clutches a clipboard two-handed with plump fingers. With a curious symmetry, the instant she begins to speak the doctor stiffens and then springs to his feet and – without excusing himself or a word of farewell – scuttles cowering past her with a short-striding effeminate gait, and disappears from sight around one wall of the alcove. The woman watches him go, and then turns to address the detectives, her face a picture of exasperation.
‘This is one of his favourite tricks – if he notices a visitor he fastens onto them.’
Both officers are momentarily dumbstruck; before either can speak she offers a suggestion.
‘Lord Grenville Gretton?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Or was it The Right Honourable Charles Cholmondeley, MP?’
Skelgill slowly raises his head in a gesture of understanding.
‘It was Dr Gerald – ?’
‘Bumfrey.’
‘Aye.’
Shaking her head, the woman lets out a vexed groan and wheels away. She sets off in purposeful pursuit of her charge, making some extravagant note on the clipboard as she goes. It takes several moments before Skelgill and DS Leyton look at one another.
‘I thought so.’
DS Leyton glares at his boss.
‘Come again, Guv?’
‘He never fooled me for a minute – I reckoned we might as well play along.’
DS Leyton’s brows unite in disbelief. He folds his arms and stares with dissatisfaction at the coffee table. However, after a short while a notion comes to him and he perks up.
‘Think it’s true what he said about the tunnel, Guv?’
Skelgill inhales resignedly – as if he has been expecting this question.
‘Aye – I’ve nominated you for the escape committee.’
*
‘Officers – the Director is ready to see you now.’
As they rise, DS Leyton blatantly scrutinises the young woman’s identity badge – perhaps not wishing to fall for another ‘Dr Gerald Bumfrey’ ruse so quickly after the first. However, it bears the title ‘PA to the Director’ – and in due course using a security swipe-card the wearer admits them to an elevator and thence into an airy office suite. Situated on the upper storey of a central tower block, it boasts expansive views on three sides, over much of the grounds, recreational facilities, outbuildings, boundary fence, and the curving valley of the Lune – though the river itself is hidden by the lie of the land. It is a spectacular panorama – albeit blighted by a sliding blanket of grey cloud that draws mist and rain across the landscape and presents its image in little better than green-tinged monochrome. Regardless, Skelgill’s instinctive need to know his bearings gets the better of him, and he is diverted from his professional purpose.
‘It is quite a vista is it not? I rather feel we torment our patients with the unachievable prospect.’
The voice – rich and throaty with a
faint but discernable northern edge to it – is that of a woman, and she rises from behind a large desk to intercept him and offer her hand in greeting. Skelgill turns with a look of surprise – whether this is because, for the second time in almost as many days, his preconceptions of gender have been misplaced, or more specifically is due to the woman’s appearance, it is hard to know – but certainly his gaze lingers upon her.
‘Don’t worry, Inspector – I shall change if we go out onto the shop floor.’
She tilts her head in the direction of an alcove where there is a settee, a wall-mounted mirror and a clothes rail hung with various garments. That she apparently divines his reaction suggests she is accustomed to such attention. She must be in her early forties and, though her looks may be waning, her figure is trim and her attire – a simple ensemble of pencil skirt and white blouse – restrains feminine curves; the skirt is well above the knee and wrapped asymmetrically to reveal angles of the inner thigh, and the blouse could have a button or two more fastened in order to conceal the decorative underwear beneath. She has long glossy raven hair, parted but otherwise untied, and chestnut eyes – a combination that could speak of Mediterranean origins, were it not for a pale milky skin that contrasts starkly with a deep ochre lipstick and striking cat eye make-up. Significant heels raise her to DS Leyton’s height, just a few inches short of Skelgill. She introduces herself as Briony Boss – a name that has DS Leyton regarding her suspiciously as he waits his turn to exchange pleasantries. She ushers them to a casual seating area where refreshments are laid out.
‘All of the patients in Haresfell present a grave and immediate risk to the public – in spite of their medication and treatment, many are not stable. As you may have observed, our visiting conditions for females preclude dressing in a fashion that could be regarded as sexy – and the same rule applies to our patient-facing staff.’
Murder in the Mind Page 6