‘I saw that Dr Pettigrew looking at you, Guv.’
DS Leyton’s sudden revelation draws a sharp glance from Skelgill.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Guv – Eric Blacklock was taking me along this corridor, up on the first floor, and ahead of us I spotted the Pettigrew geezer, staring out of a window. When we reached him I realised he was watching you and your lady doctor friend – you were right out across the grounds, a long way off, walking together.’ DS Leyton chuckles. ‘Funny thing was it looked like the pair of you were out for a sneaky fag, Guv – must have been the condensation in the air, from your breath, like.’
Skelgill chooses not to be diverted by the mischievous suggestion.
‘And what about Pettigrew?’
‘He only turned towards us at the last second – kind of nodded to Blacklock – went on his way. I don’t recall he even eyeballed me, Guv.’
Skelgill purses his lips thoughtfully. It is a few moments before he responds.
‘He’s her line manager of sorts – he was probably checking she wasn’t wandering about with one of the patients.’
DS Leyton rather flinches, as if this comment has reminded him of his own fears of detention. He is about to remark when Skelgill abruptly pushes back his chair, its squeal of protest against the floor tiles attracting the attention of nearby diners.
‘Come on, Leyton – just time for a spot of shopping.’
‘Shopping, guv?’
‘I want some Marmite.’
‘What, for your sarnies, Guv?’
Skelgill regards his sergeant with a look of disgust.
‘You must be joking, Leyton.’
‘But why then, Guv?’
Skelgill shakes his head impatiently.
‘It’s a lethal bait, Leyton – you smear it on your lures.’
He spins on his heel and sets off at a pace, leaving DS Leyton to paddle in his wake. He calls back over his shoulder.
‘You can get a surprise for your wife, Leyton – they stock a decent Cumberland sausage here.’
9. HARE’S BECK FOOT INN
‘Evening, sir – nice dog there – what is he, a dwarf Boxer?’
‘Bullboxer. Staffie cross.’
‘Looks like he might stop a tank.’
Skelgill smiles patiently. He does not trouble to correct the landlord’s mistake regarding Cleopatra’s gender. He glances around the shabby, low-ceilinged room, where several mainly elderly men are gathered, silent in the gloom, most of them glued to the highlights of a cricket match displayed on an outmoded and flickering screen suspended above the bar. But at a table in the opposite corner, beside a weakly smoking hearth, one man is watching him. He is rather more tidily dressed than the others, and younger, perhaps mid-fifties. As Skelgill meets his gaze he gives a little nod of recognition.
‘What’ll it be, sir?’
Skelgill turns back to face the barman.
‘Chap by the fire – what’s he drinking?’
‘Arthur? Mild-and-bitter’s his usual poison. Though I believe he’s had a couple of whiskies.’
Skelgill ponders for a moment, his eyes scanning the limited range of plastic offerings bolted to the counter. No sign of a cask ale.
‘I’ll take two pints.’
‘Certainly, sir – good driver’s drink – the mild’s only two-point-eight – brings down the average to about three-point-two.’
That the publican divines he has arrived by car is no surprise. Hare’s Beck Foot is a tiny hamlet and probably even most locals arrive using the same means. In any event, it is teeming with rain, and Skelgill has entered wearing just jeans and a t-shirt, and apart from a few heavy spots on his shoulders is dry. He waits, an elbow on the bar, while the man pours the beers into glass tankards, enabling Skelgill to carry them one-handed and keep a hold of his dog’s lead with the other. As he approaches the corner table a low growl emanates from beneath the blackened settle that runs along what is the front wall of the building. But Cleopatra – at whom this warning is evidently aimed – pays no heed and nonchalantly makes the acquaintance of what Skelgill sees is a Border Terrier, not so long out of puppyhood.
‘Sorry to keep you – got held up by a couple of crooks.’
The man grins at Skelgill’s turn of phrase.
‘Don’t look too hard – you might find a few more in here.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows to acknowledge that he understands the retort is made in jest. He takes a seat upon the settle, perpendicular to the other man. He cocks his head to one side as though he is replaying the sound of the incumbent’s voice.
‘You a Geordie, Arthur?’
‘Don’t wind me up, man – I’d rather you thought I were a Jock.’
Skelgill has no particular axe to grind against his Celtic cousins from north of the border, with whom over the generations his family has no doubt interbred (willingly, and perhaps at times unwillingly, on both sides). He seems a little taken aback by the vehemence of this rebuttal.
‘I didn’t quite catch your accent – I take it you’re a Mackem, then?’
‘Aye – cheers!’
The man grins, revealing a missing front incisor, and takes a draught of his fresh pint. Skelgill persists with the theme.
‘Your surname – Kerr – it’s Scots.’
‘Sunderland name, man.’
‘Aye?’ Skelgill sounds doubtful.
‘Remember Bobby Kerr?’
Skelgill looks blank. Arthur Kerr obliges with more information.
‘1973 FA Cup Final? Captain when we beat the mighty Leeds United. Took ’em doon a peg or two.’
Skelgill might have something of a craggy appearance, but that he patently could not have been born sufficiently long ago does not seem to trouble Arthur Kerr – and to confound his own argument he adds a rider about his more illustrious namesake, Captain Bobby.
‘Mind you – he were a Jock.’
Skelgill has no answer to this contrary logic.
‘I guess you’d remember England winning the World Cup.’
Whether Skelgill is diplomatically trying to highlight their age gap – or if this is simply a sliver of wishful thinking spoken aloud – it is hard to know, but he says it less as a question and more as a statement.
‘Aye – seven I were – watched it in black and white wi’ wor kid – lamped him and gave him a shiner when the Jerries took the lead and he said he’d told me they’d win.’
‘But they didn’t.’
Arthur Kerr shakes his head determinedly, and Skelgill looks despondent, as if he might be thinking that, rather like the Empire, England winning the World Cup is an exclusively historical phenomenon.
‘You didn’t come to pump us about football.’
‘Sorry?’
It appears Skelgill has drifted off into some brown study. Arthur Kerr flicks his dimpled pint glass with the nails of one hand – perhaps an oblique reminder that the beer is in exchange for his confidences. However, Skelgill seems to interpret it as an encouragement to drink. Indeed, he takes a sup and immediately pulls a face of undisguised disapproval. As he is wont to put it, “I can just about stand it cold and fizzy when the sun’s cracking the cobbles.” But that is not today. However, he battles with his prejudices and restores a more placid expression in order not to offend the sensibilities of those around him.
‘We’ve had some dealings with Haresfell on behalf of the Greater Manchester Police – there’s a couple of issues we’re investigating – I’ve been trying to establish who might be a reliable person to ask – off the record.’
Arthur Kerr gives Skelgill a sideways look, and then casts about the bar – though nobody is close enough to eavesdrop, even were their hearing up to it.
‘We’re not meant to chinwag about what goes on inside – you’ll have seen the posters.’ He pauses, and then drinks reflectively. ‘Then again, you know what it’s like when you’ve had a few pints.’
Skelgill bends forwards and extracts his wallet from his ba
ck pocket. He places it on the table.
‘I’ve put forty quid behind the bar. For starters.’
The man raises his pint and drinks again, as though some sense of urgency has now overtaken him. Above the rim of his glass he eyes the wallet; there is a suggestion in Skelgill’s words that he will pay for more than beer alone.
‘Haway, man – ask all you like.’
Perhaps in order to compose himself, Skelgill takes another somewhat reluctant draught from his dark-looking pint. Now that he is expecting its carbonated bite he swallows with more circumspection.
‘You’re a nurse.’
Though Skelgill knows this fact, he regards Arthur Kerr as though it is an improbable guess in a game of charades. And, certainly, nurse is not the obvious occupation any stranger entering this dingy rural pub might ascribe, where woodsman, shepherd or gamekeeper seems more likely. And – the potentially misleading gender stereotype aside – the man’s appearance offers few clues to his calling. He is short, though stocky and powerfully built. He has long, rather lank hair, drawn back from a receding hairline into a ponytail; teashade glasses perched on a hook nose; and a gold ring in his left ear. His complexion is swarthy, and small beady brown eyes peer from the recess between prominent cheekbones and brow. The jaw is strong, but the lips mean. It is a physiognomy that suggests a Romany provenance, though his get-up is a retro ensemble of black winkle-picker ankle boots, skinny jeans with a plate buckle belt, and a faded denim shirt – more jobbing jazz guitarist than gypsy horse-trader.
‘Primary nurse, aye.’
‘How does that work?’
‘I’ve got four patients that I’m permanently assigned to – so’s I get to know them – “Relational Security” we call it. The other nurses float around according to shifts.’ He swallows more beer and tosses his head somewhat scathingly. ‘And absenteeism.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Haresfell’s got twice the staff sickness of the NHS average.’
Skelgill purses his lips.
‘It didn’t look so bad – from what I saw – it all seemed quite civilised where I met you, with Dr Walker.’
The man allows himself a quick grin – as if the mention of Dr Agnetha Walker prompts some other line of thought. However, his reply deals with Skelgill’s observation.
‘Aye – but I work on an Assertive Rehab ward.’
His rising inflexion suggests he expects Skelgill to understand the significance of such an arrangement.
‘Who does the asserting?’
Arthur Kerr chuckles and takes a small sip of beer, enough to wet his lips.
‘Look, man – all the folk who come in to Haresfell are a danger to the public. Like as not they’ll start in a High Dependency Ward. We’ve got patients in there who are on a Six-Person Unlock. You know what that means?’
‘I reckon I can work it out.’
‘If they make progress – demonstrate that they want to make progress – they can move to Assertive Rehab, get a key to their room, some of their own stuff, more freedom to move about and make drinks – it’s the first step on a long road to an RSU – Regional Secure Unit.’
‘And after that?’
‘Possible release into the community – under supervision.’
‘Even murderers?’
‘Aye.’
Skelgill drinks silently for a moment.
‘What do you think about that, Arthur?’
The man replies without hesitation.
‘It means people like me have done a good job – else what’s the point of the place? It costs five times as much to keep someone in Haresfell as in prison.’
Skelgill is pensive. It is perhaps intriguing that the man takes this progressive view – he seems an unforgiving character, of working-class origins, and hardly academic – yet he is sympathetic to the pathway society has designated for those deemed to be not just vile offenders but also unfortunate victims.
‘So – Meredith Bale – she’s one of your patients?’
‘Aye, Meredith.’
‘And how would you feel about her getting out?’
This time Arthur Kerr has to consider his opinion.
‘Can’t say I’ve got to the bottom of her yet – she’s been spending a lot of time with your doctor friend lately.’
There is a flash of a probing glance here. And – in Arthur Kerr’s use of the attributive adjective “your” – a tangibly provocative suggestion of familiarity. Skelgill might have cause to wonder what signals he has inadvertently given out.
‘I gather she claims she’s completely sane – that she was framed.’
‘Mebbes she was.’
‘You think?’
Arthur Kerr shrugs apathetically.
‘Who knows – they’re a canny lot.’
Skelgill nods and contemplates his drink. Then it suddenly dawns on him that Arthur Kerr did not mean what he had thought. A shadow darkens his features, and he takes temporary refuge in the act of draining his glass. He rises and fetches the refills that have been set ready on the bar by a landlord eager to optimise his profits from the generous stranger’s float. Skelgill slides a brimming pint carefully across the table.
‘How long have you been at Haresfell?’
‘Coming up four years.’
Skelgill nods, as though he feels this is a useful fact.
‘Me and my sergeant – we met a patient called Frank – he introduced himself as a psychiatrist.’
The thick circular lenses of Arthur Kerr’s spectacles cannot conceal a wary sideways glance.
‘Frank Wamphray.’
Skelgill’s features take on a sceptical cast.
‘That’s a river – Wamphray Water – runs into the Annan, up towards Beattock.’
‘I wouldn’t know. It’s definitely his name – despite all his aliases.’ He takes a drink with exaggerated care. ‘What did Frank have to say?’
Skelgill makes a scoffing sound, as if to indicate there was nothing of importance.
‘He sounded like a stuck record about breaches of security.’
Arthur Kerr seems satisfied by this answer.
‘Frank-and-a-large-pinch-of-salt – that’s what we call him.’
Skelgill nods agreeably, though he presses the point.
‘I did notice there were a lot of searches taking place.’
‘Aye – that’s standard procedure when we move patients from one area to another – they’re used to it. If you’re an outsider you’d probably think it’s a bit over the top.’
‘What’s the idea – it’s not like they’re going anywhere?’
Arthur Kerr winks conspiratorially.
‘You want to guess what’s the biggest problem?’ He pauses, and Skelgill turns out his palms to indicate he should continue. ‘Self harm. Smuggle a plastic spoon back to their room; sharpen up the edge on a rough surface. Next thing there’s blood seeping under the door.’
Skelgill receives this intelligence with a phlegmatic tilting of his head.
‘If you’re trying to rehabilitate folk – you can’t wrap them in cotton wool.’
Arthur Kerr rails somewhat at Skelgill’s inapt metaphor.
‘It’s easy for you to say that – we have to mop up the mess – and get paid a pittance.’
He shakes his head and looks pointedly at Skelgill’s plump wallet – although what is not immediately apparent is that it is padded with many weeks’ worth of unfiled expenses receipts.
‘You lot do alright – Government’s got to keep the polliss sweet.’
Skelgill glances ostentatiously at his wristwatch – he perhaps makes the point that he is working now.
‘You wouldn’t want the hourly rate I’m getting for being here.’
‘Ah well man, at least you’re enjoying the company.’
It is difficult to discern if this is an ironic comment or not – but Arthur Kerr pats Skelgill on the forearm and simultaneously drains his glass. Skelgill rather snatches at the empty, and wit
hdraws hastily.
While he is standing at the bar a sly-faced character enters with an even meaner-looking Lurcher at his side. The newcomer is hailed by an acquaintance; this diverts him from his path to the counter, but the dog spots Arthur Kerr’s young terrier, which has trailed Skelgill from their corner. Without fair warning the malevolent hound lunges at the terrier; heavily outgunned, the poor pup scrambles behind Skelgill’s legs. The Lurcher sways from side to side, assessing the best angle of attack. Before Skelgill can do much other than protectively widen his stance, there comes a sudden blur as Cleopatra – living up to her nickname “canine cannonball” – explodes from beneath the settle and sends the bigger dog sprawling across the stone flags. The yelping bully decides it has met its match and slinks back to its owner, who glares at Skelgill. There is, however, some quality about Skelgill in such situations – a presence greater than the confidence of a warrant card in his back pocket – that signals reverse gear is broken (if it were ever fitted as standard). Thus, in due course, the newcomer sensibly blinks first – and turns to vent his ire upon his vanquished dog. Skelgill calmly picks up the drinks and returns to his table.
Arthur Kerr is grinning.
‘Police dog?’
Skelgill smiles ruefully.
‘Rescue dog, you might say.’
‘She came to the rescue there, alreet.’
Skelgill affects a degree of modest pride.
‘At risk of trying to sound witty – you might say in our line we look out for the underdog.’
Arthur Kerr raises his glass and then downs almost half of its contents in one.
‘There you gan, then – divvent mither yersel wi’ us ordinary workers – it’s folks wi’ power you should have your eye on.’
That his Wearside accent has intensified, Skelgill can read into whatever he likes – it could be the alcohol is loosening his tongue – and perhaps that the incident amongst the dogs has contrived a feeling of comradely bonding.
‘The bigger the fish, Arthur, the craftier they come.’
To Skelgill this is a simple truism – you only get to be a thirty-pound pike by relentlessly outsmarting your prey and your competitors. It is a maxim that pertains well beyond the watery reaches of Bassenthwaite Lake. And, though Arthur Kerr is no angler, the sentiment has resonance for him.
Murder in the Mind Page 8