‘Wonder how far they’ve all got, Guv?’
Skelgill does not reply, but instead delves into his jacket, which is draped on the back of his chair. He pulls out his recently acquired map of Cumbria (paid for by DS Leyton) and begins to leaf through its folds in the practised manner of a seasoned hillwalker, efficiently finding a location without the requirement to spread the entire sheet. He stops to scrutinise some point – albeit stretching at arm’s length, and not without a good deal of squinting – before he grunts to himself and returns the map whence it came.
‘The further they travel the more likely they’ll get spotted. The longer we go without a sighting – of any of them – the more I’d be inclined to think they’ve gone to ground closer to home.’
‘We’ve got a watch on all of the relevant properties, Guv. The Pettigrew’s house in Kendal. Dr Walker’s cottage near Bassenthwaite. Plus her place down in Didsbury and Meredith Bale’s mother’s gaff in Wythenshawe. Fact is, Manchester’s their old stamping ground – all three of them at one time or another, Harry Krille included – though that’s going back some.’
Skelgill is resting his chin on the bridge of his interlocked fingers, elbows upon the table. He closes his eyes for a few moments – and perhaps this is an act borne out of tiredness rather than cogitation. When he does not respond, DS Leyton continues, but not before he too succumbs to a debilitating yawn.
‘What should we do, Guv?’
Skelgill glances at his watch – the hour is well on its way to midnight.
‘Get a break, Leyton. Hope something comes up over the weekend.’
DS Leyton ought to be relieved to hear this – though his gaze is fixed upon a series of marks that he has noticed on Skelgill’s check-patterned shirt, smears of ochre and black that streak his shoulder and breast. After a few moments he starts and looks directly at his superior.
‘It’s hard lines on your Doctor Walker, Guv. If she hadn’t stood you up – she’d be safely tucked in bed right now.’
20. CENTRAL MANCHESTER
‘Oh, my God – you gave me such a fright!’ DS Jones has one hand over her heart and with the other reaches to brace her spread fingers on Skelgill’s chest. ‘I didn’t see you.’
He has ambushed her in a communal restroom, slinking from a WC as she experiments with complimentary perfume that is ranged around a great central washing fountain, itself crowned by life-sized bronze figurines of a strapping merman and his lithe siren partner, entwined in a somewhat improbable X-rated embrace. There are also bottles of men’s cologne, and unisex creams and balms that draw a disapproving scowl from Skelgill. The lighting is subdued, and a low base beat permeates the sticky scented air. The walls and doors – in fact all of the surfaces – are lined with tinted mirrored steel that creates a curious voyeuristic effect, as though the room has been designed with exhibitionism in mind. He glances about uneasily.
‘You haven’t seen me.’
‘Yes – no, Guv – I mean – I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘Your phone’s been off since this afternoon.’
‘It’s on charge in my room.’
Skelgill regards her suspiciously. She wears just a figure-hugging mini-dress in metallic blue PVC that zips at the front from top to bottom; its glistening shine highlights her contours and its immodest cut showcases a good proportion of what endows them.
‘I notice you’re blending in.’
‘I am, Guv – this is nothing – you should see the crowd that arrives after midnight.’
A note of self-consciousness is evident in her voice, but to her rescue into the atrium totter two brunettes on skyscraper heels, clad in what for all the world might be skimpy beachwear. They are drunk (and still drinking) and pay no heed to DS Jones and Skelgill. Instead they clatter into a single cubicle and begin to take selfies in situ, the door wide open and the pair of them perched on the toilet, a tangle of unruly hair and spread-eagled spray-tanned limbs and raised glasses, wrapped in hysterical laughter. Skelgill wrenches his gaze away from the spectacle.
‘What is this place?’
‘It’s a boutique hotel.’
‘Seems more like the worst kind of Mediterranean resort.’
‘It’s the hippest night spot in Manchester, Guv.’
‘It that any better?’
DS Jones glances apprehensively towards the door as more females arrive, arm in arm and almost tripping over the stream of tipsy giggles and chatter that precedes them.
‘I oughtn’t be long, Guv – Al – DI Smart will come looking for me – he says he’s worried that our cover’s been blown.’
Skelgill casts an eye over her outfit – it is difficult to tell if this is disapproval or in fact the converse – but either way there is certainly something proprietorial in his manner.
‘I need to talk to you.’
DS Jones again glances away – although now it is to avoid his penetrating stare.
‘It’s tricky, Guv – it’s only just getting lively here – and it goes on until the early hours.’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘But what shall I say?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘Think of something that’ll confuse him – tell him it’s a woman thing.’
DS Jones returns her gaze to meet his. Her features are torn – and she looks ready to remind him it was he that consigned her to the clutches of DI Alec Smart – but then she seems to make up her mind. She nods and from her glittering purse extracts a key on an ornate metal fob sculpted into a shapely mermaid. She presents it to him tail first.
‘I’m already using that one, Guv.’
Skelgill can’t hide his consternation. But before he can protest she swivels on her stilettos and glides easily away, like a catwalk model reflected from all angles in a dozen mirrors. A pair of young guys with trendy haircuts and get-ups to match appear in the doorway, and for a moment they bar her path. Skelgill stiffens as he watches – but she is not fazed and takes them on with a defiant stare – they step aside and form a little guard of honour, bowing to her superior power of attraction, unable to control hungry eyes that steal a glimpse of her alluring form. She passes from sight and they exchange a nod and a wink – as if the gauntlet has been thrown at their feet – then they notice Skelgill, and drift past him, amused smirks turning up the corners of their mouths as they appraise his less-than-fashionable attire.
‘Same old chat-up line, cock?’
‘Or maybe it’s the great smell of Brut?’
These quips – barbed though they are – are delivered good naturedly, but nonetheless elicit only a malevolent glare from Skelgill. His brooding, coiled presence suddenly becomes threatening. Unnerved, the jokers shrug ostentatiously, affecting offence at his deficiency of humour, and split into separate cubicles. Skelgill looks like he is ready to take out his frustration on some vaguely deserving object – but an upwards glance at the dome camera quells his urge. He pockets the key and stalks away. A moment later he sidles back, and snatches up one of the brightly coloured bottles of cologne.
*
‘Where did you sleep, Guv?’
‘In my motor.’
‘You could have stayed in my room – the hotel wouldn’t have noticed.’
Skelgill flexes his vertebrae, as if to emphasise the discomfort of his self-imposed ordeal: the flatbed of his car, parked on the roof of a towering 24-hour multi-storey that had him waking to a view of grim urban incongruity and a dawn chorus of the all-pervasive strained hum of the city.
‘I didn’t want to be an inconvenience at four in the morning.’
DS Jones shifts from one foot to the other.
‘I’ll get you another coffee, Guv?’
‘Aye – why not.’
She unhitches a chic shoulder bag and drapes it over the back of the chair opposite Skelgill.
‘Double shot?’
He nods.
‘Where’s Smart?’
Again she looks a little uneasy.
&nb
sp; ‘He doesn’t seem to surface until about midday, Guv – he says if we’re working so late we should get the mornings off.’
Skelgill makes a disparaging face.
‘Make sure you claim all your overtime.’
She grins and heads for counter. The ubiquitous chain coffee shop is located in what to Skelgill is a depressingly concrete part of the city centre. As a largely uninhabited district, it relies upon shoppers and students to give it colour, but neither group is much in evidence this time on a Sunday morning. For once, however, it is not raining. When DS Jones returns with their drinks she seems surprisingly bright eyed, and altogether a different proposition than twelve hours earlier – now in trainers, jeans and sweatshirt, and stripped of her vampish make up and revealing outfit, she could be an eager student meeting a lecturer to review progress on her dissertation; indeed she produces a pad and pen, and several loose pages of handwritten notes.
‘Cheers.’
She seems surprised by his word of thanks.
‘You’re welcome.’
Skelgill, however, does not stand any further on ceremony.
‘So he’s got back to you?’
DS Jones nods in a qualified manner.
‘He couldn’t find everything you wanted, Guv – he’s been into his office again this morning – he’d already made some progress on what you previously asked for.’ She looks at Skelgill and bites at one side of her lower lip. ‘I don’t know how helpful it’s going to be, though. Whether it will take you anywhere.’
‘What am I doing in Manchester? I’m on the road to nowhere. Anywhere is just fine.’
‘I feel like it’s the sort of information you could obtain by just asking them.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to ask.’
DS Jones is stymied for a moment as she tries to work out the significance of his cryptic retort. She opts, however, for an uncomplicated question.
‘Any news this morning, Guv?’
‘Bale and Krille have gone to ground. No idea if they’ve linked up.’
‘What about Dr Walker?’
Something in DS Jones’s voice causes him to glance sharply at her. An interrogative note beyond the professional question, perhaps?
‘No word.’
His response is terse and now DS Jones looks down at her notes.
‘It must be worrying, Guv?’
‘How?’ Skelgill uses the Scottish how, that really means why.
‘Oh – DI Smart – he said you and she were... that you’d been taking her fishing.’
Skelgill is irked.
‘You can ignore Smart. He’s jealous because she turned down a ride in his poncey car. I had to take her fishing. The Chief’s publicity stunt.’
DS Jones regards Skelgill warily, as if she suspects him of massaging the facts.
‘He seems to be well informed, Guv – he’s never off the phone – it’s the way he operates – he encourages gossip and rumour, inside and outside of the force.’
Skelgill shrugs casually.
‘So what does he know about Annie Walker?’
DS Jones seems to react to his use of this diminutive for the doctor’s Christian name. It is a few seconds before she answers.
‘Nothing really, Guv – not of substance, at least.’
‘What then?’
‘Oh – he said the word going round at the forensic conference – she was one of the speakers – that she has a bit of a reputation for getting what she wants.’
Skelgill growls irritably.
‘She’s got ability – that’s what narks people like Smart and his cronies.’
He glances away as he says this, and he does not observe DS Jones’s raising of her eyebrows. There is a look in her eye that tells some womanly curiosity is as yet unsatisfied. However, her response errs on the side of diplomacy.
‘She’s well qualified, Guv.’
Now DS Jones reaches for her notes – though she fans herself and gives a little sigh – and then she lets the pages drop and takes hold of the hem of her sweatshirt. Certainly the air in the coffee shop is warm and stifling. With crossed arms she peels back the thick cotton garment, pausing to manoeuvre it past her earrings. Beneath she wears just a sleeveless white vest and – as is evident when the fabric of the latter tightens against her torso – no bra.
There is something of a hiatus as she emerges from the tangle and shakes out her hair. Skelgill is looking unsettled, and there is colour in his cheeks. He suddenly coughs and seeks relief from his coffee, but the milk has been scalded and it is too hot, even for him. DS Jones smiles demurely; she re-gathers her papers and sorts through them, pulling one sheet to the fore – it is a table of sorts; names written along one axis and dates down the other, seven years up to the present in chronological order. She rotates the page so that Skelgill can see better, and then she moves around to take the chair perpendicular to him.
‘I drew this chart, Guv.’
He is nodding approvingly – in its graphic simplicity it panders to his aversion to the written word.
‘I thought it made sense to start with Meredith Bale.’ She points to the top left corner with a neatly manicured nail that still bears a metallic blue reminder of last night. ‘Her original degree is in biomedical sciences – she went into nursing and qualified as a mental health nurse five-and-a-half years ago. That’s when she got a post at the NHS psychiatric hospital – Altrincham Vale – where her known offending took place.’ (Skelgill nods – he is vaguely familiar with this affluent town-cum-suburb of Manchester.) ‘She worked there until two years ago – when she was arrested. It was another six months before she was found guilty and committed to Haresfell.’
Skelgill nods.
‘Harry Krille was in Broadmoor from before the turn of the century up until two-and-a-half years ago, when he was moved to Haresfell.’
‘A year before Meredith Bale.’
‘That’s right, Guv. There’s nothing in the NHS records about the letters she wrote to him, but I can’t imagine they continued after she was arrested.’
‘Leyton’s supposed to have a DC looking into the court files.’ Skelgill grimaces with frustration. ‘There’s been a suggestion it was one-way traffic – that Krille had quite a fan club.’
DS Jones sits back in her chair and looks at Skelgill earnestly.
‘Guv – is there actually any evidence to indicate that Harry Krille and Meredith Bale acted in concert – that they coordinated their escape?’
Skelgill immediately shakes his head, as if this prospect is very much top of mind.
‘Nope.’
‘So it could be a coincidence?’
‘As likely as not.’
DS Jones becomes increasingly pensive; she turns to one side and sweeps back her gold-streaked fair hair with one hand. After a few moments she reverts to the chart, and lightly taps the page with spread fingers, as though they are halfway to being lost, and it is all they have to go on, a flimsy road map.
‘If there was any collusion, Guv – between either Bale or Krille and someone who was treating or managing them – then these dates do reveal a history that might be relevant – at least for several of the names you wanted checked out.’
Skelgill takes a wary sip of his coffee and finds it has cooled sufficiently to follow up with a more substantial gulp. He swallows and licks his lips.
‘Fire away then, lass.’
DS Jones begins to trace a nail across the top of the page, and stops at the third column.
‘The Director of Haresfell, Briony Boss.’ She glances briefly at Skelgill, but his features remain impassive. ‘She was second in charge at Broadmoor until five years ago – so her time there would have overlapped with Harry Krille being a patient. She had worked her way up through the administrative ranks after starting her career in nursing. From Broadmoor she went on to manage two regular NHS hospitals in Greater Manchester – both jobs were considered promotions, and required urgent troubleshooting, so she must have been successfu
l. Then she was appointed to the number one position at Haresfell two-and-a-half years ago.’
‘Same time as Harry Krille arrived.’
DS Jones nods – though neither detective appears to attach any significance to this particular conjunction. DS Jones moves on to the next column.
‘Dr Peter Pettigrew. He has been based at Haresfell for over eight years. He seems to be a highly regarded forensic psychiatrist. He sits on various NHS steering committees and advisory boards, such as for public appointments, and he also has a roving teaching and consulting role, mainly in psychiatric hospitals. He is a prominent advisor to the courts – considered to be the leading authority in the North West.’
Skelgill is scowling – this is not fresh news.
‘Aye, that’s come up – he was in charge of the panel that sent Meredith Bale to mental hospital instead of prison.’
DS Jones again nods.
‘His wife, Dr Helen Pettigrew, her background has been mainly academic – most latterly she was at Lancaster University lecturing in psychology. It looks like she took a career break to have children, and then started back part-time. Obviously the NHS doesn’t have records of this – solely what’s filed on her CV. Then she got the post at Haresfell – six months ago.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows to indicate her bad luck – falling victim in so short a time.
‘Dr Agnetha Walker.’ Now DS Jones hesitates – it seems she anticipates an interjection from Skelgill; she has pronounced Agnetha in the authentic Scandinavian style, with the silent ‘g’ and the hard ‘t’, and it must surely strike a chord with Skelgill – although there is something in her demeanour that suggests she is testing the name upon herself. ‘She’s a psychologist employed by the NHS – it seems to be quite a specialist role and involves assignments in various locations, on a patient-basis rather than being attached to a specific hospital. She also sits on advisory panels – largely for court work. She was based around the East Midlands until about three years ago, and then transferred to Greater Manchester – until this latest project in Cumbria. It appears because of the isolation of Haresfell she has worked there exclusively since the move in May.’
Murder in the Mind Page 19