He rouses himself from his reverie. He realises the girl and her collie must have long passed from view. He shifts position and feels his calves beginning to cramp. Gingerly he rises and flexes his limbs, his troublesome spine, too. Having seen the girl running he wonders if he is getting out of condition; it is about time he donned his fell shoes for a proper stretch of the legs. He packs away and scrambles, with alacrity nonetheless, back up the crag. However, he seems distracted, and begins to wander fairly aimlessly around the moonscape of the summit. The wind has abated and the cloud base has descended; the air of mystery is enhanced – vaporous wraiths infiltrate the gullies; there is a darkening, an enclosing mantle that creates a sense of isolation. Wainwright refers to a “maze of old sheepwalks” and warns of their unreliability: “The only advice that can be given to a novice lost on Haystacks in mist is that he should kneel down and pray for safe deliverance”. Hunched rock forms could be ghosts of folk doing just that. But Skelgill, in no great hurry, is neither a novice nor lost – though after an indeterminate while he concludes he ought to return to the wake, to wade amidst the flotsam and jetsam of mainly elderly relatives surely now snoring and slavering, stranded by the ebb of overindulgence in their seats around the periphery of the lounge bar. The residual drift of the breeze is enough to give him his bearings, though he knows the way underfoot, between the outcrops a lush weave of bilberry and tormentil and heath bedstraw. He returns to the small summit tarn, eerie like an enchanted pool. The favoured walkers’ route passes just beyond.
Visited by a further impression of the surreal, a movement ahead of him, he sees what for a second he thinks is a badger – much as his common sense tells him not up here, and not in daylight – but if it is a badger, it has a green tip to its tail, and he realises it is the Border Collie. A troubled look creases Skelgill’s features, as a worrying scenario plays across his mind – but just as he calls out – “Jess – here!” – the dog’s human companion emerges from the mist, crossing the trajectory of his path. She hears his entreaty – she glances at him with recognition, strangely unperturbed given the circumstances – and keeps running, skimming lightly over the uneven ground, with more fairy-likeness. The dog has not responded and continues half a dozen yards ahead – both seem set on a course, following the line of disintegrating cairns. Skelgill stands open-mouthed – but the girl seems to understand something of his predicament. Briefly she raises one bare arm – her right – and with her left hand points to her wristwatch.
Skelgill gets it. She is timing her run. He too raises a hand – a kind of acknowledgement-cum-apology. Then, before he knows it, he finds himself jogging after her. The motivation for this somewhat bizarre response has come to him in a flash – although the girl is apparently unaware that he is tagging along. Wainwright’s advice is to leave the top of Haystacks only by a recognisable route – but Skelgill knows different. Suddenly he bellows at the top of his lungs.
‘Veer to your left – between the big rocks!’
The girl gives a surprised jerk of her head – but to keep running she has to face forwards – and she dips her left shoulder and does his bidding. Skelgill is struggling to keep pace – she has a deceptively long stride, her green topknot swinging with each step like a cheerleader’s pom-pom. He puts in a spurt for he knows they approach the crux of his concern.
‘Get ready to jump – it’s six foot onto soft grass – land on all fours!’
Out of the mist there emerges a ridge in the terrain – it is not immediately apparent what lies beyond it – and Skelgill thinks he sees the girl begin to hesitate.
‘Go for it, lass!’
But she was merely adjusting her stride pattern in order to take off from her favoured foot – she trusts Skelgill’s command and in blind faith launches herself off the edge and drops from sight. By the time he skids to a halt she is below him, already moving off – but now she turns to look back. She mouths what might be a breathless “wow!”
‘Follow the trod down to your right – you’ll reach Scarth Gap!’
Skelgill uses the local word for a sheepwalk. She does not reply – though still she seems to hesitate – but her reason becomes clear as the collie – having forged ahead and found itself isolated has rounded upon them – and now brushes against Skelgill’s shins to perch at the precipice. The girl gives a shrill whistle – the dog acts on reflex and makes the leap. The girl watches the dog safely down, casts a final brief glance at Skelgill – and she is away.
2. THE INN
Friday, afternoon
‘Where were thee when t’were all kickin’ off, lad?’
‘Kicking off?’ Skelgill pauses in drying his hands with a paper towel. ‘I thought it were just handbags, Roger.’
‘According to oor Susan, that Mouse o’ yourn twatted oor Marty wi’ barstool.’
Skelgill detects a dash of blame assigned through the choice of words – ‘yourn’ implying the said ‘Mouse’ belongs to Skelgill, while ‘oor Marty’ is a possession of the speaker’s, his uncle Roger Graham. To be reproached by a member of the Graham clan is not entirely surprising, for the said ‘Mouse’ – real name Adrian Oswaldtwistle – is indeed a relative of the Skelgills, and has no blood tie to the hosts. Skelgill nods patiently. He has been regaled with other less graphic accounts of the fracas – the tail end of which he inadvertently witnessed from his lofty perch upon Haystacks, the ‘departure scene’ in the car park being Marty Graham making his exit.
‘Aye – I promised Renie I’d have a quiet word with Mouse.’
The older man nods – and then chuckles with a degree of satisfaction.
‘T’wun’t be a Graham wake if there weren’t some gannings-on!’
With his free hand he lifts down his pint from the sill above the urinals and drains the last of his beer.
‘Get you another, Roger?’
‘Free bar’s finished, lad.’
Skelgill balls his paper towel and aims it left-handed at a tall waste bin. Disapproval fleetingly creases his features as the projectile looks like it might lip out – but to his relief it drops inside the rim.
‘Happen I’ll stick it on the Skelgills’ slate, Roger.’
He taps the man on the shoulder and pulls open the door of the gents’. Thinking he might kill two birds with one stone he turns the opposite way to that from which he has entered; a small arrowed sign marked “public bar” gently entreats the tipsy visitor. Therein Skelgill suspects Mouse is more likely to be lurking. Upon entering, however, his plans are disrupted – for at the counter standing with her back to him – no mistaking her despite a third outfit – is the girl with green hair. Now the topknot is released and it cascades down her shoulders, revealing the style to be dip-dyed on black. The outfit appears to confirm his original assessment that she is a goth, an all-charcoal ensemble, frayed denim hot pants over tights and lace-up ankle boots, and a lacy blouse with sleeves that stop halfway down her forearms. The green-tailed collie is with her, sitting at heel. Skelgill sucks air between compressed lips – he makes a sound inaudible to humans, but the dog’s ears prick up and its alert eyes locate him. Now he clicks his fingers.
‘Jess.’
Somewhat to Skelgill’s surprise the girl turns sharply. Indeed she rotates completely to face him, holding a drink in each hand, colas with ice by the look of it. She wears a metallic pendant shield necklace on a leather strap, and has applied heavy eye make-up that belies her youth – though she regards him bashfully, and her gaze falters and falls upon the dog. Skelgill, not endowed with natural conversational skills, sees that it falls to him to make the running. The dog approaches him and he drops to one knee, letting it sniff his hand before attempting to knead two-handed behind its ears. He looks up at the girl, who is watching him anxiously.
‘How was your time, lass?’
‘I ran a PB.’ Her accent is local, but not pronounced. Her tone is tentative; though there is an inflexion that hints at underlying elation. But she averts her eyes self-consciou
sly. ‘Thanks.’
Skelgill continues to rough up the dog.
‘Did you run the Horseshoe?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you clock?’
The girl seems to swallow. Her grip perhaps tightens on the drinks and she glances nervously at the sports watch on her right wrist – as though it will betray her if she chooses to answer incorrectly.
‘33:24’
Skelgill is on his feet like a jack-in-the-box.
‘What! You mean the Warnscale Horseshoe?’ The question is superfluous – he saw with his very own eyes. ‘Where did you start and finish?’
‘At Gatesgarth.’
Skelgill performs a kind of double take – a quick shake of his head, like a horse trying to dislodge persistent blowflies.
‘How old are you, lass?’
‘I were seventeen, last month.’
Skelgill now makes a hissing expiration of breath – if it is a word it is verging on the blasphemous – but perhaps he remembers the occasion and contrives to avoid giving offence. The cause for his reaction, however, is well founded. Her time of 33:24 is barely half a minute outside his very own record, one that has stood for two decades. A girl! Female times for fell races are typically ten percent slower than those set by males. When he might feel piqued – and to add insult to injury he probably helped her threaten his record – curiously he encounters no such sentiment. He studies her intently – this girl is his kin. She must be a prodigy! Though her present state of dress gives no clue to her aptitude, he has witnessed her move across rough terrain: the easy, efficient yet dynamic form; the light bodyweight for her height; heart and lungs from the same freak genetic stock as his own, a hidden physiology that continually baffles the doctors when he takes his annual medical, a VO2 max score that has them checking to see if their equipment requires recalibration.
‘Are you entering the race?’
‘I’ve put my name down.’
Skelgill takes a half step closer; he lowers his voice.
‘You could clean up with a time like that.’
‘I think some of the adult men would be faster.’
Now he glares at her reproachfully.
‘Aye – but they don’t know our shortcut – and there’s others. The only rule’s to pass the checkpoints. It’s part of the skill – route-finding.’ He glances around as if doubly to guard against eavesdroppers. ‘I can show you – if you like, lass.’
Meekly, she meets his gaze.
‘Cool.’
Skelgill nods.
‘There’s plenty of time till the event. Where are you living?’
‘I’m from Workington.’ She glances about apprehensively. ‘But I’m staying at my aunt’s at Lorton. I’ve got a job in the shop for the summer.’
‘At the grocer’s?’
‘Yes.’
Skelgill frowns reflectively. It sounds like yet another relative of whom he is not entirely aware – albeit it might be someone on the other side of the girl’s family. He is about to make some flippant remark about the ubiquitous Grahams when he notices a sudden change in her demeanour. Just when she is beginning to appear more at ease in his company, there is a visible setback. She seems to shrink against the bar – and, while her lips form an upturned crescent, the look in her eyes is far from commensurate. But now he realises she is not regarding him, but staring past him, over his shoulder. He turns to see that a youth has entered from the door that leads to the car park, and is sauntering towards them. He is dressed in a grey tracksuit of a popular leisurewear brand – although that is where the athletic impression ends. From the side of a twisted mouth he expels a vestigial lungful of vapour (presumably his reason for being outside), and though he is slim it is an unhealthily skeletal frame beneath the sportswear, a sunken chest and angular joints. What might be the vaping device forms an unsightly bulge in his right trouser pocket. His black hair is cut in the current pompadour fashion, shaved at the sides and longer on top; to Skelgill’s eye it has the look of a convict and only serves to highlight the youth’s bad skin; narrow-set eyes have dark brown irises that merge with the pupils, and a slight strabismus produces an evasive quality. As he crosses the bar room he has his gaze fixed on the girl – but upon reaching them he offhandedly addresses Skelgill.
‘Alright, cock – so you’re the Dibble, eh?’
Even allowing for a stoop he is no taller than the girl – maybe five-eight at a stretch. Skelgill guesses the youth is aged in his late teens – but perhaps as much as twenty. He speaks with a coarse Manchester accent, and this, together with his demeanour, reminds Skelgill of his disagreeable colleague DI Smart – a poor man’s version, if there can be such a thing. In tandem with the impertinent colloquialism, it is an impression that finds Skelgill visited by an urge to slam him by the lapels of his shell suit against the nearest wall. Instead he grimaces and looks away, his lips moving, perhaps silently counting to ten.
‘And you are?’
The youth sneers and regards the girl proprietorially. Once more she forces a weak smile.
‘You might say I’m one of the out-laws – catch me if you can – hah-ha!’
For the girl’s benefit Skelgill bites his tongue – not that he has a ready rejoinder – and merely makes an indeterminate humming noise. But the youth seems already to have lost any interest in conversation. He reaches out to snatch one of the drinks from the girl.
‘Come on, I’m gaggin.’
There is an oversized bejewelled watch clasped upon his wrist that must surely be a fake. However Skelgill’s attention falls upon the dog, crouched on the wooden floor in their midst. Its ears are pressed back and it shows the whites of its eyes. Skelgill sees that the girl now takes her lead from the youth, who turns and with a contemptuous jerk of the head indicates she should follow him. She glances sheepishly at Skelgill – the youth crosses towards an unoccupied table – and she seems uneasy about letting the distance between them become too great.
‘I’ll drop by – for a tin of beans.’ Skelgill mutters this as she brushes past him, for her ears only – and she gives a faint nod. Then more loudly, he declares, ‘Better get uncle Roger’s ale in before he dies of thirst.’
He turns to the counter where a sultry brunette seems to have been waiting reflectively, leaning with her hands behind her hips against the back bar; she propels herself forward, blinking as if to escape her reverie. Skelgill places his order: three pints, one of which to be conveyed to the lounge. When he next glances their way, the ‘couple’ are sitting side by side on a wall-seat that faces back into the room. The youth is yawning, thumbing disinterestedly at his mobile phone, while the girl has her gaze lowered pensively, staring at her drink cradled between long delicate fingers. The collie has taken to her side of the table, beneath the bench. It seems to be eyeing Skelgill mournfully.
*
‘Yon lass is a bit young for thee, Skelgill.’
‘Give over, Mouse – I’m her uncle – at least, I reckon so.’
‘First cousin, once removed.’
‘Come again?’
‘That’s what an uncle is – first cousin, once removed. I doubt you’re that, though. More likely second or third cousin, once removed. Possibly twice removed.’
The man makes a self-questioning face and then compresses some of his lower features into the pint tankard that Skelgill has provided. Grey-green eyes like Skelgill’s own regale him from across the small table, but Skelgill might reflect that, there, any familial resemblance ends. ‘Mouse’ is something of a misnomer – to Skelgill’s mind a classification between rhino and warthog would be closer to the mark. Of medium height and stocky, the man’s broad countenance bristles with angry moustaches and unkempt beard. His prominent cheekbones and buckled nose are sunburned – although not his heavy brows, which are pale, a feature that has its explanation in the inverted pudding basin crash helmet stuffed with gauntlets and goggles on the windowsill behind him. He sports what looks at first sight to be a skullca
p – but on closer examination it is a kind of bandana, a neck tube pulled up to draw his long straggly greying hair into a pony tail of sorts.
Mouse is a biker of longstanding – and some renown – not least that his nickname reputedly has its origins in a Hell’s Angels type initiation ceremony, its fidelity perhaps warped by time. That he has arrived for the funeral on two wheels has enabled him to appear in biker garb – although perhaps he considered it suitable, being mainly black. He has shed his leather jacket to reveal a rather less appropriate heavy metal t-shirt (emblazoned with skull and crossbones), a denim waistcoat studded with embroidered badges, and jeans that are perhaps navy beneath a patina of axle grease. A self-employed mechanic, he runs an unaffiliated motorcycle workshop from a converted field barn on the outskirts of Penrith. For this reason Skelgill – a Triumph owner, albeit only occasional rider – has cause, at least for the purposes of his annual MOT, to cross paths with his kinsman. Now he queries the relationship.
‘So – what are we, then?’
‘Third cousins.’
‘Third – how come?’
‘Same great-great-grandfather – Gabriel Skelgill. Born at Nether Wasdale, 1869.’
Skelgill takes a drink of his beer while he absorbs this information.
‘Since when have you been an expert on the family tree?’
‘Had us DNA done – not what you think!’ He glowers. ‘It were a birthday present from Maria. Company analyses a cheek swab. They connect you with any relatives they’ve got on their database. Plus they tell you your genetic origins.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 27