Skelgill is looking sceptical.
‘I thought your origins would be pretty obvious.’
Mouse shakes his head belligerently.
‘What do I look like?’
‘Sure you want me to answer that?’
Skelgill has Neanderthal ready on the tip of his tongue and Mouse seems to detect this.
‘Aye – very funny. I’m talking nationality-wise.’
‘You’re English.’ Skelgill casts about the room. ‘We all are.’
Mouse folds his arms; it seems to be a gesture of vindication.
‘Except – I’m only 18% English.’
‘How do you work that out?’
‘I’m 72% British.’
Skelgill looks nonplussed.
‘So – you’re British and English.’
Mouse shakes his head defiantly.
‘The English weren’t the British. The British were Celts – the original inhabitants when the Romans invaded. The English came later – the Anglo-Saxons – 500 A.D. thereabouts. They brought the English language – but they didn’t replace the population. Why would you kill off your workforce?’
Skelgill ponders, drinking occasionally. Mouse might look like a ruffian – and he is not short of tangles with the law down the years – but more accurate would be rough diamond; certainly he is not lacking in the brains department. And at a family gathering such as this, it cannot be said that the subject is not apposite.
‘What about your other 10%?’
Mouse acknowledges, jabbing in mid air an oil-ingrained index finger, that Skelgill is paying sufficient attention to have noted the numerical discrepancy.
‘Scandinavian. You’d be more – that’s the Skelgill connection. Name like that coming down your paternal line – obviously Norse y-chromosome.’ Mouse takes another plunge into his mug. ‘You should get yourn done.’
Skelgill makes a disparaging scoffing sound in his throat.
‘I’ve got enough dodgy relatives that I know about.’
‘I take it you don’t include us in that?’ Mouse’s tone sounds vaguely threatening – although it does not appear to faze Skelgill.
‘I had in mind the likes of Marty Graham.’
Mouse twists his head to one side to make a spitting gesture, a mime thankfully free of actual expectoration.
‘Parasite.’
He glares at Skelgill, challenging him to disagree. By appearance alone, Mouse is not a character the average person (or even the average nightclub bouncer) would sensibly confront. Skelgill has seen him hauling quarter-ton motorbikes around his workshop. He can’t really imagine that the unfit and bloated figure he knows Marty Graham to be would have started a fight. He wonders if there is some festering feud.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You know he runs that rip-off second hand motors business – used to be at Pereth – moved it to Wukiton?’ (Skelgill gives a vague nod – he knows the fact but professional etiquette deters him from becoming party to the slander.) ‘He were trying to wangle old Ernie’s car off your aunt Renie – I heard him tell her he could get her a top price – said why didn’t she let him have the keys – get someone to pick it up next week – cash in hand.’
Skelgill makes a half-hearted attempt to play devil’s advocate.
‘She wouldn’t have any use for it, right enough. Ernie should have been made to pack in driving years ago. Jud Hope reckons he had to put his Defender in a ditch last winter – to avoid Ernie – he came flying over the top of the Honister in the dark with no lights on.’
But Mouse looks unconvinced.
‘What would you pay for an eight-year-old Fiesta – decent spec, nobbut a few mile on the clock?’
Skelgill pulls a face.
‘You tell me, Mouse – it’s more in your line – I dunno – couple of grand?’
‘And the rest, Skelgill – thick end o’ four on a forecourt.’
Skelgill shrugs – perhaps rather too doubtingly. Mouse bangs his tankard hard on the table, causing eyes to look their way – alert to the possibility of another contretemps.
‘Seven or eight hundred is what he told her.’
Now Skelgill raises his eyebrows. His expression becomes one of a confederate.
‘How come you heard all this?’
‘I were stood by her chair, at the back of a scrum when the bar were still free. Marty was all over her like a rash. I couldn’t help earwigging. Just as well, eh, marra?’
Skelgill looks hard at his third cousin and nods slowly.
‘Aye – right enough. Can’t have that going on. She’ll be on a single pension now.’
Mouse seems to relax – but immediately begins to look aggrieved.
‘See – there I am – doing your Graham lot a favour – and all I do is get a load of grief off’ve half of them.’
‘Blood’s thicker than water.’ Skelgill grins wryly. ‘Happen the bar stool created the wrong impression.’
Now Mouse makes a somewhat amateurish show of taking offence.
‘It were one of them plastic chairs in the smoking shelter. I waited until he went out for a fag. Sometimes you have to dramatise your point.’
Skelgill nods equably.
‘I’ll put the word about – whose interest you were acting in.’ He glances over his shoulder. ‘In fact I’ll just tell Roger – that’ll do the trick.’ He resettles himself in his seat and drinks more thirstily now he has got to the bottom of the matter. ‘Truth be told – I was a bit surprised to see you here. I mean – good that you came, like.’
Skelgill adds the proviso before Mouse might decide to take the observation as a slight. The man lifts his pint, but then hesitates. He waggles the glass, its handle clamped in his bearlike paw.
‘In case you’re wondering – I’m riding shotgun. Maria dropped us off. She’s coming back later. She’s doing a RAT run – ‘The Six Passes’ they call it. Finish with a pie and a pint up at the Kirkstone Inn.’
Skelgill nods – a little contritely, it seems. However, this is not because Mouse may have felt it necessary to pre-empt a reprimand. RAT is the Riders’ Association of Triumph. He pictures the route; it seems to light up on the map of the Lake District that is never far below the surface of his consciousness. It is appealing – the idea of ticking off Whinlatter-Newlands-Honister-Hardknott-Wrynose-Kirkstone all in one ride. The Hardknott Pass is the steepest road in England. For a second time today he is reminded of something he doesn’t do enough of. But then he doesn’t do enough fishing – what chance motorcycling, or fell running, come to that?
3. MARTY’S MOTOR MART
Monday, morning
Skelgill is watching a jackdaw. A bird he thinks of as uniform in colour, he now realises – at close range – that its plumage is actually an intricate combination of shades; for instance an ashy grey hood, ebony face and cap, and reptilian sky blue eyes with pupils of jet. And though he associates it with human habitations – rambling country piles where it haunts crumbling chimney stacks – its presence seems incongruous on this commercial strip, plumbing supplies, auto parts, foam cut to size, tool hire and the like, low utilitarian industrial units of limited aesthetic appeal. He is parked beside a garden supplies outlet, where a patch of artificial grass has been laid for demonstration purposes and various wares displayed – garden furniture, ride-on mowers, hot tubs. From a section of trellis dangle hanging baskets and bird nest-boxes (their price tickets suggesting rents), and on a timber shelf on top of one of the fence posts there is what Skelgill recognises as a squirrel-proof bird feeder. Unlike others that are for sale this one is filled with grain and sunflower seeds. A clear plastic cylinder with an aperture at its base is enclosed in a green wire cage. Small birds can slip between the bars to peck from the hopper. Squirrels and greedy large birds are thus excluded. The exception being greedy large smart birds. The feeder is nailed at its base with white plastic cable-clips. Engineered for quarter-inch coaxial cable, these allow for a little play in its position. Th
e jackdaw has worked this out. It grasps the cage with its beak, vigorously flaps its wings as if to take off, and – hey presto – grains spill from the hopper. It gobbles them up and repeats the process. On the ground beneath Skelgill notices a piebald homing pigeon, strutting anxiously amidst dust and litter to scavenge the windfalls. Nature eschews few opportunities to profit.
On a more intermittent basis Skelgill is also watching some premises further along the road, at a diagonal. Although ‘watching’ is putting it a bit strongly – given in his line of work it could suggest formal surveillance. Rather, he is waiting – necessarily delaying his mission by a few minutes while he munches a generously filled bacon roll and slurps scalding hot tea from a half-pint polystyrene cup, having been unable to resist the inevitable mobile snack bar that is reason in itself to patronise quasi industrial estates, which position themselves as ‘trade’ but nonetheless rely upon DIYers and the wider populous to supplement their sales. No exception is ‘Marty’s Motor Mart’ – a window banner proclaiming, “Top Prices Paid – Best Deals In Town!” – an unresolvable equation that surely cannot be lost on Joe Public. And yet to Skelgill’s eye it appears to be a going concern – if not actually thronged with customers at 11.30 on a Monday morning. Some two dozen cars are arranged in four ranks, all facing the same way, like a flock of gulls at low tide, tilting their streamlined bodies into the wind. Most of the vehicles are small family saloons – five years old or more – although the front row includes a couple of boy-racer hatchbacks with fins and spoilers and go-faster stripes, and – a rose between thorns – a classic MGB Roadster with wire wheels, liveried in British racing green. Skelgill is not a bucket-list kind of person – he inwardly bridles at the notion – but, if he were, this is a car that would be on it.
As he is pondering how much the MG is on sale for, a big low-slung BMW in matt black speeds past him and swerves to a near-stop outside the dealership, the driver now more circumspectly bumping its two nearside wheels with their low-profile tyres up onto the kerb. The car is in good condition for its plate. Skelgill observes two men climb out and head purposefully into the showroom without a glance at the wares on offer outside. He does not get a clear view of their faces – but he would guess one is in his twenties and the other his thirties, both have closely cropped fair hair, and wear tight t-shirts over gym-toned torsos, bafflingly fashionable skinny joggers and designer brand trainers. They have the common demeanour of brothers. One consults a mobile while the other – if Skelgill is not mistaken – seems to check a clip of notes and slip it into his hip pocket. When most customers in this economically challenged town are likely hard-up family men – for whom the window banner advertising “Cheap Finance” is just as important as the vehicle – this pair do not strike Skelgill as representative of Marty’s Motor Mart’s typical target audience.
It is a minute or two more before he has disposed of his snack. He wipes his fingers – ineffectually – with the greaseproof wrapper, and consigns it and the plastic cup to the passenger footwell. He does not move immediately. He stares ahead – at the black coupé – and then he slides his mobile phone from its dock. Rather ponderously, and frowning, he types and transmits a short text message. As he exits the car the jackdaw takes to a nearby roof; the pigeon carries on pecking, a jerky automaton. Skelgill casually ambles along and stops beside the MG. Then, with the habit that is engrained in every man since boyhood, he squats and shades his eyes to peer in at the dashboard to see what the clock goes up to.
‘She’s a sexy little number, sir.’
Skelgill is caught unawares. He looks up, squinting into the sun that has emerged from behind a cloud and is only partly obscured by the person close to him. More of a surprise is the voice, however – for it is female. He rises, a little awkwardly – she is standing close and has him pinned against the car. She must be in her late thirties, medium height, brown eyes, bottle blonde (surely? – though Skelgill is no expert), with features that seem painted on, although a pleasing physiognomy and physique; the latter clad in a tight-fitting pencil skirt, black stockings and patent leather shoes with a three-inch heel, and pale blue button-up shirt with “MMM” embroidered on the curve of the breast pocket.
Skelgill has his left hand resting on the raised canvas hood. He notices the woman glance briefly at his ringless fingers, as if she is appraising him in order to sharpen her sales pitch. His hypothesis is now proved correct.
‘And quite a lady-pleaser.’
Her tone is a little throaty – almost suggestive – and Skelgill has to check himself – in his mind the phrase seems to verge on the salacious.
‘Not a lot of room in there.’
‘Isn’t that the idea?’
She smiles coyly, and he sees that though her lips are covered by a broad swathe of freshly applied lipstick, the margins are accurate, and the pout natural. She looks him up and down.
‘You’d be surprised how comfortable it is, sir. Shall I fetch the keys?’
Thus far Skelgill has played along – not that he has had much to say – but now he is obliged to show his hand.
‘I’m just here for a quick word with Marty.’
If he is not mistaken the woman stiffens, and a flicker of alarm causes her eyes to narrow.
‘He’s busy just now.’
Skelgill grins amiably, and detaches himself from the MG and steps past the woman and begins to stride towards the showroom entrance. Her high heels impede her movement, and she can only follow – when it looks like she would wish to get ahead of him.
‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’
Skelgill answers nonchalantly over his shoulder.
‘No need – I’m his cousin.’
‘But, wait – why don’t we go for a spin – a test drive?’
Skelgill has reached the open sliding glass door and crossed the threshold – by necessity he has to pause to get his bearings and she reaches his side. He feels her hand on his upper arm.
‘You might regret it later, sir.’
Skelgill is sure that a few seconds ago he could not see the edges of the lacy black bra that is revealed by her partially unbuttoned blouse, and the cleavage that it cradles.
‘I’m a bit tight on time.’
He takes half a step – at the rear of the showroom is a door marked, “Private” and beside it a kind of window with a mirror finish in which he can see their reflections. Now her grip tightens on his sleeve.
‘Well – at least let me give you my card, sir – I’m sure you might have second thoughts – please wait.’
There is a certain affected desperation in her manner – and she uses her mascaraed lashes to good effect, to implore his compliance. He is not sure to which of his sentiments she appeals – it could be anywhere between pathos and lust. He stands while she walks – more composedly now, emphasising her good figure – across to one of three sales desks on which there are display cards advertising finance, “Only 19.9% APR” – an eye-watering oxymoron that leads Skelgill to wonder if hapless customers actually believe the bigger the better! He notices his pulse has become a little irregular – and there is a fragrance in the air – not unpleasant – that seems to make him catch his breath.
‘There you are, sir – it has my private mobile number.’
Skelgill is impatient to move, and rather rudely he does not look at the card but slips it into his back pocket.
‘I take it he’s in here.’
His tone is not that of a question – and he walks towards the back office.
‘But – I should just phone through – in case –’
However, Skelgill has the door ajar. She seems unwilling to risk the wrath of her boss, and watches from a distance as Skelgill disappears.
*
Skelgill has not been to this showroom before – in fact he has had no cause recently to come even near. As alluded to by Mouse, it is only a year since his cousin Marty relocated his business from Penrith to Workington. But he seems to have settled in. Behind
a largely clear desk Marty Graham reclines, one leg over the arm of his sprung chair, a copy of What Car? spread open in his hands. From an ashtray rises a vertical column of smoke; beyond him Skelgill notices a fire extinguisher and a fire exit door. To the right, looking more cramped, is a second desk that bears a bulky old-fangled PC, with a printer on a stand next to it; there is a set of in/out trays, and on the other side of the desk a grey metal filing cabinet, with drawers labelled “HP” and “Invoice’s” and “MOT’s” – grocers’ apostrophes and all. On the side of the cabinet is taped a charity calendar with a picture of rugby league players posing nude, oval balls strategically placed if suggestively angled. On a wall hook is a suit jacket that Skelgill recognises as a probable match to the pencil skirt of the female sales executive. It is not difficult to work out which of the two – she or cousin Marty – does the admin.
‘Daniel, commiserations.’
Skelgill realises he is not even sure what age is Marty Graham – younger than he, yes – he would guess early thirties – but he presents the demeanour of being the older man. It is with a worldly, careworn languor that he rises and reaches out a slow hand. He behaves more like Skelgill’s uncle than cousin. And, though he smiles knowingly, he looks away, as if embarrassed that Skelgill has suffered some much greater loss and is inconsolable. The only logic could be that Skelgill’s mother was a lifelong neighbour of the late Ernest Graham; but the manner seems borne out of an assumed seniority. Skelgill finds his grip limp and his skin clammy; he has to resist the urge to draw his palm across his thigh.
‘Make yourself comfortable, Daniel. It’s a sad business.’
A characteristic of the Grahams is a certain spareness of frame. Marty Graham is tall – probably a couple of inches taller than Skelgill – but he is also plump in a curious evenly padded way – like the Michelin Man – when most men of his age gain weight first around the midriff. And facially he is unlike a typical Graham. When the words gaunt and craggy would apply to much of the clan, Marty Graham has small piercing blue eyes and a button nose, retroussé, and an inconsequential mouth. These features are set in a weak doughy countenance, with hardly any eyebrows, and mousy hair thinning at the temples and styled to make the best of a bald patch. It is a porcine impression.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 28