‘Pardon?’
Skelgill has blurted his rejoinder out of continued awkwardness and now he realises he may as well be talking gibberish. He looks up at lowering skies that are bringing a premature dusk to Lorton Vale.
‘Come on, lass – let’s drive down to Gatesgarth – ’fore it starts hossing it down. We’ll just have a go at Fleetwith Pike tonight. There’s a little zigzag traverse that’s a good twenty seconds quicker than the ridge path.’
‘Sure – can Kelly come?’
‘Aye – why not.’
‘I run better with him – it’s like he’s my pacemaker.’
Skelgill grins wryly. It is a brave person that tries to keep up with a collie on the fells.
‘So long as you get him used to the variations I’m going to show you. You know what dogs are like for habit.’
She nods, her blue eyes keen.
‘Like that jump – he carried on the normal way.’
‘And you’d have shaved off another ten seconds or more if you’d not had to wait.’
‘Thanks for showing me.’
Skelgill gives an airy wave of his hand.
‘Consider it a family secret. You’re entitled to it.’ Though he might add, that others whom he can think of, are not.
*
‘There you are, lass – get that down you.’
‘Thanks.’
Skelgill places a tall pint glass of soda water and lime before his young cousin. He has not ventured to establish into exactly which category of relatives they fall; it seems an unnecessary academic exercise, in light of Mouse’s proclamation that niece, nephew, uncle and aunt are just fancy words for cousin. And cousin feels free of rank or responsibility. He has a pint of bitter shandy for himself – although he feels less deserving of the thirst-quencher – since she did a good bit more hard running, while he coached. The realisation came upon him that – at half his age and fully grown – the girl’s light lanky frame was more than match for his – he simply couldn’t keep up with her on the sharp incline that is Fleetwith Edge – the first and most punishing ascent of the Warnscale Horseshoe. He might still be competitive at over thirty-fives, but his days of setting absolute records are behind him.
They have a table in the public bar, the same room in which they first met – albeit now patronised only by two retired shepherds whom Skelgill knows, engaged in a mortal arm-wrestle over a cribbage board, and an unfamiliar group of three middle-aged couples that Skelgill takes to be tourists; they consume bar meals like fastidious mantises dissecting their prey. Skelgill sits at right angles to the girl, Jess. He has to stretch out one leg because the collie, Kelly, has settled at their feet. The dog seems a sight more relaxed than last time he saw it here. Skelgill feels a little self-conscious – he is no follower of fashion, and while she sports a lightweight nylon sweat suit, he wears a creased t-shirt and a rather unsuitable pair of washed-out baggy grey tracksuit bottoms, which he has kept on since collecting her from the general store at Lorton. While the girl seemed unselfconscious in stripping down to flimsy running vest and split-seam shorts, Skelgill realised he would not be baring his pale sinewy legs.
A silence is beginning to stretch between the pair – and Skelgill notices the barmaid is watching them with interest. She smiles encouragingly – as if she detects Skelgill’s growing unease. He grins back, a little sheepishly, it must be said. Then suddenly he surprises himself by launching into a question that – had he planned it – would have required some considerable preamble.
‘What’s your boyfriend up to tonight, then, lass?’
Jess looks up suddenly from sipping at her drink. Wide-eyed, her gently hooked nose and curved brows give her the demeanour of an owl disturbed at its roost.
‘Connor, you mean?’
Skelgill twists his features in an expression that suggests a degree of indifference.
‘I don’t know, lass – the lad that was with you – in here – at old Ernie’s wake.’
‘That’s Connor – he’s not my boyfriend.’ That she stresses the pronoun tells Skelgill more explanation ought to be forthcoming. He regards her earnestly; she yields to his tactic. ‘He’s – he’s Ma’s boyfriend.’
‘Your mother’s?’
Though she has made it clear enough, Skelgill cannot suppress his astonishment. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
‘Aye.’
‘What age is he?’
‘He says twenty-four.’
Skelgill thinks this is unlikely. As for the girl’s mother – whom Skelgill understands is married into the Graham clan – it seems improbable that she could be much younger than his own age; maybe early thirties, at a push. It is not an unfeasibly wide age gap – but Skelgill is bothered by the incongruity nonetheless – for, in his estimation, the so-called ‘Connor’ is a teenager like his cousin Jess. He tries to recover his more modulated tone.
‘Where’s your Dad these days?’
The girl looks at him with hurt in her eyes.
‘It was Ma that brought us up.’
Skelgill senses he ought not press the point.
‘So, what – that was over at Workington – where your Ma still lives now?’
Jess nods.
‘So, how long’s this Connor been on the scene?’
The girl’s expression seems to convey dismay.
‘About three months.’
‘Sounded to me like he’s from Manchester.’
The girl draws her hands around her glass and pulls it towards her.
‘He might be.’
She is unwilling to contradict Skelgill. He feels he has one last question before she will retreat entirely into her shell.
‘How did they meet?’
She casts him an involuntary glance, sharp, with the look of a hunted animal in her eyes.
‘I suppose – in a pub.’
Skelgill pulls on his drink – he can’t swallow gassy shandy like he would cask ale and it chokes him up for a moment. He reverts with what might be a less contentious subject.
‘Where I picked you up – at the store – you’re living there, aye?’
She seems happier with this.
‘I’ve got me cousin Derek’s old room – he’s in the navy.’
‘How’ve you been getting down here to train?’
‘Sometimes I run it.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow.
‘It’s six miles to Buttermere. Must be eight to Gatesgarth.’
Jess grins unassumingly.
‘I can hitch back – if I’m tired.’
With just two buses a day, certainly public transport is barely an option. However Skelgill continues to frown – an unfamiliar sentiment eats at his midriff – paternal concern? Though he tells himself it ought to be safe enough – he legged it both ways a thousand times in his youth, to and from school.
‘I take it you don’t drive?’ But he immediately corrects himself. ‘No – you said you’ve just turned seventeen.’
The girl inhales to speak but initially hesitates – as if she has second thoughts.
‘Connor said he’d give me lessons.’
It is clear she has mixed enthusiasm for this idea. Though she does not elaborate upon why she might find it double edged. Skelgill speaks in an understanding tone.
‘If you’ve not got wheels – it’s not easy living down in this neck of the woods. A lass your age – you want to see your pals.’
Now Jess drinks thirstily from her pint glass, holding it with both hands. Skelgill notices she has dark green nail varnish, in need of repair. She appears to avoid eye contact; perhaps she nods.
‘I’m trying to work as many hours as they’ll give us for the summer.’
‘You’re still at school, aye?’
She nods, with no great enthusiasm.
‘One more year.’
‘Then what – off to uni?’
Jess gazes into her glass. She lifts it and drinks more slowly this time – Skelgill recognises it as a dis
placement action.
‘I’ll have to see.’
He appears to touch upon a nerve – despite that unease has never been far below the surface of her fragile disposition. And he can allow for this – to sit in a pub with a man twenty years her senior – one that she perhaps holds in some awe for his past exploits. And she is immature, short on self-confidence, socially inadequate if truth were to be told. He wonders if the goth persona is a crutch – a mask behind which she can hide her perceived woes and watch the world. He endeavours to appear supportive; though it is not a look he has perfected.
‘Happen you’re the first teenager I’ve seen that doesn’t have a phone attached to their nose by invisible elastic.’
She grins self-consciously, but does not reply. He tries a different tack.
‘You left-handed, Jess?’
She looks up, surprised that he has asked this. She nods.
‘How did you know?’
‘I’m a detective.’
He keeps a straight face – but she realises he is joking and she seems relieved to smile.
‘Snap.’ He raises his right arm and indicates the position of his wristwatch. When he first saw her running he had noticed she wore her stopwatch on her right wrist. ‘Runs in the family, eh, lass?’
She smiles.
‘Can’t say the same for the green hair.’
Now she looks embarrassed – or maybe anxious that he disapproves.
‘Don’t worry, lass – I’m all for self-expression – I’m just not very clever at it – especially owt to do with dress sense.’
The girl seems unsure of what to say. But Skelgill continues with enthusiasm.
‘Least we’ll know it’s you – when you come piling down from Haystacks leading the field.’
She averts her eyes. Skelgill, however, is finding his stride.
‘It’s twenty years since our family had their hands on the Horseshoe trophy – it’s about time it came home to Buttermere.’ But now he reflects upon the practical aspect of his statement. ‘Happen it’d be Workington, though – wouldn’t it?’
Jess looks at him rather mournfully. It might almost be that he is speaking of some outcome that she fears.
‘What does your Ma think of your running?’
The girl shrugs.
‘It’s not really the kind of thing she’s interested in.’
Now Skelgill stares at her pensively. Though he is no great expert, it strikes him that the success of one’s offspring is exactly the kind of thing a parent ought to be interested in. But the girl’s pessimistic manner cautions him – this is a game of two steps forward, one step back.
‘What about Kelly?’ He leans back to look at the dog, which raises its head at the sound of its name. ‘Are they alright about him being with you at the shop?’
The girl seems to perk up.
‘Aye – they like him. I mean – he has to stay out the back during the day. But they let us have him in my room at night.’
‘Is he from working stock?’
She shakes her head.
‘I don’t know – I got him from the rescue.’
Skelgill makes an ambiguous clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It could be disapproval at the actions of some former owner.
‘He seems to know his way about the fells.’
The girl’s blue eyes widen – and there is a sparkle in them that cheers Skelgill.
‘He loves it up there.’
‘Him and me, lass.’ Skelgill reaches down and gives the dog’s ear a scratch; it seems to approve. ‘If you need him looked after – I’ve got a dog – he’d give her some company.’
‘Oh – what kind?’
‘Bullboxer – she’s as daft as a brush, mind.’
Skelgill is generally quick to add such a qualifier; mere mention of the crossbreed can raise alarm. The collie might almost be eavesdropping, for he nuzzles the girl and she reaches down to place a palm on his nape.
‘Thanks – he likes to be with me – and me Ma can’t take him.’
This seems to Skelgill a response tinged with regret.
‘Aye – they can be like that – especially if they’ve been maltreated – I mean – they’ll form a special bond with someone they get to trust.’
The girl seems pleased with his response; she continues to pet the dog. Skelgill sees the opportunity to advance by a pace or two.
‘I was over in Workington on Monday – what’s your home address? I ought to know – just in case there’s ever an accident – or if you picked up an injury.’
There is something authoritative in his tone – his official police voice, perhaps – and, if reluctantly, she complies.
‘It’s Hempstead Avenue – number 146.’
*
‘Thew’ve got no appointment.’
There are moments in Skelgill’s private life into which his day job as a police inspector intrudes; great waves crash about him and he has to tread water frantically, until the conflicted feelings subside and his reservations ebb – and he feels shifting sands beneath his feet – and wades onward as though nothing has happened. Cases in point, his recent encounters with his cousins: Mouse, and Marty Graham – whose shadowy history and erratic behaviour have caused his professional antennae to twitch uncomfortably. Now yet another cousin (by marriage, that is) triggers the same disconcerting effect.
He should have seen it coming. Seconds earlier, as he wrestled with the badly hung garden gate a man – in his mid-fifties, Skelgill would guess – scrawny and unshaven, in ill-fitting jeans and a disreputable t-shirt emerged from the same shabby front door on which he has knocked. The man, hunched and head down and lighting up a cigarette, sidestepped his approach. Skelgill received no acknowledgement in response to his amiable, “Alright?” – other than perhaps a delayed grunt, which may merely have been the exhalation of smoke.
The woman turns up her face to him. Among other things, Skelgill finds himself recalibrating his estimate of her age. There are conflicting signs; scars and pocks, and spots, some inflamed; wary eyes, cynical, caked with mascara, and yet beneath heavy lids fresh and moist. The hair is less ambiguous, shoulder length, brown, lank and greasy – or is it perspiration? If it were not for the man’s exit and her prompt opening of the door, that she could have been roused from sleep is plausible. She squints as if bothered by the daylight (albeit little is left) – and she wears only a flimsy slip – the sort of garment that might go beneath a dress or alternatively double as nightwear. It is of a silky material – but not appealing, as it is pilled and stained.
Of her identity he is in no doubt – for there is a structural commonality in the proportions of nose and cheekbones and brows. And there exists a similarity in her spare frame – although she is a shorter woman than her daughter. But the leanness speaks not of youth and athleticism but of ill health and undernourishment – a sunken chest – small sagging breasts, nipples like those of an over-suckled bitch – and her pale limbs discoloured in places.
All this in the moment that it takes Skelgill to compose a rejoinder – a moment in which she regards him first with antipathy, and then a contorted grin that might begin to contradict her opening words. Skelgill grins genially.
‘Is that a Workington byelaw – you need an appointment to see your relative?’
He sees that she is confounded. Indeed, she part closes the door – but the reason for this becomes apparent, as she must take down from a coat hook what is a threadbare pink towelling robe into which she shrugs with indecent haste. She picks nervously at the cuffs, her forearms crossed.
‘Dan Skelgill – I’ve been coaching Jess – over in Lorton Vale.’
He recognises there is some poetic licence in his claim – but he carries it off unblinkingly. The woman leans out and glances anxiously left and right. She steps back and pulls the door wide.
‘Thew’d better come in.’
As he follows she closes a door on the right of the hallway – a darkened
front room from which emanates the low base murmur of R&B. He had observed the curtains were drawn as he came down the path. Now the cloying aroma of incense assails his equally inquisitive nose – several sticks burn in a milk bottle set on the bare floorboards – but it inadequately masks the stench of ungodliness.
A stair – also uncarpeted – rises against the left-hand wall, and ahead is what must be the only other room on the ground floor of the narrow property; he correctly guesses a cramped dining kitchen, into which the woman shambles lamely. The interior by comparison is obscenely bright, lit by a naked bulb of excessive wattage. It casts into contrast a chaotic worktop and stacked sink. A tall waste bin with no lid spills food-encrusted plastic ready-meal trays, crushed beer cans and browned apple cores onto the tacky linoleum of the floor.
She indicates a small square table with three chairs, its fourth side pressed against a pine-clad wall that is spattered with red and brown sauce. Its laminated top is chipped and burned in places. Skelgill takes a seat. She fills a kettle from the tap and clangs it onto an electric hob that begins to smoke as grease spots burn off. She looks directly at him and inhales to speak – in fact she says, “I’ll –” but gets no further and instead makes a curious hand-gesture and leaves the kitchen. He listens as she unsteadily climbs the stairs – evidently to a bathroom. But if there is a door she does not shut it – he hears her use the toilet and then – as the hiss of the flush dies down – what sounds like gargling. Next she is moving about directly above his head. At this juncture the kettle begins to whistle and he jumps up. He turns off the heat and lifts the kettle; it gives a shrill protest that sinks into a diminuendo. He begins to open cupboards – but quickly concludes that the sink is the best bet for mugs – he extracts a pair, examines them with a grimace, and rinses them beneath the tap. Amongst the debris of the worktop a carton of teabags is torn open; adjacent stands a half-used bottle of milk. He sniffs the milk – and turns up his nose – but proceeds to add a splash to each mug, and a generous helping of lumpy sugar tipped from a ripped bag. Finally he pours in water – and from the sink salvages a fork and inverts it as a stirrer. He is just back in his seat as the woman reappears.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 32