‘Don’t fret, lass – int’ Lakes we tek care of us own troubles.’
Skelgill has reached the marker – and he kicks down and must immediately find a towing point, for he surfaces without the rope. DS Eve is back on the phone – she has evidently had someone holding – and now she barks urgent directions. As for Skelgill, he makes a second dive, and it is a good half-minute before he surfaces, gasping heavily. He treads water for a few moments before striking for shore. By the time he clambers up the bank the trailer has been uncoupled and dragged away, and Arthur Hope has backed his Land Rover for Jack Nicholson to shackle the end of the tow rope. Arthur Hope leans out of the window.
‘I don’t know if rope’ll tek it, lad. If t’ wheels are locked up – and it’s full o’ watter.’
Skelgill smears both hands across his face and forces his fingers through his matted hair.
‘Art – I put her in neutral – I left the passenger door open – she’ll drain as she comes up.’
Arthur Hope nods approvingly. He has towed a thousand times – and a hundred different objects, stranded animals and waterlogged vehicles included – though probably this is the first time he has hauled a car that bears a human corpse. Notwithstanding, on the steep terrain he gingerly takes the strain – the rope becomes taut, visibly stretches – but just when it seems it might snap the woven fibres begin to move unidirectionally, the knobbly tyres of the trusty old Land Rover gain traction and gradually it moves up the slope. All eyes turn to the lake – and already the roof of the car is visible.
It is a black hatchback, a sporty style with an added spoiler and parallel white racing stripes over the bonnet and roof. As Skelgill has predicted, the gaping passenger door enables the internal water level to fall as quickly as the car rises. As the vehicle bumps up the dry bank the last vestiges bleed from the engine compartment. DS Eve moves forward to check the interior – Arthur Hope has stopped hauling and she shows the presence of mind to reach in and engage the handbrake and toggle the gear stick into reverse. She pauses transfixed for a few seconds. Then she backs away and looks at Skelgill, her features unaccustomedly strained.
But now the incongruity of the situation must strike her – Skelgill stands frozen and naked but for his boxers – goose-pimpled and evidently shivering – although he does not seem bothered by that – though he looks pained – his hair plastered down brings his prominent features into relief; his teeth are bared and his eyes narrowed by the bright afternoon sun. He stares at the car – he seems transfixed by its appearance – or at least its presence – and shows no sign that he will move to examine its deceased occupant. DS Eve strides up to where Arthur Hope is leaning out of his driver window.
‘Do you have a blanket, Mr Hope?’
He nods as if he gets the idea and reaches behind and produces a frayed tartan rug.
‘Here, lass – it’s reet foily on account of t’ dogs.’ He regales her with a broad grin, revealing irregular teeth like two courses of a dry stone wall. ‘Happen beggars can’t be choosers.’
DS Eve thanks him and picks her way back down the slope. Skelgill has woken from his reverie and he accepts the offering. He swings the blanket round his shoulders like a cape.
‘Cheers.’
‘Sure. Want to look inside – properly, I mean? It must have been murky under water.’
He nods ruefully.
‘Aye – it were a bit. Looked to me like he’d got biker’s leathers on, though.’
‘Yes – and no seatbelt.’
In the way that they now look at one another – it seems to Skelgill that they have immediately reached a small unspoken consensus – that the ‘driver’ of the car quite possibly could have been the rider of the motorcycle – although why this rather elaborate conclusion has come to them is odd – for it requires several practical leaps of the imagination. Now he does walk across to the car, with DS Eve in close attendance – although she stops short as he squats and peers in through the open passenger door. She allows him a few moments’ reflection before she speaks.
‘Recognise him?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Male, Caucasian – what – forty?’
‘And – like you said – a motorcyclist, by the look of it.’
Skelgill nods grimly. He is staring with distaste at the cadaverous face of the dead man.
‘We’d better leave this for forensics – we need a time of death – and an ID – asap.’
‘At least the car has a registration plate.’
Skelgill makes a resigned expiration of breath.
‘I reckon I can shortcut that one.’
Crouching, haggard, he looks like a wild highlander, defeated in battle, wrapped in his plaid. He rises – rather too quickly, it seems, for he staggers slightly on the sloping ground and DS Eve instinctively grabs his arm through the blanket in order to steady him. The breeze is getting up and the blanket offers little protection – she can feel he is still shivering. Despite his cryptic remark, she puts his welfare first.
‘You okay?’
‘Water on the brain.’
She grins.
‘Think you’d better put your gear back on? Before you catch your death.’
Skelgill makes an anguished expression, but at the same time nods.
‘These boxers are wringing. I’ll have to go commando.’
DS Eve smiles disarmingly.
‘Like me to hold up the blanket – a modesty shield?’
He ponders – and nods apprehensively. The alternative is the back of Arthur Hope’s Land Rover – but Skelgill can see at least two grinning sheepdogs jumping about in there.
‘Aye – maybe.’
They shift across to the large mudstone fragment about which his outfit lies strewn. Skelgill picks up his leather trousers and hands the blanket to DS Eve. She reaches around to encircle him – and then hesitates in doubt.
‘Perhaps I should stand behind you.’
Skelgill glances sheepishly at the farmers watching on with interest. Arthur Hope winks, not very surreptitiously. Skelgill grasps his leggings between his teeth to free up his hands and bends to slip down his wet clinging boxer shorts. When he straightens a look of alarm hijacks his features. DS Eve sees his reaction.
‘What’s wrong?’
Skelgill is staring past the Land Rover. Descending the slope in casual haste is DI Smart, followed by DS Wythenshawe and – now clearly hanging back, having taken in the scene – DS Jones. DI Smart ignores the farmers and strides up to Skelgill.
‘Alright, Skel?’ He has a look of evil delight – the sort of expression that tells he revels in having caught Skelgill with his trousers down. Brazenly he grabs the hem of the blanket that DS Eve holds at chest height and peers within. ‘Water cold, were it, cock?’
He lets out a hysterical cackle at his own wit and staggers away towards the salvaged car – he thumps his colleague DS Wythenshawe between the shoulder blades, demanding compliance with the mirth. Skelgill, emasculated and embarrassed can do nothing but struggle into his leggings. He hitches them up violently, his face consumed by wrath. But he contrives a nod of acknowledgement to DS Eve.
‘Thanks – I’ll manage the rest.’ He slumps down on the boulder and reaches for his boots. ‘Don’t let him touch anything. Tell him forensics are on their way.’
DS Eve understands his meaning. Folding the blanket over her arm she follows DI Smart. Skelgill locates his t-shirt, with some difficulty punches his damp arms through it – then gets his head stuck – and when he emerges into daylight he finds DS Jones at his side. He gets to his feet. She has picked up his jacket – but rather than hold it for him to insert his arms she hands it over.
‘Seems like you’ve had a bit of an adventure, Guv?’
There is concern in her voice – but it cannot conceal an undertone of dismay.
Skelgill shrugs. Whether with affected modesty or self-reproach it is hard to say – but if there is an entreaty in her question he sidesteps the opp
ortunity to allay any fears.
‘You got here in a hurry.’
‘We were heading along the A66 to Workington.’
Skelgill nods pensively. Indeed he broods for several moments. Then he bends and picks up the two crash helmets.
‘Tell DS Eve to go back with you lot, will you? I’ve got to return one of these.’
He bows his head with a rather formal jerk – as if he knows his manner is unreasonably peremptory, but that there is nothing else for it. He turns and stalks away – as he goes, briefly expressing his gratitude to Arthur Hope.
9. JOYRIDE
Thursday, late afternoon
‘Oh – it’s you.’
‘Shouldn’t it be?’
The woman responds to Skelgill’s bluff retort with a rather extravagant fluttering of her heavily mascaraed lashes.
‘Oh, no – I mean – in the biker’s leathers – and, obviously, the helmet – I didn’t recognise you at first. But I’m afraid Marty has left for the evening. It’s just me.’
‘Happen it’s just you that I wanted to see.’
‘Oh – well.’
‘I believe you have your price.’
For a second the woman – Trish is all he knows of her name – seems wrong-footed by the scope for innuendo in his statement – but she quickly rises to the occasion.
‘Okay – Marty has obviously said something.’
‘Aye – but I’d rather have it from the horse’s mouth.’
She responds with a diffident smile.
‘I still don’t know quite what you mean.’
‘I was thinking of your offer of a test drive – the MG.’
Visibly, she relaxes – she even reaches out to touch his hands, which are folded over the helmet that he presses to his midriff.
‘Oh – I see – oh, yes – it is for sale, really – or, at least, it could be.’
Skelgill regards her quizzically, thinking of the mixed messages of his last visit. He has been trying to place her accent. It is certainly of the region – indeed the county – but she dresses it with received pronunciation, carefully sounding her aitches and placing southern vowels in words such as just and quite, and Marty. It strikes him that she is not wearing the corporate shirt with the triple-m logo – but a sleeveless top that is rather low-cut – and that her make-up is freshly applied. She absently jangles a bunch of keys at her side.
He draws his gaze away and gestures over the forecourt. ‘Except I don’t see it. Looks like you’ve rearranged things since Monday.’
There is perhaps the faintest narrowing of her eyes – but if she displays some reservation it is matched by a glint of anticipation.
‘It’s parked at the back – I had it valeted earlier. We close at five – I was about to meet a friend.’ Deep in the battle for her eyes, anticipation seems to gain sway. ‘But I suppose I could just make a phone call?’
That she asks it as a question – is that to test his commitment? Skelgill indicates over his shoulder with a toss of the head.
‘I’ll ride the bike round.’
There is a moment’s hesitation – but then comes an engaging smile.
‘Sure – I’ll go through the building and lock up.’
Skelgill nods and watches as she heads inside. He is reminded of her curvy, full figure, revealed by a ponytail and a short skirt and high heels.
Her phone call must have been brief – for by the time he cruises around the block and pulls up unostentatiously at the rear of the motor dealership she is already nestling in the roadster; the black canvas hood is lowered and her blonde hair free of its ascetic band. He levers his frame into the small cockpit, his movements constrained by his tight leather outfit. Trish watches with interest. Skelgill notices the alcoholic tang of freshly sprayed perfume. A little stiffly, he turns to face her.
‘Are you going to be warm enough?’
‘That depends how fast you plan to drive.’
‘I was thinking more of a scenic route – test the road holding – if you’re alright for time?’
‘I am at your disposal.’ She smiles coyly – and Skelgill does not answer and affects to familiarise himself with the limited controls. She prompts him. ‘How about you – don’t you have a dinner waiting in the oven?’
He makes an unintelligible growl – it could be anything from guilt to sarcasm – but he follows it with a marginally less ambiguous, “nothing that won’t keep.”
‘Perfect.’
A thought seems to strike him. He regards her with a sudden humility.
‘You alright – going off like this with a stranger?’
As he speaks he hears undertones of officialdom in his question. For it is protocol – police training – that has prompted his irrational concern for her welfare.
‘I do it all the time – I mean – it’s part of my job. Imagine being an estate agent – you have to show bedrooms.’ She chuckles throatily. ‘Besides – you’re Marty’s cousin – you can’t be all bad.’
To Skelgill’s mind there is some perverted logic in this comparison, albeit she may not know it – but it highlights what he would most like to understand but cannot afford to ask outright – just how much has his cousin Marty told her about him? Is Trish an arm’s-length employee or a confidante in all matters of the business – a bosom buddy? That is what he must determine.
‘Aye, well – there’s some as have me down as the black sheep of the family.’
She regards him with a look of admiration.
‘Always more interesting to see – black sheep – don’t you think?’
Skelgill grins wryly.
‘We might pass one or two – if you’re game.’
‘Well, I don’t believe this is a regular test drive.’
She settles back in the seat. She appears unconcerned about the rising hem of her skirt. Skelgill turns the ignition key and promptly stalls the engine. The vehicle jolts forward. She places a hand over his fist on the knob of the gearstick.
‘First-time nerves – it often happens.’
While Skelgill might ordinarily be piqued instead he forces a boyish grin. He is encouraged that she seems not remotely suspicious of him. However, he opts for silence as the best tactic for the time being – he has the excuse of getting used to the handling of the little car. Its gearbox is clunky and he discovers he has to double-declutch to change down into second. They leave the industrial zone and pass through a council housing estate. He feels conspicuous in the showy car with the hood down and a striking blonde reclining at his side. He has to remind himself that Workington is a town where even he could still buy an entire house for his net annual salary, with cash to spare – the place has never really recovered from the chronic industrial decline that went over a cliff edge in the 1980s. The government might massage the unemployment statistics – but the chattering starlings don’t lie (why always do they frequent deprived estates – are these folk more generous with their scraps?). In mute corroboration are the rows of black satellite dishes, emblems of despair bolted to the stained harling of the walls; and there are the corporation paling fences, and ubiquitous privet hedges, and the only signs of home improvements the white vans with ladders on top – the builders are home for their tea; they don’t work around here. There is a dearth of private cars, what there are small and dated – just like on the forecourt of nearby Marty’s Motor Mart. Skelgill realises they are close to Hempstead Avenue – the detour is tempting – but a little alarm bell warns him against it – and he holds his course until they meet the main north-south trunk road; he turns south.
But this bearing is short lived, and soon he surprises his passenger with a lurch to the left, to the east, to the Lakes – she lets out a little squeal of pleasure like a girl on a rollercoaster. They pass first through an angry no-man’s land of barren paddocks overgrown with inedible common rush – poor grazing there – and presently they are threading their way through the picturesque hamlets of Branthwaite, Ullock and Mockerin – and this
is another world altogether. Indeed, Trish is prompted to call out wistfully.
‘How the other half live!’
Skelgill glances reproachfully.
‘Try telling that to a shepherd in January.’
‘The other quarter, then!’
But she is right and he knows it – ten minutes behind them is a town where almost a fifth of children live in poverty; small wonder there are social challenges and their associated genera of crimes. While he ponders her voice rings out again.
‘What is it you call them?’
‘Offcomers, you mean?’
‘Yes – that’s it.’
Skelgill gives a kind of shake of his head. He notes that she has him earmarked as some class of local – quite which, he is uncertain.
‘I try to keep out of politics.’
Again he realises he is but one step away from talking shop – instinctively he accelerates into a sharp s-bend and on the exit she is momentarily tossed against him – her hand falls on his thigh for support – and her hair blows into his face. But now the view takes precedence – indeed this little-used route might be one of the most spectacular in all of England and even Skelgill – inured to Mother Nature’s siren call – finds himself awed as they tip over Fang’s Brow and slalom into the oaken dale, to be swallowed by the scenery. Like stage backdrops successively layered to create exaggerated depth the fells soar skywards, their profiles sharply etched; the leafy foreground flashes with a myriad of greens, giving glimpses of the little lake of Loweswater shimmering via gaps in the illuminated foliage. And in the topless car this becomes a multisensory experience – the scent of moist air, meadowsweet and honeysuckle; the rush and gurgle of beck upon rock; warm sun and cool breeze playing on the skin – and the crunchy bitterness of a mosquito that Skelgill almost swallows.
‘There aren’t enough chocolate boxes in Asda for all this.’
Skelgill is still trying inconspicuously to avoid ingesting the gnat. He turns his head to the offside and spits under the guise of a cough. But her reference to the grocery superstore affords him the chance to pose a question that has been on his mind.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 36