Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What about cause of death?’

  DS Leyton glances to one side – towards the open door.

  ‘DS Eve’s been down at the path lab – she should be here in a mo.’

  ‘We must know something.’

  ‘Well – presumed drowning, Guv.’

  Skelgill tuts impatiently and shakes his head. Then he dips his nose into his mug and it is from this position that he sees DS Eve become framed in the doorway. She halts, one hand raised against the jamb; the pose affords him a full-length view of the black catsuit that she wears today. Heaven only knows what blood vessels she has caused to burst on her way here. This outfit is straight from a glamour catalogue of a distinctly prurient nature. He swallows and lowers the mug and looks into it, frowning. DS Leyton is less reserved – and plainly on increasingly familiar terms with his fellow southerner.

  ‘Cor blimey, here’s one half of The Avengers!’ Beaming, he rises from his seat and indicates she should take it. ‘There you go, girl. I’ll get another from next door.’ And he steps past her into the corridor.

  DS Eve smirks unselfconsciously at Skelgill and says a friendly “Hi” to DS Jones, who politely reciprocates – Skelgill watches this exchange minutely – but women reduce him to amateur status when it comes to the concealment and divination of emotions. DS Leyton reappears almost immediately, conjuring the image of a Dalek – the protruding rubber-stoppered chair legs and the stocky figure in an ill-fitting dark suit. He closes the door with his ample backside and takes up an unfamiliar position in the corner. Skelgill now has his somewhat itinerant team arranged in an arc of 180 degrees – he swivels uncomfortably on his chair as he scans about them – he seems to be waiting for one of them to offer some starter. This proves to be tempting fate – for DS Eve dips into her soft black leather attaché case and produces a small folded garment in navy cotton. She leans forward and places it on Skelgill’s desk.

  ‘I rescued these before forensics got too excited.’

  Skelgill looks puzzled and reaches to pick up the item – it unfolds and reveals itself to be his boxer shorts.

  ‘Don’t worry – they are laundered.’

  DS Leyton splutters.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – when you said meet for a de-brief – I didn’t realise you meant literally!’

  Whether DS Leyton is au fait with the detail of events or simply intervenes because he anticipates Skelgill’s embarrassment – it is impossible for Skelgill to know – but his quip draws a peal of laughter from DS Eve. Although Skelgill is unable to come up with a suitably witty rejoinder he grins self-consciously and moves the offending shorts to his in-tray – which might be a small attempt at humour. It seems sufficient to gloss over an awkward moment – but it is noticeable that he does not make eye contact with DS Jones. Instead he fires a question at DS Eve.

  ‘Anything forensics did come up with?’

  DS Eve composes herself. She crosses her legs and balances her papers on her uppermost thigh. But she does not read directly from them.

  ‘They’re still working on the car and the motorcycle – but so far no obvious traces of blood – or damage that would indicate a struggle.’ She glances around the office and then her gaze comes to rest incisively upon Skelgill. ‘But I ought to cut to the chase – let’s call him the Leather Man – as anticipated, he drowned – except he was already unconscious – and in his bloodstream were traces of fentanyl.’

  ‘Whoa.’

  DS Leyton is literally rocked by this and his chair makes a squeal to accompany the thump of his head against the door. But DS Eve has more to say.

  ‘The time of death is estimated between midnight and 3am yesterday. So whatever took place, occurred during the hours of darkness.’

  All eyes fall upon Skelgill. He indicates with a palm to each of the female sergeants. ‘You saw for yourselves – you only get a glimpse of that spot from the road – and no one lives within sight.’

  ‘Are you saying it was carefully chosen?’ This is DS Eve. ‘That would suggest local knowledge.’

  But now Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘I’m just giving you some local knowledge. Like you said at the time – they might have driven through the gap in the wall by mistake.’

  But Skelgill’s devil’s advocacy does not sound convincing. He rises and turns to look at his map. As often as not this is a displacement activity – like gazing out of a window into the middle distance – indeed the map is simply another kind of landscape that, if he stands close enough, blurs into a hazy relief of contours and coloured shading. After several moments he turns back; he seems to have reached a conclusion.

  ‘You know I don’t like speculation.’ (DS Jones and DS Leyton might be thinking this is not entirely true – because he appears to do lots of speculation – just that he doesn’t share it.) ‘But to avoid sixty-four thousand scenarios – let’s just assume that the corpse in the car is the rider of the BSA Gold Star that was seen outside 26 Hempstead Avenue.’ He pauses to watch their reactions. Affirmative nods ensue. ‘Why was he in the car?’

  DS Eve is first to respond.

  ‘My opinion – as you know – is that fentanyl equals targeted poisoning. I’d say he was lured into the car – and became incapacitated. He was manhandled into the driver’s seat and the car was started up. Once put into gear, because of the gradient it didn’t stall but drove itself into the water. Whoever did it stepped clear and slammed the door.’

  DS Leyton is watching her intently, his brow furrowed, his chin resting on his fist.

  ‘So – what? Were they trying just to kill him – or kill him and conceal the body?’

  DS Eve responds evenly.

  ‘Trapping him in the car would guarantee death – whereas if they threw him in the lake he might have floated to safety.’

  DS Leyton is still frowning. She has only half answered his question.

  ‘Why didn’t they chuck the bike in an’ all? That’s what I’m wondering.’

  ‘Perhaps they were disturbed.’ She glances at Skelgill, but his expression is blank. ‘Or maybe they wanted it found – to send out a signal – a warning to others. It seems to me he knew his killers. There are no signs of coercion – so he voluntarily took drugs at the scene.’

  But DS Leyton remains perplexed.

  ‘If it’s the same Manchester gang – what are they up to, then? Was this geezer their go-between for the kid at Hempstead Avenue?’

  DS Eve does not look entirely convinced.

  ‘I would normally expect the mule to do the legwork. Deliver his cash – fetch his next orders.’ However, she does not dismiss DS Leyton’s suggestion out of hand. ‘But, in their convoluted world – who knows? Maybe he was a go-between – perhaps he was in cahoots with the kid. So he met the same fate.’

  Now DS Jones leans forwards in her seat. There is something about her demeanour that causes all eyes to fall upon her.

  ‘What if the kid – the drugs mule – was getting his supplies from two competing sources? That would explain why he was targeted. And the Leather Man could have been that supplier.’

  It is Skelgill’s experience that crimes are rarely solved in these brainstorming sessions. Quite simply, linear thinking is not a method suited to complex puzzles. But it can provide valuable jigsaw pieces with which his subconscious will wrestle in its own good time. In DS Jones’s suggestion he senses there is one such piece – and he feels an unexpected frisson of pride that it is she that has provided this intuition. He sees that DS Eve and DS Leyton are both nodding pensively. But rather than explore DS Jones’s idea – it comes to him that they should fall back upon some facts. He turns to DS Leyton.

  ‘Leyton – what actually do we know about the two previous drug-related deaths?’

  DS Leyton is jolted from his reverie and for a moment he looks alarmed – but he rises and with an involuntary groan stretches above DS Eve for his notepad from the cabinet. He resumes his seat and stares perplexedly at the uppermost page, and makes a couple of fal
se starts in the form of incoherent mumblings.

  ‘Ah – here we go, Guv. I went through all the reports. The first one – 7th May at High Harrington – a sixteen-year-old girl. Parents couldn’t wake her – died in hospital the next day. Respectable family – kid was doing well at school – but seems she took something at a party in the local woods.’ He glances at DS Jones, as if she will for some reason be most familiar with this concept. ‘You know how it’s the fashion for teenagers to celebrate finishing their exams – have a bonfire of their books and drink a gallon of white cider – get high on deodorant and hairspray. Soft targets for drug dealers. Course – none of the other kids was ever going to admit passing on the fatal dose. Conclusion – it was just total random bad luck. Flippin’ tragic.’

  There is silence. After a respectful hiatus, DS Eve asks for clarification.

  ‘And she was the only one that attended the rave – who fell ill – who took the contaminated substance?’

  DS Leyton nods. He regards DS Eve inquisitively – but it seems she has no supplementary question.

  ‘The second one – 29th May at Northside – that seems a bit more likely – in terms of what we’re looking at. Twenty-year-old geezer with a history of drugs – seems like he’d shacked up with a girl who was a user an’ all – couple of nippers of hers from previous relationships. He’d only been living there a few months – she reckoned not to know much about him. But at least there’s a clear identity – he was claiming benefits in Workington. Seems like he’s been a bit of a vagrant – no records of fixed addresses for the past five years – but prior to that he was in care in Manchester – Hulme district – ran away aged fifteen – disappeared off the radar. Like thousands of others.’

  Skelgill turns his gaze to DS Eve. She nods decisively.

  ‘The profile fits the typical drug mule. He could easily have been working for a county lines gang. I strongly feel we have a series of incidents of targeted eradication.’

  But Skelgill’s reservations persist. Each time he hears could or perhaps or what if his headache takes a little turn for the worse. DS Eve may be right – but the poor teenage girl does not fit the pattern – nor comfortably does the so-called Leather Man. He makes an exclamation that comprises exasperation and dissatisfaction.

  ‘Look – we stalled because we don’t know who the Hempstead Avenue kid is – and so far we’ve drawn a blank. But unless he recovers and tells us – we need to find out who the biker is. What about witnesses for what went on beside Crummock Water? Aye – there’s only one quiet road runs through Lorton Vale – but happen someone’s got CCTV on the front of their property – between Buttermere and Low Lorton. There’s a BSA owners’ club. There’s Arthur Hope – he might have a record of folk whose bikes he’s fixed.’ Skelgill makes a face that suggests that is enough from him. He rises and stalks to the door – DS Leyton has to shuffle his chair in order for Skelgill to open it. ‘Failing that, Leyton – see if Jack Nicholson’s got any sheep-cam footage. Discuss it amongst yourselves.’

  ‘Righto, Guv.’ Clearly DS Leyton is not sure if Skelgill is joking. ‘What about you, Guv?’

  Skelgill suddenly darts back and snatches his smalls from his in-tray.

  ‘I’m a day late for a meeting with the Chief. Better make sure I’m properly dressed, eh?’

  11. RUNNING MATE

  Saturday, mid-morning

  ‘I reckon you should get these.’

  ‘But – they’re too expensive.’

  ‘You get what you pay for, lass – these’ll give you better traction in the wet – they’re lightweight and they’ve got shock-absorbing midsoles.’ Skelgill glowers at the teenage Saturday assistant who hovers apprehensively, assessing whether he dare move in while the fierce-looking customer does his job for him. ‘Besides – the clincher – they match your hair.’

  Jess giggles nervously. Skelgill hands her the running shoe. A look of wonderment overcomes her own slightly craggy features as she weighs and turns over the highly engineered footwear, matt black with acid green trim.

  ‘But –’

  ‘No buts about it.’ Skelgill takes back the shoe and tosses it at the assistant. ‘Hey up, lad – we’ll try these. What size are you, lass?’

  ‘Six – I think.’

  Her hesitancy makes Skelgill ponder when was the last time someone bought her a pair of new shoes – even now that she is working, her present goth outfit might have been assembled from second-hand stores – and he just cannot picture a cosy mother-and-daughter shopping trip.

  ‘Bring everything you’ve got between five and seven – and a couple of pairs of cushioned socks – those merino ones you’ve got on the rack – green.’

  The boy nods obediently and scuttles away. Jess remains self-consciously unaccustomed to the status of having a personal shopper.

  ‘Get your boots off ready, lass. Sit yourself down.’

  Skelgill gestures to the fitting zone, an oblong arrangement of upholstered cubes. She does as bidden, and begins to unlace her black military-style Doc Martens.

  Halfway through the first boot she must sense he is watching her – she looks up and smiles meekly, still a little overwhelmed – but something seems to catch her eye behind him and the expression hardens into one of momentary alarm. A sixth sense tells Skelgill not to react. At his back – albeit some ten feet away – is the large plate-glass shop window, and the street beyond.

  ‘Think about it – if you get one per cent improvement every stride – what’s that going to do to your time? You could be talking twenty seconds or more. Why be disadvantaged for the sake of a few quid, eh lass?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Her gaze flickers and comes back to him. ‘Aye – that would be brilliant.’

  But her tone sounds unconvincing, as if her thoughts are distracted. But now the Saturday boy staggers over balancing a small tower of shoeboxes. He too seems nervous – no doubt it is Skelgill’s uncompromising manner – and perhaps the prospect of a good commission resting upon a knife edge. He sets down the boxes clumsily and the tower topples and spills half-a-dozen near identical shoes. If his spots are anything to go by he must be around the same age as Jess – and in some strange way their mutual awkwardness forms a little bond. She relaxes and giggles and he does, too. He breaks open a pack of socks, and while Jess pulls them on, he has the first shoe ready, kneeling at her feet like an acned Prince Charming wooing a post-modern gothic Cinderella. Skelgill draws away and casually wanders over to the window, hands in pockets, perusing the walking boots angled jauntily on tiered rocky-effect displays. His gaze drifts to the street, a byway of Keswick’s main drag – but still busy with a mixture of locals and tourists. Light rain falls from an indistinct overcast sky and people have up hoods and umbrellas – his eyes flick about – but he sees nothing that strikes him as out of the ordinary. A woman in figure-hugging spandex workout wear strides past with a striking Weimaraner pulling on a waist harness – it seems to be all the thing, running tethered to a dog – it reminds him that Jess’s dog – and his own – are in the back of his car, parked around the corner, and hopefully not tearing one another to pieces (or worse). He turns to Jess.

  ‘Try the lot on till you get the best fit. Have a proper jog up and down the stairs. Don’t be shy. I’m just going to check on the dogs.’ He pats the boy on the top of his head. ‘Don’t let her talk you into anything cheaper, lad.’

  He exits the store and crosses the large window. That this is the wrong direction for his car might be noticeable – except he can see a shadowy Jess through his own ghostly reflection – she has her head down lacing a shoe. Against his instinct he rips out his hood from the collar of his jacket and pulls it over his head – as a rule he would rather get wet and have his wits about him – a hood cuts off sounds and restricts peripheral vision – but it provides a certain degree of anonymity – at least until he meets someone sufficiently familiar with his nose, which is less easily concealed. His regular pace is nothing less than brisk – and this
also he tempers and ambles, looking more like a visitor killing time until the weather improves, gazing at everything and nothing. But that he suddenly zags into a narrow ginnel between the old picture house and an estate agency would surely require local knowledge. He continues to weave between buildings and in due course his route brings him out on a long rising street on which his car is parked – a good distance ahead.

  He immediately sees that a couple of children – a boy and a girl of about ten years – are peering into his car – indeed they are perhaps even stroking the dogs through the gap he has left in the rear passenger window. There is an adult standing with them – a male, at best medium height, perhaps their father – or just possibly an older sibling – but he has on a dark shell suit with the hood raised. Skelgill is still fifty or sixty yards short when the kids must decide they have had enough and sprint away up the slope. The man watches them for a couple of seconds before he takes off in pursuit. While Skelgill makes steady progress towards his car, the kids reach the top of the street and turn left, out of sight. Skelgill notices that the man turns right – the direction that will take him past the outdoor supplies store.

  Skelgill arrives at his car to see that the two dogs – Kelly the dip-died collie and his own Cleopatra, of rather less distinguished pedigree and plumage – are indeed on their feet on the back seat, having jumped over from the flatbed. In the way that dogs know certain things long before humans, they have detected his approach, and are ready to greet him with their snouts protruding from the gap in the window. But Skelgill – other than glancing to verify that they and the upholstery are unchewed – continues past with only a perfunctory double-click of the tongue – indeed he quickens his stride and, when he reaches the junction, turns to the right. However, the pedestrianised street ahead of him is empty – or at least there is no sign of the man who may or may not have been with the children. Skelgill pauses to peer casually into various emporia – a pie shop (always tempting); a café (ditto); the ubiquitous gift shop found in every vaguely touristy high street – but there remains no trace. Thus he returns to his start point rather pensively, and re-enters to seek out the princess in her glass slippers.