Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s had some kind of accident, Guv – wouldn’t tell me any more than that. Insists he wants to talk with you. Said he couldn’t call you direct because his mobile phone’s smashed up and he don’t know your number.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Dunno, Guv – but he sounded in a bit of a bad way. I can get back onto the hospital and find out – I thought you’d want to know pronto – being as it’s family, like.’

  ‘Forget it, Leyton – I’m on my way.’

  Skelgill ends the call and looks pensively at DS Eve. He assumes she has gleaned the gist of the conversation. She smiles resignedly.

  ‘I guess the curry will keep for another night.’

  Skelgill rises and pushes in his chair. Then he bends to pick up DS Eve’s cluster of shopping bags. He begins to step away from her.

  ‘The Indian takeaway’s open while midnight.’

  *

  ‘Silver lining – happen it’ll be an improvement when you get those bandages off.’

  ‘Very funny, Skelgill.’ Mouse spits to one side – as much out of habit as anything, although Skelgill can see a loose thread is adhering to the corner of his mouth. ‘Who’s yer bewer – I thought thew were supposed to be knocking off t’ young blonde chick?’

  ‘Where’d you hear that?’

  Skelgill’s retort is swift and dismissive – but he cannot conceal a hint of alarm that brings a small if pained smile to his cousin’s lips.

  ‘I hear all sorts. Walls have eyes.’

  ‘Ears, you mean.’

  ‘Ears – eyes – whatever. Folk get noticed. Word gets around.’

  Skelgill regards his cousin’s face – or what little he can see; from between the bandages there is the familiar belligerent glare.

  ‘Aye – well – don’t believe everything you hear. Happen I were seen on an investigation. Like I am now. And to answer your question – DS Eve – she’s from Manchester – seconded onto my team for the drugs case I mentioned. I thought I’d better not introduce her first off in case your heart couldn’t take the strain.’

  Mouse grunts – it is a laugh of sorts but it quickly becomes an agonised groan.

  ‘You should wear a proper helmet, marra.’

  Skelgill refers to the pudding basin crash helmet his cousin favours – and that has failed to prevent extensive facial injuries.

  ‘It’s me ribs that’s sore, Skelgill. Four cracked, t’ quack reckons.’ Mouse coughs with some difficulty. Then his tone becomes more contrite. ‘And me jaw.’

  ‘Want to tell us what happened?’

  ‘On condition that woman copper teks down whatever I say.’

  Skelgill regards him pensively for a moment – and shrugs – and turns and begins to walk away towards where DS Eve is waiting at the end of the ward. Mouse gleefully calls after him.

  ‘Shreddies!’

  Skelgill does not break stride but raises his eyebrows and waves a dismissive hand. In local parlance, the reference is to male underwear. Behind him he hears his cousin’s strangled laugh of pain once more. He wonders if he can trust him in DS Eve’s presence. He has apprised her of his cousin’s outlaw status – during their forty-minute journey from Keswick, for which she had offered to drive. Skelgill had wavered – but there was the chance to watch Bass Lake go by, a rare luxury. And Mouse might be an abrasive character – but Skelgill suspects he will meet his match in the experienced female detective. When they return to the bedside Mouse appears to be on his best behaviour.

  ‘It were t’ Jam Eaters.’

  DS Eve is puzzled by the stranger’s opening gambit. Skelgill interjects.

  ‘It’s a local insult. I’ll explain later. A bit like swede-hackers.’

  ‘Or sheep-shaggers?’

  DS Eve’s unelicited suggestion has both Skelgill and Mouse regarding her with jaws slightly lowered – if only metaphorically in Mouse’s case, for he wears a brace. After a moment Skelgill responds.

  ‘Aye – that’d be right enough.’

  This prompts Mouse to elaborate.

  ‘Except t’ Jam Eaters is a motorbike gang. They like the idea that it’s an insult.’

  ‘They won’t like it when we apprehend them.’

  But DS Eve’s statement of intent causes Mouse to retreat into his shell. He wrenches his neck stiffly to look at Skelgill.

  ‘I don’t want t’ law involved. That were just a joke – what I said about tekken down in evidence.’

  Skelgill does not need to be told of this demand. He holds up both palms.

  ‘Look – no notebooks – no recording devices. Off the record.’

  Mouse proceeds to mutter rather grudgingly.

  ‘They ran us off t’ road.’

  He punctuates his complaint with a couple of gratuitous expletives. It seems DS Eve’s graphic ovine analogy has given the green light, if he goes easy, for two or three curses per sentence.

  Skelgill regards him evenly.

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I were doing thee a favour – finding out about that Beezer. Thought I were just meeting their president – up behind Wukiton docks. Turns out I rode into a trap. Managed to get away – thought I’d lost ’em – but they’d posted scouts. I’d have come on a faster bike if I’d known. Wait till I get the Pirates tooled up. We’ll give ’em jam. It’ll be jam on the A66.’

  ‘Whoa – whoa – hold your horses. We can’t have that.’

  ‘Thew can’t have that – what about us? We can’t let t’ Jam Eaters get one up on us. Especially when we’ve done nowt int’ first place.’

  ‘They must have had a reason, Mouse.’

  ‘Swett Bennett – they wanted to know what’s happened to him. I reckon they thought we’d kidnapped him or sommat.’

  ‘Hold on – rewind. Swett Bennett – who’s he?’

  ‘He’s thy Beezer rider. The one seen at the address in Wukiton. The one thew wanted to know who he was. I turn up asking about a BSA Gold Star and next thing they’re threatening me over Swett.’

  DS Eve wants clarification.

  ‘So they don’t know what’s happened to him?’

  ‘And thew do?’ Mouse makes a pained exclamation. He looks accusingly at Skelgill. ‘Why didn’t thew tell us int’ first place?’

  Skelgill takes a moment to compose his reply.

  ‘Because we’re putting two and two together as we speak.’ He stares broodingly at his cousin. ‘Marra – a pound to a penny says Swett Bennett is dead. Poisoned by a deliberately contaminated drug.’

  Mouse recoils – but he seems more confused than perturbed.

  ‘But not by t’ Jam Eaters – surely? You’re not telling me it were a double bluff?’

  Skelgill, grimacing, shakes his head.

  ‘This Bennett – was he a drug-user?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell thee, Skelgill. Never heard of him until today. Might have had a fight wi’ him one time.’

  Mouse laughs but almost as quickly groans. A ward sister who has been circling ominously for the past couple of minutes advances upon them. There is a look in her eyes that reminds Skelgill of his most recent meeting with the Chief, and he hoists a small white flag in the form of raised palms and a backward step that suggests they have finished anyway. As they are herded away Mouse calls out a request.

  ‘Do us a favour, Skelgill. Maria – tell her not to go out west.’

  ‘Mouse – you are out west. You’re in Whitehaven hospital. Where did you think you were?’

  The eyes between the bandages seem momentarily to glaze over.

  ‘Well, then – thew’d better make sure there’s a guard ont’ door.’

  *

  ‘These towns are out on a limb.’

  ‘Aye – forgotten part of the country, the Wild West some call it. Couple of hundred year back they were among Britain’s busiest ports. Now look at them.’

  Dusk is coming early beneath the low cloud and drizzle. They are leaving the northe
rn outskirts of Whitehaven, passing between rows of grey harled properties that seem to testify to chronic austerity. DS Eve, driving, squints rather grimly at the road ahead.

  ‘At least we have a name now.’

  At quite some cost to his cousin, Skelgill is thinking.

  ‘Local Workington bobbies are our best bet. They might know who Swett Bennett is – or was – and who the Jam Eaters are.’

  ‘Ah, yes – you promised to explain the term.’

  ‘It were to do with the coal mining. It were too hot down some of the pits – so instead of meat the miners had to take jam in their bait. When they got transferred to other pits they had the mickey taken out of them.’

  DS Eve casts a quizzical sideways glance.

  ‘You just said bait. That sounds like fishing not mining.’

  ‘Bait’s sandwiches – packed lunch.’

  She grins.

  ‘You have some strange expressions.’

  ‘Not strange to us. What about some of the stuff Leyton comes out with? Guvnor – some geezer’s half-inched me dog and bone.’ He makes a poor imitation of DS Leyton’s Cockney accent.

  However, DS Eve chuckles.

  ‘Well – how about a Ruby Murray?’

  Skelgill hesitates for a second or two.

  ‘Happen that’s a curry.’

  There is silence for a few moments before DS Eve responds.

  ‘Do you think we shall still have time?’

  ‘There’s restaurants up in Workington – we could just sit in. Chances are we’re not going to get anywhere at the police station, this time on a Saturday. They’re probably shut.’

  ‘O-kay.’ There is a suggestion in her intonation that this is not her ideal outcome. ‘Tell me the way.’

  ‘Just carry on. In about five miles take a left onto the 596. That’ll bring us into the town centre.’ Then Skelgill has an afterthought. ‘Or we can take the scenic route – the 597. Turn off a quarter of a mile before. That goes through High Harrington.’

  DS Eve nods slowly. The significance of his suggestion does not escape her. High Harrington is the location of one of the earlier drug-related deaths, the unfortunate sixteen-year-old girl.

  ‘Maybe the scenic.’

  The turn off takes them through what was the old street village, with glimpses of the Irish Sea ahead between the converging rows of buildings. It seems a perfectly respectable settlement, with a couple of pubs and a substantial stone church with a crenulated tower and its lancet windows picked out in red sandstone. Despite the weather and the advancing hour there are people walking their dogs, and some even tending their front gardens. In due course the road swings around to the north to follow the line of the coast towards the port of Workington, the suburb of Salterbeck on their right.

  Then abruptly about twenty yards ahead of them a large matt black coupé slews from a side road causing an oncoming bus to take evasive action. Headlights flash brightly as the bus driver is forced to hit the brakes. But the car simply accelerates away, its low-profile rear tyres biting into the damp tarmac, sending up a fine spray as it passes Skelgill and DS Eve in pursuit of the sound barrier.

  ‘Idiot.’ DS Eve proceeds to demonstrate that her command of Anglo-Saxon is every bit as impressive as that of Skelgill’s disreputable cousin. ‘Where are traffic patrol when you need them?’

  ‘Follow it!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do a u-turn. Follow it – now!’

  DS Eve stares at Skelgill as though he is mad – but she nonetheless makes to comply with his demand. They must wait for the bus to pass, but it has a tail of impatient motorists. In any event, the road is too narrow – the only place to turn is at the junction from which the car emerged. DS Eve swings around but now more vehicles prevent her from re-joining the main road. Skelgill slaps both hands on the interior fascia.

  ‘Stop – stop – forget it.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘We’re not going to catch it. Besides – what would we do?’

  Skelgill has wrestled back control from his rush of caprice. And – truth be told – DS Eve looks a tad relieved. Whereas DS Leyton would relish a car chase – Skelgill has noticed she does not display the same verve behind the wheel as she did behind him as a pillion passenger.

  ‘What made you want to go after it?’

  Skelgill looks at her a little disbelievingly.

  ‘That’s the cloned BMW – I’d swear to it.’

  ‘The one we think is from Manchester?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I didn’t get the number.’

  Skelgill ponders her admission; it is cleverly worded. Since neither did he.

  ‘It were past in a split second. Besides – it’ll be fake. Cloned again. The registration won’t tell us who they are.’

  DS Eve nods. She pulls on the handbrake and takes her mobile phone from the breast pocket of her denim jacket.

  ‘I’ll have a call put out.’

  ‘It’s a rabbit warren round here.’ Skelgill sounds like he believes it is a waste of time. ‘Besides – they could go to ground.’

  DS Eve gazes pensively in the direction in which the BMW disappeared.

  ‘But – let’s say they are heading back to Manchester – surely they’d use the M6?’

  ‘Aye – happen they would. But there’s the A6 – and plenty of cross-country options.’

  ‘They didn’t look like they wanted to hang around.’

  Skelgill shrugs; he gives ground on this point. DS Eve telephones and supplies instructions for the car – if seen – to be stopped – it is not a simple request in the absence of a plate number. She hangs up and looks hopefully at Skelgill.

  ‘I didn’t get much of a look at the driver.’

  Again he notices she has a diplomatic way of making her point. But at least on this score he has a minor contribution.

  ‘At a push I’d say it were the same two blokes I saw the first time. Around the thirty mark. Cropped fair hair.’

  ‘It was you that reported them?’

  He is reminded he has not laid claim to the original sighting that DS Jones subsequently investigated.

  ‘Aye. Not that far from here.’

  ‘What made you suspicious?’

  Skelgill is choosing his words carefully.

  ‘It were the way they made themselves scarce.’

  ‘They recognised you? As an officer?’

  Skelgill is becoming increasingly taciturn.

  ‘I reckon someone tipped them the wink.’

  DS Eve is now looking at him intently. It must be plain he knows more than he lets on – but either she is becoming accustomed to his idiosyncrasies, or she decides there is plenty of time to extract whatever information she desires. She sinks back into the driver’s seat – but now a car is behind them, wanting to get out of the junction; there comes a tentative honk. DS Eve lowers the window and waves it to overtake.

  ‘What do you think they were doing here?’

  Skelgill nods broodingly. He doesn’t know the answer but he has been thinking about the same question.

  ‘This road leads into a big council estate. Happen we should have a deek.’

  She chuckles throatily.

  ‘Or a butcher’s?’

  A silence descends as they patrol about. Although Skelgill has referred to it as a council estate, technically these days most of the properties are in the hands of a housing association. However, the local corporation built the homes in the 1930s for steelworkers, back in the day, when Workington did what it said on the tin. As a consequence, each street is much like the next, and each house much like its neighbour. Skelgill leaves it to DS Eve to choose whatever turns take her fancy – but at a crossroads she hesitates.

  There is the sudden whine of an engine and the loud popping of a corrupted exhaust. Two tracksuit-clad youths pull alongside on a battered-looking mud bike that has no lights or identification plate. The teenagers wear no helmets, only mufflers and their hoods pulled up. They
are on the passenger side of the car. Skelgill has his window down. They contort their scrawny frames to leer across at DS Eve – rudely articulating what they would like to do with her. Skelgill stares at them impassively – and then his left arm snakes out and he grabs hold of the crown of the rider’s hoodie.

  ‘Drive!’

  DS Eve now demonstrates some of her pillion passenger vim – for she does as Skelgill orders. Steering to the right she accelerates. The youth is dragged from the stationary bike causing it to topple and his companion to fall off. The erstwhile rider staggers as he is towed along, frantically trying to keep his feet – then somehow he manages to escape the hoodie like a dog slipping its collar – but his momentum sees him face-plant onto the tarmac. Skelgill has the hoodie. He watches in the wing mirror a diminishing picture of the pair, hobbling away to squat on the kerb and lick their wounds. He tosses the hoodie onto a grass verge. DS Eve shoots him a glance, her eyes bright.

  ‘Hadn’t we better call for reinforcements – in case there’s a gang?’

  Skelgill growls nonchalantly.

  ‘They’re hardly the Jam Eaters. Pity it’s your nice motor – else we could have gone back and driven over that heap of junk.’ He falls silent, but after a while he offers a suggestion. ‘Just keep going. Hang a left at the t-junction. That’ll take us roughly in the direction of the town centre.’

  ‘I’ll follow my nose.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  She glances at him reprovingly – as if she contests what might be self-disparagement.

  ‘It never held back Rod Stewart.’

  Skelgill affects a perplexed scowl – her tone is flirtatious – and now she lets go of the wheel with her left hand and lightly presses his thigh.

  His response is a sharp expletive. She jerks back her hand. But Skelgill is leaning forward – staring at the road ahead.

  ‘What is it?’

  Through the gathering dusk, streetlamps not yet illuminated, Skelgill squints in the direction of a pale-coloured car – an old Mercedes – parked with its nearside wheels up on the kerb, about fifty yards from them. His next words, though spoken quietly, are tinged with urgency.