‘Of course – if it were stolen – if he had stolen it in the first instance – that might explain why he had removed the identification plate. Moreover – what if the gang’s interest were not fraternal? They may have believed he was being protected, not detained. We have only your cousin’s account to rely on.’
Skelgill stares at her, nonplussed. He suffers a small shock – that it has not occurred to him to doubt Mouse’s story – when he is so ready to mistrust almost anything he hears from his other cousin, Marty. Thus, much as DS Eve has put him on the defensive, he has to acknowledge she is endowed with an objectivity that is denied to him. Why would the Penrith Pirates automatically be the good guys and the Jam Eaters the villains of the piece? But he also realises now is not the time to become sidetracked – he will need to mull over this alternative narrative. He turns his attention back to DS Leyton.
‘What about the gang? What do we know about them?’
‘You’re talking drugs-wise, Guv?’
‘I’m talking anything-wise.’
DS Leyton snatches a sideways look at DS Eve, perhaps hoping to enlist her corroboration.
‘Guv – we only got started on it first thing this morning. It’s not like there’s a registered office and a Jam Eaters website with key personnel and contact details.’
DS Leyton is frustrated by his superior’s unreasonable expectations; his explanation may sound a little sarcastic. Skelgill’s tone becomes more critical.
‘They must have a meeting place, Leyton. All biker gangs hang around some transport caff or other.’
‘I’ve had a chinwag with a local DS I know from that car boot forgery racket last year – Derek Underwood, decent geezer. He’s heard of them, right enough – he’s putting out some feelers. But he’s saying don’t count any chickens – he reckons these bikers have their code of omertà – they don’t want nothing to do with the law – sort out their own disputes with sprocket chains and monkey wrenches. I explained what we really need is a name – ideally this president cove. I’ve arranged a meeting at Workington police station this afternoon.’
DS Eve is looking animated.
‘A biker gang would be well placed to deal in drugs. They have a readymade distribution network. And the reputation that you don’t mess with them – at least on a local level.’
Skelgill detects the nuance in her reply.
‘What do you mean by that?’
She regards Skelgill evenly.
‘I doubt the Manchester crew would be fazed by what they regarded as a bunch of hick motorcyclists.’
It is apparent Skelgill is irked by her disparaging reference to the provinces – although why he should take offence on behalf of a bunch of outlaws defies logic. DS Leyton, however, is able to respond more pragmatically.
‘You reckon this Bennett geezer ran into them?’
‘If the Manchester gang has identified the Jam Eaters as rivals.’ She shrugs and gives a shake of her long black hair, as if by drawing attention to her appearance it will weaken the resolve of those who doubt her. ‘They could have lured him to the lake under some ruse – maybe the promise of a better deal if he worked for them.’
DS Leyton frowns as he processes the notion.
‘So, what – are you saying they nicked the black hatchback off’ve the motor dealer’s forecourt?’
DS Eve regards him calmly, her dark eyes unblinking.
‘It is an explanation that fits what we know. Bennett was almost certainly the biker seen at the address in Hempstead Avenue. We surmise that the youth still in the coma was one of Manchester’s mules. If the Jam Eaters were trying to get in on that act – as alternative suppliers – then Bennett’s fate will have served as a salutary warning to the rest of the gang. The kingpins will purge not only a disloyal mule but also anyone associated with them.’
Skelgill is observing the exchange, gnawing at the corner of a thumbnail – it is normally a sign that he suffers some disquiet. DS Leyton turns to him.
‘What d’you reckon, Guvnor?’
Skelgill becomes visibly more uncomfortable. He stretches and cranes his neck to gaze over at the serving counter, as if his main concern lies elsewhere. Certainly he is far from ready to pronounce on the criminal matter.
‘About time. The treacle scones are ready.’
He rises and stalks away, overhearing a short exchange in his wake.
‘Crikey, I dunno where he puts it all.’
‘He has very high energy levels.’
Skelgill will need very high energy levels – for when he returns he dumps unceremoniously on their table a platter laden with six generously buttered scones the colour of rich caramel, and still warm. Could his logic be that he is planning to eat two, so he had better provide the equivalent option for his colleagues?
‘Cor blimey, Guv – they’ll be calling us the Scone Eaters – ha-hah!’
Skelgill forces a grin, but does not linger. He returns to the counter to retrieve a tray bearing three steaming mugs of tea – including his oversize tankard. Quite what has prompted his uncharacteristic display of generosity is not apparent, although self-interest might be prime suspect.
‘Any road – it’s scone, Leyton, not scone.’
What he says rhymes respectively with and gone and stone. It is one of England’s north-south divides, although those aspiring to class distinction use the stone pronunciation nationwide. DS Leyton shrugs his broad shoulders. He looks questioningly at DS Eve.
‘It’s scone where I grew up, I’m afraid.’ Unsurprisingly she falls into the stone camp.
Skelgill makes a face of half-hearted protest, grumpy that he is outnumbered. DS Leyton chuckles.
‘Never mind, Guv – a scone by any other name would taste as sweet.’
Skelgill continues to glower but he already has hold of a scone and leans over to take a monstrous bite. He munches and swallows before reaching for his tea. He glances up at DS Eve. His temper seems to have moderated.
‘What’s the news on the lass – and the house at Salterbeck?’
DS Eve nods obligingly.
‘I spoke to the hospital just a short while ago. The girl is conscious and – well – I would say healthy – but clearly she is not – other than in relative terms. But we saved her from potential brain damage – perhaps we have rescued her altogether – time will tell.’ She pauses to allow some reaction from her colleagues. Skelgill is stern faced, but DS Leyton nods admiringly. ‘She has given her name as Anna, and her age as seventeen – they believe she is Slovakian – they have a bilingual nurse from Bratislava coming on shift this afternoon – they are going to ask her to talk to her. Our lab meanwhile has confirmed that the heroin she partially injected contained a lethal concentration of fentanyl.’
The name of this opioid is becoming something of a conversation stopper. Skelgill continues to chew silently – but DS Leyton – who has so far refrained – is driven to comfort eating. His movement attracts Skelgill’s eagle eye – despite the still-ample supply of scones. DS Eve lifts her mug of tea but she realises it is still too hot to drink and she just holds it two-handed, her lips pursed as she blows lightly over the surface. After a few moments she continues with her report.
‘The housing association has the property registered to a woman named Lily Hall, aged twenty-eight – but she is presently living under supervision in residential drugs rehab in Workington town centre – and her child aged four is in the care of social services. I have arranged to interview the mother this afternoon. If she’s in any fit state she might cast some light upon exactly how Anna came to be there.’
The two males work their way assiduously through their scones; DS Leyton is now getting into his stride, his best intentions having crumbled. Perhaps they both realise that DS Eve is not about to partake, and there could be three each if they get a move on. DS Leyton, meantime, offers a suggestion to her.
‘This girl – Anna. Could she be another one of these cuckoos?’
DS Eve is imm
ediately nodding – but perhaps in a way that agrees with his question rather than purports to answer it.
‘It could well be the case. Lily Hall fits the vulnerable profile they target. It would be simple enough to befriend her at the local support group – tempt her with an easy route to score.’
DS Leyton’s features become puckered with frustration.
‘What are they up to?’ He glances at his colleagues in turn. ‘They’ve infiltrated the county with all these drugs mules – and now they’re going around trying to bump them all off. It don’t make sense to me.’
Skelgill is nodding almost imperceptibly. While his team are making progress in terms of information – it is not translating into knowledge. Meanwhile DI Smart might at this second be executing a plan that is entirely abhorrent to him – and, in his view, destined to fail. He rises with sudden purpose. It is plain he intends to depart. DS Leyton seems a little put out.
‘Want to come to this confab with DS Underwood, Guv – about the Jam Eaters?’
But DS Eve has a counter proposal.
‘Or there is the interview with Lily Hall?’
Skelgill looks momentarily conflicted – then he shakes his head decisively.
‘Happen we’ll divide and conquer. I’ll take the dealership.’
He reaches down and folds a third treacle scone into a napkin and feeds it into the side pocket of his jacket. He gestures at the one cake that remains.
‘Don’t let that go to waste, Leyton – I put them on your tab.’
As Skelgill turns on his heel and departs, DS Leyton grins philosophically at DS Eve. With an exaggerated groan he levers himself up from his seat.
‘Hi-ho – it’s off to Workington we go.’
*
Skelgill is parked so that he can see at an angle the front garden and front door of 146 Hempstead Avenue, and partly down the side of the semi-detached property, where the back door from the kitchen is located. Once again the curtains of the downstairs front room are closed. Groundhog day: shortly after his arrival a man – younger this time, maybe Skelgill’s own age – had emerged from the front door and, not even troubling with the recalcitrant gate, he had vaulted it; there was quite a spring in his step as he left the scene. That was about fifteen minutes ago. It is now approaching 1pm and Skelgill is working on the principle that if there is another caller they will appear on the hour – or not at all.
To pass the time he has been skimming the monogrammed first edition Wainwright bequeathed by his great uncle Ernie – which he has stored in the glove compartment together with the ancient Bartholomew map – handy for now, but he ought to put them in a safer place. More familiar with the contents of the field guide – it being consistent with his own later copy – he has graduated to the map – and employs disposable reading spectacles that he keeps with his fishing tackle for repairing home-tied flies that have begun to unravel. These are visual aids he would not admit to owning – but he is not expecting anyone that knows him. Each time he glances up to check the house it is a blur, and he has to angle his head to peer over the cheap plastic frames.
He reconsiders the Haystacks conundrum – it mystifies him that a hill of such renown was simply not recognised a hundred years ago. But now he notices another feature – one that escaped his last examination – when he did not have the Warnscale Horseshoe fell race front of mind. He squints mightily – but the reading glasses are insufficiently powerful – and he has to delve for a sturdy penknife from a box of fishing tackle – it has a hinged magnifier for starting campfires and extracting splinters (the latter in tandem with the cleverly concealed tweezers). He tilts the map towards the light and cranes over it like Sherlock Holmes inspecting through a monocle the minutest scrap of evidence. He makes an expiration of breath – partly due to the effort of holding still – but also by way of wonderment. What he has discovered is an indistinctly marked section of path – it appears to traverse the vertiginous escarpment beneath Haystacks, passing just below his favoured vantage point, itself a steep scramble down from the summit area. In tiny letters that look almost handwritten is the descriptor, Shepherd’s Rake. He knows the word – rake – there are others in the fells, it derives from the Old Norse and describes a gash or scrape, typically a scree-filled chute between rocky walls or outcrops – but he sees no reason why it should not be a one-sided affair. Most salient, however, and a fact that has his heart beating with a modicum of excitement, is that Shepherd’s Rake – if it still exists – could be one heck of a shortcut.
But now his thoughts are diverted by a sudden clanking sound. He has his window lowered for this very purpose – and he glances up to see that his distant cousin-in-law Megan Graham has dumped from the back door a bulging black polythene bin bag, from the gaping mouth of which protrude cans and jars and other detritus. She is wearing the faded pink towelling robe, and is barefoot, and has only half emerged from the door onto the top step. She casts a furtive glance in his direction – she gazes myopically and he doubts she will recognise either him or his car – he decides to act quickly and calls out, at the same time putting aside his map and clambering from the vehicle, crumbs of treacle scone spilling from his lap. If Megan Graham does take in his identity, then it seems he has cause for concern – for she withdraws from sight and closes the door.
Skelgill approaches the house and walks briskly down the side path. He stretches the muscles around his eyes as if he is having difficulty adjusting to the light. Although the forecast rain has not yet arrived, the day is heavily overcast, and the kitchen light is on – indeed, through the textured glass of the door he can discern the form of Megan Graham; she seems to have retreated into the far corner, beside the fridge, where the waste bin previously stood. He knocks. She does not move. He tries the handle; it is locked.
‘Megan – it’s me – Dan Skelgill.’
He is reminded that she knows his occupation, and wonders if this lies behind her reticence. But would she be any more cooperative if he were to act overtly as though he were on official business?
‘Megan – I saw you put out the rubbish. I can see you now. Can we have a word, lass?’
He discerns short jerky movements of one arm – perhaps she had a cigarette on the go – he recalls the ashtray was on the fridge. But otherwise she remains steadfastly in the corner.
‘Megan – I need to talk to you about Jess.’
It is perhaps his imagination, but her figure seems to stiffen. But there is still no response.
‘Megan – the lass needs to learn to drive – living out there in the sticks. I’ll teach her – then I’ll pay for her to have some proper lessons before her test.’
It is a one-sided conversation – made all the more difficult by Skelgill’s inability to judge Megan Graham’s actual disposition.
‘I hear you bought a car – Marty Graham told me – if you give us the details I’ll get me and Jess put on the insurance – it won’t cost you a penny. It’s best that she learns in something she knows – and that she can take her test in.’
At last Skelgill’s words appear to have engendered a reaction – for suddenly the pink spectral shape drifts across the kitchen towards him. He steps back in anticipation of her opening the door – but she merely brings her face up to the glass.
‘I haven’t got no car – how would I afford a car? – and thew keep away from here – and keep away from Jess!’
Her voice rises and reaches something of a hysterical crescendo – and whatever has prompted her outburst now seems to overcome her, and Skelgill sees that she raises her hands to her face as she turns and disappears from view, with a slam of the interior door. He stands transfixed – it would seem wondering what to do next – but in fact there is a more tangible cause. Megan Graham might have obtained only a vague impression of Skelgill, a yard beyond the frosted glass – and to have assumed the reverse applied – but when she came up close he could see her more clearly – certainly in sufficient focus to make out the blackened left eye a
nd the puce and yellowing bruise surrounding it.
He makes a reflective clicking noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He casts about without really seeing his surroundings. Propped against the wall of the house the bulging black rubbish bag leans precariously; some of its contents have spilled onto the moss-encrusted paving slabs. He toe-pokes a crushed beer can and then an apple that has just one bite out of it, the exposed flesh oxidised and brown – propelling these stray items towards the bag. Then, as if charged with a sudden purpose, he strides away – turning when he reaches the pavement not for his car but in the opposite direction.
It takes him two minutes to reach 26 Hempstead Avenue, there being just fifty-nine properties (if his mental arithmetic is correct) lying between the two addresses placed by happenstance in the same Workington street. Two minutes, however, is not long enough for him to formulate a plausible explanation for his intrusion – ‘gut feel’ does not generally carry much weight with householders finding the police at their door requesting entry. On this occasion, however, he need not have worried.
‘Are you here to fix the television again? It was working fine last time I switched it on.’
The elderly resident, Mr Booth, has answered the door. His expression alarms Skelgill – for it is the look of someone who knows he ought to recognise his visitor, and it troubles him that he does not.
‘Mr Booth – I’m from Cumbria Police – DI Skelgill. I met you before – about your nephew.’
The man does not question Skelgill’s statement, and turns to lead the way.
‘You’d better come in, then.’
Skelgill takes a moment to close the front door. The man has disappeared into the lounge – Skelgill catches up to find he is already seated on one of the sofas. The widescreen TV is playing an old episode of Ennerdale – he must have it tuned to one of those channels that specialises in wall-to-wall repeats. Skelgill is distracted as a female barmaid slaps the face of an inebriated male customer in response to a lecherous remark. The man watches too – and then appears startled as he looks up at Skelgill.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 43