Now DS Jones is silent for a moment.
‘I’ve had to take a chance. I’ve said that I’m interested in dealing – not here, on his patch – but that I know the score back in Penrith. The kid bought the idea that he could get some kudos if he recruited me on their behalf. So he’s communicated that to them. They want to meet me when they come.’
DS Jones’s voice sounds disembodied as Skelgill hears his worst fears manifest themselves. He grinds his teeth. Can he trust them with her safety? He wouldn’t trust DI Smart further than he could throw him – and that is on incompetence alone. But the Manchester drug squad will have their eye on the bigger prize. A local Cumbrian detective is merely a pawn in their game.
‘Aren’t you too old for this lark? These mules are all teenagers.’
But his plaintive tone reveals he knows the futility of his entreaty. And DS Jones even gives a little reassuring chuckle.
‘Maturity comes with its benefits – so you keep telling me, Guv.’
Skelgill makes a disapproving growl in his throat. DS Jones speaks again, more urgently now.
‘Guv – I’ll need to leave in a minute – I’ve got an appointment at the recovery service at 11.15.’
Skelgill folds up his paper and presses the lid onto his takeaway cup.
‘I’ll shoot. You have to text me – last thing at night – you can delete anything you send.’
‘Guv – I’ll be fine.’ But now she seems to choke over what it is that she wants to say. ‘It’s – it’s just the protocol, Guv – if something went wrong – if it compromised the operation – when I’ve sent a personal text.’
Skelgill rises abruptly.
‘It’s not personal, Jones – it’s an order.’
He makes to move away – but now to his surprise she reaches out and grabs at the hem of his jacket, halting his progress. Her voice comes clear, her local accent pronounced.
‘Spare a couple of pounds for a sandwich, sir?’
Skelgill stares at her – just for a split second bemused – before he too falls into character.
‘That won’t get you far in here, lass.’
He puts down his cup and reaches for his wallet. He extracts a banknote and lays it on her table. He points an authoritative finger.
‘Don’t spend it on anything I wouldn’t.’
Glowering, he strides away, thinking what’s another twenty, a small pile when you have an overdraft the size of Scafell Pike.
*
Skelgill is not even back at his car when his mobile phone rings. For a second his heart leaps – thinking it must be DS Jones with some afterthought, something she would wish to say in private – the code is local, but it is certainly not the number he interrogated to identify the coffee shop. As such, he answers with some caution.
‘Aye?’
‘It’s me.’
He realises the caller is in fact Jess.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m ringing from over the shop – this is the house phone.’
Her voice is tremulous.
‘What’s up, lass?’
Now she hesitates. Skelgill hears her breathing rapidly – and a deep breath as if she is steeling herself to speak. Then she blurts it out.
‘I can’t run – I’m not feeling well – I don’t need you to coach me any more.’
Her voice fades as though she might be replacing the receiver on its cradle.
‘Whoa, Jess – hold your horses – what do you mean, you’re not well?’
It seems out of deference she remains on the line.
‘I don’t know – I’ve got the ’flu or something – I can’t sleep – I can’t work today – I can’t run.’
She falls silent. Thoughts intersect one another inside Skelgill’s head, like bullets ricocheting about a saloon in a western showdown. Embattled, he tries rather vainly to grab something out of the confused stramash.
‘Listen – I reckoned you were getting a bit of a cold – you’re probably past the worst.’ He checks his wristwatch unnecessarily. ‘There’s what – the best part of two days to the race – plenty of time for you to come right. Fine – take a break – you’ve got all the training you need in your legs. Then one big effort on Saturday – for less than thirty-three minutes – you’re going to break the record, remember, lass. The whole family’s going to be out there rooting for you.’
He hears her sniffing – but it is a few moments before she responds.
‘And I can’t do it without Kelly – and I just can’t do it. I’m sorry to let you down. And I don’t need driving lessons.’
To Skelgill’s surprise she does now hang up.
‘Jess – Jess, lass!’
It is not often that Skelgill finds himself doing something futile – but his exhortations to the dead line certainly are. He retrieves the number and calls it – but it simply rings out until it diverts to an automated answerphone. He leaves no message and terminates the call. He lengthens his stride.
*
Fifteen minutes elapse and Skelgill is propped rather casually, it must be said, against the harled wall at the side of the semi-detached house. However, when he hears the sound of the gate being wrestled with he assumes his marks. The gate is eventually unlatched. Crouching, Skelgill rounds the corner of the property, crossing crablike beneath the front window – where there is a twitch at the crack in the curtains. Reaching the front door step he straightens and turns to intercept the figure coming up the path. The man, hunched, with a hood raised, perhaps to protect his identity from prying neighbourhood eyes, looks up in surprise. Skelgill thrusts out a straight arm, displaying his police warrant card.
‘Scram.’
The man needs no second invitation. He spins on his heel without speaking a word or even breaking stride. Skelgill turns just as the front door opens. As he witnessed before, Megan Graham’s habit is to stand out of sight. A little roughly, he pushes his way in.
‘Hey – there’s no need for –’
But Megan Graham falls silent when she recognises Skelgill. He takes command and presses the door shut.
‘Thew can’t come in here!’
There is an almost frantic note in her voice – and heavy emphasis on the colloquial you.
‘Megan, lass – you just let me in.’
Skelgill can’t help himself from appraising her appearance. She wears a lacy black outfit of a short negligee with revealing briefs, and knee-length latex boots that make her several inches taller. Skelgill senses he ought to feel aroused, but even in the half-darkness he seems to see cheap tailoring and wanton make-up and all he feels is pathos. He steps away from her.
‘Put something on. I’ll put the kettle on.’
He makes for the kitchen – relieved to escape the gloom and the cloying scent of the joss sticks in their empty milk bottles. Megan Graham slides into the candlelit front room and quietly closes the door.
When she reappears she is clad in the tracksuit she wore before, and has bunched her hair and wiped off much of the make up – apart from the concealer around her bruised left eye, which she may have embellished. In the cold light of day she looks somehow much older than on his last visit. Skelgill hands her a tea and sits down at the small table against the wall. She takes the mug and cradles it defensively; she remains standing.
‘Who gave you the shiner, Megan?’
He waits patiently and drinks but she is sullen and does not reply.
‘Client cut up rough?’ He scowls. ‘I don’t think so. And where’s your boyfriend to protect you?’
There is no answer.
‘Megan, lass – whatever’s going on – I can sort it.’ He jabs his breastbone with the tips of the fingers of his left hand, hard enough to make a double sound. ‘I don’t stand for this on my patch – and definitely not in my family.’
‘Ah’m not from thy family.’
‘Megan – I might not be a blood relative – but I am to your daughter – and that’s good enough for me. And wh
at’s it doing to Jess – her worrying about you?’
The woman emits a sarcastic hiss.
‘She don’t worry about us.’
Skelgill regards her severely.
‘But you worry about her, eh? She’s your bairn, after all.’
Megan Graham lowers her rebellious glare.
‘We can manage fine – thew just stay away from us.’
Skelgill lifts his head in a gesture of annoyance.
‘Have you told Jess to say that?’
Again there is no answer, just more defiance.
‘If someone’s putting you up to this – threatening you – I need to know, Megan.’
Skelgill harbours a secret respect for the woman’s tenacity – he recognises a stubborn trait that he has encountered in her daughter – but most of all he sees someone who is driven by an underlying fear; it is not anger that causes her to shake.
‘Megan – your Jess is a talent like I’ve never seen before. I’ve told you – she’s already well above county standard. She could go on to represent England – Great Britain, even. Think of what that could mean for her. The Commonwealth Games – the Olympics. She needs this breakthrough – it’ll put her on the map – the running clubs will come clamouring for her. Then she’ll get the right training and all the opportunities. It’ll give her the life you must have once dreamed about – for your bairn – think of that. What better thing could you do as a parent?’
Skelgill is a little startled by his soliloquy – that such sentiments were ready crafted, his lines learned, just waiting for the right stage in order to make themselves known to him. And, for a few moments, he sees Megan Graham’s features soften, her determination wavers. But then her eyes track to the top of the refrigerator – where, with a twinge of distaste, he notices an unopened polythene and paper medical blister pack. It contains a sterile syringe. Suddenly her expression hardens. She stalks past Skelgill, unlocks the back door, and holds it wide open.
‘I want thew to leave – now. Else I’m calling the police.’
Skelgill is about to remonstrate – but he realises there is no point getting into the argument that he is the police. Besides, although she perhaps doesn’t know it, she has a card up her sleeve that he cannot afford her to play. He stares for a moment at his unfinished tea. Then he rises. On the top step he turns – he puts one foot back on the threshold – for she is already tying to close the door. He pulls out his wallet. He extracts a business card and then the last few of his banknotes, which he folds around the card.
‘Think about it, lass. Think about Jess. My number’s on there.’ He holds out his offering. ‘Plus I just lost you a sale.’
She stares – her teeth are bared like those of a vampire being presented with a bunch of garlic. But then – though it might only be to get rid of him – she snatches it away and slams the door.
*
Skelgill returns to his shooting brake and sits broodingly. He is not intending to wait for something to occur at Megan’s Graham’s property, just for his feelings to settle upon some course of action. But nothing much seems about to happen in either respect. Finally, a tone above his head brings an interjection. He pulls down the sun visor and catches his mobile phone as it drops from its hiding place. There is a missed call from another local number that he does not recognise, and a subsequent voicemail. He taps to interrogate the latter – to his surprise it brings DS Jones’s voice – and her regular, less pronounced Cumbrian accent.
“Hi Guv – I’m at the drugs and alcohol recovery service. The manager here is briefed on our operation. So it means I can come for a consultation and use a secure landline in private. I just checked in with HQ. There’s something important – just in case it doesn’t reach you, er – as quickly as it might.” Skelgill grimaces – she is being euphemistic; she means that DI Smart will keep it under his hat. “The car that you discovered in Crummock Water – forensic reports have come back. Both fingerprints and DNA that match the Savages have been recovered from the interior. It looks like they were responsible for the death of Gordon Bennett.” Now she pauses – but in the background he hears a knock – and she is prompted to conclude. “Okay – that’s it – take care.”
Skelgill has his handset on speaker, and he suffers the menu options being repeated for a third time by the disembodied female automaton before he snaps out of his reverie and terminates the call. He shakes his head slowly – DS Jones telling him to take care! But the news is significant, and it prompts further pondering on his part. After a while he fastens his seatbelt and turns the ignition key. He sets off slowly, staring ahead – so he does not notice in his rear-view mirror a small silver hatchback that also pulls out, but performs a u-turn and speeds off in the opposite direction; in any event, it may just be a coincidence.
*
Skelgill takes the same route from Workington to Lorton Vale that he drove with Trish to the Kirkstile Inn. He suffers curious pangs of nostalgia for their journey in the open-top roadster – albeit that was barely a week ago. He reflects that Haystacks was reputedly Wainwright’s favourite summit – but if the old chap had been a motorist, then surely this would have been his favourite drive, a magic carpet ride through ever more awe-inspiring scenery. The day is bright, the elements rumbustious, right now big patches of blue are exposed overhead; it is spring-like, he considers. He spies a pair of buzzards twisting upon a thermal that rises off the wooded slopes of Burnbank Fell. A stoat scuttles across the narrow road and disappears into a lichen-encrusted dry stone wall. Green-veined white butterflies dance in shafts of sunlight above the damp verges. It is a day that belies the forecast of an approaching Atlantic depression.
At Low Lorton the two possible parking spaces outside the shop are taken, and he has to drive on to the local inn before he can find a vacant spot; he wonders how the shop does enough trade to survive when there is hardly anywhere to stop. In fact most of the houses in the village front directly onto the narrow road. They were built in the era of the horse and cart; nowadays distracted sightseers and impatient delivery drivers hurtle past at breakneck speeds; he would never feel safe in his bed, waiting for a ten-ton truck to come crashing into his dreams.
He has not warned Jess of his impending arrival – he intends to employ a similar presumptive tactic as that used with her mother. He checks through the glass door of the shop, peering between hand-scrawled postcards (“Small flock shearing – 1 to 30 – own equipment – very careful!” and “Wanted – second-hand books, especially mystery and suspense”) – but as far as he can ascertain Jess is not in there. Her suite of bedroom, sitting room and toilet, as well as being connected internally to the main domestic part of the property, can also be accessed via an external stone staircase at the rear of the building. He circles around and briskly climbs the dozen steps, worn concave from its long-gone days as a hayloft. The door into the sitting room is unlocked. He enters silently – but he realises he must announce his presence.
‘Jess – are you there, lass?’
He thinks he hears a murmur from the adjoining bedroom – the door is a fraction ajar. He steps forward and gingerly he pushes it open.
‘Jess – it’s me – are you decent?’
The bedroom is in twilight and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust – he realises she is lying, propped up, in a single bed that is perpendicular to the end wall of the house.
‘I can’t do the run – there’s no need for you to have come – you should just leave me.’
Her voice sounds frail – and yet he is encouraged that her tone lacks the surely affected anger that she had summoned to make the phone call. He sees that there is a wicker armchair on the left of the bed, next to the window that looks to the rear, where there will be a view over the Cocker floodplain to Fellbarrow. He adjusts the White Ensign cushion that reminds him the room is borrowed from her cousin in the Royal Navy; indeed in the gloom he can detect few signs of Jess’s goth paraphernalia. He sits and waits a few moments – though it is no
t his intention – he is simply wrestling with words that do not want to come easily. He falls back on the proposition that he put to her mother.
‘This run – it’s a life-changing opportunity for you, lass. Remember, I’ve been there.’
His words seem to pique her interest.
‘Then why are you –’
Skelgill does not exactly interrupt – for Jess truncates her own sentence, perhaps realising she is about to put her foot in it. However, Skelgill harbours no such sensitivities in her company. He gives an amused if ironic laugh.
‘Why I am a local bobby – and that’s all?’
Jess regards him guiltily.
‘I got injured, lass. That’s another story. But it’s all the more reason to take your chances. You have to strike while the iron’s hot.’
She sinks into silence, almost literally as her shoulders sag. She heaves a deep breath – there is the semblance of a grimace, as if she suffers discomfort. But Skelgill suspects any such disability is manufactured – or at the very least psychosomatic. Despite everything, her bearing is that of a basically healthy person; he detects no signs of real illness.
‘Has your Ma said sommat to you? Or has someone said sommat to her? If there’s any kind of trouble – you don’t need to worry, lass – you’ve got the local bobby on your side, remember.’
He grins, hearteningly – although a forced Skelgill grin always carries an element of the macabre. In any event, she is not looking at him; her gaze remains determinedly lowered. Nearly a minute passes before she answers.
‘I can’t do the run.’
Skelgill tenses with frustration – thinking he had made upward progress and now finds himself sliding backwards.
‘Come on, lass – this is not like you.’
Jess suddenly lurches forward and throws off her quilt. She rolls onto her knees and turns with her back to him. She is wearing just a pale slip as a nightie and she crosses her arms and draws it up until it covers her head. In the half-light there is the graceful sweep of her torso, a narrow waist and the swelling of her hips wrapped by a grey sporty thong. For a split second he suffers a flashback to Megan Graham and wonders just what her daughter is up to – and then her voice is harsh, redolent of her mother.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 47