Skelgill is nodding slowly. He is reminded of Marty’s desire to get his hands on old Ernie’s car – it would have fitted the Savages’ bill exactly.
‘What about his assistant – the woman, Trish?’
‘Oh, yeah, Guv – now there’s a story. In the aftermath of looking for you we found a set of keys on Connor Bagman – and there was the car – a silver hatchback parked at Gatesgarth. He’d sourced it from your cousin Marty’s place, too – except good old Marty didn’t know anything about it. The lovely Trish has been double-dealing – she handled it and agreed to put it through in the name of Megan Graham – so there was no admin to connect it to Bagman. If you ask me, Trish has got a bit of a drugs problem, Guv.’ DS Leyton wipes an index finger across his septum and flashes Skelgill a knowing look. ‘That would explain a lot. She’s not admitted it, yet – but it looks like she took a sizeable commission out of the sale – and we reckon she’s done more than a dozen deals like that. Turns out she was sacked from her last place for the same kind of thing, though they couldn’t prove anything. Reckon your poor old cousin Marty’s been fleeced left, right and centre. Maybe when you’ve got your feet back under the desk you can have a go at getting Trish to come clean, Guv?’
Skelgill suspects this might be one interview he will pass on – but he has a lot to process – not least that Trish has turned out to be a wrong ’un, as his sergeant might put it, and that she may have been leaking information to Connor Bagman – for instance when Skelgill was taking Jess up to find the Shepherd’s Rake; and if all along she knew he was a detective, she would have guessed what he was trying to find out. He is glad he kept his cards as close to his chest as possible; and any lingering feelings of guilt about liberties he may have taken are assuaged. And he feels relief, too, in that flesh and blood, albeit distant, seems to be coming out on the side of the law. Megan Graham came good at the eleventh hour, Mouse excelled himself in marshalling his alliance for the cause of law and order, and Marty Graham seems much more of a victim than any of his unsuspecting customers have ever been. The thought of Marty’s Motor Mart prompts his next question.
‘What about the Mercedes? I don’t reckon Trish knew about that.’
DS Leyton looks like he agrees.
‘Connor Bagman was using it as a second car – I suppose when he wanted to travel incognito – like when he followed the Savages’ BMW to Salterbeck. He’d scammed it off the elderly lady owner – turns out she’s a distant relative of the old fellow Booth, occasionally visited him – rarely used the motor. Bagman had told her it had something wrong with it and he’d fix it up – he was keeping it hidden in the garage behind Mr Booth’s address in Hempstead Avenue. And we found the missing moped in there. The chain of events there is that the drug mule kid who nearly died really is some kind of nephew of the old fellow. That’s how he came to be there in the first place. Connor Bagman got his hooks into the kid – and so came into contact with Mr Booth – and in turn the old lady with the Merc. Thankfully no harm had come to her – she’d gone to stay for a month at her sister’s place, down in Bournemouth.’
Skelgill makes a rueful clicking sound with his tongue – he ought to have investigated that garage – it might have cut some corners. He might not be lying here!
But now there is a knock and the door opens. DS Jones is back from reuniting Jess with her mother. She barges in bearing a tray and the aroma of fried bacon permeates the antiseptic air. Skelgill’s nostrils twitch involuntarily, and his stomach rumbles in anticipation of his first solid food in almost a week.
‘I had to go to the visitors’ café – it’s too early for them to bring round the hospital lunches.’
She hands DS Leyton a mug and puts one aside for herself – Skelgill’s eyes are on stalks. And then she places the tray on Skelgill’s lap – a mug, and all three bacon rolls.
‘We stopped for breakfast on the way over, Guv.’
Skelgill demolishes the first roll as if he has been holed up in the hills for a month. Then he pauses for breath, and indicates to the laptop, which is still on the bed beside him.
‘DS Eve – I saw her on that tape.’
‘She’s gone back down to Manchester, Guv – she’s promised to phone as soon as we let her know you’re okay. No point her hanging around, since Bagman’s dead and the Savages are bang to rights. She said to congratulate you for nicking the lot of them single handed – and to remind you she told you there was no end to your talents!’
DS Leyton ends his explanation with a chuckle, as though he is amused that a fellow officer would shower such lavish praise upon Skelgill – but Skelgill glances a little self-consciously at DS Jones, and then makes a rather pained face, as if to dismiss the matter. However, there is an aspect that plainly needles him.
‘Who was the blonde she was with?’
‘That’s her partner, Guv.’
‘What – from her team in Manchester?’
DS Leyton looks a touch uneasily at his boss.
‘She’s not in the police, Guv – she’s her actual partner, you know – civil partner?’
‘What – they live together?’
DS Leyton turns optimistically to DS Jones – but she shrugs.
‘Dunno, Guv – I suppose so – they’re as good as married, aren’t they? The other lady had come up for the weekend. Seems they’re both into motorcycles.’
Skelgill decides to park any thoughts about this revelation until a later date. His reference to the video has reminded him of the most cavernous gap in his knowledge – prompted by DS Leyton’s words of regret about his missing the nail-biting climax of the race.
‘How did you find me – us?’
‘It was two of your brothers, Guv – Gareth and John, right?’ (Skelgill nods.) ‘When we realised you were missing – Jess explained about that shortcut – they seemed to know where to find you – that you had a little hidey-hole up there – on a ledge. And they knew the quickest way. They carried you down, Guv.’
Once again Skelgill feels a lump forming in his throat. Their local knowledge might have saved vital minutes. Then again, he is slightly peeved that after all these years they have admitted to knowing about his supposedly ‘secret’ spot. Evidently there is nothing new under the sun. Never mind – the rock shelf had saved his life – that and the drug dealer who cushioned his fall. And DS Leyton continues on this theme.
‘We thought you were a goner, Guv – lying still as a corpse in a great pool of blood – until we realised you were on top of that geezer. ’Orrible sight it were when we pulled you off – his head all smashed open. You were lucky, Guv – just the gunshot impact and a whack on the bonce. Mind you – this last few days, we’ve been worried you’d got brain damage.’
‘Leyton – me brothers knocked that into us – didn’t they tell you that?’
DS Leyton grins.
‘And – you missed the World Cup, Guv.’ But now DS Leyton sighs. ‘We lost to Germany on penalties. Still – Jamie Nobble won the Golden Boot. Maybe next time, eh?’
Skelgill grimaces as though he does not share his sergeant’s optimism. And somehow the accomplishment of the national side does not seem to hold any great interest for him at this juncture. DS Leyton checks his watch and rises as if he needs to leave.
‘I’ve arranged to observe an interview with the younger of the Savages, Guv. He’s singing like a canary. We’ve got nailed-on forensics – and he’s fingering his cousin as the killer, for a lesser rap of accessory – so much for honour amongst thieves.’ He grins at DS Jones, who nods comprehendingly. ‘Obviously it has to be me – being as I’m too old to have passed as a potential drug dealer.’
He refers to DS Jones’s undercover role, which precludes her involvement, other than as a witness. He makes further apologies, and entreats his boss to take it easy, and he leaves – it must be said – in a considerably more chipper mood than when he arrived in the private room an hour earlier. Skelgill is left alone with DS Jones. She slides into the seat v
acated by her colleague.
‘And you thought I was taking a risk, Guv.’
‘You were – they were armed, too.’
‘Except I’m certain they didn’t know my true identity. It was just bad luck that I ended up in the firing line. Up until then they’d been really nice to me.’
‘Aye – except that’s how it starts out – you know that, Jones.’
She nods a little reluctantly. After a moment she resumes her point.
‘Did you know he’d be up there with a gun?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘It’s always a possibility.’ Now he gives an ironic laugh. ‘Happen I owe the bloke I bought the jacket from a pint.’
‘You can’t have made many better investments, Guv.’
But Skelgill responds with a gasp of dismay.
‘Don’t mention investments – the only good reason for being in here is my bank manager can’t get at me.’ He grins wryly. ‘Nor the Chief, come to that.’
A short silence ensues. DS Jones smiles patiently; it is a look of diffidence – and it reminds Skelgill that she has shed the undercover persona – here again is the smooth tanned skin and even features, her naturally streaked blonde hair brushed and glossy, her manner quietly alluring.
‘And reasons for getting out?’
Her tone is teasing. Skelgill’s expression is correspondingly bashful.
‘Aye – well – there’s something –’
‘Which is?’
‘Find that missing running shoe of Jess’s.’
DS Jones laughs. But she regards him with affected reproach.
‘When are you thinking of doing that, Guv?’
‘Just as soon as you can disconnect all these tubes.’ He alters position and exclaims as some pain afflicts him. ‘I’ll need your help. I’ll buy you a pint after – takeaway – you name it – anything I can put on a credit card.’
‘I feel as though we’re talking needles and haystacks, Guv.’
‘We’re certainly talking Haystacks.’
***
Next in the series
MURDER ON THE MIDNIGHT EXPRESS?
WHEN the exclusive London-to-Edinburgh sleeper plunges into a snowdrift deep in the Cumbrian fells, DI Skelgill awakes to discover one fellow passenger dead and another missing.
Through a blinding blizzard Skelgill leads a daring evacuation – but even before they reach the sanctuary of an isolated coaching inn, a third traveller suffers a life-threatening mishap.
As suspicion pervades the elite group of apparent strangers, Skelgill has to face an uncomfortable question. Could it be that the dead man – a world authority on money laundering – has been silenced? And is a ruthless conspiracy afoot to gain possession of his incriminating memoirs?
Cut off without communications, surrounded by treacherous moorland, Skelgill must conduct a clandestine investigation. He faces a race against time – and the knowledge that, if he shows his hand, more innocent lives will be at risk.
‘Murder at Shake Holes’ by Bruce Beckham is available from Amazon
Bruce Beckham
__________
Murder at Shake Holes
Book 13
LUCiUS
Text copyright 2019 Bruce Beckham
All rights reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition first published by Lucius 2019
Paperback edition first published by Lucius 2019
For more details and Rights enquiries contact:
[email protected]
Cover design by Moira Kay Nicol
EDITOR’S NOTE
Murder at Shake Holes is a stand-alone crime mystery, the thirteenth in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It is set primarily in and around the English Lake District – a National Park of 885 square miles that lies in the rugged northern county of Cumbria.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Murder in Adland
Murder in School
Murder on the Edge
Murder on the Lake
Murder by Magic
Murder in the Mind
Murder at the Wake
Murder in the Woods
Murder at the Flood
Murder at Dead Crags
Murder Mystery Weekend
Murder on the Run
Murder at Shake Holes
Murder at the Meet
Murder on the Moor
Murder Unseen
(Above: Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates)
Murder, Mystery Collection
The Dune
The Sexopaths
Glossary
Some of the British dialect words, slang and local usage appearing in ‘Murder at Shake Holes’ are as follows:
Adam an’ Eve – believe
Aboot – about
Ah – I
Arrows – darts
Ars – I am
Bait – packed lunch/sandwiches
Baltic – freezing cold
Beck – mountain stream
Blag – persuade by guile
Blighty – Britain
Bob – shilling
Bonce – head
Buckshee – free
Cannae – cannot
Cooking lager – standard quality lager
Cushat – wood pigeon
Dae – do
Deek – look/look at
Derby – belly (= Derby Kelly)
Didnae – did not
Dinnae – don’t
Donnat – idiot
Fae – for
Foily – smelly
Frae – from
Goolies – testicles
Gregory – cheque (= Gregory Peck)
Half-inch – steal (= pinch)
Heid – head
Her indoors – wife
High heid yin – boss
How’s-your-father – sexual intercourse
Hunners – hundreds
Irn-Bru – a Scots brand of soda, reputedly made from girders
Jimmy – urinate (Jimmy Riddle = piddle)
Jimmy hat – tartan cap with fake ginger hair
Karsey – toilet
Keg palace – pub that does not serve real ale
Kegs – underwear
Ken – know; you know
Lass/lassie – girl, young woman
Marra – mate (friend)
Mind – remember
Mithering – bothering
Nobbut – only
Oche – line from behind which darts are thrown (pronounced ‘ockey’)
Owt – anything
Pissed – drunk (inebriated)
Polis – police
Reet – right
Scooby – clue (= Scooby Doo)
Scratting – scratching
Shake hole – collapsed shaft/sinkhole in limestone
Spring-heeled Jack – a mythical urban figure capable of leaping over buildings
Sommat – something
Tae – to
Tea leaf – thief
The Smoke – London
Twat – to hit
Us – me
Wasnae – was not
Wean – infant
Went – gone (Scots)
Yer – your
Yin – one, person
Youse – you (plural)
List of characters
The detectives:
DI Skelgill, 37 – Cumbrian
DS Jones, 26 – Cumbrian
DS Leyton, 37 – Londoner
And, in order of appearance:
Ruairidh McLeod, 59 – Scots; train guard & steward
Richard
Bond, 42 – naturalised British citizen; venture capitalist, former soldier
Egor Volkov, 28 – Russian; employee of Richard Bond
François Mouton, 29 – French; employee of Richard Bond
Wiktoria Adamska, 32 – Russian; fashion designer, former supermodel
Jenny Hackett, 44 – English; journalist
Ivanna Karenina, 39 – Russian; TV producer
Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch, 63 – Scots; TV presenter, former Cabinet Minister
Bill Faulkner, 39 – American; banker & tourist
Mikal Mital, 71 – naturalised American citizen; academic
Laura Wilson, 34 – Cumbrian; train driver
Mr Harris – details unknown; passenger
Samanta, 25 – Lithuanian; housekeeper
Joost Merlyn, 46 – South African; hotel landlord
Lucinda Hobhouse, 38 – English; equestrian
1. LONDON EUSTON
Wednesday, approaching midnight
‘Looks like we’ve made it, Guv – there she blows.’
The trio of Skelgill, Leyton and Jones – Skelgill flanked by his sergeants – cut a slightly incongruous jib as they lurch at something between a fast walk and the beginnings of a jog across the polished concourse of what is, by London standards, a relatively deserted Euston Station. Of course, there is nothing unusual about three people hurrying for a train – it is a daily occurrence (if not de rigueur) in all of the capital’s many rail termini – nor even particularly that they are clad in formal attire – at this time of the evening, approaching midnight (and especially this time of year, the last Wednesday before Christmas) thousands of revellers are on the great city’s neon-bathed streets seeking transport home, the majority, it must be said, unsuitably dressed and swaying on kerbs hailing in vain cabs that are already hired. No, if there is any inconsistency, it is something just hinted at by a small matter of detail: where DS Leyton and DS Jones tow wheeled trolley bags, black like their outfits and in keeping with their general smart appearance, Skelgill has on his shoulder a worn and faded army issue khaki rucksack. But his counter: why struggle with a daft trolley when you can have both hands free to repel would-be muggers? And no need to worry about it being snatched when your back is turned. Of course, for someone in the know there is a much greater discordancy – indeed a virtual oxymoron – that of Skelgill in a dinner jacket and dicky bow. It is along such lines that he is evidently thinking.
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