DS Leyton looks like he is desperate to swivel around. Skelgill, for his part, can’t help staring – and now Ivanna Karenina meets his eye. She plies him with just the tiniest hint of a knowing smile – and he finds himself lowering his gaze. Meanwhile, DS Leyton seems enthused by the growing conspiracy.
‘Cor blimey, Jenny – sure you’re not working for the spooks?’
She laughs throatily again.
‘Perhaps the distinction is not always so great.’
But, rather than elaborate upon this cryptic remark, she continues to answer Skelgill’s inquiry.
‘The other three males – I have only just met. The spray-tanned he-man character is called Richard Bond – he wasted no time in telling me he is ex-Special Forces. It seems he is some kind of private venture capitalist, and the two sycophants are his junior colleagues, they were introduced to me as François and Egor. I leave it to you to determine who is who.’
She chuckles mischievously. Skelgill considers her challenge. The two men in question are a decade younger than their boss – one of boyish Mediterranean appearance, with dark eyes and long black hair; the other is apparently of Eastern European provenance, with a broad, round face, high cheekbones, cropped fair hair and pale grey eyes. It is apparent that Richard Bond is vying to hold court. He waves a bottle of Scotch whisky – and seems particularly keen to top up the glass of the former cabinet minister. Skelgill sees that the latter reclines rather smugly, as if he knowingly holds the strings of power within the company. However, he is plainly distracted. He has an arm draped along the upholstered bench seat, behind Ivanna Karenina – but he glances uneasily from time to time, for she is engaged in a prolonged tête-à-tête with DS Jones’s celebrated cabin mate, Wiktoria Adamska.
Sporadic laughter emanates from the group – but Skelgill notices that it is Richard Bond himself, his voice deep and resonant, that first guffaws at his own aphorisms, aped dutifully by his acolytes. And now his voice booms out, “Ruairidh, my good man – another bottle – your esteemed compatriot Sir Ewart is dying of thirst here.” Eck deigns to acknowledge his importance with a superior smile.
‘That only leaves the enigmatic American. You don’t happen to know who he is?’
Skelgill, lost in momentary reverie, finds himself nudged in the ribs by the sharp elbow of the journalist.
‘What?’
‘The preppy type – pretending to be engrossed in his phone – watching the others. Good looking, in a dull way.’
Skelgill shrugs rather indifferently.
‘We’re not regular travellers – not on the night train.’
‘But you are detectives – surely it is second nature to be inquisitive?’
‘You should see my in-tray. Inquisitive’s the last thing I need to be. You’re thinking of journalism.’
The woman makes a purring sound in her throat. She drains the contents of her glass.
‘Touché.’
Without warning, she now rises. Once more, it is impossible to judge whether the serpentine motion of the train is the cause of her unsteadiness. They watch as she employs one hand on the seatbacks and tables to return to the main group. It seems a fresh bottle of whisky has been procured. She picks up an unused glass and obtains a measure in both it and her own from the overtly gallant Richard Bond. But when he entreats her to sit beside him she rather airily declines – and instead totters across to the man she described as the American. Peremptorily she drops into the seat opposite him and slides the spare drink under his nose. Without raising his head he lifts his gaze. He seems unsurprised, rather like a poker player who knows that a meditative state conveys the fewest clues to one’s opponent. But Jenny Hackett has her back to them – and whatever she now says is subsumed beneath the clatter and rumble of the rails, and the ululating chatter of the group. However – it seems she successfully engages the anonymous traveller in conversation – for after a few moments he takes up the glass, signals cheers, drinks – and then responds to what must surely be her question about his identity and purpose in life.
‘She’s bonkers, Guv.’ DS Leyton stares at Skelgill for a moment and, getting no reaction, turns his head to look at DS Jones. ‘And what was all that about the broad you’re shacking up with?’
Now it is DS Jones’s turn to shrug. She is slow to reply – perhaps because she is replaying in her mind a moment in their cabin she has not related: when Wiktoria Adamska asked if later she might try on the dress that she so admired.
‘I – think – that was her just being provocative.’
‘I reckon that was her being three sheets to the wind!’
DS Jones seems content to go along with this explanation.
‘I’m sure you’re right. I suppose when you consider it, the drinks reception began almost seven hours ago. But I get the feeling she wouldn’t be slow in coming forward at the best of times.’
‘She hit us like a flippin’ tornado.’
DS Leyton’s remark leads to a few moments of silent contemplation – interrupted when the steward brings their drinks – although he seems harassed and does not dwell in depositing the cluster of glasses on their table. DS Leyton dishes them out.
‘There you go, girl – get yourself sobered up on that.’
DS Jones smiles good-naturedly.
‘Actually – I only had one cocktail – after that I stuck to water. They filled my wine glasses up at the table, but I never touched them. I didn’t want to take any chances for the morning.’
She refers to the fact that they left her car near Carlisle railway station; it will be their means of getting back to Penrith, where they rendezvoused before setting out together. DS Leyton chuckles.
‘Right enough – it would be a bit of a bummer to fail a breath test the morning after you’ve picked up a bravery award!’
DS Jones nods – but now Skelgill is prompted to speak.
‘What time do we get into Carlisle?’
Although DS Leyton is the keeper of their tickets, it is DS Jones that knows the answer.
‘It’s just before 5.30am, Guv. Then the train stops at Edinburgh at 6.44am before it heads for the Highlands.’
Skelgill suppresses a yawn and stretches his arms above his head – and DS Leyton seems to take a cue from his action.
‘I’m bushed, an’ all, Guv. I’m not normally up this late. Apart from most nights.’
DS Jones is amused by his contradiction.
‘Nah – what I mean is – we go to bed about ten – then, sure enough, one of the nippers’ll have us up for something or other. Sore throat. Bad dream. Jammie Dodger. The nights I sleep through – I wake up in the morning and think they must have been kidnapped by Peter Pan!’
Skelgill is checking his watch – the time is approaching 1am.
‘I’ve half a mind to do the all-nighter.’
But his bravado does not sound convincing. It has been a long day, requiring an early start, delays on their journey to London, nerves and adrenaline during the awards ceremony, speeches and formal dinner, and now the unfamiliar and challenging company on the night train. DS Leyton probably speaks for them all when he puts a counterpoint to Skelgill’s proposition.
‘Even a few hours kip – you’ll feel better in the morning, Guv. Reckon I’ll sleep like a log.’
3. BUMP IN THE NIGHT
Thursday, 4.45am
There can be little more frustrating than trying to get to sleep knowing that the window for slumber is rapidly drawing shut. Not that Skelgill had any difficulty in dropping off – more that ‘dropping off’ in a literal sense was what has woken him – the feeling that he is at any moment likely to be sent tumbling from his narrow bunk, the train driver unaccountably slowing and speeding up, when smooth progress is called for (and surely is achievable on an empty track). Once disturbed, Skelgill would always claim he never gets back to sleep – but this cannot be entirely true, for he wanders fitfully in the no-man’s land between true sleep and full wakefulness, where conscious thought
s and dreamlike images intertwine, and like a child’s model train set these confused ideas orbit repeatedly, further confusing the befuddled brain and distorting any sense of time. As a twist on counting sheep he has imagined the train’s steady progress through stations he knows to be on their route up country: Northampton, Rugby, Nuneaton, Tamworth, Lichfield, Stafford, Crewe – Midlands towns accompanied by curious images perhaps dredged from his memory and modified by his rewired brain: Northampton, worn brown leather boots; Rugby, an old-style stitched oval football (also brown leather); Nuneaton, a baker’s window jammed with pies (none eaten); Tamworth, a giant ginger sow with sagging udders; Lichfield, a three-spired cathedral; Stafford, medieval villagers armed with poles wading across a river; Crewe, sailors lined up in salute along the platform as if it were the deck of a carrier sliding out of port – but progress never seems to get beyond Crewe before they are back at Northampton (misleadingly named, a mere sixty miles from London) – and each time at Tamworth, the grunting of the pig – which has a familiar face and can only be DS Leyton beneath, blissfully dead to the world and experiencing no such nocturnal torment.
And amidst this disconcerting maelstrom in which time both stands still and leaps in stages there are other external stimuli that enter the kaleidoscope of his subconscious mind and blend with the incomprehensible drama. There is the pressure blast of tunnels, a sense of interminably holding one’s breath under water. There is the shriek of another train – like two great beasts jousting at high velocity at the very margin of their territories yet incredibly not colliding. There is the banging of doors and sliding of bolts – wakeful travellers using the washrooms? And there are voices – real or imagined? Are these words from dreams or words from the corridor? There are shambling footsteps and dull thumps of shoulders off bulkheads as if drunks stagger about. There is a hushed conversation in some unintelligible language – yet in his dream-state he invents a translation – it concerns the extortionate excise duty imposed on Scotch whisky and a means of laundering the raw liquid through the oil pipeline in the Firth of Forth. There is a woman’s voice, raised and sharp – is that, “Go away!” he hears her hiss? Perhaps someone has opened or tried the wrong compartment? And there is a woman’s laugh, throaty – sexy, even – drawn out, and then smothered in some way – by a kiss?
And then – a big bump.
‘Struth! Cor blimey!’
Skelgill is suddenly wide awake. His sergeant’s voice – and alarm – is real. And the only reason he has not joined him on the floor of the cabin is because the two vertical restraining straps that run between the frame of the upper bunk and the ceiling have done their job. There is no such luxury for DS Leyton in the lower bunk, where this protection is deemed unnecessary. He hears his sergeant scrabbling for his reading light.
‘I thought you’d shoved me out of bed, Guv.’
‘Leyton, we’ve stopped.’
‘We ain’t meant to stop that quick, Guv. Just as well I landed on me bonce. No damage done.’
Skelgill reaches to release the window blind. It clatters up.
‘Stick that light off a minute.’
DS Leyton does as bidden. Skelgill stretches his frame and presses his nose up against the glass. But there is only pitch darkness beyond – not even any light from the train cast upon the surroundings. But what he does see is so close as to be out of focus – the immediate accumulation of large flakes of snow, pressed onto the window by the easterly wind. It is Mrs Leyton’s much-vaunted Baltic Blast.
‘What time is it?’
‘Er – quarter to five, Guv – near as dammit, anyway – 4:47.’
Skelgill shakes his head in an effort to expel the lingering fragments of his imaginings. ‘I dreamt we were trapped in some loop in the Midlands – like the points were stuck and we were going round in circles. We must be in Cumbria by now. Maybe Kendal neck of the woods. Somewhere in the eastern fells.’
He jumps down from his bunk and begins to pull on his jeans and shirt. He starts as he is confronted by his reflection in a hitherto unnoticed mirror and he gives his hair a vigorous rub, to no obvious effect.
‘I’ll find out what’s going on. Check Jones is okay. Knock first, mind.’
‘Roger, Guv.’
While DS Leyton fumbles for his clothes and gasps as he pulls on his socks Skelgill slips out into the corridor. It is dimly lit by a series of bulkhead lights, but otherwise deserted. He is a little surprised – but he has acted promptly and supposes the other passengers are gathering their wits – although he thought he heard the sound of a compartment being opened and closed. As he approaches the vestibule the automatic dividing door slides open and he feels an icy draught. He rounds the washroom to be confronted by an incongruous sight – one that might even hark back to his nightmare. A muscular, tanned figure – naked but for boxer shorts, Richard Bond, the ‘he-man’ so-called by Jenny Hackett – has the left-side external door of the train open and is squatting and half hanging out as if he is preparing to leap.
‘What are you doing, man?’
Richard Bond swings around – his features contract into an expression of self-reproach – perhaps that he has been caught unawares.
‘Ah – just assessing the danger we’re in.’ He rises, and hesitates for a moment. He holds out large hands, palms upwards. ‘In case we need to bail out.’
Skelgill is grimacing doubtfully.
‘And?’
Richard Bond begins to speak in short staccato bursts, with a military precision. He appears distracted – as if he is counselling himself as much as Skelgill.
‘The situation looks stable. But the visibility is under three metres. It won’t be light for three-and-a-half hours. We’re sitting ducks for an avalanche. Snow depth increasing rapidly. Need to establish if there’s been an engine fire – explosion – whether it’s an act of terror.’
Skelgill appears unperturbed by such speculation – but he is concerned that here is a man inclined unilaterally to take charge of a situation.
‘You’d better close that door. The drift builds up on the leeward side.’
Richard Bond looks sharply at Skelgill. His features briefly contract into a mixture of suspicion – that Skelgill has said something knowledgeable – and perhaps regret that he has not said it himself. But sure enough snow is swirling back into the open portal as the wind sweeps relentlessly over the top of the carriage and creates a low-pressure vortex beneath. He slams shut the heavy door with some ease. He is about to speak when the intercom crackles. It heralds an announcement – as does the clearing of a throat, and then comes Ruairidh’s voice – guttural and rolling its r’s even more harshly than before, as if he too has been rudely awakened.
‘Ladies and gentlemen – this is yer guard speaking. Fae yer own safety please remain in yer cabins. A further announcement will be made shortly.’
Skelgill steps away from Richard Bond.
‘I’m going to have a word with the driver.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Skelgill ponders for a moment. He senses the time is fast approaching when he must pull rank – but for the sake of mere irritation there is little merit in making an enemy of Richard Bond. Brash he may be, he looks competent – and as things stand Skelgill has no idea of just how difficult is their predicament. There is Lyndon B. Johnson’s principle of inside and outside tents, and all that.
‘You better put something on.’ Richard Bond is about to object. ‘You might give the driver the wrong idea.’
Whatever Richard Bond thinks Skelgill means by this (and Skelgill is not sure himself) it seems to provoke second thoughts.
‘Just a moment.’ The man steps away, then he suddenly swivels on the balls of his feet, lightly for someone of such bulk. He extends a firm hand to Skelgill. ‘Bond, Richard Bond, former captain, SAS.’
Skelgill hesitates – not intending to delay the handshake – but uncertain of how much information to impart. He settles for giving his surname – it seems to suff
ice, as if that is pukka form in establishment circles. Then, as he strives to match the power of the man’s grip – a disadvantage for him, having a tendency towards sinistrality – a notion strikes him.
‘What was your specialism?’
For a fleeting moment the confident big-boned face crumples – but then it swiftly regains its determined set.
‘Desert warfare – but – there are similarities.’ He breaks away and treads silently. He calls in a whisper over his shoulder. ‘One minute, max.’
While he waits Skelgill crosses to the other side of the vestibule. Snow is rapidly building up on the window. He thinks about lowering it – but there is little to be gained. He saw enough on the leeward side of the train to begin to understand something of the conditions. There was no bare ground visible, not even protruding rocks, which tells him the fallen snow is already seven or eight inches deep. It is coming down thick and fast, and the drifting is rapidly coating the train. But he is encouraged that at least the power is on; he can feel the vibration of the diesels, so they have heat and lighting for the time being. He hears Richard Bond returning, and now leads the way into the next carriage, the lounge car. To Skelgill’s surprise they find a troubled-looking Ruairidh standing in discourse with a young woman who wears a similar uniform. Simultaneously the pair present anxious faces to the new arrivals. From behind Skelgill, Richard Bond calls out.
‘We intend to consult with the driver.’
Both staff members react with a furrowing of brows – as though this is some kind of mini-mutiny by the passengers. The woman breaks away from her colleague and bars the aisle. She is small and slender, her blonde hair is tied back, her features a little plain but pleasingly regular. Her uniform together with a determined glint in her blue eyes belie her size.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 55