Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Happen I am the driver.’

  At his back Skelgill hears an intake of breath – a female in charge is plainly not what Richard Bond had in mind. But Skelgill merely grins; the woman has a local Cumbrian accent.

  He decides, however, to cut to the chase – for the crew look in no mood to accommodate pushy members of the public – he can see they have enough on their plate. He slips his police warrant card from his back pocket, and holds it so that the woman only can read it.

  ‘I’m travelling back to Carlisle with two colleagues. They’ll be along in a moment. Anything we can do?’

  It seems he is correct in assuming the driver is the more senior of the pair – and she appears to appreciate that the Detective Inspector has established a kind of private understanding between them. She glances at the guard and then looks back at Skelgill with a faintly helpless grimace.

  ‘We’ve run into a massive snowdrift – it was like a wall of snow. Everything went pitch dark – it’s buried the entire loco and part of the first goods van. We’ve lost all traction. Forward and reverse.’

  ‘Do we need to abandon?’

  Skelgill says this with reluctance – but the driver nods to acknowledge that the greatest risk to a train that makes an unscheduled stop is that another one smashes into it.

  ‘No – so long as the signalling is not down entirely. As soon as Control sees we’ve not left this sector they’ll activate red lights behind us – in any event Penrith will miss us in a few minutes. Besides, the next train northbound is the local service from Lancaster, not until 5.56. I reckon the line behind us will be impassable long before then.’

  But Richard Bond picks up her initial point. He pushes forward, crowding alongside Skelgill in the aisle.

  ‘What do you mean, madam, so long as the signalling is not down?’

  The driver glances doubtfully at Skelgill – as if for his approval to share information with this stranger – Skelgill gives a barely discernible nod.

  ‘We’ve got no radio signal. The transmitters hereabouts must be iced up.’

  ‘We can use mobile telephones.’

  Now the woman brings her handset out of her shirt pocket. She glances at the guard and then waves it uselessly in the air.

  ‘We’re on different networks – we’ve got nothing.’

  Skelgill’s phone is in his cabin – but Richard Bond produces his own – and growls.

  ‘So, it seems, have I.’

  ‘This is always a dead stretch. Besides, the embankment’s sixty foot at its highest.’

  Skelgill’s expression becomes hopeful.

  ‘You know where we are?’

  ‘I think we’re in Shake Holes cutting.’

  ‘At Shap summit?’

  There is a note of concern in Skelgill’s question, and it is mirrored by the woman’s severe expression. The climb over Shap Fell is one of the most isolated sections of the entire West Coast Main Line.

  But Richard Bond pounces on the uncertainty.

  ‘You only think? Surely you have better systems.’

  Skelgill looks a little irked. He turns to the man.

  ‘You’ve seen it outside – you said yourself, the visibility’s not above ten foot.’ He reverts to the driver – like the guard, she wears a badge that displays only her Christian name, and now he uses it. ‘Laura – go on, lass.’

  She appears unmoved by Richard Bond’s implied criticism.

  ‘I’d say we passed through Oxenholme fifteen minutes before we hit the drift. There’s a snow fence to protect the cutting, but it was part demolished by gales in October. They said it wasn’t a priority to reinstate because it was only the east side that was damaged.’

  Skelgill nods grimly. But the Baltic Blast has defied the prevailing winds and is blowing from the east. The driver continues.

  ‘I felt the snow on the rails – there must be a gradual accumulation as the drift gets worse with altitude. Normally we can deal with up to a foot. But the gradient on Shap is 1 in 75 – and it’s a continuous ascent of a thousand feet – so we were barely making fifty – I realised we were fighting a losing battle. But at least it brought us to a controlled stop.’

  Skelgill grimaces wryly.

  ‘My oppo fell out of bed. He wouldn’t recommend the uncontrolled version.’

  Skelgill can sense that Richard Bond is itching to speak; if he were a schoolboy he would be jabbing his hand urgently skywards for attention. But he can contain himself no longer.

  ‘You say we’re on a steep incline. And the track behind us is clear of trains.’ He does not wait for the driver to reply. ‘We can detach the rear carriage. Roll back to safety.’

  This suggestion elicits a strangled ejaculation from the guard, which causes all eyes to fall upon him. Though when he makes a recovery his tone is suitably deferential.

  ‘Ye’ve been watching old movies, sir – the slip coach was phased out in the Sixties. There was a special coupling that could be released frae inside the carriage, and the guard used a manual brake tae bring it tae a halt.’

  ‘We can let the adverse gradient do that job, my man.’

  Skelgill has raised an eyebrow – albeit he has to admit to a small if reluctant pang of admiration for Richard Bond’s up and at ’em attitude. However, he is not surprised when the driver moves to quash the idea.

  ‘We don’t have the equipment to uncouple a carriage. Even if we were able to – without brakes we could derail on a bend. And there’s always the likelihood of workers on the tracks, de-icing points. It would be too dangerous. I couldn’t do that without clearance.’

  The driver’s objections are comprehensive. Richard Bond brims with frustration. Skelgill can feel his muscular form flexing, as though he is imagining himself singlehandedly shouldering the train into motion. And, frankly, if push came to shove Skelgill is sure that between them they could probably find a way. It is his inclination, too, to respond to their dilemma. But Richard Bond is treating it as a military training exercise, a challenge to be overcome by brute force and lateral thinking, and to hell with the consequences.

  On this particular score the driver is right. The relevant authorities will soon be alerted – as with planes, at least there is a system in place for trains to be monitored. That the same cannot be said for automobiles, however, raises a problem for the passengers stranded on board the Midnight Express. If the forecasters’ prophecy of three days’ snow proves accurate, there will not be the resources to come to their aid. Priority of rescue will be given to hundreds if not thousands of motorists trapped in their cars, some no doubt with ill or elderly or very young passengers. And, even if the means of access were clear, the train is stranded in a near-wilderness area. Country lanes and farm tracks will be impassable. Helicopters will be grounded. One small aspect in their favour is their lack of communication – central command will want to know the degree of danger they are in. But, as a longstanding volunteer in the mountain rescue, it is plain to Skelgill – what would the emergency services actually do if they came in on foot with a satellite phone? Call to say all was well and stay until the Glenmorangie ran out?

  The train driver is watching him closely. She seems to know his thoughts. She glances briefly at the guard, and then returns her gaze to Skelgill.

  ‘We think we’re safest on board. We’ve power – heating – food supplies – and,’ she grins wryly, ‘flush toilets.’

  Skelgill is about to remark – but it is perhaps just as well that at this juncture the sliding door announces the arrival of DS Leyton, followed by DS Jones – both looking a touch dishevelled. Skelgill catches DS Jones’s eye – and she gives him a little nod to indicate all is well. He suggests they take seats in the area where Richard Bond had formerly held court. He makes the relevant introductions. At this point it becomes apparent, to those who do not yet know, what must be their occupation. Richard Bond addresses Skelgill – quite respectfully, as though conditioned by martial protocol and perhaps assuming that Skelgill effecti
vely ranks above him.

  ‘Excuse me – are you British Transport Police?’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘We’re common-or-garden detectives.’ He pauses. ‘But as it happens we’re based about ten miles from here.’

  DS Leyton cannot help intervening.

  ‘C’mon, Guvnor – you’re doing yourself down.’ He holds out an arm towards Skelgill as though he is introducing him to the three civilians. ‘He’s in the mountain rescue.’

  Skelgill frowns as though annoyed by the revelation – but he can sense that Richard Bond is eager for commensurate recognition. He makes a similar sweeping gesture as that employed by his sergeant.

  ‘This fellow – Mr Bond – has military experience. I reckon he knows a thing or two about sticky situations.’

  Richard Bond’s reaction is an even less convincing affectation of modesty than that exhibited by Skelgill.

  ‘Please – just call me Richard – I rather feel Bond might unrealistically raise your expectations.’

  He brays at what must surely be an old chestnut as far as he is concerned – but then his face falls when he does not get quite the response he anticipated. Skelgill instead launches into a succinct and somewhat terse assessment of their circumstances, in order to bring his colleagues up to speed. Characteristically, it falls to DS Leyton to make light of the matter.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – I’ll be in the doghouse if I’m not back for Christmas Eve. The missus will never pass for Santa!’

  His riposte generates a ripple of polite and slightly nervous laughter – for many a true word is spoken in jest, and perhaps the prospect of spending several days together begins to sink in. The strained hilarity tails off. But a strident electronic bleeping abruptly punctures the little bubble of pensive silence that envelops them. Its source is above the bar area. Skelgill looks questioningly at the driver.

  ‘Laura – what’s that – a smoke alarm?’

  But she has risen to her feet and is shaking her head.

  ‘Carbon monoxide.’

  ‘What – in here?’

  ‘I don’t know. The alarms are all connected in series – when one goes off, they all do. I’ll be able to tell from the control panel in the cab.’ She has her hands on her hips, emphasising her small frame and narrow waist. Her features are creased anxiously. ‘But I’ll need to shut off the diesels. It’s a safety regulation. It’s potentially life-threatening.’

  Skelgill curses under his breath.

  Richard Bond slaps a hefty palm on the low table before him.

  ‘The exhausts must be blocked by the snow. Do you have shovels on board?’

  All eyes have turned to him – but now the driver inhales to speak and regains their attention.

  ‘The exhausts discharge directly above the engines.’ She glances at the guard for corroboration; he nods, though his expression is doubtful. ‘From the glimpse I got as we plunged into the drift, it’s at least the height of the train again. You could be talking fifteen foot of snow on top of the loco.’

  Skelgill is thinking it is probably too risky to tunnel into a deep snowdrift, even if there are shovels and they were able to scale the streamlined fuselage in the raging blizzard. Meanwhile the alarm continues to bleep, like a timer counting down their decision time. He presses the driver.

  ‘Have you got a back-up system?’

  ‘A bank of auxiliary batteries. Fully charged they last four to six hours.’

  ‘What about if we just heat this carriage?’

  ‘Maybe twelve - fourteen?’

  There is no reason she would know. Skelgill scowls broodingly. Richard Bond rocks to and fro in his seat, as if formulating his next scenario for escape. Skelgill has a further question.

  ‘What temperature was it reading outside?’

  ‘Minus eight Celsius as we came up Shap Fell.’

  DS Leyton splutters.

  ‘Cor – if that ain’t brass monkey weather, I dunno what is.’

  Skelgill’s brows are knitted, such that an uninformed observer might wonder if he is calculating the heat transfer coefficient of a modern railway carriage. In fact a more practical task occupies his thoughts: the unfolding of his mental map of Cumbria.

  ‘Laura – what bad weather kit have you got on board?’

  The woman glances at the guard and then again at Skelgill.

  ‘There’s two drysuits and gaitered boots. They’re standard issue – kept on every train, in the brake van.’ She inclines her head towards the front of the train. ‘They’re one size – way too big for me.’

  She suddenly looks a little guilty, as if realising her conclusion makes her sound uncooperative. But Skelgill is unperturbed.

  ‘Happen that’s what I wanted to hear, lass.’

  He turns to Richard Bond, who looks like a dog that has overheard the word ‘walkies’. Indeed, before Skelgill can speak, he blurts out a proposal.

  ‘If we strike due east into the wind we’ll eventually meet the M6. Even if the road is closed we can call in assistance from the nearest emergency telephone.’

  He regards Skelgill eagerly, imploring his approval. While Skelgill knows this is not the worst plan it paints a picture in his mind fraught with uncertainty. The nearest point on the M6 is two miles away, across treacherous moorland. As DS Leyton related, the M6 was closed hours ago; the exposed stretch over Shap Fell will be blanketed by snow; at best they will find stranded vehicles, possibly abandoned, their occupants rescued. If the national grid is down, the emergency telephones will not be working.

  DS Jones can see that her superior is conflicted.

  ‘What are you thinking, Guv? Do you want to try to dig out the exhausts?’

  But Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘I doubt we could do it – the drift would collapse on us.’ But he glances at Richard Bond, and bows his head as if to make some concession to his latest suggestion. ‘I reckon we need to get out of here, right enough – once our power’s gone we could freeze to death if we’re stuck long term. Down in this cutting, the whole train could become entombed. But if we’re right about our position, there’s a possible answer.’ He looks now to the driver – for a moment she is distracted, staring anxiously back down the carriage to where the alarm continues to sound. But his words penetrate her thoughts and she turns her eyes to him, her expression hopeful. ‘There’s a hotel – Shake Holes Inn – it’s in the middle of nowhere – like us. It’s probably under a mile. Happen it’ll be cut off itself – but they’ll have oil-fired boilers, plus open fires and plenty of timber. It would be a safer place to be.’

  DS Jones is quick to identify what may be Skelgill’s most pressing concern.

  ‘How would you find it?’

  Now he again looks interrogatively at the driver.

  ‘Laura – do you remember – before we stopped – did we pass the footbridge over the cutting?’

  The woman looks momentarily alarmed – but then she nods eagerly.

  ‘Aye – it were just seconds before – then we hit the bank of snow – and I were thinking it were virtually the same height as the bridge.’

  Skelgill is nodding slowly. Again it is DS Jones that attempts to join up the dots. It seems she can envisage something of the solution.

  ‘Are you thinking of one person at a time – with a guide – since there are two outfits?’

  But now Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘Shake Holes Inn does outdoor activities. They provide gear for their guests – for quad-biking – that sort of thing. They’ve got sledges and whatnot for kids.’ Skelgill looks pointedly at Richard Bond. ‘There’s a bridleway that goes over the footbridge into a pinewood. The hotel sits on the far side of the plantation – the path ought to be sheltered. We could drag enough kit back here. In the process we’ll beat down a decent track. Then set out together in close formation. We’d have the wind at our backs. Even taking it steady we ought to cover a mile in half an hour.’

  Bond is nodding. In fact he
is compelled to rise to his feet. He rubs his large hands vigorously together. ‘Ready when you are.’

  The train driver is becoming increasingly agitated.

  ‘I need to turn off the diesels. The black box will be recording everything – I’ll be failing in my duty if I don’t respond to the carbon monoxide warning.’

  Skelgill regards her earnestly.

  ‘We’ll get this kit on. No point letting the grass grow.’ He turns to DS Jones and DS Leyton and the guard, Ruairidh. ‘You’d better get everyone up and organised. Tell them to put on warm sensible clothes, if they’ve got any. Assemble in here – keep the interconnecting doors shut as much as you can. Brief them on the plan.’

  The driver moves swiftly, she is light and agile on her feet, followed by Skelgill and Richard Bond. As they weave through the serving area Skelgill hears DS Jones ask the guard if he has a manifest of passengers.

  4. RECONNAISANCE

  Thursday, 5.30am

  As he leaps into the dark Skelgill recalls Richard Bond’s expression about bailing out – it had seemed curious at the time, but on reflection it was perhaps not so inappropriate, as stepping out of an aeroplane at night would maybe not feel so different – at least for the half second before his borrowed boots thump into the thick snow, and his momentum causes him to tumble forward onto hands and knees. The overall is not a bad fit, everything considered. Skelgill has a lean frame; but Richard Bond, despite being of about his own height, must weigh a good three stones heavier and the snug suit cannot be so comfortable. They each have a rubber-armoured flashlight – but as Skelgill gets to his feet it becomes immediately apparent that these are as much a hindrance as a help; the beam reflects off the swirling snow that chokes the ether, and offers no distance penetration, merely the impression of a cocoon of whiteness at arm’s length.

  Skelgill has briefed Richard Bond on his plan. They follow the railway line back to the footbridge. They scale the embankment – wherever it is least overgrown with briar. Once on the bridge, they locate the bridleway that runs into the pinewood on the west side of the railway. Provided they can stay on the track, it will guide them to the vicinity of Shake Holes Inn. He was impressed by the way the man paid attention – he listened intently – and then asked just two questions, employing bullet points, what was a) the bearing and b) distance of the hotel from the footbridge?