‘Have you checked under the covers?’
‘Superficially, Guv. He’s wearing pyjamas. There’s no sign of blood or obvious injury.’
Skelgill bends and stares more intently.
‘How old do you reckon?’
‘Seventy-one. There’s an American passport in his attaché case.’
Skelgill pulls back.
‘American?’
‘He must be naturalised. It gives his place of birth as Prague. That would have been during the post-war communist era.’
Skelgill makes no response. Of his many weak suits at school, history rarely pricked his interest unless reference were made to the various annexations of his Celtic homeland – Roman, Viking, Norman – which simply raised his hackles, despite his obvious part-descent from at least one of these tribes.
He removes his gaze from the deceased man and makes a superficial inspection of the compartment. It is much as he would expect of an organised traveller having settled in for the night. The thick tweed suit is on a hanger. Worn but good quality brown leather brogues are pushed together beneath the bunk alongside a small trolley bag. On the shelf at the foot of the bed stand a plastic glass still in its sealed bag and half-drunk bottle of mineral water with the lid off. There is a wash bag on the folding shelf above the sink. And behind the door, opposite the head of the bed is the worn leather attaché case to which DS Jones has referred.
‘The light was off, aye?’
‘It was, Guv.’
Skelgill rotates slowly on his heel. He knows his sergeant is equally if not more eagle-eyed than he – certainly her attention to detail far outstrips his own. Yet his sixth sense tells him he is looking at something that is not quite right. He inhales through clenched teeth, in the way of an ex-smoker scarred by his habit. But if something is wrong... what is it? He exhales, hissing with dissatisfaction. He indicates with a jerk of his head that they should go.
‘Nowt’s going to change here in a hurry. This place will be like a deep-freeze in no time.’
DS Jones is nodding as they step out into the corridor and she makes sure the lock has engaged automatically.
‘Guv – just in case a rescue party makes it to the train – I’ve written a note with timings and details of what has happened and where we are going – it’s on the driver’s control panel. I figured that would be the first place anyone would look.’
Skelgill, with his back to her, grimaces in silent self-reproach. This basic principle he has overlooked in the greater melee. As he knows from bitter experience, there is little more exasperating than to be summoned to a spot only to find the ‘casualty’ has walked – leaving mountain rescuers ignorant of his or her fate. At least, as he strides on, he remembers to acknowledge his subordinate’s common sense with a thumbs-up sign.
They return pensively to the lounge car to be greeted by an eager Richard Bond.
‘All present and correct. Luggage roped on sledges, ready to go. The six younger men, including us, to haul them.’
Skelgill takes in that everyone seems to have on a paintball suit; they stand clutching their masks and gloves in nervous anticipation. In the camouflage material they look like raw recruits awaiting their first parachute jump and wishing they had visited the rest room. Laura, the driver, comes forward with an armful of gear for DS Jones. While she is dressing, Skelgill approaches Richard Bond and speaks quietly.
‘You lead. Take it steady. I’ll bring up the rear.’
Richard Bond nods decisively; he likes the idea of breaking trail.
‘Inspector, I propose a human chain to pass the luggage up the embankment. There ought to be enough of us to span the distance.’
Under some circumstances this would be a reasonable suggestion – a summer’s day, perhaps. Skelgill’s face reveals his objection. While he has no doubts about the capabilities of DS Jones, of the other four females he cannot be so confident; the cutting is steep and slippery underfoot. Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch is decidedly tubby and in his sixties; at the moment he looks like a lost schoolboy, with his pudding face and surprised expression. Neither does Ruairidh the guard strike Skelgill as particularly agile.
‘Why don’t you go up first with one of the ropes? That means you can start as soon as you reach the flag. Anchor it to the fence. Then everyone can use it to climb. Up top, get them to gather in the shelter of the bridge. I’ll tie on the bags – you can haul. I’ll send the sledges last of all – may as well hang onto them.’
‘Roger.’
It seems Richard Bond needs no convincing – he is programmed to respond to a plan. Skelgill clears his throat and calls out.
‘Ready?’ The reaction is muted, the atmosphere heavy with apprehension. ‘This is not a difficult walk. It’s three minutes to the bridge. Follow the tracks in the snow and keep close to the person in front of you. You won’t see far, but by all means use the torch on your mobile. There’s a short climb out of the cutting and after that it’s downhill through the shelter of the pinewoods. Hot cocoa awaits.’
‘Hah – how about a hot toddy!’
This is Jenny Hackett that chirps up. But her rejoinder raises only a half-hearted ripple of appreciation.
‘Happen we’ll know to look in the bar if we lose you in the woods.’ Skelgill grins wryly. He raises an arm to indicate towards the forward vestibule. ‘Okay – follow Mr Bond.’
As the passengers variously leap, clamber and are helped down from the open door into the swirling snowy darkness and keening wind, Skelgill finds himself last aboard with his two sergeants. The power now goes off and a moment later the driver appears. DS Jones switches on her mobile phone light. Skelgill first addresses his colleagues.
‘Mingle as you see fit. Keep your eye on the ladies – make sure no one drifts off course.’
He hands his colleagues down to the trackside to do as bidden. DS Leyton takes up the reins of a laden sledge, making the joke that his kids will be envious when they hear about his adventure. He moves off together with DS Jones; she goes quickly ahead to catch up with the main party. Skelgill assists the driver and then helps her to close the heavy door. It is plain she is distressed.
‘What’s up, lass?’
‘I feel like a captain abandoning ship.’
‘Don’t fret – you’re doing exactly the right thing. Once these folk are safe at the hotel you’ll be fine.’
‘But – it’s – the body – leaving it – alone –’
In the ambient light of his torch Skelgill sees her resilience crack – and without warning she lurches at him and he has no choice but to embrace her. He gets it – this is beyond what can be expected of her rank. He gazes apprehensively over the top of her head, but of course there is no one to see them. He feels her life force, coiled, hot almost, reminiscent of a wild creature, a rabbit extracted from a cruel snare, a ripe cushat blown down from its precarious platform of twigs, a pike even, unhooked and beginning to gasp. But she seems content in his clutches.
‘Hey up, Laura – I’ve had my knuckles rapped by a few Cumbrian lasses in my time – you’re tough as they come, you lot.’
But it takes a few moments for her tension to be conducted away, for her to nod and thus indicate that she is ready to stand unassisted. He releases her and takes a step back. ‘Come on, lass – we’d better not have them waiting in the cold.’ He points with his torch. ‘Howay – catch up while I get this sledge.’
*
Initial progress is not as swift as Skelgill has hoped. Though he suspects Richard Bond will be setting a challenging pace at the front, someone – or ones – in the party is decidedly tardy, thus Skelgill has to plod laboriously at the tail. He supposes, for folk unaccustomed to the outdoors, it is a test of their mettle. Even the skiers amongst them are unlikely to have ventured out in darkness into a bullying blizzard; and from what he has gleaned of the sport it is designed to eliminate exercise proper. They must feel more like evacuee submariners, wading in cumbersome diving suits along the seabed, such is t
he sensory deprivation and the constant buffeting of the gale.
But they make it to the bridge where those most advanced cluster around the marker. He sees that Wiktoria Adamska and Ivanna Karenina are clinging to one another, shivering. Jenny Hackett seems to be consoling a flagging Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch. DS Jones and DS Leyton circle like good sheepdogs. Skelgill stomps across to the foot of the embankment, finding the disturbance in the snow where he and Richard Bond have made a track – as he does so a rope comes snaking down; he knows that the ex-soldier will not have tossed it until it is secure – he gives two tugs and feels two in return.
Now he calls out for the group to line up; he sends a protesting Wiktoria Adamska first, followed by Richard Bond’s young colleague Egor – and continues with each female chaperoned by a competent male. Again progress seems painfully slow – but he understands that the unknown intensifies their trepidation. Eventually he despatches his sergeants and waits alone until the rope first becomes limp and then two more sharp tugs tell him it is clear for the bags. He might have made an argument that luggage should have been abandoned as an unnecessary luxury that could hamper their safe escape – but, frankly, he wanted his own gear – and should they be marooned for any length of time at the hotel, personal belongings will provide some small comfort. Besides – it has not been so difficult thus far, and now Richard Bond hauls at a prodigious rate; in short order Skelgill is sending up the six plastic sledges nested together, and setting off behind them. The sledges slip from sight, and a few moments later the rope unfurls once more – Skelgill, a quarter of the way up – avails himself of its extra stability, wrapping it around his left forearm. He feels Richard Bond, with good touch taking up the slack and indeed pulling him skywards with impressive strength.
He reaches the shoulder of the cutting to find the group huddled in the comparative shelter of the bridge. The trailer is already loaded with their luggage and the sledges stacked on end. Richard Bond has the rope coiled and slung diagonally over one shoulder; now he attaches it to the rear of the trailer, while DS Jones holds the reins, a calming hand on the unruly mane of the Fell pony. Richard Bond detects Skelgill’s scrutiny and calls across to him.
‘Inspector – your sergeant has offered to lead. I shall act as brake.’ In the light of his torch Skelgill detects a flash of self-reproach in the man’s expression – as if he has diagnosed an act of insubordination on his own part. ‘If that’s okay with you?’
‘Aye – let’s crack on.’
Skelgill realises that Richard Bond makes a good point – downhill through the forest there is little to stop the trailer running away on the steeper sections. He strides across to DS Jones and with his torch indicates the tracks in the snow that will take them into the woodland. He has to raise his voice to be heard above the wind.
‘Keep straight – after a minute the route takes care of itself.’
Skelgill counts them away – a full suit of thirteen beating hearts, his own included; what would he be – the King, the Ace – or the Knave, more like? But as they descend into the tunnel of the bridleway and the conditions moderate, he detects a corresponding lifting of spirits. Sensing the worst is behind them, hunched figures begin to straighten and play their lights upon their surroundings. There is even some cheerful if ghoulish banter, a debate likening their predicament to Babes in the Wood, trumped first by the suggestion of Deliverance and finally The Blair Witch Project. Skelgill speculates that they look more like pilgrims of old, lanterns lit for morale, journeying through the snow in anticipation of hearty respite at the old inn. It might almost be a scene from a Victorian engraving.
The pony is making good speed, and the party begins to string out. Skelgill is not perturbed – the dense pines on either side of the bridleway hem in his charges. It strikes him that if the firm that had booked the hotel had made it to Cumbria, once the storm abated they might have enjoyed a few days’ good fun. But, for his ‘company’, any such frivolity lies over the present horizon – it is not in his nature to count his chickens. On cue, there comes an ear-splitting shriek.
In the darkness ahead forms a sudden conflation of flickering lights and shadowy movements and raised voices; the torches converge – and Skelgill realises the focal point is the snow-filled shake hole over which he and Richard Bond had brooded. He breaks into a jog – and then accelerates as the most prominent cries (they are of a woman) become increasingly desperate.
‘I’m sinking! Help – I’m sinking!’
Skelgill does not wait to take in the precise circumstances – he calls out to Richard Bond – shining his flashlight to where he and DS Jones have brought the pony and trailer to a halt. Richard Bond responds – he stoops to untie the rope from the back of the trailer. Skelgill reaches the crowd at the edge of the shake hole. The plaintive voice continues in its despairing appeals. It belongs to the journalist, Jenny Hackett. She is up to her neck in snow.
Skelgill sees now that a prone DS Leyton, at full stretch, has a one-handed grip on her fingers – and he would be falling into the shake hole himself if it were not for the American, Bill Faulkner, who has his sergeant around the waist, and is lying half on top as if he has rugby-tackled him. In turn, Richard Bond’s colleagues, Egor and François each have a grip on one of Bill Faulkner’s legs. They appear to have reacted instinctively – and have succeeded – but at best it is a holding position. Skelgill swivels to see Richard Bond now approaching – the standing section of the rope is still coiled over his shoulder. Skelgill snatches the working end, passes it around his waist, ties what is probably the quickest bowline he has ever knotted in his life – and plunges into the pit beside Jenny Hackett.
He, too, sinks up to his shoulders – and immediately is reminded of the suffocating properties of drifted snow. But he knows he can rely on Richard Bond – and gains confidence as he feels the slack taken up. From close behind the stricken woman, he embraces her beneath the armpits and forms a double wrist-hold. She is wriggling furiously, and he tightens his grip. Instantaneously Richard Bond begins hauling them out – up and past DS Leyton, who in turn has to be judiciously dragged back, an inch at a time, by the human chain. Skelgill rises, lifting Jenny Hackett to her feet and passing her into the custody of the other females.
Only DS Jones is not amidst the throng at the lip of the shake hole. She has squinted anxiously from the darkness, keeping the pony in check. Skelgill calls out to her that all is well. People are variously reassuring Jenny Hackett, and gingerly patting her down to remove loose snow, and restoring the zip and Velcro fasteners of her suit, which have come undone. Richard Bond struts about barking instructions, but these are merely statements of their situation. Jenny Hackett sounds to be none the worse for her dramatic if brief ordeal.
‘I’m fine – I’m fine. Silly me – I just stepped too close. The edge gave way. What a troublemaker you must think me.’
Skelgill beats the snow from his own suit. When satisfied, he sidles across to DS Leyton. He lowers his voice.
‘Did you see what happened?’
DS Leyton is still recovering his breath.
‘Nah – just heard her scream – I ran towards the sound – someone was shining a light – just managed to reach her hand before she went any deeper. Lucky enough some geezer got hold of me by the goolies – else I’d have been eating snow. There should be a warning sign – that’s a flippin’ death trap, Guv.’
Skelgill decides now is not the moment for a lecture on the geology of the area. He pats his sergeant on the upper arm.
‘Good job, Leyton.’ But the praise must seem faint as peremptorily Skelgill turns and calls out to the group. ‘Let’s move before we start getting cold. Ten minutes and we’ll be there.’ He adds a rider. ‘Don’t stray from between the tracks made by the wheels of the trailer.’
As they file away the party remains close now, as if for safety in numbers, their chatter more subdued. Skelgill waits before bringing up the rear. He directs the beam of his torch onto the snow a
round the curved rim of the shake hole – but there is little to be gleaned; the snow is heavily trodden, and sloughed where he and Jenny Hackett were hauled out and DS Leyton pulled clear. But he ponders grimly for a moment, and the words of DS Jones’s ominous revelation echo in his thoughts. “Guv – there’s one passenger missing. And one dead.”
*
Rather ironically, as it turns out, Shake Holes Inn boasts fifteen public bedrooms, so it could have accommodated even a full complement of travellers. Ranged around the first floor, these are reached by a single ‘square’ corridor that traces the quadrangle, its windows overlooking the stable yard. As he presses his nose against the warped antique glass Skelgill watches mesmerised. In the winter dawn he sees that the sheltered courtyard is generating a vortex, akin to an eddy that betrays a deeper pocket in the bed of a stream. The flakes swim tirelessly before his eyes, like an immense shoal of fish. He speculates that in bygone days, for travellers muffled senselessly in greatcoats and blankets, it must have been an uplifting moment to hear the clatter of hooves upon the cobbles. For the horses, too, there was respite after an energy-sapping pull across the stony tracks of the windswept fells. That said, their little Fell pony had been reluctant to return to her stall, and had to be tempted with a nosebag of oats. Skelgill had observed DS Jones’s gently persuasive manner with the animal, while he and several of the men were handing the luggage into the tack room.
Together he and DS Jones had been last to reach the residents’ lounge – bedecked for Christmas with a tree and twinkling lights – to find the travellers ranged around a crackling log fire, immersed in contrasting aromas of pine resin and fried bacon, and furnished with piping hot tea from an urn. Skelgill had noted that Wiktoria Adamska and Ivanna Karenina merely nibbled at dry biscuits. The option of brandy had been called for – perhaps not unreasonably now in the case of Jenny Hackett – and several members availed themselves of its fortifying properties. Skelgill had contemplated tipping a measure into his tea – but why would you spoil a decent cuppa? The thought causes him to snap out of his trance – for in one hand he bears a recharged mug, and in the other a somewhat dog-eared Ordnance Survey map extracted from the library.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 59