The party safe, breakfast and room allocation completed, Skelgill’s priorities have moved on. A clock somewhere is striking three-quarters, and he pulls himself away from the view of the courtyard and turns to the door immediately opposite – on which he knocks.
‘Just come in!’
The main landing running around the inside of the building, the bedchambers accordingly offer external views, as it happens almost precisely to each of the four points of the compass. In the case of this room – allotted to DS Jones – its windows face due east, and Skelgill sees that the sill and the mullions are piled high with snow, filtering the twilight, and his colleague has switched on the bedside lamps. There is an air of cosiness, enhanced by the muted sough of the wind. DS Jones herself is kneeling beside the nightstand on the far side of her bed, twiddling with the knobs of an old-fashioned analogue radio.
‘I feel like we’ve been transported back in time, Guv.’
Skelgill stands at the door, his expression pensive. When he scrutinised the hotel brochure he had been more struck by the lack of fishing as an activity, when hereabouts numerous little trout becks spring from the limestone. But now he recalls an unpunctuated quotation that had boasted: “no WI-FI no MOBILE no TV no STRESS”. On reflection, this might be a case of making a virtue out of thrift, for investment does not appear to feature large in the present management’s marketing strategy.
‘They say it does you good.’
DS Jones understands his remark to be rhetorical, if a little sarcastic in tone.
‘Even this old wireless set, Guv. It’s just long and medium wave. If they’re all like this we shan’t be able to get Radio Cumbria.’
‘Let’s hope we’ve made the national news, then.’
Skelgill places his mug on the adjacent nightstand and casts about the room – but he decides the double bed is the best place for his map; he flicks it out with the practised ease of a chambermaid spreading a fresh sheet. He balances with one knee and both hands on the counterpane and leans rather precariously over the newly revealed landscape.
‘That’s the BBC – I’ll turn it up when we hear the pips.’ DS Jones clambers lightly onto the foot of the bed and settles into a side-saddle position. She is sockless and Skelgill notices the meticulously silver-painted nails that had complemented her head-turning cocktail outfit of the previous evening. ‘Where are we, Guv?’
Skelgill has to steady himself before he can raise a hand. He makes a series of downward sweeping movements, lines that run in parallel to the eastings of the grid.
‘M6. West coast main line. A6.’ He indicates to a spot near the centre of the map. ‘There’s the pinewood – there’s the hotel.’
‘What’s the scale?’
‘Two-and-a-half inch – to the mile. Probably makes things look further than they are.’ He glances at the window. ‘Then again, in these conditions, can’t be too careful.’
‘The journey was less demanding than I expected, Guv.’
‘Aye – the trick is not to be lost.’ He turns his head to regard her, his expression strained. ‘Lost – that’s another kettle of fish altogether.’
DS Jones nods reflectively. Then she brightens and casts a hand over the map.
‘What are you thinking, Guv?’
Skelgill is silent for a few moments, his expression still grim. He stares at the patchily coloured sheet, although his gaze seems to be clouded.
‘While it’s like this, we sit tight. I want to hear the forecast as much as the news.’ He measures out with his left thumb, like a tailor estimating cloth. ‘There’s farms within a mile or two – but if they’re in the same state as us – no communications, maybe no power – there’s no point struggling there. Okay – they might have a quad or a tractor – but there’s a limit to what they can cope with. Our best bet’s Shap village – there’s a manned Fire Station – but you’re talking seven mile. If the A6 is blocked, you could just end up stranded half way.’
‘I could ride, Guv.’
‘Ride what?’
‘The pony. There’s a full set of tack in the stable. They must use her for trekking.’ DS Jones points to their position on the map. ‘If you could guide me to the A6 – I could surely follow the route safely?’
Skelgill regards his colleague with consternation.
‘I used to ride every week as a teenager, Guv. I only stopped when I went away to uni. I can jump fences, you know.’
Skelgill finds himself scrabbling for an objection.
‘Aye – but can you jump a ten-foot snowdrift? Even a Fell pony’s not going to get you through that.’
DS Jones is about to respond but suddenly she performs a deliberate tumble onto the rug and reaches to turn up the volume on the radio; she has heard the time signal.
‘That’s nine a.m.’
One thing that can be relied upon – there might be an asteroid about to strike the Earth and the President of the United States might have stolen a rocket and escaped to the Moon – but give the British a chance to talk about the weather and it will relegate all other items to the category of minor news. Foreigners accustomed to extremes rarely experienced in Britain’s benign climate must be perplexed that audience ratings can be so boosted by commonplace meteorology – but there it is. Cynics will argue it is a free hit for the lazy media, but perhaps the public welcomes the respite from political angst, all the same. Thus Skelgill and DS Jones settle to listen introspectively to what is a news report entirely dominated by the weather.
In a nutshell, the Baltic Blast has licked like a great tongue across the north of England and southern Scotland to bring the region to an almost total standstill. Schools are closed, public transport is cancelled; fistfights have broken out over bread and milk. Virtually all roads are impassable, and motorists are warned not to undertake any journeys. The experts now say that the strong easterly winds and accompanying snow will continue for at least the next twenty-four hours. The army has been mobilised to rescue stranded travellers and move them to the nearest places of safety – but it is believed many hundreds of people may be trapped, with no way of knowing who and where they are, a situation exacerbated by damage to power lines and the cell phone network. Aerial surveillance is presently impossible.
At the conclusion of the bulletin a well-spoken announcer intones, with no apparent hint of irony, “And now we present, music for your pleasure, Desert Island Discs.”
There has been no mention of the train.
Skelgill loosely punches a fist into the opposite palm. DS Jones has been reflecting on what she has heard.
‘Just as well you got us here, Guv. Without your knowledge and expertise we could have been in serious trouble.’
Skelgill hams modesty.
‘I expect Bond would have thought of something.’
DS Jones smiles knowingly, but does not contradict him. Instead she rises and then resettles herself on the clear side of the bed and rests her head on the pillow. She stretches, catlike, and closes her eyes.
‘But probably not as good as this.’
Skelgill seems rather captivated by her actions – but perhaps they bring home to him what they have been through – he in particular – a rude awakening at 4.45am and four hours of responsibility and physical demands. After a moment he pulls the map away and lets it float onto the rug. He rolls onto the bed beside DS Jones and regards her for a moment; she remains unmoving. Her naturally streaked blonde hair is a little dishevelled, but her strong features and smooth olive skin combine to present a picture of serenity. Skelgill grunts as he slips his hands behind his head. The room is warming up as the central heating kicks in – an old-fangled cast iron radiator gurgles and ticks beneath the long window.
‘Aye – a nice little mini-break.’ Now he, too, closes his eyes. ‘If it weren’t for a missing passenger and a corpse on the train.’
DS Jones inhales sharply – but she does not yet speak, nor open her eyes. Perhaps she is reminding herself of Skelgill’s – of their
– pressing duty to get a message out about their situation. She inhales again, as though she may now say something – but Skelgill begins to snore.
*
‘Er – sorry to butt in, Guvnor.’
DS Leyton clears his throat rather melodramatically. He takes a tentative step inside the room. DS Jones sits up abruptly on the bed, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. Skelgill takes a few seconds longer to wake, he lies blinking.
‘Not Crewe again?’
His colleagues look at him with a mixture of amusement and alarm, unsure whether he is clowning. But his apparent confusion clears, and he drags the fingers of both hands through his hair, as if to comb out recalcitrant fragments of his dreams. DS Leyton waits a few more seconds before announcing the purpose of his intrusion.
‘What it is, Guv – that reporter, Jenny Hackett – she’s insisting on seeing you. She’s claiming someone pushed her into that snake hole thing.’
6. THE INN
Thursday, 11am
‘It’s shake, Leyton – not snake.’
‘It says “Snake Holes Inn” over the front door, Guv.’
‘Aye – it does now – but it started out as Shake – take my word for it.’
DS Leyton for a moment looks like he wishes to contest his superior’s rather belligerent attitude. ‘Snake hole’ seems to make far more sense with reference to his metropolitan lexicon.
‘Well – she’s shaken up about it, that’s for sure, Guv. Hah!’ Characteristically he opts for appeasement.
In any event, Skelgill’s mind has moved quickly on.
‘Who pushed her?’
Now DS Leyton looks rather blankly at his superior.
‘Dunno, Guv. I didn’t like to pile in. I thought you’d want to question her. I’ve told her to come to the library at 11.30 – reckoned you might need a few minutes to get sorted.’
Skelgill is staring out of the window. In the two hours since he nodded off the only evident change in conditions is a partial lifting of the twilight; but still there is a preternatural gloom beneath the constantly shifting shroud of snow; it is the impression of the proverbial ‘nuclear winter’, when sunlight is banished from the Earth.
‘What are the rest of them doing?’
DS Leyton makes a gesture with open hands towards the bed with its crushed pillows and creased coverlet.
‘Having a kip, I suppose, Guv. As far as I know everyone’s in their rooms.’
Skelgill pats the breast pocket of his shirt; he is feeling for his own room key. He rubs one hand against the emerging stubble on his chin – and then for more accurate confirmation of the time he refers to his wristwatch.
‘Twenty minutes – alright?’
*
Why Skelgill wanted twenty minutes is not apparent when he joins his colleagues a little behind schedule, for he remains unshaven and wears the same Levi’s and check shirt; by comparison, on the evidence of her damp hair, DS Jones has showered and has changed back into her skinny jeans, trainers and a college-style hoodie. DS Leyton is poking at embers that smoulder in the hearth – unproductively in Skelgill’s estimation. He is about to take charge when he notices on the wall furthest from the door a framed map of the immediate vicinity that he had overlooked on his previous visit, when instead he had made a beeline for a stack of folded maps and local guides, that included several well-thumbed Wainwrights.
The library is ostentatiously decorated in a concoction of deep wines and burgundies (a misguided 1980s refurbishment that pervades much of the establishment), albeit imbuing a certain vulgar cosiness. There is a firm-looking chesterfield sofa beneath the window, another to the left of the door; otherwise winged armchairs each with an occasional table arranged around the fireplace accommodate four people – so it is more of a snug reading room than a traditional reference library such as might be found in a stately home; there are a couple of bookshelves mainly populated with doorstopper paperbacks which Skelgill suspects guests have abandoned unfinished. He saunters across to the map; it is dated “1959” and he notes there is no motorway to the east; the A6 was the only route north when this region was surveyed. It is Ordnance Survey at its finest level of detail, in monochrome on aged sepia, a scale of 1:10,560 or six inches to one mile, sufficient to represent the inn with its stable yard drawn. There is no trace of the coniferous plantation, just some deciduous woodland that forms its present-day fringe. He peruses the landforms with a critical eye, and as is his wont is becoming absorbed when a self-assured female voice penetrates his thoughts.
‘Good morning, Cumbria CID – so glad to have you on the case.’
Skelgill starts but resists the inclination to swivel around; his innate obstinacy rails against such presumption on the part of Jenny Hackett, despite that she speaks in jest. He waits a moment while DS Jones organises a seating plan. DS Leyton gives up on the fire and calls to his superior.
‘Want me to sort some tea, Guv?’
‘Aye.’ Skelgill taps the map decisively with the index and middle fingers of his left hand and turns a self-satisfied grin on the group. He does not elaborate upon what little triumph he may have achieved. Now that DS Leyton has retreated he takes up a poker and ruthlessly attacks the embers in the grate, before tossing on a trio of split pine logs taken from a tarnished brass log box embossed with the image of a running fox. Almost immediately flames begin to lick hungrily at the fresh, dry timber. ‘May as well make ourselves comfortable.’
DS Leyton reappears promptly – it seems he has encountered Samanta the housekeeper nearby and has placed their order. He takes the remaining available chair, nearest to the fire. Jenny Hackett casts about the room – Skelgill can’t help wondering if she is checking for a drinks trolley – but perhaps it is just to verify that DS Leyton has closed the door, for now she assumes the conspiratorial manner of the previous evening, hunching over as if inviting them into a confidential exchange. Her tone becomes strained.
‘How deep was that hole, Inspector?’
It is not the question that Skelgill has been expecting. He makes a face of discontent.
‘There’s no knowing. Happen it were deep enough to swallow you up – I didn’t feel the ground under my feet. The snow supported us to some extent – but flail about and you start to dig your own grave.’
‘An uncompromising prognosis.’
She inhales between clenched teeth – and then plies him with a grateful smile. He thinks she looks older this morning, the crow’s feet at the corners of her deep-set eyes more pronounced, her hair lacking structure and its colour suggesting a grey undertone; it is as if her ordeal has taken some toll – but maybe she had been ‘dolled up’ for the posh dinner, and this is her more regular appearance.
‘I did not get chance to thank you properly – you were marvellous – such quick thinking. Didn’t I tell you – Skelly’s Heroes!’
Any emergent preening on Skelgill’s part rapidly dissipates. That she might pen such an article seems to be a growing threat. He glowers darkly.
‘You’ve since told Sergeant Leyton that someone pushed you.’
‘In the heat of the moment it seemed inopportune to mention it.’
‘Why?’
Jenny Hackett shrugs – and makes to answer – but she refrains because the door opens and Samanta enters bearing a tray. Skelgill looks up frowning; the girl detects his displeasure and appears fearful – but she cannot know they are in the throes of a sinister revelation, and his expression softens, indeed becomes something of a belated grin. Now attired in a long charcoal tube dress that clings sufficiently to show her slender, even skinny form, there is a pathos about her demeanour, and dark shadows beneath her eyes and a red mark on her left cheek that had escaped his notice earlier. But she moves efficiently amongst them, dispensing their refreshments and making a subtle exit before he can take in much more, closing the door carefully behind her.
It is Jenny Hackett’s cue to resume where she had left off.
‘At the time I could
n’t believe it – that someone would have pushed me – and then, as I began to regain my senses – well, I suppose it felt rather unworthy, to cast aspersions when several of you risked danger to rescue me.’
Now she looks generously at DS Leyton. He seems a little abashed, unaccustomed to praise from members of the public. But it is Skelgill who replies.
‘You definitely were pushed?’
The woman sits more upright and folds her arms – but she nods decisively.
‘A sharp shove between the shoulder blades, Inspector.’
Skelgill is regarding her interrogatively.
‘Can you describe what actually happened?’
Jenny Hackett relaxes her pose. She looks from one to the other of the detectives as though to assess the quality of their attention. The professional in her appears to have processed and packaged the story ready for consumption.
‘When Richard Bond briefed us about the trek that we were to undertake, I suspect he tried to scare us into submission by highlighting the dangers of wandering off course – primarily of getting detached from the party, and lost – but then he warned us about these terrifying ‘shake holes’ that swallow up sheep and humans like this is some sort of predatory landscape from a Tolkein fantasy. However, once we reached the woods and the conditions eased, I think we were all becoming blasé – you may recall there were jokes about Babes in the Wood and suchlike – and when someone identified what could have been a shake hole we were enticed by the thrill of the unknown.’
‘Who spotted it?’
‘Of that – I am not certain.’ She speaks more slowly – and now her tone becomes less assured. ‘You see, I was walking – I think – closest to Wiktoria and Ivanna – and they both exclaimed, something like, “Ah – yes!” – as though someone else had said it first. There were lights flickering about – and the hole was only – what – a couple of yards off the path? Else no one would have noticed, I suppose. We had hold of one another – in trepidation – as we went to the edge.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 60