Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘So it couldn’t have been either of them?’

  ‘I don’t think so – I don’t know.’ She inhales – that she vacillates strikes Skelgill as an unhelpful contradiction. ‘I wasn’t really concentrating – and it was basically pitch black – and there was the crashing of the wind in the branches. Anyone may have crept up behind without my realising. I’m sure both girls made a grab for me as I fell.’

  Skelgill persists with his narrow line of questioning.

  ‘Have you mentioned this – have you asked the two ladies – what they saw?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ She smiles in a way that might be apologetic, yet tinged with reproach. ‘In my game one doesn’t so glibly let the cat out of the bag, Inspector.’

  Skelgill begins to gnaw at the corner of a thumbnail. It seems she is seeking to preserve some journalistic angle. And perhaps she reveals an ingrained distrust of those around her, knowing that everyone eventually talks, at a price. The flames that lick upwards over the logs in the grate capture his gaze; a movement from DS Leyton suggests some physical discomfort. It seems to prompt Skelgill to change tack.

  ‘Ok – so we don’t know who. But why, then?’

  ‘Last night I spoke with Mikal Mital and this morning he was dead.’

  Her riposte seems indecently forthright.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Jenny Hackett glances sharply at Skelgill – as though she suspects his question to be disingenuous.

  ‘He was about to spill the beans at the Edinburgh symposium.’

  It takes Skelgill a moment to respond.

  ‘Aye – you’d mentioned that. Did he tell you what exactly?’

  The journalist shakes her head dismissively, as though this is in fact a poorly considered question, and that she would not be beating about the bush if she knew otherwise.

  ‘Of course not, Inspector. But he was observed by all those present to be in conversation with me.’ She gestures loosely to indicate the three detectives. ‘This was after you had retired. He had been reviewing a manuscript. The rumour mill has it that he was writing a book and an unseemly scrum of publishers have been brandishing blank advance cheques.’ She looks about as though she is in need of something; but she sighs and shrugs. ‘He would have considered it to be more of the same, filthy lucre – I believe he was a communist of the old school.’

  ‘Did he show it to you – this manuscript?’

  ‘He slipped it into his briefcase the moment that I sat down.’

  ‘Did he know who you are?’

  She nods unhesitatingly.

  ‘Naturally.’ She flutters her lashes in a small act of immodesty. ‘You might say we represent opposing factions of the same alliance. He seemed to hold no grudges against me personally.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Again she plies Skelgill with a penetrating glance, her head tilted so that her eyes are only just visible beneath her prominent brows.

  ‘Do you read The Inquirer, Inspector?’

  Skelgill’s journal of choice is Angling Times, in which political debate tends to be restricted to whether it is ethical to use boilies for carp and boobies for trout; but he knows vaguely of her newspaper’s uncompromising reputation.

  ‘Is that why he wouldn’t talk to you about his work?’

  ‘It is usually only whistleblowers who will speak freely to me – under conditions of extreme confidentiality.’

  ‘But you’re saying he’s a whistleblower of a sort.’

  ‘That may be partially correct. But he is not an insider – which I think is a requirement of the designation. Besides, he had the reputation for an extraordinary level of secrecy. He did not operate online, or even own a computer. He was renowned for a prodigious memory.’

  Again she takes a moment to look at each of the detectives. DS Jones responds to what she reads as an invitation to treat.

  ‘But, surely – how would he conduct his research?’

  Jenny Hackett regards the younger woman rather forgivingly.

  ‘When your enemies have the entire apparatus of a modern state at their command I imagine they can hack into anything – your laptop, your phone – your fridge, even. But not yet a manual typewriter.’ She hesitates, perhaps realising she has not directly answered the question; she waves a hand aimlessly. ‘He was alleged to be furnished by a network of contacts with intelligence from all corners of the globe. No system of course is foolproof. Telephones can be tapped. Mail can be intercepted. Meetings can be eavesdropped upon. And, yes, individuals can be nobbled.’

  Skelgill seems to be absorbing her analysis; though his expression remains doubtful.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Oh – I was making a pitch of my own. At my paper we are hard-wired to unmask the great and the good. Our readers feast upon such tales. I suppose I was hoping he might drop me a few crumbs in advance of his speech. In return he would receive a glorious fanfare.’

  ‘But he didn’t – drop you any crumbs?’

  Skelgill wonders if a jolt from the woman’s conscience fleetingly clouds her features.

  ‘Oh – merely his general thesis.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Has it not occurred to you, Inspector, that the majority of the world’s super-rich – this crude new class that has been unleashed upon us in the past couple of decades – hail from failed states with economies that leave most of their populations languishing in poverty? How can that be? How come half of Knightsbridge is owned by offshore companies nested like Russian dolls to hide their true beneficial owners – obscure bureaucrats from countries of which most people have never even heard? How come presidents wear wristwatches that cost more than their annual salaries – and sail in private super yachts that could build a dozen provincial hospitals? Mikal Mital’s shadowy network comprises loose-tongued facilitators and financiers who enable the billions extracted from national budgets and state-owned companies to be laundered.’

  Jenny Hackett looks around her audience – perhaps a little pityingly.

  ‘Need I go on?’

  An awkward silence prevails. Skelgill appears especially conflicted. He swallows, as though there is a lump in his throat – and he reaches for his tea and drains the cup. It falls to DS Jones to muster a structured rejoinder.

  ‘It would be fair to say that this offence is increasingly receiving coordinated attention from the relevant authorities. We have the instrument of the Unexplained Wealth Order since the Criminal Finances Act, for instance.’ Jenny Hackett is nodding – but her narrowed eyes betray a deeper sentiment, of cynicism. ‘Are you saying, madam, that Mikal Mital was about to expose a particular individual – or organisation – or government?’

  Jenny Hackett snorts, rather unbecomingly.

  ‘I’m certain he was.’

  ‘Some geezer on the train?’

  All heads swivel to look at a red-faced DS Leyton. He can generally be trusted to point out the elephant in the room, even when wondering what it is himself. DS Jones appears shocked. Jenny Hackett, excited. But Skelgill is scowling ever more deeply. And now he intervenes decisively. He addresses the journalist.

  ‘Madam – Jenny.’ His affable correction comes too late to conceal that he has formal police procedures in mind. ‘If you could leave us for now – we need to discuss how to take this forward – your allegation of being pushed.’ Now he curses inwardly, for still his language smacks of officialdom. It must be plain to her journalistic instincts that he does not intend to air his concerns in her company. But, perhaps to his surprise, she opts not to dig in her heels – and graciously she rises to take her leave.

  ‘Certainly, Inspector. I shall be at your disposal. Perhaps in the bar.’ She regales him with an enigmatic smile. ‘Bearing in mind our illustrious passenger list, I shall feel safer in full public view.’

  Her peal of sardonic laughter seems to resonate about the library even after she has closed the door. Skelgill’s subordinates
wait expectantly. The fire is growing in intensity – DS Leyton is beginning visibly to perspire – and he wipes his brow, flicking aside his tousle of dark hair. It seems he can hold back no longer.

  ‘Cor – what do you reckon, Guv?’

  ‘About what?’

  It is immediately apparent that Skelgill is being capricious – something that no doubt has its roots in his own inner turmoil, for he resents being pressed for a perspective when he is disoriented.

  ‘Well – I dunno, Guv – I suppose she’s saying someone’s out to get her. If she’s right – she’s still in danger, ain’t she?’

  ‘What if she jumped, Leyton?’

  ‘Whoa!’ DS Leyton is wide-eyed. ‘Into the snake hole?’

  Skelgill ignores both the persistent descriptive error and what is a perfectly reasonable objection. He glares into the rising flames.

  ‘Think about last night, Leyton. She was all over everyone like a rash. The main crowd when we arrived – then us three – the American – and Mikal Mital after we’d gone to bed. So now she wants us to rattle their cages so she can watch the feathers fly.’

  DS Leyton’s bewilderment grows – it seems to him that his superior is being unreasonably cynical, irrationally so.

  ‘But, Guv – she nearly came a cropper.’

  Skelgill perhaps shows a hint that he might relent – that he recognises his flimsy hypothesis is borne out of petulance. Indeed, it is not even his custom to make such wild assertions. His tone becomes more measured.

  ‘Leyton – if she were pushed – aye, like you say, she could still be in danger. But what’s the logical conclusion?’

  ‘I’m not sure where you’re going, Guv.’

  ‘What does it say about Mikal Mital – that he was killed? That’s a big leap to make. We can’t just cook up a murder investigation on the say-so of a scrawny old hack who’s scratting about for a scoop.’

  Skelgill’s words are perhaps unintentionally cruel, signalling his underlying discomfiture. A silence descends, but for the logs that spit like discontented cobras. Eventually DS Leyton, his cheeks burning in the face of the now ferocious blaze speaks, his tone philosophical.

  ‘It’s out of the frying pan and into the fire, Guv.’

  His idiom might be inspired by his proximity to the heat source – but his words surely reflect their collective sentiments; there they were, speeding home for Christmas, only to be headed off by the Baltic Blast. While they have circumvented the worst of the storm, they find themselves pitched into a quandary of another magnitude altogether.

  DS Jones is next to speak. Her tone, however, is decidedly more buoyant.

  ‘Guv – what about Mr Harris?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘The missing passenger.’

  Skelgill grimaces – as if there isn’t enough on his plate. Not believing in the supernatural, or teleportation, or invisibility, he has somewhere along the line relegated the fact of the absentee to an administrative or observational error on behalf of the guard. Why worry about something that may never have happened?

  ‘If he existed.’

  DS Jones persists.

  ‘But, Guv – what I mean is – whether he exists or not – it provides us with a plausible excuse to interview everybody.’

  DS Leyton now perks up.

  ‘What if he’s been hiding, Guv – followed us – what if he were the cove that sneaked up and pushed her in?’

  Like a terrier discombobulated by half-a-dozen rats simultaneously breaking cover in as many directions, Skelgill can think of so many practical objections that he can’t answer – other than rather disdainfully to ignore his sergeant. He sits muted. Then he rises and stomps across to the large-scale map from which he was earlier torn away. After a minute’s perusal he clears his throat. He turns to face his colleagues.

  ‘Fine – we’ll talk to them.’ He seems to be looking hard at DS Jones – but perhaps she is just in his line of sight, for he speaks as if to himself. ‘But first – there’s something I need to do.’

  ‘What’s that, Guv?’

  Skelgill looks startled.

  ‘Go back to the train.’

  DS Jones’s neatly curved eyebrows rise imploringly.

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  Skelgill’s countenance remains severe – but it belies his reply, which is suddenly casual.

  ‘Aye, alright.’

  ‘What about me, Guv?’ There is a note of trepidation in DS Leyton’s voice and he glances anxiously at the window.

  ‘Leyton – you said it yourself. Someone needs to make sure one of the others doesn’t murder Jenny Hackett.’

  DS Leyton does not look entirely disappointed, although his outlook may be about to change.

  ‘But – what should I do, Guv?’

  ‘I don’t know, Leyton – use your imagination. You’re the one with bairns. Keep them entertained – think up some parlour games.’

  7. THE TRAIN

  Thursday, 12pm

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of a shake hole, Guv. Sink hole, swallow hole, yes. I chose history over geography. We all had a crush on the teacher.’

  Skelgill eschews the temptation to be led off script and stares broodingly at the small round crater. He replies, speaking slowly.

  ‘I don’t know much about geography. Mostly I’ve learned from experience, out on the fells. Swallow hole – that means it’s got a beck disappearing down into it. Sink hole – aye – except that’s a general term – that can be a mineshaft or a sewer that’s given way. A shake hole’s what you get in limestone – the rain filters through the acid bog and dissolves the joints between the rock fragments and eventually there’s a collapse. There’s hundreds of them in this neck of the woods.’

  ‘Are there many – actually in the woods?’

  DS Jones does not intentionally take literally his idiom, but he responds regardless.

  ‘Bear in mind this plantation’s nobbut forty year old. The shake holes are mostly ancient – though some of them are still forming, you can tell where the vegetation around the banks is torn. Folk used to think they were caused by surface mining – but pits dug by humans always have spoil heaps nearby.’

  ‘It doesn’t look much – covered in snow. You wouldn’t know it was dangerous.’

  Skelgill continues to glower.

  ‘Aye – happen Bond should have kept his trap shut.’

  ‘I wonder if anyone will admit to being the person who pointed it out.’

  Skelgill glances sideways at his colleague.

  ‘Most likely it was Bond himself.’

  But DS Jones furrows her brow.

  ‘I’m not sure about that, Guv. I was quite close to him. I think I would have heard if he’d called out a warning.’

  Skelgill does not look convinced. He rubs a hand across his eyes.

  ‘Come on, lass. Time and tide.’

  It is an apt simile – for new snow is progressively eradicating the tracks made by the collective comings and goings, much as the first ripples of a flow tide erase footprints from exposed sands. Once in the open, subjected to the full force of the gale, they draw in their hoods and, blinking away snowflakes, slip-slide into the comparative shelter of Shake Holes cutting. Here too their tracks are almost obliterated, and the going is challenging. When the rear carriage of the express looms into sight, they are shocked by the rapid progression of its of entombment. In the hours since the train embedded itself in the main snowdrift, a good eight inches have settled upon its roof – but much deeper drifts have accumulated along the flanks and they have to wade through thigh-high powder to reach the first available entrance. DS Jones is prompted to call out.

  ‘I feel like the train is going to disappear altogether.’

  ‘Happen it will if the forecast is right. Then what did they say – it’s to stay below zero for a week? None of this’ll be going anywhere – snow or train.’

  Skelgill wrenches open the door and prises himself inside, then rot
ates and gives a hand up to his colleague. She could make it easily enough, but she accepts his assistance. They stand close for a moment. In the stillness of the carriage their steamy breath fuses in the air between them.

  ‘You were right about it being like a deep freeze, Guv.’

  ‘Aye. At least that’s one thing we don’t have to worry about.’

  DS Jones makes a face that reflects the gruesome aspect that overshadows their task: that Skelgill refers to the mortuary-like conditions. They have entered the train between the guard’s van and the sleeping car, and now they make their way along the corridor to compartment number two. DS Jones has the master key, and she rips open the Velcro of her suit to reach an inner zip pocket. She unlocks the door but hesitates for a second, perhaps steeling herself. She steps inside, glances briefly to her right at the corpse, and then partially closes the door – before re-emerging with Mikal Mital’s attaché case. She transfers it to Skelgill’s grasp. He re-presents it at chest height while she lifts the flap and delves inside.

  ‘The passport. Text books. Newspapers. Private Eye.’ She shakes her head. ‘That’s it, Guv – no manuscript.’

  Skelgill stares implacably at his colleague.

  ‘He might have slept on it.’

  For a moment she thinks he is using the figure of speech – then she realises what he means – she makes a resigned face and nods. Skelgill puts down the briefcase and they shuffle into the compartment.

  ‘It’s potentially a crime scene, Guv.’

  ‘Aye – but what can we do – we need to know if it’s here or not. Get ready.’

  Skelgill raises each end of mattress, body and all – while DS Jones peers beneath. It is all clear. Skelgill checks that the bundle of papers could not be concealed within the covers. Then DS Jones takes a series of photographs on her mobile phone, and they make a search – but Mikal Mital’s trolley bag contains only spare clothes and personal effects, and there is no cupboard space – only the top bunk folded away, and it yields nothing. Skelgill tries the sliding door that enables paired cabins to adjoin – for instance, were compartments numbers one and two engaged for the use of a single family. But it is locked.