They rather stumble out into the corridor. Both inhale and exhale more deeply than normal, as though the sinister claustrophobia of the cabin has inhibited their breathing. After a moment DS Jones indicates to the door of Mikal Mital’s compartment.
‘Guv – when we went in previously – when I first showed you the body –’ Her inflection is inquisitive and she hesitates, uncomfortable to be querying her boss. ‘Did you pick up the water bottle from the shelf at the foot of the bunk?’
‘Don’t reckon so.’
DS Jones’s expression becomes strained.
‘When I entered – I mean just now – the label was turned away. The first time – I’m sure it was facing outwards.’
Skelgill is scowling; but his disquiet is aimed inwardly – he is wondering if he did inadvertently lift it.
‘What made you notice that?’
‘This morning – in my cabin – Wiktoria Adamska mentioned she only drinks mineral water – she complained that it was a cheap Scottish brand. Actually, I’ve always thought of it as being a bit pricey. I suppose it stuck in my mind. It was in my line of sight when the guard opened the door.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow but does not offer a rejoinder. DS Jones regards him insistently.
‘Guv – the manuscript is gone. We know it exists because we saw Mikal Mital reading it. What if someone drugged him by putting something in his water? They stole the manuscript – and switched the water bottle.’
Skelgill steps sideways and raps with his knuckles upon the door of compartment number one.
‘Open this up, lass.’
DS Jones does as he bids. Skelgill enters and immediately tries the interconnecting door to Mikal Mital’s cabin. It remains locked. He retreats to sit on the unslept-in bunk. ‘Have a pew.’ He pats the bed to indicate DS Jones should settle likewise.
‘Listen. When you went in with the guard – obviously that was a shock, right?’ DS Jones nods – the discovery of the dead man was not what she had expected. ‘But you had the presence of mind to check him over – search his belongings – you looked in his briefcase for ID and found his passport. Think – what about the manuscript?’
But DS Jones is already shaking her head, consternation clouding her hazel eyes.
‘I know what you’re asking, Guv. I was looking for a wallet or similar – and the passport was in the pocket on the front, under the flap. The main section was full of stuff like it is now. I didn’t go through it – there was no need. I certainly didn’t notice the manuscript – but I couldn’t swear either way.’
Skelgill makes a hissing sound between bared teeth. He flings a hand in the direction of the interconnecting door.
‘These locks – they’re child’s play to anyone who knows what they’re doing. Never mind if you’ve got hold of a master key.’
‘And for egress, Guv. Someone coming out of here into the corridor would look far less suspicious if they were seen. And by relocking the interconnecting door it’s not obvious that entry may have been gained to the next cabin.’
Skelgill leans forward, his forearms upon his thighs and stares pensively at the shiny grey bulkhead a few inches from his face. He is a little alarmed by the many unevidenced permutations that they could probably concoct. But the mysteriously empty compartment and its convenient location seem to be straws driven on the same wind of conspiracy as the missing manuscript, Jenny Hackett’s claimed shove between the shoulder blades, and now DS Jones’s observation that there has been tampering in Mikal Mital’s cabin. He makes a sudden contemptuous expiration of air.
‘What is it, Guv?’
‘If someone took that manuscript – I’ve made a nice job of shipping it out for them. And now they’ve had four hours to find a hiding place.’
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘We could never have anticipated the manuscript being stolen, Guv. Not unless we had clear grounds to believe that Mikal Mital was murdered.’
‘Which there isn’t.’
‘I know, Guv.’ DS Jones spreads her palms in a gesture of exasperation. ‘How do you find a pathologist in a blizzard?’
‘That sounds like one of Leyton’s jokes.’
DS Jones chuckles.
‘It is certainly a conundrum. If only we knew who or what Mikal Mital was about to expose. We might have a suspect in our sights.’
‘Why would some international high-flyer get their hands dirty?’
DS Jones turns to look at her superior.
‘You mean a hitman?’
‘Hitman, hitwoman.’
DS Jones eyes Skelgill warily; if he is being flippant he appears indifferent to her scrutiny.
‘Do you think Jenny Hackett has the manuscript, Guv?’
The suggestion prompts another scoff of disparagement from Skelgill.
‘Doesn’t matter what I think – but I reckon someone might think that.’
‘If she’s telling the truth about being pushed?’
‘Aye. Get her out the road – inspect her suitcase at leisure.’
‘If so, it proved to be an inadequate method of assassination.’
‘It was an opportunity. Desperate person – their plans awry – needs must. Who knows? Besides – if she’d have gone under, sunk deeper – who’s to say we’d have pulled her out in time.’
Skelgill clicks his tongue in what might be a rueful manner. DS Jones is pondering his words. She taps together the tips of her slender fingers and then intertwines them, resting her wrists upon her lap.
‘To murder Mikal Mital – in the first place it would have required premeditation.’ (Skelgill shrugs as though he does not consider this to be a hurdle worthy of concern.) ‘If there were drugs or poison involved – that would stack up – the planning, I mean.’ However, she frowns. ‘But surely they would need to know his travel arrangements?’
‘Which is an argument in favour of it being opportunistic – a rival of whoever he was going to expose – a potential blackmailer – or a journalist.’
DS Jones nods pensively.
‘Thing is, Guv – in virtually all of those scenarios, it’s most likely the perpetrator would be best served if Mikal Mital were dead.’
Skelgill looks like he might disagree. He rocks his head from side to side.
‘I reckon Jenny Hackett would have settled for a sneak preview. She made no bones about wanting the scoop – or that she was pumping him for a story. All she needed was to beat his announcement by a day. If it were her that caused his death, then it must have been an accident – a Mickey Finn that was too strong for his system – or, it were a coincidence, natural causes.’
But now Skelgill stands up and flexes his troublesome spine. He exhales and groans simultaneously. It is part frustration that prompts him – he has an inbuilt alarm that sounds when there are too many ‘maybes’ in a conversation. Then he proceeds to break his rule.
‘Happen one of the passengers saw something that’ll shed light on it.’
‘Maybe one of them saw Mr Harris, Guv.’
Skelgill makes a face of doubt – but it is an expression that changes to disbelief – and he glances at DS Jones to meet her own gaze of alarm. She nods. They have both heard a mechanical clunk.
Skelgill steps closer to the open compartment door and listens. More noises, faint at first, begin to reach them. It sounds like someone is now aboard the train – and moving in their direction. He jerks a thumb, indicating that he believes the intruder is coming from the rear. And now it is certain, as sharp footsteps begin to approach along the corridor.
‘Get ready.’ Skelgill whispers, the faintest hiss. And he stands, pressed against the bulkhead so that the approaching person will not see him until the last second.
The footfall comes at a steady pace. The person seems to be intending to pass through the sleeping car rather than try any of the doors. But as they near they slow – heightening Skelgill’s state of alert. He is coiled – he waits for another step – and pounces like a great tarantula d
arting from its burrow to snare his unsuspecting prey.
‘Police!’
As he cries out simultaneously there is a piercing shriek and too late he realises it is a woman no bigger and heavier than DS Jones – but his momentum is committed and he dumps her unceremoniously upon the bunk. She has an arm above her head for protection – Skelgill starts back and raises both hands to indicate he means her no harm – and DS Jones steps in to place a calming palm on the shocked woman’s shoulder.
‘Cumbria CID – it’s okay, madam – but what are you doing on the train?’
Perhaps that DS Jones uses the polite term ‘madam’ conveys that they are not some latter-day highway robbers – and the woman lowers her guard – though consternation still creases her features. Skelgill has fished out his warrant card and her pale blue eyes focus upon it and then rise to engage his own with a disconcerting degree of penetration. He guesses she is around his own age. She has short fair hair cut stylishly, and smooth tanned skin, regular features with blonde eyebrows, a small faintly retroussé nose and full lips that glisten with a protective layer of Vaseline. The tip of her nose and her cheeks are flushed from exposure to the cold. She is clad in a long Australian-style waxed-cotton riding coat that covers her in its entirety, down to the ankles of polished black leather boots caked with snow. Her breathing is rapid and shallow and she inhales more deeply to speak. She chooses not to answer DS Jones’s question – but instead comes out fighting, commensurate with the look in her eyes.
‘Is it your regular practice to manhandle innocent members of the public, Inspector?’
Her accent is refined, with no trace of northern vowels.
‘It was for your own safety, madam – there has been a fatality on the train. We have evacuated the remaining passengers to Shake Holes Inn.’
Skelgill’s formally enunciated explanation is somewhat irrational, and his manner unapologetic. But there is a distinct softening of her demeanour.
‘Oh – I see.’ She sniffs and raises a cuff momentarily to her nose. ‘I saw what must be your flag beneath the footbridge – and tracks in the snow. I thought it possible that the train was abandoned.’
Skelgill regards her more forgivingly – it seems he has won the little battle of wills. Now DS Jones repeats her entreaty.
‘Madam, can you tell us, please – who you are – and why are you aboard?’
The woman shudders, and sighs rather defeatedly – it might be a delayed reaction to the rush of adrenaline that she has experienced.
‘My name is Lucinda Hobhouse. I run an equestrian centre near Ulphathwaite. I heard that the London sleeper was believed to be trapped on Shap Fell.’
Skelgill is looking at her dubiously.
‘Ulphathwaite is five miles away. How did you get here?’
‘Nicholas Mistress.’
Now the woman smiles; her composure seems restored, and her eyes glint with the knowledge that she is being abstruse.
‘What?’ Skelgill struggles to process her unexpected words.
‘Surely you have heard of him – he won the Stayer’s Hurdle at Aintree four years ago. He might be retired– but he has lost none of his steeplechaser’s stamina.’
Skelgill is still scowling but DS Jones butts in.
‘You mean you came on horseback?’
‘That is exactly what I mean, officer. My trusty steed is tethered to the rear of the train.’
Skelgill’s tone remains sceptical.
‘What route did you take?’
‘The railway passes through my land. It seemed the expedient approach – under the circumstances.’ She regards him calmly and then looks at DS Jones. Perhaps she is half expecting that they might accuse her of trespassing, but when no such reproach is forthcoming she continues. ‘And to answer your question – I am trained in first aid – and I have some basic medicines.’ She pats a pocket of her coat. ‘Since the emergency services are stretched to breaking point – I thought I might do my bit.’
Skelgill has heard enough to satisfy himself of her bona fides. He seizes upon the implication of her statement.’
‘Do you have communications?’
‘Not as such. I am snowed in at the stables with three of my staff and four guests. We are entirely offline, as far as internet and telephone is concerned. But we can reach the village on horseback. There is an operational landline at the post office. That is where I picked up the news about the train this morning.’
Skelgill can sense that DS Jones is staring at him; but when he does not reciprocate, she takes matters into her own hands.
‘What kind of saddle do you have?’
Lucinda Hobhouse regards the younger woman with surprise.
‘A bareback pad, as a matter of fact.’
DS Jones does not waver.
‘I’d like you to take me to the post office.’
Skelgill glances in alarm at DS Jones – clearly irked that she has not consulted him. But he stays any further reaction, conscious of Lucinda Hobhouse’s inquisitive gaze. Indeed, she rises and they each step aside to make room, as though she is now one of their cohort.
‘Well – certainly it will be satisfying to know that my expedition has not been in vain. I’m only sorry I could not bring the buggy – else I could have driven you both. But I think three of us would be too much even for Old Nick – a big chap like you, Inspector.’
She briefly places a palm on Skelgill’s chest. He makes an involuntary movement, to recoil, but is restricted by the bulkhead at his back. He frowns. He does not think of himself in such terms – he is just a couple of inches above average height, and rangy of build – the shorter DS Leyton must weigh a good deal more than he. Rather gruffly, he coughs up a reply.
‘Don’t worry, madam – one of us needs to go back to the others.’
The woman rocks forwards on the balls of her feet as if she is keen to move – but then she hesitates.
‘What about – if you don’t mind my asking – you said there was a fatality?’
Once again Skelgill can sense that DS Jones is watching carefully for his reaction.
‘An elderly gent – he may have suffered a heart attack.’ Skelgill makes a face of displeasure. ‘We’ve had to leave the body here on the train. Obviously that’s why we need to inform the relevant authorities. Under the circumstances there are procedures such as notifying the Coroner. And there’s the likes of next of kin to think about.’
‘Of course.’ Lucinda Hobhouse looks from Skelgill to DS Jones. ‘In which case, oughtn’t we hightail it?’
DS Jones reacts by taking a step towards Skelgill, but he is blocking the door and seems reluctant to give way. His expression is unnaturally blank but in his grey-green eyes there is an anxiety aimed at his colleague, as though he is trying through telepathy to communicate some coded message. But DS Jones seems unperturbed. She squeezes past Lucinda Hobhouse and places a hand on Skelgill’s arm, applying enough pressure to get him to begin to back out of the compartment.
‘Don’t worry, Guv – I know exactly what I need to do.’
8. INTERVIEWS
Thursday, 2pm
‘Just come in, Leyton!’
Skelgill’s raised voice follows several attempts, knocking and calling, by his sergeant to gain his attention. But when DS Leyton enters the room it appears empty, although Skelgill’s railway-issue overall lies discarded upon the counterpane, spread-eagled in an action caricature of its erstwhile wearer.
‘Whoa!’
DS Leyton’s exclamation (and that he rears, almost spilling the contents of the tray that he bears) is caused by the sudden appearance, naked to the waist and jack-in-the-box like, of his superior, who springs to his feet on the far side of the double bed.
‘Cor blimey, Guvnor – I nearly touched cloth.’
Skelgill merely winces by way of response. He reaches for a shirt from the back of a chair, but offers no explanation as to what he was doing – as far as DS Leyton is concerned it could have been executing p
ush-ups, snatching forty winks or searching for a discarded pipe cleaner. In fact the latter would be in the right proximity, and Skelgill casually presses shut the open drawer of a mahogany desk that sits beneath the window. DS Leyton now rounds to the desk to deposit his tray.
‘Saved you some cheese-and-pickle sarnies, Guv – before those flippin’ gannets finished ’em off. They act all posh but they ain’t half got sharp elbows. Fraid they nabbed all the smoked salmon. And there’s tea in this flask – nice and hot.’
Skelgill casts a hungry eye over the small feast that his sergeant has salvaged.
‘See, Leyton – I told you, you have your uses.’
DS Leyton simpers rather affectedly.
‘Truth be told, Guv it was the housekeeper – young Samanta’s idea. She tipped me the wink that you’d slipped in via the tradesman’s entrance. She’s a decent girl, eh? Bit spooky looking, though – glides about this gaff like my old great granny’s ghost.’
Skelgill is already biting into a sandwich and with his free hand trying to screw off the lid of the thermos. While he is unable to speak DS Leyton continues.
‘Er – DS Jones, Guv – I just knocked on her door to see if she wanted to join in the picnic – couldn’t get an answer.’
Skelgill shakes his head and waggles his sandwich to indicate the futility of his sergeant’s quest. He checks his wristwatch as he swallows his mouthful.
‘With a fair wind – she’ll be getting a message out any minute.’
DS Leyton gawps.
‘Struth, Guvnor – what are you saying – she’s not here?’
Skelgill pours himself a mug of tea and piles several sandwiches onto a plate and settles down in an armchair. In as few words as he can muster between bites he proceeds to enlighten his colleague about the events on the train. DS Leyton looks at once relieved and bewildered.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 62