‘Is this horsey woman going to bring her back?’
‘We didn’t discuss that – but I reckon Jones’ll come up with a solution.’
DS Leyton runs the fingers of one hand through his dark hair.
‘Phew – that’ll take the pressure off all round, Guv – once they know everyone’s safe.’
But when DS Leyton looks at his superior he sees Skelgill’s features are creased with doubt.
‘Safe from what, Leyton? Frostbite, hypothermia, aye. Now you’ve been babysitting, have you changed your mind about the murder threat level?’
‘Well – not exactly, Guv – but I reckoned if you’d found anything critical you’d have rocked up swinging.’
‘Leyton – all you need to know is the manuscript has gone. Leastways – gone from Mikal Mital’s possession. Which makes the Jenny Hackett incident doubly worrying – whether she’s got it squirrelled away somewhere, or not.’
DS Leyton ponders for a moment. Then he indicates with a downward motion of the hand.
‘You weren’t just looking for it under your bed, Guv?’
‘Not exactly, Leyton – but you’re not so wide of the mark. Somebody has been.’
‘What do you mean, Guv?’
Skelgill looks reluctant to elaborate. He contrives a partial clarification.
‘Things have been moved.’
DS Leyton’s expression becomes more puzzled.
‘Was your room locked, Guv?’
‘Leyton – I don’t reckon we’re dealing with someone who’s put off by basic door locks.’
DS Leyton shrugs.
‘Could have been Samanta, Guv – doing a bit of a tidy. She was telling me she’s a jack of all trades, working here – and her a trained interpreter – she speaks five languages –’ DS Leyton tails off, seeing that his superior disapproves of this diversion. ‘How could you tell, Guv?’
‘Come off it, Leyton – don’t tell me you don’t know when your missus has been checking out your secret stash of Mars bars.’
‘Stone me – how – aha!’ DS Leyton points an accusing finger at Skelgill – that he has caught him out. ‘I prefer Kit Kats, actually, Guv – the missus buys ’em in bulk for her WI ladies’ coffee mornings. Trouble is, try hiding anything from our nippers, little varmints, they are.’
DS Leyton abruptly falls silent and Skelgill, assiduously working his way through the sandwiches and tea, glances sideways at his colleague to see that his features are rather forlorn. Of course, his family Christmas is at present in jeopardy – an anxiety compounded by the irony that, as the crow flies, they are within easy striking distance of their home railway station of Penrith; so near and yet so far.
‘Leyton – it’s unlikely we’ll get out of here tomorrow – but if the forecast’s right and the snow stops, back by Christmas Eve is a realistic possibility.’
DS Leyton starts from his reverie. He regards Skelgill guardedly – surely his superior is not becoming sentimental? For a moment he brightens.
‘Cor blimey, Guv – it’s like that there whodunit, the flippin’ Mousetrap – where they all get stuck in a country house in the snow.’ But again there is a flicker of melancholy in his dark eyes. ‘I took the missus out west to see it when we were courting – trying to impress her, I was. Told her at the interval who the culprit was – me being the smart Alec bobby, like. She was determined it was someone else – I couldn’t help but laugh. Except, come the end – she made a right monkey out of me – she only went and got it right!’
‘Happen you’ll have more success this time, Leyton.’
Skelgill’s tone seems unreasonably irritated – it prompts a more businesslike rejoinder from his subordinate.
‘It sounds to me like we need Forensics to give us a steer, Guv – but I guess that ain’t gonna happen any time soon.’ (Skelgill is shaking his head grimly.) ‘But I’ve got ’em all primed for interviews – I told ’em at lunchtime that as soon as you and DS Jones had properly searched the missing geezer’s cabin we’d speak to everyone individually. Who do you want to start with, Guv?’
‘The guard, I reckon. He’s supposed to have checked in the elusive Mr Harris.’
‘Righto, Guv – I’ll organise it for the library again, shall I?’
‘Aye.’
DS Leyton rises, but somewhat ponderously, and instead of setting off on his mission he loiters and looks apprehensively at the tray. One sandwich remains and Skelgill has drained the flask.
‘I may as well take that down, Guv – drop it back to Samanta.’ He hesitates. ‘You don’t want that last sarnie?’
Something in his manner causes Skelgill to regard DS Leyton sharply. Then he glares at the tray and it registers with him that there are in fact two more mugs and side plates, and his sergeant’s words upon arrival about DS Jones and picnic come to mind. A small note of alarm creeps into his voice.
‘Have you eaten, Leyton?’
‘Er – well – not exactly, Guv – but I mean – you’ve done five trips this morning – I didn’t like to –’
‘You donnat, Leyton – you should have said.’ Skelgill looks more annoyed than remorseful; the latter is not an emotion he would experience when it comes to competition for food. ‘Get Samanta to put you up some more bait.’
DS Leyton grins self-reproachfully.
‘I’ll be alright, Guv – I’ve got an emergency stash of Kit Kats in me suitcase.’
*
‘Ruairidh Angus McLeod.’
Skelgill glances to one side; squinting, he can just read his colleague’s notebook, and that DS Leyton has written ‘Rory’.
‘Would you like to spell that, please, sir.’
While the man does so, and DS Leyton, ever fastidious in his note-taking makes a correction, Skelgill scrutinises him. He is still wearing his railway-issue outfit, other than having swapped his blazer for a mottled grey cable-knit sweater that has leather patches sewn onto both elbows. With his untrained ginger eyebrows and ruddy complexion he could pass as a fisherman from one of Scotland’s myriad ports. His small blue eyes dart from one to the other of the detectives; there is a superficial belligerence in his manner, but it is plain that he is unnerved, like a gaoler usurped by a prisoners’ uprising. Skelgill senses he expects to be accused of failing in his duty, of losing a passenger. And perhaps, therefore, to the man’s surprise, and without particular deliberation on Skelgill’s part, he opts for a collaborative approach.
‘We’ll all get it in the neck if we sit on our hands and it turns out there’s something we should have done about this Mr Harris.’ Ruairidh McLeod regards Skelgill suspiciously as he gestures to indicate himself and DS Leyton. ‘Besides – this is our patch. It would have been one of us sent out to investigate in the normal course of events.’
‘Ah cannae be held responsible for people deciding tae leave the train.’
It seems the man’s instincts for self-preservation for the moment prevail. Skelgill maintains an amenable tone.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong – we didn’t stop between Euston and when the train hit the snowdrift?’
The guard shakes his head.
‘Aye – we didnae.’
‘The only scheduled halt before Edinburgh is Carlisle, right? Where we were due to disembark.’
‘Aye.’
DS Leyton is looking rather perplexed. This is perhaps because Skelgill has not begun with the more obvious explanation – but now his superior does so.
‘Could the person – this Mr Harris – have changed his mind at Euston? Got off again?’
Ruairidh McLeod hunches his shoulders.
‘Ah would have seen him. Ah was on the platform until we departed.’
Skelgill does not contest the man’s assertion. Instead he gestures to DS Leyton, who has the manifest obtained originally by DS Jones. He hands it to his boss. Skelgill examines the list of passengers, their designated cabin numbers, and ticks made in biro in the left-hand margin.
‘Mr McLeod – we
were cutting it fine – and Mr Bond and his team, and Ms Adamska – they were hot on our heels.’ (The guard nods sullenly.) ‘When did Mr Harris arrive?’
‘Ah deal with hunners of passengers every day. It’s nae my job tae remember individuals.’
‘But you recognised Mr Bond – and he called you by name.’
‘Aye – he’s a regular on the sleeper – and Sir Ewart.’
‘And that goes for their colleagues?’
‘Aye – I suppose so.’
Skelgill taps the paper with the back of his right hand.
‘Could you have ticked off Mr Harris by accident?’
The guard shakes his head with determination; his reply, however, is more ambiguous.
‘The first group of passengers all came together – they’d been waiting for the gate tae open.’
Skelgill consults the list.
‘That would have been Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch – and Ms Ivanna Karenina – who you already knew.’ Skelgill glances up and the man nods warily. ‘Plus Ms Hackett, Mr Mital, Mr Faulkner – and Mr Harris. Only four strangers – it’s not exactly a lot to remember.’
The guard’s intransigence seems to resurface as Skelgill’s assertions become more probing.
‘Like Ah say – they made a rush at me. My job’s tae get them checked on board with nae fuss.’
‘What did Mr Harris look like?’
It could be the heat of the small library with its rekindled fire, and that the man is wearing a thick sweater, but his face is becoming increasingly flushed.
‘Late thirties. Medium height. Average build. Short dark hair.’
Now Skelgill’s brow creases.
‘It sounds to me like you’re describing Mr Faulkner, sir.’
The man glowers obstinately but offers no defence. Though the universal description would fit several million citizens, Skelgill opts not to press the point further.
‘Okay, Mr McLeod – after the train departed – what did you see of Mr Harris?’
‘I didnae see him. He must have went tae his bed.’
‘Is that unusual?’
The guard shakes his head.
‘Some passengers just want tae sleep. It’s under seven hours tae Edinburgh. Plus they get woken up forty-five minutes before we reach Waverley.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘Just remind us about the locking of the compartments, sir.’
‘When a passenger arrives on board their cabin is open. They can lock it on the inside. If they go tae the toilet or the lounge car they can leave it on the latch – or if they set the lock I have tae let them back in.’
‘So somebody locked compartment number one.’
It takes the man a moment to process Skelgill’s logic, but when he does he nods vigorously. It seems he believes this vindicates his resolution that there was a Mr Harris.
‘Aye – Ah had tae unlock it for your lassie.’
The man grins – a little salaciously, Skelgill would judge, if it were not for the gravity of the subject. He shifts in his chair and tugs at the back of his shirt, as if he needs a physical distraction in order to realign his thoughts. There is nothing yet to convince him of the existence of Mr Harris. It can only be that a man displaying the powers of Spring-heeled Jack might explain whatever crimes have been committed which keeps him from dismissing the matter entirely. But folklore is not the answer, and it is only in the movies where villains subvert the laws of physics, while a willing audience is suckered into suspending disbelief.
‘Look, Mr McLeod – this can’t be the first time something like this has happened. What’s your theory?’
‘He could have been a jumper.’ The guard is quick with his response.
Skelgill narrows his eyes.
‘You mean a suicide?’
The man shrugs.
‘Aye. It’s the only possible explanation.’
Skelgill remains sceptical. The vast majority of rail suicides occur from platforms; to have boarded the train in the first instance seems a peculiarly intricate modus operandi. Moreover, his colleagues found no signs of such an exit having been attempted.
‘Putting that to one side – did we ever slow down such that a person could have safely leapt from the train?’
‘Ah wouldnae say so – maybe forty miles an hour. But ye wouldnae ken what ye’d hit – in the pitch dark.’
Skelgill tries not to show his frustration – and though he feels like he is trapped in a hopeless loop he finds himself returning to the beginning.
‘You’re absolutely certain a Mr Harris got on the train?’
‘Ah might not remember his face – but Ah wouldnae forget the name.’
‘Why not, sir?’
‘Ah come frae Harris.’
‘What – the Isle of Harris? Where they make the tweed?’
‘Aye.’ The man looks like he is expecting an objection – perhaps that his accent does not match this explanation, albeit that he has a Gaelic given name and indeed a common Western Isles surname. ‘When I were a bairn Ma gave birth tae triplets – we had tae move the weans for hospital care – I grew up in Gorgie.’
‘Edinburgh.’
As the man nods tersely Skelgill recalls his recommendation, of ales hailing from the Scottish capital, indeed the traditional brewery quarter that he has mentioned. While he is silent for a moment, DS Leyton chips in.
‘Mr McLeod – could someone have tricked you at Euston?’
‘What dae ye mean?’
‘Pretended to get on – got back off. Climbed out the other side.’
‘On tae the tracks?’ Ruairidh McLeod appears bewildered. ‘Why would anyone dae that?’
Skelgill is not keen that DS Leyton should involve the guard in a discussion of motives – not least because of his antipathy to the hypothetical, but also there is the risk of revealing what underlies their ostensibly innocent investigation into a missing passenger. However, DS Leyton responds before he can intervene.
‘To make it seem like they’d travelled to Edinburgh. There’s no ticket inspections once you’ve checked people on board, right?’
‘Aye.’
DS Leyton nods with satisfaction – but now he senses that Skelgill is glaring at him with barely contained irritation. He soldiers on, looking rather hamstrung.
‘Would the blind side of the train be covered by CCTV?’
The guard appears doubtful.
‘Ye’d need tae contact British Transport Polis. But the 05:31 Glasgow express was alongside us. It would have blocked the view.’
DS Leyton makes a humming sound, perhaps an acknowledgement – but he turns artlessly to Skelgill, as though to hand over these findings to his wiser superior. Skelgill is evidently displeased, and it takes him a few moments to muster a response. He regards Ruairidh McLeod in a somewhat strained manner.
‘We expect to be getting a message out to that effect shortly.’ He does not elaborate upon their method. ‘In the meantime, we’ll do what we can to establish whether or not there were any sightings of Mr Harris on the train. What about after we went to bed – myself and my two sergeants? That was about 1am. How long did the other passengers remain?’
The guard reverts to his defensive posture, hunching his shoulders.
‘Ah cannae mind. Ah dinnae keep a register, ken?’
Skelgill, still holding the manifest, flaps it with apparent frustration. He squints at the list.
‘There was Mr Mital, who was reading. Ms Hackett was talking to Mr Faulkner. The rest were sitting round together – Mr Cameron-Kinloch and his colleague Ms Karenina, and Mr Bond and his two male associates.’
He looks up interrogatively at the guard. But DS Leyton interjects.
‘And Ms Adamska, Guv.’
‘What?’
Skelgill looks accusingly at the document. Then he is reminded – she was not a scheduled passenger.
‘I was coming to her, Leyton.’ He addresses the guard. ‘You must be able to remember roughly when they turne
d in, sir?’
Ruairidh McLeod shifts charily in his seat.
‘Maybe half an hour after youse, I went tae the guard’s van. When I came back they’d all gone.’
‘Well, what time was that, sir?’
‘Two-fifteen, two-twenty.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Cleared away the empties. Tidied the galley and the washrooms. Went back tae my van. Stayed there until we came tae a halt.’
Skelgill inhales pensively.
‘So, you didn’t see anyone after 1.30am?’
‘Aye.’ But the man’s brow creases – it seems there is some recall. ‘Wait. Ah saw someone – when Ah went back tae clear up. Ah glimpsed a woman at the end of the sleeping car – she must have went intae the toilet.’
‘Which woman?’
‘Ah dinnae ken.’
Skelgill tilts his head back, a little disbelievingly.
‘Ms Adamska – she’s tall – blonde. Ms Karenina, medium height, black hair. Ms Hackett, smallish, fair hair. They’re all very distinctive.’
‘And DS Jones, Guv.’
Skelgill glares at his sergeant. But he transfers his disapproval to the guard – personal observation is not proving to be his strongpoint.
‘You’re sure it was a woman?’
Skelgill’s tone might almost be sarcastic, but the man has an immediate retort.
‘Aye – she had on a red dressing gown.’
It seems the issue of gender is settled by the colour of the garment, categorically so, going by the man’s intonation. Skelgill, who has subconsciously eliminated DS Jones, cannot imagine his colleague to be the person concerned – a red dressing gown? But she may have visited the washroom – indeed, during the wee small hours there were surely multiple comings and goings to this effect; and he had been disturbed himself. Moreover, there is something about the guard’s account that disquiets him. He feels strongly disinclined to take Ruairidh McLeod into their confidence (a bridge he has yet to cross with the driver) and has formed a low opinion of his reliability as a witness. But there are more questions he should ask.
‘Had any of the passengers locked their compartments – that required you to open them so they could turn in?’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 63