Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘I’d have lasted ten minutes, taking orders.’

  Richard Bond laughs appreciatively.

  ‘Yet there cannot be room for insubordination in your profession.’

  Skelgill makes a disparaging exclamation.

  ‘Try telling that to my superior.’

  ‘He is a bit of a stickler?’

  ‘She.’

  Skelgill’s intonation conveys in the single word all the listener needs to know about the wayward inspector and his rocky relationship with the Chief. However, Richard Bond seems eager to take his side.

  ‘Nothing wrong with initiative, Inspector. Progress depending upon the unreasonable man, and all that. In my estimation you have acted correctly – somebody needed to take charge.’

  Skelgill responds with an inarticulate grunt, which may be an acknowledgement, but otherwise they move on in silence. He imagines that Richard Bond would certainly have assumed command had the team of detectives not been on board – and though he proved willing to take orders, even now he has instigated his own black ops. Indeed, Skelgill is still in a heightened state of alert – although he has been striving not to show it. He is disconcerted that he has been stalked and crept up on. Can he seriously believe that Richard Bond did not know it was he? What about that determined look in the man’s eyes in the split second between Skelgill’s turning around and the swoosh of the club that sent him keeling backwards?

  Perhaps Richard Bond detects that some unfavourable thoughts are troubling Skelgill’s mind, for he makes a hearty effort to change the subject.

  ‘I gather your good Sergeant Leyton has some high jinx lined up for us tonight.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Postprandial entertainment – I caught a snatch of his conversation with that young waif of a housekeeper – apparently the firm that had booked for their Christmas event had ordered an evening of traditional pub games – so we are to have the benefit of the arrangements.’ He guffaws explosively. ‘I’m not sure how it will go down with the likes of Wiktoria Adamska – she is more accustomed to The Savoy – can’t say I’ve ever seen a cribbage board in that august establishment!’

  9. PLAYING GAMES

  Thursday, 8pm

  ‘Didn’t realise you played arrows right-handed, Guv.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But, Guv – you were chucking with your right – everything else I’ve ever seen you do, you’re a southpaw. I suddenly realised when we were up against Dire Straits in the final – the McLeod geezer being a cack-hander an’ all.’

  ‘Cuddy wifter, we call it round here, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton blinks somewhat vacantly.

  ‘So, what are you saying, Guv – you were giving the rest of this crowd a chance?’

  Skelgill looks disgusted at such a suggestion – or maybe he is distracted, for at the bar billiards table now is the striking figure of Wiktoria Adamska, upon whom most of the people in the room have their gaze fixed. She has dressed for dinner in a skimpy silvery see-through outfit and trademark high heels, her unrestrained pale locks and various bangles and pendant earrings apparently not a hindrance when she takes her turn. Even with the very best of intentions it is difficult not to look on; even the females seem entranced by her alluring presence. Skelgill and DS Leyton are fresh from a comfortable victory in the darts contest – a performance perhaps reflective of their social backgrounds – and that Skelgill is an occasional player in his local. Although he was surprised by DS Leyton’s skill, the latter claiming not to have stood at the oche for a good decade. They made an effective tag-team, the taller Skelgill piling up the 20s; the shorter DS Leyton from a lower trajectory regularly nailing double 16, or its fall-back double 8. Eventually Skelgill responds, albeit somewhat obliquely.

  ‘Next time you write a cheque, Leyton – turn the book upside down and try to fill in the stub.’

  ‘You what, Guv?’ The sergeant sounds entirely bemused.

  ‘You’ll see what it’s like being left-handed in a right-handed world.’

  ‘Mind you, Guv – how often do you pay by Gregory these days?’

  ‘It’s not just cheques, Leyton. I’m surrounded by stuff that doesn’t work. That’s why I’ve had to learn to use my right hand. Try cutting with scissors in your left. Try flicking through a magazine left-handed. Even those fancy dessert forks we were given tonight – they had the blade on the wrong side.’

  DS Leyton regards his superior suspiciously; the handicap did not prevent him from devouring a second generous helping of sticky toffee pudding. He shifts forward with a grunt that reflects the degree of difficulty of the manoeuvre. His aim is to reach his drink. He has a pint of lager and Skelgill has reluctantly opted for Guinness. They sit adjacent upon a low, deep sofa at one side of the room that has been given over to games, a kind of informal lounge in which a couple of areas have been cleared for darts and bar billiards respectively. There is shove ha’penny and a pub quiz to come. A Wurlitzer jukebox is rendering dated hits – presently ‘Take Me Bak ‘ome’ by British glam rock band Slade, which has Skelgill rhythmically patting the arm of the settee. It seems the firm from Glasgow were intent upon wearing clothing to match the themed era; the evacuees have settled for pairings named after 1970s pop groups; Skelgill and Leyton perhaps rather unimaginatively The Police. DS Leyton meanwhile produces his notebook and lays it on the coffee table before them. He flips it over and acts out a little pantomime of writing.

  ‘Yeah – I reckon I see what you mean, Guv. The spine gets in the road.’ He does not sound all that convinced – but brightening he waggles the notebook. ‘Want me to give you a quick rundown of the interviews? At this rate I reckon it’ll be another twenty minutes before we’re back on.’

  ‘Aye, why not.’ Skelgill does not appear to share his colleague’s enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ll do it in order, shall I?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I started with the train driver, Laura Wilson. Obviously, she was in her cab the whole time from Euston until we crashed – but there was one interesting thing, Guv – we stopped.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She reckons there was a red signal just north of Crewe.’

  Not Crewe again, Skelgill is thinking.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Just before a quarter to three. She checked the time because she was keeping an eye on the schedule.’ DS Leyton regards Skelgill rather apprehensively – as if he has made too much of the news. ‘Thing is, Guv, it was for less than a minute. And we were in darkness in farmland. There’s no way any passenger could have known we were going to stop. And hardly enough time to do anything.’

  Skelgill’s eyes have glazed over. Judging by his expression he is suffering some inner discontent. But suddenly he realises he has been staring at Wiktoria Adamska, who has risen from bending over to take a shot, and she sees his apparent interest. She returns his gaze – an enigmatic smile and no trace of offence. She nods to him – he gives an awkward wave – just the lifting of one hand – and then he turns ostentatiously to look at DS Leyton. His sergeant realises he is expected to speak.

  ‘Obviously that don’t tie in with what Ruairidh McLeod told us.’

  ‘He was probably having a kip.’

  ‘The driver said as much, Guv. He’s supposed to stay awake – but it being a night shift it’s easy to nod off. She intercommed him when the train hit the snowdrift – but there was no answer – then they crossed paths at the lounge car.’

  ‘Aye – that’s where I found them.’

  There is another silence, which DS Leyton takes as a signal to continue.

  ‘I spoke with the American geezer next, Guv – Bill Faulkner – being as he was in the first group to board and was travelling alone – I thought if anyone noticed a Mr Harris it would be him. But he claims he was reading The Grapes of Wrath on his mobile phone and didn’t pay much attention to the people around him in the queue. That said – he couldn’t remember anyone else – and to cut a long story short,
Guv – they’ve all said the same thing. Neither hide nor hair of the Harris cove.’ Now DS Leyton’s heavy jowls crease as he sinks rather dejectedly into his seat. ‘They just kept giving me grief about when we’re getting them out of here.’

  Skelgill mutters an expletive – although he disguises it by casually glancing about the room. Frankly, he was not expecting any progress on the absent Mr Harris – indeed he knows his sergeant would have sought him out immediately upon his return had there been some information in this regard. And he reminds himself again that there are more important matters at stake than the non-passenger. However, had any of the real travellers ‘showed their hand’ as his sergeant had put it – he would also have known by now. He realises he must steel himself – there may be something DS Leyton has discovered that has not as yet revealed its significance. But such stoicism does not come easily – he is both physically tired and, by the same token, mentally fatigued. And in the jovial atmosphere it is tempting to forget altogether that they may be in the midst of a sinister plot. But he cannot ignore the facts of the death of Mikal Mital, the manuscript, the shake hole incident, the tampering in the cabins – and even in his own bedroom here.

  ‘So, what are they all up to?’

  His words might have a deeper meaning – but DS Leyton frames his reply in the context of his notes.

  ‘Well – Bill Faulkner, Guv – he works for an American bank in the City. He’s from New Orleans. Says he’s due to fly home late on Christmas Eve. He’s arranged it so he can fly back to the States from Edinburgh – he’s travelling up for a couple of days’ sightseeing. There’s some German outdoor market that’s all the rage – beats me why they wouldn’t have a Scotch market – what with whisky and tartan, haggis, shortbread – they’ve got those Jimmy hats, Loch Ness monster memorabilia –’ DS Leyton glances inquiringly at Skelgill, but sees this is not a diversion he wishes to suffer. ‘Then, er – Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch – he lives up there in Scotland, anyway – but he and his colleague Ivanna Karenina were returning to work – seems that Russian TV company keeps broadcasting right through the holidays – and they’re both involved in news and current affairs. Obviously I didn’t speak to Richard Bond – ’

  DS Leyton taps the man’s name on an otherwise blank page and looks hopefully at Skelgill, who takes a gulp of his drink and scowls disapprovingly – but then he is more forthcoming, as though the unpalatable liquid at least has some lubricative effect.

  ‘Bond didn’t see owt – as far Harris is concerned. As for the trip, him and his oppos were due to see financial clients in Edinburgh. Easy enough to check out.’

  DS Leyton looks a little perplexed.

  ‘What about that conference, Guv – that Mikal Mital was supposed to be speaking at?’

  Skelgill does not seem particularly troubled.

  ‘It’s probably been cancelled – I doubt if anyone’s made it. Never mind their keynote speaker’s out of the equation.’ He swallows another mouthful of his drink, but looks no more like he is getting used to the gassy stout. ‘Bond never mentioned it. I didn’t see that I should bring it to his attention.’

  Now DS Leyton realises that Skelgill has some artfulness when it comes to avoiding leading questions, if only out of bloody mindedness. But, for his part, he has rather given away that he has raised the subject.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – when I spoke to the young French geezer, François, he said him and his workmate Egor wouldn’t be going to the conference – that it was above their level – it’s for chief executives and other bigwigs. Then I reckoned he was about to say that Richard Bond would go – and he sort of changed his tune and acted like he didn’t understand me very well. I never really got a straight answer out of him.’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘I’ll ask Bond if necessary – he can’t deny it – not if he’s booked in – he’ll be on the delegates’ list. But we can probably find out ourselves once we’ve got some communications.’

  DS Leyton nods glumly.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – when I spoke again to Jenny Hackett – I mean, she was quite open about going to the conference – and that Mikal Mital was the main attraction. She’s still full of conspiracy theories – that he was about to blow the gaff –’

  The sergeant’s voice tails off.

  ‘What, Leyton?’

  ‘Well – it’s still looking like Jenny Hackett might be right – that someone’s headed him off at the pass.’

  Skelgill gives an ironic laugh.

  ‘At the cutting, more like. Shake Holes cutting.’

  ‘Well – exactly, Guv – although they couldn’t have planned that, could they? I mean, no one knew we were going to smash into a snowdrift and get stranded.’

  Skelgill tilts his head to one side.

  ‘It’s not like there weren’t straws in the wind, Leyton. Look at Wiktoria Adamska.’ DS Leyton does so – and at this moment the young woman is poised to take a shot, and revealing a considerable expanse of seamed nylons and steepling thighs. Skelgill follows his sergeant’s widening gaze. ‘What I’m saying, Leyton, is that she took the train because flights were already being cancelled. So what was the big hurry to get to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Er – that was – er – oh, yeah – she reckoned there’s a premiere, a fashion show – at the Edinburgh branch of Harvey, er – Nicks. Her new collection, er – lingerie – know what I mean?’ DS Leyton yields to the fact that he is floundering, and takes temporary refuge in his glass of lager. After a moment his composure is restored. ‘Just in time for all the geezers who can’t think of what to buy the missus for Christmas, I suppose, Guv.’

  ‘Like what you see, Inspector?’

  Skelgill suddenly starts – the voice belongs to Wiktoria Adamska – and he realises she has turned to catch him star gazing for a second time. Colour comes rushing uninvited to his high cheekbones.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam?’

  ‘My billiards – don’t you think I am improving?’ She wields the cue triumphantly above her head. ‘We cannot have The Police winning every event.’ She smiles, her pale hair and eyes glinting beneath the spotlight that is trained upon the table. She seems amused by Skelgill’s discomfiture, and takes a few elegant steps across the room. ‘And where is your delightful colleague? I might have been paired with her. Then Blondie would have been entirely fitting.’ She leans forward, revealing little in the way of underwear beneath her dress; she lowers her voice. ‘My partner – this American – he is rather staid, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Sorry, madam – I can’t be held responsible for picking the teams. Or the names.’ Skelgill glances rather accusingly at DS Leyton. ‘But to answer your question about Sergeant Jones, I’m hoping she’ll return soon.’

  Wiktoria Adamska smiles again; displaying her perfectly arranged and whitened teeth.

  ‘Is this one for us?’

  Her cryptic remark is explained as she turns to move away, for she has recognised that the track now playing on the jukebox is Denis and she begins to sing along in a clear soprano.

  ‘Oh embrasse-moi ce soir!’

  She swoops upon the table and executes her next shot with a flourish, winning chivalrous hurrahs from opponent Richard Bond, as both red and white are fluked simultaneously. Skelgill and DS Leyton are left sitting rather stiffly. After a while DS Leyton clears his throat; Skelgill thinks he is about to remark upon Wiktoria Adamska – but in fact it is the American to whom he refers.

  ‘Speaking of Bill Faulkner, Guv. I asked the passengers about what happened when they turned in – in case someone saw Harris or any movement around his compartment. Answer no to both. They more or less all went to bed around the one-thirty mark. Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch and Ivanna Karenina scooted off first with Wiktoria Adamska, closely followed by Richard Bond and his two young geezers – they were sharing a cabin, anyway. Jenny Hackett and Mikal Mital hung back to finish their drinks and left the lounge car together about ten minutes later.’

  ‘How can you be sure
about that?’

  ‘It tallies with what they individually told me, Guv. On top of that – like I say – Bill Faulkner – he was the last to go – he saw it all.’

  ‘So he was more observant this time.’

  Skelgill looks at the man. He is quietly watching the game in which he is a participant, standing a little aloof, rather like a sentry, with his cue at his side and the butt resting on the ground. But the larger-than-life Richard Bond would overshadow anyone. And there are the flamboyant Russian females.

  DS Leyton continues with his account.

  ‘He mentioned he’d had the buttering up from Jenny Hackett. He seemed amused by that. Said she eventually gave up on him and turned her charms – and the Glenmorangie – on Mikal Mital.’

  ‘It’s pronounced morangey, Leyton.’

  Skelgill does a passable impression of Ruairidh McLeod’s Scots accent – but then he glances urgently about the room to check he has not been overheard. The guard, however, is nursing a drink – which may or may not be the said malt, but certainly not his first of the evening, and is looking more flushed than ever as he sits in a group that comprises his games partner and colleague Laura Wilson (their team Dire Straits), and their next opponents Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch and Jenny Hackett (The Pretenders), who chatter and laugh boisterously and occasionally chime in with the line of a song while they wait their turn at bar billiards.

  DS Leyton humours his superior with a forced ha-hah – but there is plainly a more serious matter on his mind – and he frowns inwardly, as though it is a point that has just struck him.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – that probably means Jenny Hackett was the last person to see Mikal Mital alive – but for how long?’