Skelgill drains his glass of Guinness and turns the visual effects of the disagreeable pasteurised aftertaste upon his colleague.
‘What do you mean, for how long?’
‘Well, Faulkner reckons that when they left he saw them through the sliding door – and they linked arms.’
Skelgill’s features are implacable, verging on grim.
‘Leyton – Jenny Hackett was well tanked up when she came to pick our brains. She probably grabbed hold of the old fellow because she could hardly stand.’
DS Leyton is silent for a moment.
‘Interesting that Faulkner noticed, though, Guv. He kind of winked at me as he said it. But, surely he wouldn’t mean – like – how’s-your-father?’
‘Strange things happen on sleeper trains, Leyton.’
DS Leyton jerks his head sharply to look at his superior. Given everything that has occurred it seems a curiously facetious remark for him to have made. But Skelgill springs to his feet with his empty glass in one hand and holds out his other, demanding his colleague’s.
‘Drink up, Leyton – there’s nowt else for it. The best thing we can do tonight is win this tournament.’
DS Leyton does as bidden, looking slightly surprised that his superior is volunteering to obtain refills. He gulps the last of his beer, in his urgency dribbling down his chin.
‘Cheers, Guvnor – same again – pint of Forsythe.’
Skelgill moves swiftly through the lounge and into the adjoining snug, where the servery is located. It is a small cosy beamed room, with a fire burning in the grate and half a dozen low tables with easy chairs grouped around them. It is empty but for Richard Bond’s employees, François and Egor, paired together for games (Simon & Garfunkel) and presently deep in conversation. They glance up simultaneously and nod respectfully to Skelgill; he greets them with a convivial, “Alreet, lads” but continues to the bar, where the housekeeper, Samanta is emptying a dishwasher of steaming glasses, and only the top of her dark head is presently visible.
‘Pint of your best real ale please, landlady.’
She jumps to attention – and seems disconcerted by Skelgill’s apparently serious demand. He moves to assuage her alarm.
‘Only joking, lass. It was too much to hope that that company had ordered a firkin of Cocker Hoop for their Christmas do.’
She looks a little relieved.
‘Mr Merlyn says we don’t have enough call for it.’
Skelgill rocks his head from side to side.
‘Happen there’s only one thing worse than no cask ale – and that’s cask ale that’s gone off.’ But he hesitates, and stiffens disapprovingly. ‘Make that two things – and a landlord that tries to flog it to you.’
The girl simpers, though she must be humouring him; he does not expect her to appreciate that he has excused the innkeeper’s stocking policy. It strikes him that Joost Merlyn is probably just the sort of penny-pincher he has denigrated; certainly he does not shy at extracting his pound of flesh from this young staff member. Skelgill’s tone softens.
‘Looks like we’re running you ragged. Waitress, barmaid, chief cook and bottle-washer.’
‘Oh – I did not cook – chef had prepared the meal before he was sent home. The food – it was good – there was sufficient?’
‘Aye – no complaints on either front.’
Skelgill looks a little red-faced; he had suspected during the meal that she singled him out for seconds. But he tackles the notion head on.
‘And the service was top-notch. We need to organise a whip-round – so you get a decent tip, lass. Don’t want you missing out when your boss fellow puts in his inflated compensation claim to the railway company.’
The girl seems a touch embarrassed – but she also has something to say.
‘Oh – but – I do not think he will need to do that?’ Her inflexion is questioning – as though Skelgill ought to know. ‘Ms Adamska – she has presented her Amex Black. To cover any costs for the entire party while you are here. Everybody can have whatever they wish.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow – this is news to him. He grins, perhaps a little inanely.
‘I might have to reconsider my order of a lager and a Guinness.’
‘I am at your service.’
She regards him unblinkingly, her dark eyes suddenly imploring. He realises that for the first time since his arrival she is wearing make-up, in particular a concoction of mascara and eyeliner that expedites a hitherto unseen worldliness. Her hair is glossy beneath the bar lights, and her sleeveless halterneck black dress reveals a discreet tattoo, a series of runes that must run in a crescent, like a necklace across her breastbone. He becomes conscious that he ought to reply.
‘Couple of bags of cheese and onion?’
The girl lowers her gaze and smiles demurely.
‘Of course, Inspector.’
When Skelgill returns to his colleague he feels the noise level has been cranked up a notch or two; perhaps it is the freely flowing drink and the Hawkwind track emanating from the jukebox like a jet aircraft preparing to take off. DS Leyton has been watching the game still in progress between the pairings of Wiktoria Adamska and Bill Faulkner, and Ivanna Karenina and Richard Bond, Blondie versus Abba. Skelgill bangs down their drinks in a rather cavalier fashion, spilling some of the liquid from the brimming glasses. In a lowered voice he speaks out of the side of his mouth.
‘Leyton, did you know Wiktoria Adamska’s footing the bill?’
‘What do you mean, Guv?’
Skelgill explains what he has just learned. DS Leyton takes a cautious sip of lager and wipes foam from his lips with the back of his hand.
‘Suppose when you’re hitched to a billionaire it’s a drop in the ocean. No wonder that Merlyn geezer’s been hopping around on his stick with a grin like a Cheshire cat. I thought they were pushing the boat out with the fancy wine at dinner. Mind you, Guv – he’ll be on tenterhooks – what use is a posh credit card with no internet or phone line?’
Skelgill grins wryly, but his tone is disapproving.
‘I reckon we’d better have a word with her. I don’t like charity at the best of times – and we can’t be seen to be in anyone’s pocket.’
DS Leyton’s attitude is more phlegmatic.
‘She seems quite happy to be the centre of attention, Guv.’
At this moment it appears that the woman in question has played the match-winning shot – for Richard Bond, despite being her opponent, is quick to move in with a congratulatory bear-hug, from which she disentangles herself to enjoin in a more subtle embrace and exchange of air kisses with Ivanna Karenina. Her playing partner Bill Faulkner appears estranged from this extravagant show of affection and, so eclipsed, turns to set up the balls and skittles for the ensuing match. However, with characteristic American candour, he calls out across the room.
‘Hey, y’all – who dat?’
That he does not precisely mean who is next on the table but refers to the so-far all-conquering Blondie nonetheless serves to summon The Pretenders and Dire Straits. Skelgill is watching him over the rim of his pint glass, and the man notices his attention just as Richard Bond heartily declares that the departing foursome should make an expedition through to the bar. As he pays lip service to a high-five from the animated financier, he flashes Skelgill a stolid grin. Plainly he is tolerating the events of the evening, but would much rather be undertaking something of his own design. It is a sentiment with which Skelgill can identify, and he returns a sympathetic raising of the eyebrows as if to say one may as well make the best of one’s circumstances.
And making the best of it is perhaps a fair description of what follows. Certainly Joost Merlyn adopts such tactics, evidently detailing his young female assistant to circulate in order to ensure that any glass nearing empty is replaced with a fresh drink, while he holds fort at the bar to watch the pound signs ring up on the cash register. The jukebox volume seems to be progressively raised, and rarely can the ancient game of sho
ve ha’penny have been played to so raucous an accompaniment, not least when 1970s tracks Love Train and Hotel California are belted out by those present, the singers presumably not deaf to the irony implicit in their lyrics. It emerges that Ruairidh McLeod, the guard, belying his somewhat dour demeanour, is responsible for these mischievous selections, his defence that these were big hits of his youth.
As for the tournament itself, Skelgill might affect indifference to his opponents, but DS Leyton knows that this is not a state of mind of which he is capable. Indeed, his suggestion that Skelgill was not trying at darts was well wide of the mark, and the latter remains true to his stated intention to win outright. His competitive spirit is not something to rub up against, and thus DS Leyton pulls out all the stops for fear of incurring the wrath of his boss. Having already triumphed in the darts, The Police thus claim victory in both the bar billiards and the shove ha’penny contests, leaving themselves the luxury of being able to come last in the pub quiz (which they do, much to Skelgill’s chagrin). This final leg is comfortably won by The Pretenders – the rest of the party no match for the pairing of the former politician and the journalist, who demonstrate that inebriation need be no impediment to delving into the prodigious knowledge banks that their respective professions have bequeathed them. Skelgill did however take some consolation in being the only person in the room correctly to answer the question, “What is an Allis Shad?” – a rare migratory species he most recently hooked in spring from the Solway.
The winning team’s prize turns out to be a jeroboam of champagne, which they have little choice but to bow to public pressure and crack open (Skelgill feigns but then stops short of spraying the audience). By now it seems the unfortunate predicament that the party shares has been forgotten, they have shrugged off their cares and inhibitions, and they crowd together into the snug to continue their celebrations. Under normal circumstances these might have stretched long into the night, but the laws of biology are only so malleable. A late finish on the train, a rude awakening before 5am, an arduous trek through the blizzard, and the stress of the entire experience, complemented now by the soporific warmth from the hearth and the narcotic effect of alcohol; these factors combine to take their toll. Eyelids begin to droop and heads begin to nod and even Richard Bond, he who appears to be possessed of unbounded energy shows signs of flagging. Indeed, it is the former soldier that announces a pragmatic surrender and a last toast to The Police – both as worthy winners of the tournament and champions of their hopes for getting the hell out of here tomorrow morning!
No pressure. But Skelgill is rescued from the obligation of making some sort of victory-cum-valedictory speech, by the jukebox and the irresistible a cappella opening harmony of Bohemian Rhapsody. The group spontaneously launches into one last communal bout of karaoke, and retreats in disorderly fashion up the staircase to the strains of its mournful finale. In due course, Skelgill is still tunelessly rendering poignant snatches as he emerges from his shower (“Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality”) when there is a light tap on his bedroom door. Embarrassed by his falsetto, he waits a moment. Silence. DS Leyton would call out. Finally the knock comes again. He wraps a towel around his waist and cautiously opens the door. In the dim nightlights of the corridor hovers the slight and spectral figure of Samanta. Her long hair trails over her bare shoulders and amidst the dark make-up her eyes are concealed in shadow. She speaks in a hushed voice that makes her Eastern European accent seem more pronounced.
‘Mr Merlyn – he has gone to bed.’
Skelgill is a little nonplussed by her words – but he sees immediately that she is carrying a round bar-tray with two bottles of beer upon it. The girl continues quickly.
‘He keeps this for himself – hidden in the cellar. It is not cask ale, of course – but it is an award-winning craft bitter.’
Skelgill blinks a couple of times. There is the double incongruity of her presence at this juncture, and her hitherto hidden expertise. More tangibly congruous is that beside the two bottles stand two glasses. He leans out as far as modesty will permit and looks in both directions along the landing. Then he takes a step back.
10. FLYING VISIT
Friday, 6am
As hangovers go, Skelgill’s first impression of this morning’s is that it is of the heavy metal variety, with head-banging sound effects to match. However, as he rolls over and clamps his pillow tightly around his skull, he receives a shock – for the persistent dub-dub-dub diminishes. The pulsation must be emanating from outside his room; indeed, as he experimentally removes the makeshift muffler, he recognises the chopping engine of a helicopter.
He hobbles to the window and parts his curtains. It is still dark but the aircraft’s blinding searchlight creates a great white pool out of the parking area. Instantly he notes two facts. Firstly, it has stopped snowing. Secondly, the pilot does not intend to hang about – for a figure is being lowered by winch – and if he is not mistaken he recognises the slight but capable athletic form.
Thus by the time a sockless Skelgill has donned a rudimentary outfit and made his way out of doors via the tack room as the most expedient route, he finds DS Jones striding across the stable yard, presumably having had the same idea. She unslings a small rucksack from her back and presents it to Skelgill as they converge.
‘I have to be really quick, Guv – they’re waiting for me.’
Skelgill looks momentarily panicked. The beat of the rotors bounces about the courtyard like an insistent summons. But he figures they will have allowed time for her to make her way inside the building. He jerks a thumb over one shoulder.
‘Come in – tell us.’
DS Jones’s shrewd hazel eyes meet his. She gives a nod. They have equipped her with an olive-green jump suit, and a black helmet and combat boots, and with a full body harness she looks the part of serving flight crew. She follows him inside. He tugs shut the stable-style doors to reduce the noise. She pulls off her helmet and shakes out her fair hair; it seems an extravagant gesture under the circumstances.
‘Guv – the demands on the helicopter are unbelievable. There are people trapped left, right and centre – some really urgent cases. I’ve managed to get us a window. I cleared it with the Chief. I’ve had two forensic officers brought down from Penrith. We’re going to collect Mikal Mital’s body from the train – and they’ll grab what evidence they can and seal off the sleeping car. We’ve also got an old lady on board, from Ulphathwaite where I spent last night – she needs urgent dialysis. We’ll be at maximum payload.’
Skelgill nods grimly. Despite that he knows all about the significance of payload when it comes to such aircraft, she is being somewhat diplomatic in her rationale. But, he has to admit; they don’t call her ‘fast-track’ back at the station for nothing. There are calculations that balance the requirements of the case (its seriousness as yet unconfirmed) with the obligation to extract the stranded passengers and reinstate them upon their journeys. Notwithstanding, Skelgill is troubled by the prospect that DS Jones is about to be snatched away from him without a proper explanation – but her next words anticipate his concern. She reaches out to pat the bag.
‘There’s a two-way radio – and a charger. We’ll be able to speak in a few minutes. I initiated enquiries via the landline yesterday afternoon and received preliminary feedback before the close of play. When we reach the train I should have a quarter of an hour while the guys are doing their stuff.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’ll go in person to brief the path lab. And once I’m back at my desk I can coordinate any further investigations you want me to make.’
Skelgill’s features remain stern. He snaps open the clip of the rucksack and delves inside.
‘Okay. This is the same model we use for mountain rescue. Better get you back on board before your pilot starts honking his horn and wakes every one up.’
DS Jones affects a wide-eyed double take – and smiles at his joke. She flicks back her hair and pulls on her hel
met. She is wearing gloves and struggles with the chinstrap. Skelgill intervenes. Compliantly she tilts back her head. He hesitates, as though to speak – but then instinctively he glances around – and he realises that Samanta is standing in the doorway to the corridor, a barely illuminated silhouette. She seems to have on the same dress as last night.
DS Jones raises a hand in acknowledgement – but Skelgill fastens the buckle and pulls her away.
‘Come on – I’ll make sure your harness is properly clipped on to the winch.’
As they begin to exit Samanta’s voice follows them.
‘Inspector – do you want a coat?’
Skelgill hesitates.
‘It’s alright, thanks – it’s stopped snowing.’ He makes a face of artless mea culpa. ‘I could do with some paracetamol.’
‘Sure.’
The girl bows her head and turns and disappears as silently as she came.
Out front Skelgill and DS Jones duck into the downdraught and Skelgill sees to the suspension strop. He signals to the winchman, and then has to shout to DS Jones.
‘You’re good to go, lass.’
His colleague leans closer to make herself heard.
‘You okay, Guv? You look a bit – dishevelled.’
Skelgill grimaces and mouths back.
‘You should see Leyton.’
DS Jones grins – but the crew have no time to spare and she is promptly hoisted aboard and almost immediately the helicopter banks away into the void. Skelgill watches its blinking lights disappear. As he begins to trudge back he looks up at the inn. In the gloom he gets a vague impression of faces at several of the windows. They might almost be pale ghosts of past travellers.
*
‘Can you hear me okay, Guv? Over.’
‘Aye, but it’s not great. Over.’
‘This cutting is so deep – it’s almost like a tunnel. And the pinewoods are between us. I think the signal will be clearer when I’m back at base. Over.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 66