Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What’s the score? Over.’

  ‘Everything seems to be going to plan here – they’re dusting and taking swabs right now. Just to bring you up to speed. Yesterday we reached the post office with no problems. There was a spare room – they were happy for me to stay. Lucinda Hobhouse returned to her stables complex. I got straight onto HQ. Believe it or not they just assumed we’d arrived and were sleeping off hangovers! Independently Gold Command were aware of the train being stranded – but it was low on the list of emergencies – the scale of the chaos is immense – all of Cumbria and Northumberland, the Scottish Borders, and the central belt from Edinburgh to Glasgow. Everything has been brought to a dead halt. Our helicopter was due out to inspect later today. Network Rail have moved snowploughs to start work at first light, from both north and south, but there’s about 100 miles of track affected and there are stretches where they think they’ll need excavators – such as here. Obviously, once I was able to inform them that everyone was safe it took the pressure off – but they want to get the line open anyway because there’s no means of getting between England and Scotland. Thousands of people are scheduled to travel home for Christmas – and there’s a big issue with food getting through. They think they might be able to open one of the carriageways of the M6 by tonight – but there are hundreds of abandoned vehicles, so they can’t just plough straight through. The good news is the snow has stopped sooner than expected.’

  ‘Aye – I just listened to the forecast while I was waiting.’

  ‘Any significant developments there, Guv? Before I tell you what I know so far. Over.’

  ‘Not unless you count me and Leyton winning the pub games tournament last night.’ He half-yawns-half-groans but offers no explanation for this. ‘They’re all keeping their cards close to their chest. Jenny Hackett’s the only one talking openly about what happened to Mikal Mital – seems she and him ended up drinking together and toddled off to bed at the same time – linking arms according to Bill Faulkner.’

  Skelgill is silent for a few moments, but does not use the customary “over” and so DS Jones also waits for a while before she speaks.

  ‘Maybe she was really determined to get a look at that manuscript, Guv. Over.’

  ‘If she were – and if she took it – like I’ve been saying – it’s probably hidden here somewhere.’ Distracted by this thought it takes him a few seconds to realise he has finished. ‘Over.’

  ‘At least it can’t leave for the time being, Guv. I just need to get you some conclusive evidence. Over.’

  Skelgill is thinking that his ideal scenario would be summarily to order everyone onto a bus without their possessions and get a team of officers to search the inn. (Albeit that right now, other than the manuscript, he doesn’t know what he is looking for.) But this is cloud cuckoo land, given the national emergency. Going by what he heard on the wireless even the hurriedly mobilised British armed forces are stretched right now. Any serious deployment of resources does depend upon DS Jones feeding back something conclusive, as she has put it. But, what if – as is perfectly likely – Mikal Mital died of natural causes? Then he is jolted by the memory that he did see the manuscript with his very own eyes, and now it is gone. Except there is the possibility that the man voluntarily gave it to someone else to read. Perhaps it will be innocently produced in due course. But he is halted in this erratic train of thought. For when he does not answer DS Jones presses on with her debrief.

  ‘Guv – yesterday afternoon I supplied a list of passengers and asked both for their families to be notified and for them to be vetted. Along with the driver and the guard – oh, and Lucinda Hobhouse.’

  Skelgill makes a rather scornful exclamation – but his intention is to communicate that his subordinate is becoming as cynical as he is. She seems to understand his sentiment.

  ‘You have to admit, Guv – her appearance on the train was hardly run-of-the-mill.’ She pauses, although she has not signalled for him to speak, and after a brief hiatus she continues. ‘Besides, as it turns out she does have connections with what you might call the world of high finance. Her brother-in-law is a merchant banker in the City of London – for a firm that has been under investigation for its dealings in the British Virgin Islands. She is also related to a titled peer whose cousin is a long-serving mandarin in the Treasury. The riding school at Ulphathwaite appears bona fide – but the postmistress was telling me there has been a colossal investment since Lucinda Hobhouse took it over. That stallion we rode back on – according to the village rumour mill she rejected a multi-million-pound offer for it to be sold to stud.’

  ‘I should be so lucky.’

  Skelgill’s choked retort is purely rhetorical – but DS Jones waits in the event that he might wish to comment on these findings.

  ‘It’s a long shot, Jones.’

  DS Jones appreciates that the impossibility of knowing the train would come to a halt rules out the notion of a premeditated conspiracy. But there is the faint possibility that Lucinda Hobhouse had responded to the aftermath out of more than altruism. And when Skelgill remains taciturn DS Jones iterates this argument.

  ‘She did get to a landline first thing yesterday morning, Guv. It is feasible that someone suggested an opportunistic visit to the train. I realise it’s unlikely – but the point is I didn’t want to ignore her completely. Let’s see what comes of the team’s investigations. I’ve briefed them to be alert to anything that may pertain to potential money laundering. For instance we’ve had it confirmed that the TV news channel that employs Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch and Ivanna Karenina is definitely owned by the billionaire Bogblokinov. The idea that he, or the company, operates entirely independently of the Russian government is unthinkable. And as Jenny Hackett pointed out he has significant property holdings in London, and probably elsewhere. Then Wiktoria Adamska’s husband is not so far behind in the rich list. For her part, there’s no indication that the fashion business is anything other than above board – it’s a UK registered private company and its accounts are up to date and are in a healthy state. The same can’t be said, however, of Richard Bond’s company. It’s listed on what’s called the AIM – the Alternative Investment Market. It seems they bought into a portfolio of high street retailers – and that whole sector is struggling. Bond’s firm recently issued a profits warning and its shares have virtually halved from their peak value. Apparently they’ve been slogging round with the begging bowl trying to drum up venture capital. No accounts have been filed for the last two years.’

  DS Jones seems to hesitate – but then Skelgill hears her voice, more distant. “Sure – I’m nearly done – one minute, okay?” Then she comes back more clearly. ‘Sorry, Guv – that’s the team leader wanting us out of here. Just to finish. Going back to Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch – again, as Jenny Hackett told us – he instigated the Golden Visas scheme to encourage inward investment into the UK. There are no suggestions that he benefited personally – but it places him in the financial orbit, so we’re looking into that. His colleague Ivanna Karenina – not much so far on her – but we’ve put out the appropriate feelers to see if she has any connections other than with her direct employer, if you know what I mean. Then, finally, there’s the American, Bill Faulkner.’

  ‘He works for a US bank.’ Again Skelgill ignores the radio protocol. ‘He told Leyton.’

  ‘That’s right. Apparently we received a cool reaction from the firm. They went to some lengths to verify that we were the police. And then they provided only the most basic information – confirmation that he’s an employee and his temporary address in London. But at least he seems to be who he claims he is. Obviously, Guv – this is all work in progress. The team will be back onto it once work starts this morning. Over.’

  Skelgill seems a little surprised to have the baton passed at this juncture, and all he can manage is, “Aye, over.”

  ‘Sorry I can’t be much more enlightening than Jenny Hackett was.’ His colleague sounds apologetic – as
though she thinks he might be dissatisfied. It seems that she is about to sign off – but then she obviously remembers a salient point. ‘Oh – there is one more thing – about her, Guv. She’s been given notice of redundancy. We’ve spoken to her editor. Evidently he was a bit cagey – the DC got the distinct impression that they’re effectively firing her. Of course – the first inclination is to assume she’s been underperforming – but when you search online she comes up as winning a hatful of awards for investigative journalism over the past few years. So we’ve looked into the ownership of The Inquirer. It’s positioned as campaigning for transparency – but the media group to which the newspaper belongs is owned through a shell company in the Cayman Islands and the family who control it are tax exiles in Monaco. So who’s to say she’s not been getting uncomfortably close to some home truths? And –’

  But DS Jones is unable to proceed with this last sentence – for Skelgill hears an impatient summons, harsh and insistent.

  ‘Oh, Guv – that’s it – I need to fly – literally! How about if I call you at 12 noon with an update – to save you carrying the radio around? With luck I’ll have some news from the lab. Over.’

  ‘Aye – just make sure you put a rocket under Herdwick. Tell him from me –’

  But there is an explosive crackle on the line – and now it goes dead. Perhaps her battery has given up – or the signal is disrupted as she retreats towards the waiting helicopter. It is a state of affairs with which he is familiar; the successful use of two-way radios in fell country is something of an arcane craft. He curses that he has not conveyed sufficiently the requirement to browbeat the pathologist – that the experienced but cantankerous doctor must be made to pull out all the stops. However, on reflection, DS Jones has powers of persuasion that are more akin to diplomacy than his own. Pensively, he turns off the volume and slots the handset into the charger on the floor beside his bed. He drifts to the window and takes a deep breath; exhaling slowly he watches the condensation expand before his eyes. It is still dark – and above the horizon he can see stars, the Plough and Polaris – the sky has cleared, and the first signs of dawn will come earlier this morning. He looks forward to his first proper view of the lie of the land. After a few moments he turns and pads through into the bathroom, where he drinks directly from the cold tap – the water is icy and it jars upon his teeth, and he can feel it going down, another little reminder that it is freezing outside. But at least the conditions are now more benign; it appears the forecasters were hedging their bets.

  Skelgill sinks down upon his bed, not bothering to straighten the disorganised covers. He slides his hands behind his head; he realises his pulse has risen during the exchange with DS Jones, and the thump of his underlying headache has returned. He should have asked for more pills. But it could have been worse; with an effort he raises his torso, a kind of sit-up – across on the dresser is the tray with the two bottles of precious craft ale; neither is opened.

  11. MISSING

  Friday, 8.15am

  Skelgill is tucking into his second helping of breakfast when a bleary-eyed DS Leyton trudges across the dining room and sinks heavily into the seat opposite his superior at a table set in the most secluded corner.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guvnor – this burning the candle at both ends malarkey. I reckon it’s easier being at home with the nippers. Plus I’m out of practice with drinking – two nights on the bounce, an’ all.’

  ‘You reckoned you were out of practice with darts, Leyton – but it soon came back to you.’

  ‘So it did, Guv.’ DS Leyton brightens. ‘I suppose it’s muscle memory, ain’t it? Like riding a bike.’ But now he seems to suffer a little rollercoaster of sensations. He rubs his stomach gingerly. ‘Can’t say the same for the old Derby.’

  ‘Get yourself a couple of Cumberland sausages before they’re gone, Leyton – they’ll soon sort you out. Best hangover cure this side of Hadrian’s Wall.’

  DS Leyton pulls a face as if he begs to differ – but then his eyes begin to rove over hotplates that are laid out upon trestle tables beneath the windows. He scrutinises the various remaining morsels on Skelgill’s plate – if his boss is true to his word, then he has consumed his own sausages first (which, in DS Leyton’s estimation would make sense, his superior not being a man habitually to save the best until last). Skelgill does not however elaborate upon either his reasoning or his suggestion that the Scots have a more efficacious morning-after remedy. Perhaps he means Irn-Bru?

  ‘I might manage a small one, Guv.’

  The expression ‘small Cumberland sausage’ is a contradiction in terms, and Skelgill is quick to recognise this fact as his colleague rises with a groan and pads across to the buffet.

  ‘I’ll split it with you, Leyton.’

  When his deputy returns Skelgill waits for him to divide the coiled sausage and pass half over before he addresses him.

  ‘You missed all the fun and games this morning, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton seems preoccupied with the contents of his plate.

  ‘How’s that, Guv?’

  ‘Jones was here.’

  DS Leyton – now having taken a bite of fried bread – can only respond with a look of consternation.

  ‘You didn’t hear the chopper?’

  DS Leyton shakes his head and swallows with difficulty.

  ‘I reckon I was dead to the world, Guv.’

  Skelgill frowns rather doubtfully. But it is true to say his sergeant’s bedchamber is on the opposite side of the quadrangle to his own, and thus would have been most insulated from the clatter of the aircraft’s moving parts. However DS Leyton’s expression begins to exhibit a spark of recognition. He raises his knife in lieu of an index finger.

  ‘Now you mention it, Guv – I did have a dream with a flippin’ great chugging noise in it – it was about how we saved Christmas. We were on board this old steam loco – yeah – I remember, it was the Flying Scotsman – it was broken down – but we managed to get it going – over Shap summit – bingo! Only we didn’t know how to stop it – and it was like the runaway train, speeding faster and faster down towards Penrith. Course – we’d got sacks of Christmas presents on board for all the kids in the town – and we only just figured out in the nick of time how to chuck ’em off like they did in the old days, into those big rope nets.’

  Skelgill is chewing somewhat uninterestedly.

  ‘What happened to us?’

  DS Leyton shakes his head despondently.

  ‘I reckon we ended up in the Scottish Highlands – stuck in the snow. Missed Christmas.’

  There is a wistful note in his voice – Skelgill wonders if it is a deliberate reminder that he has undertaken to DS Leyton that he would be home by tomorrow, Christmas Eve – and now he feels a pang of guilt that DS Jones has, through chance circumstances, got the break that has repatriated her to relative civilisation; certainly she will be able to get home. Reflecting on this it strikes him that she would willingly have swapped places with her married colleague, had he asked her – but the notion had not occurred to him while the opportunity existed. Moreover, if he is honest, he prefers the status quo – DS Jones is by far the most efficient and inquisitive of them all – she is in the right place for what needs to be done; and DS Leyton is well equipped for the task in hand, stoically sitting out their confinement, a stolid police presence; and frankly a more apt companion, less controversial for him to be trapped in a hotel with, given the propensity for gossip back at the station. Skelgill, nonetheless, shifts a little awkwardly in his seat. He looks about, to check no one is eavesdropping, and lowers his voice.

  ‘Leyton – strictly between you and me – I’ve got a two-way radio. Jones is calling in at noon.’ He adds a belated postscript. ‘If you want to get a message to the wife.’

  ‘Struth, Guv – you’re making it sound like we’re being held hostage.’

  DS Leyton’s voice rises a little hysterically, and Skelgill’s eyes dart about the room to check if they have been
overheard. Thus far, only Richard Bond, who sits together with his two young colleagues, and Bill Faulkner and Ruairidh McLeod, who sit apart, have made it down to breakfast; probably the sorts – like himself – that in are the habit of rising early, for whom a lie-in is anathema when there is a day to be dealt with, worms to catch, fish to fry. But they are subdued, and variously preoccupied – the financiers with occasional conversation punctuated by restrained guffaws from Richard Bond; Bill Faulkner with his mobile phone (and The Grapes of Wrath presumably, since there is still no signal); and the fiery-browed Ruairidh McLeod with his own thoughts, and black they look.

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about Leyton. Some of this crowd were gawping out of their windows at the chopper – I’m surprised no one’s asked when it’s coming back.’

  Skelgill attacks the last couple of curving inches of the surrendered Cumberland sausage. DS Leyton clears his throat uneasily.

  ‘What’s the score on that front, Guv – er, in case I’m asked?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Leyton. Jones had managed to get dispensation to bring down a couple of SOCOs – extract the body from the train. But they’d also got a sick old lady on board they’d picked up from Ulphathwaite. Sounds like they’re up to their necks with casualties for the foreseeable future.’ DS Leyton once again looks dejected – that his superior is not exactly letting him down lightly. Skelgill rather unconvincingly tosses in a concession. ‘There’s talk they might get the M6 moving tonight. If push comes to shove we could yomp across and get you picked up by a patrol.’

  DS Leyton appears curiously chastened. He regards Skelgill earnestly.

  ‘I ain’t gonna leave you in the lurch, Guv – not while there might be a job to do here.’

  Skelgill, true to form, shuns his colleague’s demonstration of loyalty.

  ‘Let’s see what Jones comes back with. We might the lot of us be able to yomp it tomorrow, get on a bus – if this turns out to be a storm in a teacup.’