Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  At this he examines his own teacup, and lifts the pot but it is also empty – and yet as if by magic Samanta appears at his shoulder and pours from a fresh pot. She is wearing her regulation black staff outfit beneath a navy catering apron.

  ‘Are you feeling better, Inspector?’

  Her tone is sympathetic, but her smile slightly knowing; DS Leyton looks on with faint amusement at the special attention his superior is receiving. Skelgill is plainly embarrassed.

  ‘Aye – not bad thanks.’ He begins urgently to ladle sugar. ‘I’ll be right as rain once I’ve got enough of this down me.’

  The girl bows and retreats, looking satisfied.

  DS Leyton chuckles.

  ‘She’s taken a shine to you, Guv.’

  When Skelgill might customarily capitalise upon the opportunity to preen, he scowls disparagingly.

  ‘Happen she knows which side her bread’s buttered. I said last night we’d have a whip-round. I wouldn’t trust Joost Merlyn to split the spoils of this little windfall.’

  DS Leyton looks rather conflicted – but any disagreement would relate to his contrasting reading of the girl’s motivation. As to the unprepossessing landlord, he shares his boss’s cynicism.

  ‘I reckon he’s a sly old fox, Guv. He looks like he’s trying to make up his mind whether to cosh you with his stick or pick your pocket – he’s like a cross between Bill Sikes and Fagin out of that there Oliver Twist.’

  Skelgill harrumphs. Or Scrooge, maybe. Certainly the man’s countenance displays a permanently self-despising expression that hovers between avarice and anger. Skelgill pities the poor girl Samanta; it does not feel a healthy working environment – although he supposes under normal circumstances there will be other members of staff upon whom she can lean for moral support. Anyway, it appears he has deflected his colleague’s assertion and with it the scope for mild innuendo. Now he moves the subject forward more decisively.

  ‘I reckon you could have a quiet word with him, Leyton.’

  ‘What’s that, Guvnor?’

  DS Leyton tries to conceal his trepidation – patently this is something that Skelgill does not intend to do himself.

  ‘Until I hear from Jones I’m keeping a low profile. I don’t want folk mithering me every five minutes about when they’re going to get out of here. The fact is I don’t know the answer – and subject to what Jones comes up with, we might want to delay their departure. But we’ll need to come clean about the chopper – and tell them we’ve got a team getting in touch with their nearest and dearest.’

  ‘So, where does old Merlyn come in, Guv?’

  ‘Get him to put up a notice at reception. Say we’re hoping to hear about evacuation plans by this evening. Otherwise we’ve been instructed to wait here for our own safety. That’ll put a damper on any of Bond’s crackpot schemes.’

  DS Leyton squints surreptitiously to where the former soldier sits with his colleagues – but it is another person who prompts him to mutter under his breath.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got company.’

  Skelgill glances up to see that Wiktoria Adamska is making a beeline for their table. She is barefooted – bare legged, indeed – and wears only a short flimsy silk salmon-pink dressing gown, tied with a waistband, that she holds together at her throat with one hand. She is naked of her customary white gold jewellery. Her hair is as dishevelled as he has seen it; it has a straw-like quality, and together with her lack of high heels gives her a more voluptuous appearance. Most striking of all, however, is the look in her pale eyes. She fixes Skelgill with a stare that he reads as one of infuriation tinged with distress. Her imposing presence silences what little conversation prevails, and even the clink of cutlery becomes muted – indeed the room might almost be a film scene held in freeze frame with only one actor that moves. And reaching the detectives’ table – unfazed by the attention she has garnered – she pulls out a seat and sinks elegantly upon it, sliding one long thigh over the other and causing both males to stare determinedly at her face.

  ‘Inspector – you must come to my room.’

  She utters these words in barely above a whisper. In the circumstances it might almost be scripted importuning – but her agitated tone belies any such intentions. Skelgill, conscious of other eyes upon them, has his fork suspended between his plate and his lips, and he rather casually holds this pose. But he too speaks quietly in response.

  ‘What’s the problem, Mrs Adamski?’

  Perhaps he highlights her marital status as if to eliminate any doubt about his reading of her demand – and it is a demand – but what lies behind it remains unclear. The woman casts briefly about the room – she might note that successive pairs of eyes drop away beneath her gaze.

  ‘During the night – I have been violated.’

  Skelgill just catches DS Leyton’s involuntary, “Whoa” – though it is barely breathed – before her words begin to crash about inside his head like a band of lunatics hijacking the asylum. In an instant he is reversing his assessment that to be without DS Jones is a satisfactory state of affairs. This is the last thing he needs! But his inner turmoil is superseded as the woman rises and steps back from the chair.

  ‘Come – I implore you.’

  Her tone is no less insistent – and she leaves him little choice – for she strides away. Skelgill is striving to appear composed – he remembers the food on his fork – and plunges it into his mouth before dropping his cutlery with a clatter upon his plate. He rises, leans over to swallow a gulp of tea, wipes his lips with his shirt cuff and sets off. But he has taken only three paces when he stops and turns to glare at his colleague. He gives a sharp jerk of his head – his meaning is clear – what does his sergeant think he is doing sitting on his backside?

  DS Leyton resignedly abandons his breakfast and sets off in pursuit. Reaching the reception area he sees Skelgill taking the stairs two at a time, and further above, fading into the womblike burgundy gloom, the elegant figure of Wiktoria Adamska.

  The staircase meets the first floor landing on the north side of the quadrangle; Wiktoria Adamska has a room facing south. She does not wait for Skelgill, obliging him to follow several yards behind; her gait is elegant and upright, the practised poise of the catwalk, her head held perfectly still like a hunting feline. She moves with deceptive speed, and in keeping pace Skelgill extends his stride. Beneath the ubiquitous maroon carpet the floor has been repaired in places with sheets of spongy plywood that feel close to collapse. In his slipstream the bulky DS Leyton makes correspondingly undulating progress.

  The woman’s bedroom door is wide open; she enters, but Skelgill holds back for DS Leyton. They file in like miscreant pupils summoned to the principal’s office; but it would be a schoolboy’s fantasy headmistress that greeted him in a revealing nightgown, perched upon the edge of a king-sized bed. They loiter rather awkwardly – until Skelgill indicates that DS Leyton should shut the door. In response Wiktoria Adamska waves an imperious hand towards a chaise longue beneath the window.

  ‘Please – make yourselves comfortable.’

  The detectives do as bidden – they seem to settle unnaturally close to one another – while at the same time Wiktoria Adamska shifts into a side-saddle position in order to face them. It strikes Skelgill that as a former model perhaps she is simply not self-conscious in the normal way – having changed a thousand times backstage where nudity is the norm and prying eyes not considered to be malevolent. Truth be told, she has little to be self-conscious about – but he casts such sentiments from his mind – and falls back upon the tongue-tied policeman’s stock question.

  ‘Madam – would you like to tell us what happened?’

  ‘See for yourselves.’

  Again there is the regal gesture – now she refers to an alcove, marked out by a blackened beam, that serves as an open wardrobe. Hanging from a rail Skelgill recognises the two-tone outfit of the train, and the shimmering silver slip of a dress of the games night. Beneath lie her matching suitcas
es, the tiny and the supersized, open like clamshells with their lids resting against the wall. The small valise appears dedicated to an extensive confection of lacy underwear, mainly in black with ribbons of scarlet and purple. The large case is given over almost entirely to two bulky fur coats, one jet black and one pure white, folded neatly and placed side by side. Skelgill stares for a few moments – but despite his best endeavours at deduction, he remains in the dark.

  ‘Madam – just now, you said – that you had been – violated.’

  He finds himself unable to prevent his voice from rising on the last word. But the reaction it generates is not what he anticipates. The woman pulls herself up onto the bed and in the same movement folds her legs beneath her and sinks back upon a collection of pillows. If it were a scene from an old movie she would now raise a cigarette in an ivory holder and expect one of them to come forward to light it for her. Instead she casually combs her long pale hair away from her face with the fingers of both hands.

  ‘A man entered my room. I was paralysed.’ She stares at Skelgill with some belligerence. ‘He groped about – for – it seemed an eternity.’

  She falls silent – as though she deems it unnecessary to say more. Skelgill realises he must prompt her.

  ‘You wish to report an assault.’

  She responds with a narrowing of her eyes.

  ‘It was not an assault – I told you, it was a violation.’ She stares at him evenly. ‘He stole something of immeasurable value.’

  ‘You mean – you weren’t physically attacked?’

  ‘What – of course not!’ Her perfectly arched brows become momentarily knitted. ‘Do you think I would be this calm?’

  Skelgill hears a hiss of breath – of relief – from his sergeant. He holds up both hands, palms facing the woman.

  ‘So – you’re okay? That’s the main thing.’

  ‘It is hardly the main thing.’

  Though in control of her outward emotions she is plainly conflicted – not least that she now has to explain herself. Skelgill can see this, and he leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees. It a pose that suggests he will give careful consideration to whatever she has to say.

  ‘Madam, when did this take place?’

  ‘I do not know.’ She glances at the nightstand on one side of the bed where there is an old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock. It would show nothing in the dark. ‘My phone is out of charge – it is useless at the moment.’

  Skelgill is looking puzzled.

  ‘But it was some time in the night – between your turning in and waking just now?’

  ‘In the night.’

  ‘Was your door locked?’

  ‘I did not hear the door. The first I knew was of the presence of a man.’

  ‘Could you see who it was?’

  ‘I could see nothing. I doubt if I opened my eyes.’

  ‘Are you certain it was a male?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She seems determined, sufficiently so that Skelgill feels it would be pedantic to oblige her to expound upon her reasoning.

  ‘Can you describe further what took place?’

  ‘Simply that he searched among my belongings.’ She gives a light shrug of her shoulders; she seems intent upon persisting with her laconic style.

  ‘And then he left the room?’

  ‘I can’t remember – I must have passed out.’

  Skelgill glances at DS Leyton who responds with a somewhat unguarded frown. The woman notices the exchange and is quick to respond.

  ‘Do not doubt what I say, Inspector.’

  Her tone is steely.

  ‘Madam, was something stolen?’

  Now she hesitates.

  ‘I cannot tell you what has been taken.’

  On the face of it this is an ambiguous statement – but Skelgill understands by now that her pared responses are carefully crafted.

  ‘You mean something is gone but you don’t want to say what it is?’

  Perhaps to the detectives’ surprise, she frowns self-reproachfully.

  ‘I was foolish to have it in my possession.’

  ‘Are we talking about an item of jewellery?’

  She compresses her lips broodingly.

  ‘You will know it when you find it. I wish to avoid any publicity. Its potential value would soar and I would never see it again.’

  Skelgill regards her rather severely. But he understands that she will have weighed the likely fidelity of any vows of confidentiality they might render.

  ‘That doesn’t make it easy for us, madam.’

  ‘I’m sure you will find a way, Inspector – a resourceful man, such as you are.’

  She smiles engagingly – almost irresistibly – and Skelgill discovers he is nodding in agreement. He can sense DS Leyton is straining at his side.

  ‘And now if you will excuse me, officers, I shall take a bath.’

  She slips off the bed and glides past them into the en suite.

  She only part-closes the door and there is the splash of water beginning to cascade abundantly into the cast-iron tub. Skelgill rises and glances about the room – but when he looks back at his still-sitting sergeant he sees the man transfixed – for he has inadvertently glimpsed a reflection from a full-length mirror as Wiktoria Adamska hangs her silk gown on a hook. Skelgill cuffs his colleague on the back of the head.

  ‘Come on, Leyton.’

  They exit, and begin to perambulate the first-floor landing. DS Leyton looks a little stunned.

  ‘Cor blimey, what do you make of that, Guv?’

  Skelgill might wonder to exactly which aspect his sergeant refers – the theatrical summons, the dramatic account, the abrupt termination – or his accidental ‘What the butler saw’ moment. As for the latter, he is thankful that he insisted upon a chaperone. He growls elusively.

  ‘You tell me, Leyton.’

  ‘Well – I mean, Guv – her claiming she’s been robbed – no idea of who – and won’t tell us what. What are we supposed to do? We can hardly turn out everyone’s pockets and pat them down on her say-so. See if some tea leaf’s got a priceless diamond tiara stuffed down their underpants.’

  Skelgill shrugs somewhat unconcernedly.

  ‘I would have thought a set of papers was more likely, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton cocks his head interrogatively to his superior.

  ‘What – are you thinking of Mikal Mital’s manuscript, Guv?’

  ‘Why not?’

  After a few moments’ deliberation DS Leyton inhales to speak – but he realises they have walked full circle (or, more accurately, full square) and are lapping Wiktoria Adamska’s door. He hesitates until they have turned the next corner.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask her, Guv?’

  ‘And let the cat out of the bag?’ Skelgill’s retort is sharp-tongued. ‘That’s why I said jewellery. If she’d had the manuscript, Leyton – then she must be in on whatever’s been going on. I don’t want her or anyone else knowing we’re looking for it.’

  Now DS Leyton rocks his head from side to side, as though he might be suffering from a stiff neck – but his words reveal it to be an accompaniment to some troubling speculation.

  ‘I imagine if she’d have knocked on the old fella’s compartment wearing that pink affair – he might have let her in, Guv.’

  ‘Red affair, Leyton.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘Remember – Ruairidh McLeod told us he saw a woman in a red dressing gown.’

  ‘Maybe she’s got a whole troop of colours. There’s enough underwear in that little case to last a fortnight.’ And then a thought dawns, for the sergeant’s voice takes on a note of heightened interest. ‘And she was standing right next to Jenny Hackett when she got shoved into that snake pit, Guv.’

  At this juncture they reach the head of the main staircase. Below in the lobby Skelgill sees that Samanta is standing to attention before the reception desk; from out of their line of sight he hears the gruff voice of Joos
t Merlyn – indeed he catches the words, harshly spoken: “And that is how it will remain. No matter what that –”

  Samanta suddenly glances anxiously in their direction. Whether by accident or design it must betray their presence to her employer for he breaks off his sentence – and must dismiss her with some signal, for she bows her head obediently and turns and quickly walks away. By the time the two detectives have descended, the area behind the counter is deserted.

  But Joost Merlyn may be lurking in the back office, and Skelgill points towards the front door. It is unlocked and they emerge beneath the part-recessed portico onto the raised step. Here the snow is just a few inches deep, beyond lies a good foot and a half. Its surface is pristine, the only tracks some fifteen yards away being those of DS Jones’s arrival and then her departure assisted by Skelgill, leading to and from the archway further along the front of the building. The inundated parking area is level, reflecting the old inn’s location at the confluence of Ulpha Beck and Shake Holes Beck, effectively a little floodplain of alluvial deposits. Encircling them, bare oaks striped with driven snow rise up against a steep fellside; the deciduous wood has a dense ground layer of rhododendrons; these add some colour, albeit a deep winter green, and the bushes are heavily laden with snow. There appears to be a ride, tunnel-like – perhaps a footpath – that disappears into the bank of shrubs, and Skelgill can just a make out a sign fixed on the trunk of a tree, peeling lettering that might read “Bath House”. The surrounding fells crowd in upon the scene, and although there is a clear blue sky, cerulean in its intensity, the low winter sun has not yet risen sufficiently to illuminate the inn and its environs, and so the more immediate snowscape lacks definition. Earlier, beneath the turbulence of the helicopter, Skelgill had not appreciated quite how comprehensively the wind has dropped. Neither flora nor fauna move – yet from the woodland fringe emanate the purring contact calls of a party of invisible long-tailed titmice; a sign that not all life has been stifled.

  ‘It’s flippin’ Baltic, Guv.’

  Skelgill nods appreciatively. He watches the warm plumes of their breath drift up and slowly dissipate.