Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Baltic without the Blast.’ Skelgill sniffs, as if the cold air is causing his nose to run. ‘It’s going to be a sight easier to get about. The visibility’s perfect.’

  DS Leyton makes an ambiguous quavering sound.

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy falling into one of those holes, Guv.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow – is it a hint that his sergeant would rather sit tight than risk a trek across country to rendezvous with a rescue vehicle? However, he reverts to their paused conversation, now that they have privacy.

  ‘She weren’t too fussed about locking her doors, Leyton.’

  ‘Nor even shutting ’em, Guv.’

  ‘Aye.’ Skelgill senses that his partner has not quite recovered from their interview. ‘Invitation to trouble, wouldn’t you say?’

  DS Leyton is frowning, gathering his thoughts.

  ‘She’s not shy, is she, Guv? I mean – calling you up to her room – wearing next to nothing.’ Now he punctuates his sentence with a deliberate “ahem”. ‘And what Jenny Hackett told us on the train – that she’s got a bit of a reputation.’

  ‘What are you saying, Leyton?’

  ‘Well – what if she’d left her door unlocked on purpose? That she was expecting a visitor. But she nodded off. Then she was too shocked to do anything when things didn’t go to plan. Meanwhile, whoever it was – maybe even a different geezer – took advantage of the situation.’

  Skelgill is making pained faces during this rather disjointed description. Clearly he is unhappy with the whole scenario.

  ‘What she described there, Leyton – sounded to me exactly like a bad dream.’

  ‘A dream?’

  ‘The feeling of paralysis – the invisible intruder – the way it blacks out with no conclusion. All that’s missing is being in the Chief’s Monday morning meeting, naked from the waist down.’

  DS Leyton chuckles. He tucks his hands beneath his armpits and blows out a stream of mist.

  ‘Trouble is, Guv – something’s been half-inched.’

  But Skelgill seems to be shaking his head minutely.

  ‘Trouble is, Leyton – we can’t be sure who’s telling us the truth and who isn’t.’

  Despite that DS Leyton groans in frustration Skelgill suspects it is a sound effect engineered to disguise an involuntary shudder.

  ‘Come on, Leyton – let’s get a hot cuppa – find somewhere quiet where we can work out a plan of action.’

  Skelgill spins around easily on the snow and opens the large oak door sufficiently for them to slip inside without allowing too much heat to escape. As he enters he realises that Samanta is close by, arranging brochures in a slotted tourist-information display unit. Her response is to check about the lobby and then to fix him beseechingly with her large dark eyes, crescent shadows prominent beneath. Skelgill mutters something to DS Leyton and then casually saunters over to the girl, leaving his colleague to head in the direction of the breakfast room.

  ‘Got any decent suggestions for how a dozen folk might spend the day? Mostly city types.’

  His words seem to catch her by surprise – and she begins to take him literally, raising a hand to indicate that there are indeed many attractions in the vicinity – no matter that such a notion is entirely impractical in the circumstances. Skelgill gives a wry grin. He pulls out a leaflet at random and appears to peruse it. It is a somewhat amateur production, entitled ‘Shake Holes Historic Trail’. He lowers his voice and speaks without looking at her.

  ‘What was that all about – when you were just told to make yourself scarce?’

  Again Samanta glances across at the reception desk – but it is still unmanned. Nonetheless she too responds in hushed tones.

  ‘Ah – he noticed I had taken the beers – the craft ale?’

  ‘What?’ Skelgill’s tone is indignant.

  ‘He says he has locked the cellar permanently – and I must ask him for the key each time I have to fetch stock.’

  Now Skelgill swears an oath under his breath. He bridles that the girl has landed in trouble for his sake. He looks as if he would like to punch the man.

  ‘Where is he? I’ll put him straight.’

  The girl is alarmed – she reaches to place a palm on Skelgill’s arm.

  ‘No, no – it is best that you do not. It is not a problem – I can handle it.’ She regards him earnestly, as if to be sure of his cooperation. She takes a step closer, now gripping the sleeve of his shirt. ‘But there is something –’

  But the sudden explosion of the one-man hullabaloo that is Richard Bond truncates her sentence. The burly fellow strides into the lobby, apparently calling out orders to himself – and then exclaims loudly when he spies Skelgill. In one hand he grasps a bundle of material, red in colour. In his wake a somewhat alarmed looking DS Leyton paddles to keep up, and the disturbance lures a limping Joost Merlyn from his lair beyond reception. Skelgill folds the leaflet out of sight into his back pocket and steps protectively in front of the girl.

  Richard Bond marches up to Skelgill. He gives the kind of nod that might be appropriate to informally acknowledge a more senior officer.

  ‘Jenny Hackett has left the building.’ He raises the red material, which unfurls in the shape of a dressing gown. ‘She abandoned this in the tack room. It has her cigarettes in the pocket.’ The ex-military man’s staccato sentences are delivered like little bursts of gunfire.

  They crowd rather vacantly around the gown, as though something might reveal itself – it is a silk kimono, with a subtle oriental pattern in different shades of crimson and scarlet that is only evident on close examination. But Skelgill is thinking he is unaware that she smokes, and wondering that Richard Bond knows better – and DS Leyton now voices a concern along similar lines.

  ‘How can you be sure it’s hers?’

  However, it is not Richard Bond that answers, but Samanta.

  ‘I have seen it – while I serviced her room – hanging in the bathroom.’

  Skelgill raises his hands. They are getting ahead of themselves.

  ‘Hold your horses.’ He gestures that Richard Bond should lower the article, and the man drapes it across his forearm. ‘What makes you think she’s missing?’

  Richard Bond regales Skelgill with the self-reproachful simper that he has employed each time there might be a question of insubordination on his part.

  ‘I went along to the tack room – in my role as, er – ahem – unofficial quartermaster. I reasoned we might be making a break for it today – so I decided to identify the most suitable kit – get everything shipshape, and all that.’ Now he leans towards Skelgill, and adopts a tone of expert-to-expert, as if his words are not intended for the others. ‘I thought alpine-style roping, in view of the risk of shake holes – in threes with each female between two males?’ (Skelgill nods encouragingly – but he just wants the man to get on with it.) ‘I realised immediately that one of the smaller outfits was gone, and boots – and there are fresh disturbances in the snow leading across the stable yard. I made a mental list of those I have seen this morning at breakfast – narrowed it down to Jenny Hackett. I tried her door – there was no answer – but it was unlocked and the room empty.’

  DS Leyton seems rather peeved; perhaps that Richard Bond is intruding upon his territory.

  ‘She could be with someone else – or in one of the public rooms – the library.’

  In turn Richard Bond looks irked – as though he considers DS Leyton to be of a lower rank than he and that he finds the sergeant’s contention impertinent. He turns to face Skelgill.

  ‘I’ve had a preliminary scout around. I think you’ll find she is definitely gone, Inspector.’

  Skelgill nods curtly.

  ‘Let’s make doubly sure, eh – protocol, and all that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Skelgill places a hand on DS Leyton’s upper arm.

  ‘Leyton – you check upstairs – with Samanta.’ He regards the girl in a businesslike manner. ‘You’ve got
a master key, aye?’ She nods, and her hand moves to cover the pocket of her apron. Skelgill continues to address her. ‘See if you can tell if anything else is gone from her room.’

  Now he turns to Richard Bond. He knows he must act decisively before the man sets his own agenda. But there are not enough police officers for what he needs to do. If he asks Richard Bond to conduct an unsupervised search and later it proves that something was overlooked he, Skelgill, will take the rap. But there is a more disquieting aspect: the stalking incident in the woods is still raw in his memory, his confidence shaken – but if he excludes Richard Bond now it will give the game away.

  ‘Richard – can you take the ground floor yourself? Public rooms and staff quarters.’ Skelgill does not pause to gauge the reaction of Joost Merlyn. ‘Check everywhere methodically, including all the store cupboards. And the freezers and suchlike.’

  Richard Bond is nodding enthusiastically. Skelgill holds out his hand for the garment – its exchange frees the man into action. He clicks his heels and sets off for the corridor that leads eventually to the tack room. ‘I shall work clockwise.’

  Skelgill hands the red gown to DS Leyton. ‘See if anyone else recognises this. Then you may as well put it back in her room.’ He gives a tip of his head to indicate that his sergeant and Samanta should embark on their task.

  Skelgill is left standing with the sour-faced Joost Merlyn, the latter leaning heavily upon his stick; he looks like he may be calculating whether these events will have any impact on his takings. As such, and still irked by Samanta’s little revelation, Skelgill cannot resist a small impertinence.

  ‘At least it’s not Ms Adamska that’s done a runner, eh, sir?’

  The man mumbles something unintelligible – perhaps it is a curse in his native tongue, but Skelgill does not have Richard Bond to translate. He issues a rejoinder that he considers will carry commensurate weight.

  ‘Perhaps you and I can check the more unexpected places, sir – places the average daft country copper wouldn’t think of looking. How about we begin with the cellar?’

  The man glances sharply at Skelgill, and looks like he might object, his scowl fiercer than ever – but then he shuffles around the fulcrum of his walking stick and begins to hobble away. If Skelgill were meeting him for the first time he would judge him singularly uncooperative, but in fact this surly behaviour is just par for the course. He follows into the back office, which to his surprise is barely more than an unlit butler’s pantry into which has been squeezed a worn leather armchair and an electric fire. On a shelf sit a kettle, a mug and spoon, and a jar of instant coffee. It is like a nightwatchman’s den – and appears to rely on ambient light from the reception area. The back wall is taken up by a planked door that could do with a fresh coat of varnish. Without a word Joost Merlyn rests his stick against the armchair and delves into the pocket of his baggy cardigan and pulls out a blackened hand-forged key and fits it into the body of an equally ancient mortise lock. It seems both lock and hinges are well oiled, for there are no melodramatic sound effects that would befit the gloom and the hunched gaoler-like character. He reaches to throw a switch that casts the scene beyond into adequately if not brightly lit contrast. Leaning to look past the man Skelgill sees an unguarded ladder-style staircase descending steeply beside several courses of exposed foundations.

  He might expect Joost Merlyn already to have stated that Jenny Hackett cannot possibly be in the cellar because it is locked – but there is the matter of timings conveyed by Samanta. The door would presumably have been open last evening for the transfer of miscellaneous beverages, and perhaps even the requirement to change a barrel. But the man’s taciturnity in this respect nevertheless strikes him. He decides the natural reaction is for him to raise this question.

  ‘When was this door last unlocked, sir?’

  Joost Merlyn does not make eye contact.

  ‘I locked it last night – around midnight.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want folk helping themselves.’ Skelgill’s tone acquires a note of sarcasm. ‘Then again – maybe you would. I understand there’s a special arrangement in place to cover your costs. The more the merrier.’

  There is a snarl that may be a sign of assent.

  ‘That’ll save you all the red tape involved in submitting a compensation claim to the railway company – won’t it sir?’

  Skelgill’s expression of concern is plainly disingenuous. He means he is onto him if he is thinking of double claiming. Joost Merlyn declines to be drawn.

  ‘You going down, or what, Inspector?’

  ‘Are you not going to show me?’

  The man shifts a hand and places it upon his raised hip, and grimaces ever more hideously.

  ‘Not unless you want to carry me back up.’

  Given what he knows, Skelgill is unconvinced by this little charade – but he opts to take the retort at face value. Joost Merlyn is a large man – if he were not stooped by his affliction he would reach Skelgill’s own height and is both bulky and overweight. Not to mention his disagreeable features and questionable personal hygiene. Manhandling him is not an appealing prospect. Skelgill shrugs indifferently – the man moves aside to allow him to pass. As he does so he has to hand over the sprung door – and as Skelgill takes control he jerks the key from the lock and steps over the threshold. He responds to the man’s strangled protest with an insouciant grin.

  ‘Wouldn’t want the lock to jam. Happen that’d give you all another problem, breaking me out, eh?’

  He does not wait for a reply, and descends confidently, facing out and no-handed, when actually the stair is steep enough to merit facing in. The door swings to above him. His first impression is that the air is fresh, when he has anticipated a stuffy cobweb-festooned staleness. There is a hint of beeriness, although not a patch on the uplifting yeasty aroma of real ale venting from its casks.

  Skelgill is not expecting to find Jenny Hackett hiding down here. That he personally opted to search the cellar is a decision driven as much out of devilment as professional curiosity. But suddenly alone he is able to reflect upon the practicalities of the situation. The prima facie evidence is that Jenny Hackett has, as Richard Bond put it, “left the building”. He considers this is likely to prove a reliable assessment. And they shall in due course set out in pursuit – because surely she will not make it far, and will encounter danger despite the more benign climatic conditions. But no police officer worth their salt would embark without checking thoroughly her last known whereabouts. He inhales through gritted teeth – for the corollary of a search that includes cupboards, freezers and suchlike is that foul play is suspected. He trusts that those civilians enlisted can be relied upon to refrain from subsequent scaremongering.

  For his part, this first stage of the task is not going to be onerous. Illuminated by a chain of bulkhead lights at head height, the cellar is less extensive than he has anticipated. It is basically a vaulted cavity that must run along the front section of Shake Holes Inn – probably the footprint of the original building, a more rudimentary edifice than exists today (the upper floor, and the wings that enclose the stable yard appended at a later date). The arching sidewalls and ceiling are of roughhewn limestone, the end walls of brick construction. To Skelgill’s left – the east, he concludes – beneath what must be the snug bar stands a cluster of stainless steel beer kegs. Several of these are connected by clear tubes to electric wall-mounted pumps, the tubes in turn snaking into the darkness above – presumably through a duct directly into the bar itself. The long rear wall is lined with galvanised steel racking, on its lower shelf crates of mixers, pops and sodas, canned beers, ciders and wines. Its upper shelf is reserved for spirits – vodka, gin, and rum. Skelgill is about to pass these by, when something about them strikes him. Up in the bar, the bottles on the optics and on display behind are all those of the leading international brands. Smirnoff, Gordon’s, Bacardi. But none of those names are to be seen here – these are all cheap supermarket own-labels, imitat
ions that retail at half the price. Skelgill nods grimly. Joost Merlyn is engaging in what is known in the trade as ‘decanting’ – passing off cheap liquor as top quality in order to turn a fatter margin of profit. An inverted plastic funnel confirms his deduction. Skelgill scoffs disparagingly – but he cannot say he is surprised. This is the man that keeps fine bottled ale for personal consumption. And Skelgill wonders where it might be.

  At the opposite end of the cellar is a wooden chute and, at its foot, a traditional ‘pig’, a cork-filled jute sack to absorb the impact of the kegs dropped by the drayman. Skelgill reasons that there will be a trapdoor that opens at the front of the inn. He ducks beneath the ladder to inspect. He is right – at the top of the chute there is a hinged wooden hatch held fast by an iron stay. Ordinarily he would expect to see chinks of light, but there are none because of the thick blanket of snow above. And yet he feels a faint draught – and at the same moment gets a hint of some floral bouquet – it is a fragrance he recognises without being able to place it. He looks to his left; against the end wall is a tall oak bookcase that has been pressed into use for storage purposes. Scrawled in black ink on the edge of the top shelf are the words ‘cocktail ingredients’. It is actually an impressive collection – and he notes that these are genuine brands, variants of vermouth, triple sec, blue curaçao and the like. On lower shelves are mixers, syrups and small bottles that contain bitters.

  He takes a step closer – but feels the sudden crunch of glass beneath his foot. As he recoils he realises he is standing in a pool of tacky liquid. There is a broken bottle, more or less flattened, but its fragmented label is just sufficiently intact for him to be able to read the words ‘Crème de Violette’. He grimaces at the prospect – but he supposes it explains the flowery scent. And now he recalls last night a sub-committee making the case for mixology – in particular the two Russian females and their compatriot Egor, and Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch – egged on by an inebriated Jenny Hackett, who nonetheless seemed to know her Moscow Mules from her Molotovs.