Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What do you think is the most likely explanation? Over.’

  Skelgill proceeds to outline the various tactical options that lay before Jenny Hackett – his favourite being that she has fled fearing for her own safety – and that a friendly farmhouse or an anonymous vehicle would be her most likely refuge. But there is the caveat that she left no tracks. Of course – he may learn otherwise when he returns to the inn – and he agrees to contact DS Jones accordingly. Failing that, they commit to a radio rendezvous at 10am tomorrow. Skelgill’s battery begins to protest its limitations. They sign off with an exchange in which he complains they have run out of ideas for pub games, and DS Jones suggests that she saw a book of Daily Telegraph crosswords in the library, and that he might enjoy the cryptic challenge.

  A rueful Skelgill checks his watch; the time is 12.30pm. He casts about. Ordinarily the scene with which he is presented would lift his spirits: beneath a clear blue sky a silent snowscape beckons, and there is a sense of heavenly elevation up here in the Shap Fells, a tilting tableland stretching to distant horizons. He wanders to the end of the footbridge, noting that the only footprints are those he makes himself. To the east of Shap Cutting unfurls a great white carpet of moorland, rising gently to an undulating ridge some three or four miles hence. Somewhere in between, the snowbound M6 motorway lies hidden. In the more immediate foreground Skelgill’s focus adjusts to a fascinating spectacle. The snowfield is cratered by scores of crescent-shaped shadows – these are shake holes, filled by snow but their rims sufficiently prominent to be picked out by the angled sunlight. Perhaps this is what it is like on the surface of the moon? He wonders if there can be any better way to locate these mysterious depressions – though how many more are concealed, smoothed beneath drifts? He knows the old trackway runs roughly to the north-east; after about a mile it picks up an unfenced B-road that in turn links the A6 and the M6. But he doubts the merits of trying to navigate safe passage in these conditions – it is a game of snakes and ladders, mainly snakes – and he grins wryly, thinking DS Leyton would probably have coined such a metaphor.

  13. GAINED IN TRANSLATION

  Friday, 1pm

  Trudging back through the forest, descending steadily, Skelgill recognises the approach to Jenny’s Hole. He is reminded of his resolution to return in spring – and he renews this vow – after all, this is a pretty decent neck of the woods, worth exploring, there might be secretive red squirrels and elusive redstarts, and lively trout to tempt out of one or other of the becks; he could bring the dog, leave his car at the inn, have a pint afterwards – well, maybe not the pint – there’ll be real ale up the road at Shap. It is a curious, almost vicarious daydream that he allows himself – and he realises that he is in fact fantasising about the burden of this case being lifted – because, by spring (by next week, he hopes – but unquestionably by spring) the snow will be gone and with it the shroud it has cast over certainty.

  If he were subliminally to draw an idiom from his present surroundings he would be excused for thinking he cannot see the wood for the trees – for that is an accurate description of the dense plantation that hems in the bridleway. Despite the brighter overhead conditions, the line of sight rarely extends beyond three or four drills. And thus it strikes him that not a great deal has become clearer, despite DS Jones’s best efforts, and events at Shake Holes Inn. Their early assessment of what fate might have befallen Mikal Mital (and his manuscript) still holds good as a hypothesis, and that Jenny Hackett played some role is, if anything, reinforced by her disappearance. But while DS Jones might yet find some clinching forensic clue – or evidence that points to some overwhelming motive – he feels the solution already lies within his ken. He knows what he has seen, heard – smelt, even – and though these fragments of experience do not as yet form any coherent image in his consciousness – merely they swill about in the unruly maelstrom that lies just below its surface – he suspects it is just a matter of taking them by surprise, to come upon the flotsam as it fleetingly coalesces to reveal a collective meaning.

  This sentiment, not even wittingly expressed, nonetheless cheers him – though it is a frisson quickly superseded by a more prescient awareness that time is not on his side. They will have to get everyone out of here soon – before more folk start taking matters into their own hands. If the cell phone network comes back up, no doubt all hell will break loose. Pensively, he re-enters the inn via the courtyard, and takes a moment to check on the Fell pony. He feeds an apple from his backpack into its soft bristly mouth. It seems content enough, although surely an animal like this must experience its own version of cabin fever. By association the notion leads him to think sympathetically of Richard Bond, whose antics seem to stem from an innate hyperactivity, that possesses him at all times, ever ready to burst out like a greyhound in its trap. Bill Faulkner, by contrast, exists at the opposite end of the spectrum, and contains both thoughts and urges without effort or outward signs of inner tension; yet by all accounts the American is no less competent a man of action.

  These things considered it is no surprise that Skelgill, having discarded his outdoor gear in the tack room, first hears the booming voice of Richard Bond as he pads along the stone-flagged passage towards the lobby.

  ‘I said to Egor – we should have brought the Lee Enfield that the Merlyn chap has in his quarters – it would have been roast venison for dinner!’ And the statement is followed by a voluminous belly laugh.

  ‘That’s a British rifle – point 303, right?’ These are the American’s more measured tones. ‘I thought you Limeys weren’t allowed proper guns.’

  And now a braying retort from Richard Bond.

  ‘Hah – it’s probably a decommissioned heirloom. The Boers captured thousands of them. We used to keep a fully loaded pair on our stoep – they might have been antiques but they would take down a buffalo at a quarter of a mile. Or whatever else you cared to pot!’ Again there is the insistent guffaw, ratifying the wit of his remark.

  Skelgill emerges from the shadows of the corridor to find the two men standing beside the reception counter still clad in their overalls. There are little piles of melting snow around their boots and an incomplete trail leading from the front door – evidence of their means of entry. They each have a steaming mug – and Skelgill notices Egor and François sitting at a low table in the waiting area next to the leaflet display unit; their faces are flushed and their hair damp and tousled in the aftermath of exertion; they look bushed. Before them is a cafetière, and a milk jug, although no spare mug that he can see.

  He realises that Richard Bond is regaling him with ingenuous optimism, and his peculiar, slightly insane forced smile. Skelgill quickly makes a thumbs-down sign.

  ‘She’s not been to the train. At least no trace that I could see. And no one has crossed the footbridge heading east. It’s the obvious way over the railway – else there’s a mile detour north or south.’

  Richard Bond seems to Skelgill to be relieved; his forced mask relaxes into an expression of affected concern. Could it be that he was anticipating the ‘worst’ – that he may have ‘lost’ the competition to locate Jenny Hackett?

  ‘We too have drawn a blank, Inspector.’ The man does not look at Bill Faulkner for corroboration; clearly he considers that he speaks for them both in his assumed role as the senior ranking among them. Skelgill glances at the American and notices just the faintest compression of his neat mouth. Richard Bond continues. ‘The occasional muntjac – which we were just discussing – but otherwise neither journalist nor sasquatch, eh what?’ He chortles and nudges Bill Faulkner with an elbow; the man stands his ground and grins stoically.

  For his part, and rather uncharacteristically, Skelgill, steps closer and claps a hand on each man’s shoulder.

  ‘Happen if you saw deer they’d be roe – muntjac’s barely the size of an average dog – besides, they stick to the woods. I spotted some roe deer tracks myself – they’ll be foraging for food – they’ll dig in the snow for bil
berry shoots. The beasts look delicate, but they’ve got a thick winter coat this time of year – it can make them seem almost black.’

  Skelgill is wondering why he is expounding upon wild game – but it vaguely occurs to him that it might prevent some ill-considered thought gaining precedence and making itself known. Richard Bond does not seem to be absorbing the information, but Bill Faulkner watches him shrewdly. However, the latter reveals his interest to lie with their human quarry.

  ‘What’s your prognosis for Jenny Hackett, Inspector?’

  The question catches Skelgill off guard, and he cannot prevent an involuntary hardening of his features. The American’s use of the medical term conjures in his mind’s eye the image of a casualty, such as he has had the misfortune to discover more than once in his years as a mountain rescuer, a curled figure in a rudimentary snow hole, seemingly slumbering in peace, but literally frozen to death. He steps away from the two men.

  ‘I’ll get back to you on that. I need to have a confab with my sergeant. Thanks for your efforts.’

  *

  ‘Jones is trying to organise a chopper to get us all out of here.’

  DS Leyton’s ears prick up.

  ‘When, Guv?’

  ‘Probably close of play tomorrow. I’m speaking to her at ten in the morning. Sounds like the Chief was willing to do it today – pull a few strings – but Jones wants to wait to give Forensics the best chance. We might regret it if we let this lot scatter to the four winds.’

  DS Leyton cannot know that his superior is being more than a little disingenuous by shifting blame to his fellow sergeant. His jowls droop in a rather hangdog fashion. Rather too late, Skelgill realises he should have reconfigured the story to place the responsibility entirely at the feet of their commander.

  ‘Ah, well – if it’s for the best, Guv. I expect she’ll be keeping the nearest and dearest up to speed. I only hope Her Indoors doesn’t lose her rag and shoot the messenger.’

  ‘Cheer up, Leyton – if we get the timing right we’ll dress you as Santa and drop you on your roof. That’ll surprise the lot of them.’

  ‘Thankfully we ain’t got no chimney – else that’s where I’d be spending Christmas!’ He slaps his ample midriff. ‘Let’s hope this works out and we nick the Russians.’

  Skelgill’s brow becomes furrowed.

  ‘What makes you so sure it’s the Russians?’

  ‘Stands to reason, Guv – it’s the Russians’ MO, ain’t it – a spot of poisoning?’

  ‘Leyton – the Russians’ MO is weapons of mass destruction – not knock-off date-rape pills you can pick up from some donnat on the street corner.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve learned their lesson, Guv – all that business with nerve agents – and radioactive gear – it leaves a glowing trail right back to its point of origin. Your common or garden benzos – like you say, any Tom, Dick or Harry could get their mitts on them. Far easier to blag your way out of the bad publicity. No need to memorise the height of the Scott monument. Besides – law of averages. Wiktoria Adamska’s Russian. Ivanna Karenina’s Russian. Bond’s young geezer, Egor Volkov – he’s Russian. And Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch works for the Russians. That’s four out of nine passengers – even if we count Harris and Jenny Hackett.’

  Skelgill gasps with exasperation and slumps back in the winged chair. The fire is beginning to crackle, having benefited from his attention. A hopeful-looking Samanta has delivered tea and crockery for several people – although a reticent Skelgill seemed to disappoint her with his lack of engagement. His mind has been continually distracted by the same warp of time and information he endured on his return through the woods. Having briefed his colleague on DS Jones’s latest report, he finds him apparently all too willing to leap to revised conclusions.

  ‘Thing is, Leyton – it’s all very well thinking some malign government or fat-cat oligarch wanted to silence Mikal Mital – but look at the plain facts. Jenny Hackett had the motive – she even told us. She had the opportunity – she was seen toddling off to bed with him, unsteady on his legs. Even the sleeping pills are the sort of thing she’d keep in her handbag. And now she’s done a runner. Of all the permutations it’s the neatest by a country mile.’

  DS Leyton, however, is looking at his boss with an expression of considerable distrust.

  ‘Except you ain’t convinced, Guv – I’ve known you long enough to see that.’ He cocks his head to one side, as if the altered perspective might reveal otherwise. ‘For a start – it don’t fit with Jenny Hackett being shoved in the snake hole – shake hole – nor the intruder in Wiktoria Adamska’s room. For me, these things rank Jenny Hackett further down the pecking order – feeding on scraps.’

  Skelgill is forced to admit to himself that DS Leyton is right; he is not convinced by the basic logic – and moreover his sergeant’s intuition chimes with his own. But they have been hamstrung by the need to remain covert. They can only ask certain questions without revealing their hand; indeed, without revealing that they are investigating at all, and in effect consider everyone to be under suspicion. While Skelgill mulls over their dilemma DS Leyton reprises his theory.

  ‘See, Guv – as you know – I reckon that was probably Jenny Hackett looking for the manuscript – getting in on the act after the fact.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time to find out.’

  ‘You mean ask Wiktoria Adamska, Guv?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I’ll fetch her, shall I?’

  Skelgill does not reply – he seems to take his sergeant’s response as a statement of intent – and instead he rises and stalks across to the old map of the district on the wall. He sways a little to and fro, straining his focus to gain a purchase in the fading afternoon light. He recognises now the tiny circle quite close to the outline of the inn that must be the bath house. Beyond, higher up the fell a monument is marked – he recalls the leaflet, still in his back pocket, there was something about an obelisk erected to commemorate the accession of Queen Victoria in 1837 – another little of piece of history that Joost Merlyn has chosen to reject; yet his predecessors felt it worthy of incorporating into their visitor trail. He saw no trace – although of course conifers will surround it – something else to look out for in spring. But the entrance of the extant Victoria, Wiktoria Adamska, curtails any such thoughts. No less regal in her manner, she does not wait to be questioned.

  ‘Inspector – you have some news for me?’

  She holds a blue concoction in a cocktail glass – which perhaps explains her speedy expediting from what is the nearby bar. Skelgill returns to the cluster of chairs before the fire. He gestures that she should take a seat, but she regards the antique furniture with a look of vague horror; certainly her outfit of the short leopard-pattern dress and matching platform shoes in which she appeared at Euston Station is more suited to a barstool three times the height. She faces Skelgill defiantly and simply raises her glass to drink. Skelgill and DS Leyton have no option but to remain standing. Skelgill digs his hands into his trouser pockets and affects an uncompromising air.

  ‘Madam – about the item you reported stolen.’ She regards him unblinkingly; it is a countenance that tells him that she remains disinclined to reveal what it is. ‘Obviously, when we spoke with you earlier, that was before we realised that Ms Hackett had gone missing. As part of the process of looking for her, we’ve conducted a search of the premises. Nothing – how can I put it – outstanding was found – and certainly not Ms Hackett. Which leads me to ask – you stated it was a man in your room in the middle of the night. Could it have been a woman – in fact could it have been Ms Hackett?’

  She has listened implacably – and without hostility – if anything she displays a mien of mild amusement.

  ‘Inspector – it was a man.’

  She takes another sip of her drink; plainly she considers no further elaboration is needed. Skelgill is obliged to persist.

  ‘Madam, you said you were awakened – it was dark – and you nodded off
again. We’d all been in the bar – it would be understandable that you were drowsy, and not fully cognisant.’

  ‘Inspector – would you know the difference between a man and a woman?’

  Skelgill is caught on his heels. He inhales – but before he can formulate his thoughts she has a rejoinder.

  ‘I know the presence of a man. I know the presence of a woman. It was a man.’

  There is a purring animal quality in her tone that is both authoritative and overwhelming. Skelgill knows he cannot tender the question for a third time.

  ‘That’s fine, madam. It might just have provided the explanation for Ms Hackett’s unannounced departure. Her being a journalist – with a nose for a story.’

  The implication of his rather thinly disguised hint being that such a motive might apply if what is stolen is newsworthy in some way – but she simply ignores any such inference.

  ‘And when may we expect our own departure?’

  Once more Skelgill is unprepared for her question. He glances at DS Leyton, who avoids eye contact in anticipation of being pressed into the firing line. Thus forsaken, Skelgill has to resort to bluster.

  ‘You’ll be aware that DS Jones has been airlifted to police headquarters. She was in no position to call the shots this morning – but her stated aim was to organise a slot for us. You understand the demands with sick and elderly and very young people stranded. We’re hoping to be evacuated by this time tomorrow.’

  She regards him with what now may be a hint of impatience. ‘If we had communications –’ she snaps her fingers, producing a sharp click that is seemingly unconstrained by her considerable nails, ‘I should organise it like that.’ She compresses her lips, but they are too voluminous to produce anything other than an alluring pout. ‘It is highly inconvenient – for us – and for those who do not know our circumstances.’

  Skelgill holds up a palm in protest.