‘You’ve got admirers flocking at you from all angles, Guv.’
‘Leyton – when a woman shows interest in me, the first thing I ask myself is who have they mistaken me for? Failing that, what do they want?’
DS Leyton grins ironically. He wonders if Skelgill is fishing for a compliment – or to be reassured that he is not a soft touch when it comes to the fairer sex. But he decides to stick to the safer ground of mickey taking.
‘Maybe it’s that Brut aftershave you use, Guv?’
Skelgill growls disparagingly – but by the same token he begins to finger the two days’ growth that adorns his face. Then he grins, boyishly, and mimes a sniff of one armpit.
‘Ee, Ars reet foily, marra.’ And in case DS Leyton does not exactly get the drift, he adds a postscript in plainer English. ‘I reckon I’ll get a shower before they lay on that spread.’
*
‘This is becoming a habit, lass.’
‘It is your tea, Inspector.’
There is something about Samanta’s insistence and her urgent glance back towards the top of the staircase that causes Skelgill not to question her presence and instead to step back to admit her to his room. His reference to habit is that for a second time she has interrupted his ablutions. He is lacking a shirt, and is in the process of towelling his damp hair.
‘I thought there’s tea downstairs at half-past?’
‘That is correct – I invented your order.’ She narrows her eyes rather mysteriously. ‘I have been trying to speak with you. I feel Mr Merlyn is – as you say – on my case. Even just now I heard him looking for me.’
‘Aye?’
Skelgill frowns. He has no doubts that the man likes to keep her on a short leash – but he suspects it is not solely an economic motive that underlies his possessive behaviour. And it plainly troubles him that the girl – if only because of her extra mobility – ends up knowing more about what is going on around the place than he does. Skelgill closes the door, pressing it carefully to and slowly releasing the handle to avoid a telltale click. Samanta brushes past him and carries the tray she bears to the dresser by the window. Skelgill stands his ground beside the bathroom. He drapes the towel around his neck, like a boxer in the gym. The girl turns and approaches, she comes close – her voice is unnaturally low.
‘Last night – or, in the early hours of the morning – you know it was?’ (Skelgill looks perplexed.) ‘After I left your room? I went downstairs – the lobby was in darkness, and I noticed a small light along the corridor that leads to the tack room. It was the linen cupboard – perhaps I had left it on – I went along to switch it off. Then, just as I was returning past reception to go to the staff quarters, from the balcony above I heard voices – whispers. I did not think so much at the time – but since Ms Hackett has disappeared and you are investigating – I think more now –’
She hesitates but Skelgill nods for her to continue.
‘It was a man’s voice. And then a woman’s. The man said, “It might not succeed.” And the woman replied, “We will live – we will see.”’
‘Come again?’
‘It is a Russian proverb. It means what is achieved now will only become clear later. You see – the voices – they spoke in Russian.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I am a translator. I worked for two years in Kaliningrad Oblast.’ She sees he is none the wiser. ‘It is a Russian enclave – it borders my country Lithuania, and Poland.’
Now Skelgill lowers his voice.
‘Who was it?’
‘I could not tell – I could barely hear. I think they had gone up and did not realise I was there – but they moved away. Like I say – I did not think much of it – and then I heard Mr Merlyn – he was in the back office – also in darkness, asleep in his chair – he began to snore and then awaken. I tiptoed to my room.’
Skelgill is unsure of the import of this news – indeed if it is of any significance at all. The girl’s manner is imploring – but to what extent is it a ruse to visit? Since their very first conversation he has sensed she has something more profound to impart. Yet there is a contradiction implicit in her account.
‘A Russian proverb. That would take a native Russian to say that, wouldn’t it?’
‘That is possible, yes.’
Skelgill appears conflicted.
‘The woman’s voice – could it have been Jenny Hackett?’
‘But she is English?’
‘Actually, I think she might be Australian – but maybe I’ve got that wrong – as well.’
Samanta shakes her head. Her long hair is unrestrained, and the movement causes a lock to fall across her pale face. Skelgill has to resist reaching out to brush it aside. After a moment she speaks.
‘The voices – they were so faint.’
Skelgill nods. He inhales to respond when a voice, not so faint – indeed, angry – calls out on the other side of the door, just feet from where they stand.
‘Samanta!’
There now comes a rap on the door – with a stick by sound of it.
Skelgill reacts quickly – he pulls the girl into bathroom behind him, leans in, grabs a toilet roll and positions himself in the part-closed door. He lowers his jeans to half mast (his boxer shorts preserving his modesty). Now he reaches to open the main bedroom door.
Before him looms an agitated but immediately shocked Joost Merlyn.
‘Ach – I’m looking for Samanta.’ He tries to see past Skelgill into the bedroom. ‘She has taken room service – she is needed downstairs.’
Skelgill grins inanely.
‘Want to check in here?’ He cocks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the bathroom. The man scowls more fiercely and makes a retching noise that Skelgill takes as a rejection. ‘You want to watch it, Mr Merlyn – you work her too hard. She’s a little gem. Lose a looker like her, you can wave goodbye to half your regulars.’
The man staggers back on his stick. He is evidently not willing to engage in the debate.
‘I will try another room.’
Skelgill gives a friendly wave of the loo roll. He pushes shut the door to the corridor and restores his jeans to their regular position. He beckons Samanta from her hiding place. They stand and listen. They can hear Joost Merlyn working his way along the landing.
‘You’d better scarper. We’ll wait until he’s gone round the corner. What will you say?’
‘That I had to go to the bathroom!’
The man’s voice diminishes. Skelgill opens the door and peers out. He gives a nod and stands aside. Samanta performs a little curtsey as she slips past him.
‘Thank you for the compliment. If true.’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘In my job you have to be able to lie and tell the truth in the same breath.’
She turns and smiles.
‘I only tell the truth.’ She glides away, but he catches her mischievous whisper, which may or may not refer to the imminent tea party. ‘Nice buns, Inspector.’
14. ON THE CASE
Friday, 4pm
‘Another Chelsea bun, Guv?’
‘What?’
‘Ain’t that what you’re eating?’
‘I thought it was an Eccles cake.’
‘I’ll get a selection, shall I, Guv?’
Skelgill appears distracted – and even his appetite seems to lack its regular zeal; it is usually something that can be relied upon, while his moods may be more capricious, and subject to the vagaries of self-absorption – a phenomenon that DS Leyton has long given up trying to fathom. Indeed, his sergeant slips away without further comment, and Skelgill finds himself gazing somewhat vacantly about the lounge in which the ‘spread’ has been laid. Without actually counting off on his fingers, he has the impression that everyone is present – or at least they were when he arrived – in their default groups, each at a cluster of chairs around a coffee table. One, the financiers, Richard Bond and his ‘boys’, Egor Volkov and François Mouton (now recover
ed and groomed); two, the remaining ‘Russians’ as DS Leyton would have it, Wiktoria Adamska, with Ivanna Karenina and her honorary compatriot Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch; three, the railway tag-team, Dire Straits as they were for the pub games (and Skelgill for a moment wonders which wag came up with the names); and, four, solitary – no surprise there – Bill Faulkner with his head in his electronic novel. It also strikes him that there might have been a fifth grouping: maybe ‘missing in action’ – Mikal Mital, Jenny Hackett and the evanescent Mr Harris. Certainly, there is an empty table fit for the purpose – perhaps he just cannot see the phantoms.
By some obscure association an image of DS Jones springs to mind – his last sight of her as she blithely ascended the winch to helicopter heaven, confidently kicking at sky and windblown snow to adjust her position. Of course – he might think of her now because she is also absent from their complement – or perhaps because he experiences some subliminal panic over the writing of the report of what has taken place – or perhaps for other reasons, less tangible. But his thoughts – or, rather, his feelings – are interrupted by the return of his sergeant, who unwittingly keeps something of the prevailing sentiment alive.
‘You were right, Guv – Eccles cakes, there’s a little printed menu. I should have remembered – the missus swears by ’em. Personally, I can’t stand all those flippin’ currants – remind me of dead flies.’ Skelgill might be listening, if absently – but DS Leyton continues. ‘I was thinking, Guv – about the missus – seeing as I’ve lumbered her with all the palaver of Christmas presents and decorations – maybe I could bring her for a relaxing weekend.’
His final words penetrate Skelgill’s daydream.
‘What – here?’
Skelgill sounds incredulous – and for a moment DS Leyton looks a little crestfallen. But he mounts a defence.
‘This gaff is alright, Guv – I mean, I know it ain’t the Ritz – but it’s handy if we had to shoot back in case the nippers were giving the babysitter grief.’
Skelgill pulls a face; perish the thought. What would be the point of that? But with surprising diplomacy he holds his tongue. DS Leyton gestures at the plate of assorted cakes.
‘The food’s decent – the rooms are tidy – and the staff are friendly.’
Skelgill scoffs at this assertion.
‘Aye – so long as you don’t have owt to do with Merlyn.’
DS Leyton appears phlegmatic.
‘Seeing as he knows us, Guv – might get a discount.’
‘Keep trying, you might get blood out of a stone, Leyton.’
But DS Leyton shrugs off his boss’s pessimism.
‘Besides, in spring we’d be mainly outdoors. It’s lovely and peaceful down here in the sticks – I bet there’s nice walks. I could take her up and show her where the train crashed – and that flamin’ snake hole that Jenny Hackett fell in.’ He observes Skelgill’s scowl, and grins amiably. ‘Shake hole, Guv – ain’t it? Funny how once you get an idea into your bonce it’s hard to change track.’
‘Tell me about it, Leyton.’
There seems to be a more profound sentiment underlying Skelgill’s platitude, but his sergeant is determined to expound upon his plans for a mini-break.
‘I mean, Guv – this old place – it’s actually historic. I was reading the hotel services folder in my room – there’s been a coaching inn on the site for over five hundred years – you’re talking Henry VIII.’
Skelgill gives a sigh of resignation and he yields to his subordinate’s persistence. He rocks forward and to one side, and pulls something from the back pocket of his jeans. It is the visitor leaflet, featuring the local heritage trail. It is somewhat creased, but he hands it to his colleague.
‘There’s supposed to be a monument up in the woods – to Queen Victoria. And an old bath house where they took the mineral waters. I checked it out when I were looking for signs of Jenny Hackett. It’s bricked up, mind. It’s got some Greek goddess statue on top.’
DS Leyton unfolds the leaflet and with a trombone player’s action finds his optimum focal length.
‘Well – there you go, Guv – all the more reason to come. The missus loves her historical dramas.’
Skelgill’s attention, however, has reverted to comestibles, and he selects an Eccles cake, rotating it to identify the most promising angle of attack. But now he pauses, and cocks his head in a birdlike fashion.
‘Did you hear something, Leyton?’
‘Hear something? Er, no, Guv – I don’t reckon so – just that new track that’s started.’
The sound system has been plying its audience with a discreet genre of easy-listening chamber music. DS Leyton refers to the abrupt opening of a more voluminous orchestral affair, and its familiar motif. Da da da duuum! Beethoven’s Symphony No.5 in C minor.
Skelgill looks unconvinced by his sergeant’s response. He checks his watch – the time is 4.15pm – and a glance at the nearest window provides corroboration – a late dusk for this time of year, thanks to the day’s clear skies.
‘Huh – looks like something ain’t to their taste, Guv.’
‘Come again?’
DS Leyton indicates with a jerk of his head – that from their table the little grouping of Wiktoria Adamska, Ivanna Karenina and Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch have risen and are unobtrusively making their way out of the lounge.
‘Maybe the music – or Samanta’s baking.’
‘All the more for us.’
Skelgill finally takes a bite of his own cake. Chewing pensively, he sinks back into the brown study that seems to be dogging him. DS Leyton selects a plain buttered scone. He spreads open the leaflet to display its rudimentary map and sketches of the trail’s highlights. He munches contentedly as he peruses its detail, murmuring from time to time. Perhaps a couple of minutes pass without any conversation. Indeed DS Leyton only vaguely becomes aware of his superior rising to gaze towards the partly closed door, beyond which a corridor leads through to the lobby on the other side of the building. However, he has his own point of interest to convey.
‘Here you go, Guv – this is up your street. Geology. Listen: “The ancient coaching inn has its foundations set deep in the bedrock of a limestone escarpment, and the surrounding area is renowned for its hundreds of collapsed shafts known as shake holes. Some of these develop into sink holes, down which water flows, and the subterranean stream may form a cave system. Such a natural passage links the mineral spring in the adjacent bath house (original structure built circa 1720) to a larger chamber which has been adapted as the cellar of the inn.” Amazing, eh, Guv?’
Skelgill does not answer and DS Leyton glances up to find his boss staring at him in a most peculiar manner.
‘Leyton.’
Skelgill has many ways of enunciating his name – but DS Leyton recognises this as one of urgency. It means, “come now”. Thus as Skelgill strides away, DS Leyton rises so quickly that he topples his chair and does not delay to reinstate it – attracting attention from all those remaining in the lounge.
Skelgill is almost breaking into a run by the time he reaches the lobby – and when he sees the main door is open to the elements he accelerates. But wearing flimsy hotel slippers he skids to a halt on the broad snow-encrusted step. Beyond, where the scene ought to be that of a still and silent fell country dusk, is a maelstrom of sound and light befitting of an action movie set.
A helicopter has landed in the car park.
DS Leyton reaches Skelgill’s shoulder.
‘Is it our lot, Guv? It ain’t very big.’
‘You’re joking, Leyton – look at it.’
DS Leyton shades his eyes from the spotlight that is strobing the area, intermittently illuminating the woodland backdrop. The aircraft is a neat 4-seater, brand new by the look of it, ostentatiously liveried in glittering gold with – on its side – a black logo incorporating the words Adamskaya Korporatsiya.
‘Cor blimey – it must belong to Wiktoria Adamska’s husband! Imagine having
that for your company car.’
‘Aye – and she’s aboard – and look who else.’
Within the cockpit a light is on. Wiktoria Adamska is nearest, port side front; she has her head turned, but there is no mistaking her blonde tresses. Behind, just visible on the starboard side, is the balding Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch, and next to him Ivanna Karenina. Her pale face is implacable, and she meets Skelgill’s gaze with a curious detachment – when perhaps a certain smugness might be expected – the VIP about to be whisked in executive comfort from snowbound confinement.
‘What do we do, Guv?’
Skelgill does not answer; he is asking himself the same question. He feels a hand on his arm and glances to see Samanta at his side – and he becomes conscious that others have joined them on the step. It is a star-struck audience, perhaps drawn by the detectives’ abrupt exit, or by hearing more clearly the engine as successive doors were left open. And Skelgill realises too that, along the frontage of the inn to his right, there is some shadowy movement. He sees that the cellar trap is open, propped against the wall; from within emanates the soft glow of lamplight – and that Joost Merlyn is clambering out of the hatch, with difficulty – and that he accepts a hand up from none other than the train guard, Ruairidh McLeod – and that lying flat in the snow is Wiktoria Adamska’s distinctive leopard-pattern luggage – the diminutive case and its king-size facsimile. As Joost Merlyn lurches to his feet he notices Skelgill and the others beneath the porch light, and – bereft of his stick – he begins to limp awkwardly, dragging one leg through the snow, apparently to greet them. But Skelgill is first to speak.
‘What’s going on?’
Beneath a hideous grimace, the innkeeper appears to laugh.
‘Some of my guests have made their own arrangements, Inspector.’
It is an oddly proprietorial use of the word ‘guests’ – that suddenly they are his to superintend. And his tone is triumphant, as though he detects Skelgill’s discomfiture. Indeed, Skelgill is dumbfounded. He feels stranded on the little island of the step, as though the tide of snow has flooded in to isolate him, to render him impotent – and that the flashing of the lights and the clatter of the rotors are symbolic of the cerebral chaos that has paralysed his thoughts.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 74