DS Leyton begins to laugh at his superior’s apposite metaphor – but it may be unintentional, and he curtails his merriment.
‘Suppose so, Guv – they could get at him inside, an’ all. He probably ain’t got no choice but to keep his trap shut about his handlers.’ DS Leyton scrambles a curse in frustration. ‘But surely that was Ivanna Karenina calling the shots – on the train – at the hotel? And remember you said there was some female speaking Russian that night?’
Skelgill nods broodingly.
‘She was smart. Kept her head down. Manipulated those around her.’ He inhales and folds his arms and gazes out into the middle distance, undistracted by a splendid red admiral that purposefully crosses his line of sight. ‘Wiktoria Adamska must have known that it was just a matter of time before her husband sent his private helicopter. Naturally, she’d confide in her ‘best pal’ Ivanna. They’d discuss how the pair of them could hop it – and Ivanna Karenina would suggest taking her stooge Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch – make it look completely above board. Just the three of them, VIPs making a casual exit – lording it while the minions loaded their luggage. What could be more normal?’
DS Leyton is evidently reminded of the moment that Skelgill took off through the snow wearing his unsuitable slippers.
‘Guv – what made you think there was something wrong with the suitcase? If they’d got that on board – and lifted off – we’d have been none the wiser. And we’d have Jenny Hackett listed as a missing person. End of.’
Skelgill is shaking his head.
‘Hard to say, Leyton. They didn’t foresee that a theft from Wiktoria Adamska meant we’d clock her belongings. And they didn’t bank on us rubber-necking their unannounced departure. McLeod and the pilot started arguing about the payload. Why would there be a weight problem if that case contained a couple of fur coats? It just triggered a whole avalanche of ideas. Remember you’d just mentioned the tunnel – I suppose subconsciously I’d considered there being a secret hiding place. And I’d been in the cellar – you know, I realised later I thought I smelt her perfume – they’d smashed a bottle of violet liqueur. I don’t know if that were to mask her scent in case a search dog were brought in at a later date – or if it were just an accident when they heaved the shelving unit back in front of the concealed hatch.’
This aspect of Skelgill’s account raises a question in DS Jones’s mind.
‘Obviously I wasn’t there for long, Guv. At what point do you think they enlisted Joost Merlyn? There can’t have been any premeditation about his involvement.’
Skelgill contemplates his answer for a few moments.
‘Let’s assume one of the few truths Ruairidh McLeod told us was Jenny Hackett’s suggestion that she was up to something. It might have just been the drink talking – but it spooked them. If they thought she had the manuscript, or knew of its contents, and that she were about to do a bunk – they had to stop her, and quick. So they used her ‘plan’ as a cover story to hoodwink us. She accepted one cocktail too many and got no further than falling unconscious in her own bed. At that point they were going to struggle without Merlyn’s cooperation. You saw his reaction to Wiktoria Adamska’s generosity – so when Ruairidh McLeod palmed him a couple of grand in unmarked banknotes he’d be putty in their hands. I reckon what Samanta overheard in the early hours was Ruairidh McLeod reporting back to Ivanna Karenina. McLeod and Merlyn had staged the getaway and moved Jenny Hackett to the cellar. Merlyn kept guard overnight – then at some time in the early morning they transferred her up through the tunnel to the bath house.’
DS Jones is nodding.
‘Do you believe Joost Merlyn’s claim that he acted solely on Ruairidh McLeod’s instructions – and was unaware of anyone else giving the orders?’
‘That may have happened in practice – but he must have guessed there was more to it – when he saw that the suitcase was going in the chopper and Ruairidh McLeod was being left behind.’
‘Until you kyboshed that, Guv. For a minute, I thought you’d gone mad. Instead you saved the day!’
Skelgill makes a self-deprecating growl in his throat.
‘Leyton, you seem to be forgetting our secret service chums.’
‘Well – fair enough, Guv – they were on their guard, and all credit to ’em – but I don’t reckon they were any the wiser when that chopper turned up. I had a chinwag with Bond afterwards, he’d downed a couple of large Scotches to calm his nerves – and he admitted he had no clue that Faulkner was a US agent. And I reckon that was mutual. Then Bond started getting all competitive, saying as how if he hadn’t camouflaged himself in the snow we’d all be six feet under. Faulkner was biting his lip – until Bond called his efforts with that old gun of Merlyn’s something like “lucky hillbilly pot-shots” – and he got a bit uppity about that. Only time I saw him lose his rag. Can’t say as I blame him. They’re alright, really, ain’t they, the Yanks?’
DS Leyton has become absorbed in his little monologue – and now he glances about to see a perplexed Skelgill, and DS Jones smiling rather more patiently. Thus he addresses her.
‘Imagine that, eh, girl – there’s us quietly heading home for Christmas – little did we know we’d got a bunch of bandits out to get poor old Mikal Mital – and MI5 and the CIA riding shotgun!’
DS Jones nods encouragingly.
‘I don’t suppose we’ll find out exactly what the intelligence agencies were doing – covertly shadowing him or intending to intervene at some point. I guess it’s possible they were hoping to glean information before Mikal Mital made it public – something that would have enabled an arrest or a sanction against a target before they took evasive action.’ She gives a shake of her hair with its glinting golden highlights and lifts her face to the sun, momentarily closing her large hazel eyes. ‘Notice how they’ve disappeared into the ether. I suspect that’s why the CPS are content with the guilty pleas. If they’d had to call Richard Bond and Bill Faulkner as witnesses – that would be their cover blown and details of their operations laid bare.’ She glances at Skelgill. ‘Guv – remember I thought the Chief was keeping her cards close to her chest – about the bigger picture? In the final analysis, Ivanna Karenina is probably at best a middle-sized cog in the machine. If the Russian government were ultimately behind the plan, our security services would need totally compelling evidence before they could act.’
Skelgill screws up his features; it is a face of pessimism.
‘Even when you catch the Russians red-handed they’ve got a dozen excuses up their sleeve.’
DS Leyton nods dejectedly – but he offers a small crumb of comfort.
‘I thought the chopper pilot had history in the GRU? That’s Russian military intelligence, Guv.’
‘You may have noticed, Leyton, that Bond didn’t give us the opportunity to interview him. It would have been nice to know if he were prepared to exonerate Adamski Corporation. As things stand it’s too easy for the Russians to claim it’s the work of rogue oligarchs. Pound to a penny you’re right, Leyton – that the goon was a plant and Adamski knew nowt about it. If you were going to infiltrate a billionaire’s empire, a good place to start would be his private helicopter pilot.’
DS Leyton exhales forcefully, his rubbery lips vibrating.
‘No wonder we couldn’t get our heads round what was going on – when half the people weren’t what they seemed. I mean – take the ‘Mr Harris’ malarkey. What are you supposed to think when a railway employee tells you he’s checked someone in – shows you the manifest – and in fact he’s lying through his teeth?’
Skelgill is nodding, his features grim.
‘We should have trusted the observable facts. There was no independent evidence that a Mr Harris got on the train – and none that he left it. Even McLeod couldn’t describe him! He was never there.’
DS Jones has something to add on this topic.
‘Our IT guys believe the booking system was hacked and places reallocated so that the compartment in
terconnecting with Mikal Mital’s was left empty – but reserved for a ‘Mr Harris’. It was a clever ploy. It meant Ruairidh McLeod could pass to and fro with impunity. Again – it supports the theory of a state actor, with the technical resources to do something like that.’
DS Leyton is listening to his colleague with renewed fascination.
‘So – what do you reckon happened, exactly – to Mikal Mital?’
DS Jones glances at Skelgill – but he seems content for her to continue with her explanation.
‘Well – what he has admitted to – in effect, by pleading guilty – is that he poisoned Mikal Mital with Rohypnol. He might have wiped his fingerprints from the blister pack, but he left traces of DNA. On that basis he probably dissolved the tablets in a malt whisky – presumably when Jenny Hackett procured nightcaps for her and Mikal Mital. His plan was to enter the cabin at some point before the train was due in at Edinburgh, take the manuscript and pass it on to Ivanna Karenina. But instead there was the storm and the snowdrift – and we discovered Mikal Mital – too soon. I imagine while we were organising the evacuation he went back into the compartment and realised the manuscript was gone. It might also have been a shock to find Mikal Mital dead. Analysis of chemical residue left on the packaging indicates that the tablets were much stronger than the standard dose – in other words, intended to kill. But Ruairidh McLeod didn’t need to know that – as has been proven, he is considered dispensable. He tried to make it look like Mikal Mital took the pills of his own volition. He wiped the empty blister pack, and maybe wrapped a tissue around the water bottle to open it, and poured half away and left it with its top off.’ DS Jones glances rather mischievously at Skelgill. ‘Except you noticed it had been done left-handed, Guv!’
‘Aye – too late to make much difference. That was just something that was bugging me but not registering. I only really spotted it when I looked at your photographs when we were reviewing the evidence. He made ticks left-handed – he played darts left-handed – he even dunked his biscuits left-handed.’
DS Leyton, who has been least involved with the process to which Skelgill refers, sniffs the cool air rather like an inquisitive rabbit.
‘When do you reckon they hatched the plot? I mean – in the first place – to eliminate Mikal Mital.’
Again Skelgill looks to DS Jones to supply a rejoinder.
‘You’ve been dealing with the spooks, lass.’
DS Jones places her mug carefully on the parapet and leans her elbows on the flaking iron surface, and then rests her chin on her intertwined fingers. She gazes out over the cutting.
‘Well – this is their theory. You’ll recall Mikal Mital was originally from Prague? There’s the possibility that he came to the West as an agent in the first instance – I mean working for the communists. Then maybe the Americans turned him. That would have made him a target for Moscow. To add insult to injury he began to investigate the money laundering activities of the Russian billionaires’ cartel. Perhaps they’d been on his tracks for some time – years even. But when it looked like he was preparing to expose them to the world’s media – ready to publish everything he’d got – they decided to move. The financial conference in Edinburgh was widely advertised, and as Jenny Hackett pointed out the jungle drums were thick with rumours. So they would have had time to make preparations. It’s quite probable that to intercept him on the sleeper was just one of several plans that were activated. But there was the chink in their armour: while they had a longstanding agent perfectly placed, when it came to playing assassin he was an amateur. The plan depended upon the train getting smoothly to Edinburgh. But we crashed.’
‘Wait!’
Simultaneously the two sergeants start, such is Skelgill’s sudden cry. Raising a finger as though he might be testing the wind, his features are contorted with the anticipation of an impending thunderbolt.
‘What is it, Guv?’
It is DS Leyton who poses the question, but Skelgill addresses his response to his female colleague.
‘Jones – when you went into Mikal Mital’s cabin with the guard – to wake him, to evacuate him – the body was in bed, aye?’
‘Aha.’
‘So how come when the train hit the snowdrift we all ended up on the floor?’ Now Skelgill does look at DS Leyton. ‘Leastways – folk like you who were in the bottom bunk without the safety strap.’
Now his associates share his expression of puzzlement. After a few moments DS Jones interrupts the collective silence.
‘Can I make a suggestion?’
‘Aye.’
‘Someone else went into his compartment – looking for the manuscript. To search under the bunk they would need to move the body. The obvious thing to do is to lift him back onto the bed. And then maybe straighten the covers as though everything were untouched.’
Both Skelgill and DS Leyton seem to be nodding in agreement, but it is the former that speaks.
‘When I left our compartment to speak with the driver – I came upon Richard Bond – he was half naked and hanging out of the door – like he was looking under the train. He made up some story about assessing the conditions.’
Now DS Jones has a further suggestion.
‘Given that MI5 were on Mikal Mital’s trail – it’s quite likely that he went to check on him. But once he was dead – there was nothing to be done. Richard Bond would have assumed foul play and wouldn’t have wanted to show his hand. If he was aware of the manuscript, perhaps he was hoping to recover it – but he was too late. It fits the theory that it was stolen in the period between Mikal Mital retiring and the collision with the snowdrift.’
Now DS Leyton chips in.
‘Which brings us back to Jenny Hackett. And it’s obviously what someone else believed – since they shoved her in that there pit of yours, Guv.’
Skelgill groans and rather desperately swigs the last of his tea and drops the mug into his rucksack, along with the flask – and he proffers the mouth of the bag for his colleagues to do likewise.
‘Speaking of the pit, Leyton – let’s get this done.’
‘Whoa – I didn’t realise you were serious about going all the way, Guv.’
‘Leyton, we’ll have no couch potato talk. Besides, didn’t you come up here with your better half?’
Now DS Leyton looks somewhat dismayed.
‘Stone the crows, Guv – that weekend break! I told the missus I’d book it – but you know how these things slip your mind?’
DS Jones responds supportively to her colleague’s predicament.
‘Actually, I was looking at their website. It says the inn is under new management. I think it has been closed, and only reopened at the end of March.’
DS Leyton appears relieved, but Skelgill exhales rather scornfully.
‘It’ll take a few bob to put that place right. That miserly old git was milking it for all it was worth.’
DS Jones is more optimistic.
‘It has fantastic potential – you can’t buy that kind of history.’
And DS Leyton is ready with a quip.
‘Or snake holes, eh, Guv?’
‘Very funny, Leyton.’ Skelgill grins somewhat grudgingly as he swings his rucksack onto his shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s roll.’
‘Get to the bottom of it, you might say, Guv?’
‘Aye – have a deek – something like that.’
For Skelgill, who made the trek between the inn and the train several times, and other diversions through the forest, the lie of the land feels familiar, if strangely luxuriant with fresh green spring growth dripping from myriad branch tips and patches of celandine and dog violets adorning the woodland path; the pine-infused air is resonant with bird calls and the drone of insects. His colleagues, lulled into a pleasant state of abstraction, are both surprised when Skelgill veers off the bridleway and announces the location – Jenny’s Hole.
‘It seemed much further than this, Guv. You sure it’s the same one?’
‘Leyton, you
were towing a sledge in a blizzard in pitch darkness.’
‘That’s true enough – it did feel like it were going on for ever.’
Skelgill’s colleagues join him at the rim of the shake hole. It is similar to several they have already inspected. Vegetation, a mixture of heather, bilberry, rush and moorland grasses and mosses spills over its rim and covers its sides and floor. It is probably eight feet at its deepest; there is something of a collapse on one side, and several large moraine boulders lie in the base, they may have been rolled there long ago, cleared from the track. Skelgill is grimacing. He looks like he might be disappointed, that there was not a thirty-foot shaft above which he was suspended only by the friction of the snow during his daring rescue.
‘What’s up, Guv?’
Skelgill gives a downward jerk of his head.
‘Look at that – some donnat’s dumped some rubbish. Disgraceful.’
His tone is indignant – and before his colleagues can dissuade him he drops his rucksack, steps over the edge and scrambles down the side of the shake hole, gripping fistfuls of wiry heather to control his descent.
‘Cor blimey, Guv – take it easy! What if we can’t get you out?’
‘Phone MI5 and ask for Bond.’
Skelgill has reached the bottom, and he drops to one knee and delves into a crevice between two of the rocks. With a grunt he extracts something roughly rectangular, about six inches by nine, made of off-white plastic, and considerably stained. As he holds it out at arm’s length to inspect it he realises that the stains are in fact a printed pattern of faded pink lipstick kisses, and simultaneously DS Jones identifies the item.
‘I think it’s a woman’s toiletries bag, Guv.’
But Skelgill does not appear to be listening. His face is curiously deadpan. The item – the bag – is heavy and bulging – and the closure not surprisingly rusted. Skelgill – to the consternation of his colleagues – bites at the zipper and gives a jerk of his head – subsequently spitting to one side but thankfully not at the expense of any teeth. On his haunches and with the bag wedged against one boot he prises out its contents. It is a thick sheaf of papers that have been bent over into half their size.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 76