Skelgill presses open the ream on his thigh and stares at the uppermost page. For some moments he does not blink – nor move – nor even seem to be breathing. DS Leyton can hold his tongue no longer.
‘Guv, what is it?’
Even now Skelgill does not immediately respond. It is several more seconds before he looks up at his colleagues. He squints, sunbeams illuminating his awed expression.
‘Clever woman.’
‘Come again, Guv?’
‘Never underestimate a journalist – isn’t that what I always say, Leyton?’
‘Beats me, Guv – I’m confused.’
Skelgill rises to his feet and brandishes the bundle of papers like a town crier about to deliver a proclamation. And indeed he reads aloud.
‘“Revealed: The World’s Top 100 Kleptocrats – by Professor M. Mital.’”
Skelgill’s subordinates both squat at the rim of the shake hole to get a better look. Skelgill turns to address them.
‘When he fell asleep she must have ‘borrowed’ it. The guard was on the prowl so she hid it in the train toilet. I reckon she was just planning to read it. Then we crashed. There was no opportunity to return it. Then she hears he’s dead – she must have suspected he was poisoned. She should have given it to us – but she needed the scoop. Before we evacuated the train she went to the loo – took her wash-bag, slipped it inside her suit. Then it begins to dawn on her that it’s seriously hot property. So she jettisoned it – beneath the snow out of everyone’s sight – a perfect hiding place. Who would think she’d jump in here deliberately?’
‘You did, Guv.’
Skelgill stares for a few seconds at his sergeant, but is unable to come up with a rejoinder that either claims some credit or refutes the accuracy of the statement. The fact is they have the manuscript.
‘Here.’
Skelgill passes the document and the wash-bag up to DS Jones, and then switches his reach to DS Leyton, who gets a fireman’s grip on his boss, digs in his heels and hauls him with some imprecation on both their parts up the steep-sided bank. They each spend a few moments brushing themselves down, before turning their attention to DS Jones, who is resting on one knee and studiously examining their prize – and making small gasps of amazement.
‘Steady on, girl – you’ll be hyperventilating!’
DS Jones shakes her head and looks up at her colleagues.
‘This is dynamite. You should see the names in the index – pretty much everybody the CPS might be interested in.’
‘A for Adamski?’
But DS Jones shakes her head. ‘No mention of Adamski – or Adamska, come to that.’ She flashes a grin. ‘But there is B for Bogblokinov. And a sub-section dedicated to a list of his lieutenants.’
DS Leyton exchanges a high-five with his colleague – but Skelgill is looking on more severely. He retrieves his rucksack from the heather and unfastens the flap.
‘Stick it in here – let’s not lose it for a second time. Knowing our luck there’ll be a tornado any minute. We need a secure collection and copies put into safe keeping.’
While DS Jones carefully packs away the precious cargo, Skelgill takes out his mobile from his back pocket. But now he curses with frustration.
‘I’ve got no signal.’
A frowning DS Leyton is interrogating his own phone. ‘Same here, Guv.’
They both look expectantly at DS Jones – who is now checking hers. But she shakes her head.
DS Leyton splutters.
‘Fat lot of good that would have done us when we were stranded here – even if the network had come back on.’
‘Aye – but they’ll have the landline working down at the inn. It’s the nearest point by road, anyhow.’ Skelgill consults the time on his screen and compares it to his wristwatch. ‘Besides – they’re open. This calls for a celebration. Even if it is a keg palace.’
There are nods of agreement and the trio automatically begin to move away downhill. They leave one another to their own thoughts for a few minutes, until DS Leyton suddenly chimes in with an observation.
‘You were never comfortable with Jenny Hackett being the bad apple, Guv.’
Skelgill shakes his head contemplatively.
‘I reckon she boxed herself into a corner – probably sensed the danger she was in – simply by having appeared to have read the manuscript. We maybe convinced ourselves she was kicking up dust – but actually she was pretty honest with us. I’m sure she would have told us soon enough – but they didn’t give her chance. Then it didn’t stack up – that she’d done a runner. I mean, just like with Harris – where was the evidence? Not one single footprint in the snow. She left behind her cigarettes – and her cosmetics.’ Skelgill glances at DS Jones, as if for confirmation that the latter of these classes of item would be as essential as the former. ‘But there was something else – remember what the train driver, Laura Wilson said? She said she liked her.’
Skelgill’s exposition – particularly his closing phrase and its unspoken corollary – seems to strike a chord with his colleagues, and they nod in earnest agreement. But now they emerge from the woodland fringe and Shake Holes Inn heaves into view – and its recent makeover wins their appreciation. The formerly cracked and peeling façade has been repaired and repainted and what were garish black window surrounds are picked out in a more tasteful Lakeland pastel teal. The sign has been restored – now there can be no doubt that it is Shake and not Snake Holes Inn as DS Leyton had first opined. Beneath the portico stand potted lollipop bay trees, and the main door is open in a welcoming fashion. They enter to brighter lighting, scented gardenias in vases and a fresh oatmeal colour scheme that has driven out the oppressive burgundy, contrasting pleasantly with the old beams and on the walls the traditional prints, maps and paintings. It is the time of day between departures and arrivals – so perhaps not surprisingly the reception desk is temporarily unattended. Undaunted, Skelgill leads them towards the snug bar and the pleasing strains of a current pop hit – but on the threshold he stops dead in his tracks. DS Leyton almost collides with him.
‘What is it, Guv?’
Skelgill is staring at a Jennings handpump.
‘First the manuscript – now real ale.’
And, like London buses, there follows a third revelation. Evidently hearing their voices, a young woman appears from the back bar area. The unfamiliar suddenly becomes familiar – it is Samanta. Superficially she looks different, with much shorter, perhaps expensively styled hair and a chic tailored barista’s outfit in grey and black. On her breast a badge bears her name and the title, ‘Client Services Director’. She seems remarkably unfazed by their unheralded appearance.
‘Inspector. Sergeants. Welcome. So nice to see you – please, be comfortable – I shall take your orders. Perhaps I can guess yours, Inspector?’
Skelgill grins rather self-consciously as they install themselves at a table beside the window. Samanta attends patiently.
‘There’s been a few changes.’ Skelgill casts about, and then indicates her badge. ‘Looks like congratulations are in order.’
‘Thank you. You know Mrs Hobhouse – from Ulphathwaite? She helped you, of course.’ She flashes a friendly glance at DS Jones. ‘She bought the entire property – Mr Merlyn was just the leaseholder. She is making a big investment – to expand the equestrian side – since this was a coaching inn? And we have plans being drawn up to reopen the mineral spring and develop a spa. Mrs Hobhouse is very enthusiastic about the project.’
Skelgill seems to feel he ought to make a further observation – but with characteristic inelegance his words do not entirely come out as he might intend.
‘You’ve fallen on your feet, lass. But so has she, mind.’
Samanta does not seem troubled by his rustic language, though her cheeks seem to gain a hint of colour. She reacts quickly to deflect attention.
‘There is another surprise.’
And she turns towards the bar counter and calls out in a fo
reign language. There comes an answering shout – a male voice. And who should appear but the instantly recognisable big-boned crew-cut blond Egor Volkov – formerly of Richard Bond’s employ (although that firm was surely an artifice of doubtful existence). He wears smart black denims and a white polo shirt embroidered with a logo of a prancing horse and the words, Shake Holes Inn. He strides across and bows his head dutifully to acknowledge the three detectives in turn. DS Leyton is unabashed in raising a question that has sprung to mind.
‘So – have you pair settled down – you’re a couple?’
They exchange amused glances – and simultaneously burst out laughing. But before Samanta can provide an answer, there is a further interruption. From behind them arrives Egor’s erstwhile colleague – François – wearing the same casual corporate uniform. He slides between the standing pair and links arms with each of them, smiling in his easy Mediterranean manner.
‘You might say it is a ménage à trois – Samanta keeps us straight.’
His words elicit a ripple of polite laughter – but Samanta now evidently pulls rank and makes as if to usher the two men back to their duties.
‘Inspector – we shall leave you in peace to get settled. We can catch up later? Will you be eating lunch?’ She indicates with a wave of one hand. ‘The blackboard – above the bar. We have a blend of local and European dishes. It is on the house, of course!’
She shepherds away the two men, and turns to look back over her shoulder.
‘I shall serve your drinks. Inspector – a pint of Jennings while your colleagues decide?’
Skelgill gives a discreet nod of approval. DS Leyton leans to his superior and mutters under his breath.
‘I didn’t quite get the gist of that, Guv.’
‘Live and let live, Leyton.’
‘Cor blimey – I was just trying to work out if romance was in the air, Guv.’
DS Jones suddenly chuckles.
‘Now’s your chance – see?’ And she reaches to pluck a leaflet from a dispenser on the adjacent windowsill. She displays it and reads aloud. ‘“Inquire about our Romantic Spring Breaks.”’
DS Leyton looks rather uncomfortable. But DS Jones begins to rise from her seat.
‘I’ll ask for you – besides, I’d better make that phone call.’
She glances at Skelgill, who nods in agreement, his expression more sober. At the counter Samanta is carefully dispensing his cask ale, taking great pains to fill the glass to its brim. DS Jones explains about the landline, and Samanta offers to accompany her to reception in a few moments. While she is waiting, DS Jones produces the leaflet.
‘And we have another request.’
Samanta beams.
‘Of course! We can arrange our best room – the four-poster.’ She leans over conspiratorially. ‘The Inspector – he is an attractive man, yes? A little crazy, no?’
‘Er – well, actually –’
***
Next in the series...
‘A KILLER IN OUR MIDST?’ cried a newspaper headline to commemorate the disappearance of Mary Wilson. It is two decades since Britain’s first mass DNA sweep failed to incriminate a single local male. Mary was listed merely as a missing person.
Now archaeologists have unearthed human remains in Cummacatta Wood. The forensics match – age, sex, fragments of clothing ... and dental records. But the murder hunt has only just begun when an outsider, a convicted serial offender confesses to the crime.
DI Skelgill is unconvinced. Into the fabric of the tightly knit community are woven ancient alliances, intrigues and enmities. Where his predecessors failed, he is compelled to unravel the prophetic headline – for he believes the killer is still at large.
‘Murder at the Meet’ by Bruce Beckham is available from Amazon
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 77