Murder at Shake Holes

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Show me – before that tiresome jobsworth thinks of something else.’

  Skelgill is obliged to step back – indeed he retreats like a hermit crab into his cabin – exchanging a brief glance (of alarm in his case) with DS Jones, who seems more amused than perturbed by the situation. He notices the woman has not thanked DS Jones – more that she has treated her as she might a personal assistant. However, as they enter the cabin he hears her voice, suddenly gracious in its tone.

  ‘That is a beautiful dress – it fits you so well – is it Versace?’

  But now the door closes – and behind him DS Leyton speaks.

  ‘What’s all the palaver, Guv?’

  Skelgill is about to mutter darkly about the upper classes pulling rank – but he curses instead as he hits his funny bone off a bulkhead in an attempt to remove his dinner jacket.

  ‘I just did that, Guv – if it’s any consolation.’

  Skelgill grimaces and frantically polishes his afflicted elbow with his opposite hand. But he does not answer, for he has an ear cocked to the corridor – from beyond comes a successive slamming of doors. The night train to Scotland is about to depart.

  2. THE LOUNGE CAR

  Thursday, 00.15am

  By Skelgill’s estimation they are not the last to reach the lounge car – for, having counted ten cabins including their own, there could be as many as twenty passengers on board, and only eight are presently ensconced for drinks. There is a main group of six: it comprises a honey blonde woman in her forties, her features regular but just slightly craggy, and dominated by deep-set brown eyes beneath curved brows; a younger woman clad all in black, perhaps in her early thirties – she is strikingly dark, almost raven-haired, with pale skin, cold sapphire eyes and Alice Cooper mascara and (Skelgill decides) a Scandic physiognomy; and four men, the three sharp business suits of the original ‘Glenmorangie party’ and the fourth an older male, rotund and balding, perhaps in his early sixties, also besuited, but casually tieless – his doughy countenance and permanently surprised features strike Skelgill as familiar. This little coterie has occupied a u-shaped seating area around adjoining low tables – there is the suggestion that this is a regular haunt of theirs, and that they have moved swiftly to occupy the spot.

  Seated separately – alone at tables of standard height – are two more men: one who might be about Skelgill’s own age, fairly nondescript, dressed in neat attire, unobtrusively checking his mobile and occasionally sipping from a bottle of mineral water; the second, aged around the seventy mark, is considerably more distinctive, sporting an untidy mane of white hair and a bushy grey moustache; he pores over some densely printed manuscript and has the look of the archetypal academic in his lived-in brown tweed suit. Indeed, as the two detectives take seats towards the bar – a little apart from their fellow travellers – DS Leyton is prompted to quip behind the back of his hand.

  ‘Albert Einstein, Guv – didn’t realise he was still alive.’

  ‘Leyton – keep your voice down.’ But if anything it is Skelgill’s hissed retort that is too loud – for the man raises an eyebrow that might be disapproving – or it might just be something he is reading.

  They bow their heads over the table – as if conspiring – but actually out of slight embarrassment. Then Skelgill becomes conscious of a presence beside them. It is the guard – or, rather, he has now divested himself of his jacket and assumed the role of steward, in waistcoat and shirtsleeves; he has not, however, shed the dour expression. Skelgill quickly dismisses the idea of facetiously requesting a cask beer.

  ‘What ale would you recommend?’

  ‘Ah’d recommend McEwan’s Eighty.’ He pauses, as if to see how this goes down with Skelgill. However, before Skelgill can reply, he resumes. ‘But we dinnae stock McEwan’s. After that – Ah should say – Deuchars IPA – which we also dinnae keep.’

  Skelgill flashes a glance at DS Leyton. Monty Python’s cheese shop sketch is coming to mind – and he wonders if he dare venture a brand name of his own. But instead he reconfigures his inquiry.

  ‘What ale have you got?’

  ‘London Pride.’ This announcement is devoid of enthusiasm.

  ‘Aye – that’s fine – I’ll take that.’ Skelgill does not wait to see if his choice will be gainsaid. ‘Same for you, Leyton?’

  ‘Nah – you know me, Guv – easily pleased – any old cooking lager.’

  DS Leyton looks up at the steward as he says this, to convey his order. The man is tight lipped, and replies tersely.

  ‘Tennent’s. Plain cans only.’

  That Ruairidh seems resentful about this latter fact goes over the heads of his clientele, who are too young to recall the bevy of beauties, scantily clad, that once ornamented the packaging of Scotland’s favourite ‘cooking lager’, as DS Leyton puts it. He turns away with a look of disdain – Skelgill wonders if the man is simply congenitally grumpy; or perhaps he considers them to be travelling above their station, out of place in First Class.

  Nonetheless, their drinks arrive promptly, though without any ceremony; they are left to pour for themselves, from a brown bottle in Skelgill’s case, an unadorned tin in DS Leyton’s. Skelgill is glowering, but his colleague endeavours to put a positive spin on the matter.

  ‘That’s up your street, ain’t it, Guv – good old Fuller’s?’

  ‘Aye, it’s a decent brand – but it’s not real ale. You can’t get real ale in a bottle – it needs to come out of a cask, still live, at cellar temperature – this is fizzy pasteurised pop, served so cold you can’t taste it. Once it’s tapped, real ale only keeps a week – this stuff lasts years. It’s like the difference between a tomato and a tin of tomatoes.’

  DS Leyton vacantly admires the yellow gassy lager that is filling his own glass half with foam; the distinction is somewhat lost on him. However he nods amenably in the face of superior knowledge (albeit he is thinking he is rather partial to tinned tomatoes on toast).

  ‘Cheers, anyway, Guv.’

  Skelgill raises his glass – but pauses before he sups.

  ‘Aye, cheers – and well done tonight, marra.’

  DS Leyton suddenly looks rather sheepish – and even begins to colour. A rare event is his boss calling him ‘marra’, Cumbrian vernacular for ‘mate’ that he reserves almost exclusively for fellow locals; but doubly rare is that which does not come easily to Skelgill in any circumstances, the bestowing of congratulations. It is a scrapbook moment. However, in his typically self-deprecating manner, DS Leyton makes light of the compliment.

  ‘Truth be told, Guv, I feel a bit of a fraud – when there’s officers knowingly tackling suicide bombers and mopping up military-grade nerve agents. Being stupid ain’t being brave.’

  ‘Happen that’s what I told you at the time, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton grins equably.

  ‘As I recall, so you did, Guv.’

  Skelgill may be about to embellish his mickey taking – but the swish of the sliding door at the far end of the carriage draws his attention.

  ‘Hey up – here’s Jones and her new pal.’

  DS Jones enters the lounge car ahead of her cabin mate; she has changed into casual clothes, black slim jeans and ankle boots and a close-fitting long-sleeved top, and she has freed her hair from the intricate style woven for the formal event earlier in the evening. Notwithstanding, Skelgill notices she attracts the eyes of the main group, male and female alike – but her unassuming charms are quickly eclipsed as she is followed into the carriage by the taller figure of the pale blonde, who still wears the chic outfit in which she arrived upon the platform. DS Jones spies her colleagues and turns to motion to the woman, as if she intends to introduce her – but there is an intervention.

  ‘Wiktoria!’

  The cry of recognition comes from the raven-haired woman Skelgill has labelled as Scandinavian – although even in the single word he hears a Russian inflexion and has to recalibrate his geography. Wiktoria – thus summoned, her name pronounced with a
‘V’ – shows fleeting annoyance, as if this calling out by strangers is tiresomely familiar – but then recognition sets in and her demeanour becomes amenable if slightly condescending – as though the other woman is not actually a friend, but an acquaintance of some marginally lower standing. All this Skelgill takes in at a glance. His first sentiment is to dislike the woman’s attitude – but then she does a more considerate thing – for she reaches to place a hand on DS Jones’s upper arm, and leans to confide in her, indicating with her free hand that she intends to speak with the other, and that DS Jones should continue. DS Jones smiles and nods and says something in response. The main group shift around in their seats – indeed the four males all stand to attention – and they make a space for the new arrival. DS Jones proceeds to join her colleagues.

  DS Leyton, perhaps taking his cue from the chivalrous act of the other men, rises – but Skelgill remains resolutely seated, as if refusing to be dictated to by the mores of others. DS Jones is unperturbed. She slips into the space beside DS Leyton. He speaks, his voice now more suitably hushed.

  ‘So who’s Wiktoria – some kind of VIP?’

  ‘You mean you don’t recognise her?’

  DS Jones speaks with tongue in cheek, as if she doesn’t expect him to. DS Leyton makes a face of concomitant bafflement.

  ‘Give us a Scooby, girl.’

  DS Jones has her mobile phone, and she deftly taps in a command and manipulates the image on the screen. She places the handset on the table such that both of her colleagues can see the display. DS Leyton leans over with interest; Skelgill is more reluctant – but nonetheless a squint betrays his curiosity. DS Leyton reads aloud.

  ‘“Wiktoria Adamska – former supermodel, fashion designer – third wife of Polish shipping magnate Artur Adamski.”’ But he shakes his jowls like a dog that has dunked its muzzle too deeply in a bowl of water. ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘She owns the Million Dollar clothing label.’

  Now DS Leyton shows a flicker of recognition.

  ‘Oh – yeah – reckon I’ve heard the missus mention that – does what it says on the tin, eh?’

  DS Jones smiles wistfully.

  ‘That outfit she’s wearing – plus the shoes and handbag – probably the equivalent of an average person’s annual take-home pay.’

  A whistle escapes DS Leyton’s lips and Skelgill can’t suppress a kind of scoffing sound that he submerges into his beer. Casually, he glances over – Wiktoria Adamska is seated beside the (now reclassified) Russian brunette, listening calmly to something she is relating. The men are pretending to be in conversation, but are clearly distracted by the woman’s majestic presence.

  ‘What’s she doing slumming it with us?’ Skelgill now mutters scornfully. ‘You’d think she’d be on a private jet.’

  DS Jones answers evenly.

  ‘She said she needed to travel at short notice – all tomorrow morning’s flights are in doubt – apparently Edinburgh airport closed at 8pm this evening due to snow.’

  ‘It’s the Baltic Blast!’

  DS Leyton’s interjection is rather gleefully macabre. Skelgill is quick to take him to task.

  ‘Where do you get that from?’

  ‘Just going by what the missus said, Guv – I phoned her after the dinner. It’s what they’re calling it on the BBC. Easterly gales blowing all the way from the Baltic – for the next three days. It’s gonna be like last year with knobs on. She reckons it’s been snowing in the north Lakes since teatime. Just as well we’re on the train – the M6 is closed at Shap by a jack-knifed lorry and the A1’s all snarled up at Scotch Corner. We’d be snookered if we were driving.’

  Skelgill glowers. He turns to the window – the soft suburban neon of Greater London flashes past like a continuous fusillade of silent tracer bullets.

  ‘Looks alright here.’

  ‘Hah – never snows in The Smoke, Guv – else the bookies’d have to pay out on a White Christmas. That’s their best little earner after the National – apart from when it’s a World Cup year.’

  Skelgill eschews the possible digression. He remains sceptical.

  ‘Last forecast I heard, it was going to miss us.’

  ‘Apparently it’s coming further down the country, Guv. Something about the jet screen, the missus said.’ DS Leyton takes a pull of his drink and exhales with enthusiasm. ‘Let’s hope we make it.’

  The pensive silence that settles upon the trio (during which Skelgill decides he cannot be bothered to correct Mrs Leyton’s Chinese whisper) is interrupted by an unfamiliar alert from DS Jones’s phone. DS Leyton remarks with a chuckle.

  ‘Tarzan likes your post.’

  Skelgill’s antennae are twitching.

  ‘What’s that?’

  DS Jones looks a little discomfited.

  ‘Oh – DI Smart follows my Instagram – I put up a picture of the awards.’

  ‘Tarzan?’ Skelgill’s tone is scathing. ‘Why do you call him that?’

  ‘Oh, no – that’s his own username.’

  Now Skelgill tuts. ‘And what the hell’s Instagram when it’s at home?’

  ‘It’s an app for sharing pictures and videos – it’s a good way of keeping in touch with my friends from uni.’

  Skelgill gestures dismissively at the handset.

  ‘So what’s he saying?’

  ‘It’s just a like, Guv – on my profile. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘It means he’s snooping on you. Look at the time.’ Skelgill shakes his head. However, his manner becomes a little less belligerent. ‘I just don’t get this social media lark. Don’t folk see they’re being exploited?’

  DS Jones seems relieved by his shift away from the specific instance. She reaches for her phone and quickly checks something. Then she indicates to the display.

  ‘I understand what you mean, Guv – but, look, Wiktoria Adamska has almost thirty million followers – and no one is forced to follow her. At least whatever she does or says isn’t distorted by the press.’

  ‘What’s that – press distortion? Never!’

  Simultaneously they look up in surprise – for they have been joined by the honey blonde with the sunken eyes – she is standing a yard away, drink in hand, swaying a little – although that might be the movement of the train as much as the side effects of the contents of her glass.

  ‘I certainly shan’t be distorting your achievements.’

  The detectives exchange puzzled glances – as if to ascertain which one of them must know her. The woman seems to sense their predicament.

  ‘Let me introduce myself – Jenny Hackett?’ There is the faintest inflexion of a question – as if the name, at least, ought to ring a bell – but not enough to embarrass her when it does not. Indeed, she continues quickly. ‘Crime correspondent for The Inquirer – my byline is Virginia. I was at The Grosvenor this evening. I witnessed your recognition – it seems you are an intrepid trio – hiding your northern lights beneath a bushel.’

  Skelgill is first to react.

  ‘Aye – happen we’ve not figured out Instagram yet.’ He grins wryly at DS Jones. ‘We only get a phone signal when it’s not raining – and that’s twice a year.’

  If the woman is who she claims to be, she certainly has the brass neck for the job – and now she slides into the bench seat beside Skelgill, close enough to brush against his shoulder, and he notices an intense perfume that reminds him of Parma Violets. It almost masks the ketones on her breath – but not sufficiently to dispel the inference of sustained drinking, albeit she does not sound inebriated. She rests her forearms on the table, cradling her tumbler; her nails look artificial – Skelgill is never sure about this kind of thing – and varnished to match a maroon silky blouse that is tight across the bosom, and worn loose over close-fitting black pants. Her outfit is smart and new looking – but unlikely to be what she would have worn for the gala dinner – perhaps she, like them, has changed.

  ‘Sergeant Leyton – congratulations – George M
edal – now with bar.’

  She salutes with affected deference – although the impression is sincere.

  Skelgill watches as DS Leyton shrugs self-effacingly – and then looks to him for a lead as to how they ought to respond to a member of the press. But in the hiatus the woman turns to Skelgill and touches his upper arm.

  ‘Not that I wish to diminish your own achievements – Inspector Skelgill – and –’ (she nods to DS Jones) ‘Sergeant Jones.’

  She knows who they are well enough. Skelgill is instinctively on guard – but his inclination is to take the bull by the horns. He indicates with a jerk of his head the group she was with.

  ‘You’re obviously not on the train to pump us for information.’

  The woman gives a short ironic laugh.

  ‘I certainly should hope to be more subtle about it, Inspector – although if you are willing it would make an excellent feature. How about Skelly’s Heroes?’

  Skelgill glowers, but his subordinates would recognise that the suggestion – despite its rather crass denomination – most certainly piques his vanity. The woman pats his thigh, and he stiffens.

  ‘You’d need to consult the powers that be.’

  ‘I quite understand.’

  There is something about her intonation that causes Skelgill suddenly to wonder if she is an Australian, perhaps long naturalised, her accent now more neutral, her voice an amalgam of those in the London-based media amongst whom she circulates. The three police officers remain taciturn; Skelgill’s subordinates taking their cue from his stilted advice. Undeterred, Jenny Hackett continues.

  ‘To answer your question – no – I am bound for Edinburgh. There is a financial symposium at the International Conference Centre over the next two days. It is entitled ‘Wealth of Nations’ – although that is something of a misnomer – at least the word nations.’ Now she leans over the table and lowers her voice in a conspiratorial manner. ‘The white-haired gentleman halfway down the carriage is the keynote speaker. You don’t recognise him? I imagined – in your line of work –’