DS Leyton takes the opportunity to restore a light-hearted note to the conversation.
‘I thought he was Albert Einstein – ’till the Guvnor put me right.’
Skelgill now scowls disapprovingly – but Jenny Hackett merely grins.
‘Relatively speaking, he is making similarly iconoclastic waves. His name is Mikal Mital – and, if I may mix my metaphors – he promises to open a Pandora’s box upon money laundering, so the rumour mill has it.’
That she hints at a more sinister subtext is not given the opportunity to develop, for DS Leyton is ready with a jovial rejoinder.
‘Cor blimey – he should have a word with my missus – she’s forever giving me grief about washing fivers in me trouser pockets!’
The journalist smiles in an effort to humour him. But it seems she has other matters on her mind. She looks pointedly at DS Jones.
‘I see you are an acquaintance of Wiktoria Adamska.’
DS Jones raises her palms in a display of modesty.
‘Oh, no – she didn’t have a reserved berth – I overheard her arguing with the guard and said it was no problem if she wanted to share my cabin. We leave the train at Carlisle, in any event.’
Jenny Hackett lifts her glass and regards DS Jones pensively over the rim.
‘I have colleagues who would give their eye teeth to be in your shoes – your bed come to that – and I’m not just talking about the men – you are a delicious specimen. Ask dear Wiktoria!’
DS Jones bursts into laughter – it can only be a shocked reflex – that this woman whom they have only just met has had the nerve to say such a thing – and that she has apparently conflated several risqué intimations. She sees that her male colleagues are speechless – DS Leyton’s jaw has dropped and Skelgill stares at her with a look of consternation. However, her response is composed.
‘I’m sure my travel companion would be the greater attraction – whatever the motivation.’
The woman laughs throatily.
‘Wiktoria might surprise you. Indeed – should you find yourself in a position to pen a kiss-and-tell – just tip me the wink. It would be eye-wateringly lucrative.’
DS Jones’s eyes have certainly widened. She flicks a glance at Skelgill – as if to suggest that Jenny Hackett is tipsier than they have judged. But now there is the intervention of the steward – who, on reflection, may have been eavesdropping.
‘Same again, sir?’
Skelgill notes that, inexplicably, he has been elevated to the title sir. He wonders if it has something to do with the presence of the two females – perhaps even their perceived attitude towards him. But he looks questioningly at DS Leyton – whose expression of ambivalence morphs into a twitch of agreement.
‘Aye, why not.’
‘I too shall have the same again, Ruairidh!’ Jenny Hackett mangles the man’s name, confounded by the Gaelic spelling on his enamel badge. ‘A large Glenmorangie.’
‘It’s morangie, Madam – and Mr Bond has already reserved that for his and Sir Ewart’s party.’
‘Oh – I’m sure Eck will spare me a couple of fingers! Hah-ha!’ This quip she obviously thinks hilarious, and presses hard on Skelgill’s thigh to communicate her mirth. ‘Just tell him from me.’
The steward gives no indication he will do any such thing. He turns to DS Jones, his lips twisted as though he has bitten into a lemon.
‘Just a tonic water for me, please.’
‘Oh, have a vodka with it – live dangerously!’ Jenny Hackett reaches to press her hand insistently.
‘No – it’s fine, really – just plain tonic, please.’
The steward disappears behind his counter and into whatever compartment lies beyond. There is no public access to the rest of train – for the ‘Midnight Express’, as it is known, in winter is largely a mail and parcel service – rather like a freighter that takes on an exclusive contingent of paying passengers to supplement the income from its cargo. But at less than the cost of a London hotel room, it can be an efficient facility, killing two birds with one stone. It gets the long-distance traveller home before breakfast, with a night’s sleep thrown in. Well – of the two – home at least is generally guaranteed.
‘Which one’s Eck?’
It is DS Leyton that quizzes the journalist. Jenny Hackett regards him with mock reproach.
‘You do lead cloistered lives. Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch. Former Conservative Home Office minister. He famously introduced the Golden Visas scheme – it led to a flood of foreign investment and fuelled the London property boom. Sadly he failed to detect the nationalists creeping up behind him – they swiped his Edinburgh seat at the last election. Ambitions of becoming PM were put into abeyance. Now of all things he hosts a current affairs show on VoxNews. A travesty.’
She regards each of them in turn, as if to assess their individual political persuasions; but perhaps she is disappointed. She reins in her voice, though the note of bitterness that conveyed the word travesty remains.
‘Do you know who is behind VoxNews?’
DS Jones is first to respond.
‘Isn’t it sponsored by the Russian government?’
Jenny Hackett’s tone becomes somewhat caustic.
‘Setting aside editorial control – it is Bogblokinov – the oligarch who owns what little of Mayfair that the Duke of Westminster doesn’t.’
There is a brief silence – but now DS Leyton rejoins the debate.
‘What’s a Tory toff doing working for the communists?’
‘Ah, the romance of the rouble.’ Jenny Hackett wags an admonishing finger. ‘But since when was Russia controlled by left-wing ideologues?’
‘It’s still quite a coup.’ This is DS Jones.
‘Absolutely. They certainly got their man.’ Jenny Hackett glances at the group beyond DS Jones’s right shoulder. ‘Someone from Labour – or a loony left nationalist – would not have the same credibility. He is what Lenin called a Useful Idiot.’
Skelgill, also looking at the man in question, now realises he must have seen him on the TV. And the name he has certainly heard, albeit he doubts he could have put it together with the face. He calculates that ‘Eck’ must be a contraction of his initials, rather than the more usual Scots diminutive of Alexander (first reduced to Alec, and thence simply Eck).
‘Who are the rest of that crew – are they all with the TV channel?’
Jenny Hackett twists so that she faces Skelgill, as if to conceal that she is talking about them.
‘Oh, no – just his handler.’
‘Handler?’ DS Leyton cannot contain himself. ‘It gets more sinister by the second!’
Jenny Hackett chuckles. ‘Oh, I say it in jest, of course. The black-haired woman, Ivanna Karenina – officially she is Eck’s producer.’ Now she hesitates, her voice lowered. ‘But since she previously worked as a senior executive at VoxNews headquarters in Moscow, we sceptical journalists rather suspect her declared status here in the UK is something of an artifice. Think of her as the ventriloquist and wee Eck as her dummy.’
DS Leyton looks like he is desperate to swivel around. Skelgill, for his part, can’t help staring – and now Ivanna Karenina meets his eye. She plies him with just the tiniest hint of a knowing smile – and he finds himself lowering his gaze. Meanwhile, DS Leyton seems enthused by the growing conspiracy.
‘Cor blimey, Jenny – sure you’re not working for the spooks?’
She laughs throatily again.
‘Perhaps the distinction is not always so great.’
But, rather than elaborate upon this cryptic remark, she continues to answer Skelgill’s inquiry.
‘The other three males – I have only just met. The spray-tanned he-man character is called Richard Bond – he wasted no time in telling me he is ex-Special Forces. It seems he is some kind of private venture capitalist, and the two sycophants are his junior colleagues, they were introduced to me as François and Egor. I leave it to you to determine who is who.’
&nb
sp; She chuckles mischievously. Skelgill considers her challenge. The two men in question are a decade younger than their boss – one of boyish Mediterranean appearance, with dark eyes and long black hair; the other is apparently of Eastern European provenance, with a broad, round face, high cheekbones, cropped fair hair and pale grey eyes. It is apparent that Richard Bond is vying to hold court. He waves a bottle of Scotch whisky – and seems particularly keen to top up the glass of the former cabinet minister. Skelgill sees that the latter reclines rather smugly, as if he knowingly holds the strings of power within the company. However, he is plainly distracted. He has an arm draped along the upholstered bench seat, behind Ivanna Karenina – but he glances uneasily from time to time, for she is engaged in a prolonged tête-à-tête with DS Jones’s celebrated cabin mate, Wiktoria Adamska.
Sporadic laughter emanates from the group – but Skelgill notices that it is Richard Bond himself, his voice deep and resonant, that first guffaws at his own aphorisms, aped dutifully by his acolytes. And now his voice booms out, “Ruairidh, my good man – another bottle – your esteemed compatriot Sir Ewart is dying of thirst here.” Eck deigns to acknowledge his importance with a superior smile.
‘That only leaves the enigmatic American. You don’t happen to know who he is?’
Skelgill, lost in momentary reverie, finds himself nudged in the ribs by the sharp elbow of the journalist.
‘What?’
‘The preppy type – pretending to be engrossed in his phone – watching the others. Good looking, in a dull way.’
Skelgill shrugs rather indifferently.
‘We’re not regular travellers – not on the night train.’
‘But you are detectives – surely it is second nature to be inquisitive?’
‘You should see my in-tray. Inquisitive’s the last thing I need to be. You’re thinking of journalism.’
The woman makes a purring sound in her throat. She drains the contents of her glass.
‘Touché.’
Without warning, she now rises. Once more, it is impossible to judge whether the serpentine motion of the train is the cause of her unsteadiness. They watch as she employs one hand on the seatbacks and tables to return to the main group. It seems a fresh bottle of whisky has been procured. She picks up an unused glass and obtains a measure in both it and her own from the overtly gallant Richard Bond. But when he entreats her to sit beside him she rather airily declines – and instead totters across to the man she described as the American. Peremptorily she drops into the seat opposite him and slides the spare drink under his nose. Without raising his head he lifts his gaze. He seems unsurprised, rather like a poker player who knows that a meditative state conveys the fewest clues to one’s opponent. But Jenny Hackett has her back to them – and whatever she now says is subsumed beneath the clatter and rumble of the rails, and the ululating chatter of the group. However – it seems she successfully engages the anonymous traveller in conversation – for after a few moments he takes up the glass, signals cheers, drinks – and then responds to what must surely be her question about his identity and purpose in life.
‘She’s bonkers, Guv.’ DS Leyton stares at Skelgill for a moment and, getting no reaction, turns his head to look at DS Jones. ‘And what was all that about the broad you’re shacking up with?’
Now it is DS Jones’s turn to shrug. She is slow to reply – perhaps because she is replaying in her mind a moment in their cabin she has not related: when Wiktoria Adamska asked if later she might try on the dress that she so admired.
‘I – think – that was her just being provocative.’
‘I reckon that was her being three sheets to the wind!’
DS Jones seems content to go along with this explanation.
‘I’m sure you’re right. I suppose when you consider it, the drinks reception began almost seven hours ago. But I get the feeling she wouldn’t be slow in coming forward at the best of times.’
‘She hit us like a flippin’ tornado.’
DS Leyton’s remark leads to a few moments of silent contemplation – interrupted when the steward brings their drinks – although he seems harassed and does not dwell in depositing the cluster of glasses on their table. DS Leyton dishes them out.
‘There you go, girl – get yourself sobered up on that.’
DS Jones smiles good-naturedly.
‘Actually – I only had one cocktail – after that I stuck to water. They filled my wine glasses up at the table, but I never touched them. I didn’t want to take any chances for the morning.’
She refers to the fact that they left her car near Carlisle railway station; it will be their means of getting back to Penrith, where they rendezvoused before setting out together. DS Leyton chuckles.
‘Right enough – it would be a bit of a bummer to fail a breath test the morning after you’ve picked up a bravery award!’
DS Jones nods – but now Skelgill is prompted to speak.
‘What time do we get into Carlisle?’
Although DS Leyton is the keeper of their tickets, it is DS Jones that knows the answer.
‘It’s just before 5.30am, Guv. Then the train stops at Edinburgh at 6.44am before it heads for the Highlands.’
Skelgill suppresses a yawn and stretches his arms above his head – and DS Leyton seems to take a cue from his action.
‘I’m bushed, an’ all, Guv. I’m not normally up this late. Apart from most nights.’
DS Jones is amused by his contradiction.
‘Nah – what I mean is – we go to bed about ten – then, sure enough, one of the nippers’ll have us up for something or other. Sore throat. Bad dream. Jammie Dodger. The nights I sleep through – I wake up in the morning and think they must have been kidnapped by Peter Pan!’
Skelgill is checking his watch – the time is approaching 1am.
‘I’ve half a mind to do the all-nighter.’
But his bravado does not sound convincing. It has been a long day, requiring an early start, delays on their journey to London, nerves and adrenaline during the awards ceremony, speeches and formal dinner, and now the unfamiliar and challenging company on the night train. DS Leyton probably speaks for them all when he puts a counterpoint to Skelgill’s proposition.
‘Even a few hours kip – you’ll feel better in the morning, Guv. Reckon I’ll sleep like a log.’
3. BUMP IN THE NIGHT
Thursday, 4.45am
There can be little more frustrating than trying to get to sleep knowing that the window for slumber is rapidly drawing shut. Not that Skelgill had any difficulty in dropping off – more that ‘dropping off’ in a literal sense was what has woken him – the feeling that he is at any moment likely to be sent tumbling from his narrow bunk, the train driver unaccountably slowing and speeding up, when smooth progress is called for (and surely is achievable on an empty track). Once disturbed, Skelgill would always claim he never gets back to sleep – but this cannot be entirely true, for he wanders fitfully in the no-man’s land between true sleep and full wakefulness, where conscious thoughts and dreamlike images intertwine, and like a child’s model train set these confused ideas orbit repeatedly, further confusing the befuddled brain and distorting any sense of time. As a twist on counting sheep he has imagined the train’s steady progress through stations he knows to be on their route up country: Northampton, Rugby, Nuneaton, Tamworth, Lichfield, Stafford, Crewe – Midlands towns accompanied by curious images perhaps dredged from his memory and modified by his rewired brain: Northampton, worn brown leather boots; Rugby, an old-style stitched oval football (also brown leather); Nuneaton, a baker’s window jammed with pies (none eaten); Tamworth, a giant ginger sow with sagging udders; Lichfield, a three-spired cathedral; Stafford, medieval villagers armed with poles wading across a river; Crewe, sailors lined up in salute along the platform as if it were the deck of a carrier sliding out of port – but progress never seems to get beyond Crewe before they are back at Northampton (misleadingly named, a mere sixty miles from Lon
don) – and each time at Tamworth, the grunting of the pig – which has a familiar face and can only be DS Leyton beneath, blissfully dead to the world and experiencing no such nocturnal torment.
And amidst this disconcerting maelstrom in which time both stands still and leaps in stages there are other external stimuli that enter the kaleidoscope of his subconscious mind and blend with the incomprehensible drama. There is the pressure blast of tunnels, a sense of interminably holding one’s breath under water. There is the shriek of another train – like two great beasts jousting at high velocity at the very margin of their territories yet incredibly not colliding. There is the banging of doors and sliding of bolts – wakeful travellers using the washrooms? And there are voices – real or imagined? Are these words from dreams or words from the corridor? There are shambling footsteps and dull thumps of shoulders off bulkheads as if drunks stagger about. There is a hushed conversation in some unintelligible language – yet in his dream-state he invents a translation – it concerns the extortionate excise duty imposed on Scotch whisky and a means of laundering the raw liquid through the oil pipeline in the Firth of Forth. There is a woman’s voice, raised and sharp – is that, “Go away!” he hears her hiss? Perhaps someone has opened or tried the wrong compartment? And there is a woman’s laugh, throaty – sexy, even – drawn out, and then smothered in some way – by a kiss?
And then – a big bump.
‘Struth! Cor blimey!’
Skelgill is suddenly wide awake. His sergeant’s voice – and alarm – is real. And the only reason he has not joined him on the floor of the cabin is because the two vertical restraining straps that run between the frame of the upper bunk and the ceiling have done their job. There is no such luxury for DS Leyton in the lower bunk, where this protection is deemed unnecessary. He hears his sergeant scrabbling for his reading light.
Murder at Shake Holes Page 3