‘Have you got a back-up system?’
‘A bank of auxiliary batteries. Fully charged they last four to six hours.’
‘What about if we just heat this carriage?’
‘Maybe twelve - fourteen?’
There is no reason she would know. Skelgill scowls broodingly. Richard Bond rocks to and fro in his seat, as if formulating his next scenario for escape. Skelgill has a further question.
‘What temperature was it reading outside?’
‘Minus eight Celsius as we came up Shap Fell.’
DS Leyton splutters.
‘Cor – if that ain’t brass monkey weather, I dunno what is.’
Skelgill’s brows are knitted, such that an uninformed observer might wonder if he is calculating the heat transfer coefficient of a modern railway carriage. In fact a more practical task occupies his thoughts: the unfolding of his mental map of Cumbria.
‘Laura – what bad weather kit have you got on board?’
The woman glances at the guard and then again at Skelgill.
‘There’s two drysuits and gaitered boots. They’re standard issue – kept on every train, in the brake van.’ She inclines her head towards the front of the train. ‘They’re one size – way too big for me.’
She suddenly looks a little guilty, as if realising her conclusion makes her sound uncooperative. But Skelgill is unperturbed.
‘Happen that’s what I wanted to hear, lass.’
He turns to Richard Bond, who looks like a dog that has overheard the word ‘walkies’. Indeed, before Skelgill can speak, he blurts out a proposal.
‘If we strike due east into the wind we’ll eventually meet the M6. Even if the road is closed we can call in assistance from the nearest emergency telephone.’
He regards Skelgill eagerly, imploring his approval. While Skelgill knows this is not the worst plan it paints a picture in his mind fraught with uncertainty. The nearest point on the M6 is two miles away, across treacherous moorland. As DS Leyton related, the M6 was closed hours ago; the exposed stretch over Shap Fell will be blanketed by snow; at best they will find stranded vehicles, possibly abandoned, their occupants rescued. If the national grid is down, the emergency telephones will not be working.
DS Jones can see that her superior is conflicted.
‘What are you thinking, Guv? Do you want to try to dig out the exhausts?’
But Skelgill shakes his head.
‘I doubt we could do it – the drift would collapse on us.’ But he glances at Richard Bond, and bows his head as if to make some concession to his latest suggestion. ‘I reckon we need to get out of here, right enough – once our power’s gone we could freeze to death if we’re stuck long term. Down in this cutting, the whole train could become entombed. But if we’re right about our position, there’s a possible answer.’ He looks now to the driver – for a moment she is distracted, staring anxiously back down the carriage to where the alarm continues to sound. But his words penetrate her thoughts and she turns her eyes to him, her expression hopeful. ‘There’s a hotel – Shake Holes Inn – it’s in the middle of nowhere – like us. It’s probably under a mile. Happen it’ll be cut off itself – but they’ll have oil-fired boilers, plus open fires and plenty of timber. It would be a safer place to be.’
DS Jones is quick to identify what may be Skelgill’s most pressing concern.
‘How would you find it?’
Now he again looks interrogatively at the driver.
‘Laura – do you remember – before we stopped – did we pass the footbridge over the cutting?’
The woman looks momentarily alarmed – but then she nods eagerly.
‘Aye – it were just seconds before – then we hit the bank of snow – and I were thinking it were virtually the same height as the bridge.’
Skelgill is nodding slowly. Again it is DS Jones that attempts to join up the dots. It seems she can envisage something of the solution.
‘Are you thinking of one person at a time – with a guide – since there are two outfits?’
But now Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Shake Holes Inn does outdoor activities. They provide gear for their guests – for quad-biking – that sort of thing. They’ve got sledges and whatnot for kids.’ Skelgill looks pointedly at Richard Bond. ‘There’s a bridleway that goes over the footbridge into a pinewood. The hotel sits on the far side of the plantation – the path ought to be sheltered. We could drag enough kit back here. In the process we’ll beat down a decent track. Then set out together in close formation. We’d have the wind at our backs. Even taking it steady we ought to cover a mile in half an hour.’
Bond is nodding. In fact he is compelled to rise to his feet. He rubs his large hands vigorously together. ‘Ready when you are.’
The train driver is becoming increasingly agitated.
‘I need to turn off the diesels. The black box will be recording everything – I’ll be failing in my duty if I don’t respond to the carbon monoxide warning.’
Skelgill regards her earnestly.
‘We’ll get this kit on. No point letting the grass grow.’ He turns to DS Jones and DS Leyton and the guard, Ruairidh. ‘You’d better get everyone up and organised. Tell them to put on warm sensible clothes, if they’ve got any. Assemble in here – keep the interconnecting doors shut as much as you can. Brief them on the plan.’
The driver moves swiftly, she is light and agile on her feet, followed by Skelgill and Richard Bond. As they weave through the serving area Skelgill hears DS Jones ask the guard if he has a manifest of passengers.
4. RECONNAISANCE
Thursday, 5.30am
As he leaps into the dark Skelgill recalls Richard Bond’s expression about bailing out – it had seemed curious at the time, but on reflection it was perhaps not so inappropriate, as stepping out of an aeroplane at night would maybe not feel so different – at least for the half second before his borrowed boots thump into the thick snow, and his momentum causes him to tumble forward onto hands and knees. The overall is not a bad fit, everything considered. Skelgill has a lean frame; but Richard Bond, despite being of about his own height, must weigh a good three stones heavier and the snug suit cannot be so comfortable. They each have a rubber-armoured flashlight – but as Skelgill gets to his feet it becomes immediately apparent that these are as much a hindrance as a help; the beam reflects off the swirling snow that chokes the ether, and offers no distance penetration, merely the impression of a cocoon of whiteness at arm’s length.
Skelgill has briefed Richard Bond on his plan. They follow the railway line back to the footbridge. They scale the embankment – wherever it is least overgrown with briar. Once on the bridge, they locate the bridleway that runs into the pinewood on the west side of the railway. Provided they can stay on the track, it will guide them to the vicinity of Shake Holes Inn. He was impressed by the way the man paid attention – he listened intently – and then asked just two questions, employing bullet points, what was a) the bearing and b) distance of the hotel from the footbridge?
What is also plain to Skelgill is that they have to get everyone out of here as soon as possible. As he had drawn to the attention of Richard Bond – that the snow is accumulating in the lee of the train – the cutting likewise is filling up from the east; there is a ramp of snow that sweeps down over the southbound track, a cliff sliced through by their train before it hit the main bulk of the drift only thirty minutes ago. As such, the northbound track on which they are stranded is comparatively clear. Although the rails are already covered again, their profiles are visible, and the snow between them about eight inches deep. It reassures Skelgill that his method ought to be foolproof. By reference to fixed features – rail track, bridge and bridleway – he can effectively navigate blind.
Thus the first challenge is not to blunder past the footbridge. Having conferred in more detail with the driver, Skelgill’s estimate is that it is at least two hundred yards south of the train – and not more than four hundred
. They have agreed initially to walk in single file to beat a path. Richard Bond had offered to go ahead, but Skelgill had merely responded with an exhortation to measure two hundred paces, and set off. As he counts rhythmically, and the process slips into his subconscious, he begins to wonder how to spot the bridge. If it were constructed for vehicular purposes it would have great piers of blue engineering bricks with their foundations at the trackside – even in the restricted visibility something that would be hard to miss. But a narrow footbridge will likely have its footings high on either embankment, veiled by the blizzard and beyond reach of their meagre torches. He is still turning this over in his mind when Richard Bond cries “Two hundred!” – his eager tone suggests he is pleased to be first.
Skelgill half turns and shouts beneath the wind that they should ‘fan out’. As a military command it seems Richard Bond needs no further instruction. They go more slowly – each at one margin of the track, trudging in deeper snow – but to Skelgill it still seems impossible that they will see anything. When train driver Laura glimpsed the underside of the bridge just prior to the impact, she was seated in a cab raised a good six feet higher, and had the benefit of immensely powerful headlamps. Though they are separated by just three or four yards, Skelgill can only see Richard Bond as a shimmering glow. He is directing his flashlight up the embankment – but surely to little avail. Skelgill has his to the ground. And now he calls out.
‘Wait!’
‘What is it?’
Richard Bond struggles across to him. Skelgill indicates the area at his feet.
‘Look at the change in depth – there’s a ridge right across the tracks.’
‘Good show – we must be under the deck.’ There is a note of excitement in Richard Bond’s voice. ‘I’ll go up – do a recce.’
Before Skelgill can object Richard Bond takes a line perpendicular to the tracks and Skelgill can see the halo of his torch rising; it disappears as he successfully scrambles up the side of the cutting. Skelgill feels frustrated by his own inaction – but he realises it is essential now that he does not move from the spot. And barely a minute later the pale glow reappears, and Richard Bond comes slip-sliding, half on his backside. As he reaches track level he stumbles forward and Skelgill has to brace to support his heavy bulk. His face is close to Skelgill’s; he is a little breathless.
‘A-okay. There’s a barred timber fence at the top – no problem to scale – I mean for the ladies.’ He squats on his haunches and begins to gather armfuls of snow. ‘We must mark the turn-off.’
‘Do it on the way back. We can bring something more obvious – a pole.’
Each time Skelgill employs a tone that resembles an order Richard Bond seems automatically to acquiesce.
‘Roger.’
But he is keen to lead the way back up the embankment. As Skelgill follows, he considers what may be the most fraught aspect of their task – to get the party up to the bridge. The banking is steep and the snow unstable – but Richard Bond has already ploughed something of a furrow, and their passage now, and again on return, should see them compress rudimentary steps into the snow. It is a lung-bursting climb – perhaps double the height of a house. But in due course they reach the fence to find themselves at the western end of the narrow footbridge. Now they are exposed to the full force of the gale – and it is a gale, eight on the Beaufort scale, Skelgill estimates – forty knots that would certainly drive him off Bassenthwaite Lake; though these conditions are more reminiscent of the bleak mile between Great End and the summit of Scafell Pike in the depths of winter.
The bridge itself offers some protection. Its sides are constructed of steel panels welded onto a box framework, up to chest height, and they withdraw into the mouth of this corridor to take stock. There is absolutely no indication that, only yards ahead, the railway ought to be bordered by a tall stand of conifers. Like a misguided bat a fluttering doubt invades Skelgill’s thoughts. What if this is the wrong bridge? What if the driver were mistaken and this is not Shake Holes cutting, but another one altogether? But he detects that Richard Bond seeks leadership, and he knows he must act before the man makes up his own mind. Striking a parallel line from the footbridge Skelgill leads the way into the void that is both black and white. And, sure enough, after a dozen paces there is the sense that something is changing. The constant barrage of the wind in the ears begins to relent; instead, overhead it acquires a new resonance, a surging oceanic roar – and Skelgill realises it is the interface of substance in its different forms, air forced across the rough plane of the treetops. Their pace quickens – for the conditions underfoot are improving rapidly. The dark matter that permeates the spinning galaxy of flakes seems blacker, the flurries less intense, and their torches begin to pick out the ranks of conifers on either side of the descending track.
This is of course what Skelgill had subliminally imagined – but had not allowed himself the luxury of visualising. The dense plantation serves as a windbreak, and the declination is curving away from the wind; meanwhile the progressively layered canopy is capturing the bulk of the snow. Yes, a whump close at hand reminds him it will dislodge in weighty clumps – perhaps accompanied by the odd weak bough – but it is a benign environment compared to the exposed crest of the cutting. Heading east to the M6 would have been foolhardy. As the path takes a turn to the south, Richard Bond echoes Skelgill’s unspoken assessment.
‘Frankly, this is a cakewalk for the likes of us. What about taking a bearing off the wind and yomping down through the woods? Save ourselves a few minutes.’
It pains Skelgill to shy at the gauntlet. He requires a moment’s thought to contrive a plausible rejoinder.
‘I reckon it’s better we check the exact route we’ll be bringing the others. Besides – it’s riddled with shake holes hereabouts – the bridleway’s the best way to stay safe.’
He senses that Richard Bond is stymied; indeed, the man’s reply is somewhat oblique.
‘I am forgetting this is your old stamping ground.’
It is hardly the case. They are a long way from Skelgill’s “old stamping ground” as Richard Bond has put it. He is a Cumberland lad; this is Westmorland. He knows it only from a couple of visits, exploring, and one time a mountain rescue training exercise across the bleak moorland to the north and east. Indeed, this district borders on the Yorkshire Dales – where the obscure geological features he has referred to are more prevalent.
‘You know what shake holes are, aye?’
‘I have not heard the term – I presume we are talking caves?’
‘Sinkholes. This is a limestone escarpment.’ Skelgill casts out a conciliatory hand. ‘Right enough – the madcap cavers dig out the boulder clay in the bottom to see if there’s a pothole worth exploring. But they can fill with drifted snow – they’re like the mantraps the Romans used to dig round their forts.’
‘Lilia, yes?’
Now it is Skelgill’s turn to confront his ignorance; he guesses that Bond, with his public school accent, would probably know this sort of thing. Before he can speak, however, his companion asks a follow-up question.
‘How deep are they?’
Skelgill is content to expound.
‘Most are just up to your waist – others a dozen, twenty foot – as much as forty. If you’re really unlucky, like I say – there can be a pothole disappearing into the rock. They’re a constant hazard for sheep. Walkers, too. Especially when they’ve filled with bog and look like solid ground.’
‘You must show me if we pass one.’
‘Let’s hope we don’t find one by accident.’
‘Hear, hear.’
On such a theme they now each sink into something of a brown study as they march, falling into step through the crisp snow. Skelgill reflects upon what Richard Bond has said – certainly it is true that this is not a particularly challenging expedition for either of them. But he is wondering who else is on the train – it occurs to him that among the passengers hitherto unseen might be the el
derly or infirm. He ought to have established this fact before setting out – and now he has no means of contacting his team for confirmation. In his desire to act – perhaps under pressure to stay one step ahead of Richard Bond and thus hold him in check – he has overlooked a basic principle. But now his torch catches a shadow in the terrain where there is a small clearing at one side of the track, and a round snow-filled depression about ten feet across.
‘I reckon that’s a shake hole. That’s why it’s not planted.’
They halt for a moment.
‘It could be a bomb crater. The size of a half-decent mortar, wouldn’t you say?’
Skelgill wonders if this is a kind of subconscious one-upmanship, that Richard Bond can’t help it, and that his questions of this nature are to all intents and purposes rhetorical. Thus he does not respond, and following a few seconds’ contemplation they move on. In these conditions Skelgill would expect to cover a mile in fifteen minutes, and the way through the woods is barely two-thirds of that. Accordingly, they encounter a marked deterioration in visibility as they emerge from the western fringe of the plantation. With nothing to guide them Skelgill’s fears resurface – is this the right route after all? He racks his memory – when last he perused the map, how far was the hotel? Surely it was adjacent to the pale green segment with its little stick-drawn conifers? And his concern is short lived – for they have taken barely thirty tentative paces before the building looms up before them. Of course – this place was a traditional coaching inn, and an ancient route now largely forsaken has aided them. His rejuvenated spirits, however, are tainted by an absence of parked cars, or even tyre tracks buried in the snow; the surroundings are pristine. No light shows from any window; indeed their torches reveal the old building as stark and desolate; there are fissures in its white stuccoed walls, and the window jambs, sills and lintels picked out in black are flaking extravagantly. Above the recessed portico are painted the fading words ‘Shake Holes Inn’ – he notices that the ascender of the first letter ‘h’ is worn away, so as to suggest ‘Snake’ to the uninitiated.
Murder at Shake Holes Page 5