Skelgill is not ready to accept that the place has been abandoned. Yet, by this time of the morning – approaching 6am – he would expect the first stirrings of staff, even in a modest hotel such as this; and somebody must live-in, even if the majority of workers are dailies. And, given last night’s conditions, it is possible that bar and kitchen staff would have been obliged to stay over.
But he can reach no conclusion, and while he is shining his flashlight in search of a bell-pull Richard Bond strides forward and hammers upon the heavy oak door. Skelgill cannot help thinking this is ham-fisted (never mind that it literally is so) – for it smacks of a police raid to bang aggressively at such an ungodly hour. If there are occupants, they will surely not be enamoured of their appeal for assistance. But he is reminded of the Shap summit memorial – not too far from here, beside the old A6 trunk road – its inscription commemorating the local people that “gave freely of food and shelter to stranded travellers in bad weather” – and he holds this tradition in mind as there comes a scrabbling of locks and chains from behind the door.
It swings open wide enough to admit them, almost as though their arrival has been anticipated. And, as for tradition, the impression of bygone times is enhanced – for before them stands a Dickensian apparition, a slight young woman, pale of complexion, clad in a flowing white nightdress. Long dark tresses spill in rivulets over her shoulders and breast; dark eyes glitter beneath arched brows in the flickering light of the candle that she bears in an old-fashioned brass holder.
‘Quickly. You must come in.’
She steps aside to allow the two men to pass; they must seem tall and bulky to her, yet she shows no sign of feeling intimidated and presses shut the door. Could it be their matching railway-issue drysuits with their reflective stripes and panels convey some sense of officialdom? Accordingly Skelgill finds himself skipping formalities with a question an official might ask.
‘Is there a power cut?’
The girl – she must be in her early twenties – still does not appear fazed.
‘Yes – but we have a generator – it is turned off for the night to conserve fuel.’
Though she is articulate Skelgill realises her accent is not British – but such a thing can be a rarity in the hospitality business these days.
‘What about your guests?’
‘We have no guests – there was a –’
‘Sam – what is going on?’
It is another foreign accent (the word ‘what’ pronounced with a ‘v’ sound). German, or Dutch, Skelgill thinks. The voice is male, commanding, gravelly, and it comes from above them, from the darkness beyond the hallway in which they stand – perhaps the man is leaning over a balcony. Skelgill short-circuits any further preamble.
‘Cumbria CID, sir.’ He does not distinguish between himself and Richard Bond. ‘We’ve got folk stranded on a snowbound train – we need to bring them here for their own safety. We’d like to borrow some of your outdoor gear.’
The man makes an unintelligible exclamation – unintelligible to Skelgill, that is – but Richard Bond promptly responds.
‘Is jy ’n Afrikaner?’
There is a brief pause – as if the invisible man is evaluating his options – and perhaps the realisation that he cannot hide his feelings behind an alien tongue.
‘Ja. Jy?’
‘Namibiese. Ek praat Afrikaans. Hou by Engels assebleif.’
Richard Bond leans close to Skelgill and hisses rather loudly.
‘He’s South African – I have instructed him to speak English.’
Skelgill wonders what else Richard Bond told him – something about his own provenance that doesn’t quite ring true?
‘He didn’t sound too chuffed.’
‘Never fear – like I say, he’s South African.’ Richard Bond chortles heartily at his private joke – and now seems to have no qualms in directing his flashlight upon what proves to be a heavily built man in his late forties with a broad head and unkempt black hair trailing over a swarthy, twisted countenance, who is descending with the aid of a stick a wide staircase and attempting to fasten one-handed a tartan-patterned dressing gown over flannel pyjamas. ‘Here he comes.’
At the moment only the single candle held by the girl otherwise lights them. She seems to appreciate this, and she extends it at arm’s length and the four of them converge around it as the man approaches. He glares; his features are noticeably lopsided.
‘I am Joost Merlyn, landlord.’
Skelgill introduces himself by his title and surname, and his companion simply as ‘Bond’, which he detects meets with the latter’s approval.
‘Samanta is my housekeeper.’
Skelgill and Richard Bond duly nod towards the young woman. It strikes Skelgill as an outmoded job title; but he turns back to the owner.
‘First, I’d like to use your phone, sir.’
‘Ach – the lines were brought down last night. Nor do we have a mobile signal in this dale.’
Skelgill clicks his tongue in frustration.
‘But I gather you’ve got your own power.’
He gives a tip of his head to indicate that the girl has communicated this fact.
‘Ja – we have a generator – it is sufficient for the lights. There is plenty of oil for heating. And no shortage of timber, naturally.’
Skelgill is nodding implacably. He begins to speak but realises that what he is about to relate is incomplete in his own mind.
‘There’s – approximately – twenty people.’ He senses Richard Bond wants to interject, the man inhales – but Skelgill continues quickly. ‘It’s not a difficult walk – under a mile, with a favourable slope – but we need protective gear and boots or wellingtons. Then a couple of big rucksacks if you’ve got them – otherwise maybe holdalls, and sledges that we can drag them on.’
‘We do not have rucksacks.’
‘The canvas laundry bags.’ This is Samanta. She looks hopefully at Skelgill. ‘We have our sheets and towels delivered in them. They have a large capacity. I can show you. The linen store is beside the tack room.’
She reaches out and lightly touches Skelgill’s sleeve – then she glances apprehensively at her employer; it is as if the greater powers of the two arrivals have usurped his authority, and she is torn between whom she must serve. But it seems Joost Merlyn grudgingly acquiesces.
‘The toboggans are in the old stables. It is easiest to reach them from the front door. Turn to the right and again under the archway into the courtyard.’
‘I’m on it.’ Richard Bond immediately strides away, clicking on his torch. He calls out more loudly without turning, ‘Depending what you’ve got we can probably stack them and take several each.’
Skelgill regards Joost Merlyn and at the same time gestures with an open palm towards the girl.
‘Is it just the two of you that’s here right now?’
The owner grimaces sourly.
‘Yesterday afternoon the other staff were sent home. Last night we were expecting a company from Glasgow for their festive celebrations. They had booked out the hotel for exclusive use up to Christmas Eve. They called at about 5pm to say they could not risk the journey. I am not anticipating they will arrive now – not at all.’ In the flickering light of the candle the heavy creases in his countenance seem to deepen. ‘It was an important piece of business for us.’
Skelgill inhales in the manner that precedes informed pontification.
‘Play your cards right, sir – this is your chance to make a railway company look good for once.’
The hotelier appears to grasp the intimation that he will not be out of pocket for whatever now unfolds. Albeit without enthusiasm, he summons a note of cooperation.
‘I shall go and fire up the generator.’ He turns and begins to limp into the darkness, his stick tapping erratically on the stone flags. He mutters, half to himself, still with a hint of bitter irony in his voice. ‘And, of course, we have ample provisions.’
‘Shall
we go?’
The girl again touches Skelgill’s sleeve, this time taking a light grip.
‘Aye – lead on.’
Initially she follows in the footsteps of Joost Merlyn. But whereas he has melted directly into the gloom she takes a sharp right turn along a corridor that opens up beside the staircase. Skelgill’s boots echo, yet the girl moves noiselessly. After twenty or so paces she stops and tugs at a door on the left – it is a walk-in cupboard, the shelves stacked with neatly folded white linen and towels. On the floor beneath lies a heap of the bags to which she referred. While she illuminates with the candle Skelgill stoops to inspect them. They remind him of the slings in which rocks are lowered upon the fells by helicopter in order to repair damaged footpaths.
‘Aye – a couple of them should do the trick.’
‘Then please take them.’
Skelgill gathers up two of the bags. As he rises, behind the girl some low-level lighting flickers into life in the corridor.
‘Ah – Mr Merlyn has turned on the generator.’ She blows out her candle and places the holder in a niche in the wall. ‘This way, please.’
She leads Skelgill to a further door, the last on the left. She presses a switch as she enters and fluorescent strips flash and pop and flood the room with their stark light. Blinking, it is an image that Skelgill recognises – to the extent that he has perused the Shake Holes Inn brochure, plucked out of boredom from the tourist information display while kicking his heels at Tebay motorway services. True to the photograph – and his recall – there is a rank of wellington boots, and Barbour jackets on a long row of pegs – but what most catches his eye is a wheeled hanging rack of all-in-one overalls. They resemble his outfit – other than their camouflage design (which perhaps Richard Bond will covet). Attached to each hanger is a protective facemask and pair of gloves.
‘These look like the ticket.’
‘Mr Merlyn has recently introduced paintball. Since we are next to the forest.’
‘Beats blasting pheasants, I reckon. And you can shoot your boss.’
She grins nervously.
‘Oh, yes – I have not tried it yet.’
She pauses and then inhales as if to add something – but it seems she suffers a change of heart. Skelgill considers her more carefully. He realises now the cause of her silent steps is that she is barefooted; and still she wears only the long nightgown. The air in the room is icy – it has double barn-style doors that are by their nature poorly sealed. Though he is warm enough, he can see his breath, and the girl’s as it comes in rapid puffs that seem to belie her calm exterior. She gazes at him suppliantly, her face tilted to reveal the smooth pale flesh of her throat. To his alarm he suffers a sudden flashback to a vampire movie watched in his youth. He starts.
‘Are you not cold, lass? – I can manage this now.’
‘Oh, no – I am from Vilnius.’
‘What’s that – Latvia?’
‘Lithuania.’
‘Sorry.’ His features contract with affected contrition.
She smiles patiently.
‘Most people do not get as close as Latvia. Or even the Baltic.’
Skelgill makes the connection with the prevailing storm. He grins wryly, a little relieved.
‘You’ve brought the weather, right enough.’
‘It is a little like home, yes.’ She seems consumed, perhaps by a memory – and for a moment once again appears about to speak. But she gives the faintest shake of her head. ‘Please – tell me what you would like and I shall help.’
Skelgill realises he is lingering – and that shortly Richard Bond will be breathing down his neck – and, besides, until the passengers are safely back here, he has no cause to dwell.
‘Aye, right. I’d say if you can stick all the adult-size wellies into one bag – I’ll put these suits in the other. That should do us.’
The girl works quickly and in only a minute she has the job done. While he is finishing off, and before he can object she has the bag over her shoulder and is ready to haul it away – he realises she must be stronger than she looks. Skelgill is hoping that the sledges will be suitable – it is not so much the weight of the bags but their awkward bulging shape. Although he suspects if necessary the ex-soldier will offer to lug both singlehandedly.
Back in the entrance hall there is no one about. But as they deposit their loads the main door flies open to reveal a beaming Richard Bond. He looks like a schoolboy bearing news to the dorm that he has discovered the tuck-shop unlocked.
‘Inspector, come and see what I’ve found!’
With the return of electrical power an external light above the porch has activated. In the fleeting moment that Skelgill hopes for a snowmobile a lusty whinny recalibrates his expectations – a small horse! It is already harnessed to a four-wheeled box trailer stacked with half a dozen plastic children’s sledges and what appears to be a golf flagpole.
In most circumstances this would be a bizarre sight. But Skelgill is getting used to Richard Bond’s methods. He can picture the scenario: parachuted behind enemy lines, Captain Bond and his unit improvise with the cooperation (or otherwise) of a local farmer. However, even in this genuine peacetime crisis, to press-gang the animal into service in such adverse conditions seems lacking in sentiment. Except – and Skelgill immediately recognises the breed – this is no show pony but a superb specimen of the Lakeland Fell variety. Adapted for life amongst the Cumbrian mountains, with its stocky build, shaggy black coat and great sweeping russet mane it is as hardy a beast as can be imagined; he has heard tell of individuals surviving for months trapped by snow, able to scrape for food with their powerful hooves. It probably beats a snowmobile hands down – and, if his amateur reading of equine body language is anything to go by, it is champing at the bit.
‘I’ve put a couple more ropes in the trailer. We’ll be able to use her to pull that fence down.’
‘Steady on, man.’
Skelgill can see that Richard Bond’s enthusiasm is again getting the upper hand. It seems he plans to take the pony all the way to the train. He’ll have them riding rollercoaster in the trailer down the embankment! But Skelgill decides to tackle each hurdle as it arises. Thus a small moment of generosity comes upon him.
‘Nice work, Richard.’ The man’s broad chest swells with the praise. ‘Let’s load this kit and get our skates on.’
Skelgill turns to the girl, who begins to lift her bag and heave it towards the door. He puts a halting palm on her shoulder. ‘That’s enough lass – leave it to us. The best help you can be is to get a decent-sized public room nice and warm – where we can thaw everyone out with a hot cuppa. Give us ninety minutes max.’
‘Would you like bacon rolls?’
‘Make that sixty minutes.’
5. EVACUATION
Thursday, 6.45am
As Skelgill and Richard Bond reach the rear end of the train they are required to divert through the deeper drift at its side. More ponderously, they pass beneath the glow of the lounge car, its windows steamed up and, even in the lee, becoming coated with snow. They each draw a stack of three sledges, a bag of gear roped on top. Their progress has been uneventful; the pony pulled the trailer without a murmur and is now stabled contentedly upon the sheltered deck of the bridge. Skelgill had gently persuaded Richard Bond that this was the optimum strategy, and gravity took care of delivering sledges and laundry bags to the trackside. Experiencing an attack of devilment Skelgill briefly entertained the idea of tobogganing down, and then of building a snowman ‘caddy’ to hold the golf flag – but his mountain rescue training kicked in, and basic rules such as avoiding gratuitous injury, and unnecessary timewasting, held sway. In the event they settled for rolling a ball in which to plant the marker beneath the footbridge, whence the equipment was easily towed up the more modest incline of the cutting.
Now he checks his watch while Richard Bond thumps on the door of the vestibule situated at the front end of the lounge car; it seems it has become his
job so to bang. Skelgill nods with some satisfaction – the return trip has taken them twenty-two minutes. Though conditions are becoming progressively more difficult – in particular the depth of snow – they should get out in good time. And as the sound of the door being unfastened reaches their ears, the intrepid explorers might each secretly be expecting some version of a conqueror’s homecoming.
It is Ruairidh the guard who opens it. His expression seems unreasonably hostile – but Skelgill puts that down to a truncated repertoire, a spectrum from dour to disparaging. But when he retreats and DS Jones steps into the breach, Skelgill knows her well enough to understand something is badly amiss. But Richard Bond is already launching into jokes and guffaws as he heaves first one and then the other bag on board, and scrambles up behind them. Skelgill hangs back in the vestibule while Richard Bond enlists the guard to help him manhandle the gear round into the lounge car, where he might receive the plaudits he seeks. His departure heralds the appearance of a worried-looking DS Leyton. Skelgill turns to DS Jones. She takes a deep breath.
‘Guv – there’s one passenger missing. And one dead.’
What seems a long silence but which can only be a second or two is broken by DS Leyton.
‘Would you flippin’ Adam an’ Eve it, Guvnor?’
His words might seem facetious – however his tone is anything but. He lifts his broad shoulders and lets them drop with a great sigh. Questions begin to swirl in Skelgill’s mind like the flakes caught in the light beyond the glass. But he stares grimly at DS Jones, knowing that at any moment she will provide a far more orderly briefing.
‘The dead passenger is the elderly man, Mikal Mital. After you left, the guard knocked at all the compartments, but two people never came to the lounge car.’ She glances at DS Leyton for corroboration. ‘I went back with him. He used his master key. Compartment one was completely empty and has not been slept in. At that point we assumed the occupant was elsewhere on the train – in the toilet or something. Mikal Mital’s is the next cabin, number two. He was in bed, lying on his back – peacefully asleep, it looked like.’ She pauses. ‘And it appears to be natural causes, Guv.’
Murder at Shake Holes Page 6