Skelgill has been inadvertently holding his breath. Now he exhales between bared teeth.
‘And the missing person?’
‘Named on the passenger list as Mr Harris. The guard has done a full search of the train. He checked the man on board at Euston. But the thing is, Guv – there’s no luggage – and the compartment looks untouched.’
‘What about signs of exit?’
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘As best we can we’ve looked outside all of the vestibule doors. Apart from where you and Richard Bond jumped out there’s no indication of marks in the snow.’
‘Who else knows about all this?’
‘The guard, obviously – and then just the driver. She’s up in her cab. I said we three would come along as soon as you got back.’
‘Right – let’s go.’ Skelgill takes a step but then halts abruptly. A second thought has struck him – it comes back to Lyndon B. Johnson’s principle. ‘Leyton – bring Bond, will you? Fill him in – top line.’
‘Righto, Guv – I’ll be with you in a jif.’
Skelgill and DS Jones make their way to the front of the train. Skelgill is a little shocked when he enters the driver’s compartment to see the windows entirely encased in snow. The sense of entombment intensifies the news he has been met with. The young woman swivels around in her seat. She is about to speak but Skelgill holds up a palm to silence her.
‘I know the story. I shan’t beat about the bush. There’s some investigation we could usefully do – and procedures we need to follow. But the first priority is to get everyone to safety.’ He gestures to include DS Jones. ‘We can come back here as necessary – it’s not that difficult a hike. And we’ll get a message out to summon back-up – I reckon we’ll get some priority given the new circumstances.’
The driver nods; she looks drawn and anxious, but before she can respond the sound of voices signals the imminent arrival of DS Leyton and Richard Bond. Skelgill can tell from the latter’s animated features that he is apprised of the situation. He immediately addresses Skelgill.
‘Do you want to extract the casualty? We can rig up a field stretcher. Carry him between two of us – then use the pony and trailer.’
At this suggestion the two sergeants’ eyes fall apprehensively upon Skelgill.
‘There’s folk better qualified than us to deal with that.’ Something about his tone implies a deeper meaning – which Richard Bond seems to get – and, besides, Skelgill has issued it as an order. He turns to DS Leyton, but puts a hand on the upper arm of Richard Bond. ‘Can you pair brief everybody. Leyton – you cover the little difficulty – keep it low key – Richard, you get them organised into the gear. Get their bags down onto the track and roped onto the sledges. Be ready to move out in – what’ (he looks at his watch) ‘fifteen minutes?’
Richard Bond almost salutes. He is revelling in being part of the official team. DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks, his features somewhat hangdog, the short straw being a familiar outcome.
‘One low-key-difficulty briefing coming right up.’
He and Richard Bond depart. Skelgill recapitulates with the driver his plan; they agree she will turn off the electrical power once they are all ready to leave; then they will move together as a body as swiftly as possible, and keep going to minimise the risk of anyone suffering from the effects of cold. Now he asks a belated question of both the driver and DS Jones.
‘How many of us are there?’
It is DS Jones who replies.
‘Thirteen, Guv – excluding the deceased – and the missing passenger.’
Skelgill furrows his brow. He regards the driver doubtingly.
‘I thought it would be more than that.’
She shakes her head, but all the same casts a worried glance at DS Jones.
‘We’ve been through the manifest, Guv. All ten cabins were taken but only three of them were shared. That’s six people. Another seven for solo occupancy makes thirteen – minus two. Then add back Laura and the guard.’
Skelgill is now nodding. He makes a face that suggests some small relief.
‘There’s plenty of choice of kit, then.’ He looks at the driver appraisingly. ‘Happen you should grab a set that fits – put the same aside for my sergeant. You’re not far off the same size.’ He turns to DS Jones. ‘I take it you’ve got the master key?’
She nods.
‘Show me.’
‘Sure, Guv.’
As they enter the lounge car the mood is subdued – obviously there is the shock news of their fellow passenger’s untimely demise, albeit he was presumably unknown to most of them. Richard Bond is still dispensing advice about fitting gear and packing belongings. They move through inconspicuously. Skelgill notices that the two Russian women are helping one another into their suits, and he catches a snippet of their conversation.
‘This is so unbecoming.’
The woman refers to the man-size overall that is inevitably bulky around her tall and slender model’s figure.
‘Think of it as a fashion opportunity, Wiktoria. I expect to see a creative interpretation on the slopes of St Moritz next season.’
This raises a laugh from Wiktoria Adamska.
‘Ivanna, at least I have my Cartiers to protect my eyes from the blizzard.’
Skelgill also takes in that ‘Eck’, Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch is glancing slyly at the pair as they dress, while the American Bill Faulkner, quietly getting on with his own business, in turn watches the former government minister, his expression dispassionate. The detectives pass through the interconnecting vestibule into the sleeping car. The ten cabins have their doors on the left as they look.
‘Do you want to see the empty one?’
Skelgill hesitates; it feels like an unnecessary diversion.
‘Aye, may as well.’
But it is a quick job; there is little of note other than what Skelgill already knows about the layout and facilities. It looks simply like a compartment made ready for occupancy. There is no indication of any disturbance. He merely sticks his head around the door for a few seconds.
‘Okay. Next.’
DS Jones is more circumspect in opening number two. She checks the corridor as if for prying eyes before unlocking the door. They shuffle inside.
DS Jones’s expression is anxious – and she seems almost relieved to find the body still in its resting place – indeed in its resting pose, as she has described.
It is a policeman’s lot to encounter this kind of sight – and much worse at times – but familiarity makes these first few moments no easier – and the presence of a fellow human, expired, has both of them descending into contemplative silence – for here is somebody’s relative, friend or loved one.
‘Have you checked under the covers?’
‘Superficially, Guv. He’s wearing pyjamas. There’s no sign of blood or obvious injury.’
Skelgill bends and stares more intently.
‘How old do you reckon?’
‘Seventy-one. There’s an American passport in his attaché case.’
Skelgill pulls back.
‘American?’
‘He must be naturalised. It gives his place of birth as Prague. That would have been during the post-war communist era.’
Skelgill makes no response. Of his many weak suits at school, history rarely pricked his interest unless reference were made to the various annexations of his Celtic homeland – Roman, Viking, Norman – which simply raised his hackles, despite his obvious part-descent from at least one of these tribes.
He removes his gaze from the deceased man and makes a superficial inspection of the compartment. It is much as he would expect of an organised traveller having settled in for the night. The thick tweed suit is on a hanger. Worn but good quality brown leather brogues are pushed together beneath the bunk alongside a small trolley bag. On the shelf at the foot of the bed stand a plastic glass still in its sealed bag and half-drunk bottle of mineral water with the lid off. There is a
wash bag on the folding shelf above the sink. And behind the door, opposite the head of the bed is the worn leather attaché case to which DS Jones has referred.
‘The light was off, aye?’
‘It was, Guv.’
Skelgill rotates slowly on his heel. He knows his sergeant is equally if not more eagle-eyed than he – certainly her attention to detail far outstrips his own. Yet his sixth sense tells him he is looking at something that is not quite right. He inhales through clenched teeth, in the way of an ex-smoker scarred by his habit. But if something is wrong... what is it? He exhales, hissing with dissatisfaction. He indicates with a jerk of his head that they should go.
‘Nowt’s going to change here in a hurry. This place will be like a deep-freeze in no time.’
DS Jones is nodding as they step out into the corridor and she makes sure the lock has engaged automatically.
‘Guv – just in case a rescue party makes it to the train – I’ve written a note with timings and details of what has happened and where we are going – it’s on the driver’s control panel. I figured that would be the first place anyone would look.’
Skelgill, with his back to her, grimaces in silent self-reproach. This basic principle he has overlooked in the greater melee. As he knows from bitter experience, there is little more exasperating than to be summoned to a spot only to find the ‘casualty’ has walked – leaving mountain rescuers ignorant of his or her fate. At least, as he strides on, he remembers to acknowledge his subordinate’s common sense with a thumbs-up sign.
They return pensively to the lounge car to be greeted by an eager Richard Bond.
‘All present and correct. Luggage roped on sledges, ready to go. The six younger men, including us, to haul them.’
Skelgill takes in that everyone seems to have on a paintball suit; they stand clutching their masks and gloves in nervous anticipation. In the camouflage material they look like raw recruits awaiting their first parachute jump and wishing they had visited the rest room. Laura, the driver, comes forward with an armful of gear for DS Jones. While she is dressing, Skelgill approaches Richard Bond and speaks quietly.
‘You lead. Take it steady. I’ll bring up the rear.’
Richard Bond nods decisively; he likes the idea of breaking trail.
‘Inspector, I propose a human chain to pass the luggage up the embankment. There ought to be enough of us to span the distance.’
Under some circumstances this would be a reasonable suggestion – a summer’s day, perhaps. Skelgill’s face reveals his objection. While he has no doubts about the capabilities of DS Jones, of the other four females he cannot be so confident; the cutting is steep and slippery underfoot. Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch is decidedly tubby and in his sixties; at the moment he looks like a lost schoolboy, with his pudding face and surprised expression. Neither does Ruairidh the guard strike Skelgill as particularly agile.
‘Why don’t you go up first with one of the ropes? That means you can start as soon as you reach the flag. Anchor it to the fence. Then everyone can use it to climb. Up top, get them to gather in the shelter of the bridge. I’ll tie on the bags – you can haul. I’ll send the sledges last of all – may as well hang onto them.’
‘Roger.’
It seems Richard Bond needs no convincing – he is programmed to respond to a plan. Skelgill clears his throat and calls out.
‘Ready?’ The reaction is muted, the atmosphere heavy with apprehension. ‘This is not a difficult walk. It’s three minutes to the bridge. Follow the tracks in the snow and keep close to the person in front of you. You won’t see far, but by all means use the torch on your mobile. There’s a short climb out of the cutting and after that it’s downhill through the shelter of the pinewoods. Hot cocoa awaits.’
‘Hah – how about a hot toddy!’
This is Jenny Hackett that chirps up. But her rejoinder raises only a half-hearted ripple of appreciation.
‘Happen we’ll know to look in the bar if we lose you in the woods.’ Skelgill grins wryly. He raises an arm to indicate towards the forward vestibule. ‘Okay – follow Mr Bond.’
As the passengers variously leap, clamber and are helped down from the open door into the swirling snowy darkness and keening wind, Skelgill finds himself last aboard with his two sergeants. The power now goes off and a moment later the driver appears. DS Jones switches on her mobile phone light. Skelgill first addresses his colleagues.
‘Mingle as you see fit. Keep your eye on the ladies – make sure no one drifts off course.’
He hands his colleagues down to the trackside to do as bidden. DS Leyton takes up the reins of a laden sledge, making the joke that his kids will be envious when they hear about his adventure. He moves off together with DS Jones; she goes quickly ahead to catch up with the main party. Skelgill assists the driver and then helps her to close the heavy door. It is plain she is distressed.
‘What’s up, lass?’
‘I feel like a captain abandoning ship.’
‘Don’t fret – you’re doing exactly the right thing. Once these folk are safe at the hotel you’ll be fine.’
‘But – it’s – the body – leaving it – alone –’
In the ambient light of his torch Skelgill sees her resilience crack – and without warning she lurches at him and he has no choice but to embrace her. He gets it – this is beyond what can be expected of her rank. He gazes apprehensively over the top of her head, but of course there is no one to see them. He feels her life force, coiled, hot almost, reminiscent of a wild creature, a rabbit extracted from a cruel snare, a ripe cushat blown down from its precarious platform of twigs, a pike even, unhooked and beginning to gasp. But she seems content in his clutches.
‘Hey up, Laura – I’ve had my knuckles rapped by a few Cumbrian lasses in my time – you’re tough as they come, you lot.’
But it takes a few moments for her tension to be conducted away, for her to nod and thus indicate that she is ready to stand unassisted. He releases her and takes a step back. ‘Come on, lass – we’d better not have them waiting in the cold.’ He points with his torch. ‘Howay – catch up while I get this sledge.’
*
Initial progress is not as swift as Skelgill has hoped. Though he suspects Richard Bond will be setting a challenging pace at the front, someone – or ones – in the party is decidedly tardy, thus Skelgill has to plod laboriously at the tail. He supposes, for folk unaccustomed to the outdoors, it is a test of their mettle. Even the skiers amongst them are unlikely to have ventured out in darkness into a bullying blizzard; and from what he has gleaned of the sport it is designed to eliminate exercise proper. They must feel more like evacuee submariners, wading in cumbersome diving suits along the seabed, such is the sensory deprivation and the constant buffeting of the gale.
But they make it to the bridge where those most advanced cluster around the marker. He sees that Wiktoria Adamska and Ivanna Karenina are clinging to one another, shivering. Jenny Hackett seems to be consoling a flagging Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch. DS Jones and DS Leyton circle like good sheepdogs. Skelgill stomps across to the foot of the embankment, finding the disturbance in the snow where he and Richard Bond have made a track – as he does so a rope comes snaking down; he knows that the ex-soldier will not have tossed it until it is secure – he gives two tugs and feels two in return.
Now he calls out for the group to line up; he sends a protesting Wiktoria Adamska first, followed by Richard Bond’s young colleague Egor – and continues with each female chaperoned by a competent male. Again progress seems painfully slow – but he understands that the unknown intensifies their trepidation. Eventually he despatches his sergeants and waits alone until the rope first becomes limp and then two more sharp tugs tell him it is clear for the bags. He might have made an argument that luggage should have been abandoned as an unnecessary luxury that could hamper their safe escape – but, frankly, he wanted his own gear – and should they be marooned for any length of time at the hotel, personal belongin
gs will provide some small comfort. Besides – it has not been so difficult thus far, and now Richard Bond hauls at a prodigious rate; in short order Skelgill is sending up the six plastic sledges nested together, and setting off behind them. The sledges slip from sight, and a few moments later the rope unfurls once more – Skelgill, a quarter of the way up – avails himself of its extra stability, wrapping it around his left forearm. He feels Richard Bond, with good touch taking up the slack and indeed pulling him skywards with impressive strength.
He reaches the shoulder of the cutting to find the group huddled in the comparative shelter of the bridge. The trailer is already loaded with their luggage and the sledges stacked on end. Richard Bond has the rope coiled and slung diagonally over one shoulder; now he attaches it to the rear of the trailer, while DS Jones holds the reins, a calming hand on the unruly mane of the Fell pony. Richard Bond detects Skelgill’s scrutiny and calls across to him.
‘Inspector – your sergeant has offered to lead. I shall act as brake.’ In the light of his torch Skelgill detects a flash of self-reproach in the man’s expression – as if he has diagnosed an act of insubordination on his own part. ‘If that’s okay with you?’
‘Aye – let’s crack on.’
Skelgill realises that Richard Bond makes a good point – downhill through the forest there is little to stop the trailer running away on the steeper sections. He strides across to DS Jones and with his torch indicates the tracks in the snow that will take them into the woodland. He has to raise his voice to be heard above the wind.
‘Keep straight – after a minute the route takes care of itself.’
Skelgill counts them away – a full suit of thirteen beating hearts, his own included; what would he be – the King, the Ace – or the Knave, more like? But as they descend into the tunnel of the bridleway and the conditions moderate, he detects a corresponding lifting of spirits. Sensing the worst is behind them, hunched figures begin to straighten and play their lights upon their surroundings. There is even some cheerful if ghoulish banter, a debate likening their predicament to Babes in the Wood, trumped first by the suggestion of Deliverance and finally The Blair Witch Project. Skelgill speculates that they look more like pilgrims of old, lanterns lit for morale, journeying through the snow in anticipation of hearty respite at the old inn. It might almost be a scene from a Victorian engraving.
Murder at Shake Holes Page 7