Murder at Shake Holes

by Bruce Beckham

  *

  Why Skelgill wanted twenty minutes is not apparent when he joins his colleagues a little behind schedule, for he remains unshaven and wears the same Levi’s and check shirt; by comparison, on the evidence of her damp hair, DS Jones has showered and has changed back into her skinny jeans, trainers and a college-style hoodie. DS Leyton is poking at embers that smoulder in the hearth – unproductively in Skelgill’s estimation. He is about to take charge when he notices on the wall furthest from the door a framed map of the immediate vicinity that he had overlooked on his previous visit, when instead he had made a beeline for a stack of folded maps and local guides, that included several well-thumbed Wainwrights.

  The library is ostentatiously decorated in a concoction of deep wines and burgundies (a misguided 1980s refurbishment that pervades much of the establishment), albeit imbuing a certain vulgar cosiness. There is a firm-looking chesterfield sofa beneath the window, another to the left of the door; otherwise winged armchairs each with an occasional table arranged around the fireplace accommodate four people – so it is more of a snug reading room than a traditional reference library such as might be found in a stately home; there are a couple of bookshelves mainly populated with doorstopper paperbacks which Skelgill suspects guests have abandoned unfinished. He saunters across to the map; it is dated “1959” and he notes there is no motorway to the east; the A6 was the only route north when this region was surveyed. It is Ordnance Survey at its finest level of detail, in monochrome on aged sepia, a scale of 1:10,560 or six inches to one mile, sufficient to represent the inn with its stable yard drawn. There is no trace of the coniferous plantation, just some deciduous woodland that forms its present-day fringe. He peruses the landforms with a critical eye, and as is his wont is becoming absorbed when a self-assured female voice penetrates his thoughts.

  ‘Good morning, Cumbria CID – so glad to have you on the case.’

  Skelgill starts but resists the inclination to swivel around; his innate obstinacy rails against such presumption on the part of Jenny Hackett, despite that she speaks in jest. He waits a moment while DS Jones organises a seating plan. DS Leyton gives up on the fire and calls to his superior.

  ‘Want me to sort some tea, Guv?’

  ‘Aye.’ Skelgill taps the map decisively with the index and middle fingers of his left hand and turns a self-satisfied grin on the group. He does not elaborate upon what little triumph he may have achieved. Now that DS Leyton has retreated he takes up a poker and ruthlessly attacks the embers in the grate, before tossing on a trio of split pine logs taken from a tarnished brass log box embossed with the image of a running fox. Almost immediately flames begin to lick hungrily at the fresh, dry timber. ‘May as well make ourselves comfortable.’

  DS Leyton reappears promptly – it seems he has encountered Samanta the housekeeper nearby and has placed their order. He takes the remaining available chair, nearest to the fire. Jenny Hackett casts about the room – Skelgill can’t help wondering if she is checking for a drinks trolley – but perhaps it is just to verify that DS Leyton has closed the door, for now she assumes the conspiratorial manner of the previous evening, hunching over as if inviting them into a confidential exchange. Her tone becomes strained.

  ‘How deep was that hole, Inspector?’

  It is not the question that Skelgill has been expecting. He makes a face of discontent.

  ‘There’s no knowing. Happen it were deep enough to swallow you up – I didn’t feel the ground under my feet. The snow supported us to some extent – but flail about and you start to dig your own grave.’

  ‘An uncompromising prognosis.’

  She inhales between clenched teeth – and then plies him with a grateful smile. He thinks she looks older this morning, the crow’s feet at the corners of her deep-set eyes more pronounced, her hair lacking structure and its colour suggesting a grey undertone; it is as if her ordeal has taken some toll – but maybe she had been ‘dolled up’ for the posh dinner, and this is her more regular appearance.

  ‘I did not get chance to thank you properly – you were marvellous – such quick thinking. Didn’t I tell you – Skelly’s Heroes!’

  Any emergent preening on Skelgill’s part rapidly dissipates. That she might pen such an article seems to be a growing threat. He glowers darkly.

  ‘You’ve since told Sergeant Leyton that someone pushed you.’

  ‘In the heat of the moment it seemed inopportune to mention it.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jenny Hackett shrugs – and makes to answer – but she refrains because the door opens and Samanta enters bearing a tray. Skelgill looks up frowning; the girl detects his displeasure and appears fearful – but she cannot know they are in the throes of a sinister revelation, and his expression softens, indeed becomes something of a belated grin. Now attired in a long charcoal tube dress that clings sufficiently to show her slender, even skinny form, there is a pathos about her demeanour, and dark shadows beneath her eyes and a red mark on her left cheek that had escaped his notice earlier. But she moves efficiently amongst them, dispensing their refreshments and making a subtle exit before he can take in much more, closing the door carefully behind her.

  It is Jenny Hackett’s cue to resume where she had left off.

  ‘At the time I couldn’t believe it – that someone would have pushed me – and then, as I began to regain my senses – well, I suppose it felt rather unworthy, to cast aspersions when several of you risked danger to rescue me.’

  Now she looks generously at DS Leyton. He seems a little abashed, unaccustomed to praise from members of the public. But it is Skelgill who replies.

  ‘You definitely were pushed?’

  The woman sits more upright and folds her arms – but she nods decisively.

  ‘A sharp shove between the shoulder blades, Inspector.’

  Skelgill is regarding her interrogatively.

  ‘Can you describe what actually happened?’

  Jenny Hackett relaxes her pose. She looks from one to the other of the detectives as though to assess the quality of their attention. The professional in her appears to have processed and packaged the story ready for consumption.

  ‘When Richard Bond briefed us about the trek that we were to undertake, I suspect he tried to scare us into submission by highlighting the dangers of wandering off course – primarily of getting detached from the party, and lost – but then he warned us about these terrifying ‘shake holes’ that swallow up sheep and humans like this is some sort of predatory landscape from a Tolkein fantasy. However, once we reached the woods and the conditions eased, I think we were all becoming blasé – you may recall there were jokes about Babes in the Wood and suchlike – and when someone identified what could have been a shake hole we were enticed by the thrill of the unknown.’

  ‘Who spotted it?’

  ‘Of that – I am not certain.’ She speaks more slowly – and now her tone becomes less assured. ‘You see, I was walking – I think – closest to Wiktoria and Ivanna – and they both exclaimed, something like, “Ah – yes!” – as though someone else had said it first. There were lights flickering about – and the hole was only – what – a couple of yards off the path? Else no one would have noticed, I suppose. We had hold of one another – in trepidation – as we went to the edge.’

  ‘So it couldn’t have been either of them?’

  ‘I don’t think so – I don’t know.’ She inhales – that she vacillates strikes Skelgill as an unhelpful contradiction. ‘I wasn’t really concentrating – and it was basically pitch black – and there was the crashing of the wind in the branches. Anyone may have crept up behind without my realising. I’m sure both girls made a grab for me as I fell.’

  Skelgill persists with his narrow line of questioning.

  ‘Have you mentioned this – have you asked the two ladies – what they saw?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ She smiles in a way that might be apologetic, yet tinged with reproach. ‘In my game one doesn’t so glib
ly let the cat out of the bag, Inspector.’

  Skelgill begins to gnaw at the corner of a thumbnail. It seems she is seeking to preserve some journalistic angle. And perhaps she reveals an ingrained distrust of those around her, knowing that everyone eventually talks, at a price. The flames that lick upwards over the logs in the grate capture his gaze; a movement from DS Leyton suggests some physical discomfort. It seems to prompt Skelgill to change tack.

  ‘Ok – so we don’t know who. But why, then?’

  ‘Last night I spoke with Mikal Mital and this morning he was dead.’

  Her riposte seems indecently forthright.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Jenny Hackett glances sharply at Skelgill – as though she suspects his question to be disingenuous.

  ‘He was about to spill the beans at the Edinburgh symposium.’

  It takes Skelgill a moment to respond.

  ‘Aye – you’d mentioned that. Did he tell you what exactly?’

  The journalist shakes her head dismissively, as though this is in fact a poorly considered question, and that she would not be beating about the bush if she knew otherwise.

  ‘Of course not, Inspector. But he was observed by all those present to be in conversation with me.’ She gestures loosely to indicate the three detectives. ‘This was after you had retired. He had been reviewing a manuscript. The rumour mill has it that he was writing a book and an unseemly scrum of publishers have been brandishing blank advance cheques.’ She looks about as though she is in need of something; but she sighs and shrugs. ‘He would have considered it to be more of the same, filthy lucre – I believe he was a communist of the old school.’

  ‘Did he show it to you – this manuscript?’

  ‘He slipped it into his briefcase the moment that I sat down.’

  ‘Did he know who you are?’

  She nods unhesitatingly.

  ‘Naturally.’ She flutters her lashes in a small act of immodesty. ‘You might say we represent opposing factions of the same alliance. He seemed to hold no grudges against me personally.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Again she plies Skelgill with a penetrating glance, her head tilted so that her eyes are only just visible beneath her prominent brows.

  ‘Do you read The Inquirer, Inspector?’

  Skelgill’s journal of choice is Angling Times, in which political debate tends to be restricted to whether it is ethical to use boilies for carp and boobies for trout; but he knows vaguely of her newspaper’s uncompromising reputation.

  ‘Is that why he wouldn’t talk to you about his work?’

  ‘It is usually only whistleblowers who will speak freely to me – under conditions of extreme confidentiality.’

  ‘But you’re saying he’s a whistleblower of a sort.’

  ‘That may be partially correct. But he is not an insider – which I think is a requirement of the designation. Besides, he had the reputation for an extraordinary level of secrecy. He did not operate online, or even own a computer. He was renowned for a prodigious memory.’

  Again she takes a moment to look at each of the detectives. DS Jones responds to what she reads as an invitation to treat.

  ‘But, surely – how would he conduct his research?’

  Jenny Hackett regards the younger woman rather forgivingly.

  ‘When your enemies have the entire apparatus of a modern state at their command I imagine they can hack into anything – your laptop, your phone – your fridge, even. But not yet a manual typewriter.’ She hesitates, perhaps realising she has not directly answered the question; she waves a hand aimlessly. ‘He was alleged to be furnished by a network of contacts with intelligence from all corners of the globe. No system of course is foolproof. Telephones can be tapped. Mail can be intercepted. Meetings can be eavesdropped upon. And, yes, individuals can be nobbled.’

  Skelgill seems to be absorbing her analysis; though his expression remains doubtful.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Oh – I was making a pitch of my own. At my paper we are hard-wired to unmask the great and the good. Our readers feast upon such tales. I suppose I was hoping he might drop me a few crumbs in advance of his speech. In return he would receive a glorious fanfare.’

  ‘But he didn’t – drop you any crumbs?’

  Skelgill wonders if a jolt from the woman’s conscience fleetingly clouds her features.

  ‘Oh – merely his general thesis.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Has it not occurred to you, Inspector, that the majority of the world’s super-rich – this crude new class that has been unleashed upon us in the past couple of decades – hail from failed states with economies that leave most of their populations languishing in poverty? How can that be? How come half of Knightsbridge is owned by offshore companies nested like Russian dolls to hide their true beneficial owners – obscure bureaucrats from countries of which most people have never even heard? How come presidents wear wristwatches that cost more than their annual salaries – and sail in private super yachts that could build a dozen provincial hospitals? Mikal Mital’s shadowy network comprises loose-tongued facilitators and financiers who enable the billions extracted from national budgets and state-owned companies to be laundered.’

  Jenny Hackett looks around her audience – perhaps a little pityingly.

  ‘Need I go on?’

  An awkward silence prevails. Skelgill appears especially conflicted. He swallows, as though there is a lump in his throat – and he reaches for his tea and drains the cup. It falls to DS Jones to muster a structured rejoinder.

  ‘It would be fair to say that this offence is increasingly receiving coordinated attention from the relevant authorities. We have the instrument of the Unexplained Wealth Order since the Criminal Finances Act, for instance.’ Jenny Hackett is nodding – but her narrowed eyes betray a deeper sentiment, of cynicism. ‘Are you saying, madam, that Mikal Mital was about to expose a particular individual – or organisation – or government?’

  Jenny Hackett snorts, rather unbecomingly.

  ‘I’m certain he was.’

  ‘Some geezer on the train?’

  All heads swivel to look at a red-faced DS Leyton. He can generally be trusted to point out the elephant in the room, even when wondering what it is himself. DS Jones appears shocked. Jenny Hackett, excited. But Skelgill is scowling ever more deeply. And now he intervenes decisively. He addresses the journalist.

  ‘Madam – Jenny.’ His affable correction comes too late to conceal that he has formal police procedures in mind. ‘If you could leave us for now – we need to discuss how to take this forward – your allegation of being pushed.’ Now he curses inwardly, for still his language smacks of officialdom. It must be plain to her journalistic instincts that he does not intend to air his concerns in her company. But, perhaps to his surprise, she opts not to dig in her heels – and graciously she rises to take her leave.

  ‘Certainly, Inspector. I shall be at your disposal. Perhaps in the bar.’ She regales him with an enigmatic smile. ‘Bearing in mind our illustrious passenger list, I shall feel safer in full public view.’

  Her peal of sardonic laughter seems to resonate about the library even after she has closed the door. Skelgill’s subordinates wait expectantly. The fire is growing in intensity – DS Leyton is beginning visibly to perspire – and he wipes his brow, flicking aside his tousle of dark hair. It seems he can hold back no longer.

  ‘Cor – what do you reckon, Guv?’

  ‘About what?’

  It is immediately apparent that Skelgill is being capricious – something that no doubt has its roots in his own inner turmoil, for he resents being pressed for a perspective when he is disoriented.

  ‘Well – I dunno, Guv – I suppose she’s saying someone’s out to get her. If she’s right – she’s still in danger, ain’t she?’

  ‘What if she jumped, Leyton?’

  ‘Whoa!’ DS Leyton is wide-eye
d. ‘Into the snake hole?’

  Skelgill ignores both the persistent descriptive error and what is a perfectly reasonable objection. He glares into the rising flames.

  ‘Think about last night, Leyton. She was all over everyone like a rash. The main crowd when we arrived – then us three – the American – and Mikal Mital after we’d gone to bed. So now she wants us to rattle their cages so she can watch the feathers fly.’

  DS Leyton’s bewilderment grows – it seems to him that his superior is being unreasonably cynical, irrationally so.

  ‘But, Guv – she nearly came a cropper.’

  Skelgill perhaps shows a hint that he might relent – that he recognises his flimsy hypothesis is borne out of petulance. Indeed, it is not even his custom to make such wild assertions. His tone becomes more measured.

  ‘Leyton – if she were pushed – aye, like you say, she could still be in danger. But what’s the logical conclusion?’

  ‘I’m not sure where you’re going, Guv.’

  ‘What does it say about Mikal Mital – that he was killed? That’s a big leap to make. We can’t just cook up a murder investigation on the say-so of a scrawny old hack who’s scratting about for a scoop.’

  Skelgill’s words are perhaps unintentionally cruel, signalling his underlying discomfiture. A silence descends, but for the logs that spit like discontented cobras. Eventually DS Leyton, his cheeks burning in the face of the now ferocious blaze speaks, his tone philosophical.

  ‘It’s out of the frying pan and into the fire, Guv.’

  His idiom might be inspired by his proximity to the heat source – but his words surely reflect their collective sentiments; there they were, speeding home for Christmas, only to be headed off by the Baltic Blast. While they have circumvented the worst of the storm, they find themselves pitched into a quandary of another magnitude altogether.

  DS Jones is next to speak. Her tone, however, is decidedly more buoyant.

  ‘Guv – what about Mr Harris?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘The missing passenger.’

  Skelgill grimaces – as if there isn’t enough on his plate. Not believing in the supernatural, or teleportation, or invisibility, he has somewhere along the line relegated the fact of the absentee to an administrative or observational error on behalf of the guard. Why worry about something that may never have happened?