‘If he existed.’
DS Jones persists.
‘But, Guv – what I mean is – whether he exists or not – it provides us with a plausible excuse to interview everybody.’
DS Leyton now perks up.
‘What if he’s been hiding, Guv – followed us – what if he were the cove that sneaked up and pushed her in?’
Like a terrier discombobulated by half-a-dozen rats simultaneously breaking cover in as many directions, Skelgill can think of so many practical objections that he can’t answer – other than rather disdainfully to ignore his sergeant. He sits muted. Then he rises and stomps across to the large-scale map from which he was earlier torn away. After a minute’s perusal he clears his throat. He turns to face his colleagues.
‘Fine – we’ll talk to them.’ He seems to be looking hard at DS Jones – but perhaps she is just in his line of sight, for he speaks as if to himself. ‘But first – there’s something I need to do.’
‘What’s that, Guv?’
Skelgill looks startled.
‘Go back to the train.’
DS Jones’s neatly curved eyebrows rise imploringly.
‘Can I come with you?’
Skelgill’s countenance remains severe – but it belies his reply, which is suddenly casual.
‘Aye, alright.’
‘What about me, Guv?’ There is a note of trepidation in DS Leyton’s voice and he glances anxiously at the window.
‘Leyton – you said it yourself. Someone needs to make sure one of the others doesn’t murder Jenny Hackett.’
DS Leyton does not look entirely disappointed, although his outlook may be about to change.
‘But – what should I do, Guv?’
‘I don’t know, Leyton – use your imagination. You’re the one with bairns. Keep them entertained – think up some parlour games.’
7. THE TRAIN
Thursday, 12pm
‘I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of a shake hole, Guv. Sink hole, swallow hole, yes. I chose history over geography. We all had a crush on the teacher.’
Skelgill eschews the temptation to be led off script and stares broodingly at the small round crater. He replies, speaking slowly.
‘I don’t know much about geography. Mostly I’ve learned from experience, out on the fells. Swallow hole – that means it’s got a beck disappearing down into it. Sink hole – aye – except that’s a general term – that can be a mineshaft or a sewer that’s given way. A shake hole’s what you get in limestone – the rain filters through the acid bog and dissolves the joints between the rock fragments and eventually there’s a collapse. There’s hundreds of them in this neck of the woods.’
‘Are there many – actually in the woods?’
DS Jones does not intentionally take literally his idiom, but he responds regardless.
‘Bear in mind this plantation’s nobbut forty year old. The shake holes are mostly ancient – though some of them are still forming, you can tell where the vegetation around the banks is torn. Folk used to think they were caused by surface mining – but pits dug by humans always have spoil heaps nearby.’
‘It doesn’t look much – covered in snow. You wouldn’t know it was dangerous.’
Skelgill continues to glower.
‘Aye – happen Bond should have kept his trap shut.’
‘I wonder if anyone will admit to being the person who pointed it out.’
Skelgill glances sideways at his colleague.
‘Most likely it was Bond himself.’
But DS Jones furrows her brow.
‘I’m not sure about that, Guv. I was quite close to him. I think I would have heard if he’d called out a warning.’
Skelgill does not look convinced. He rubs a hand across his eyes.
‘Come on, lass. Time and tide.’
It is an apt simile – for new snow is progressively eradicating the tracks made by the collective comings and goings, much as the first ripples of a flow tide erase footprints from exposed sands. Once in the open, subjected to the full force of the gale, they draw in their hoods and, blinking away snowflakes, slip-slide into the comparative shelter of Shake Holes cutting. Here too their tracks are almost obliterated, and the going is challenging. When the rear carriage of the express looms into sight, they are shocked by the rapid progression of its of entombment. In the hours since the train embedded itself in the main snowdrift, a good eight inches have settled upon its roof – but much deeper drifts have accumulated along the flanks and they have to wade through thigh-high powder to reach the first available entrance. DS Jones is prompted to call out.
‘I feel like the train is going to disappear altogether.’
‘Happen it will if the forecast is right. Then what did they say – it’s to stay below zero for a week? None of this’ll be going anywhere – snow or train.’
Skelgill wrenches open the door and prises himself inside, then rotates and gives a hand up to his colleague. She could make it easily enough, but she accepts his assistance. They stand close for a moment. In the stillness of the carriage their steamy breath fuses in the air between them.
‘You were right about it being like a deep freeze, Guv.’
‘Aye. At least that’s one thing we don’t have to worry about.’
DS Jones makes a face that reflects the gruesome aspect that overshadows their task: that Skelgill refers to the mortuary-like conditions. They have entered the train between the guard’s van and the sleeping car, and now they make their way along the corridor to compartment number two. DS Jones has the master key, and she rips open the Velcro of her suit to reach an inner zip pocket. She unlocks the door but hesitates for a second, perhaps steeling herself. She steps inside, glances briefly to her right at the corpse, and then partially closes the door – before re-emerging with Mikal Mital’s attaché case. She transfers it to Skelgill’s grasp. He re-presents it at chest height while she lifts the flap and delves inside.
‘The passport. Text books. Newspapers. Private Eye.’ She shakes her head. ‘That’s it, Guv – no manuscript.’
Skelgill stares implacably at his colleague.
‘He might have slept on it.’
For a moment she thinks he is using the figure of speech – then she realises what he means – she makes a resigned face and nods. Skelgill puts down the briefcase and they shuffle into the compartment.
‘It’s potentially a crime scene, Guv.’
‘Aye – but what can we do – we need to know if it’s here or not. Get ready.’
Skelgill raises each end of mattress, body and all – while DS Jones peers beneath. It is all clear. Skelgill checks that the bundle of papers could not be concealed within the covers. Then DS Jones takes a series of photographs on her mobile phone, and they make a search – but Mikal Mital’s trolley bag contains only spare clothes and personal effects, and there is no cupboard space – only the top bunk folded away, and it yields nothing. Skelgill tries the sliding door that enables paired cabins to adjoin – for instance, were compartments numbers one and two engaged for the use of a single family. But it is locked.
They rather stumble out into the corridor. Both inhale and exhale more deeply than normal, as though the sinister claustrophobia of the cabin has inhibited their breathing. After a moment DS Jones indicates to the door of Mikal Mital’s compartment.
‘Guv – when we went in previously – when I first showed you the body –’ Her inflection is inquisitive and she hesitates, uncomfortable to be querying her boss. ‘Did you pick up the water bottle from the shelf at the foot of the bunk?’
‘Don’t reckon so.’
DS Jones’s expression becomes strained.
‘When I entered – I mean just now – the label was turned away. The first time – I’m sure it was facing outwards.’
Skelgill is scowling; but his disquiet is aimed inwardly – he is wondering if he did inadvertently lift it.
‘What made you notice that?’
‘This morning
– in my cabin – Wiktoria Adamska mentioned she only drinks mineral water – she complained that it was a cheap Scottish brand. Actually, I’ve always thought of it as being a bit pricey. I suppose it stuck in my mind. It was in my line of sight when the guard opened the door.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow but does not offer a rejoinder. DS Jones regards him insistently.
‘Guv – the manuscript is gone. We know it exists because we saw Mikal Mital reading it. What if someone drugged him by putting something in his water? They stole the manuscript – and switched the water bottle.’
Skelgill steps sideways and raps with his knuckles upon the door of compartment number one.
‘Open this up, lass.’
DS Jones does as he bids. Skelgill enters and immediately tries the interconnecting door to Mikal Mital’s cabin. It remains locked. He retreats to sit on the unslept-in bunk. ‘Have a pew.’ He pats the bed to indicate DS Jones should settle likewise.
‘Listen. When you went in with the guard – obviously that was a shock, right?’ DS Jones nods – the discovery of the dead man was not what she had expected. ‘But you had the presence of mind to check him over – search his belongings – you looked in his briefcase for ID and found his passport. Think – what about the manuscript?’
But DS Jones is already shaking her head, consternation clouding her hazel eyes.
‘I know what you’re asking, Guv. I was looking for a wallet or similar – and the passport was in the pocket on the front, under the flap. The main section was full of stuff like it is now. I didn’t go through it – there was no need. I certainly didn’t notice the manuscript – but I couldn’t swear either way.’
Skelgill makes a hissing sound between bared teeth. He flings a hand in the direction of the interconnecting door.
‘These locks – they’re child’s play to anyone who knows what they’re doing. Never mind if you’ve got hold of a master key.’
‘And for egress, Guv. Someone coming out of here into the corridor would look far less suspicious if they were seen. And by relocking the interconnecting door it’s not obvious that entry may have been gained to the next cabin.’
Skelgill leans forward, his forearms upon his thighs and stares pensively at the shiny grey bulkhead a few inches from his face. He is a little alarmed by the many unevidenced permutations that they could probably concoct. But the mysteriously empty compartment and its convenient location seem to be straws driven on the same wind of conspiracy as the missing manuscript, Jenny Hackett’s claimed shove between the shoulder blades, and now DS Jones’s observation that there has been tampering in Mikal Mital’s cabin. He makes a sudden contemptuous expiration of air.
‘What is it, Guv?’
‘If someone took that manuscript – I’ve made a nice job of shipping it out for them. And now they’ve had four hours to find a hiding place.’
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘We could never have anticipated the manuscript being stolen, Guv. Not unless we had clear grounds to believe that Mikal Mital was murdered.’
‘Which there isn’t.’
‘I know, Guv.’ DS Jones spreads her palms in a gesture of exasperation. ‘How do you find a pathologist in a blizzard?’
‘That sounds like one of Leyton’s jokes.’
DS Jones chuckles.
‘It is certainly a conundrum. If only we knew who or what Mikal Mital was about to expose. We might have a suspect in our sights.’
‘Why would some international high-flyer get their hands dirty?’
DS Jones turns to look at her superior.
‘You mean a hitman?’
‘Hitman, hitwoman.’
DS Jones eyes Skelgill warily; if he is being flippant he appears indifferent to her scrutiny.
‘Do you think Jenny Hackett has the manuscript, Guv?’
The suggestion prompts another scoff of disparagement from Skelgill.
‘Doesn’t matter what I think – but I reckon someone might think that.’
‘If she’s telling the truth about being pushed?’
‘Aye. Get her out the road – inspect her suitcase at leisure.’
‘If so, it proved to be an inadequate method of assassination.’
‘It was an opportunity. Desperate person – their plans awry – needs must. Who knows? Besides – if she’d have gone under, sunk deeper – who’s to say we’d have pulled her out in time.’
Skelgill clicks his tongue in what might be a rueful manner. DS Jones is pondering his words. She taps together the tips of her slender fingers and then intertwines them, resting her wrists upon her lap.
‘To murder Mikal Mital – in the first place it would have required premeditation.’ (Skelgill shrugs as though he does not consider this to be a hurdle worthy of concern.) ‘If there were drugs or poison involved – that would stack up – the planning, I mean.’ However, she frowns. ‘But surely they would need to know his travel arrangements?’
‘Which is an argument in favour of it being opportunistic – a rival of whoever he was going to expose – a potential blackmailer – or a journalist.’
DS Jones nods pensively.
‘Thing is, Guv – in virtually all of those scenarios, it’s most likely the perpetrator would be best served if Mikal Mital were dead.’
Skelgill looks like he might disagree. He rocks his head from side to side.
‘I reckon Jenny Hackett would have settled for a sneak preview. She made no bones about wanting the scoop – or that she was pumping him for a story. All she needed was to beat his announcement by a day. If it were her that caused his death, then it must have been an accident – a Mickey Finn that was too strong for his system – or, it were a coincidence, natural causes.’
But now Skelgill stands up and flexes his troublesome spine. He exhales and groans simultaneously. It is part frustration that prompts him – he has an inbuilt alarm that sounds when there are too many ‘maybes’ in a conversation. Then he proceeds to break his rule.
‘Happen one of the passengers saw something that’ll shed light on it.’
‘Maybe one of them saw Mr Harris, Guv.’
Skelgill makes a face of doubt – but it is an expression that changes to disbelief – and he glances at DS Jones to meet her own gaze of alarm. She nods. They have both heard a mechanical clunk.
Skelgill steps closer to the open compartment door and listens. More noises, faint at first, begin to reach them. It sounds like someone is now aboard the train – and moving in their direction. He jerks a thumb, indicating that he believes the intruder is coming from the rear. And now it is certain, as sharp footsteps begin to approach along the corridor.
‘Get ready.’ Skelgill whispers, the faintest hiss. And he stands, pressed against the bulkhead so that the approaching person will not see him until the last second.
The footfall comes at a steady pace. The person seems to be intending to pass through the sleeping car rather than try any of the doors. But as they near they slow – heightening Skelgill’s state of alert. He is coiled – he waits for another step – and pounces like a great tarantula darting from its burrow to snare his unsuspecting prey.
‘Police!’
As he cries out simultaneously there is a piercing shriek and too late he realises it is a woman no bigger and heavier than DS Jones – but his momentum is committed and he dumps her unceremoniously upon the bunk. She has an arm above her head for protection – Skelgill starts back and raises both hands to indicate he means her no harm – and DS Jones steps in to place a calming palm on the shocked woman’s shoulder.
‘Cumbria CID – it’s okay, madam – but what are you doing on the train?’
Perhaps that DS Jones uses the polite term ‘madam’ conveys that they are not some latter-day highway robbers – and the woman lowers her guard – though consternation still creases her features. Skelgill has fished out his warrant card and her pale blue eyes focus upon it and then rise to engage his own with a disconcerting degree of penetration
. He guesses she is around his own age. She has short fair hair cut stylishly, and smooth tanned skin, regular features with blonde eyebrows, a small faintly retroussé nose and full lips that glisten with a protective layer of Vaseline. The tip of her nose and her cheeks are flushed from exposure to the cold. She is clad in a long Australian-style waxed-cotton riding coat that covers her in its entirety, down to the ankles of polished black leather boots caked with snow. Her breathing is rapid and shallow and she inhales more deeply to speak. She chooses not to answer DS Jones’s question – but instead comes out fighting, commensurate with the look in her eyes.
‘Is it your regular practice to manhandle innocent members of the public, Inspector?’
Her accent is refined, with no trace of northern vowels.
‘It was for your own safety, madam – there has been a fatality on the train. We have evacuated the remaining passengers to Shake Holes Inn.’
Skelgill’s formally enunciated explanation is somewhat irrational, and his manner unapologetic. But there is a distinct softening of her demeanour.
‘Oh – I see.’ She sniffs and raises a cuff momentarily to her nose. ‘I saw what must be your flag beneath the footbridge – and tracks in the snow. I thought it possible that the train was abandoned.’
Skelgill regards her more forgivingly – it seems he has won the little battle of wills. Now DS Jones repeats her entreaty.
‘Madam, can you tell us, please – who you are – and why are you aboard?’
The woman shudders, and sighs rather defeatedly – it might be a delayed reaction to the rush of adrenaline that she has experienced.
‘My name is Lucinda Hobhouse. I run an equestrian centre near Ulphathwaite. I heard that the London sleeper was believed to be trapped on Shap Fell.’
Skelgill is looking at her dubiously.
‘Ulphathwaite is five miles away. How did you get here?’
Murder at Shake Holes Page 10