Murder at Shake Holes

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Sorry – sorry – I wasn’t creeping up on you – I mean to say – I didn’t think it was you, Inspector.’

  ‘Who did you think it was?’

  ‘Well – I don’t know.’ The man seems suitably chastised, avoiding eye contact and not at all offended that Skelgill almost scalped him. ‘I saw some gear was gone – and fresh tracks crossing the stable yard. It obviously wasn’t Joost Merlyn – no limp – and the prints too big for any of the ladies, I should say. I was pretty sure you were interviewing – I haven’t had my turn yet – so I didn’t realise you weren’t in the library. Since there’s this business of Mr Harris – well – I thought – maybe it’s him. May as well follow – see what he’s up to – thought you’d be chuffed if I solved your mystery for you.’

  Skelgill opts to respond to this practical explanation rather than backtrack into an awkward exchange of apologies. Besides, Richard Bond, it seems, in good military tradition does not hold a grudge for a dressing down.

  ‘It could have been one of the other blokes.’

  ‘Well, you say that, Inspector – with the greatest respect – but it could not have been either of my team – absolutely no reason for them to wander off – in any event I’d left them in the bar. The American, Faulkner, he’s rather reserved and doesn’t strike me as the sort to venture out alone – and clearly not Sir Ewart.’ Richard Bond affects a diplomatic cough. ‘Frankly both he and the guard are badly out of condition. In due course – when I caught sight of somebody – it didn’t occur to me that it was you in that rather pukka riding outfit.’

  Richard Bond grins, and so ingenuously that it can surely only be heartfelt embarrassment that underlies his efforts at mollification.

  ‘You nearly got a reet twatting there, marra.’

  Richard Bond seems to detect a lightening of the tone, and he appears to get the gist of Skelgill’s descent into Cumbrian vernacular.

  ‘Oh – it wouldn’t have done any damage.’

  ‘Aye – that’s what I tell folk. Except in my case it’s true.’ The man does not attempt to gainsay him – and he rather suspects that Richard Bond’s big-boned skull is so dense that a blow from a knobkerrie would likely not floor him. ‘Still, can’t be too careful.’

  When Skelgill does not elaborate upon this latter remark, Richard Bond makes what may be a tentative inquiry.

  ‘Your Sergeant Leyton explained earlier that you went back to search for clues to the disappearance of Mr Harris. I would have accompanied you – but, er – well –’

  Richard Bond suddenly appears rather crestfallen, like a schoolboy who is reminded he has not made the First XV, and is still troubled by the shock of rejection. Skelgill feels a small pang of guilt – without his collaboration the evacuation to the inn would have been a considerably more challenging prospect. Only DS Jones among the others could match his athleticism – but she is probably half the weight of Richard Bond and at times it was his sheer brute strength that was the deciding factor.

  ‘Not to worry, Richard – we were treating it as a police matter – it might look a bit awkward in the reports later if a civilian were involved – if sommat went wrong, like.’

  ‘Naturally, Inspector. This is your command.’ Richard Bond looks away, as if casually noting their surroundings. ‘And did your return visit shed any more light on the missing passenger?’

  Skelgill beckons with his head that they should start walking – they move away from the shake hole and begin to march briskly in parallel, each taking one of the partially in-filled tyre tracks made by the trailer.

  ‘There’s no indication he was on the train.’ Skelgill glances sideways at his companion. ‘When I saw you hanging half-naked out of the door I thought for a second someone must have jumped for it.’

  Richard Bond looks a little perturbed. His eyes narrow and his brow creases.

  ‘There were certainly no tracks – as I think you saw. I was merely getting the lie of the land. First principles – secure one’s retreat, you know?’

  Skelgill treats the question as rhetorical.

  ‘I take it you didn’t see him at the station or on the train – I mean, another male who’s no longer in the party?’

  ‘I did not. Of course, one assumes there are always fellow passengers who keep themselves to themselves.’

  Skelgill delays for a moment before he responds.

  ‘That’s a regular little drinking club you have in the bar, is it?’

  Richard Bond’s tone regains something of the pompous stridency that first caught Skelgill’s ear on the platform at Euston station.

  ‘There’s a coterie of frequent travellers – company CEOs, politicians, PR types – we like to put the world to rights over a whisky or two. But Christmas has depleted the numbers. There was just myself and my boys and old Eck and his – er – female colleague. And we were joined by the journalist – and the attractive Russian model – what?’

  The man’s inflexion seems to invite a locker-room comment about Wiktoria Adamska, but Skelgill declines to be sidetracked.

  ‘So, what’s the Edinburgh connection?’

  ‘Well, of course, Eck’s Russian crowd have their studios there – gets them under Ofcom’s radar, so they think.’ He suddenly guffaws, in a way that suggests he assumes Skelgill will understand what he means. ‘Then we do a decent amount of business with the Charlotte Square mafia – Edinburgh still has a fair bit of financial clout – we have a corporate apartment in Thistle Street – you know it, Inspector?’

  ‘In the New Town, aye?’

  ‘The Rose and the Thistle, the King in the middle, the Queen and the Princes on either side.’

  Richard Bond recites the ditty that locals use to remember the Georgian street plan.

  ‘You’re not a Scot yourself?’

  ‘Good Lord, no – I’m Namibian by birth. When things got a bit lively I was packed off to board at Eton – got a place at Imperial – landed a job in the City – worked out in HK for a few years before coming back to Blighty.’

  ‘Where did the army fit in?’

  Richard Bond glances sharply at Skelgill.

  ‘I was a territorial.’

  Skelgill makes a questioning sound in his throat.

  ‘I didn’t realise you could join the SAS as a territorial.’

  ‘Indeed – we are called the Reserve. The emphasis is upon surveillance and reconnaissance.’

  Skelgill nods pensively. He notes the man’s allusion to continued membership of the regiment – a manner of speaking he has heard from other former military personnel. His silence seems to prompt a question from Richard Bond.

  ‘Are you thinking you should have given it a shot, Inspector?’

  Skelgill has acquaintances who have served Queen and Country, including close relatives – but somehow it is a concept that has never engaged him – the prospect of killing people on foreign soil. If there is a sense of duty deeply rooted in his psyche it is to protect his native patch, and its hard-working inhabitants. He would be one of those grim pitchfork-wielding types braced gimlet-eyed that made invading soldiers wish they had never enlisted for war. And yet there is something that rankles – he might be more outdoor-savvy than most, a fellsman, a fisherman, in the mountain rescue and all – but not to have tested himself against the elite of his generation, perhaps leaves a tinge of regret. Then again there is the sheer impossibility of it all.

  ‘I’d have lasted ten minutes, taking orders.’

  Richard Bond laughs appreciatively.

  ‘Yet there cannot be room for insubordination in your profession.’

  Skelgill makes a disparaging exclamation.

  ‘Try telling that to my superior.’

  ‘He is a bit of a stickler?’

  ‘She.’

  Skelgill’s intonation conveys in the single word all the listener needs to know about the wayward inspector and his rocky relationship with the Chief. However, Richard Bond seems eager to take his side.

  ‘Nothing w
rong with initiative, Inspector. Progress depending upon the unreasonable man, and all that. In my estimation you have acted correctly – somebody needed to take charge.’

  Skelgill responds with an inarticulate grunt, which may be an acknowledgement, but otherwise they move on in silence. He imagines that Richard Bond would certainly have assumed command had the team of detectives not been on board – and though he proved willing to take orders, even now he has instigated his own black ops. Indeed, Skelgill is still in a heightened state of alert – although he has been striving not to show it. He is disconcerted that he has been stalked and crept up on. Can he seriously believe that Richard Bond did not know it was he? What about that determined look in the man’s eyes in the split second between Skelgill’s turning around and the swoosh of the club that sent him keeling backwards?

  Perhaps Richard Bond detects that some unfavourable thoughts are troubling Skelgill’s mind, for he makes a hearty effort to change the subject.

  ‘I gather your good Sergeant Leyton has some high jinx lined up for us tonight.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Postprandial entertainment – I caught a snatch of his conversation with that young waif of a housekeeper – apparently the firm that had booked for their Christmas event had ordered an evening of traditional pub games – so we are to have the benefit of the arrangements.’ He guffaws explosively. ‘I’m not sure how it will go down with the likes of Wiktoria Adamska – she is more accustomed to The Savoy – can’t say I’ve ever seen a cribbage board in that august establishment!’

  9. PLAYING GAMES

  Thursday, 8pm

  ‘Didn’t realise you played arrows right-handed, Guv.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But, Guv – you were chucking with your right – everything else I’ve ever seen you do, you’re a southpaw. I suddenly realised when we were up against Dire Straits in the final – the McLeod geezer being a cack-hander an’ all.’

  ‘Cuddy wifter, we call it round here, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton blinks somewhat vacantly.

  ‘So, what are you saying, Guv – you were giving the rest of this crowd a chance?’

  Skelgill looks disgusted at such a suggestion – or maybe he is distracted, for at the bar billiards table now is the striking figure of Wiktoria Adamska, upon whom most of the people in the room have their gaze fixed. She has dressed for dinner in a skimpy silvery see-through outfit and trademark high heels, her unrestrained pale locks and various bangles and pendant earrings apparently not a hindrance when she takes her turn. Even with the very best of intentions it is difficult not to look on; even the females seem entranced by her alluring presence. Skelgill and DS Leyton are fresh from a comfortable victory in the darts contest – a performance perhaps reflective of their social backgrounds – and that Skelgill is an occasional player in his local. Although he was surprised by DS Leyton’s skill, the latter claiming not to have stood at the oche for a good decade. They made an effective tag-team, the taller Skelgill piling up the 20s; the shorter DS Leyton from a lower trajectory regularly nailing double 16, or its fall-back double 8. Eventually Skelgill responds, albeit somewhat obliquely.

  ‘Next time you write a cheque, Leyton – turn the book upside down and try to fill in the stub.’

  ‘You what, Guv?’ The sergeant sounds entirely bemused.

  ‘You’ll see what it’s like being left-handed in a right-handed world.’

  ‘Mind you, Guv – how often do you pay by Gregory these days?’

  ‘It’s not just cheques, Leyton. I’m surrounded by stuff that doesn’t work. That’s why I’ve had to learn to use my right hand. Try cutting with scissors in your left. Try flicking through a magazine left-handed. Even those fancy dessert forks we were given tonight – they had the blade on the wrong side.’

  DS Leyton regards his superior suspiciously; the handicap did not prevent him from devouring a second generous helping of sticky toffee pudding. He shifts forward with a grunt that reflects the degree of difficulty of the manoeuvre. His aim is to reach his drink. He has a pint of lager and Skelgill has reluctantly opted for Guinness. They sit adjacent upon a low, deep sofa at one side of the room that has been given over to games, a kind of informal lounge in which a couple of areas have been cleared for darts and bar billiards respectively. There is shove ha’penny and a pub quiz to come. A Wurlitzer jukebox is rendering dated hits – presently ‘Take Me Bak ‘ome’ by British glam rock band Slade, which has Skelgill rhythmically patting the arm of the settee. It seems the firm from Glasgow were intent upon wearing clothing to match the themed era; the evacuees have settled for pairings named after 1970s pop groups; Skelgill and Leyton perhaps rather unimaginatively The Police. DS Leyton meanwhile produces his notebook and lays it on the coffee table before them. He flips it over and acts out a little pantomime of writing.

  ‘Yeah – I reckon I see what you mean, Guv. The spine gets in the road.’ He does not sound all that convinced – but brightening he waggles the notebook. ‘Want me to give you a quick rundown of the interviews? At this rate I reckon it’ll be another twenty minutes before we’re back on.’

  ‘Aye, why not.’ Skelgill does not appear to share his colleague’s enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ll do it in order, shall I?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I started with the train driver, Laura Wilson. Obviously, she was in her cab the whole time from Euston until we crashed – but there was one interesting thing, Guv – we stopped.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She reckons there was a red signal just north of Crewe.’

  Not Crewe again, Skelgill is thinking.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Just before a quarter to three. She checked the time because she was keeping an eye on the schedule.’ DS Leyton regards Skelgill rather apprehensively – as if he has made too much of the news. ‘Thing is, Guv, it was for less than a minute. And we were in darkness in farmland. There’s no way any passenger could have known we were going to stop. And hardly enough time to do anything.’

  Skelgill’s eyes have glazed over. Judging by his expression he is suffering some inner discontent. But suddenly he realises he has been staring at Wiktoria Adamska, who has risen from bending over to take a shot, and she sees his apparent interest. She returns his gaze – an enigmatic smile and no trace of offence. She nods to him – he gives an awkward wave – just the lifting of one hand – and then he turns ostentatiously to look at DS Leyton. His sergeant realises he is expected to speak.

  ‘Obviously that don’t tie in with what Ruairidh McLeod told us.’

  ‘He was probably having a kip.’

  ‘The driver said as much, Guv. He’s supposed to stay awake – but it being a night shift it’s easy to nod off. She intercommed him when the train hit the snowdrift – but there was no answer – then they crossed paths at the lounge car.’

  ‘Aye – that’s where I found them.’

  There is another silence, which DS Leyton takes as a signal to continue.

  ‘I spoke with the American geezer next, Guv – Bill Faulkner – being as he was in the first group to board and was travelling alone – I thought if anyone noticed a Mr Harris it would be him. But he claims he was reading The Grapes of Wrath on his mobile phone and didn’t pay much attention to the people around him in the queue. That said – he couldn’t remember anyone else – and to cut a long story short, Guv – they’ve all said the same thing. Neither hide nor hair of the Harris cove.’ Now DS Leyton’s heavy jowls crease as he sinks rather dejectedly into his seat. ‘They just kept giving me grief about when we’re getting them out of here.’

  Skelgill mutters an expletive – although he disguises it by casually glancing about the room. Frankly, he was not expecting any progress on the absent Mr Harris – indeed he knows his sergeant would have sought him out immediately upon his return had there been some information in this regard. And he reminds himself again that there are more important matters at stake than the non-passenger. How
ever, had any of the real travellers ‘showed their hand’ as his sergeant had put it – he would also have known by now. He realises he must steel himself – there may be something DS Leyton has discovered that has not as yet revealed its significance. But such stoicism does not come easily – he is both physically tired and, by the same token, mentally fatigued. And in the jovial atmosphere it is tempting to forget altogether that they may be in the midst of a sinister plot. But he cannot ignore the facts of the death of Mikal Mital, the manuscript, the shake hole incident, the tampering in the cabins – and even in his own bedroom here.

  ‘So, what are they all up to?’

  His words might have a deeper meaning – but DS Leyton frames his reply in the context of his notes.

  ‘Well – Bill Faulkner, Guv – he works for an American bank in the City. He’s from New Orleans. Says he’s due to fly home late on Christmas Eve. He’s arranged it so he can fly back to the States from Edinburgh – he’s travelling up for a couple of days’ sightseeing. There’s some German outdoor market that’s all the rage – beats me why they wouldn’t have a Scotch market – what with whisky and tartan, haggis, shortbread – they’ve got those Jimmy hats, Loch Ness monster memorabilia –’ DS Leyton glances inquiringly at Skelgill, but sees this is not a diversion he wishes to suffer. ‘Then, er – Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch – he lives up there in Scotland, anyway – but he and his colleague Ivanna Karenina were returning to work – seems that Russian TV company keeps broadcasting right through the holidays – and they’re both involved in news and current affairs. Obviously I didn’t speak to Richard Bond – ’

  DS Leyton taps the man’s name on an otherwise blank page and looks hopefully at Skelgill, who takes a gulp of his drink and scowls disapprovingly – but then he is more forthcoming, as though the unpalatable liquid at least has some lubricative effect.

  ‘Bond didn’t see owt – as far Harris is concerned. As for the trip, him and his oppos were due to see financial clients in Edinburgh. Easy enough to check out.’