DS Leyton looks a little perplexed.
‘What about that conference, Guv – that Mikal Mital was supposed to be speaking at?’
Skelgill does not seem particularly troubled.
‘It’s probably been cancelled – I doubt if anyone’s made it. Never mind their keynote speaker’s out of the equation.’ He swallows another mouthful of his drink, but looks no more like he is getting used to the gassy stout. ‘Bond never mentioned it. I didn’t see that I should bring it to his attention.’
Now DS Leyton realises that Skelgill has some artfulness when it comes to avoiding leading questions, if only out of bloody mindedness. But, for his part, he has rather given away that he has raised the subject.
‘Thing is, Guv – when I spoke to the young French geezer, François, he said him and his workmate Egor wouldn’t be going to the conference – that it was above their level – it’s for chief executives and other bigwigs. Then I reckoned he was about to say that Richard Bond would go – and he sort of changed his tune and acted like he didn’t understand me very well. I never really got a straight answer out of him.’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘I’ll ask Bond if necessary – he can’t deny it – not if he’s booked in – he’ll be on the delegates’ list. But we can probably find out ourselves once we’ve got some communications.’
DS Leyton nods glumly.
‘Thing is, Guv – when I spoke again to Jenny Hackett – I mean, she was quite open about going to the conference – and that Mikal Mital was the main attraction. She’s still full of conspiracy theories – that he was about to blow the gaff –’
The sergeant’s voice tails off.
‘What, Leyton?’
‘Well – it’s still looking like Jenny Hackett might be right – that someone’s headed him off at the pass.’
Skelgill gives an ironic laugh.
‘At the cutting, more like. Shake Holes cutting.’
‘Well – exactly, Guv – although they couldn’t have planned that, could they? I mean, no one knew we were going to smash into a snowdrift and get stranded.’
Skelgill tilts his head to one side.
‘It’s not like there weren’t straws in the wind, Leyton. Look at Wiktoria Adamska.’ DS Leyton does so – and at this moment the young woman is poised to take a shot, and revealing a considerable expanse of seamed nylons and steepling thighs. Skelgill follows his sergeant’s widening gaze. ‘What I’m saying, Leyton, is that she took the train because flights were already being cancelled. So what was the big hurry to get to Edinburgh?’
‘Er – that was – er – oh, yeah – she reckoned there’s a premiere, a fashion show – at the Edinburgh branch of Harvey, er – Nicks. Her new collection, er – lingerie – know what I mean?’ DS Leyton yields to the fact that he is floundering, and takes temporary refuge in his glass of lager. After a moment his composure is restored. ‘Just in time for all the geezers who can’t think of what to buy the missus for Christmas, I suppose, Guv.’
‘Like what you see, Inspector?’
Skelgill suddenly starts – the voice belongs to Wiktoria Adamska – and he realises she has turned to catch him star gazing for a second time. Colour comes rushing uninvited to his high cheekbones.
‘I’m sorry, madam?’
‘My billiards – don’t you think I am improving?’ She wields the cue triumphantly above her head. ‘We cannot have The Police winning every event.’ She smiles, her pale hair and eyes glinting beneath the spotlight that is trained upon the table. She seems amused by Skelgill’s discomfiture, and takes a few elegant steps across the room. ‘And where is your delightful colleague? I might have been paired with her. Then Blondie would have been entirely fitting.’ She leans forward, revealing little in the way of underwear beneath her dress; she lowers her voice. ‘My partner – this American – he is rather staid, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Sorry, madam – I can’t be held responsible for picking the teams. Or the names.’ Skelgill glances rather accusingly at DS Leyton. ‘But to answer your question about Sergeant Jones, I’m hoping she’ll return soon.’
Wiktoria Adamska smiles again; displaying her perfectly arranged and whitened teeth.
‘Is this one for us?’
Her cryptic remark is explained as she turns to move away, for she has recognised that the track now playing on the jukebox is Denis and she begins to sing along in a clear soprano.
‘Oh embrasse-moi ce soir!’
She swoops upon the table and executes her next shot with a flourish, winning chivalrous hurrahs from opponent Richard Bond, as both red and white are fluked simultaneously. Skelgill and DS Leyton are left sitting rather stiffly. After a while DS Leyton clears his throat; Skelgill thinks he is about to remark upon Wiktoria Adamska – but in fact it is the American to whom he refers.
‘Speaking of Bill Faulkner, Guv. I asked the passengers about what happened when they turned in – in case someone saw Harris or any movement around his compartment. Answer no to both. They more or less all went to bed around the one-thirty mark. Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch and Ivanna Karenina scooted off first with Wiktoria Adamska, closely followed by Richard Bond and his two young geezers – they were sharing a cabin, anyway. Jenny Hackett and Mikal Mital hung back to finish their drinks and left the lounge car together about ten minutes later.’
‘How can you be sure about that?’
‘It tallies with what they individually told me, Guv. On top of that – like I say – Bill Faulkner – he was the last to go – he saw it all.’
‘So he was more observant this time.’
Skelgill looks at the man. He is quietly watching the game in which he is a participant, standing a little aloof, rather like a sentry, with his cue at his side and the butt resting on the ground. But the larger-than-life Richard Bond would overshadow anyone. And there are the flamboyant Russian females.
DS Leyton continues with his account.
‘He mentioned he’d had the buttering up from Jenny Hackett. He seemed amused by that. Said she eventually gave up on him and turned her charms – and the Glenmorangie – on Mikal Mital.’
‘It’s pronounced morangey, Leyton.’
Skelgill does a passable impression of Ruairidh McLeod’s Scots accent – but then he glances urgently about the room to check he has not been overheard. The guard, however, is nursing a drink – which may or may not be the said malt, but certainly not his first of the evening, and is looking more flushed than ever as he sits in a group that comprises his games partner and colleague Laura Wilson (their team Dire Straits), and their next opponents Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch and Jenny Hackett (The Pretenders), who chatter and laugh boisterously and occasionally chime in with the line of a song while they wait their turn at bar billiards.
DS Leyton humours his superior with a forced ha-hah – but there is plainly a more serious matter on his mind – and he frowns inwardly, as though it is a point that has just struck him.
‘Thing is, Guv – that probably means Jenny Hackett was the last person to see Mikal Mital alive – but for how long?’
Skelgill drains his glass of Guinness and turns the visual effects of the disagreeable pasteurised aftertaste upon his colleague.
‘What do you mean, for how long?’
‘Well, Faulkner reckons that when they left he saw them through the sliding door – and they linked arms.’
Skelgill’s features are implacable, verging on grim.
‘Leyton – Jenny Hackett was well tanked up when she came to pick our brains. She probably grabbed hold of the old fellow because she could hardly stand.’
DS Leyton is silent for a moment.
‘Interesting that Faulkner noticed, though, Guv. He kind of winked at me as he said it. But, surely he wouldn’t mean – like – how’s-your-father?’
‘Strange things happen on sleeper trains, Leyton.’
DS Leyton jerks his head sharply to look at his superior. Given everything that has occurred it seems a curiously facetious remark
for him to have made. But Skelgill springs to his feet with his empty glass in one hand and holds out his other, demanding his colleague’s.
‘Drink up, Leyton – there’s nowt else for it. The best thing we can do tonight is win this tournament.’
DS Leyton does as bidden, looking slightly surprised that his superior is volunteering to obtain refills. He gulps the last of his beer, in his urgency dribbling down his chin.
‘Cheers, Guvnor – same again – pint of Forsythe.’
Skelgill moves swiftly through the lounge and into the adjoining snug, where the servery is located. It is a small cosy beamed room, with a fire burning in the grate and half a dozen low tables with easy chairs grouped around them. It is empty but for Richard Bond’s employees, François and Egor, paired together for games (Simon & Garfunkel) and presently deep in conversation. They glance up simultaneously and nod respectfully to Skelgill; he greets them with a convivial, “Alreet, lads” but continues to the bar, where the housekeeper, Samanta is emptying a dishwasher of steaming glasses, and only the top of her dark head is presently visible.
‘Pint of your best real ale please, landlady.’
She jumps to attention – and seems disconcerted by Skelgill’s apparently serious demand. He moves to assuage her alarm.
‘Only joking, lass. It was too much to hope that that company had ordered a firkin of Cocker Hoop for their Christmas do.’
She looks a little relieved.
‘Mr Merlyn says we don’t have enough call for it.’
Skelgill rocks his head from side to side.
‘Happen there’s only one thing worse than no cask ale – and that’s cask ale that’s gone off.’ But he hesitates, and stiffens disapprovingly. ‘Make that two things – and a landlord that tries to flog it to you.’
The girl simpers, though she must be humouring him; he does not expect her to appreciate that he has excused the innkeeper’s stocking policy. It strikes him that Joost Merlyn is probably just the sort of penny-pincher he has denigrated; certainly he does not shy at extracting his pound of flesh from this young staff member. Skelgill’s tone softens.
‘Looks like we’re running you ragged. Waitress, barmaid, chief cook and bottle-washer.’
‘Oh – I did not cook – chef had prepared the meal before he was sent home. The food – it was good – there was sufficient?’
‘Aye – no complaints on either front.’
Skelgill looks a little red-faced; he had suspected during the meal that she singled him out for seconds. But he tackles the notion head on.
‘And the service was top-notch. We need to organise a whip-round – so you get a decent tip, lass. Don’t want you missing out when your boss fellow puts in his inflated compensation claim to the railway company.’
The girl seems a touch embarrassed – but she also has something to say.
‘Oh – but – I do not think he will need to do that?’ Her inflexion is questioning – as though Skelgill ought to know. ‘Ms Adamska – she has presented her Amex Black. To cover any costs for the entire party while you are here. Everybody can have whatever they wish.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow – this is news to him. He grins, perhaps a little inanely.
‘I might have to reconsider my order of a lager and a Guinness.’
‘I am at your service.’
She regards him unblinkingly, her dark eyes suddenly imploring. He realises that for the first time since his arrival she is wearing make-up, in particular a concoction of mascara and eyeliner that expedites a hitherto unseen worldliness. Her hair is glossy beneath the bar lights, and her sleeveless halterneck black dress reveals a discreet tattoo, a series of runes that must run in a crescent, like a necklace across her breastbone. He becomes conscious that he ought to reply.
‘Couple of bags of cheese and onion?’
The girl lowers her gaze and smiles demurely.
‘Of course, Inspector.’
When Skelgill returns to his colleague he feels the noise level has been cranked up a notch or two; perhaps it is the freely flowing drink and the Hawkwind track emanating from the jukebox like a jet aircraft preparing to take off. DS Leyton has been watching the game still in progress between the pairings of Wiktoria Adamska and Bill Faulkner, and Ivanna Karenina and Richard Bond, Blondie versus Abba. Skelgill bangs down their drinks in a rather cavalier fashion, spilling some of the liquid from the brimming glasses. In a lowered voice he speaks out of the side of his mouth.
‘Leyton, did you know Wiktoria Adamska’s footing the bill?’
‘What do you mean, Guv?’
Skelgill explains what he has just learned. DS Leyton takes a cautious sip of lager and wipes foam from his lips with the back of his hand.
‘Suppose when you’re hitched to a billionaire it’s a drop in the ocean. No wonder that Merlyn geezer’s been hopping around on his stick with a grin like a Cheshire cat. I thought they were pushing the boat out with the fancy wine at dinner. Mind you, Guv – he’ll be on tenterhooks – what use is a posh credit card with no internet or phone line?’
Skelgill grins wryly, but his tone is disapproving.
‘I reckon we’d better have a word with her. I don’t like charity at the best of times – and we can’t be seen to be in anyone’s pocket.’
DS Leyton’s attitude is more phlegmatic.
‘She seems quite happy to be the centre of attention, Guv.’
At this moment it appears that the woman in question has played the match-winning shot – for Richard Bond, despite being her opponent, is quick to move in with a congratulatory bear-hug, from which she disentangles herself to enjoin in a more subtle embrace and exchange of air kisses with Ivanna Karenina. Her playing partner Bill Faulkner appears estranged from this extravagant show of affection and, so eclipsed, turns to set up the balls and skittles for the ensuing match. However, with characteristic American candour, he calls out across the room.
‘Hey, y’all – who dat?’
That he does not precisely mean who is next on the table but refers to the so-far all-conquering Blondie nonetheless serves to summon The Pretenders and Dire Straits. Skelgill is watching him over the rim of his pint glass, and the man notices his attention just as Richard Bond heartily declares that the departing foursome should make an expedition through to the bar. As he pays lip service to a high-five from the animated financier, he flashes Skelgill a stolid grin. Plainly he is tolerating the events of the evening, but would much rather be undertaking something of his own design. It is a sentiment with which Skelgill can identify, and he returns a sympathetic raising of the eyebrows as if to say one may as well make the best of one’s circumstances.
And making the best of it is perhaps a fair description of what follows. Certainly Joost Merlyn adopts such tactics, evidently detailing his young female assistant to circulate in order to ensure that any glass nearing empty is replaced with a fresh drink, while he holds fort at the bar to watch the pound signs ring up on the cash register. The jukebox volume seems to be progressively raised, and rarely can the ancient game of shove ha’penny have been played to so raucous an accompaniment, not least when 1970s tracks Love Train and Hotel California are belted out by those present, the singers presumably not deaf to the irony implicit in their lyrics. It emerges that Ruairidh McLeod, the guard, belying his somewhat dour demeanour, is responsible for these mischievous selections, his defence that these were big hits of his youth.
As for the tournament itself, Skelgill might affect indifference to his opponents, but DS Leyton knows that this is not a state of mind of which he is capable. Indeed, his suggestion that Skelgill was not trying at darts was well wide of the mark, and the latter remains true to his stated intention to win outright. His competitive spirit is not something to rub up against, and thus DS Leyton pulls out all the stops for fear of incurring the wrath of his boss. Having already triumphed in the darts, The Police thus claim victory in both the bar billiards and the shove ha’penny contests, leaving themselves the l
uxury of being able to come last in the pub quiz (which they do, much to Skelgill’s chagrin). This final leg is comfortably won by The Pretenders – the rest of the party no match for the pairing of the former politician and the journalist, who demonstrate that inebriation need be no impediment to delving into the prodigious knowledge banks that their respective professions have bequeathed them. Skelgill did however take some consolation in being the only person in the room correctly to answer the question, “What is an Allis Shad?” – a rare migratory species he most recently hooked in spring from the Solway.
The winning team’s prize turns out to be a jeroboam of champagne, which they have little choice but to bow to public pressure and crack open (Skelgill feigns but then stops short of spraying the audience). By now it seems the unfortunate predicament that the party shares has been forgotten, they have shrugged off their cares and inhibitions, and they crowd together into the snug to continue their celebrations. Under normal circumstances these might have stretched long into the night, but the laws of biology are only so malleable. A late finish on the train, a rude awakening before 5am, an arduous trek through the blizzard, and the stress of the entire experience, complemented now by the soporific warmth from the hearth and the narcotic effect of alcohol; these factors combine to take their toll. Eyelids begin to droop and heads begin to nod and even Richard Bond, he who appears to be possessed of unbounded energy shows signs of flagging. Indeed, it is the former soldier that announces a pragmatic surrender and a last toast to The Police – both as worthy winners of the tournament and champions of their hopes for getting the hell out of here tomorrow morning!
No pressure. But Skelgill is rescued from the obligation of making some sort of victory-cum-valedictory speech, by the jukebox and the irresistible a cappella opening harmony of Bohemian Rhapsody. The group spontaneously launches into one last communal bout of karaoke, and retreats in disorderly fashion up the staircase to the strains of its mournful finale. In due course, Skelgill is still tunelessly rendering poignant snatches as he emerges from his shower (“Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality”) when there is a light tap on his bedroom door. Embarrassed by his falsetto, he waits a moment. Silence. DS Leyton would call out. Finally the knock comes again. He wraps a towel around his waist and cautiously opens the door. In the dim nightlights of the corridor hovers the slight and spectral figure of Samanta. Her long hair trails over her bare shoulders and amidst the dark make-up her eyes are concealed in shadow. She speaks in a hushed voice that makes her Eastern European accent seem more pronounced.
Murder at Shake Holes Page 14