‘Mr Merlyn – he has gone to bed.’
Skelgill is a little nonplussed by her words – but he sees immediately that she is carrying a round bar-tray with two bottles of beer upon it. The girl continues quickly.
‘He keeps this for himself – hidden in the cellar. It is not cask ale, of course – but it is an award-winning craft bitter.’
Skelgill blinks a couple of times. There is the double incongruity of her presence at this juncture, and her hitherto hidden expertise. More tangibly congruous is that beside the two bottles stand two glasses. He leans out as far as modesty will permit and looks in both directions along the landing. Then he takes a step back.
10. FLYING VISIT
Friday, 6am
As hangovers go, Skelgill’s first impression of this morning’s is that it is of the heavy metal variety, with head-banging sound effects to match. However, as he rolls over and clamps his pillow tightly around his skull, he receives a shock – for the persistent dub-dub-dub diminishes. The pulsation must be emanating from outside his room; indeed, as he experimentally removes the makeshift muffler, he recognises the chopping engine of a helicopter.
He hobbles to the window and parts his curtains. It is still dark but the aircraft’s blinding searchlight creates a great white pool out of the parking area. Instantly he notes two facts. Firstly, it has stopped snowing. Secondly, the pilot does not intend to hang about – for a figure is being lowered by winch – and if he is not mistaken he recognises the slight but capable athletic form.
Thus by the time a sockless Skelgill has donned a rudimentary outfit and made his way out of doors via the tack room as the most expedient route, he finds DS Jones striding across the stable yard, presumably having had the same idea. She unslings a small rucksack from her back and presents it to Skelgill as they converge.
‘I have to be really quick, Guv – they’re waiting for me.’
Skelgill looks momentarily panicked. The beat of the rotors bounces about the courtyard like an insistent summons. But he figures they will have allowed time for her to make her way inside the building. He jerks a thumb over one shoulder.
‘Come in – tell us.’
DS Jones’s shrewd hazel eyes meet his. She gives a nod. They have equipped her with an olive-green jump suit, and a black helmet and combat boots, and with a full body harness she looks the part of serving flight crew. She follows him inside. He tugs shut the stable-style doors to reduce the noise. She pulls off her helmet and shakes out her fair hair; it seems an extravagant gesture under the circumstances.
‘Guv – the demands on the helicopter are unbelievable. There are people trapped left, right and centre – some really urgent cases. I’ve managed to get us a window. I cleared it with the Chief. I’ve had two forensic officers brought down from Penrith. We’re going to collect Mikal Mital’s body from the train – and they’ll grab what evidence they can and seal off the sleeping car. We’ve also got an old lady on board, from Ulphathwaite where I spent last night – she needs urgent dialysis. We’ll be at maximum payload.’
Skelgill nods grimly. Despite that he knows all about the significance of payload when it comes to such aircraft, she is being somewhat diplomatic in her rationale. But, he has to admit; they don’t call her ‘fast-track’ back at the station for nothing. There are calculations that balance the requirements of the case (its seriousness as yet unconfirmed) with the obligation to extract the stranded passengers and reinstate them upon their journeys. Notwithstanding, Skelgill is troubled by the prospect that DS Jones is about to be snatched away from him without a proper explanation – but her next words anticipate his concern. She reaches out to pat the bag.
‘There’s a two-way radio – and a charger. We’ll be able to speak in a few minutes. I initiated enquiries via the landline yesterday afternoon and received preliminary feedback before the close of play. When we reach the train I should have a quarter of an hour while the guys are doing their stuff.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’ll go in person to brief the path lab. And once I’m back at my desk I can coordinate any further investigations you want me to make.’
Skelgill’s features remain stern. He snaps open the clip of the rucksack and delves inside.
‘Okay. This is the same model we use for mountain rescue. Better get you back on board before your pilot starts honking his horn and wakes every one up.’
DS Jones affects a wide-eyed double take – and smiles at his joke. She flicks back her hair and pulls on her helmet. She is wearing gloves and struggles with the chinstrap. Skelgill intervenes. Compliantly she tilts back her head. He hesitates, as though to speak – but then instinctively he glances around – and he realises that Samanta is standing in the doorway to the corridor, a barely illuminated silhouette. She seems to have on the same dress as last night.
DS Jones raises a hand in acknowledgement – but Skelgill fastens the buckle and pulls her away.
‘Come on – I’ll make sure your harness is properly clipped on to the winch.’
As they begin to exit Samanta’s voice follows them.
‘Inspector – do you want a coat?’
Skelgill hesitates.
‘It’s alright, thanks – it’s stopped snowing.’ He makes a face of artless mea culpa. ‘I could do with some paracetamol.’
‘Sure.’
The girl bows her head and turns and disappears as silently as she came.
Out front Skelgill and DS Jones duck into the downdraught and Skelgill sees to the suspension strop. He signals to the winchman, and then has to shout to DS Jones.
‘You’re good to go, lass.’
His colleague leans closer to make herself heard.
‘You okay, Guv? You look a bit – dishevelled.’
Skelgill grimaces and mouths back.
‘You should see Leyton.’
DS Jones grins – but the crew have no time to spare and she is promptly hoisted aboard and almost immediately the helicopter banks away into the void. Skelgill watches its blinking lights disappear. As he begins to trudge back he looks up at the inn. In the gloom he gets a vague impression of faces at several of the windows. They might almost be pale ghosts of past travellers.
*
‘Can you hear me okay, Guv? Over.’
‘Aye, but it’s not great. Over.’
‘This cutting is so deep – it’s almost like a tunnel. And the pinewoods are between us. I think the signal will be clearer when I’m back at base. Over.’
‘What’s the score? Over.’
‘Everything seems to be going to plan here – they’re dusting and taking swabs right now. Just to bring you up to speed. Yesterday we reached the post office with no problems. There was a spare room – they were happy for me to stay. Lucinda Hobhouse returned to her stables complex. I got straight onto HQ. Believe it or not they just assumed we’d arrived and were sleeping off hangovers! Independently Gold Command were aware of the train being stranded – but it was low on the list of emergencies – the scale of the chaos is immense – all of Cumbria and Northumberland, the Scottish Borders, and the central belt from Edinburgh to Glasgow. Everything has been brought to a dead halt. Our helicopter was due out to inspect later today. Network Rail have moved snowploughs to start work at first light, from both north and south, but there’s about 100 miles of track affected and there are stretches where they think they’ll need excavators – such as here. Obviously, once I was able to inform them that everyone was safe it took the pressure off – but they want to get the line open anyway because there’s no means of getting between England and Scotland. Thousands of people are scheduled to travel home for Christmas – and there’s a big issue with food getting through. They think they might be able to open one of the carriageways of the M6 by tonight – but there are hundreds of abandoned vehicles, so they can’t just plough straight through. The good news is the snow has stopped sooner than expected.’
‘Aye – I just listened to the forecast while I was wai
ting.’
‘Any significant developments there, Guv? Before I tell you what I know so far. Over.’
‘Not unless you count me and Leyton winning the pub games tournament last night.’ He half-yawns-half-groans but offers no explanation for this. ‘They’re all keeping their cards close to their chest. Jenny Hackett’s the only one talking openly about what happened to Mikal Mital – seems she and him ended up drinking together and toddled off to bed at the same time – linking arms according to Bill Faulkner.’
Skelgill is silent for a few moments, but does not use the customary “over” and so DS Jones also waits for a while before she speaks.
‘Maybe she was really determined to get a look at that manuscript, Guv. Over.’
‘If she were – and if she took it – like I’ve been saying – it’s probably hidden here somewhere.’ Distracted by this thought it takes him a few seconds to realise he has finished. ‘Over.’
‘At least it can’t leave for the time being, Guv. I just need to get you some conclusive evidence. Over.’
Skelgill is thinking that his ideal scenario would be summarily to order everyone onto a bus without their possessions and get a team of officers to search the inn. (Albeit that right now, other than the manuscript, he doesn’t know what he is looking for.) But this is cloud cuckoo land, given the national emergency. Going by what he heard on the wireless even the hurriedly mobilised British armed forces are stretched right now. Any serious deployment of resources does depend upon DS Jones feeding back something conclusive, as she has put it. But, what if – as is perfectly likely – Mikal Mital died of natural causes? Then he is jolted by the memory that he did see the manuscript with his very own eyes, and now it is gone. Except there is the possibility that the man voluntarily gave it to someone else to read. Perhaps it will be innocently produced in due course. But he is halted in this erratic train of thought. For when he does not answer DS Jones presses on with her debrief.
‘Guv – yesterday afternoon I supplied a list of passengers and asked both for their families to be notified and for them to be vetted. Along with the driver and the guard – oh, and Lucinda Hobhouse.’
Skelgill makes a rather scornful exclamation – but his intention is to communicate that his subordinate is becoming as cynical as he is. She seems to understand his sentiment.
‘You have to admit, Guv – her appearance on the train was hardly run-of-the-mill.’ She pauses, although she has not signalled for him to speak, and after a brief hiatus she continues. ‘Besides, as it turns out she does have connections with what you might call the world of high finance. Her brother-in-law is a merchant banker in the City of London – for a firm that has been under investigation for its dealings in the British Virgin Islands. She is also related to a titled peer whose cousin is a long-serving mandarin in the Treasury. The riding school at Ulphathwaite appears bona fide – but the postmistress was telling me there has been a colossal investment since Lucinda Hobhouse took it over. That stallion we rode back on – according to the village rumour mill she rejected a multi-million-pound offer for it to be sold to stud.’
‘I should be so lucky.’
Skelgill’s choked retort is purely rhetorical – but DS Jones waits in the event that he might wish to comment on these findings.
‘It’s a long shot, Jones.’
DS Jones appreciates that the impossibility of knowing the train would come to a halt rules out the notion of a premeditated conspiracy. But there is the faint possibility that Lucinda Hobhouse had responded to the aftermath out of more than altruism. And when Skelgill remains taciturn DS Jones iterates this argument.
‘She did get to a landline first thing yesterday morning, Guv. It is feasible that someone suggested an opportunistic visit to the train. I realise it’s unlikely – but the point is I didn’t want to ignore her completely. Let’s see what comes of the team’s investigations. I’ve briefed them to be alert to anything that may pertain to potential money laundering. For instance we’ve had it confirmed that the TV news channel that employs Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch and Ivanna Karenina is definitely owned by the billionaire Bogblokinov. The idea that he, or the company, operates entirely independently of the Russian government is unthinkable. And as Jenny Hackett pointed out he has significant property holdings in London, and probably elsewhere. Then Wiktoria Adamska’s husband is not so far behind in the rich list. For her part, there’s no indication that the fashion business is anything other than above board – it’s a UK registered private company and its accounts are up to date and are in a healthy state. The same can’t be said, however, of Richard Bond’s company. It’s listed on what’s called the AIM – the Alternative Investment Market. It seems they bought into a portfolio of high street retailers – and that whole sector is struggling. Bond’s firm recently issued a profits warning and its shares have virtually halved from their peak value. Apparently they’ve been slogging round with the begging bowl trying to drum up venture capital. No accounts have been filed for the last two years.’
DS Jones seems to hesitate – but then Skelgill hears her voice, more distant. “Sure – I’m nearly done – one minute, okay?” Then she comes back more clearly. ‘Sorry, Guv – that’s the team leader wanting us out of here. Just to finish. Going back to Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch – again, as Jenny Hackett told us – he instigated the Golden Visas scheme to encourage inward investment into the UK. There are no suggestions that he benefited personally – but it places him in the financial orbit, so we’re looking into that. His colleague Ivanna Karenina – not much so far on her – but we’ve put out the appropriate feelers to see if she has any connections other than with her direct employer, if you know what I mean. Then, finally, there’s the American, Bill Faulkner.’
‘He works for a US bank.’ Again Skelgill ignores the radio protocol. ‘He told Leyton.’
‘That’s right. Apparently we received a cool reaction from the firm. They went to some lengths to verify that we were the police. And then they provided only the most basic information – confirmation that he’s an employee and his temporary address in London. But at least he seems to be who he claims he is. Obviously, Guv – this is all work in progress. The team will be back onto it once work starts this morning. Over.’
Skelgill seems a little surprised to have the baton passed at this juncture, and all he can manage is, “Aye, over.”
‘Sorry I can’t be much more enlightening than Jenny Hackett was.’ His colleague sounds apologetic – as though she thinks he might be dissatisfied. It seems that she is about to sign off – but then she obviously remembers a salient point. ‘Oh – there is one more thing – about her, Guv. She’s been given notice of redundancy. We’ve spoken to her editor. Evidently he was a bit cagey – the DC got the distinct impression that they’re effectively firing her. Of course – the first inclination is to assume she’s been underperforming – but when you search online she comes up as winning a hatful of awards for investigative journalism over the past few years. So we’ve looked into the ownership of The Inquirer. It’s positioned as campaigning for transparency – but the media group to which the newspaper belongs is owned through a shell company in the Cayman Islands and the family who control it are tax exiles in Monaco. So who’s to say she’s not been getting uncomfortably close to some home truths? And –’
But DS Jones is unable to proceed with this last sentence – for Skelgill hears an impatient summons, harsh and insistent.
‘Oh, Guv – that’s it – I need to fly – literally! How about if I call you at 12 noon with an update – to save you carrying the radio around? With luck I’ll have some news from the lab. Over.’
‘Aye – just make sure you put a rocket under Herdwick. Tell him from me –’
But there is an explosive crackle on the line – and now it goes dead. Perhaps her battery has given up – or the signal is disrupted as she retreats towards the waiting helicopter. It is a state of affairs with which he is familiar; the successful use of tw
o-way radios in fell country is something of an arcane craft. He curses that he has not conveyed sufficiently the requirement to browbeat the pathologist – that the experienced but cantankerous doctor must be made to pull out all the stops. However, on reflection, DS Jones has powers of persuasion that are more akin to diplomacy than his own. Pensively, he turns off the volume and slots the handset into the charger on the floor beside his bed. He drifts to the window and takes a deep breath; exhaling slowly he watches the condensation expand before his eyes. It is still dark – and above the horizon he can see stars, the Plough and Polaris – the sky has cleared, and the first signs of dawn will come earlier this morning. He looks forward to his first proper view of the lie of the land. After a few moments he turns and pads through into the bathroom, where he drinks directly from the cold tap – the water is icy and it jars upon his teeth, and he can feel it going down, another little reminder that it is freezing outside. But at least the conditions are now more benign; it appears the forecasters were hedging their bets.
Skelgill sinks down upon his bed, not bothering to straighten the disorganised covers. He slides his hands behind his head; he realises his pulse has risen during the exchange with DS Jones, and the thump of his underlying headache has returned. He should have asked for more pills. But it could have been worse; with an effort he raises his torso, a kind of sit-up – across on the dresser is the tray with the two bottles of precious craft ale; neither is opened.
Murder at Shake Holes Page 15