11. MISSING
Friday, 8.15am
Skelgill is tucking into his second helping of breakfast when a bleary-eyed DS Leyton trudges across the dining room and sinks heavily into the seat opposite his superior at a table set in the most secluded corner.
‘Cor blimey, Guvnor – this burning the candle at both ends malarkey. I reckon it’s easier being at home with the nippers. Plus I’m out of practice with drinking – two nights on the bounce, an’ all.’
‘You reckoned you were out of practice with darts, Leyton – but it soon came back to you.’
‘So it did, Guv.’ DS Leyton brightens. ‘I suppose it’s muscle memory, ain’t it? Like riding a bike.’ But now he seems to suffer a little rollercoaster of sensations. He rubs his stomach gingerly. ‘Can’t say the same for the old Derby.’
‘Get yourself a couple of Cumberland sausages before they’re gone, Leyton – they’ll soon sort you out. Best hangover cure this side of Hadrian’s Wall.’
DS Leyton pulls a face as if he begs to differ – but then his eyes begin to rove over hotplates that are laid out upon trestle tables beneath the windows. He scrutinises the various remaining morsels on Skelgill’s plate – if his boss is true to his word, then he has consumed his own sausages first (which, in DS Leyton’s estimation would make sense, his superior not being a man habitually to save the best until last). Skelgill does not however elaborate upon either his reasoning or his suggestion that the Scots have a more efficacious morning-after remedy. Perhaps he means Irn-Bru?
‘I might manage a small one, Guv.’
The expression ‘small Cumberland sausage’ is a contradiction in terms, and Skelgill is quick to recognise this fact as his colleague rises with a groan and pads across to the buffet.
‘I’ll split it with you, Leyton.’
When his deputy returns Skelgill waits for him to divide the coiled sausage and pass half over before he addresses him.
‘You missed all the fun and games this morning, Leyton.’
DS Leyton seems preoccupied with the contents of his plate.
‘How’s that, Guv?’
‘Jones was here.’
DS Leyton – now having taken a bite of fried bread – can only respond with a look of consternation.
‘You didn’t hear the chopper?’
DS Leyton shakes his head and swallows with difficulty.
‘I reckon I was dead to the world, Guv.’
Skelgill frowns rather doubtfully. But it is true to say his sergeant’s bedchamber is on the opposite side of the quadrangle to his own, and thus would have been most insulated from the clatter of the aircraft’s moving parts. However DS Leyton’s expression begins to exhibit a spark of recognition. He raises his knife in lieu of an index finger.
‘Now you mention it, Guv – I did have a dream with a flippin’ great chugging noise in it – it was about how we saved Christmas. We were on board this old steam loco – yeah – I remember, it was the Flying Scotsman – it was broken down – but we managed to get it going – over Shap summit – bingo! Only we didn’t know how to stop it – and it was like the runaway train, speeding faster and faster down towards Penrith. Course – we’d got sacks of Christmas presents on board for all the kids in the town – and we only just figured out in the nick of time how to chuck ’em off like they did in the old days, into those big rope nets.’
Skelgill is chewing somewhat uninterestedly.
‘What happened to us?’
DS Leyton shakes his head despondently.
‘I reckon we ended up in the Scottish Highlands – stuck in the snow. Missed Christmas.’
There is a wistful note in his voice – Skelgill wonders if it is a deliberate reminder that he has undertaken to DS Leyton that he would be home by tomorrow, Christmas Eve – and now he feels a pang of guilt that DS Jones has, through chance circumstances, got the break that has repatriated her to relative civilisation; certainly she will be able to get home. Reflecting on this it strikes him that she would willingly have swapped places with her married colleague, had he asked her – but the notion had not occurred to him while the opportunity existed. Moreover, if he is honest, he prefers the status quo – DS Jones is by far the most efficient and inquisitive of them all – she is in the right place for what needs to be done; and DS Leyton is well equipped for the task in hand, stoically sitting out their confinement, a stolid police presence; and frankly a more apt companion, less controversial for him to be trapped in a hotel with, given the propensity for gossip back at the station. Skelgill, nonetheless, shifts a little awkwardly in his seat. He looks about, to check no one is eavesdropping, and lowers his voice.
‘Leyton – strictly between you and me – I’ve got a two-way radio. Jones is calling in at noon.’ He adds a belated postscript. ‘If you want to get a message to the wife.’
‘Struth, Guv – you’re making it sound like we’re being held hostage.’
DS Leyton’s voice rises a little hysterically, and Skelgill’s eyes dart about the room to check if they have been overheard. Thus far, only Richard Bond, who sits together with his two young colleagues, and Bill Faulkner and Ruairidh McLeod, who sit apart, have made it down to breakfast; probably the sorts – like himself – that in are the habit of rising early, for whom a lie-in is anathema when there is a day to be dealt with, worms to catch, fish to fry. But they are subdued, and variously preoccupied – the financiers with occasional conversation punctuated by restrained guffaws from Richard Bond; Bill Faulkner with his mobile phone (and The Grapes of Wrath presumably, since there is still no signal); and the fiery-browed Ruairidh McLeod with his own thoughts, and black they look.
‘That’s what I’m worried about Leyton. Some of this crowd were gawping out of their windows at the chopper – I’m surprised no one’s asked when it’s coming back.’
Skelgill attacks the last couple of curving inches of the surrendered Cumberland sausage. DS Leyton clears his throat uneasily.
‘What’s the score on that front, Guv – er, in case I’m asked?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘Your guess is as good as mine, Leyton. Jones had managed to get dispensation to bring down a couple of SOCOs – extract the body from the train. But they’d also got a sick old lady on board they’d picked up from Ulphathwaite. Sounds like they’re up to their necks with casualties for the foreseeable future.’ DS Leyton once again looks dejected – that his superior is not exactly letting him down lightly. Skelgill rather unconvincingly tosses in a concession. ‘There’s talk they might get the M6 moving tonight. If push comes to shove we could yomp across and get you picked up by a patrol.’
DS Leyton appears curiously chastened. He regards Skelgill earnestly.
‘I ain’t gonna leave you in the lurch, Guv – not while there might be a job to do here.’
Skelgill, true to form, shuns his colleague’s demonstration of loyalty.
‘Let’s see what Jones comes back with. We might the lot of us be able to yomp it tomorrow, get on a bus – if this turns out to be a storm in a teacup.’
At this he examines his own teacup, and lifts the pot but it is also empty – and yet as if by magic Samanta appears at his shoulder and pours from a fresh pot. She is wearing her regulation black staff outfit beneath a navy catering apron.
‘Are you feeling better, Inspector?’
Her tone is sympathetic, but her smile slightly knowing; DS Leyton looks on with faint amusement at the special attention his superior is receiving. Skelgill is plainly embarrassed.
‘Aye – not bad thanks.’ He begins urgently to ladle sugar. ‘I’ll be right as rain once I’ve got enough of this down me.’
The girl bows and retreats, looking satisfied.
DS Leyton chuckles.
‘She’s taken a shine to you, Guv.’
When Skelgill might customarily capitalise upon the opportunity to preen, he scowls disparagingly.
‘Happen she knows which side her bread’s buttered. I said last night we
’d have a whip-round. I wouldn’t trust Joost Merlyn to split the spoils of this little windfall.’
DS Leyton looks rather conflicted – but any disagreement would relate to his contrasting reading of the girl’s motivation. As to the unprepossessing landlord, he shares his boss’s cynicism.
‘I reckon he’s a sly old fox, Guv. He looks like he’s trying to make up his mind whether to cosh you with his stick or pick your pocket – he’s like a cross between Bill Sikes and Fagin out of that there Oliver Twist.’
Skelgill harrumphs. Or Scrooge, maybe. Certainly the man’s countenance displays a permanently self-despising expression that hovers between avarice and anger. Skelgill pities the poor girl Samanta; it does not feel a healthy working environment – although he supposes under normal circumstances there will be other members of staff upon whom she can lean for moral support. Anyway, it appears he has deflected his colleague’s assertion and with it the scope for mild innuendo. Now he moves the subject forward more decisively.
‘I reckon you could have a quiet word with him, Leyton.’
‘What’s that, Guvnor?’
DS Leyton tries to conceal his trepidation – patently this is something that Skelgill does not intend to do himself.
‘Until I hear from Jones I’m keeping a low profile. I don’t want folk mithering me every five minutes about when they’re going to get out of here. The fact is I don’t know the answer – and subject to what Jones comes up with, we might want to delay their departure. But we’ll need to come clean about the chopper – and tell them we’ve got a team getting in touch with their nearest and dearest.’
‘So, where does old Merlyn come in, Guv?’
‘Get him to put up a notice at reception. Say we’re hoping to hear about evacuation plans by this evening. Otherwise we’ve been instructed to wait here for our own safety. That’ll put a damper on any of Bond’s crackpot schemes.’
DS Leyton squints surreptitiously to where the former soldier sits with his colleagues – but it is another person who prompts him to mutter under his breath.
‘Looks like we’ve got company.’
Skelgill glances up to see that Wiktoria Adamska is making a beeline for their table. She is barefooted – bare legged, indeed – and wears only a short flimsy silk salmon-pink dressing gown, tied with a waistband, that she holds together at her throat with one hand. She is naked of her customary white gold jewellery. Her hair is as dishevelled as he has seen it; it has a straw-like quality, and together with her lack of high heels gives her a more voluptuous appearance. Most striking of all, however, is the look in her pale eyes. She fixes Skelgill with a stare that he reads as one of infuriation tinged with distress. Her imposing presence silences what little conversation prevails, and even the clink of cutlery becomes muted – indeed the room might almost be a film scene held in freeze frame with only one actor that moves. And reaching the detectives’ table – unfazed by the attention she has garnered – she pulls out a seat and sinks elegantly upon it, sliding one long thigh over the other and causing both males to stare determinedly at her face.
‘Inspector – you must come to my room.’
She utters these words in barely above a whisper. In the circumstances it might almost be scripted importuning – but her agitated tone belies any such intentions. Skelgill, conscious of other eyes upon them, has his fork suspended between his plate and his lips, and he rather casually holds this pose. But he too speaks quietly in response.
‘What’s the problem, Mrs Adamski?’
Perhaps he highlights her marital status as if to eliminate any doubt about his reading of her demand – and it is a demand – but what lies behind it remains unclear. The woman casts briefly about the room – she might note that successive pairs of eyes drop away beneath her gaze.
‘During the night – I have been violated.’
Skelgill just catches DS Leyton’s involuntary, “Whoa” – though it is barely breathed – before her words begin to crash about inside his head like a band of lunatics hijacking the asylum. In an instant he is reversing his assessment that to be without DS Jones is a satisfactory state of affairs. This is the last thing he needs! But his inner turmoil is superseded as the woman rises and steps back from the chair.
‘Come – I implore you.’
Her tone is no less insistent – and she leaves him little choice – for she strides away. Skelgill is striving to appear composed – he remembers the food on his fork – and plunges it into his mouth before dropping his cutlery with a clatter upon his plate. He rises, leans over to swallow a gulp of tea, wipes his lips with his shirt cuff and sets off. But he has taken only three paces when he stops and turns to glare at his colleague. He gives a sharp jerk of his head – his meaning is clear – what does his sergeant think he is doing sitting on his backside?
DS Leyton resignedly abandons his breakfast and sets off in pursuit. Reaching the reception area he sees Skelgill taking the stairs two at a time, and further above, fading into the womblike burgundy gloom, the elegant figure of Wiktoria Adamska.
The staircase meets the first floor landing on the north side of the quadrangle; Wiktoria Adamska has a room facing south. She does not wait for Skelgill, obliging him to follow several yards behind; her gait is elegant and upright, the practised poise of the catwalk, her head held perfectly still like a hunting feline. She moves with deceptive speed, and in keeping pace Skelgill extends his stride. Beneath the ubiquitous maroon carpet the floor has been repaired in places with sheets of spongy plywood that feel close to collapse. In his slipstream the bulky DS Leyton makes correspondingly undulating progress.
The woman’s bedroom door is wide open; she enters, but Skelgill holds back for DS Leyton. They file in like miscreant pupils summoned to the principal’s office; but it would be a schoolboy’s fantasy headmistress that greeted him in a revealing nightgown, perched upon the edge of a king-sized bed. They loiter rather awkwardly – until Skelgill indicates that DS Leyton should shut the door. In response Wiktoria Adamska waves an imperious hand towards a chaise longue beneath the window.
‘Please – make yourselves comfortable.’
The detectives do as bidden – they seem to settle unnaturally close to one another – while at the same time Wiktoria Adamska shifts into a side-saddle position in order to face them. It strikes Skelgill that as a former model perhaps she is simply not self-conscious in the normal way – having changed a thousand times backstage where nudity is the norm and prying eyes not considered to be malevolent. Truth be told, she has little to be self-conscious about – but he casts such sentiments from his mind – and falls back upon the tongue-tied policeman’s stock question.
‘Madam – would you like to tell us what happened?’
‘See for yourselves.’
Again there is the regal gesture – now she refers to an alcove, marked out by a blackened beam, that serves as an open wardrobe. Hanging from a rail Skelgill recognises the two-tone outfit of the train, and the shimmering silver slip of a dress of the games night. Beneath lie her matching suitcases, the tiny and the supersized, open like clamshells with their lids resting against the wall. The small valise appears dedicated to an extensive confection of lacy underwear, mainly in black with ribbons of scarlet and purple. The large case is given over almost entirely to two bulky fur coats, one jet black and one pure white, folded neatly and placed side by side. Skelgill stares for a few moments – but despite his best endeavours at deduction, he remains in the dark.
‘Madam – just now, you said – that you had been – violated.’
He finds himself unable to prevent his voice from rising on the last word. But the reaction it generates is not what he anticipates. The woman pulls herself up onto the bed and in the same movement folds her legs beneath her and sinks back upon a collection of pillows. If it were a scene from an old movie she would now raise a cigarette in an ivory holder and expect one of them to come forward to light it for her. Instead she casually combs her long pale hair aw
ay from her face with the fingers of both hands.
‘A man entered my room. I was paralysed.’ She stares at Skelgill with some belligerence. ‘He groped about – for – it seemed an eternity.’
She falls silent – as though she deems it unnecessary to say more. Skelgill realises he must prompt her.
‘You wish to report an assault.’
She responds with a narrowing of her eyes.
‘It was not an assault – I told you, it was a violation.’ She stares at him evenly. ‘He stole something of immeasurable value.’
‘You mean – you weren’t physically attacked?’
‘What – of course not!’ Her perfectly arched brows become momentarily knitted. ‘Do you think I would be this calm?’
Skelgill hears a hiss of breath – of relief – from his sergeant. He holds up both hands, palms facing the woman.
‘So – you’re okay? That’s the main thing.’
‘It is hardly the main thing.’
Though in control of her outward emotions she is plainly conflicted – not least that she now has to explain herself. Skelgill can see this, and he leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees. It a pose that suggests he will give careful consideration to whatever she has to say.
‘Madam, when did this take place?’
‘I do not know.’ She glances at the nightstand on one side of the bed where there is an old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock. It would show nothing in the dark. ‘My phone is out of charge – it is useless at the moment.’
Skelgill is looking puzzled.
‘But it was some time in the night – between your turning in and waking just now?’
‘In the night.’
‘Was your door locked?’
‘I did not hear the door. The first I knew was of the presence of a man.’
‘Could you see who it was?’
‘I could see nothing. I doubt if I opened my eyes.’
‘Are you certain it was a male?’
‘Of course.’
She seems determined, sufficiently so that Skelgill feels it would be pedantic to oblige her to expound upon her reasoning.
Murder at Shake Holes Page 16