Murder at Shake Holes

by Bruce Beckham

  *

  From the bath house it takes Skelgill about twenty minutes through the woods to reach the West Coast Main Line, and five more to find his way to the footbridge that carries the bridleway. Rather than descend immediately he walks to the centre of the bridge. It is the first time he has been able to survey the area in clear, bright conditions. At this distance the scene looks almost picturesque, it could be a still photograph of a snow-covered train deep in the steeply banked cutting, just about to turn the distant bend. But the astute observer would spot the clues: the front of the locomotive seems to merge into a bank of whiteness; and, at the rear, surely a moving train would clear a path, but no rails are visible. And one other point, of more interest to Skelgill – just beyond where the track begins to curve out of sight the top of a pylon protrudes from the snowdrift, and belatedly displays a red signal. Perhaps some form of power has been restored to the network?

  On approach Skelgill finds signs that were less obvious from afar. The snow alongside the train is more heavily trodden than on his last visit, and white tape with familiar blue lettering (“police line do not cross”) has been strung from the rear carriage to a trackside post. With a practised dip he passes the barrier and enters the train by the door he knows to be the back of the sleeping car. It seems like an age since they boarded at Euston station – he reminds himself it was only thirty-six hours ago. On board he stands; all is quiet. He has seen no obvious fresh tracks coming down the embankment near the footbridge – although in the light of day it is not the exclusive means of approach. After a few moments, he calls out.

  ‘Jenny. Jenny – are you here?’

  His exhortation is met with silence. He is not expecting a reply – although if she were aboard, surprised, a movement would more likely betray her presence. But he can see no logic for her to have remained, had she come here at all. He wonders – how well prepared would she have been – assuming she was in full possession of her wits? Richard Bond had postulated that she could wade into Ulpha Beck to conceal her tracks, and use the stream itself to guide her to Ulphathwaite – where there is of course access to a landline (although its significance would not have been apparent to him). But Skelgill had dismissed this as ‘SAS thinking’, beyond her metropolitan guile and physical limits. A more practical alternative would be to continue east to the M6 motorway. Vehicles will be abandoned with their keys left by order of the authorities, to facilitate clearance later. A car with a full tank of fuel would be a perfectly warm and comfortable haven, with a radio for company until the tow trucks arrived. An Asda lorry loaded with provisions – in his book – even better.

  Certainly, if she did come to the train it would make sense to keep going in the same easterly direction. But why would she come to the train? There could only be one reason. Skelgill begins to make his way along the corridor of the sleeping car. In his mind’s eye he pictures Ruairidh McLeod; he imagines himself in the guard’s shoes, in the early hours of Thursday – and there goes the scarlet kimono! He does not trouble himself with any of the berths, but instead makes his way to the next vestibule and yanks open the normally power-assisted door of the lavatory.

  On-board WCs have their own special position in the pantheon of public toilets, and are far from the most salubrious of their species; indeed they are places where the majority of travellers would rather not go, ahem. But the first-class nature of the Midnight Express, and – credit where it is due – thanks to what must have been the diligence of the guard-cum-steward-cum-orderly – the loo that Skelgill now enters is clean and pine-scented.

  Skelgill, however, has no wish to dwell and he homes in on a maintenance panel above the toilet itself, attached to the bulkhead by four large plastic screws. It is apparent that the screw heads are damaged by the use of the wrong tool – a two pence coin, at a guess, going by the scarring around the drive slots. He has in his backpack a modest assortment scavenged from a tool chest in the tack room. He selects a wood chisel as an appropriately oversized screwdriver, and easily removes three of the fixings, two at the top and one at the bottom. He allows them to fall directly upon the floor. When he loosens the final screw the panel swings free, but remains held in place, inverted.

  He locates his railway-issue torch and shines it into the cavity now exposed. There are pipes and wires but, as far as he can establish, there is nothing else. He examines the interior and its various surfaces. Surely the dust and the debris in places are freshly disturbed? He ponders for a moment, his expression somewhat pained. He doubts that the forensics team had either time or, frankly, the notion to take samples from the washroom – but he suspects that if someone has recently tampered with the screws or the panel, or poked inside, they may have left traces, depending upon their degree of professional acumen. But this thought must now be put on hold, for his backpack crackles and DS Jones’s static-altered voice emanates from within.

  ‘Hi, Guv – it’s me here. Over.’

  Skelgill delves for the handset.

  ‘Jones – it’s a bad time. Over.’

  ‘Guv – it’s noon. Over.’

  ‘I mean I’m in a toilet. Over.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Skelgill grins wryly.

  ‘Listen – the signal’s crap. I’m on the train. Give me five minutes to get up on the footbridge. Over.’

  ‘Sure, Guv. Over and out.’

  *

  ‘How’s that, Guv? Over.’

  ‘Aye – much better.’ Skelgill rests his elbows upon the snow-encrusted steel parapet of the footbridge. He is facing north, to the train, and the midwinter sun has reached its meagre zenith and slants across the cutting beneath, leaving the western embankment in deep shadow, but reflecting with startling brightness off the drifts on the east side. It is a contrast challenging on the eye, and as his gaze wanders from one side to the other he makes facial contortions accordingly. ‘Jones – before you start – in case this battery packs up – you need to know that Jenny Hackett’s disappeared. There’s no sign of her at the inn. Some outdoor gear’s gone. There’s no manuscript or mobile or wallet amongst her belongings. She possibly left during the night – during which Wiktoria Adamska reported an intruder in her room and the theft of an item she won’t identify. We can’t find any tracks. We’ve got three teams including me out looking for her now. If there’s a chopper passing this way, I wouldn’t mind if they could do a five-minute scout around.’ Skelgill hesitates but it is plain he has more to say. ‘Obviously if Mikal Mital’s big story suddenly breaks – we’ll know she’s smuggled it out. Over.’

  DS Jones gives a light whistle – an acknowledgement of the gravity of his news.

  ‘I can confirm there’s nothing so far – I was online a couple of minutes ago – and obviously we’ve established a channel of contact with her employer. I’ll get it double-checked as soon as we’re done. Do you want me to mention her disappearance to them? Over.’

  ‘Happen we should let sleeping dogs lie. Over.’

  ‘Are you worried, Guv? Over.’

  There is a strained note in DS Jones’s voice that conditions his response.

  ‘What do you mean? Over.’

  ‘That something sinister has happened to her. You see – the initial pathology report has come back – the Coroner wants to classify Mikal Mital’s death as suspicious.’ She hesitates, as though she might momentarily have suffered a small wave of emotion. ‘Over.’

  ‘Well – tell us, lass. Over.’

  Skelgill hears DS Jones clear her throat, although she has obviously moved the microphone away from her mouth. Then she speaks with renewed composure.

  ‘The cause of death was cardiac arrest. Obviously – in an elderly man that might not be unexpected – but I’ve contacted his doctor and he’d given him a clean bill of health three months ago – and he had no history of heart problems. But the precursor, Guv – is indicated by the preliminary toxicology. Mikal Mital had ingested a compound called flunitrazepam – it’s a benzodiazepine – a tranquiliser
. You know the trade name – Rohypnol?’ (At this Skelgill makes a choked ejaculation, for the compound is notorious as a date rape drug – but he does not interrupt, and DS Jones continues.) ‘Its effects are magnified by alcohol – the patient can slip into a coma and their vital functions shut down. It’s usually prescribed on a very short-term basis for chronic insomnia. Except it wasn’t prescribed – at least, not by his regular GP.’ Again she pauses before passing the baton rather uncertainly. ‘Over?’

  It takes Skelgill a moment to respond.

  ‘How easy is it to get hold of? Over.’

  ‘I’ve talked to the drugs squad – there’s a thriving black market in all these tranquilisers – or he could have obtained it under the counter from an accommodating pharmacist. Over.’

  Now Skelgill’s tone becomes self-reproachful.

  ‘I was joking when I said Jenny Hackett must have slipped him a Mickey Finn. Over.’

  ‘The thing is, Guv – the empty blister pack was in his toiletries bag. There are no prints on it – it’s being despatched for analysis for contact DNA. Obviously – it’s possible he obtained the drug privately and self-administered – took an overdose by mistake – especially if he was intoxicated. The amount in his blood was about three times the prescribed dose. The toxicology showed he’d drunk whisky – and possibly other spirits – I guess the guard might recall how much exactly. Over.’

  ‘Aye – I’ll ask him.’ Skelgill hesitates, as though a little scenario is running through his mind. Then he picks up DS Jones’s main thrust. ‘What if he were intentionally poisoned – are there any other forensics? Over.’

  Now it is his sergeant’s turn to produce a sigh of sorts.

  ‘Sod’s law, Guv. I briefed the team on the possibility of him having been drugged – so they were going to bag any drinks receptacles they could find. Unfortunately, the guard was too efficient. All the glasses served in the lounge car were neatly stacked in a dishwasher in the galley – and the wash cycle had finished before the train’s power was switched off.’ There comes another hiss of vexation from Skelgill, and DS Jones now sounds a little downcast. ‘Also, there was no contamination in the water bottle – remember, the one at the foot of his bed that I thought had been moved? Over.’

  ‘Aye – but that was after you’d found him dead. Over.’

  A moment’s silence ensues – it seems DS Jones is formulating her thoughts.

  ‘For the record, there are some prints – but pretty much as we’d expect. Mikal Mital’s on the label – and on the screw top Ruairidh McLeod’s thumbprint – he’s on the biometric database – I’ll explain that in a minute. But inside a cupboard in the guard’s van there was a bottle-carrier – like a sports team uses. It had been filled up with ten individual bottles from a shrink-wrapped outer – and they all had similar prints. So it looks like that’s how he distributed the water to the compartments from his central stock. Over.’

  ‘Aye. That’s more or less what he told me and Leyton.’ Skelgill’s pause hangs heavy with frustration. ‘What else have we got? Over.’

  ‘From a scientific perspective, Guv – there are unidentified prints from several individuals in and around compartments one and two. But it’s a public space – so it’s only what we would expect to find. Bear in mind there would have been a different set of passengers every day of the week. I mean – we may have swabbed traces of DNA that will prove significant – but only if we can identify someone who shouldn’t have been in either of those cabins. The best we can hope for is alien DNA on the blister pack.’

  ‘When do we expect the results? Over.’

  ‘I’ve been quoted twenty-four hours from receipt, Guv – but we’re still working on a way to get the samples to the lab. They’re going to have to travel by helicopter somehow – and the availability is obviously really limited right now. Over.’

  Skelgill registers the vexation in his sergeant’s voice. She has within her grasp the tantalising prospect that Mikal Mital may have been poisoned, but cannot deliver the forensic coup de grace. Perhaps inadvertently he makes what is a consolatory remark.

  ‘Happen we’re not going anywhere in a hurry. Over.’

  ‘Apart from Jenny Hackett? Over.’

  ‘Aye – I don’t know what to think there.’ Skelgill seems wrong-footed by his sergeant’s quick rejoinder. His is vaguely aware that he ought to commend her efforts – frankly she has worked wonders in galvanising pathology and forensics departments, when there is a regional crisis underway and many staff will not even have reached their places of employment. But she has not even hinted that a word of praise would be appreciated. And there is limited airtime before he must return to recharge his battery. ‘Anything new on the other folk? Over.’

  ‘Guv – I’ve been concentrating on liaising with Dr Herdwick – but the team have come up with a smattering of information.’ It sounds like she is sifting through some notes. ‘I’ll be brief – I’m afraid there’s no smoking gun –’ She breaks off for a moment’s mirth. ‘Hah – although, on that note, Bill Faulkner – we have nothing more from a professional perspective as far as his London job is concerned – but there are some personal details. After college he served with distinction in the US military – and subsequently as a civilian he won prizes for shooting in Louisiana state competitions. A pretty impressive achievement, by all accounts – looks like he could have made the American Olympic skeet team, but didn’t take it further.’

  ‘He weren’t so hot at darts.’ There might be a small element of envy in Skelgill’s impulsive reaction. DS Jones opts to proceed without comment.

  ‘Richard Bond. The MOD have confirmed he served as he claims, and his record was exemplary, too – they won’t release any details, given the nature of the regiment. It appears, however, that for two years after discharge he worked in the Middle East as a private security expert. That can be a euphemism for mercenary. And it’s just possible there’s some link between the bankrolling of his business and contacts he made out there – and clearly petrochemicals has been a major source of laundered funds.’

  Skelgill seems to have settled into listening mode, so DS Jones continues.

  ‘This is in no particular order, Guv – I don’t want to give the idea there’s some theory developing here, or connections between either these new findings or what we know already. Concerning Mikal Mital, then. His early background behind the Iron Curtain seems fairly anonymous – it appears he was an academic, an economist, until after the fall of the Berlin Wall – then the first official notice is as a visiting professor at Harvard Business School. It seems from there he moved into professional consultancy and stayed under the radar until relatively recently – when the anti money laundering movement gathered pace after the 2008 financial crisis. He acted as an advisor to a consortium of European governments about property dealings around the Mediterranean – on the face of it that looks like suspected dirty money coming out of Russia and the former Soviet republics. I guess he would have had access to networks he built up during his time on the communist side of the fence. It corresponds with what Jenny Hackett suggested.

  ‘Staying on the Russian theme – one small point of interest is that VoxNews hasn’t reported that two of its key staff are trapped in the snow. Obviously we let them know around this time yesterday. You would think given Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch’s profile they would have made a feature of it. Last night they played out a repeat of his current affairs show. Neither is there any reference on the VoxNews website.

  ‘We’ve been in touch with City of London Police’s money laundering investigation unit. They have passed on all the names of the non-British citizens on the train to Europol and Interpol – that includes Ivanna Karenina, Egor Volkov, François Mouton, Wiktoria Adamska and Bill Faulkner – so we’re waiting for feedback – but we did get an immediate notification that Wiktoria Adamska’s husband, Artur Adamski has companies on a watch-list for cross-border financial transactions.

  ‘Then – Mr Harri
s, Guv.’ DS Jones makes a curious cough, as though she is reminded of the improbability of his existence. ‘I still think we’re some way off from identifying him. We’ve contacted the ticketing operators – they’ve been able to tell us that the booking was made online – as they generally are – and the payment transacted in US dollars with a foreign charge card from a business account. The company name doesn’t seem to mean anything – we’re trying to establish where it’s incorporated – but the bank appears to be domiciled in the Virgin Islands.’

  Skelgill utters what must sound like an expletive to DS Jones – for she gives a nervous laugh.

  ‘I know, Guv – it does rather stir the pot. If he’d been plain Mr Harris from Hampstead it would be easier to put him to one side. As it is, I checked the latest status and the American Virgin Islands – if that’s where the account proves to be based – are still on the EU blacklist of tax havens. My concern is that when we approach the card operator they’ll simply hide behind the defence of client confidentiality.’