Skelgill scoffs contemptuously.
‘So what do we do, send a gunboat?’
DS Jones treats his question as rhetorical.
‘We have some limited information on the railway employees.’ She gives a little chuckle. ‘I thought I’d better make sure they’re who they claim to be! Laura Wilson the driver is from Penrith – I realised I know her younger sister, Jackie, she works in the probation service – so there’s no question there. Laura left school to become a firefighter, but just over four years ago she received a serious spinal injury attending a blaze in the Whinlatter, and after she recovered she retrained as a train driver. The guard, Ruairidh McLeod – his employment on the railways dates back to the nationalised days of British Rail. Prior to that he was a steel worker at the Ravenscraig plant in Motherwell. He gained a reputation as a trades union firebrand – and a criminal record – that’s why we have his prints on file. During the 1980 steelworkers’ strike he served four weeks on remand for secondary picketing at Sheffield – an incident that culminated in some considerable violence. Ironically he and his union comrades were cleared of the picketing charge but were given fines and suspended sentences for affray. Then for a period at British Rail he held a position as a convenor and was considered to be on the militant side – but after privatisation in 1997 and the break up into franchises he relinquished his union role and seems to have kept his head down – maybe with an eye to his pension. He’s currently rated as a reliable employee with a good disciplinary and attendance record. Over.’
Skelgill mutters something unintelligible. But it seems there is a hint of sympathy in his tone.
‘Happen he’d make a half-decent union rep – bolshie type like him. Probably drives him crackers seeing all these rich folk lording it in first class. Over.’
DS Jones does not respond directly to her superior’s observation, and instead presses on with her account.
‘The financial conference in Edinburgh, Guv – it’s actually still taking place – the majority of attendees flew in ahead of the storm and are lodging within walking distance of the convention centre. Although it must be scaled down – and obviously they’ve lost the likes of Mikal Mital’s slot. We got hold of the delegates’ list – Richard Bond is on it,’ (Skelgill makes a grunt of acknowledgement – it was as he expected) ‘VoxNews are sending a reporter, although no mention of Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch or Ivanna Karenina. But the one delegate that did stand out, Guv, is described as “Representative, Adamski Corporation” – it doesn’t say who by name – so it could be anyone right up to the top man – in other words, Wiktoria Adamska’s husband. Which might explain why she was so determined to get to Edinburgh. Over.’
Skelgill makes a disdainful grunt. He is thinking that ‘husband’ may be jumping to conclusions. But he offers an alternative justification.
‘She told Leyton she’s showing off her latest undies at some fancy shop. Her luggage is packed with fur coats and frilly knickers. Over.’
DS Jones gives an appreciative laugh.
‘All a girl needs, Guv. Especially in this weather. But, seriously – on the conference – we’ve looked back at the pre-publicity – the general tenor seemed above board and quite altruistic. I’ve got the headline here – I’ll read it: “Wealth of Nations – an executive-level symposium to promote international money flows, and the benefits of relaxing exchange controls for world trade and global prosperity.” I know what Jenny Hackett said about Mikal Mital – that he was supposedly going to drop a bombshell – but assuming that was true, then I don’t think the conference organisers knew it was coming. Over.’
‘Except Jenny Hackett had wind of it. And others, maybe –’
Skelgill is evidently sidetracked by some thought, for he does not formally hand back. After a short while DS Jones again takes the initiative.
‘Guv, the national grid are predicting tomorrow evening for power and communications to begin to be restored. I briefed the Chief first thing this morning and she wanted me to review any findings before I updated you. I’ve just come off a Skype call. Now we’ve got evidence that points to a potentially suspicious death, I asked about extracting everyone from the hotel and interviewing them under caution. What do you think? Over?’
Skelgill is not expecting to be put on the spot like this. His sergeant’s account implies that the decision is in his hands – that he has only to say the word and they will all be whisked off to a mixture of Christmas and captivity – despite there being many more deserving calls upon the rescue services. On the face of it the idea is appealing, but he is reminded that this is a high-ranking group of wealthy individuals – there is no way they would tolerate voluntary detention, when expensive lawyers will tell them they can simply walk away unless charged (and whom would they charge?). As things stand, he has them in a somewhat less contestable confinement, trapped by an act of God. Here the only downsides are an outbreak of cabin fever and the risk of some precipitate action – witness the latest Jenny Hackett episode. So whatever logical arguments play out in his mind, his gut feel is less equivocal.
‘As you just put it – I reckon we need a smoking gun. Over.’
There is a pause while DS Jones reads between the lines of her superior’s reply.
‘Ah – that’s interesting, Guv. I mean – to be honest, I wouldn’t say the Chief was enthusiastic about the idea of an evacuation – I think she could be swayed if you were vehement. But if you’re happy to sit tight –’
‘Jones – when am I happy to sit tight – unless it’s me day off on Bass Lake?’ Skelgill makes a scathing “tcha” – as though this sudden notion is so far away from the present reality as to be a pipe dream. However, his words gainsay his cynicism. ‘But something tells me I should – and if you need twenty-four hours to get those results. What day is it tomorrow? Over.’
‘Christmas Eve, Guv. Obviously it would be good to get you all out then.’ DS Jones sounds apologetic, a sentimental note creeping into her voice. Then she brightens, although in a somewhat conspiratorial manner. ‘To be frank – you know how when you ask the Chief something that must have ramifications, she’s got this way of not blinking –?’
‘Jones – I’ve never seen her blink.’
DS Jones chuckles at his intervention.
‘Guv – I feel she knows something – not so much the fine detail of this case – but the bigger picture – something that she’s not inclined to reveal. Over.’
Skelgill does not sound fazed.
‘Happen we shouldn’t be surprised. We know all about her and the corridors of power. And we know first hand the national press are sniffing about. Over.’
‘Guv – if you can live with it – I think she’d consider that a good outcome. While we wait for Forensics I’ll marshal any resources that I can in relation to Jenny Hackett. Obviously if we can pick her up it might provide us with some answers. Over.’
‘Aye – well, you’ve got about three hours’ daylight – you’ll need to get your skates on. Over.’
‘What do you think is the most likely explanation? Over.’
Skelgill proceeds to outline the various tactical options that lay before Jenny Hackett – his favourite being that she has fled fearing for her own safety – and that a friendly farmhouse or an anonymous vehicle would be her most likely refuge. But there is the caveat that she left no tracks. Of course – he may learn otherwise when he returns to the inn – and he agrees to contact DS Jones accordingly. Failing that, they commit to a radio rendezvous at 10am tomorrow. Skelgill’s battery begins to protest its limitations. They sign off with an exchange in which he complains they have run out of ideas for pub games, and DS Jones suggests that she saw a book of Daily Telegraph crosswords in the library, and that he might enjoy the cryptic challenge.
A rueful Skelgill checks his watch; the time is 12.30pm. He casts about. Ordinarily the scene with which he is presented would lift his spirits: beneath a clear blue sky a silent snowscape beckons, and there is a sens
e of heavenly elevation up here in the Shap Fells, a tilting tableland stretching to distant horizons. He wanders to the end of the footbridge, noting that the only footprints are those he makes himself. To the east of Shap Cutting unfurls a great white carpet of moorland, rising gently to an undulating ridge some three or four miles hence. Somewhere in between, the snowbound M6 motorway lies hidden. In the more immediate foreground Skelgill’s focus adjusts to a fascinating spectacle. The snowfield is cratered by scores of crescent-shaped shadows – these are shake holes, filled by snow but their rims sufficiently prominent to be picked out by the angled sunlight. Perhaps this is what it is like on the surface of the moon? He wonders if there can be any better way to locate these mysterious depressions – though how many more are concealed, smoothed beneath drifts? He knows the old trackway runs roughly to the north-east; after about a mile it picks up an unfenced B-road that in turn links the A6 and the M6. But he doubts the merits of trying to navigate safe passage in these conditions – it is a game of snakes and ladders, mainly snakes – and he grins wryly, thinking DS Leyton would probably have coined such a metaphor.
13. GAINED IN TRANSLATION
Friday, 1pm
Trudging back through the forest, descending steadily, Skelgill recognises the approach to Jenny’s Hole. He is reminded of his resolution to return in spring – and he renews this vow – after all, this is a pretty decent neck of the woods, worth exploring, there might be secretive red squirrels and elusive redstarts, and lively trout to tempt out of one or other of the becks; he could bring the dog, leave his car at the inn, have a pint afterwards – well, maybe not the pint – there’ll be real ale up the road at Shap. It is a curious, almost vicarious daydream that he allows himself – and he realises that he is in fact fantasising about the burden of this case being lifted – because, by spring (by next week, he hopes – but unquestionably by spring) the snow will be gone and with it the shroud it has cast over certainty.
If he were subliminally to draw an idiom from his present surroundings he would be excused for thinking he cannot see the wood for the trees – for that is an accurate description of the dense plantation that hems in the bridleway. Despite the brighter overhead conditions, the line of sight rarely extends beyond three or four drills. And thus it strikes him that not a great deal has become clearer, despite DS Jones’s best efforts, and events at Shake Holes Inn. Their early assessment of what fate might have befallen Mikal Mital (and his manuscript) still holds good as a hypothesis, and that Jenny Hackett played some role is, if anything, reinforced by her disappearance. But while DS Jones might yet find some clinching forensic clue – or evidence that points to some overwhelming motive – he feels the solution already lies within his ken. He knows what he has seen, heard – smelt, even – and though these fragments of experience do not as yet form any coherent image in his consciousness – merely they swill about in the unruly maelstrom that lies just below its surface – he suspects it is just a matter of taking them by surprise, to come upon the flotsam as it fleetingly coalesces to reveal a collective meaning.
This sentiment, not even wittingly expressed, nonetheless cheers him – though it is a frisson quickly superseded by a more prescient awareness that time is not on his side. They will have to get everyone out of here soon – before more folk start taking matters into their own hands. If the cell phone network comes back up, no doubt all hell will break loose. Pensively, he re-enters the inn via the courtyard, and takes a moment to check on the Fell pony. He feeds an apple from his backpack into its soft bristly mouth. It seems content enough, although surely an animal like this must experience its own version of cabin fever. By association the notion leads him to think sympathetically of Richard Bond, whose antics seem to stem from an innate hyperactivity, that possesses him at all times, ever ready to burst out like a greyhound in its trap. Bill Faulkner, by contrast, exists at the opposite end of the spectrum, and contains both thoughts and urges without effort or outward signs of inner tension; yet by all accounts the American is no less competent a man of action.
These things considered it is no surprise that Skelgill, having discarded his outdoor gear in the tack room, first hears the booming voice of Richard Bond as he pads along the stone-flagged passage towards the lobby.
‘I said to Egor – we should have brought the Lee Enfield that the Merlyn chap has in his quarters – it would have been roast venison for dinner!’ And the statement is followed by a voluminous belly laugh.
‘That’s a British rifle – point 303, right?’ These are the American’s more measured tones. ‘I thought you Limeys weren’t allowed proper guns.’
And now a braying retort from Richard Bond.
‘Hah – it’s probably a decommissioned heirloom. The Boers captured thousands of them. We used to keep a fully loaded pair on our stoep – they might have been antiques but they would take down a buffalo at a quarter of a mile. Or whatever else you cared to pot!’ Again there is the insistent guffaw, ratifying the wit of his remark.
Skelgill emerges from the shadows of the corridor to find the two men standing beside the reception counter still clad in their overalls. There are little piles of melting snow around their boots and an incomplete trail leading from the front door – evidence of their means of entry. They each have a steaming mug – and Skelgill notices Egor and François sitting at a low table in the waiting area next to the leaflet display unit; their faces are flushed and their hair damp and tousled in the aftermath of exertion; they look bushed. Before them is a cafetière, and a milk jug, although no spare mug that he can see.
He realises that Richard Bond is regaling him with ingenuous optimism, and his peculiar, slightly insane forced smile. Skelgill quickly makes a thumbs-down sign.
‘She’s not been to the train. At least no trace that I could see. And no one has crossed the footbridge heading east. It’s the obvious way over the railway – else there’s a mile detour north or south.’
Richard Bond seems to Skelgill to be relieved; his forced mask relaxes into an expression of affected concern. Could it be that he was anticipating the ‘worst’ – that he may have ‘lost’ the competition to locate Jenny Hackett?
‘We too have drawn a blank, Inspector.’ The man does not look at Bill Faulkner for corroboration; clearly he considers that he speaks for them both in his assumed role as the senior ranking among them. Skelgill glances at the American and notices just the faintest compression of his neat mouth. Richard Bond continues. ‘The occasional muntjac – which we were just discussing – but otherwise neither journalist nor sasquatch, eh what?’ He chortles and nudges Bill Faulkner with an elbow; the man stands his ground and grins stoically.
For his part, and rather uncharacteristically, Skelgill, steps closer and claps a hand on each man’s shoulder.
‘Happen if you saw deer they’d be roe – muntjac’s barely the size of an average dog – besides, they stick to the woods. I spotted some roe deer tracks myself – they’ll be foraging for food – they’ll dig in the snow for bilberry shoots. The beasts look delicate, but they’ve got a thick winter coat this time of year – it can make them seem almost black.’
Skelgill is wondering why he is expounding upon wild game – but it vaguely occurs to him that it might prevent some ill-considered thought gaining precedence and making itself known. Richard Bond does not seem to be absorbing the information, but Bill Faulkner watches him shrewdly. However, the latter reveals his interest to lie with their human quarry.
‘What’s your prognosis for Jenny Hackett, Inspector?’
The question catches Skelgill off guard, and he cannot prevent an involuntary hardening of his features. The American’s use of the medical term conjures in his mind’s eye the image of a casualty, such as he has had the misfortune to discover more than once in his years as a mountain rescuer, a curled figure in a rudimentary snow hole, seemingly slumbering in peace, but literally frozen to death. He steps away from the two men.
‘I’ll get back to you on that
. I need to have a confab with my sergeant. Thanks for your efforts.’
*
‘Jones is trying to organise a chopper to get us all out of here.’
DS Leyton’s ears prick up.
‘When, Guv?’
‘Probably close of play tomorrow. I’m speaking to her at ten in the morning. Sounds like the Chief was willing to do it today – pull a few strings – but Jones wants to wait to give Forensics the best chance. We might regret it if we let this lot scatter to the four winds.’
DS Leyton cannot know that his superior is being more than a little disingenuous by shifting blame to his fellow sergeant. His jowls droop in a rather hangdog fashion. Rather too late, Skelgill realises he should have reconfigured the story to place the responsibility entirely at the feet of their commander.
‘Ah, well – if it’s for the best, Guv. I expect she’ll be keeping the nearest and dearest up to speed. I only hope Her Indoors doesn’t lose her rag and shoot the messenger.’
‘Cheer up, Leyton – if we get the timing right we’ll dress you as Santa and drop you on your roof. That’ll surprise the lot of them.’
‘Thankfully we ain’t got no chimney – else that’s where I’d be spending Christmas!’ He slaps his ample midriff. ‘Let’s hope this works out and we nick the Russians.’
Skelgill’s brow becomes furrowed.
‘What makes you so sure it’s the Russians?’
‘Stands to reason, Guv – it’s the Russians’ MO, ain’t it – a spot of poisoning?’
‘Leyton – the Russians’ MO is weapons of mass destruction – not knock-off date-rape pills you can pick up from some donnat on the street corner.’
‘Maybe they’ve learned their lesson, Guv – all that business with nerve agents – and radioactive gear – it leaves a glowing trail right back to its point of origin. Your common or garden benzos – like you say, any Tom, Dick or Harry could get their mitts on them. Far easier to blag your way out of the bad publicity. No need to memorise the height of the Scott monument. Besides – law of averages. Wiktoria Adamska’s Russian. Ivanna Karenina’s Russian. Bond’s young geezer, Egor Volkov – he’s Russian. And Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch works for the Russians. That’s four out of nine passengers – even if we count Harris and Jenny Hackett.’
Murder at Shake Holes Page 20