Skelgill gasps with exasperation and slumps back in the winged chair. The fire is beginning to crackle, having benefited from his attention. A hopeful-looking Samanta has delivered tea and crockery for several people – although a reticent Skelgill seemed to disappoint her with his lack of engagement. His mind has been continually distracted by the same warp of time and information he endured on his return through the woods. Having briefed his colleague on DS Jones’s latest report, he finds him apparently all too willing to leap to revised conclusions.
‘Thing is, Leyton – it’s all very well thinking some malign government or fat-cat oligarch wanted to silence Mikal Mital – but look at the plain facts. Jenny Hackett had the motive – she even told us. She had the opportunity – she was seen toddling off to bed with him, unsteady on his legs. Even the sleeping pills are the sort of thing she’d keep in her handbag. And now she’s done a runner. Of all the permutations it’s the neatest by a country mile.’
DS Leyton, however, is looking at his boss with an expression of considerable distrust.
‘Except you ain’t convinced, Guv – I’ve known you long enough to see that.’ He cocks his head to one side, as if the altered perspective might reveal otherwise. ‘For a start – it don’t fit with Jenny Hackett being shoved in the snake hole – shake hole – nor the intruder in Wiktoria Adamska’s room. For me, these things rank Jenny Hackett further down the pecking order – feeding on scraps.’
Skelgill is forced to admit to himself that DS Leyton is right; he is not convinced by the basic logic – and moreover his sergeant’s intuition chimes with his own. But they have been hamstrung by the need to remain covert. They can only ask certain questions without revealing their hand; indeed, without revealing that they are investigating at all, and in effect consider everyone to be under suspicion. While Skelgill mulls over their dilemma DS Leyton reprises his theory.
‘See, Guv – as you know – I reckon that was probably Jenny Hackett looking for the manuscript – getting in on the act after the fact.’
‘Maybe it’s time to find out.’
‘You mean ask Wiktoria Adamska, Guv?’
‘Aye.’
‘I’ll fetch her, shall I?’
Skelgill does not reply – he seems to take his sergeant’s response as a statement of intent – and instead he rises and stalks across to the old map of the district on the wall. He sways a little to and fro, straining his focus to gain a purchase in the fading afternoon light. He recognises now the tiny circle quite close to the outline of the inn that must be the bath house. Beyond, higher up the fell a monument is marked – he recalls the leaflet, still in his back pocket, there was something about an obelisk erected to commemorate the accession of Queen Victoria in 1837 – another little of piece of history that Joost Merlyn has chosen to reject; yet his predecessors felt it worthy of incorporating into their visitor trail. He saw no trace – although of course conifers will surround it – something else to look out for in spring. But the entrance of the extant Victoria, Wiktoria Adamska, curtails any such thoughts. No less regal in her manner, she does not wait to be questioned.
‘Inspector – you have some news for me?’
She holds a blue concoction in a cocktail glass – which perhaps explains her speedy expediting from what is the nearby bar. Skelgill returns to the cluster of chairs before the fire. He gestures that she should take a seat, but she regards the antique furniture with a look of vague horror; certainly her outfit of the short leopard-pattern dress and matching platform shoes in which she appeared at Euston Station is more suited to a barstool three times the height. She faces Skelgill defiantly and simply raises her glass to drink. Skelgill and DS Leyton have no option but to remain standing. Skelgill digs his hands into his trouser pockets and affects an uncompromising air.
‘Madam – about the item you reported stolen.’ She regards him unblinkingly; it is a countenance that tells him that she remains disinclined to reveal what it is. ‘Obviously, when we spoke with you earlier, that was before we realised that Ms Hackett had gone missing. As part of the process of looking for her, we’ve conducted a search of the premises. Nothing – how can I put it – outstanding was found – and certainly not Ms Hackett. Which leads me to ask – you stated it was a man in your room in the middle of the night. Could it have been a woman – in fact could it have been Ms Hackett?’
She has listened implacably – and without hostility – if anything she displays a mien of mild amusement.
‘Inspector – it was a man.’
She takes another sip of her drink; plainly she considers no further elaboration is needed. Skelgill is obliged to persist.
‘Madam, you said you were awakened – it was dark – and you nodded off again. We’d all been in the bar – it would be understandable that you were drowsy, and not fully cognisant.’
‘Inspector – would you know the difference between a man and a woman?’
Skelgill is caught on his heels. He inhales – but before he can formulate his thoughts she has a rejoinder.
‘I know the presence of a man. I know the presence of a woman. It was a man.’
There is a purring animal quality in her tone that is both authoritative and overwhelming. Skelgill knows he cannot tender the question for a third time.
‘That’s fine, madam. It might just have provided the explanation for Ms Hackett’s unannounced departure. Her being a journalist – with a nose for a story.’
The implication of his rather thinly disguised hint being that such a motive might apply if what is stolen is newsworthy in some way – but she simply ignores any such inference.
‘And when may we expect our own departure?’
Once more Skelgill is unprepared for her question. He glances at DS Leyton, who avoids eye contact in anticipation of being pressed into the firing line. Thus forsaken, Skelgill has to resort to bluster.
‘You’ll be aware that DS Jones has been airlifted to police headquarters. She was in no position to call the shots this morning – but her stated aim was to organise a slot for us. You understand the demands with sick and elderly and very young people stranded. We’re hoping to be evacuated by this time tomorrow.’
She regards him with what now may be a hint of impatience. ‘If we had communications –’ she snaps her fingers, producing a sharp click that is seemingly unconstrained by her considerable nails, ‘I should organise it like that.’ She compresses her lips, but they are too voluminous to produce anything other than an alluring pout. ‘It is highly inconvenient – for us – and for those who do not know our circumstances.’
Skelgill holds up a palm in protest.
‘DS Jones will have ensured that her team contacted everyone that ought to be informed.’
Wiktoria Adamska narrows her eyes, as if to say he can’t possibly know that. Peremptorily she turns and strides elegantly towards the door. DS Leyton shuffles ahead of her to open it. As she departs she drains her glass and tilts it from side to side as if to suggest a refill calls. And without a backward glance she has the final word.
‘I don’t believe you are just sitting on your hands, Inspector.’
Skelgill looks a little sheepishly at DS Leyton. It would appear he feels they have come off worse in the exchange. He sets his jaw.
‘May as well haul in the guard, Leyton. Let’s see if we can think up a way of asking him what we want to know without setting alarm bells ringing amongst the lot of them.’
‘Mind you, Guv – we can probably trust him to keep his trap shut. He’s not exactly talkative at the best of times. Besides – him and the driver – I know it’s a private company – but they’re public officials really, aren’t they?’
‘Aye, if you say so.’
When DS Leyton returns with his quarry Skelgill is pouring himself another tea. He points the spout at the rather surly looking guard.
‘A cuppa, Mr McLeod?’
‘Ne’er say nae.’
Also way of not saying thank you, Skelgill n
otes; he uses the tactic himself when he senses someone is trying to butter him up.
There is, however, no battle of wills over sitting or standing – the guard painfully lowers himself into a chair, as if to emphasise his unfitness for any antics they might be about to put him up to. Skelgill does not recall such incapacities when it came to performing his duties on the train. With a grunt the guard helps himself to milk and sugar. Skelgill sees him eyeing the biscuits. Since only two survive, it is perhaps to his subordinate’s surprise that he offers the plate. The guard takes a shortbread finger and without ceremony dunks it in his mug, holding it for a few seconds. Skelgill is watching closely – perhaps it is the tension of whether he has submerged it for too long – but he successfully slots it into his mouth. Conscious of Skelgill’s attention he scowls rather belligerently – but Skelgill grins and more or less copies the procedure. He gives a wink to signify their social equivalence.
‘Mr McLeod – you’ll have gathered that we haven’t found Jenny Hackett.’ (The man’s expression remains truculent.) ‘Obviously, when communications are restored, or when we’re out of here – whichever comes first – I hope we find she’s made it to some place of safety.’ Skelgill looks at DS Leyton, who nods encouragingly. ‘But in the meantime we wouldn’t be doing our job if we just sit twiddling our thumbs. I want to get to the bottom of why she decided to take matters into her own hands, and risked setting out alone. It might give us a clue for where to look for her.’
He pauses deliberately. After a few moments the guard inclines his head.
‘Aye.’
His taciturnity permits only the monosyllable. Skelgill, however, is ready to elaborate.
‘She’s a colourful character – a bit of a live wire. She was getting into the spirit of things last night. On the walk here she had a self-inflicted brush with danger. In the early hours on the train you caught a glimpse of what was probably her. And prior to that she’d been getting familiar with all and sundry in the lounge car – including us, the police.’
‘Aye – Ah mind that.’
‘She was brass-necking it for a story – you know, a scoop they call it?’
The guard nods, though it is plain he remains suspicious of Skelgill’s direction of travel. His bushy ginger eyebrows have converged like jousting caterpillars.
‘And then you told DS Leyton that she hinted at having some plan up her sleeve. What we’re wondering is – had someone divulged information that she considered to be hot property?’
Ruairidh McLeod shrugs defiantly.
‘Ah wouldnae ken.’
Skelgill is undeterred.
‘Your travelling clientele – present company excepted – whichever way you look at them, they’re a VIP crowd.’
The guard grimaces.
‘At those ticket prices, what dae ye expect?’
Teeth bared, Skelgill draws an apologetic breath.
‘Happen the taxpayer was footing our bill. Saved the cost of a night in Mayfair – and put us back on the beat a day early.’ But now he makes a frustrated exclamation. ‘Well – it would have done.’
Unexpectedly, the guard leaps to their defence. His small beady eyes are suddenly alight with a previously unseen vehemence.
‘The high heid yins cannae blame youse fae that. We should all be claiming overtime.’
It seems the union man in him is alive and kicking, workers’ solidarity an ingrained reflex. Skelgill is encouraged.
‘If she got some titbit of gossip – nugget of news – we think it were most likely on the train. Like I say, we saw her doing the rounds – plying folk with drinks – you’ll remember you had a little ding-dong with her over the Glenmorangie.’ (Skelgill pronounces it to meet with Ruairidh McLeod’s satisfaction.) ‘From interviews with the other passengers, we’ve established that she went to bed at the same time as Mr Mital – and maybe some words were exchanged, possibly in either his or her compartment.’
The guard is nodding. His demeanour is lightening. Perhaps he was anticipating that, being singled out and hauled before this inquisition, some accusations were coming his way. Now he sees this is not the case.
‘Aye, right enough.’
Skelgill glances around. So they are in unison on this point.
‘What about Mr Mital? Other passengers saw Jenny Hackett drinking with him. We know she’d had her fair share – but I’m wondering, what about him?’
Skelgill pauses and Ruairidh McLeod suddenly realises he is expected to answer. But now he shakes his head determinedly. It is difficult to discern if he is pleased to be able to inform them, or disappointed because the answer will not be what they want to hear.
‘He wasnae drinking.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘It’s mah job tae sell alcohol. He said he’d work tae dae. And he came on board sober. That’s not tae say yer lady journalist didnae have a bottle in her luggage, ken?’
Skelgill’s expression is attentive. But his head is spinning from the concentration of effort – rarely has he ever had to beat so elaborately about the bush to flush out a single response. But now he can relax; and his next question is succinct.
‘When you saw the lady in the red nightgown – could she have come out of Mr Mital’s compartment? It was the last but one at the far end, as you were looking.’
The guard frowns. But perhaps he is just trying to replay the scene in his mind.
‘Aye – she could. But Ah didnae see that – Ah just caught a glimpse of her going round the corner. Ah didnae think much of it – guests use the toilets – smoke when they shouldnae, ken?’
‘You didn’t hear the click of the door closing – I mean with too short an interval for her to have got to the end of the corridor from her own cabin – she was in number seven, right?’
The guard shrugs. He seems not to remember this.
‘Ah didnae hear a button. Not above the noise of the train.’
Skelgill nods. He asks the guard several relatively innocuous questions, such as Jenny Hackett’s manner on arrival at the platform, and with whom she first sat in the lounge car; their purpose further to distract from the central point of interest. And when they conclude, in response to Ruairidh McLeod’s parting query about their tenure at Shake Holes Inn, Skelgill duplicates the answer supplied to Wiktoria Adamska. The detectives left alone once more, DS Leyton is eager to ratify his take-out from the interview.
‘What do you reckon, Guv? If he’s right, the only person that gave Mikal Mital a whisky was Jenny Hackett.’
Skelgill is looking pensive.
‘Jones reckons the toxicology indicates he may have consumed other alcohol.’
‘Maybe he necked a couple of cheeky vodkas in the waiting room, Guv. If I recall, booze is buckshee in the first-class lounge at Euston. Or, like the guard says, she might have had a bottle stashed away.’ DS Leyton runs the fingers of one hand through his mane of dark hair. ‘They work quickly, don’t they – these date-rape drugs? It would be his last couple of drinks that we’re bothered about, yeah?’
Skelgill is nodding grimly. Then a wave of hopelessness seems to crash over him. But he heaves himself up and aims a kick at a recalcitrant log in the grate.
‘Leyton – let’s have a word with the driver. I’m not quite sure why – but I wouldn’t mind a chat with her.’
‘She’s kept her head down since we’ve been here, Guv.’
‘She’s probably still mithering herself about being at fault.’
DS Leyton makes a face of protest.
‘I don’t see what else she could have done. Besides, we took charge pretty much from the off. They were lucky to have us on board, Guv – else that Bond geezer would have had ’em kipping in igloos!’
Skelgill grins wryly. Evidently his sergeant is still irked that the former soldier has muscled in on his territory.
‘Aye – he’s a loose cannon, right enough.’
DS Leyton appears satisfied with this assessment.
‘I’ll go a
nd find her, Guv.’
But as he rises to make for the door there comes a sharp knock and it opens sufficiently for a head to be inserted in the gap. It is the man in question, Richard Bond. DS Leyton glances at Skelgill and fleetingly pulls a face of panic – that they have narrowly escaped being overheard (or perhaps not). But Richard Bond seems unperturbed; his expression conveys that he wishes to make a polite enquiry. Seeing that they do not have company, he steps into the room. He has changed into a casual outfit of a tailored Tattersall shirt that emphasizes his muscular build, shocking maroon corduroy trousers, and heavy brown brogues.
‘May I have a quick word, Inspector? I gathered you were holding court in here.’
DS Leyton looks questioningly at his superior, but Skelgill indicates he should carry on with his mission and he leaves, carefully closing the door behind him. Skelgill rises; he does not intend for Richard Bond to make himself comfortable. But standing seems to suit the ex-military man, and true to form he comes directly to his point.
‘Inspector. About this American, Bill Faulkner. François privately informs me that his behaviour during the search gave cause for suspicion.’
Skelgill inwardly bemoans this news; the last thing he needs is another fly flailing about in the already crowded ointment.
‘In what way?’
‘He paid no heed to several promising sets of tracks that crossed their path. He dismissed them out of hand as animal prints. If he were a man of Montana I should bow to his superior knowledge – but this fellow hails from Louisiana; more snow falls in Hades.’
‘And what was your lad’s opinion of these tracks?’
Skelgill can see that this question rather takes the wind out of Richard Bond’s sails. Interviewed earlier, the young Frenchman had confessed to spending almost his entire life in urban Paris and London. His experience of following tracks in snow is probably limited to those made by skis. Richard Bond takes another tack.
Murder at Shake Holes Page 21