Murder at Shake Holes

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘I suggest that I go out again – to retrace the southern loop while there’s still enough daylight.’

  Skelgill instinctively glances at the window; outside dusk is already falling.

  ‘Richard – you’d be cutting it fine. I can’t afford to go another man down.’

  Richard Bond diplomatically scoffs at Skelgill’s suggestion that he might not make it back – for they both know that is unlikely – but Skelgill senses in his body language a reaction of relief. Perhaps he does not actually want to venture forth at all – but simply feels he needs to make the proposal – for his training will be always to offer a solution, not just a criticism (and hats off to that attitude) – and that his sole purpose is to bring attention to his deeper-felt concern over Bill Faulkner. But at this moment DS Leyton returns with the train driver in tow, and he enters without knocking.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Guv – didn’t realise you hadn’t finished. We’ll come back, shall we?’

  Richard Bond intervenes before Skelgill can answer.

  ‘No – please enter – I shall leave you in private.’ He addresses Skelgill. ‘By the way – I have browbeaten that miserly Boer Merlyn into putting on afternoon tea at three-thirty – so those of us that missed lunch may refuel in good time for dinner.’

  Skelgill signs his approval. With a meaningful nod, Richard Bond slips away. DS Leyton settles the train driver beside the hearth. She is a slight figure, and like many of the party in possession of a limited wardrobe, and today she is wearing her navy railway-issue cotton trousers and sky-blue shirt, which in tandem with her tied-back blonde hair gives the impression of an anxious schoolgirl. Skelgill moves to calm her nerves.

  ‘Seems our colleague, DS Jones, knows your kid sister.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She is not sure how to react, perhaps anticipating that she is under investigation.

  ‘Aye – happen they’ve crossed paths before now.’

  ‘Jackie? Has she spoken to her, like?’

  Her question is tentative, as if she feels it is not her place to ask. Skelgill, becoming fatigued by oblique conversation, decides it is simpler to take the bull by the horns.

  ‘Listen – Laura – between these four walls –’ He glances about and sees that DS Leyton is regarding him with trepidation. ‘We’re in contact with police HQ – we’ve got limited two-way radio service. I’ve kept it under my hat to avoid being inundated with daft requests.’ He waves a hand in the direction of the door. ‘Also – we’re investigating what could be a murder – in the case of Mikal Mital.’

  The woman is nodding, concentrating hard on what Skelgill has to say – but her eyes widen with alarm when he mentions the possible crime.

  ‘There’s a good chance we’ll be airlifted out of here by tomorrow evening. In the meantime we’re waiting for some test results from the lab. It might just suit us to keep everyone together a touch longer. Once they’re back at Penrith – there’ll be nothing to stop them getting road transport – the M6 could be open tonight.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You still look worried to me, lass.’

  ‘The train crashed while I was driving. There’s folk missing. And now there’s been a killing.’ Her voice rises with a note of hysteria.

  Skelgill is scowling fiercely. His prediction has proved accurate.

  ‘Aye – maybe driving the train was your responsibility. But not the signalling network that didn’t warn you of an obstacle. Not the storm that’s brought half the country to a standstill. And definitely not what some shady passengers might have got up to. Listen – you acted impeccably – you kept everyone safe while they were on the train. And you’ve got three coppers as witnesses – at least two that’ll be taken seriously.’

  She doesn’t get his self-deprecating joke – but DS Leyton only half suppresses a snigger, and with a delayed reaction she grins reluctantly.

  ‘There’ll be an investigation.’

  ‘Aye – and we’ll back you up. Don’t you fret, lass.’

  The woman nods. She is silent for a few moments.

  ‘What you just said – that you’ve not told any of the others – not even Ruairidh – or Mr Bond?’

  Skelgill leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

  ‘In our job, you get a sense of who can keep something to themselves and who can’t. Besides, we’re all in the same boat – you’d have been dealing with this if we weren’t on board.’ He grins, perhaps a little ghoulishly. ‘Just your bad luck, hah!’

  But the woman regards Skelgill earnestly.

  ‘What you’ve done is marvellous – to get us here – to safety. I dread to think what it would have been like trapped on the train with no power, no light or heating.’

  A little uncharacteristically Skelgill seems to feel the need to deflect the compliment.

  ‘It’s hardly been plain sailing, Laura. If you knew half of what’s spinning around inside our heads.’

  He glances at DS Leyton, who nods supportively, but whose blank expression seems not to concur entirely with his superior’s assertion.

  ‘There’s no news on the missing lady – Jenny?’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘As a matter of fact your oppo reckoned she hinted at some escapade – while you were waiting your turn at billiards.’

  Laura Wilson frowns.

  ‘I don’t recall that.’

  ‘Did anything strike you – about her behaviour – that might explain her leaving?’

  Her features become more troubled, but it seems she feels she ought to be able to contribute something of consequence.

  ‘Only that she was – well, a bit eccentric – and then she fell in that pit on the way here. I suppose if you were to nominate anyone that might do something strange, happen you’d pick her. But –’

  The woman hesitates – it seems to Skelgill she is formulating her thoughts, rather than holding something back. He delays for a moment before offering a prompt.

  ‘But, what?’

  ‘Oh – I was just thinking that I quite liked her.’

  Laura Wilson looks at Skelgill as though he may disapprove, given the nature of their discussion. But Skelgill makes a face that conveys “fair enough”. He relaxes back into his chair, as though he considers the matter complete.

  ‘How were you originally getting home?’

  ‘My shift was due to finish at Edinburgh. I would have hitched a lift on the next train down that stopped at Penrith.’

  ‘What about your guard?’

  ‘He lives in Edinburgh – he would have clocked off at Waverley when we changed crew. He would have been home.’

  Skelgill now rises and offers some rather stilted praise for her cooperation. He accompanies her to the door and holds it open. She pauses beside him – and places a hand on his upper arm.

  ‘You can trust me to keep quiet. Thanks.’

  And with that she stretches up and pecks him on the cheek. When Skelgill turns from closing the door he sees DS Leyton is silently chortling.

  ‘You’ve got admirers flocking at you from all angles, Guv.’

  ‘Leyton – when a woman shows interest in me, the first thing I ask myself is who have they mistaken me for? Failing that, what do they want?’

  DS Leyton grins ironically. He wonders if Skelgill is fishing for a compliment – or to be reassured that he is not a soft touch when it comes to the fairer sex. But he decides to stick to the safer ground of mickey taking.

  ‘Maybe it’s that Brut aftershave you use, Guv?’

  Skelgill growls disparagingly – but by the same token he begins to finger the two days’ growth that adorns his face. Then he grins, boyishly, and mimes a sniff of one armpit.

  ‘Ee, Ars reet foily, marra.’ And in case DS Leyton does not exactly get the drift, he adds a postscript in plainer English. ‘I reckon I’ll get a shower before they lay on that spread.’

  *

  ‘This is becoming a habit, lass.’

  �
�It is your tea, Inspector.’

  There is something about Samanta’s insistence and her urgent glance back towards the top of the staircase that causes Skelgill not to question her presence and instead to step back to admit her to his room. His reference to habit is that for a second time she has interrupted his ablutions. He is lacking a shirt, and is in the process of towelling his damp hair.

  ‘I thought there’s tea downstairs at half-past?’

  ‘That is correct – I invented your order.’ She narrows her eyes rather mysteriously. ‘I have been trying to speak with you. I feel Mr Merlyn is – as you say – on my case. Even just now I heard him looking for me.’

  ‘Aye?’

  Skelgill frowns. He has no doubts that the man likes to keep her on a short leash – but he suspects it is not solely an economic motive that underlies his possessive behaviour. And it plainly troubles him that the girl – if only because of her extra mobility – ends up knowing more about what is going on around the place than he does. Skelgill closes the door, pressing it carefully to and slowly releasing the handle to avoid a telltale click. Samanta brushes past him and carries the tray she bears to the dresser by the window. Skelgill stands his ground beside the bathroom. He drapes the towel around his neck, like a boxer in the gym. The girl turns and approaches, she comes close – her voice is unnaturally low.

  ‘Last night – or, in the early hours of the morning – you know it was?’ (Skelgill looks perplexed.) ‘After I left your room? I went downstairs – the lobby was in darkness, and I noticed a small light along the corridor that leads to the tack room. It was the linen cupboard – perhaps I had left it on – I went along to switch it off. Then, just as I was returning past reception to go to the staff quarters, from the balcony above I heard voices – whispers. I did not think so much at the time – but since Ms Hackett has disappeared and you are investigating – I think more now –’

  She hesitates but Skelgill nods for her to continue.

  ‘It was a man’s voice. And then a woman’s. The man said, “It might not succeed.” And the woman replied, “We will live – we will see.”’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘It is a Russian proverb. It means what is achieved now will only become clear later. You see – the voices – they spoke in Russian.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I am a translator. I worked for two years in Kaliningrad Oblast.’ She sees he is none the wiser. ‘It is a Russian enclave – it borders my country Lithuania, and Poland.’

  Now Skelgill lowers his voice.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I could not tell – I could barely hear. I think they had gone up and did not realise I was there – but they moved away. Like I say – I did not think much of it – and then I heard Mr Merlyn – he was in the back office – also in darkness, asleep in his chair – he began to snore and then awaken. I tiptoed to my room.’

  Skelgill is unsure of the import of this news – indeed if it is of any significance at all. The girl’s manner is imploring – but to what extent is it a ruse to visit? Since their very first conversation he has sensed she has something more profound to impart. Yet there is a contradiction implicit in her account.

  ‘A Russian proverb. That would take a native Russian to say that, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That is possible, yes.’

  Skelgill appears conflicted.

  ‘The woman’s voice – could it have been Jenny Hackett?’

  ‘But she is English?’

  ‘Actually, I think she might be Australian – but maybe I’ve got that wrong – as well.’

  Samanta shakes her head. Her long hair is unrestrained, and the movement causes a lock to fall across her pale face. Skelgill has to resist reaching out to brush it aside. After a moment she speaks.

  ‘The voices – they were so faint.’

  Skelgill nods. He inhales to respond when a voice, not so faint – indeed, angry – calls out on the other side of the door, just feet from where they stand.

  ‘Samanta!’

  There now comes a rap on the door – with a stick by sound of it.

  Skelgill reacts quickly – he pulls the girl into bathroom behind him, leans in, grabs a toilet roll and positions himself in the part-closed door. He lowers his jeans to half mast (his boxer shorts preserving his modesty). Now he reaches to open the main bedroom door.

  Before him looms an agitated but immediately shocked Joost Merlyn.

  ‘Ach – I’m looking for Samanta.’ He tries to see past Skelgill into the bedroom. ‘She has taken room service – she is needed downstairs.’

  Skelgill grins inanely.

  ‘Want to check in here?’ He cocks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the bathroom. The man scowls more fiercely and makes a retching noise that Skelgill takes as a rejection. ‘You want to watch it, Mr Merlyn – you work her too hard. She’s a little gem. Lose a looker like her, you can wave goodbye to half your regulars.’

  The man staggers back on his stick. He is evidently not willing to engage in the debate.

  ‘I will try another room.’

  Skelgill gives a friendly wave of the loo roll. He pushes shut the door to the corridor and restores his jeans to their regular position. He beckons Samanta from her hiding place. They stand and listen. They can hear Joost Merlyn working his way along the landing.

  ‘You’d better scarper. We’ll wait until he’s gone round the corner. What will you say?’

  ‘That I had to go to the bathroom!’

  The man’s voice diminishes. Skelgill opens the door and peers out. He gives a nod and stands aside. Samanta performs a little curtsey as she slips past him.

  ‘Thank you for the compliment. If true.’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘In my job you have to be able to lie and tell the truth in the same breath.’

  She turns and smiles.

  ‘I only tell the truth.’ She glides away, but he catches her mischievous whisper, which may or may not refer to the imminent tea party. ‘Nice buns, Inspector.’

  14. ON THE CASE

  Friday, 4pm

  ‘Another Chelsea bun, Guv?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ain’t that what you’re eating?’

  ‘I thought it was an Eccles cake.’

  ‘I’ll get a selection, shall I, Guv?’

  Skelgill appears distracted – and even his appetite seems to lack its regular zeal; it is usually something that can be relied upon, while his moods may be more capricious, and subject to the vagaries of self-absorption – a phenomenon that DS Leyton has long given up trying to fathom. Indeed, his sergeant slips away without further comment, and Skelgill finds himself gazing somewhat vacantly about the lounge in which the ‘spread’ has been laid. Without actually counting off on his fingers, he has the impression that everyone is present – or at least they were when he arrived – in their default groups, each at a cluster of chairs around a coffee table. One, the financiers, Richard Bond and his ‘boys’, Egor Volkov and François Mouton (now recovered and groomed); two, the remaining ‘Russians’ as DS Leyton would have it, Wiktoria Adamska, with Ivanna Karenina and her honorary compatriot Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch; three, the railway tag-team, Dire Straits as they were for the pub games (and Skelgill for a moment wonders which wag came up with the names); and, four, solitary – no surprise there – Bill Faulkner with his head in his electronic novel. It also strikes him that there might have been a fifth grouping: maybe ‘missing in action’ – Mikal Mital, Jenny Hackett and the evanescent Mr Harris. Certainly, there is an empty table fit for the purpose – perhaps he just cannot see the phantoms.

  By some obscure association an image of DS Jones springs to mind – his last sight of her as she blithely ascended the winch to helicopter heaven, confidently kicking at sky and windblown snow to adjust her position. Of course – he might think of her now because she is also absent from their complement – or perhaps because he experiences some subliminal panic over the writing of the
report of what has taken place – or perhaps for other reasons, less tangible. But his thoughts – or, rather, his feelings – are interrupted by the return of his sergeant, who unwittingly keeps something of the prevailing sentiment alive.

  ‘You were right, Guv – Eccles cakes, there’s a little printed menu. I should have remembered – the missus swears by ’em. Personally, I can’t stand all those flippin’ currants – remind me of dead flies.’ Skelgill might be listening, if absently – but DS Leyton continues. ‘I was thinking, Guv – about the missus – seeing as I’ve lumbered her with all the palaver of Christmas presents and decorations – maybe I could bring her for a relaxing weekend.’

  His final words penetrate Skelgill’s daydream.

  ‘What – here?’

  Skelgill sounds incredulous – and for a moment DS Leyton looks a little crestfallen. But he mounts a defence.

  ‘This gaff is alright, Guv – I mean, I know it ain’t the Ritz – but it’s handy if we had to shoot back in case the nippers were giving the babysitter grief.’

  Skelgill pulls a face; perish the thought. What would be the point of that? But with surprising diplomacy he holds his tongue. DS Leyton gestures at the plate of assorted cakes.

  ‘The food’s decent – the rooms are tidy – and the staff are friendly.’

  Skelgill scoffs at this assertion.

  ‘Aye – so long as you don’t have owt to do with Merlyn.’

  DS Leyton appears phlegmatic.

  ‘Seeing as he knows us, Guv – might get a discount.’

  ‘Keep trying, you might get blood out of a stone, Leyton.’

  But DS Leyton shrugs off his boss’s pessimism.

  ‘Besides, in spring we’d be mainly outdoors. It’s lovely and peaceful down here in the sticks – I bet there’s nice walks. I could take her up and show her where the train crashed – and that flamin’ snake hole that Jenny Hackett fell in.’ He observes Skelgill’s scowl, and grins amiably. ‘Shake hole, Guv – ain’t it? Funny how once you get an idea into your bonce it’s hard to change track.’