‘Pity Mikal Mital didn’t employ the same philosophy.’ Skelgill’s tone is distinctly rueful.
‘Or that Jenny Hackett can’t remember anything he told her, eh, Guv?’
Skelgill turns to DS Jones.
‘Is that still the latest?’
DS Jones nods. Being author of their report she has the most comprehensive and up-to-date knowledge of the case.
‘As of her most recent medical, about a fortnight ago – I think we would have heard otherwise. She was lucky to survive – the amount of Rohypnol they gave her. And fortunate not to have suffered brain damage. She has no recall from the morning of the day she boarded the train until she came out of the coma in hospital a week later. The specialist believes the memories could be wiped permanently.’
‘Still – silver lining, Guv.’ It seems DS Leyton will put a positive spin on the news. ‘Remember she was threatening to write that article about us – Skelly’s Heroes? Hah! Least we avoided that.’
Skelgill does not appear entirely relieved. Perhaps the images that come hustling back bring with them the frustration that DS Leyton has voiced – indeed, as he graphically put it, of caged monkeys and fugitive organ grinders. And so he does not exactly appreciate what ought to be a few moments of gentle contemplation, as a skylark regales them from on high, turning little cartwheels in the balmy April breeze. Indeed, more reflective of his unease, another sound, unearthly, begins to reach their ears – at first barely tangible, a queer resonance in the air, it seems to emanate from Shake Holes cutting, the chiselled canyon below their vantage point. It becomes a whirring, whining sibilance, growing in intensity until, with a sudden whoosh and the reverberating bass throb of diesel engines the blur of a northbound express train materialises beneath them. In just a few short seconds it slips away and around the bend, passing the spot where they had become stranded. And amidst the returning silence the sweet silver song of the lark regains ascendancy.
‘Cor blimey, that was shifting, Guv.’ DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks. ‘If we’d been doing the ton like that we might have burst through the drift and made it home.’
Skelgill clicks his tongue disapprovingly and tosses away the chewed stem like it is a dart.
‘Aye – and then they’d all of them got away scot-free. We’d have hopped off at Carlisle. The rest at Edinburgh. They’d have found Mikal Mital later and put it down to an accident. No one would have thought twice about his manuscript being missing. Their plans would have worked out nicely.’
Skelgill lifts an oversized thermos flask from the cast-iron parapet of the bridge and offers to top up the tin mugs he has supplied for his subordinates on this little jaunt down memory lane. A lull in other operations has provided a small window of opportunity, and news of guilty pleas from the Crown Prosecution Service a timely reminder of all things Shake Holes. So he has cajoled his colleagues to join him for their lunch break, to fulfil his pledge to revisit the area when it is not cloaked in snow – to see it, warts and all, and to find out just how deeply he and Jenny Hackett might have sunk. So he has rallied his team and driven them the twenty minutes from Penrith to the point where the bridleway that passes Shake Holes Inn eventually intersects with the B-road, and they have come south on foot across the stretch of moorland pocked by actual shake holes – his explanation of such eliciting some reasonable degree of interest from his colleagues. “Time for a cuppa”, he had announced as their footsteps clanged onto the iron bridge. Now his sergeants acquiesce, perhaps largely out of politeness. They stand and stare and occasionally sip, as if mesmerised by the empty railway track, with its optical illusion of parallel rails that patently converge. It is DS Leyton who eventually breaks the silence by resurrecting his complaint.
‘Okay – we’ve got Ruairidh McLeod bang to rights. And that’s in order – the death of Mikal Mital was by his hand – if not by his intention. But whoever ordered it – they’re sitting pretty. Mikal Mital’s silenced. And his manuscript that might have pointed the finger – you know, Guv – I reckon it might even have gone up in smoke at the hotel.’
‘Didn’t you notice I kept checking the fires, Leyton?’
DS Leyton looks at his boss with a rather anguished grimace – that he may share the view that the irreplaceable document met such a fate.
‘Why do you reckon they took Wiktoria Adamska’s designs?’
Skelgill gives a shrug of his shoulders.
‘To make it look like Jenny Hackett had some reason to do a runner from the inn. Once they’d concluded that she knew something about Mikal Mital’s manuscript – maybe had read it and destroyed it – she became the manuscript. They had to take her. They wanted Mikal Mital silenced and they wanted to know what he’d written. When Ruairidh McLeod searched his compartment and found nothing – he suspected her – obviously he’d seen her coming out – although he denied that to us. So she was prime suspect. From then on they were thinking on the hoof. And they nearly succeeded.’
‘Except, as it turns out, Jenny Hackett wouldn’t have been much use to them, Guv.’
‘Aye – but they didn’t know that, Leyton.’
DS Jones taps her mug experimentally on the dome of a protruding rivet.
‘What do you think they were going to do with her, Guv?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, lass. Spirit her out of the country. Then something with Siberia in the title, I reckon.’
DS Leyton makes a fearful intake of breath, but DS Jones is nodding.
‘When I was reviewing the background evidence for the trial of Ruairidh McLeod I came across a classified file. That suggested in the early 1980s he was recruited by communist Czechoslovakia – there’s a widespread view that they successfully infiltrated the British trades unions. And despite that his official union activities came to an end – reading between the lines – he has been supplying information ever since. After the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Czechoslovak intelligence networks were inherited by Moscow. With Ruairidh McLeod’s job on the sleeper – when you think about it – he was mingling every night with politicians and VIPs, serving their cosy little drinking clubs and eavesdropping on their conversations. The Crown submissions include an analysis of his bank account that showed he was receiving a regular monthly income from an anonymous offshore source. Naturally he has declined to explain that.’
‘He’s declined to say anything, ain’t that right, girl?’
DS Jones turns and nods to DS Leyton.
‘It seems he decided that pleading guilty and otherwise holding his tongue is most expedient. Likewise Joost Merlyn for his role in the abduction and kidnapping.’
Now Skelgill interjects, his tone cynical.
‘Think about it, Leyton. If McLeod serves – what – eight years for the manslaughter? He’s maybe got a light at the end of the tunnel. If he’d blabbed – assuming it’s who we think it is behind it all – it would be an express train coming the other way.’
DS Leyton begins to laugh at his superior’s apposite metaphor – but it may be unintentional, and he curtails his merriment.
‘Suppose so, Guv – they could get at him inside, an’ all. He probably ain’t got no choice but to keep his trap shut about his handlers.’ DS Leyton scrambles a curse in frustration. ‘But surely that was Ivanna Karenina calling the shots – on the train – at the hotel? And remember you said there was some female speaking Russian that night?’
Skelgill nods broodingly.
‘She was smart. Kept her head down. Manipulated those around her.’ He inhales and folds his arms and gazes out into the middle distance, undistracted by a splendid red admiral that purposefully crosses his line of sight. ‘Wiktoria Adamska must have known that it was just a matter of time before her husband sent his private helicopter. Naturally, she’d confide in her ‘best pal’ Ivanna. They’d discuss how the pair of them could hop it – and Ivanna Karenina would suggest taking her stooge Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch – make it look completely above board. Just the three of them, VIPs makin
g a casual exit – lording it while the minions loaded their luggage. What could be more normal?’
DS Leyton is evidently reminded of the moment that Skelgill took off through the snow wearing his unsuitable slippers.
‘Guv – what made you think there was something wrong with the suitcase? If they’d got that on board – and lifted off – we’d have been none the wiser. And we’d have Jenny Hackett listed as a missing person. End of.’
Skelgill is shaking his head.
‘Hard to say, Leyton. They didn’t foresee that a theft from Wiktoria Adamska meant we’d clock her belongings. And they didn’t bank on us rubber-necking their unannounced departure. McLeod and the pilot started arguing about the payload. Why would there be a weight problem if that case contained a couple of fur coats? It just triggered a whole avalanche of ideas. Remember you’d just mentioned the tunnel – I suppose subconsciously I’d considered there being a secret hiding place. And I’d been in the cellar – you know, I realised later I thought I smelt her perfume – they’d smashed a bottle of violet liqueur. I don’t know if that were to mask her scent in case a search dog were brought in at a later date – or if it were just an accident when they heaved the shelving unit back in front of the concealed hatch.’
This aspect of Skelgill’s account raises a question in DS Jones’s mind.
‘Obviously I wasn’t there for long, Guv. At what point do you think they enlisted Joost Merlyn? There can’t have been any premeditation about his involvement.’
Skelgill contemplates his answer for a few moments.
‘Let’s assume one of the few truths Ruairidh McLeod told us was Jenny Hackett’s suggestion that she was up to something. It might have just been the drink talking – but it spooked them. If they thought she had the manuscript, or knew of its contents, and that she were about to do a bunk – they had to stop her, and quick. So they used her ‘plan’ as a cover story to hoodwink us. She accepted one cocktail too many and got no further than falling unconscious in her own bed. At that point they were going to struggle without Merlyn’s cooperation. You saw his reaction to Wiktoria Adamska’s generosity – so when Ruairidh McLeod palmed him a couple of grand in unmarked banknotes he’d be putty in their hands. I reckon what Samanta overheard in the early hours was Ruairidh McLeod reporting back to Ivanna Karenina. McLeod and Merlyn had staged the getaway and moved Jenny Hackett to the cellar. Merlyn kept guard overnight – then at some time in the early morning they transferred her up through the tunnel to the bath house.’
DS Jones is nodding.
‘Do you believe Joost Merlyn’s claim that he acted solely on Ruairidh McLeod’s instructions – and was unaware of anyone else giving the orders?’
‘That may have happened in practice – but he must have guessed there was more to it – when he saw that the suitcase was going in the chopper and Ruairidh McLeod was being left behind.’
‘Until you kyboshed that, Guv. For a minute, I thought you’d gone mad. Instead you saved the day!’
Skelgill makes a self-deprecating growl in his throat.
‘Leyton, you seem to be forgetting our secret service chums.’
‘Well – fair enough, Guv – they were on their guard, and all credit to ’em – but I don’t reckon they were any the wiser when that chopper turned up. I had a chinwag with Bond afterwards, he’d downed a couple of large Scotches to calm his nerves – and he admitted he had no clue that Faulkner was a US agent. And I reckon that was mutual. Then Bond started getting all competitive, saying as how if he hadn’t camouflaged himself in the snow we’d all be six feet under. Faulkner was biting his lip – until Bond called his efforts with that old gun of Merlyn’s something like “lucky hillbilly pot-shots” – and he got a bit uppity about that. Only time I saw him lose his rag. Can’t say as I blame him. They’re alright, really, ain’t they, the Yanks?’
DS Leyton has become absorbed in his little monologue – and now he glances about to see a perplexed Skelgill, and DS Jones smiling rather more patiently. Thus he addresses her.
‘Imagine that, eh, girl – there’s us quietly heading home for Christmas – little did we know we’d got a bunch of bandits out to get poor old Mikal Mital – and MI5 and the CIA riding shotgun!’
DS Jones nods encouragingly.
‘I don’t suppose we’ll find out exactly what the intelligence agencies were doing – covertly shadowing him or intending to intervene at some point. I guess it’s possible they were hoping to glean information before Mikal Mital made it public – something that would have enabled an arrest or a sanction against a target before they took evasive action.’ She gives a shake of her hair with its glinting golden highlights and lifts her face to the sun, momentarily closing her large hazel eyes. ‘Notice how they’ve disappeared into the ether. I suspect that’s why the CPS are content with the guilty pleas. If they’d had to call Richard Bond and Bill Faulkner as witnesses – that would be their cover blown and details of their operations laid bare.’ She glances at Skelgill. ‘Guv – remember I thought the Chief was keeping her cards close to her chest – about the bigger picture? In the final analysis, Ivanna Karenina is probably at best a middle-sized cog in the machine. If the Russian government were ultimately behind the plan, our security services would need totally compelling evidence before they could act.’
Skelgill screws up his features; it is a face of pessimism.
‘Even when you catch the Russians red-handed they’ve got a dozen excuses up their sleeve.’
DS Leyton nods dejectedly – but he offers a small crumb of comfort.
‘I thought the chopper pilot had history in the GRU? That’s Russian military intelligence, Guv.’
‘You may have noticed, Leyton, that Bond didn’t give us the opportunity to interview him. It would have been nice to know if he were prepared to exonerate Adamski Corporation. As things stand it’s too easy for the Russians to claim it’s the work of rogue oligarchs. Pound to a penny you’re right, Leyton – that the goon was a plant and Adamski knew nowt about it. If you were going to infiltrate a billionaire’s empire, a good place to start would be his private helicopter pilot.’
DS Leyton exhales forcefully, his rubbery lips vibrating.
‘No wonder we couldn’t get our heads round what was going on – when half the people weren’t what they seemed. I mean – take the ‘Mr Harris’ malarkey. What are you supposed to think when a railway employee tells you he’s checked someone in – shows you the manifest – and in fact he’s lying through his teeth?’
Skelgill is nodding, his features grim.
‘We should have trusted the observable facts. There was no independent evidence that a Mr Harris got on the train – and none that he left it. Even McLeod couldn’t describe him! He was never there.’
DS Jones has something to add on this topic.
‘Our IT guys believe the booking system was hacked and places reallocated so that the compartment interconnecting with Mikal Mital’s was left empty – but reserved for a ‘Mr Harris’. It was a clever ploy. It meant Ruairidh McLeod could pass to and fro with impunity. Again – it supports the theory of a state actor, with the technical resources to do something like that.’
DS Leyton is listening to his colleague with renewed fascination.
‘So – what do you reckon happened, exactly – to Mikal Mital?’
DS Jones glances at Skelgill – but he seems content for her to continue with her explanation.
‘Well – what he has admitted to – in effect, by pleading guilty – is that he poisoned Mikal Mital with Rohypnol. He might have wiped his fingerprints from the blister pack, but he left traces of DNA. On that basis he probably dissolved the tablets in a malt whisky – presumably when Jenny Hackett procured nightcaps for her and Mikal Mital. His plan was to enter the cabin at some point before the train was due in at Edinburgh, take the manuscript and pass it on to Ivanna Karenina. But instead there was the storm and the snowdrift – and we discovered Mikal Mital – too soon. I imagine whil
e we were organising the evacuation he went back into the compartment and realised the manuscript was gone. It might also have been a shock to find Mikal Mital dead. Analysis of chemical residue left on the packaging indicates that the tablets were much stronger than the standard dose – in other words, intended to kill. But Ruairidh McLeod didn’t need to know that – as has been proven, he is considered dispensable. He tried to make it look like Mikal Mital took the pills of his own volition. He wiped the empty blister pack, and maybe wrapped a tissue around the water bottle to open it, and poured half away and left it with its top off.’ DS Jones glances rather mischievously at Skelgill. ‘Except you noticed it had been done left-handed, Guv!’
‘Aye – too late to make much difference. That was just something that was bugging me but not registering. I only really spotted it when I looked at your photographs when we were reviewing the evidence. He made ticks left-handed – he played darts left-handed – he even dunked his biscuits left-handed.’
DS Leyton, who has been least involved with the process to which Skelgill refers, sniffs the cool air rather like an inquisitive rabbit.
‘When do you reckon they hatched the plot? I mean – in the first place – to eliminate Mikal Mital.’
Again Skelgill looks to DS Jones to supply a rejoinder.
‘You’ve been dealing with the spooks, lass.’
DS Jones places her mug carefully on the parapet and leans her elbows on the flaking iron surface, and then rests her chin on her intertwined fingers. She gazes out over the cutting.
‘Well – this is their theory. You’ll recall Mikal Mital was originally from Prague? There’s the possibility that he came to the West as an agent in the first instance – I mean working for the communists. Then maybe the Americans turned him. That would have made him a target for Moscow. To add insult to injury he began to investigate the money laundering activities of the Russian billionaires’ cartel. Perhaps they’d been on his tracks for some time – years even. But when it looked like he was preparing to expose them to the world’s media – ready to publish everything he’d got – they decided to move. The financial conference in Edinburgh was widely advertised, and as Jenny Hackett pointed out the jungle drums were thick with rumours. So they would have had time to make preparations. It’s quite probable that to intercept him on the sleeper was just one of several plans that were activated. But there was the chink in their armour: while they had a longstanding agent perfectly placed, when it came to playing assassin he was an amateur. The plan depended upon the train getting smoothly to Edinburgh. But we crashed.’
Murder at Shake Holes Page 24