‘Wait!’
Simultaneously the two sergeants start, such is Skelgill’s sudden cry. Raising a finger as though he might be testing the wind, his features are contorted with the anticipation of an impending thunderbolt.
‘What is it, Guv?’
It is DS Leyton who poses the question, but Skelgill addresses his response to his female colleague.
‘Jones – when you went into Mikal Mital’s cabin with the guard – to wake him, to evacuate him – the body was in bed, aye?’
‘Aha.’
‘So how come when the train hit the snowdrift we all ended up on the floor?’ Now Skelgill does look at DS Leyton. ‘Leastways – folk like you who were in the bottom bunk without the safety strap.’
Now his associates share his expression of puzzlement. After a few moments DS Jones interrupts the collective silence.
‘Can I make a suggestion?’
‘Aye.’
‘Someone else went into his compartment – looking for the manuscript. To search under the bunk they would need to move the body. The obvious thing to do is to lift him back onto the bed. And then maybe straighten the covers as though everything were untouched.’
Both Skelgill and DS Leyton seem to be nodding in agreement, but it is the former that speaks.
‘When I left our compartment to speak with the driver – I came upon Richard Bond – he was half naked and hanging out of the door – like he was looking under the train. He made up some story about assessing the conditions.’
Now DS Jones has a further suggestion.
‘Given that MI5 were on Mikal Mital’s trail – it’s quite likely that he went to check on him. But once he was dead – there was nothing to be done. Richard Bond would have assumed foul play and wouldn’t have wanted to show his hand. If he was aware of the manuscript, perhaps he was hoping to recover it – but he was too late. It fits the theory that it was stolen in the period between Mikal Mital retiring and the collision with the snowdrift.’
Now DS Leyton chips in.
‘Which brings us back to Jenny Hackett. And it’s obviously what someone else believed – since they shoved her in that there pit of yours, Guv.’
Skelgill groans and rather desperately swigs the last of his tea and drops the mug into his rucksack, along with the flask – and he proffers the mouth of the bag for his colleagues to do likewise.
‘Speaking of the pit, Leyton – let’s get this done.’
‘Whoa – I didn’t realise you were serious about going all the way, Guv.’
‘Leyton, we’ll have no couch potato talk. Besides, didn’t you come up here with your better half?’
Now DS Leyton looks somewhat dismayed.
‘Stone the crows, Guv – that weekend break! I told the missus I’d book it – but you know how these things slip your mind?’
DS Jones responds supportively to her colleague’s predicament.
‘Actually, I was looking at their website. It says the inn is under new management. I think it has been closed, and only reopened at the end of March.’
DS Leyton appears relieved, but Skelgill exhales rather scornfully.
‘It’ll take a few bob to put that place right. That miserly old git was milking it for all it was worth.’
DS Jones is more optimistic.
‘It has fantastic potential – you can’t buy that kind of history.’
And DS Leyton is ready with a quip.
‘Or snake holes, eh, Guv?’
‘Very funny, Leyton.’ Skelgill grins somewhat grudgingly as he swings his rucksack onto his shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s roll.’
‘Get to the bottom of it, you might say, Guv?’
‘Aye – have a deek – something like that.’
For Skelgill, who made the trek between the inn and the train several times, and other diversions through the forest, the lie of the land feels familiar, if strangely luxuriant with fresh green spring growth dripping from myriad branch tips and patches of celandine and dog violets adorning the woodland path; the pine-infused air is resonant with bird calls and the drone of insects. His colleagues, lulled into a pleasant state of abstraction, are both surprised when Skelgill veers off the bridleway and announces the location – Jenny’s Hole.
‘It seemed much further than this, Guv. You sure it’s the same one?’
‘Leyton, you were towing a sledge in a blizzard in pitch darkness.’
‘That’s true enough – it did feel like it were going on for ever.’
Skelgill’s colleagues join him at the rim of the shake hole. It is similar to several they have already inspected. Vegetation, a mixture of heather, bilberry, rush and moorland grasses and mosses spills over its rim and covers its sides and floor. It is probably eight feet at its deepest; there is something of a collapse on one side, and several large moraine boulders lie in the base, they may have been rolled there long ago, cleared from the track. Skelgill is grimacing. He looks like he might be disappointed, that there was not a thirty-foot shaft above which he was suspended only by the friction of the snow during his daring rescue.
‘What’s up, Guv?’
Skelgill gives a downward jerk of his head.
‘Look at that – some donnat’s dumped some rubbish. Disgraceful.’
His tone is indignant – and before his colleagues can dissuade him he drops his rucksack, steps over the edge and scrambles down the side of the shake hole, gripping fistfuls of wiry heather to control his descent.
‘Cor blimey, Guv – take it easy! What if we can’t get you out?’
‘Phone MI5 and ask for Bond.’
Skelgill has reached the bottom, and he drops to one knee and delves into a crevice between two of the rocks. With a grunt he extracts something roughly rectangular, about six inches by nine, made of off-white plastic, and considerably stained. As he holds it out at arm’s length to inspect it he realises that the stains are in fact a printed pattern of faded pink lipstick kisses, and simultaneously DS Jones identifies the item.
‘I think it’s a woman’s toiletries bag, Guv.’
But Skelgill does not appear to be listening. His face is curiously deadpan. The item – the bag – is heavy and bulging – and the closure not surprisingly rusted. Skelgill – to the consternation of his colleagues – bites at the zipper and gives a jerk of his head – subsequently spitting to one side but thankfully not at the expense of any teeth. On his haunches and with the bag wedged against one boot he prises out its contents. It is a thick sheaf of papers that have been bent over into half their size.
Skelgill presses open the ream on his thigh and stares at the uppermost page. For some moments he does not blink – nor move – nor even seem to be breathing. DS Leyton can hold his tongue no longer.
‘Guv, what is it?’
Even now Skelgill does not immediately respond. It is several more seconds before he looks up at his colleagues. He squints, sunbeams illuminating his awed expression.
‘Clever woman.’
‘Come again, Guv?’
‘Never underestimate a journalist – isn’t that what I always say, Leyton?’
‘Beats me, Guv – I’m confused.’
Skelgill rises to his feet and brandishes the bundle of papers like a town crier about to deliver a proclamation. And indeed he reads aloud.
‘“Revealed: The World’s Top 100 Kleptocrats – by Professor M. Mital.’”
Skelgill’s subordinates both squat at the rim of the shake hole to get a better look. Skelgill turns to address them.
‘When he fell asleep she must have ‘borrowed’ it. The guard was on the prowl so she hid it in the train toilet. I reckon she was just planning to read it. Then we crashed. There was no opportunity to return it. Then she hears he’s dead – she must have suspected he was poisoned. She should have given it to us – but she needed the scoop. Before we evacuated the train she went to the loo – took her wash-bag, slipped it inside her suit. Then it begins to dawn on her that it’s seriously hot property. So she j
ettisoned it – beneath the snow out of everyone’s sight – a perfect hiding place. Who would think she’d jump in here deliberately?’
‘You did, Guv.’
Skelgill stares for a few seconds at his sergeant, but is unable to come up with a rejoinder that either claims some credit or refutes the accuracy of the statement. The fact is they have the manuscript.
‘Here.’
Skelgill passes the document and the wash-bag up to DS Jones, and then switches his reach to DS Leyton, who gets a fireman’s grip on his boss, digs in his heels and hauls him with some imprecation on both their parts up the steep-sided bank. They each spend a few moments brushing themselves down, before turning their attention to DS Jones, who is resting on one knee and studiously examining their prize – and making small gasps of amazement.
‘Steady on, girl – you’ll be hyperventilating!’
DS Jones shakes her head and looks up at her colleagues.
‘This is dynamite. You should see the names in the index – pretty much everybody the CPS might be interested in.’
‘A for Adamski?’
But DS Jones shakes her head. ‘No mention of Adamski – or Adamska, come to that.’ She flashes a grin. ‘But there is B for Bogblokinov. And a sub-section dedicated to a list of his lieutenants.’
DS Leyton exchanges a high-five with his colleague – but Skelgill is looking on more severely. He retrieves his rucksack from the heather and unfastens the flap.
‘Stick it in here – let’s not lose it for a second time. Knowing our luck there’ll be a tornado any minute. We need a secure collection and copies put into safe keeping.’
While DS Jones carefully packs away the precious cargo, Skelgill takes out his mobile from his back pocket. But now he curses with frustration.
‘I’ve got no signal.’
A frowning DS Leyton is interrogating his own phone. ‘Same here, Guv.’
They both look expectantly at DS Jones – who is now checking hers. But she shakes her head.
DS Leyton splutters.
‘Fat lot of good that would have done us when we were stranded here – even if the network had come back on.’
‘Aye – but they’ll have the landline working down at the inn. It’s the nearest point by road, anyhow.’ Skelgill consults the time on his screen and compares it to his wristwatch. ‘Besides – they’re open. This calls for a celebration. Even if it is a keg palace.’
There are nods of agreement and the trio automatically begin to move away downhill. They leave one another to their own thoughts for a few minutes, until DS Leyton suddenly chimes in with an observation.
‘You were never comfortable with Jenny Hackett being the bad apple, Guv.’
Skelgill shakes his head contemplatively.
‘I reckon she boxed herself into a corner – probably sensed the danger she was in – simply by having appeared to have read the manuscript. We maybe convinced ourselves she was kicking up dust – but actually she was pretty honest with us. I’m sure she would have told us soon enough – but they didn’t give her chance. Then it didn’t stack up – that she’d done a runner. I mean, just like with Harris – where was the evidence? Not one single footprint in the snow. She left behind her cigarettes – and her cosmetics.’ Skelgill glances at DS Jones, as if for confirmation that the latter of these classes of item would be as essential as the former. ‘But there was something else – remember what the train driver, Laura Wilson said? She said she liked her.’
Skelgill’s exposition – particularly his closing phrase and its unspoken corollary – seems to strike a chord with his colleagues, and they nod in earnest agreement. But now they emerge from the woodland fringe and Shake Holes Inn heaves into view – and its recent makeover wins their appreciation. The formerly cracked and peeling façade has been repaired and repainted and what were garish black window surrounds are picked out in a more tasteful Lakeland pastel teal. The sign has been restored – now there can be no doubt that it is Shake and not Snake Holes Inn as DS Leyton had first opined. Beneath the portico stand potted lollipop bay trees, and the main door is open in a welcoming fashion. They enter to brighter lighting, scented gardenias in vases and a fresh oatmeal colour scheme that has driven out the oppressive burgundy, contrasting pleasantly with the old beams and on the walls the traditional prints, maps and paintings. It is the time of day between departures and arrivals – so perhaps not surprisingly the reception desk is temporarily unattended. Undaunted, Skelgill leads them towards the snug bar and the pleasing strains of a current pop hit – but on the threshold he stops dead in his tracks. DS Leyton almost collides with him.
‘What is it, Guv?’
Skelgill is staring at a Jennings handpump.
‘First the manuscript – now real ale.’
And, like London buses, there follows a third revelation. Evidently hearing their voices, a young woman appears from the back bar area. The unfamiliar suddenly becomes familiar – it is Samanta. Superficially she looks different, with much shorter, perhaps expensively styled hair and a chic tailored barista’s outfit in grey and black. On her breast a badge bears her name and the title, ‘Client Services Director’. She seems remarkably unfazed by their unheralded appearance.
‘Inspector. Sergeants. Welcome. So nice to see you – please, be comfortable – I shall take your orders. Perhaps I can guess yours, Inspector?’
Skelgill grins rather self-consciously as they install themselves at a table beside the window. Samanta attends patiently.
‘There’s been a few changes.’ Skelgill casts about, and then indicates her badge. ‘Looks like congratulations are in order.’
‘Thank you. You know Mrs Hobhouse – from Ulphathwaite? She helped you, of course.’ She flashes a friendly glance at DS Jones. ‘She bought the entire property – Mr Merlyn was just the leaseholder. She is making a big investment – to expand the equestrian side – since this was a coaching inn? And we have plans being drawn up to reopen the mineral spring and develop a spa. Mrs Hobhouse is very enthusiastic about the project.’
Skelgill seems to feel he ought to make a further observation – but with characteristic inelegance his words do not entirely come out as he might intend.
‘You’ve fallen on your feet, lass. But so has she, mind.’
Samanta does not seem troubled by his rustic language, though her cheeks seem to gain a hint of colour. She reacts quickly to deflect attention.
‘There is another surprise.’
And she turns towards the bar counter and calls out in a foreign language. There comes an answering shout – a male voice. And who should appear but the instantly recognisable big-boned crew-cut blond Egor Volkov – formerly of Richard Bond’s employ (although that firm was surely an artifice of doubtful existence). He wears smart black denims and a white polo shirt embroidered with a logo of a prancing horse and the words, Shake Holes Inn. He strides across and bows his head dutifully to acknowledge the three detectives in turn. DS Leyton is unabashed in raising a question that has sprung to mind.
‘So – have you pair settled down – you’re a couple?’
They exchange amused glances – and simultaneously burst out laughing. But before Samanta can provide an answer, there is a further interruption. From behind them arrives Egor’s erstwhile colleague – François – wearing the same casual corporate uniform. He slides between the standing pair and links arms with each of them, smiling in his easy Mediterranean manner.
‘You might say it is a ménage à trois – Samanta keeps us straight.’
His words elicit a ripple of polite laughter – but Samanta now evidently pulls rank and makes as if to usher the two men back to their duties.
‘Inspector – we shall leave you in peace to get settled. We can catch up later? Will you be eating lunch?’ She indicates with a wave of one hand. ‘The blackboard – above the bar. We have a blend of local and European dishes. It is on the house, of course!’
She shepherds away the two men, and turns to lo
ok back over her shoulder.
‘I shall serve your drinks. Inspector – a pint of Jennings while your colleagues decide?’
Skelgill gives a discreet nod of approval. DS Leyton leans to his superior and mutters under his breath.
‘I didn’t quite get the gist of that, Guv.’
‘Live and let live, Leyton.’
‘Cor blimey – I was just trying to work out if romance was in the air, Guv.’
DS Jones suddenly chuckles.
‘Now’s your chance – see?’ And she reaches to pluck a leaflet from a dispenser on the adjacent windowsill. She displays it and reads aloud. ‘“Inquire about our Romantic Spring Breaks.”’
DS Leyton looks rather uncomfortable. But DS Jones begins to rise from her seat.
‘I’ll ask for you – besides, I’d better make that phone call.’
She glances at Skelgill, who nods in agreement, his expression more sober. At the counter Samanta is carefully dispensing his cask ale, taking great pains to fill the glass to its brim. DS Jones explains about the landline, and Samanta offers to accompany her to reception in a few moments. While she is waiting, DS Jones produces the leaflet.
‘And we have another request.’
Samanta beams.
‘Of course! We can arrange our best room – the four-poster.’ She leans over conspiratorially. ‘The Inspector – he is an attractive man, yes? A little crazy, no?’
‘Er – well, actually –’
***
Murder at Shake Holes Page 25