Skelgill is looking pensive.
‘The old boy didn’t sound local – more Tyke, I reckon.’
‘He’s an ex-miner, Guv – back in the day worked at Haig pit at Whitehaven – maybe he moved from the Yorkshire coalfield.’
Skelgill casts about the vicinity.
‘It’s a decent enough area. Decent folk hereabouts.’
DS Leyton understands the contradiction that troubles his superior.
‘Maybe DI Smart was right, Guv – what he said.’
Skelgill scowls – as he recalls it, much of DI Smart’s terse diatribe was in poor taste.
‘Such as?’
‘The cuckoo business, Guv – that’s what they’re calling it – cuckooing.’
Not wanting to show his ignorance, Skelgill’s expression darkens further. But his sergeant does his best to elaborate without sounding patronising.
‘This morning – the Chief organised a briefing on Operation Wirecutter – by DS Eve. She explained how the gang sends out their courier – their drugs mule – to live in a targeted area. He muscles in on a vulnerable person – local druggie, someone with learning difficulties – disabled – dementia.’ DS Leyton glances across meaningfully at Skelgill, but he is gazing up out of the passenger window, seemingly mesmerised by the shifting sky. ‘He takes control of their gaff – like a cuckoo in the nest. Means he can live incognito – then starts the business – smuggling drugs into the area, and siphoning cash out.’
Skelgill is paying more attention than his manner suggests.
‘So how did he find our Mr Booth?’
DS Leyton seems to retract his head into his broad shoulders, his jowls rucking up.
‘Dunno, Guv – maybe he scouted around? Noticed the care worker’s car. Then just blagged his way in. Nice to see you, uncle. The poor old geezer wouldn’t know any better. He’s defenceless, ain’t he?’
Skelgill is becoming impatient. He seems to reject this hypothesis.
‘We need something concrete, Leyton.’
‘I noticed DS Wythenshawe had a sports bag, Guv. They must have grabbed all the good stuff. Got there before us.’
Skelgill’s condition is not mollified by the implication that they have missed the boat (given his role in delaying his sergeant). If he is reading correctly the straws in the wind, in his absence DS Leyton had been detailed to the local aspect of the investigation. Now they are faced with the prospect of having to beg for scraps from DI Smart. He shifts uneasily in his seat – the movement reminds him of an object in his pocket. He remembers he has the apples – one each side. With some difficulty in the cramped interior of the car he pulls them out.
‘Cox’s, Leyton?’
DS Leyton returns a doubtful glance.
‘What if they’ve been spiked, Guv? What if that old geezer’s a serial killer on the sly?’
Skelgill scowls; he examines the fruit in his left hand. Then he takes a substantial bite.
‘Leyton – an apple a day keeps the doctor away – did you know that?’
5. POLICE HQ
Monday, mid afternoon
Skelgill slips inconspicuously into the canteen behind a group of chattering admin staff. Across at an angle he spies DS Jones. He is struck by her youthful demeanour, the trim athletic figure, her legs crossed at the ankles. She wears new-looking white trainers; sockless it appears, going by the band of bare skin below the hem of pale blue faded jeans, and a tailored white polo shirt. She sits beneath a window in a patch of sunlight that creates a halo effect and makes her naturally streaked hair seem blonder than he would recall if asked to describe it – and longer than he remembers. Her complexion is an even tan suggestive of plenty of time out of doors. Her features are strong and composed, her lips full, pursed thoughtfully as she leans over a coffee and a printed report.
‘Swotting for your inspector’s exams?’
‘Oh – hi, Guv.’ Despite his flippant approach she looks a little apprehensive. She gives a nervous laugh and closes the file. There is an emblem on the cover that indicates it is the property of Greater Manchester Police. ‘I thought you were supposed to be off today. Did the funeral go okay?’
Whether or not Skelgill notices the small diversionary tactic he finds her tone sympathetic and hard to resist. He shrugs nonchalantly.
‘Usual family affair. One punch-up. One gate crasher. One attempted fraud.’
Now she is uncertain how serious he is being.
‘Fraud, Guv? You mean – someone trying to defeat the reading of the will?’
Skelgill seems distracted for a moment. He hesitates – and then suddenly a thought strikes him.
‘You don’t need a car?’ But instantly he shakes his head and tuts self-reproachfully. ‘No – forget it – you’re just getting a new one.’
DS Jones looks both perplexed and slightly amused. Her expression serves to elicit a confession.
‘I need to offload a little motor. Decent nick – low mileage. Before my bank manager finds out what I’ve done.’
DS Jones regards him evenly.
‘Was that why you were at the car dealership in Workington, Guv?’
Skelgill makes a choking sound.
‘You’re kidding – you know what they say, no deal’s better than a bad deal.’ He is still standing, and puts his hands on his hips and stares out of the window. ‘There was a connection – with the funeral – it’s a long story.’
But he makes it clear through his facial contortions that he does not want to undergo the agony of repeating it. DS Jones helpfully moves the conversation forward.
‘Actually, Guv – talking of cars – I literally just got a response from Manchester about the black BMW.’ She places a palm on her mobile to indicate the source. ‘I was going to review it and let you know once I’d finished reading this report.’
With delicate taps of her neatly manicured fingers she manipulates the screen and offers the phone to Skelgill. But he declines with a rather dismissive hand gesture and pulls out the chair opposite her. DS Jones patiently reads the message herself; she makes a little expiration of breath – a mild exclamation – and then puts down the device.
‘The local Altrincham station located the owner – Bulkington – the company director. He’s in London for two days – he drove down this morning and the car is parked in a private compound where they’ve got number plate recognition. We’ve had that checked and it corroborates. The guy himself has no criminal record; a few speeding offences, all but one expired.’ DS Jones widens her eyes as a precursor to her conclusion. ‘The car you saw, Guv – a similar model – the number plate must be cloned.’
Skelgill is listening to her with apparent displeasure. He does not comment and it is left to DS Jones to prompt him.
‘What brought it to your attention, Guv?’
Skelgill looks increasingly conflicted. She might guess he is trying to decide how candid to be.
‘The motor looked new. The plate’s what – six years old now?’
‘Aha.’
In DS Jones’s intonation there is a polite request for more details. But Skelgill is mulling over what he has witnessed. His cousin Marty Graham seems to be doing rather well out of a modest business – certainly if his car and his cufflinks are anything to go by. However there is no law against buying undervalued family saloons and selling them for more than they are worth. But – an elusive duo in a hi-performance coupé with a cloned number plate? Certainly an offence is committed there; never mind the suspicious behaviour. But how would he track down a cloned car – one that in his estimation will already have had its plates switched again. Put his cousin in thumbscrews? That would be DI Smart’s modus operandi – an approach that elicits unreliable answers, those that the victim thinks his captors want to hear. He recalls Marty Graham’s fanciful claim that Mouse was in the hunt for old Ernie’s Ford Fiesta. Was that a tactic of outrageous distraction? Or would it in fact explain Mouse’s unexpected altruism towards Skelgill’s great aunt? He grimace
s. Too many imponderables are forming an unruly queue. He sighs. Against his instincts for justice he realises the best strategy might be to park this information right now.
DS Jones chooses to interpret his reaction as one of lethargy.
‘Do you want me to follow it up, Guv?’
Skelgill folds his arms. The family connection raises a conflict of interest. As yet he has not mentioned this – he merely asked for a registration number check. He is uncharacteristically vague.
‘Leave it with me – I’ll type something up.’
‘Sure, Guv.’
DS Jones senses his unease and slides the mobile phone aside to indicate her compliance. Skelgill seems to be watching her closely – he might well look for suspicion, for it would not be the first time he has employed the defence, “I’ll type something up” – a blatant smokescreen for a man who would misspell “qwerty”. However, a reaction of sorts he does observe – and it is nuanced. First there is perhaps disappointment – but this is quickly replaced by a hint of trepidation in her eyes – and then (the expression that prevails) a look that he knows to be feigned pleasantry. But before he can question the cause of this reaction, the answer comes from behind him, a grating Manchester-accented voice. DI Smart.
‘Sorry to break up your little tête-a-tête, Skel.’ The tone is anything but sorry, more gleeful.
Skelgill remains seated with his elbows upon the table, and only partially turns his head, as if to convey that the intrusion is unwelcome.
‘What’s up, Smart?’
DI Smart seems to sense that their discomfort will intensify the longer he delays his reply. With an exaggerated movement he lifts his left arm to display his ostentatious wristwatch.
‘We’re just about to have a conference call with Manchester – on Wirecutter.’ He leers salaciously at DS Jones, who lowers her gaze. ‘We can’t do that without our little local expert.’
DS Jones flashes a sheepish glance at Skelgill and begins to rise and gather together her things. Skelgill notices she briefly crosses the fingers of her left hand. A mayday? An apology? But he understands that she faces DI Smart, and to convey her feelings more directly would not be in her interest. She gives a nervous cough.
‘The traffic unit have promised me an answer on that car – I’ll chase them up and get back to you before close of play, Guv.’
Skelgill nods. There is a certain small victory in that she has referred to him as ‘Guv’ – a subtlety that is probably not lost on DI Smart. However, as DS Jones steps past him and continues towards the exit, DI Smart loiters and gives Skelgill what he obviously intends to be a consolation pat on the shoulder. He cackles triumphantly.
‘Think of it as a wife-swap, cock.’
*
On the threshold of his office Skelgill stops dead in his tracks.
Hands on hips, raven tresses cascading down her spine, a woman stands perusing the map of the Lake District on his wall. Of course, it does not take the glance at the tight-fitting leather trousers for Skelgill to recognise her. Although he has approached quietly – and she does not move – it is she that speaks first.
‘I’m just trying to decide if I’m agoraphobic.’
When Skelgill might have expected a Manchester or at least North West accent, he is caught unawares by what is a rather cultured voice, husky, with southern vowels. And also that she seems to know it is he.
‘Happen you’ll get on fine with Leyton – he’s been here above seven years and he’s still spooked every time he sets foot on the fell.’
The woman turns and regales him with a friendly smile – her manner is amenable, less defiant than their earlier encounter. But he is reminded of the large dark eyes set in the bold Mediterranean features – and he concentrates on holding her gaze when his own might otherwise be tempted to explore. She wears a sleeveless top and the dark skin extends to her bare arms and shoulders. Now she moves – as if to admit him to his space – and he notices her bolero jacket is wrapped around the chair beneath the window where DS Jones normally sits. She settles down and crosses her legs, and slides her hands together between her thighs.
‘It was a little disingenuous of DI Smart to suggest that the so-called cuckoo had flown the nest.’
Skelgill rounds his desk and takes his seat. His expression, to the uninitiated, might suggest a moment of deep pondering – but his regular team would recognise it as affected – clearly he is in the dark. Whether DS Eve detects this, it is impossible to determine – but she seems to have no desire to make him feel awkward. She continues.
‘Carted out on a stretcher was more accurate.’
Skelgill nods – some confidence returns.
‘And you reckon it were a case of this cuckooing business?’
She smiles again – as if amused by his discomfort with the unfamiliar term.
‘I’ve just read the report on his belongings. According to his ID he is a 19-year-old undergraduate – as we speak, propping up the union bar at Manchester Metropolitan.’
Skelgill frowns. But he gets the gist.
‘So he was using a stolen student card?’
‘It’s a popular strategy. No one bats an eyelid – a student moving here and there – it’s what they do. And they travel free on public transport. No transactions. They go under the radar.’
‘And this kid – this cuckoo?’
‘Mule would be just as accurate. Courier. Runner. If he was doing what we think he was doing – he was probably making three return trips a week between Workington and Manchester. Drugs into the Lakes, cash out. The former hidden where the sun doesn’t shine.’
Skelgill looks at her with a mixture of alarm and distaste. But he is long enough in the tooth to remind himself there is no room for such sentiments in his job, however alien the territory. He stiffens his resolve.
‘I doubt he’s a relative of the old fellow – Mr Booth – we’d know it by now.’
DS Eve seems moved by a wave of pathos. She closes her eyes momentarily.
‘He was a ripe target.’
‘Aye – except I wonder how they found him.’
Implicit in Skelgill’s statement is an appeal to her experience – an old man suffering from dementia living in a quiet if downmarket suburb does not openly advertise his services to the narcotics trade. And to his mind, DS Leyton’s suggestion of targeting the care worker’s vehicle does not sound plausible.
‘Typically they’ll turn up at the local branch of Alcoholics Anonymous – or a drugs rehabilitation group. The low-hanging fruit of the neighbourhood. A drug addict with a council flat is the ideal victim – someone already addicted is easier to gain control over. And no prying from a penny-pinching private landlord.’
Skelgill observes her in silence. He is impressed by her calm, collected manner. He has been wondering about her age. He realises now she must be older than him – maybe around the forty-mark – although if he were pressed he would honestly only risk plumping for a band five years either side. She displays what may be wedding and engagement rings – but not on her ring finger. Technically off duty today he is still playing catch-up. He has not been officially apprised of just what is going on with the teams. A snatched word in passing with George the desk sergeant – who at the fulcrum of the building is generally in the know – suggests that sergeants Jones and Eve are assigned to be shared on this case between inspectors Smart and Skelgill. The logic being that DS Jones is a Cumbrian girl and – at twenty-six – is in touch with local youth culture – while DS Eve, with her metropolitan background, is better equipped to identify ‘bigger picture’ issues that may appear of limited significance to the provincial detectives. Or maybe – as a grinning George declared, “The Chief’s just decided to put the cat among the pigeons, eh Skelly, lad?”
As Skelgill contemplates this notion, he cannot but admit that – in what she has had to say – she seems the consummate professional. This is somewhat at odds with the siren-like insouciance he was met with when they crossed pat
hs earlier, outside the property at 26 Hempstead Avenue, Workington. Sure – she is undoubtedly aware of her feminine charms – it is apparent in her movements and the way she watches his eyes – and equally removes her own gaze to admit admiration. Or so he thinks! But, before he can get any further with this train of thought, DS Leyton blunders into their midst humming an out-of-date pop song.
‘Ooh – ooh – sorry, Guv – didn’t realise you had company.’
DS Leyton’s manner suggests he thinks he has intruded upon some private moment – which serves only to expose Skelgill’s thoughts – since his cheekbones redden. He glares at DS Leyton – and makes a little gesture of frustration, fleetingly clenching his fists at his sides. DS Leyton, however, having been somewhat circumspect over the enforced team changes, anticipates an undeserved roasting. He pre-empts his superior with a pained expression and casts out a hand towards his new teammate.
‘You’ve met DS Eve, then, Guv? Anyone from south of Watford can’t be all that bad.’
Skelgill regards DS Eve with a rather sheepish grin and, in silence, turns his gaze back upon DS Leyton. Evidently they have made their introductions – apparently celebrating some common provenance. Now DS Leyton flaps a printed report and with a groan lowers himself into his regular seat beside the tall grey filing cabinet.
‘Got the latest medical bulletin from Carlisle, Guv.’
Skelgill nods for him to continue; he is relieved to get back to business.
‘The kid’s condition’s described as critical but stable. Sounds like it could go either way. They’re running more tests. They reckon it might be a drug that’s been contaminated.’
DS Eve leans forward, joining her hands and resting her forearms upon her knees. It is enough to gain the attention of her male colleagues.
‘Maybe cut is the word we’re looking for.’
Skelgill narrows his eyes. He nods for her to elaborate.
Murder on the Run Page 6