Of her identity he is in no doubt – for there is a structural commonality in the proportions of nose and cheekbones and brows. And there exists a similarity in her spare frame – although she is a shorter woman than her daughter. But the leanness speaks not of youth and athleticism but of ill health and undernourishment – a sunken chest – small sagging breasts, nipples like those of an over-suckled bitch – and her pale limbs discoloured in places.
All this in the moment that it takes Skelgill to compose a rejoinder – a moment in which she regards him first with antipathy, and then a contorted grin that might begin to contradict her opening words. Skelgill grins genially.
‘Is that a Workington byelaw – you need an appointment to see your relative?’
He sees that she is confounded. Indeed, she part closes the door – but the reason for this becomes apparent, as she must take down from a coat hook what is a threadbare pink towelling robe into which she shrugs with indecent haste. She picks nervously at the cuffs, her forearms crossed.
‘Dan Skelgill – I’ve been coaching Jess – over in Lorton Vale.’
He recognises there is some poetic licence in his claim – but he carries it off unblinkingly. The woman leans out and glances anxiously left and right. She steps back and pulls the door wide.
‘Thew’d better come in.’
As he follows she closes a door on the right of the hallway – a darkened front room from which emanates the low base murmur of R&B. He had observed the curtains were drawn as he came down the path. Now the cloying aroma of incense assails his equally inquisitive nose – several sticks burn in a milk bottle set on the bare floorboards – but it inadequately masks the stench of ungodliness.
A stair – also uncarpeted – rises against the left-hand wall, and ahead is what must be the only other room on the ground floor of the narrow property; he correctly guesses a cramped dining kitchen, into which the woman shambles lamely. The interior by comparison is obscenely bright, lit by a naked bulb of excessive wattage. It casts into contrast a chaotic worktop and stacked sink. A tall waste bin with no lid spills food-encrusted plastic ready-meal trays, crushed beer cans and browned apple cores onto the tacky linoleum of the floor.
She indicates a small square table with three chairs, its fourth side pressed against a pine-clad wall that is spattered with red and brown sauce. Its laminated top is chipped and burned in places. Skelgill takes a seat. She fills a kettle from the tap and clangs it onto an electric hob that begins to smoke as grease spots burn off. She looks directly at him and inhales to speak – in fact she says, “I’ll –” but gets no further and instead makes a curious hand-gesture and leaves the kitchen. He listens as she unsteadily climbs the stairs – evidently to a bathroom. But if there is a door she does not shut it – he hears her use the toilet and then – as the hiss of the flush dies down – what sounds like gargling. Next she is moving about directly above his head. At this juncture the kettle begins to whistle and he jumps up. He turns off the heat and lifts the kettle; it gives a shrill protest that sinks into a diminuendo. He begins to open cupboards – but quickly concludes that the sink is the best bet for mugs – he extracts a pair, examines them with a grimace, and rinses them beneath the tap. Amongst the debris of the worktop a carton of teabags is torn open; adjacent stands a half-used bottle of milk. He sniffs the milk – and turns up his nose – but proceeds to add a splash to each mug, and a generous helping of lumpy sugar tipped from a ripped bag. Finally he pours in water – and from the sink salvages a fork and inverts it as a stirrer. He is just back in his seat as the woman reappears.
She has donned a tracksuit; it fits around the body but looks too long in the limbs and he wonders if it belongs to Jess. On her feet she has slip-on black pumps and she has made some effort with her hair, now drawn into a ponytail by a band. She seems calmer, although in contrast her breathing is heavy and he can smell the fresh mint of the mouthwash. It is to be short-lived; she extracts and lights a cigarette from an opened packet reached down from the top of the refrigerator, along with a brimming ashtray. She sits opposite to Skelgill. Suddenly it seems to occur to her that he might like one. She offers him the lit cigarette between clenched knuckles and he notices her badly bitten-down nails.
‘Smoke?’
Skelgill grins and shakes his head.
‘Shouldn’t like to give Jess any unsuitable ideas.’
The woman flashes him a guilty look. She shrugs – it is a gesture of some helplessness, Skelgill thinks.
‘She’s a talented lass, Megan. County standard – at the very least.’
Briefly the woman raises her eyebrows. It is the first time he has used her name – but why wouldn't he know it? She takes a long slow drag and nods – but to Skelgill she seems to use the cigarette as an excuse not to answer. She exhales and picks up the tea and drinks, although she barely breaks the surface for he has prepared it to his customary high temperature. She rests both elbows on the table, one hand holding the smoking cigarette and the other the steaming mug. Thus she regards him from behind a defensive shield. He can feel a little vibration – as if she must be agitating a foot nervously.
‘You’re the one that’s the detective.’
‘For my sins, aye.’
She glances away.
‘What’s Jess done wrong, then?’
There is little conviction in this question – but perhaps it is as near a way as she can think of to ask the purpose of his visit. Skelgill makes a deliberate exclamation of surprise and casually drinks some of his tea.
‘What’s wrong is she needs a decent pair of fell-running shoes. I might be family – but I’d like your permission – you don’t want to hear that some dodgy middle-aged bloke’s splashing cash on your seventeen-year-old daughter.’
The way she suddenly looks at him raises alarm in his mind – is it with a hunger, with avarice? But just as quickly she reverts to her default, distrustful mode.
‘Why would I be bothered? She’s old enough to take care of herself.’
Skelgill wonders if he perceives some underlying note of regret in her tone – a reference perhaps to Jess having moved out to Lorton? He assumes a collaborative stance, placing a forearm on the table and leaning a little closer.
‘I used to compete myself – I know what I’m talking about – buying the right footwear, I mean. The sort she needs to fulfil her potential.’
He slumps back and casts about – in his manner he might be inferring that he understands the household budget is stretched – and that this is not a problem – he is happy to help. And indeed the woman smiles ruefully – showing not the best set of teeth, irregular and stained, with an upper left premolar missing. But if there is a semblance of gratitude it quickly dissolves as she takes another drag on the cigarette, exhales, and begins to gnaw at an unproductive thumbnail. Her gaze is averted and Skelgill feels the vibration once more. Her dislike of his probing is not difficult to read – but equally there is tacit acceptance that he has something more to say.
‘You didn’t make it to old Ernie’s funeral?’
She seems to interpret his question as a subtle reprimand.
‘He weren’t no relative of mine – except by marriage.’
The afterthought brings a sour twist to her features. She sucks at the cigarette again, and then narrows her eyes as smoke escapes from her nostrils and clings about her face, like some parasitic wraith that possesses her, that cannot rest at poisoning her lungs alone.
‘I believe I met your new – partner.’ He stumbles over the most apt noun.
Still she avoids eye contact. Instead she glances involuntarily at the door that leads to the hallway – as if she fears they might be overheard. Skelgill, however, is as certain as he can be that there is no one else in the small terraced property. Finally she offers a response.
‘Aye – he said he saw you.’
Skelgill remains implacable. This is an admission of knowing more than she has been inclined to reveal – but perhaps he ha
s subtly boxed her into a corner and left her with little else to say. He does his best to maintain casual indifference.
‘Sounded like he were a Manc, to me.’
He says this playfully – that he is teasing her for hooking up with an outsider – or an ‘offcomer’ as they would say in the fells. But, other than its accent, Workington in fact has more in common with a sprawling Manchester suburb or one of its disadvantaged satellite towns like Bury or Bolton or Burnley than it does the bucolic Lake District. She shrugs but does not answer. Skelgill provides a further prompt.
‘He seemed to be keeping an eye on Jess.’
He tries to sound as though this is a reasonable state of affairs. But she shoots him a wary glance – as if she suspects he is trying to tell her something she does not wish to hear – a warning perhaps. However – no words are forthcoming and she fidgets agitatedly. He detects the subdued note of an incoming text message on a mobile phone elsewhere in the house – perhaps in the front room. He notices she suppresses the urge to rise. He decides to act upon the hint – that she would rather he wasn’t there. He regards her pensively for a moment and then swigs the last of his tea and rises and nods a distinct farewell. As he passes through the darkened incense-laden air of the hallway she follows belatedly. He opens the front door and steps out over the threshold – she hangs back in the shadows – but although she begins to push the door shut she does not close it completely.
‘Daniel –’
Skelgill turns.
‘Aye?’
But he can see immediately that whatever words were budding have withered upon her lips. Dry mouthed, she swallows. The conflicted expression with which she greeted him has made a return. With an obvious effort she forces a smile.
‘Thanks – for looking out for Jess.’
‘No bother.’
Skelgill spins rather gaily on his heel and does not look back. He hears the door close behind him. Inside his car, he sits broodingly. Dusk is falling; his presence is not obvious. After a couple of minutes a man wearing a raised hoodie approaches along the pavement, looking at a mobile phone. He pauses, slips the handset into his back pocket, and then turns in at the gate of number 146, like Skelgill having to heave it off its latch. Skelgill watches him walk briskly down the path; the curtains twitch and a moment later the door swings open almost magically to admit him.
Skelgill reflects upon aspects of his unscheduled encounter. Certainly, when he arrived, the woman – Jess’s mother – was wearing no underwear beneath her flimsy slip. But there was something else that he noticed before she hurriedly donned the pink dressing gown. Among other disagreeable traits, no amount of make-up on the forearms can disguise a heroin habit.
7. TWO WHEELS GOOD
Thursday, morning
‘Here you go, Guv – piping hot, just how you like it.’
Skelgill responds rather grudgingly to the kind errand that DS Leyton has run – at least it must appear so to DS Eve, her precisely mascaraed lashes disguising her keen-eyed interest. What she cannot yet appreciate is that in her part-time displacement of the selfless DS Jones from her window seat, the burden for fetching tea has shifted to the rather less efficient personage of DS Leyton, nor that such recalcitrance on Skelgill’s part is par for the course. Thus DS Leyton appears indifferent their superior’s reaction; he lifts down the notes he had earlier deposited upon the filing cabinet and sinks onto the chair beside it. He takes a deep breath and exhales accordingly, as if some significant obstacle has been overcome.
‘On the Workington case, Guv – we’ve got a few little leads from the door-to-door inquiries.’
Skelgill has his nose buried in his mug – he transfers his gaze questioningly to DS Eve. She seems to understand the nature of his query.
‘Still alive – no change in condition – a coma. There is something to consider, however – perhaps after –’
She leans back and crosses her legs – she has on another version of what seem to be her trademark leather trousers – today a skin-tight black pair that provide surprising flexibility. She gestures slowly with an open palm towards DS Leyton – as if drawing Skelgill’s gaze where she wants it to fall. The inference is that what she has to say will make more sense when DS Leyton has taken his turn. Her fellow sergeant acknowledges with a toss of his bull-necked head that causes a displacement of his unruly dark hair. He taps his papers with the back of a broad hand.
‘Couple of neighbours report seeing the kid going about on a moped – with one of those insulated shoulder bags – the big flat sort they carry pizzas in.’
Skelgill is watching him, apparently with some scepticism. DS Leyton continues.
‘There’s no moped at the property. Nor helmet, keys – whatever. But there’s spots of oil on the slabs at the side of the house – where it could have been parked.’
‘Happen it’s owned by the pizza shop.’
‘We’ve checked that, Guv. There’s only two companies in Workington – neither of them know anything about him. All their delivery riders are accounted for.’
‘What about Chinese, Indian – chippy? Everything’s getting delivered these days.’
DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks – but it is DS Eve that speaks, her tone authoritative.
‘Quite likely we would get the same answer. I have seen it before. It’s a common tactic to operate in plain sight. And whoever cleaned out the property – I suggest they left on the moped.’
DS Leyton seems puzzled by this notion.
‘Surely it was half-inched by some passing tea leaf?’
DS Eve smiles broadly; perhaps she thinks the London slang is for her benefit – but she is resolved to her view.
‘The moped, possibly – but also to remove the helmet and the bag – that would most likely have meant entering the house. And someone took his other belongings.’
DS Leyton regards her broodingly. There is no denying that the helmet, shoulder bag and moped comprise all that is required for the perfect incognito getaway. He turns sharply to Skelgill.
‘In that case, Guv – also on the motorbiking theme – something that might strike a chord with you.’
Skelgill has been looking at DS Eve. It is a second before he detaches his gaze and pays attention to his male sergeant.
‘Aye?’
‘Old geezer regularly walks his dog along the street. Says twice last week he saw a distinctive motorcycle outside – engine running and a biker in leathers and helmet sitting on it. It’s called a –’ Now DS Leyton checks his notes – it takes him a moment to locate the passage. ‘Here we go – BSA Gold Flash – old fellow reckons he knew it ’cause he used to own one. Colour silver and black.’ DS Leyton looks puzzled. ‘Don’t make sense.’
But Skelgill is nodding.
‘A10 Series. They made them in silver and black as well as gold, Leyton. Six-fifty, air-cooled twin.’
Whether Skelgill, by demonstrating his superfluous knowledge, is trying to boost his standing in the eyes of DS Eve it is hard to determine – but now he asks a more pertinent question.
‘Did he get the reg?’
DS Leyton makes a pained face.
‘Only that it’s an old one, Guv – before the letter suffix came in.’
‘Pre-63. Any road – they stopped making the A10 in 1963 – so you’d expect that. When were the sightings?’
‘He reckons Friday and Saturday – but he’s not a hundred per cent sure. Both nights around 10pm – that’s his regular dog walk time before he turns in. If we could track down the cove on the bike, Guv – he might be connected in some way.’
Skelgill does not respond – and it is apparent that his mind has wandered. For a couple of seconds he gazes unblinkingly at DS Leyton. Then he rises and digs his mobile telephone from the pocket of his jacket. Without offering an explanation he types and sends a short text – only a couple of words, it appears. Then he resumes his seat, but positions the handset within reading range. Now he seems to recover his train of thought �
� or, at least, sufficiently to restart their stalled conversation.
‘That you done, Leyton?’
‘Er – that’s all for now, Guv.’
Skelgill turns rather impatiently to DS Eve. But then with uncharacteristic grace he bows his head for her to proceed. She smiles disarmingly.
‘I believe a pattern is beginning to emerge.’
Skelgill folds his arms and rests them upon the desk; he gives the impression of knowing what is coming, but that he will be intrigued by her take on it. DS Eve has an electronic tablet, and she opens a file and scrolls to a certain point. She rotates the tablet and slides it across the desk to Skelgill, in leaning forward stretching the tight bodice of her blouse.
Skelgill forces his gaze to follow the tablet. He pores over it and grimaces. The screen displays a densely typed section of a report. After half a minute and without a word he hands the device to DS Leyton, who produces a series of murmurs while he mulls over the information. Then he nods conclusively and returns the tablet to DS Eve. Now Skelgill swiftly makes a patently unfair intervention.
‘What do you reckon, Leyton?’
DS Leyton looks immediately discomfited. He scowls at his superior and then glances apprehensively at DS Eve – but perhaps he detects a sympathetic twinkle in her eye. While he hesitates she gives a little cough as a precursor to answering on his behalf.
‘A hair follicle test shows he’s a serial user of a whole repertoire of drugs. There is nothing particularly surprising about that. Most salient, however, is that the cause of his present condition is heroin contaminated with fentanyl. It is an identical chemical fingerprint to that found in the two drug-related deaths on your patch last month.’ She stares evenly at Skelgill. ‘Fentanyl is highly dangerous – often fatal. Survivors may suffer brain damage. In a nutshell – I would suggest he was deliberately poisoned.’
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