Skelgill snatches a sideways glance across the car park. Does he detect a pained look of dismay upon DI Smart’s weasely countenance?
He tilts his head towards the building. ‘What about –’
‘I have finished with DI Smart for today – I planned to get onto the May fatalities with DS Leyton’
Skelgill can hear his pulse in his temples; it might almost be the impatient throb of an idling engine. The temperature is becoming unbearable. His own voice sounds strangely disembodied.
‘Leyton can wait.’
So, it seems, can the Chief.
DS Eve smiles victoriously. She pulls on the helmet – she seems to know how to fasten and then adjust the strap. Skelgill, his jaw set, has to grab the handlebars and make an awkward hop-cum-lunge to get his left leg over the bike. His weight landing on the seat causes her to slide down against him. He turns his head to speak to her.
‘If you feel behind – there’s a sissy bar. Grab it with each hand. Keep yourself in place.’
But DS Eve has other ideas. As he fires up the ignition and hauls the heavy machine off its stand her left arm snakes around his waist and she grips the buckle of the integral belt of his leather leggings, the coolness of her thumb shocking against his flesh. It is the cue for the Triumph to buck and surge; she arches her back like a one-handed rodeo rider.
Simultaneously the driver door of a stylish yellow hatchback opens. It is a new vehicle and as such it would not have been familiar to Skelgill as he drove in, habitually scanning to see who was about. (DI Smart’s red convertible for instance, and DS Leyton’s rather tired family saloon.) This is DS Jones’s new car. She climbs out; her gaze tracks the motorbike as it rounds the corner of the building. Though her lips part her features remain composed – perhaps she too senses scrutiny. And from the group – as she locks her car – DI Smart detaches himself. He takes a decisive drag of his cigarette, discards the butt, and – now smirking – saunters across to intercept her.
8. FOUR WHEELS BAD
Thursday, afternoon
‘You ride well – since you don’t get to do it often.’
Skelgill’s tight jacket thwarts any puffing out of the chest, and his reaction comes over as something of an affected shrug. DS Eve has dismounted, nimbly, and watches as he runs through the shutting-down sequence – kill switch, lights, parking lock, choke and fuel tap. Perhaps uncharacteristically, and even to his own surprise, he returns the compliment.
‘You seemed to know what you were doing.’
She slips off her helmet, the two-handed lifting action briefly exposing a tanned, toned midriff. Her dark complexion seems flushed. She casually shakes out her raven hair and regards him quizzically.
‘Let’s say I’m not a biking virgin.’
There is a playful note in her voice, and Skelgill feels his own cheeks beginning to colour – and he experiences a fleeting hallucinatory rush of motion, an echo of their just-finished ride revisiting his body. She had been an uninhibited pillion passenger, marshalling the twin forces of inertia and momentum, her lithe form melding with his, together swaying to and fro, left and right, the fulcrum of her pelvis against the base of his spine, her inner thighs gripping like an equestrian guiding her mount. And she had been vocal, approving of daring overtakes, and manoeuvres when either speed or caution was called for, and – urged on – he chose the former.
And now he feels an anticlimactic weakening; that his limbs are jelly and only the exoskeleton of the suit keeps him upright. The changed surroundings reflect the contrast – from the leafy winding rollercoaster of Borrowdale to the bleak uplands that now encircle them like one great undulating monolith, permanent, static, immune to the elements. Even in bright sunshine this lonely gateway to wild fell country can seem foreboding, warning the walker not to take lightly the challenge that lies ahead. Hope Farm is the last homely house – so why not check out if the hand-painted sign that says ‘Café’ is for real, or just a cruel joke played by the mean-spirited landowner.
In any event, Skelgill can conjure neither a witty nor a self-effacing retort – instead he indicates that she should follow him – and when he does speak it is with an inelegance to which DS Eve is perhaps just becoming accustomed.
‘Mind yon cow pat.’
She gives a soft chuckle.
‘I did ask for grass roots.’
For his part Skelgill seems unconcerned by such pitfalls and heads across the spattered concrete farmyard to what is Arthur Hope’s workshop. But Arthur generally works with the doors open, and he can see at once that it is shut up – and, come to think about it, the war horse of a Land Rover that is usually stabled on the other side of the main house is absent. Skelgill approaches what he knows to be a side window of the kitchen and, on tiptoes, peers through the steamed-up glass. As far as he can tell, the kitchen is unoccupied.
‘I reckon Arthur’s out. Gladis must be serving.’
DS Eve is nearest the door marked with the splintered plywood sign. No shrinking violet, she marches ahead. By the time Skelgill has caught up, she has entered the converted parlour that serves as a snug if somewhat airless dining room. Skelgill is confronted by a row of upturned faces – four male bikers seated around a corner bench – such is DS Eve’s striking appearance. More circumspectly, two middle-aged male walkers look on, their features forlorn. Skelgill experiences a small but unexpected frisson of self-importance, as the attention switches to him – but before he can bask in any reflected glory Gladis Hope, having been fussing over cream teas for the walkers, turns and lets out a cry of delight, “Young Daniel!” – which rather rains on his parade. She wastes no time in pressing hospitality upon the surprise visitors.
‘Set yourselves down, both.’ She plies DS Eve with a twinkling smile; she seems to need no introduction to Skelgill’s companion. ‘There’s a mash on. Are yer up fer a fry?’
Unbelievably Skelgill finds himself wavering. Gladis’s ‘Cumbrian fry’ is legendary, for the past thirty years sustaining hillwalkers and climbers, and – since Arthur Hope’s semi-retirement to concentrate upon his vintage motorcycles, a regular contingent of bikers. If not approaching Pirate Pete’s offering in terms of quantity, on quality Gladis wins by a country mile; her homemade Cumberland sausages alone are worth the two-hour trek from Wasdale.
Additionally Skelgill feels he ought to heed the little voice in his head that points out it would only be good manners to accept. But there is perhaps a revealing hint of guilt in his glance at DS Eve – and she returns a knowing smile. He summons all of his reserves of willpower. He makes an apologetic grimace, and leans down to conspire with their hostess.
‘Actually, Gladis – we need a word with Arthur – in private.’
In his whispered inflexion it seems he succeeds in communicating that there is some pressing issue – most likely connected with his profession. But Gladis Hope responds with a rather despairing look, as though she has let him down.
‘Daniel, thew’ve only just missed him – he’s awa’ ower to Rannerdale. There’s a motorcycle lying ont’ arl Jack Nicholson’s land – beside t’ lake. Jack thought he’d be interested – it’s an old type.’
Skelgill can feel DS Eve’s gaze upon him.
‘Has it been there long?’
‘Not as I know, love – but happen you’ll catch him – he’s took t’ trailer – in case it’s bin abandoned, like?’
*
The ride towards Rannerdale is no less exhilarating than the first leg of their journey – and the landmarks, for a newcomer, spectacular – but once they crest the pass and Skelgill has bellowed, “Honister Hause” his mind drifts – nay, darts about – as external stimuli flash by and spark jagged fragments of memory, a kaleidoscopic showreel bereft of structured narrative. Descending through the Mordor-like buttresses of the old slate mine and down, down, deeper and down into Gatesgarthdale the towering crags of Fleetwith Pike seem to thrust tectonically heavenwards – and he pictures Jess traversing the skyline, her green ha
ir flapping, the collie with its green-tipped tail loping ahead. There is ‘the Horseshoe’ – the annual fell-running centrepiece, to come soon. There are Jess’s new running shoes, not yet purchased! He thinks of the shortcut he showed her on Haystacks. He thinks of old Ernie’s even older map and the first edition Wainwright – and of the contretemps he witnessed from upon high. He thinks of Marty and Mouse and the misdemeanours of men. As they sweep through Buttermere village a thousand thoughts from his youth assail him, like they have ridden into a hailstorm – then they pass the inn and he is reminded again of Jess – her disconcerting flinch upon the appearance of the youth called Connor – of his cocksure demeanour – an upstart outsider strutting like he ruled the roost – that he is apparently Jess’s mother’s boyfriend – yes – Megan – the slatternly woman and her house of disrepute – from which Jess has made a break for freedom. But Jess doesn’t drive – and now he thinks of cousin Marty’s shady motor business and his attempt to wangle old Ernie’s hatchback off aunt Renie – of his own predicament and the stern face of his bank manager! – again of Mouse’s intervention – his Penrith biker gang – their antipathy towards the Workington chapter – the poisoning at Hempstead Avenue – and, back to his mission now – of Arthur Hope and this ‘abandoned’ bike – just the off chance that it is not a coincidence.
Skelgill once hunted with a hawk. It was corporate day out at some flashy hotel in the Scottish Highlands – quite how he had ended up as a guest he can’t recall. But one abiding memory is the realisation of the sublime nature of hawk and the inadequacy of human. Considering himself above most mortals when it comes to speed of observation – a lifetime of fishing where quick reactions are paramount – his ego was brought crashing down to earth. The idea was that dogs flush a rabbit from cover, the hunter sees the fleeing animal, and launches his bird in pursuit of the quarry; so went the briefing. Skelgill stalked, hawk on wrist. Rabbit was duly flushed. Skelgill sighted rabbit. Skelgill launched hawk. Except there was no hawk! While Skelgill’s brain was still processing the image and mobilising neural connections to transmit a message to the muscles in his left arm, the bird had flown, already fifteen feet away, lunch in the offing. Skelgill punched the air with an empty fist.
And now – sharp talons dig into the flesh of his waist – he has missed something. They round a sharp right-hand bend just above Crummock Water – a spot known as Hause Point, where the road narrows between sheer rock and a guarding wall. There is no place to stop – and he must concentrate in case of oncoming traffic – but as the lane straightens Skelgill briefly raises a hand to signal that he gets the message. Now on their right an unmetalled layby appears – and he turns in. Walkers park here for access to the Grasmoor massif; it borders upon a low-lying delta of gentle green pastures, hemmed in by rising fells – though almost a thousand years before this was the scene of the bloody Battle of Rannerdale Knotts (when, much to Skelgill’s satisfaction, an unlikely British-Norse alliance defeated a contingent of invading Normans). But Skelgill’s immediate battle is with his helmet. The fellow from whom he bartered his gear seems to have been slightly smaller than he in every direction. He grimaces, feeling like he is tearing off his ears. DS Eve has no such problem, and already dismounted she holds up her helmet questioningly. Skelgill shakes his head, though it may be to check that his various appendages are still attached.
‘We’d better take ’em – strange folk hereabouts.’
She would not know this is his old stamping ground, and that his remark is thick with irony. She smiles amenably and waits to fall in alongside him. He hooks his forearm through the chin guard of his own helmet and reaches for hers.
‘Here – I’ll carry it.’
They cannot make rapid progress – though it is just a couple of hundred yards back to the point DS Eve has marked. Skelgill’s movement is like that of a ponderous automaton, stiff-legged, heels first, his suit squeaking its protests that it is designed for sitting, the Kevlar-lined jacket allowing articulation only at the waist. DS Eve now leads the way – they go in Indian file, since the occasional vehicle sweeps past, and the road can barely accommodate two cars between the lichen-blackened rock face on one side and the dry stone wall on the other. Skelgill notices that DS Eve takes in their surroundings – the steep incline of Rannerdale Knotts to their left; beyond Crummock Water to their right the brindled whaleback of Mellbreak. She inhales the cool air – the breeze carries the coconut aroma of blooming gorse – and there comes the ‘chack’ of a wheatear, the sound of pebbles being struck. Her continuing interest quietly pleases Skelgill – but now she returns to the matter in hand. She points ahead.
‘It was as we passed that gap – on the bend – I caught a glimpse of a Land Rover and two men – down at the lakeside. They looked like farmers.’
Behind her, Skelgill frowns. That to her metropolitan eye there is a bucolic ‘look’ makes him wonder – what indeed is his ‘look’ – today’s outfit excepted – is it behind the times, the daft country copper?
They reach the breach of which she has spoken. It is wide enough for a car – there was perhaps once a gate – and Skelgill sees immediately the familiar Land Rover – a Series 1 in light green, reputedly dating from 1948. That the vehicle could be worth a modest fortune has not stopped Arthur Hope tackling the steep rocky declination – although this is small beer when legend has it that in his youth he took it directly from the family farm to the summit of Scafell Pike, making it indisputably the highest Land Rover in all England. This is a claim that Arthur Hope will neither admit nor deny, answering cryptically, “Reckon thew’d have a reet job crossing boulders ont’ Broad Crag.” Now Skelgill hails the man from a distance – perhaps to give him time to explain to ‘Old’ Jack Nicholson who he is – though as they meet and make introductions Skelgill has a strange feeling this man is yet another distant relative – and on reflection he was present at the wake.
But DS Eve’s presence provides a distraction from any such requirement to revisit the family tree – albeit it is clear that both farmers experience some unspoken speculation of their own – but this is short-lived, for a few yards from the trailer that Arthur Hope has backed up lies a motorbike. It is a BSA Gold Flash, in black and silver. It is too much of a coincidence. Skelgill and DS Eve exchange significant glances.
The obvious explanation would appear to be that this is the end result of a joyride. For no owner of a vintage machine would treat it like this. But the weatherbeaten countrymen read enough into the detectives’ reactions to recognise more than passing interest in an apparently abandoned motorcycle. Jack Nicholson now seems to feel obliged to provide an explanation. He clears his throat somewhat voluminously.
‘Twa hoggs were separated from t’ flock. There’s nobbut mesen as comes down here – there’s nowhere to stop ont’ road. I fount this ’bout an hour ago. I thought Art were t’ best bet to come and have a deek.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
Though on its side as if carelessly discarded, the motorbike is ostensibly in good shape. Its wire-spoked wheels are clean of mud and its chrome exhausts gleaming; there is no evident damage to the forks or the swing arm. He looks back up the slope to the gap in the wall. The terrain, though steep, is relatively even, and marked by faint parallel tracks in the hard-packed ground where farmers over generations have had occasional cause to bring heavy vehicles down to the lake. But the angled fellside dives into Crummock Water; there is no appealing strip of shingle that might attract the picnicker; this is more of a spot for bank fishing.
‘Could he have failed to take the bend?’
It is DS Eve that voices one of Skelgill’s thoughts; certainly this is a possibility; the gap in the wall might almost have been provided as an emergency escape for someone driving too fast – despite the potential watery fate within thirty yards, and no help from the hard, steep slope. That said, the bike looks like it might have performed this very manoeuvre, and managed to slew away at the death, for it lies a couple of yards a
side from the line of the tracks. But the ground is too rocky to accept telltale skid marks.
He nods to acknowledge his colleague, and rounds the bike and kneels to inspect the dials – but immediately he realises there is a smell of petrol. He tries the cap – it is tightly screwed in. He straddles the bike and lifts it by the handlebars, avoiding the grips. Now he rocks it from side to side, tilting his head; there is no audible sloshing of liquid. The tank is empty – there must be a fracture.
‘Shall I phone in the registration number?’
Skelgill glances up with surprise at his colleague.
‘You can try.’
‘What – ?’
DS Eve sounds a little shocked by his terse, almost sarcastic reply – but she does not take it personally – for instead she realises there is a reason for his pessimism. He indicates almost as an aside – to where the rear number plate ought to be – there is a blank metal panel with two screw holes. As for the front, the BSA was originally fitted with a plate on the mudguard, but these ‘Mohican’ blades have been phased out because of the danger they pose to pedestrians, and this particular bike has had its original mudguard replaced.
‘Ah – could that have been deliberate?’
Skelgill thinks about pulling the machine onto its stand, but the gradient is too steep; it would topple. He carefully lowers it back into its original position.
‘Or yet another coincidence.’
Now he flashes her a wry grin. She seems pleased that his tetchiness has passed. She nods in a businesslike manner. In some respects – while a registration number ought to have taken them directly to an owner – from a criminal perspective its concealment adds weight to their growing suspicions.
‘Phone Leyton, anyway – get him to put out an alert.’
DS Eve nods and produces her mobile. She has to move away to optimise the attenuated signal.
Standing, Skelgill makes an open-handed gesture to the two farmers – it seems he appeals for a moment to think. Ungainly in his biker boots, he clumps down towards the shoreline. There is a steady light breeze from the south-west and the sun has reached the same angle. The elements thus in his face he squints across the finely corrugated plain of Crummock Water. There is something mesmeric about its shimmering fluidity, its lack of stability. Thus he finds his gaze locking onto what looks like a black quill float, about twenty feet out – he has several almost identical, that he makes from Canada goose feathers and uses for perch fishing in choppy conditions. It would not be unusual to see a float that has been lost when a snagged line becomes snapped – he probably salvages a couple per month on Bassenthwaite Lake, among the flotsam on the eastern shore – but something about this one holds his attention. A normal float – even if it were still attached to the line and hooked on the bottom – would rise and fall with the ripples. But this one is static, and unnaturally angled; the ripples alternately submerge and expose its length. Suddenly, as if his eyes achieve a new focus, he recognises what he is looking at.
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