Murder on the Run

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Try the lot on till you get the best fit. Have a proper jog up and down the stairs. Don’t be shy. I’m just going to check on the dogs.’ He pats the boy on the top of his head. ‘Don’t let her talk you into anything cheaper, lad.’

  He exits the store and crosses the large window. That this is the wrong direction for his car might be noticeable – except he can see a shadowy Jess through his own ghostly reflection – she has her head down lacing a shoe. Against his instinct he rips out his hood from the collar of his jacket and pulls it over his head – as a rule he would rather get wet and have his wits about him – a hood cuts off sounds and restricts peripheral vision – but it provides a certain degree of anonymity – at least until he meets someone sufficiently familiar with his nose, which is less easily concealed. His regular pace is nothing less than brisk – and this also he tempers and ambles, looking more like a visitor killing time until the weather improves, gazing at everything and nothing. But that he suddenly zags into a narrow ginnel between the old picture house and an estate agency would surely require local knowledge. He continues to weave between buildings and in due course his route brings him out on a long rising street on which his car is parked – a good distance ahead.

  He immediately sees that a couple of children – a boy and a girl of about ten years – are peering into his car – indeed they are perhaps even stroking the dogs through the gap he has left in the rear passenger window. There is an adult standing with them – a male, at best medium height, perhaps their father – or just possibly an older sibling – but he has on a dark shell suit with the hood raised. Skelgill is still fifty or sixty yards short when the kids must decide they have had enough and sprint away up the slope. The man watches them for a couple of seconds before he takes off in pursuit. While Skelgill makes steady progress towards his car, the kids reach the top of the street and turn left, out of sight. Skelgill notices that the man turns right – the direction that will take him past the outdoor supplies store.

  Skelgill arrives at his car to see that the two dogs – Kelly the dip-died collie and his own Cleopatra, of rather less distinguished pedigree and plumage – are indeed on their feet on the back seat, having jumped over from the flatbed. In the way that dogs know certain things long before humans, they have detected his approach, and are ready to greet him with their snouts protruding from the gap in the window. But Skelgill – other than glancing to verify that they and the upholstery are unchewed – continues past with only a perfunctory double-click of the tongue – indeed he quickens his stride and, when he reaches the junction, turns to the right. However, the pedestrianised street ahead of him is empty – or at least there is no sign of the man who may or may not have been with the children. Skelgill pauses to peer casually into various emporia – a pie shop (always tempting); a café (ditto); the ubiquitous gift shop found in every vaguely touristy high street – but there remains no trace. Thus he returns to his start point rather pensively, and re-enters to seek out the princess in her glass slippers.

  Ten minutes later sees the transaction completed. Jess is looking at once sheepish and euphoric; there is no hiding the oversized branded carrier bag. As they head back to the car Skelgill raises the prospect of a trial run – he knows she is due on her shift in the general store at 2pm – he insists there is ample time for her to change and for them to drive on down to Gatesgarth for half an hour or so. She is nodding as they reach the vehicle – but suddenly she gasps and lurches to open the tailgate. She cries out anxiously.

  ‘Kelly!’

  Skelgill’s maxim is why lock a car with a Bullboxer inside – but at this moment the legendary ‘Canine Cannonball’ cowers fearfully in the driver’s seat. In itself, this ought to be cause for alarm. On the flatbed, upon a coarse grey army blanket in a space that Skelgill has cleared, lies the collie – unnaturally so, and unmoving.

  ‘What’s wrong with Kelly?’

  Her voice rises to a shriek. Skelgill pushes past her. He barks the dog’s name but it does not respond. Its eyes are closed. It seems to be trembling. He rolls it to expose its underside – and sees the pink flesh of its abdomen pulsating – at least it is breathing. He has of course trained in regular first aid – not only for his job but also in his amateur capacity as a mountain rescuer. If this were a human he would say it looks like a diabetic having a hypo. He leans closer – there seems little doubt that the collie is unconscious. Then he notices something else.

  ‘The poor beggar’s been sick.’

  He glares at small pool of caramel-coloured vomit – and then quite unbelievably he prods a finger into the substance – and sniffs at it. Where a look of distaste might now be expected there is nothing but a puzzled expression – for something strikes a distant chord. But there is no time to dwell. He wipes his hand upon the blanket and turns to Jess.

  ‘Look – there’s a vet I know nearby. Jump in, quick, lass – crouch beside him.’

  *

  ‘You were fortunate to catch me, Inspector.’

  ‘Are you on a call-out?’

  ‘Oh, no – nothing so important. On Saturdays I lunch at the Sharrow Bay. I’m simply running a tad late. Since the early hours I have been up to my armpits in Mick Jackson’s herd of prize heifers. First calves are often a bit sticky. However, all’s well that ends well.’

  Dressed for imminent departure – brogue-shod and tweed-clad – Harriet Skipton-James beams genially from her raised front step. Despite her upper-class accent and county attire she is of solid Lakeland stock – through no fault of her own she enjoyed a boarding school and Oxbridge education – but upon qualifying as a vet returned to her roots to ply her trade – to this day confounding cynical farmers with her aristocratic manner and her gusto in plunging, as she has put it, “up to her armpits in a heifer”. A tall, big-boned woman, she looks capable of wrestling a recalcitrant cow. That she calls Skelgill by his job title stems from their first meeting – shortly after his acquisition of Cleopatra – for ‘MOT’ purposes, in a peculiar case of the unofficial confiscation of the spoils of crime.

  That Skelgill stands before her cradling the Border Collie circumvents an explanation – and she has instinctively reached out to lay a palm upon the animal.

  ‘Plunged over a precipice in pursuit of a Herdy? Reversed over by a tipsy shepherd on his quad bike?’

  Evidently these are two of the more commonplace mishaps suffered by sheepdogs.

  ‘Just sudden sickness – bowked in the back of my car. Found him spark out about five minutes ago. He were right as rain ten minutes before that.’

  The detached Victorian mansion sits on Castlerigg Brow, overlooking a rather dreary Derwentwater and the cloud-shrouded fells in flat monochrome beyond. She wastes no time in beckoning them to follow from her front door – which she leaves hanging open – around to her veterinary surgery at the side of the property. As she strides ahead of them she calls over her shoulder.

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Kelly.’

  It is Skelgill that replies. Poor Jess has hardly said a word since their discovery of her stricken pet. Meanwhile the vet has the door unlocked and leads them through a welcoming waiting room that has its walls lined with pet-friendly country-house-style sofas and its worn carpet strewn with worried and frayed rope toys. A second door gives on to an entirely more clinical space altogether, looking as alien to the rustic reception area as could be imagined. She rounds a hi-tech operating table and pats its surface.

  ‘There we go – pop the poor chap down.’

  She sets about examining the unconscious dog – taking its pulse at the femoral artery – lifting its eyelids – checking inside its mouth, pressing on the exposed gum – timing its rate of respiration. After a minute she looks up thoughtfully at Jess – thus far an anonymous accomplice – and for her part still in a state of speechlessness.

  ‘And what is your name, young lady?’

  ‘Jess.’

  ‘I take it he is your dog?’

  �
�Aye. Yes – ma’am.’

  ‘So – what have you been feeding him today, Jess?’

  Jess looks at Skelgill in alarm – plainly she fears she must be somehow implicated. She is tongue-tied, resigned to such a fate. Skelgill intervenes.

  ‘Harriet – this lass is my cousin – she’s living at Low Lorton.’ He puts a hand on Jess’s shoulder. ‘When I picked you up this morning – I noticed some dried food in his bowl. Looked like the standard kind of stuff.’

  Harriet Skipton-James gives a sudden deep guffaw.

  ‘Hah – ever the detective, eh, Inspector?’

  ‘A dog’s bowl with some food left in it – that’s what made me notice – sight I’ve never yet seen in my kitchen.’

  Skelgill is trying to lighten the worrying atmosphere. Now Jess responds but her tone remains downbeat.

  ‘Kelly – he doesn’t eat a lot – and not all at once.’

  Harriet Skipton-James smiles broadly.

  ‘He certainly is a fine-looking specimen – you’ve done a splendid job there, my girl.’

  Jess nods meekly – but Skelgill is beginning to wonder if there is an elephant in the room – for the vet has stopped her examination – she is carefully watching the animal’s shallow breathing, the slow pulsing of its abdomen – but thus far has not made any pronouncement – and he is beginning to fear some depressing prognosis. It would not be like Harriet Skipton-James to pull her punches. It prompts him to pitch in with an observation.

  ‘If you want some detective work – the patch of sick in the car – I reckon it’s peanut butter.’

  Harriet Skipton-James glances up sharply. It is a look of alarm commensurate with the deadly buzzword, fentanyl – had he uttered it.

  ‘Do you still have it – the vomitus?’

  Skelgill responds with a macabre grimace. It is on the face of it a gruesome request – but not from a vet – and neither of course to a policeman. However, in this instance the preservation of such grisly evidence has not occurred to him – he ‘tested’ the vomit out of some inexplicable urge of curiosity.

  ‘Aye – it’s on a blanket in the back of my motor.’

  The vet nods and begins to re-examine the dog with renewed purpose. Head down she speaks.

  ‘Are you familiar with xylitol?’

  Skelgill glances at Jess. She is looking if anything more terrified. He realises he has heard of the compound.

  ‘Isn’t that in chewing gum?’

  ‘You are quite correct – in fairly insignificant quantities. It is a sugar substitute – with about a third less calories than sucrose. But certain imported brands of peanut butter contain xylitol – and people use it to make homemade versions – and jams and crumbles and suchlike.’

  Skelgill is looking perplexed.

  ‘So – what’s the problem?’

  ‘It may benefit human waistlines – but it can be l–let’s say – harmful to dogs.’ That she deftly contrives to substitute her intended word lethal for let’s is testament to quick wit and a degree of sensitivity that Skelgill has not guessed at. ‘It doesn’t take much to cause hypoglycaemia – and that is something we can treat with no risk – even if the diagnosis is mistaken.’

  She turns away and begins efficiently to assemble some items of apparatus. She speaks over her shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps young Jess could obtain a sample from the car – if she uses one of those little plastic bottles on the shelf beside the door – there is a spatula attached beneath the cap – just take a spoonful and screw it back on. We can organise a test.’

  Skelgill sees that Jess swallows apprehensively. But she nods obediently and takes up one of the sample pots and leaves the room. Now Harriet Skipton-James addresses Skelgill more bluntly.

  ‘I don’t know why there aren’t warnings to dog owners on products that contain xylitol. One only has to look online – search “human foods that are poisonous to dogs”. A small dose can cause a life-threatening seizure. A larger amount may result in liver failure – which I don’t have to tell you is fatal.’

  ‘How much are we talking?’

  ‘A dog this size – three grams could suffice.’

  ‘What’s that in proper money?’

  The veterinarian chuckles.

  ‘I expect you know your height in feet and inches, Inspector?’

  ‘What’s the use of measurements that bear no relation to reality?’

  She nods, grinning.

  ‘The weight of a teabag, then. A tenth of an ounce.’

  Skelgill has to suppress an expletive.

  ‘That’s nothing.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ The woman is busying herself with attaching a giving set to an infusion pump. ‘The initial effects of xylitol are rapid. You say you saw him ten minutes earlier and he was fine. So he has ingested but perhaps not digested.’ She stresses the first syllable of digested. ‘He has perhaps saved his skin by vomiting. But there is no antidote. We’ll just have to stabilise him and hope the ill effects are limited to this hypo.’

  ‘Is that why you sent her out – to tell me?’

  The vet grins sardonically.

  ‘She seems a sensitive young lady.’

  Skelgill’s expression is grim.

  ‘I don’t reckon she’s had too easy a time of late. Maybe never. This dog means a lot to her.’

  ‘I shall do my utmost, Inspector.’

  There is just the hint of prickly professional pride in her tone and Skelgill wonders if he should make some ameliorating remark – but Jess returns holding the small glass bottle. Harriet Skipton-James attaches the cannula and switches on the infusion pump and adjusts its rate of flow. She takes the sample pot from Jess and unscrews the lid – she pulls out the spatula and raises it to one nostril.

  ‘Hmm – I think you are probably right, Inspector. We ought to nip this in the bud. So where might Kelly have got his teeth into peanut butter?’

  Skelgill glances at Jess – she is looking forlorn. He replies.

  ‘The dogs were in my motor – we were in a shop for about twenty-five minutes – getting Jess some new running shoes. She’s taking part in the Warnscale Horseshoe – she’s all set to break the record.’ He hesitates. In his concern for Jess he realises he is becoming sidetracked. ‘I’ve used peanut butter to make up carp pellets in the past – but there’s nowt like that in the car right now – some pupated maggots, maybe – and chocolate biscuits.’

  ‘A delicious combination, all the same.’ The vet smiles mischievously. ‘How about you, young lady?’

  Glum-faced, Jess shakes her head.

  ‘I don’t like it. I mean – we sell it at the shop – but – I’ve never touched it.’

  Skelgill now makes what sounds like a reluctant admission.

  ‘The car window was open. When I went to check on the dogs – there were some kids petting them – they ran off.’ He ends the sentence abruptly – as if he is replaying the scene and seeing it in a new light.

  ‘One bite of a generously spread sandwich might have done it. You know what youngsters are like, Inspector. They may have been on their way down to the lakeside to feed the ducks.’

  Skelgill nods – he opts not to point out that they ran off in the opposite direction. In any event, the vet has something to add.

  ‘I have a confession to make. I own three German Longhaired Pointers. My girls. I give them peanut butter – the British variety, naturally. You know these hollow rubber toys? You can fill them with treats. Peanut butter keeps them occupied for hours – hah!’

  Her jovial manner seems reassuring – and she draws a weak simper from Jess. She places the sample pot carefully on a shelf behind her, and then turns back to lay a hand upon the collie on the operating table. She regards Jess earnestly.

  ‘We’ll need to hospitalise your dog for blood monitoring – make sure everything’s working as it should. I’ll stay with him for this glucose infusion – then I’ll brief my assistant to monitor him. In a couple of hours I expect he’ll be as
bright as a button. You can telephone around teatime for a progress report.’

  Now she strides over to the door and it is plain she wishes to be left with the patient. Medical practicalities aside, Skelgill can see the merit in extracting his young cousin from the nerve-racking situation – but Jess seems reluctant to go.

  ‘I can’t afford to pay – not right now – I’m starting to save.’

  Skelgill fights back the image of his bank manager, arms crossed like a continually disobeyed headmistress who has reached the end of her tether. With a twisted look he contrives to convey the necessary reassurance to Harriet Skipton-James.

  ‘Don’t worry, young lady – we shan’t let that get in the way.’

  ‘But – he’ll be lonely. I should stay with him.’

  The vet stands her ground.

  ‘When he wakes up it is better that he is not excited. Then as soon as he is back on his feet the Pointer sisters will keep him company – what could be more fun for a young dog?’