Jess nods reluctantly and Skelgill moves to chaperone her from the surgery. He glances over his shoulder at Harriet Skipton-James. She winks – surely a reassuring valediction.
*
‘Don’t fret, lass – Kelly’s going to be alright. That vet leaves Doctor Dolittle standing – she’s probably chatting away to him as we speak.’
Jess nods – but his joke does not penetrate so deeply as to raise a smile. She has maintained a strained silence since they departed from Castlerigg Brow. Skelgill continues encouragingly.
‘Chances are he’s just had a shock to his system – he’ll be champing at the bit in a day or two.’
‘I’ll pray that he is.’
Skelgill glances at the girl beside him.
‘You comfortable sat like that?’
Again she nods, her features impassive. He thinks she can’t really be comfortable, for she has his own lump of a dog on her lap, her arms draped around it. Cleopatra is not accustomed to such attention, and if anything can be gleaned from the present nuance of her generally pugnacious expression, it is that she is feeling a little embarrassed, but seems to understand she should go along with it. For his part, Skelgill is saddened that Jess is taking the bad news with a practised resignation. Is it an ingrained sense of defeat brought about by an upbringing infested with disappointments and deprivations? A life in which hugs are like hen’s teeth? Or is he reading too much into what little he knows of her background? It might be that her mother’s descent into ruin is a relatively recent phenomenon.
He switches on the car radio and tunes it to the local music station – it bursts mid-song into the big hit of the summer, a rollercoaster ditty of love found and lost and found again, a female vocalist that sounds like every other female vocalist these days. He guesses for Jess it is probably too mainstream – but she seems to lighten a little and he notices her fingers tapping lightly on Cleopatra’s piebald flank. He takes a moment to assess where they are – just a couple of minutes now from Low Lorton – unusually for him he has paid scant attention to their journey – manoeuvring through the Whinlatter Pass on autopilot, his radar switched off, his antennae withdrawn – unaware of externalities, silently focused upon his young cousin. Bearing a share of her pain has proved an unaccustomed vicarious experience for him. Now that she has relaxed he becomes alert to their circumstances. They approach the junction with the Cockermouth-Buttermere road. He begins to decelerate. In his mirror he sees a large saloon – an old Mercedes, something of a jalopy by the look of it – some distance off. It has distinctive if innocuous vanilla paintwork that seems vaguely familiar and he wonders if it has been behind them since Braithwaite – whence there are few substantive turn-offs. Given that he has trundled somewhat aimlessly he is a little surprised it has not caught up and tailgated him, as folk are prone to do along these impassable lanes.
Now ahead he realises their progress is impeded by a more tangible presence than his disturbed sentiments. A lively flock of Swaledales is being driven past the junction in the Cockermouth direction. Two collies dart to and fro, having a field day, their ‘prey’ trapped in the confines of the narrow lane, nipping them freely about their newly shorn hindquarters. Skelgill finds he is holding his breath – not for the sheep but for Jess – he can guess her thoughts. To his relief a nearby gate is opened and it seems to vacuum both flock and dogs into the paddock beyond. He engages first gear to make the turn – and out of good habit again checks his rear-view mirror. He sees that the Mercedes has pulled onto the verge about a hundred yards short. At this distance he cannot tell if the driver is behind the wheel or has left the car.
When they reach the general store that is both home and work to Jess, Skelgill parks directly outside, although the road through the village is not particularly wide; it is just B-class, after all. While Jess disappears through the back and upstairs to get changed, Skelgill loiters in the cramped shop. It takes him a minute or two to locate peanut butter – and then a minute more squinting at the tiny print on the back of the jar held at arm’s length to determine that it contains no xylitol – but regular sugar, and an eye-watering helping of fat. Notwithstanding he buys the product and returns to his car. From the pocket in his driver-side door he fishes a teaspoon and proceeds to eat from the jar while he waits. In the passenger seat Cleopatra looks on covetously, despite that her master’s jaws are clamping up. Skelgill – subsumed in the reverie that can accompany such consumption – notices the dog’s attention. For a moment he thinks of holding out a portion for her – but despite what he knows about its safety it feels too much like tempting fate, and he screws the lid back on and drops the jar and spoon into the rear footwell. Jess now reappears in her tracksuit, the pristine new running shoes on her feet making the rest of her gear look a little jaded. But she has tied her mass of hair into her trademark topknot, and the green tips brought together certainly complement the trim of the shoes. Skelgill orders his dog to move and Jess slips nimbly into the passenger seat.
‘You fit to run, lass?’
She nods – but he can see she is still putting on a brave face.
‘It’ll take your mind off Kelly. When we’re done – like the vet said – it’ll be time to phone for the good news.’
She forces a smile but seems unconvinced.
‘What’s up, lass?’
‘How will I run without Kelly? He’s my pacemaker.’
Skelgill makes an exclamation of mock disgust.
‘When you’ve got the record holder – what more can you want?’ He thumps his chest. ‘I’ll be your pacemaker.’
However, his mind is immediately gripped by the prospect of Jess, fleet of foot, now fleeter in her new lightweight super-gripping fell shoes, leaving him for dead. He adds a caveat – ostensibly for her benefit.
‘Happen we should concentrate on breaking-in your shoes – you don’t want blisters – and we’ll do some route finding.’
Jess nods, perhaps a hint more cheerfully.
‘Will I get Kelly back for the run? I don’t know how I’ll do it otherwise. You can’t be my pacemaker in the official event. And it’s next Saturday.’
Skelgill is quick to gainsay her.
‘Look lass – I’m sure you’ll get him back – but we’ll think about Plan B, just in case he’s not quite up to speed.’
He twists the key in the ignition and pulls away. The timing suddenly strikes him as not ideal – the big race just seven days hence. The race of her life. He realises he has moved off without checking his mirrors – and in fact has pulled out in front of a courier’s van – these guys always need to be somewhere yesterday – and this one is no exception, close up on his bumper – but there is no pull-in until they leave the environs of the village. Feeling harried and irate, now Skelgill only half glimpses in a driveway that leads down to a cottage the same vanilla Mercedes that was behind him earlier. The car is facing the road; it seems to be parked up – but in the snatched glance he is sure of a movement in the driver’s seat – it is difficult with the reflection of the sky off the windscreen – but it could almost have been someone (or something – a dog, he supposes) dropping down out of sight.
12. KILLING TIME
Saturday, afternoon
Skelgill is kicking his heels in Keswick. He had planned a spot of fishing on Bass Lake. The juvenile miscreants and their peanut butter sandwiches put paid to that. Having contrived – under trying circumstances – a moderately successful stint on the fells with Jess – he felt obliged to return to verify in person that Kelly – as claimed by a bullish Harriet Skipton-James over the telephone – had recovered consciousness. He duly paid a visit and has sent a photograph – a selfie of sorts, Kelly’s muzzle cupped in his right hand and alert eyes looking dutifully into the camera. He could still go fishing – and run the session into the evening – but the mountain rescue team is having a bit of a knees-up – in the Twa Tups as it happens – and he is thinking he might kill two birds with one stone – a few pints with his
pals, and cousin Mouse might turn up, given his girlfriend is likely to be dispensing beer at staff prices. And Mouse might have some information. So he is waiting for his favourite chippy to open at 5pm. To kill time, he has found himself drawn back to the outdoor goods store – despite that his stretched-to-breaking lines of credit militate against any pecuniary excesses. He has several times taken refuge in the stock phrase, “just looking, marra”.
That said, he has been sorely tempted to buy some new running shoes. They have come on leaps and bounds since he got his last pair – which, he has reflected, are cast-me-downs from one of his brothers, who dabbled with the sport before joining the army. And, in good fraternal fashion, he exacted the price of a bartered transistor radio! But Skelgill has made it up to the beamed loft, wallet unscathed, where the café nestles unobtrusively, its roof lights affording views of Causey Pike and Catbells, inviting the shopper to sally forth and vindicate their profligacy. Bereft of any such purchases Skelgill is in no hurry, and – besides – the café does a cracking carrot cake.
Now he is pondering whether a second helping will dull his appetite. Such extravagance might be judged to be comfort eating – not least when his mind has been occupied by invasive recollections of yesterday’s skirmish with the Chief. She could hardly have been less congratulatory over his exploits in locating the vehicle submerged in Crummock Water. Instead she had likened his performance to fire fighting – in the pejorative sense of the management term, suggestive of matters being out of control (at best, that he was charging from one scene to the next – vainly damping charred embers). So there was a fire? Then who started it? That is what she wants to know. Skelgill’s defence had been – to maintain the metaphor – that here were incendiary bombs being lobbed into the district from one hundred-and-thirty miles away. What more could he, Skelgill, do but wait for the next one – blind to where it might fall. If DI Smart is such an expert on Manchester’s underworld wasn’t it for his unit to cross into enemy territory and snuff out the attacks at source? But the Chief gave him short shrift – and, besides, in his heart of hearts he knew he was being a mite disingenuous – he is engaged in clandestine tactics of his own that he is not at liberty to reveal – albeit they have yet to crystallise into a tangible strategy. Thus he was forced to bite the bullet, keep silent, and emerge shell-shocked with orders to buck up ringing in his ears. Deep in these reflections, he starts when he feels a hand upon his shoulder.
‘I could have been an assassin sent from the suburbs.’
Skelgill does not look round.
‘Except you’re wearing a pink lace bandana.’
‘Touché.’ DS Eve chuckles throatily and circles him to stand behind the chair opposite. For once she is not clad in leather trousers – but black satiny jeans and a short denim jacket over a cropped white t-shirt. ‘It’s called an Alice band.’
‘I thought it were you – I saw you disappear into a changing room when I was coming up the stairs.’
‘What do you think?’ From a bag she pulls a scanty cerise exercise top that looks to Skelgill more like a bra and holds it in front of her. ‘I thought – if I am going to be here any length of time – I ought to make an effort – all work and no play, and all that.’ She regards him quizzically.
Skelgill grimaces and glances across at the grey skyline, distant above the wet slate rooftops.
‘You might have been better off with a cagoule.’
‘Well – I suppose I prefer the reliability of the climate inside the gym.’
‘Aye, there is that.’
Skelgill sounds patently unenthusiastic. DS Eve, however, smiles engagingly.
‘I hear that skinny dipping is only one of your many talents.’
Skelgill has limited rein upon his ego when such bouquets fly his way – and he only half-heartedly ducks this one. He gives a casual toss of the head in the direction of the vista.
‘I grew up out there. It comes with the territory. It’s no big deal.’
‘Ah – you do yourself a disservice, if the jungle drums are to be believed.’
Now her smile has become a little teasing. But before Skelgill can affect to challenge her contention she puts down her shopping and begins to back away towards the service counter.
‘I could do with a double shot. For you?’
Skelgill gestures at the crockery before him. ‘I’ve still got half a pot.’
‘Well, then – some more – let me use my detective skills – was it carrot cake?’
He scowls – but his rejoinder lacks conviction.
‘Reckon it might spoil my tea – dinner, I mean.’
‘No matter.’
And she moves lightly away before he can consider that he has been neither gracious in his refusals nor generous in that he should be fetching her a coffee. But his mind has been diverted – for her comments about his prowess have recalled an exchange with DS Leyton as the pair of them left together last evening.
“DS Eve was asking about you, Guvnor.”
“Asking what?”
DS Leyton had suddenly looked apprehensive.
“Well – like – if you were a serious biker.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Just that you’ve got other hobbies – what with your running – and the mountain rescue. How you did your back in – without a rope, saving some kid trapped halfway down a bottomless pit. I said fishing’s your main thing – but that I didn’t know how often you went out on your motorbike – except that I didn’t reckon it would be much use for fishing – what with all your rods and tackle and whatnot.”
Skelgill had glowered disapprovingly. He was reminded his troublesome back has been just fine lately.
“What else did she want to know?”
There was more, but DS Leyton had suffered a premonition of shoot-the-messenger. He had answered accordingly.
“That was about it, Guv. She was just saying how it was a coincidence – you being a bit of a motorbike buff – and this malarkey with the BSA. She looked flippin’ impressed to me, Guv.”
Skelgill had not been entirely convinced – especially as DS Leyton had prevaricated, checking his watch and inching backwards towards his car and beginning to mutter something about “the Missus” and “the nippers”. Skelgill had fired off a question of his own.
“What do you reckon to her?”
“Good as gold, Guv.” The reply had seemed intended to reassure – and then DS Leyton had qualified it, as though Skelgill’s subsequent reaction had censured him. “What I mean is – she knows her stuff – and she’s serious about her job. Alright – she’s a bit flash – all that leather gear – and she’s not, well – she’s not exactly DS Jones.”
‘Two forks okay?’
Skelgill is jolted from his daydream – for a second he wonders quite what words DS Eve has uttered – until she puts down a slice of carrot cake with a table fork for each of them.
‘Aye, but –’
‘A little pleasure won’t spoil your figure.’ She laughs – as though she pretends this was his real motive for refusing. ‘Or your dinner – your tea. What were you thinking of – if you don’t mind my asking?’
A splotch of red colours each of Skelgill’s prominent cheekbones – for the backhanded compliment has caught him off guard. He makes an expiration of breath that doubles as a self-reproaching lament.
‘I was thinking – I hadn’t been to the chippy for a while.’
‘How about sampling my bhuna?’
‘Come again?’
Her offer, made without preamble, has him cornered.
‘My accommodation – it’s just five minutes’ walk – I bought all the ingredients earlier – I always cook in large measure – especially curry – it lasts all week and improves with maturity, don’t you agree?’
It strikes Skelgill there may be some innuendo buried in her words – and hinted at in her tone. He feels for his mug and tries to take a gulp of tea – but it proves to be empty and makes the ti
me-buying gesture seem more obviously just what it is.
‘I’d have thought they’d put you up in the hotel at Penrith – beside the M6 – that’s where most visiting officers stay – two minutes from HQ.’
She smiles inwardly, as though registering that he has not declined, and that she is amused by his clumsy diversion.
‘A hotel can be rather impersonal.’ With the taloned fingers of her free hand she twists a tress of hair. ‘Besides, I prefer not to be monitored by CCTV.’
There is a wary cast about Skelgill’s grey eyes; the green flecks perhaps in the ascendancy. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
‘You’re on it right now.’
She lifts her gaze to the ceiling and presses a palm to her breastbone.
‘No doubt my entire shopping trip this afternoon is on record.’
‘You’re not hard to spot.’
There is a moment’s hesitation before DS Eve replies.
‘It is a source of frustration that our two most recent victims have proved more challenging to identify.’
Her sudden change of tack provides for Skelgill a relief of sorts, albeit of the frying-pan-to-fire variety – for it serves only to rekindle the smouldering frustration that has been clouding his thoughts.
‘They’re not making it easy.’ His response is somewhat banal.
‘Yet they want someone to know – just not us.’
‘You’re back to your business of sending out signals – warnings.’
‘While international dictators wantonly eliminate rivals, why wouldn’t drug dealers ape them?’
Skelgill nods reflectively – but by now he cannot resist any longer and digs into the carrot cake. He looks up to see DS Eve grinning at him. He wonders if he should have halved the cake first – but she simply cuts a sliver from the same place as he. She closes her lips over her fork, sucking and slowly drawing it free.
‘So what’s Alec Smart saying?’
Skelgill has blurted out the question before he can think about it. DS Eve narrows her eyes – but her lashes flutter in a manner that is unequivocally conspiratorial.
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