Murder on the Run

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Murder on the Run Page 17

by Bruce Beckham


  ‘They recognised you? As an officer?’

  Skelgill is becoming increasingly taciturn.

  ‘I reckon someone tipped them the wink.’

  DS Eve is now looking at him intently. It must be plain he knows more than he lets on – but either she is becoming accustomed to his idiosyncrasies, or she decides there is plenty of time to extract whatever information she desires. She sinks back into the driver’s seat – but now a car is behind them, wanting to get out of the junction; there comes a tentative honk. DS Eve lowers the window and waves it to overtake.

  ‘What do you think they were doing here?’

  Skelgill nods broodingly. He doesn’t know the answer but he has been thinking about the same question.

  ‘This road leads into a big council estate. Happen we should have a deek.’

  She chuckles throatily.

  ‘Or a butcher’s?’

  A silence descends as they patrol about. Although Skelgill has referred to it as a council estate, technically these days most of the properties are in the hands of a housing association. However, the local corporation built the homes in the 1930s for steelworkers, back in the day, when Workington did what it said on the tin. As a consequence, each street is much like the next, and each house much like its neighbour. Skelgill leaves it to DS Eve to choose whatever turns take her fancy – but at a crossroads she hesitates.

  There is the sudden whine of an engine and the loud popping of a corrupted exhaust. Two tracksuit-clad youths pull alongside on a battered-looking mud bike that has no lights or identification plate. The teenagers wear no helmets, only mufflers and their hoods pulled up. They are on the passenger side of the car. Skelgill has his window down. They contort their scrawny frames to leer across at DS Eve – rudely articulating what they would like to do with her. Skelgill stares at them impassively – and then his left arm snakes out and he grabs hold of the crown of the rider’s hoodie.

  ‘Drive!’

  DS Eve now demonstrates some of her pillion passenger vim – for she does as Skelgill orders. Steering to the right she accelerates. The youth is dragged from the stationary bike causing it to topple and his companion to fall off. The erstwhile rider staggers as he is towed along, frantically trying to keep his feet – then somehow he manages to escape the hoodie like a dog slipping its collar – but his momentum sees him face-plant onto the tarmac. Skelgill has the hoodie. He watches in the wing mirror a diminishing picture of the pair, hobbling away to squat on the kerb and lick their wounds. He tosses the hoodie onto a grass verge. DS Eve shoots him a glance, her eyes bright.

  ‘Hadn’t we better call for reinforcements – in case there’s a gang?’

  Skelgill growls nonchalantly.

  ‘They’re hardly the Jam Eaters. Pity it’s your nice motor – else we could have gone back and driven over that heap of junk.’ He falls silent, but after a while he offers a suggestion. ‘Just keep going. Hang a left at the t-junction. That’ll take us roughly in the direction of the town centre.’

  ‘I’ll follow my nose.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  She glances at him reprovingly – as if she contests what might be self-disparagement.

  ‘It never held back Rod Stewart.’

  Skelgill affects a perplexed scowl – her tone is flirtatious – and now she lets go of the wheel with her left hand and lightly presses his thigh.

  His response is a sharp expletive. She jerks back her hand. But Skelgill is leaning forward – staring at the road ahead.

  ‘What is it?’

  Through the gathering dusk, streetlamps not yet illuminated, Skelgill squints in the direction of a pale-coloured car – an old Mercedes – parked with its nearside wheels up on the kerb, about fifty yards from them. His next words, though spoken quietly, are tinged with urgency.

  ‘Pull in and turn off the engine.’

  DS Eve does as bidden.

  ‘Is it the Mercedes?’

  ‘I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘For a biker you have a keen eye for cars.’

  ‘I’m nobbut a fair-weather biker. Mouse’ll gladly tell you that.’

  He is no more forthcoming. They watch the car. In the absence of any explanation DS Eve takes the precaution of photographing it on her mobile – a simple means of capturing the registration. Nothing happens until, from further down the street, a large man lumbers, leading a lame-looking lurcher. The man lingers beside the Mercedes to light up a cigarette – the lurcher avails itself of the facility to urinate against the rear tyre. The pair move slowly past the two detectives without apparently noticing them, or despoiling their car. Two more minutes elapse, and then Skelgill reaches a decision. He opens his door.

  ‘Come on.’

  DS Eve locks the vehicle. Skelgill has waited for her on the pavement. They fall in together – trying perhaps too hard not to look conspicuous – DS Eve seems tense, and Skelgill coiled for unknown action. As they reach the Mercedes he glances casually inside – but there is little on view – a crushed packet of cigarettes and a crumpled fast-food bag on the passenger seat, and an electronic vaping device in a recess of the central console. He grimaces disapprovingly.

  They turn to face the property, outside which the car appears deliberately to be parked. It is semi-detached – ostensibly one of a homogenous row, with its harled walls and low-maintenance PVC windows. But whereas neighbouring houses exhibit signs of husbandry, this has a splintered fence of palings thirsty for creosote and a sparse desert of a garden starved of nourishment. Skelgill is looking at the upstairs windows; the curtains are drawn – in fact all of the curtains are drawn.

  ‘The front door’s open.’

  It is DS Eve that jolts him from his speculation. He sees that the door is indeed ajar. There is no functioning gate and they approach via uneven paving slabs that rock underfoot. Skelgill pushes open the door to its full extent but does not enter. The hallway is in darkness and little advantageous light is cast from behind them. He looks at DS Eve and makes a ‘chatterbox’ gesture with the fingers and thumb of his left hand. She seems to understand. She takes a step closer and calls out.

  ‘Hello – anyone home?’

  There is immediately the sound of movement – possibly from upstairs – just a single thud like a heavy footstep. Then perhaps a faint muffled tread and maybe the click of a door. DS Eve calls again.

  ‘Hello – are you okay?’

  There might now be a further sound – if Skelgill had to guess, a wardrobe or cupboard being opened – but then only silence. He looks again at DS Eve and gives a jerk of his head for her to follow him. He enters the hallway and feels for the light switch – but either the bulb has blown or there is no power. He pats his breast pockets but he does not have his customary flashlight in this more casual jacket – but DS Eve is well versed in such circumstances – she engages the torch function on her phone to guide their way. She follows him as they cautiously mount the stairs, the boards creaking beneath their feet and Skelgill’s shadow preceding them like the stretched figure of Nosferatu in the eponymous horror movie.

  They pause on the landing. The two adjacent doors of rear-facing rooms are closed. But Skelgill senses some presence in the opposite direction – the front bedroom. This door is almost shut but not fastened. Gingerly he pushes it open and steps over the threshold. There is a cloying smell of unwashed laundry and stale air – like a room that has been heavily overslept in – despite that it is now past 9pm. He locates the light switch but meets the same outcome as in the hallway. But now DS Eve steps alongside him to illuminate the scene. Skelgill hears her sharp intake of breath.

  Sprawled on a stained double mattress is a half-naked girl – maybe late teenage, is Skelgill’s first impression. He can see her hair is lank and her limbs attenuated, her torso emaciated and shadows marking the hollows of her cheeks. Her thin lips are parted; her eyes open, staring. But all this seems part of the backdrop for some gritty modern theatrical drama, along with the litter o
f cigarette packs, food wrappers and discarded clothing that clings to the mattress like flotsam around a washed-up life raft – for glinting in the limelight, hanging by its tip from her right forearm, is a hypodermic needle. Skelgill seems frozen, transfixed by dread, as though they have lifted the lid of a sarcophagus to discover the distasteful delinquencies of the afterlife. But now DS Eve’s voice rings out with sudden urgency.

  ‘You know CPR?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘CPR – resuscitation. We might be in time.’

  Skelgill gathers his wits.

  ‘Aye – aye – course I do – CPR – aye.’

  He kneels rather apprehensively beside the girl; who knows how many more needles are hidden amongst the detritus? DS Eve casts about with her beam and identifies an upturned wooden crate that serves as a nightstand. She balances the phone upon it. Then she presses a palm on Skelgill’s shoulder – as if to wish him good luck – and she promptly exits the room. Her boots rap out a drumroll on the stairs.

  Skelgill has his hands suspended in mid air, his fingers splayed – it looks almost like some act of healing – except he does not want to touch her – repelled as he is by the sight of the syringe. First impressions have a way of cutting deep – just as in his mind’s eye he replays first aid classes – back in the day, with the mountain rescue – as a callow youth, long before he joined the police. There was the cocksure ex-skinhead instructor strutting about the unheated scout hut, his bovver boots thumping on the bare boards, his barked directions accompanied by belches of condensation – picking on Skelgill – making him recite multiple times – “Dr ABC ... Dr ABC” – danger, response, airway, breathing, circulation. Skelgill experiences an unfamiliar wave of nausea – he puts it down to carrot cake and no breakfast or lunch. He sets his jaw determinedly. Then suddenly he mouths the word, circulation – and repeats it aloud. For he is holding the girl’s right wrist – despite the syringe – and beneath the rough skin of his fisherman’s index finger he feels the feeblest pulse imaginable.

  With some difficulty he arches his body over the girl until his ear lobe brushes her cracked dry lips. He waits – there is a deathly silence – he holds his breath – and, finally, hears hers – the like faintest soughing of a cool breeze over still water. His back almost gives out and he is forced to straighten with a gasp of pain. At this moment DS Eve returns – barely a minute since her departure. She halts in the doorway – as if she reads from his reaction that they are too late. But he turns to her, his eyes wide.

  ‘The lass is breathing – she’s got a pulse – for the time being, anyhow.’

  DS Eve has a small carton in one hand.

  ‘Let me in. Please.’

  Skelgill rises and steps aside. DS Eve takes his place. She drops the carton on the mattress and tugs a plastic evidence bag from her pocket. She inverts the bag and, working through the polythene, removes the syringe from the girl’s arm and lays the bag aside. Then she tears opens the sealed carton.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Naloxone spray kit – emergency antidote – it bonds with opioids and blocks their effect – even fentanyl. In the drug squad we carry them as standard – we’re often the first responders.’

  Now she bends over the girl and with clinical efficiency administers a dose into one nostril. She sits upright and her shoulders heave – for she is still to recover from her dash to and from her car.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We wait – it might take another shot if there is no improvement in a couple of minutes.’ She is watching the girl closely. ‘But – look – her breathing is becoming stronger already.’

  Skelgill utters an expletive – it may be relief, or perhaps simply an expression of the bewilderment he has been battling.

  ‘I have called for an ambulance.’ DS Eve looks at Skelgill to see he is staring at the girl. ‘I also carry a backup mobile – lone woman driver, and all that. By the way – the other car is gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Mercedes – it’s no longer there.’

  Skelgill nods slowly – but now he is most definitely alert. His eyes gleam in the cold light of the LED. What about the sounds they heard when they arrived? It could not have been the girl. He turns and without explanation stalks from the room. Across the landing he opts for the door furthest from the external wall – it will be the back bedroom, the other the bathroom with its pipes and overflows. He enters, his left fist balled and held against his hip, his right arm raised and angled, his fingers stiff; it is a karate stance, poised to block and strike. But the room is empty – filled only by twilight – and the window is wide open and one of the curtains trails out. He strides over and leans out of the casement. Beneath is a flat roof – and, propped against it from ground level, its top rung protruding, an aluminium ladder; an escape route.

  Skelgill curses under his breath. He stares out, his face grim. The scene is one of disharmony, of adjoining back gardens with their crooked fences and leaning sheds and rusting swings and rotting trampolines. As his vision blurs he barely registers the significant change in the pallor of the surrounding buildings – a spectral flickering indigo that marks the arrival of the emergency services. For he realises what has been most troubling him, the underlying source of his discord. The girl on the mattress – she reminds him of Jess.

  13. ELEVENSES

  Monday, late morning

  ‘Who wants first shot?’

  DS Jones glances apprehensively across the canteen – DI Smart’s regular team are lounging, laughing boisterously; there are several strangers in their midst.

  ‘Guv – I have to go to a strategy meeting – there’s an undercover unit from the Manchester drug squad here to brief us. I think I’ll be called shortly.’

  Skelgill scowls disapprovingly. This would be his reaction in any event, but DS Eve’s remarks about DI Smart’s intentions revisit him with an unpleasant jolt. However, DS Jones takes his silence as tacit approval for her to continue.

  ‘I’ve got some information on the various vehicles. Starting with DS Wythenshawe’s report on the hatchback that ended up in the lake. You know they interviewed the motor dealer on Friday –’ (Skelgill notices she doesn’t use the said trader’s name) ‘– he says he legitimately bought the car – which tallies with the former keeper’s account. It seems there was a mix up over the V5C – the registration document – the seller didn’t realise he should have completed part of it – so the transfer hadn’t been recorded. The dealer believes that the car was stolen last Tuesday night.’

  This calls to Skelgill’s mind his cousin Marty’s glib remark, “No one would steal any of that lot!”

  ‘Why didn’t he report it?’

  ‘He claims he didn’t realise – he was away on Wednesday morning and when he saw it was missing he assumed his assistant had let a prospective customer have it out on loan for a couple of days. It seems like they’re a bit free and easy with their cars and the staff aren’t exactly on the same wavelength. It was only when we got in touch that they worked out it had been taken without permission.’

  Skelgill rubs a knuckle against the stubble on his chin. Of course, he has been privy to an account that is a little at variance with this one. Indeed, his insider knowledge now requires him to be somewhat disingenuous.

  ‘What about CCTV?’

  ‘They don’t have it, Guv. The keys are kept in the back office in a cabinet that’s locked at night – but it’s open during the day. As we know, the car wasn’t hot-wired – the keys were in the ignition when you found it. In addition to the owner and his female assistant, there’s a mechanic, another part-time salesman who works weekends, and a teenage boy that does the valeting. It could have been a rogue employee – but there’s little to stop a determined thief from posing as a customer and snatching a set of keys to use later.’

  ‘Have we interviewed the staff?’

  DS Jones’s expression suggests she has anticipated this question – and that she has been rat
her hoping Skelgill would not pose it. But it is unthinkable that potential witnesses could be casually overlooked when the car has been used in a probable murder. Clearly she feels she is between a rock and a hard place. She makes an inclusive gesture with her hands, encompassing the four of them around the table.

  ‘DI Smart said we should do it – that it’s a local matter.’

  Given that this news could be interpreted as DI Smart simultaneously directing and belittling Skelgill’s team – an act undoubtedly designed to get under his skin – Skelgill’s reaction is a surprise to all concerned. Though his features remain stern, he shrugs phlegmatically.

  ‘Their loss. Our gain.’

  There is a collective sense of relief, an easing of tense body language. DS Jones regards Skelgill curiously for a moment before she moves on.

  ‘The black BMW – that you saw again – on Saturday night.’ She pauses to glance briefly at DS Eve – who may just express the tiniest hint of smugness with the most fleeting of smiles. ‘There were three patrols on the southbound M6 in the stretch between Kendal and the M61 – but no positive sightings.’

  DS Eve now sighs rather extravagantly – as if this is something that is familiar to her, and only to be expected. But she does not otherwise comment. DS Jones thus continues.

  ‘So – no further forward on the BMW – but the Mercedes you also saw in Workington – at the location of the most recent poisoning – it’s registered to an elderly lady who lives between Grasmere and Ambleside.’

  Now Skelgill is perplexed. This is a long way from where he first saw it – he is sure he saw it – in the vicinity of Low Lorton. Could the ‘elderly lady’ have been visiting a friend? In Low Lorton – maybe. But on that estate in Salterbeck? However, he keeps his doubts to himself.

  ‘The road tax, insurance, MOT – they’re all up to date. We’ve had an officer from Ambleside call round twice yesterday – on the second occasion at 10pm – but there has been nobody home nor any trace of the car. It’s an isolated property with no immediate neighbours. I’ve put a DC onto tracking down relatives – to see if she has maybe gone away for a few days.’

 

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