‘Megan – I need to talk to you about Jess.’
It is perhaps his imagination, but her figure seems to stiffen. But there is still no response.
‘Megan – the lass needs to learn to drive – living out there in the sticks. I’ll teach her – then I’ll pay for her to have some proper lessons before her test.’
It is a one-sided conversation – made all the more difficult by Skelgill’s inability to judge Megan Graham’s actual disposition.
‘I hear you bought a car – Marty Graham told me – if you give us the details I’ll get me and Jess put on the insurance – it won’t cost you a penny. It’s best that she learns in something she knows – and that she can take her test in.’
At last Skelgill’s words appear to have engendered a reaction – for suddenly the pink spectral shape drifts across the kitchen towards him. He steps back in anticipation of her opening the door – but she merely brings her face up to the glass.
‘I haven’t got no car – how would I afford a car? – and thew keep away from here – and keep away from Jess!’
Her voice rises and reaches something of a hysterical crescendo – and whatever has prompted her outburst now seems to overcome her, and Skelgill sees that she raises her hands to her face as she turns and disappears from view, with a slam of the interior door. He stands transfixed – it would seem wondering what to do next – but in fact there is a more tangible cause. Megan Graham might have obtained only a vague impression of Skelgill, a yard beyond the frosted glass – and to have assumed the reverse applied – but when she came up close he could see her more clearly – certainly in sufficient focus to make out the blackened left eye and the puce and yellowing bruise surrounding it.
He makes a reflective clicking noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He casts about without really seeing his surroundings. Propped against the wall of the house the bulging black rubbish bag leans precariously; some of its contents have spilled onto the moss-encrusted paving slabs. He toe-pokes a crushed beer can and then an apple that has just one bite out of it, the exposed flesh oxidised and brown – propelling these stray items towards the bag. Then, as if charged with a sudden purpose, he strides away – turning when he reaches the pavement not for his car but in the opposite direction.
It takes him two minutes to reach 26 Hempstead Avenue, there being just fifty-nine properties (if his mental arithmetic is correct) lying between the two addresses placed by happenstance in the same Workington street. Two minutes, however, is not long enough for him to formulate a plausible explanation for his intrusion – ‘gut feel’ does not generally carry much weight with householders finding the police at their door requesting entry. On this occasion, however, he need not have worried.
‘Are you here to fix the television again? It was working fine last time I switched it on.’
The elderly resident, Mr Booth, has answered the door. His expression alarms Skelgill – for it is the look of someone who knows he ought to recognise his visitor, and it troubles him that he does not.
‘Mr Booth – I’m from Cumbria Police – DI Skelgill. I met you before – about your nephew.’
The man does not question Skelgill’s statement, and turns to lead the way.
‘You’d better come in, then.’
Skelgill takes a moment to close the front door. The man has disappeared into the lounge – Skelgill catches up to find he is already seated on one of the sofas. The widescreen TV is playing an old episode of Ennerdale – he must have it tuned to one of those channels that specialises in wall-to-wall repeats. Skelgill is distracted as a female barmaid slaps the face of an inebriated male customer in response to a lecherous remark. The man watches too – and then appears startled as he looks up at Skelgill.
‘I don’t know why Mildred called you – look – it’s working fine.’
The photograph on the mantelpiece serves to prompt Skelgill – Mildred was the man’s wife.
‘Aye, so it is.’
As per his last visit, there is a bowl of apples on the coffee table – and now the man reaches forward to lift and offer it up to him.
‘Have an apple, young man. An apple a day keeps the doctor away – did you know that?’
‘Is that right, sir?’
Skelgill obligingly selects an apple, but does not take a bite. The man puts down the bowl, seemingly satisfied – but then he looks back at Skelgill with a puzzled expression.
‘You’re not my nephew?’
His tone sounds questioning rather than accusing, although Skelgill cannot be entirely sure. He grins, perhaps a little manically.
‘I’ll tell you what, sir – I’ll just go and check the aerial.’
Skelgill does not wait for an answer. Since the front door is located at the side he feels unobserved as he makes his way around to the rear of the property. The back garden has gone to seed, though it was clearly once well tended – there are fruit-bearing shrubs and a vegetable plot with raised beds formed by railway sleepers; a patch of lawn and a patio nearest to the house, with a wrought iron table and two chairs – though their paintwork peels and their metal corrodes. The borders are overrun with wild plants, those first invaders like dandelion and groundsel and scarlet pimpernel, and in what might once have been a ‘chamber pot corner’ stinging nettle and its nemesis dock.
As Skelgill takes in his surroundings he realises he is polishing the apple on his trousers, like a fast bowler at the end of his run up – he is a fast bowler – or at least he once was – the cherry they call it – the new ball handed over by the umpires to the fielding side – one half henceforth to be kept shiny so that it swings through the moist English air – and he examines his apple to see that he has buffed the red hemisphere – the side of the fruit that was exposed to direct sunlight. He takes a bite; it is sweet – always something of a surprise for a man whose formative impression of the taste of apples is rooted in boyhood scrumping – when, if you didn’t get them early and sour, you didn’t get them at all.
The garden tapers to end with what Skelgill suspects is a brick-built garage – indeed each of the neighbouring properties have a similar arrangement; access to the row must be via a lane on the other side. But it is not clear to whom each garage might belong, or even the demarcation between them – the roof is a continuous construction of corrugated asbestos, apparently sloping away to the far side where there must be a gutter. He steps back with half an eye on scaling the building to reach the main doors. Growing against the wall there is an apple tree trained in espalier fashion – but it is overdue for pruning and is beginning to sag under the weight of vigorous new growth and a healthy crop of immature fruit. He finishes his own apple, eating the core and pips.
Set perpendicular to the garage is a dilapidated wood-built tool shed. The door sticks – though it is merely warped – and now with a lusty heave Skelgill inadvertently unleashes a Hitchcockian moment – a blackbird explodes from its nest to batter against the leaded window before escaping through a missing pane. The bird – a dun-coloured hen – retreats to a rooftop and begins pinking relentlessly, thus summoning her ebony mate from its nearby foraging to boost the cacophony. Skelgill ducks into the shed. The nest sits on a corner shelf, woven from dried grass and cupping a brood of ugly naked squabs, half blind and huddled, hoping for the best. Such vitality is in marked contrast to the interior of the hut; it is crypt-like, a time capsule jammed with cobwebbed garden tools and tangled cables, rotting packets of chemicals and rusting pots of paint and wood stain. There is little else to prick Skelgill’s interest – until he notices behind the door a stack of traditional greengrocer’s organiser boxes – the topmost displaying a layer of rounded bundles of wrapped newspaper. He picks one up and it unfurls to reveal an apple. So the old fellow was in good enough shape to harvest last year’s crop – and at least he remembers they are still here – for these are the same distinctive variety of Cox’s Orange Pippin as that Skelgill has just eaten, yellowish-green mottled with carmine.
The same distinctive variety. He scowls pensively at the fruit as he rolls it in his fingers – this is the action of a spin bowler – then he pockets it and exits purposefully – however he turns to close the shed door with circumspection. He does not re-enter the house, but strides from the property by the side path; the blackbirds fall silent, the hen glides in to check her progeny.
His return to 26 Hempstead Avenue is brisk – and he ignores his car to make a beeline for the black rubbish bag. He stoops to retrieve the once-bitten apple that he kicked away – and he produces the fruit he took from the garden hut. He is no horticulturalist but he is accustomed to examining wild things – mainly fish, it is true – but he would put money on these two apples having come from the same tree.
He stands and flexes his spine and ponders – or rather, ‘feels’, for no precise ideas come to him – but then he bends on one knee and peers into the bin liner. He delves cautiously – for he has in mind the risks associated with Megan Graham’s proclivities. But what he finds he cannot have predicted – his speculative act causes sudden alarm to grip his countenance. Gingerly he reaches into the bag and between thumb and forefinger extracts a jar without its lid. The label he does not recognise – though printed in English – but there is no mistaking the smeared remains – peanut butter.
*
‘Well, Inspector – there can be no doubt about xylitol – it states it in the ingredients.’
Skelgill is nodding; this much he has ascertained himself.
‘But is it the same stuff as the dog bowked up?’
Harriet Skipton-James is unfazed by his somewhat coarse colloquialism.
‘We shall have to put that theory to the test – literally – but in any event it would not prove it came from the same jar – merely that it matches the recipe.’
‘What if I were to tell you I picked it out of the rubbish of someone connected to Jess?’
‘Isn’t that what is known as circumstantial evidence?’
‘Aye. Call it that if you like – but I’m being dogged by these kind of coincidences.’
The tall stately woman eyes Skelgill curiously, perhaps wondering if he is making a joke. Then she waggles the jar in mid air.
‘These foreign – what do they call them – discount supermarkets – they stock brands of entirely obscure provenance. I tried shopping in one once – couldn’t find half of my list – couldn’t find a member of staff – couldn’t remember where to put the stuff back – had to abandon the darned trolley.’
Skelgill grins at an imagined picture of her sneaking between the tills – although on reflection she would probably not sneak – brazen it out would be more likely. When he does not reply immediately, Harriet Skipton-James speaks what is on her mind.
‘Are you thinking the poisoning of Kelly the collie took place rather closer to home? That poor Jess made an error she could not bring herself to admit?’
Skelgill pulls a face that he would only display in certain company – when he does not mind revealing that he really does not know something, and is exasperated by that state of affairs. He digs his hands into his trouser pockets and hunches his shoulders.
‘I don’t know what to think – it’s possible – but it doesn’t feel right. The jar comes from her Ma’s place in Workington – I don’t know if she’s been over there lately.’
‘That won’t be beyond your detective skills.’
Skelgill makes a scoffing expiration of breath.
‘I sometimes wonder if I’ve got any detective skills.’
‘Well perhaps a cup of tea will restore such talents – I suspect you are in need of sustenance. Then you can take young Kelly.’
‘Take him?’
‘Certainly – he’s raring to go. He’s been leading the Pointer sisters a merry old dance. I’d forgotten just what speed and agility a collie has – and as for brains – well, he can certainly count to three!’
Skelgill would ordinarily remark that, never mind three, there’s many a shepherd who would tell you their dog knows when one of a flock of thirty yowes is missing – and not settle until it has winkled it out of some fellside nook or cranny. But there is a more pressing aspect to what Harriet Skipton-James has proposed.
‘Could you hang on to him – just for the time being?’ He hesitates for a moment. ‘I’ll pay for your boarding fees.’
The veterinary surgeon can come across as bluff and insensitive – but she is an intelligent and perceptive woman, and though she regards Skelgill for a few seconds longer than he feels comfortable, she does not pry.
‘With pleasure – the Pointer sisters will be overjoyed. Come on – have a look at him, anyway – then you must advise whether my home-baked scones pass muster.’
14. SHEPHERD’S RAKE
Monday, late afternoon
‘Oh – it’s you!’
‘Aye.’
‘Your number came up as withheld.’
Skelgill glosses over the implied reprimand and responds with a question.
‘Are you with a customer?’
‘Er – no – I mean – I’m just about to have a meeting with Marty – I need him to sign some cheques – but – I can –’
‘It’s just a quickie.’
Trish begins to giggle – but it is a nervous laugh that reveals she does not quite know how to interpret his approach. She inhales as if to respond with enthusiasm – but then hesitates as she thinks the better of it. Her tone becomes rather coy.
‘I’m at your service.’
At his end of the line Skelgill grimaces. It might be a look of regret – or indeed guilt.
‘You mentioned Marty sold a car to his cousin, Megan.’
‘Ah – the family discount – and there was I thinking you were calling to speak with little me.’
‘No – it’s not that.’ Skelgill senses that his words lack tact – but he soldiers on regardless. ‘I’ll be giving her daughter driving lessons – for a birthday present. The family’s a bit hard up. I need the car model and registration – to put it on my insurance – so it’s all set up as a surprise.’
Skelgill feels he sounds quite convincing – he is almost beginning to believe his own whoppers. After all – why shouldn’t he give Jess driving lessons – as it happens, he has the ideal means of doing so – but that idea rekindles the spectre of his bank manager and he wrestles to dismiss it from his mind. Equally, Trish seems to be vacillating over her reply.
‘I’ll need to check with Marty – I don’t know if the car even came in.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well – sometimes he buys a car and sells it again without putting it on display – if he’s got a buyer lined up.’
Skelgill nods to himself – it is not an implausible scenario – and small wonder Trish (let alone the taxman) has trouble keeping up with the paper trail.
‘Just one thing someone mentioned.’ (Someone being an imaginary voice in Skelgill’s head.) ‘It’s not a Mercedes, is it? That might be a bit on the big side for a learner.’
‘A Mercedes?’ Trish sounds genuinely bemused. ‘I doubt if we’ve ever sold a Mercedes. We specialise in budget runarounds – and the occasional boy-racer – as you know.’
She is teasing him over the striped hatchback – but since his expressed interest was feigned he is not so easily distracted.
‘But you definitely sold her a car?’
‘Ye-es – I’m sure we did – I remember I had to deposit the cash in the bank’s night safe – Marty suddenly produced it as we were locking up one evening. I asked him how should I record it in the sales ledger – and that’s when he mentioned Megan Graham – obviously her name stuck in my mind – I know Marty has lots of relatives – but I hadn’t heard of her before.’
‘And is cash usual?’
‘Anything else would be unusual.’
‘Aye – well – if you could look into it asap – I’d much appreciate it.’
‘I’ll do it as soon as I’ve finished with M
arty – would you like a copy of the registration document if we have it? We normally keep photocopies. I could give you that – in person – this evening – if you like?’
Her offer leaves him momentarily tongue-tied. Trish however holds her peace – perhaps it is a sales technique she has learned. He realises he should have started the conversation with an excuse – and now he has to fabricate another white lie that satisfies his conscience.
‘Did I mention I’m in the mountain rescue?’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ She chuckles throatily. ‘I bet you’re good at resuscitation.’
This time her words evoke multiple sentiments that almost knock Skelgill off his stride.
‘There’s – there’s a hill called Haystacks beyond Buttermere. Lot of folk get lost up there. I’ve got to check out a new escape route tonight.’ He feels quite satisfied with the conflation of these honest facts. ‘If you could just send us a text – and I’ll get back to you.’
He hears her inhale. When she speaks he detects disappointment in her tone.
‘Ah – I see – well – don’t break a leg – or is it the opposite for good luck?’
‘I try to make my own luck.’
*
‘Does your Ma own a car?’
Jess looks at Skelgill as though he has asked her if her mother keeps a pet tiger.
‘Ma doesn’t drive.’
Skelgill, required to concentrate upon the curves of the lane up towards Gatesgarth, raises his head as a sign of comprehension. He provides an explanation for his inquiry.
‘I was thinking I could give you lessons.’
‘Connor said he would.’
‘Aye – you mentioned that.’
But now Jess falls silent, as though she is reminded it is a subject that is off limits.
‘What sort of car has he got?’
‘I don’t know about cars – a grey one – small, like.’
‘That might be alright – but if it’s a high-performance engine he’d get stung for insurance. Happen that’s why he’s done nowt about it.’
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