‘Put it like this, Leyton – I can’t see them taking their teddy bears along.’
*
Long-eared owls haunt the extensive pine woods that cloak the fells between Braithwaite and High Lorton – and as dusk falls they migrate to their favoured hunting grounds, such as picnic areas, where after dark field mice congregate, attracted by a daily buffet of cast off crumbs and crusts and stale sausage rolls. But the owls, aloft in the tall larches that ring the Whinlatter visitor centre, for the time being are disappointed. Where for centuries men on horseback paused to rest their steeds beneath Whinlatter Top, this evening a modern incarnation – men possessed of horsepower their forbears cannot have imagined – gather amidst smoke and thunder to buck and circle, to gesticulate and roar. While the owls merely blink, the mice feel earthquakes and keep their distance.
There must be about forty bikers in all. Arriving in threes and fours (perhaps so as to be less conspicuous), they coalesce into opposing cohorts, and line up to face one another across the secluded car park, a no-man’s land of some twenty paces between them. There is little to distinguish one group from the other. A uniform of black leather and oil-stained blue denim is the order of the day, and heavy buckled biker boots with silver-studded patterns. Those on the east of the clearing have a flag, a white skull and crossbones on a black background, fixed upon an evil-looking pikestaff; those on the west sport a more curious motif – yet somehow no less sinister – for all that it appears to be a sandwich of white bread with a red filling.
When it seems there will be no further arrivals, the revving of the engines rises to a crescendo – and then is suddenly cut. Sounds of dusk – a blackbird singing its last sonata, the purr of a woodcock roding – are once more audible. Now the riders dismount. Helmets are removed – revealing heads that range from the shaven to the extravagantly hirsute – and from saddlebags weapons are drawn – a fearsome array of oversized but legal motorcycle tools – and, more surreptitiously, there is the wrapping of lengths of spare sprocket chain around bare knuckles. The lines form up before the two rows of bikes. If there were any doubts about the intentions of the gathering, they are now dispelled.
The sides look well matched. They are even in number – perhaps by agreement – and roughly similar in age – mostly in their late thirties and forties. The only obvious imbalance is that the ‘east’ have an oversized ogre of a character, who seems to have a striped apron dangling from beneath the front of his leather jacket; such bulk however has its swings and roundabouts, the downside being surely a lack of mobility. Two combatants now detach themselves from their respective ranks and step forward. When the giant might be expected – from the ‘east’ comes instead a shorter, though no less prepossessing figure, hunched and swaggering like a rhinoceros that is about to turn over a ranger’s truck; from the ‘west’ a more lanky, angular character, big of foot and devilish of face.
They paw the ground like rutting stags – they bellow and feint in response to bloodthirsty exhortations from their followers, horrible entreaties of damage to be inflicted. And, then – just when it seems they will lunge and lock horns – simultaneously they turn their heads towards the entrance.
It is a knight of the road, clad from head to toe in black. His machine has classic lines, and the keen eyes of an owl would pick out the famous Triumph logo emblazoned on the royal blue tank. He comes in at speed, kicking down the gears with great throaty protests of the engine. Spraying gravel he circles before the opposing ranks and slews to a halt between the startled protagonists. They lift their weapons – each fearing the interloper is on the other’s side. The black rider raises both arms in a gesture of peace. He tugs off his gauntlets and lays them on his petrol tank. Then he unfastens his helmet and wrenches it free – to reveal a craggy physiognomy, a face of determination, with teeth bared and grey-green gimlet eyes.
Now the ‘east’ side fighter steps forward – it appears he recognises the newcomer. He grabs him roughly by the front of his jacket and seems to remonstrate, his features contorted with anger. His ‘west’ side opponent looks on grim faced – but there is a hint of intrigue that creeps into his countenance. The man on the Triumph appears unfazed by the violent reprimand; he sits stoically, knowing the storm will abate. When it does so he addresses them in turn, with a gesture that seems to acknowledge their status. This appears to buy their attention – and now he expounds – and as he does so his words evidently shock them – a recoiling, a shaking of heads – and they each turn to glance at their brooding ranks of would-be warriors. And now he produces from inside his jacket a scroll. Like some ancient king’s decree he unfurls it and reads aloud. This produces more looks of consternation from the two combatants. He turns the document and holds it out for both of them to see – they crowd in for proof of the revelation.
This brings on a few moments of pondering. Then the rider speaks, in turn to each, his manner now a subtle blend of beseeching and demanding. When he concludes his proposition the antagonists glare fiercely at one another. Then both men turn and stalk back to their troops, calling them into huddles like the captains of sports teams dispensing pre-match pep talks. This situation pertains for a good couple of minutes – there ensues dissent among the ordinary ranks. The black rider waits patiently.
Presently the powwows are resolved, and the leaders return to face one another across the black rider’s machine – and then – with some reluctance – they reach out and grasp hands. This brings a roar from the two ranks – it may be of approval, it may be of relief – yet it rings of some new kind of battle cry – no longer aimed at the opposing faction. And indeed now the clans return to their mounts, fire them up, and as if with practice form two lines that merge and ride out in parallel to the entrance, whence those under the sandwich banner peel off to the west, those under the skull and crossbones to the east.
In the clearing the black rider folds away his proclamation and sits for a few moments. He nods with grim satisfaction – but all of a sudden he jerks – and delves into the flap pocket of his jacket. He extracts a mobile telephone, which he manipulates and raises to his right ear. He appears to listen – his features become alarmed – he puts away the handset and hurriedly dons his helmet and gloves. At the junction he turns to the west – and departs with an urgent roar from his steed.
In the clearing, dusk and silence descend. One by one, field mice begin to appear, scurrying here and there beneath the picnic benches. Watching from the larches above, the long-eared owls flex their wings; the show is over; dinner is overdue.
*
Spurred on by Jess’s distress call, it takes Skelgill less than ten minutes to ride from Whinlatter Pass to the store at Low Lorton. He cuts his engine and freewheels the last thirty yards or so, not wishing to disturb the shopkeepers, who may be tucked up for their daily dawn start. He pushes his Triumph around the back of the property – no easy feat, for the gradient rises slightly against him – and so he arrives into Jess’s bedsit panting a little for breath. The sitting room is in darkness, but a glow emanates from the bedroom.
‘Alright, lass.’
Jess is propped up in bed with her sidelight on. An open book lies face down on the coverlet. As he enters her eyes are actually closed, although it is apparent she is awake. Now she looks at him helplessly, her bottom lip turns out and she begins to cry. Skelgill takes the wicker chair beside the bed – and reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Come on lass – don’t give up – there’s time yet for a miracle cure.’
But Jess shakes her head dejectedly.
‘Why me? Why did I have to get this?’ Beneath her plaintive words, Skelgill detects anger, grit even. He does not lose heart – but she continues despairingly. ‘I hardly slept last night – then I thought the pain was going today – and I got to sleep at nine – but it’s come back and woken me again.’
‘Is it sore now?’
She nods tearfully. She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her nightgown.
Skelgill reaches for the packets of painkillers from her nightstand. There is paracetamol and the stronger prescribed drug, diclofenac. He squints at the small print on the latter.
‘Sometimes these things have to build up to the right concentration in your system. Happen you’re not quite there yet. Just be patient – relax.’
However, Jess looks anything but relaxed. She might be in bed but her frustration is getting the better of her.
‘I’m so tired – I feel terrible – I want to sleep but I can’t.’ She screws up her face. ‘I’ll never do the run.’
Skelgill is turning over the diclofenac blister pack between his fingers.
‘You can take these twice a day, right?’
‘I’ve had two today.’
Skelgill pops out a pill.
‘Aye – well it’s getting on – it’ll soon be tomorrow – take your first one now.’
‘How can I?’
Skelgill regards her intently.
‘Look – the doctor’s hardly going to prescribe you a lethal dose. And there’s no point taking one in the morning if you’ve not slept tonight – we may as well give up, then.’
Jess stares at him for a moment; she seems reassured by his logic. She holds out her palm and takes the tablet and swallows it with some water.
‘That’s it – now you settle down, lass.’
The girl does as bidden. She slides lower in the bed and pulls the coverlet up to her chin. Her eyes seem large and mournful, and look at him imploringly. It suddenly strikes Skelgill she has an absentee father – for how long that has been he has no idea – and a mother who may never have put her child’s welfare before her own. He sighs and settles back into the chair.
‘I remember the night before I did the run – when I set the record.’
‘Really?’
He glances at her sharply.
‘I’m not that old, you know – I’m thirty-seven.’
Jess grins kind-heartedly.
‘Happen it seems old to you, lass – more than a lifetime away, eh?’
Skelgill leans towards the window and draws the curtain aside by a few inches – it is dark now and rain is beginning to patter against the pane.
‘I couldn’t sleep, either. I tried counting sheep – using the old Cumbric – you know that, aye?’
Jess shakes her head.
‘Arthur Hope taught me – and his lad, Jud – like they still use over in Borrowdale. Yan, tyan, tethera, methera, pimp – that’s one to five – and so it goes on. Dick’s ten and bumfit’s fifteen – sounds daft, eh, lass?’
Jess grins encouragingly. Skelgill thinks he detects a flutter of her eyelids, perhaps a glazing of her eyes. She shifts a little and the book slides off the bed, but instinctively he leans forward and catches it. He secures it at the open page – near the beginning. He leans back again and scowls at the dense text. And yet he surprises himself by beginning to read aloud.
‘ “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.” ’
He shakes his head and gives an exasperated gasp.
‘Whatever that means – it’s some sentence. Are you doing this for your exams?’
He is still staring at the page – and when Jess does not answer he looks at her inquisitively. Her eyes are closed. Skelgill holds his breath. He watches – her own breathing is becoming deeper by the moment – her face carries an expression of calm repose. He presses the book shut and carefully places it on the nightstand. Then, trying not to generate a squeak from his leather biker’s jacket, he sinks back into the chair. Jess’s breathing continues evenly. He switches out the light.
Then he feels a little vibration in his chest – it is not the kind of murmur of the heart, but something external – then he realises it is his mobile phone, set to silent. Gingerly he tears open the Velcro flap of his breast pocket and slides the handset free.
He has received a text message – a photograph in fact.
In the darkness the screen seems bright and he shades it with one hand from casting its radiation upon the slumbering teenager beside him.
The image causes him no little consternation. It is the raven-haired DS Eve and another woman of about her age, and of strikingly similar appearance – although this can only be because they both wear leather jackets over tight pink tops – since her companion is blonde and blue-eyed. In this selfie, taken by DS Eve, they press their heads intimately together and raise glasses to the camera – and the background looks like it might be a pub. The caption confirms this.
“WLTM – Kirkstile Inn – until closing 2nite???” And there is an emoji – a little motorbike.
Now Skelgill does feel his heart beating more quickly. How did she know he’s out on his bike? And what is she – what are they – doing at the Kirkstile Inn? Drinking, obviously. And who is the blonde? And why does she or they want to meet him? However, he senses these questions unnecessarily complicate matters. He checks his watch – he could comfortably make it for last orders. Then it occurs to him that the mystery female could even be lodging there – in which case time is of no matter.
He looks at Jess – she has undoubtedly succumbed to insentience – and yet surely the extra painkiller cannot have kicked in so quickly. Perhaps the pain itself has ebbed; perhaps it has gone altogether? And yet is some credit due to his calming presence? It is not a quality even he would claim for himself. Suddenly he yawns expansively; on top of his own lack of sleep, the confrontation at Whinlatter has drained him of adrenaline. It was a gamble – a risk, even, to his wellbeing. Sure – he had banked on Mouse, and ties of blood, both to gain a hearing and to get out of there in one piece – but if the Jam Eaters had decided that he was a ringer pulling a con-trick for the Pirates, then all hell might have broken loose. In the event his cousin’s angry reaction at having his guns spiked had stood him in good stead – his neutral role was made plain. And – by making them privy to the forensic report – he had successfully defused the ticking time bomb. They had no reason to fight – at least, not to fight one another (at least, not at this juncture). Instead – they had reason to listen to Skelgill – and, for the time being – to fall under his command.
He sighs – and yawns again. He brings up the photograph of the two women, and their alluring invitation. The wicker chair is surprisingly comfortable. He makes a face of frustration and closes his eyes. Maybe he ought to count to fifty and decide. Yan, tyan, tethera ...
18. RANNERDALE ALLIANCE
Saturday, 10am
Skelgill can hear the bleating of sheep. They sound like hogg lambs, mourning separation from their mothers. He opens his eyes to be reminded he is above the shop in Low Lorton. Beside him Jess is sleeping, her face serene. The wicker chair creaks as he rises; he could imagine it is his own joints that protest. He crosses to the front window – the rain is still falling heavily, and a bedraggled flock is being driven through the village. A murmur from behind causes him to turn – Jess has her eyes open – and a happy smile that he has never seen before.
‘I feel okay.’
Skelgill executes a surreptitious fist pump.
‘Quick, lass – take another painkiller – in case it’s them that’s working – that’ll see you through.’
Jess nods pensively. Now a little frown clouds her features.
‘I wish I had Kelly. I know I’d run better.’
Skelgill is anticipating this objection.
‘I’ll make sur
e he’s brought down – he’ll be there at the finish line waiting for you – give you something to sprint for, eh?’
She looks a little doubtful, but manages a half-smile.
Skelgill consults his wristwatch.
‘We’re a bit late – but it was better you slept. There’s still plenty of time for a decent breakfast – then we’ll get you down to the start to do your warm up.’
‘The weather sounds terrible.’
He cannot gainsay this – in the local parlance it is stotting (in ferocity only one grade below hoying) – but he contrives to put a positive spin on matters.
‘That’s what we call home advantage, lass. You’ve grown up with it.’
‘Alan Craggs is only from Langdale.’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Aye – he runs for Langdale – but I happen to know he hails from Yorkshire – it’s much drier over there.’ Skelgill contrives an optimistic grin. ‘Besides – your new shoes are designed for the wet.’
Jess nods – if a little unconvincingly. He expects she suffers nerves – he is feeling the butterflies himself – and if he were racing he would be doubly anxious. She sits up in bed – he realises that she wants to rise and he should leave her room. He pats his pockets – he can feel his various keys and wallet – but his phone is missing. Jess seems to appreciate his predicament – and she spots it lying on the rug beneath the chair. She reaches down easily – showing no sign of pain from the rash on her flank – and retrieves the handset.
‘You’ve just had a text.’
When Skelgill sees the screen he turns automatically into the corner of the room, as if privately to digest the message. When he swings around his features are severe.
‘Listen, lass – there’s something come up – a bit sooner than I expected. I have to go right now. What I’m going to do – just as a back up – is get one of my colleagues to pick you up and take you down to the race – he’s called Sergeant Leyton – he’s a good bloke, okay?’
Murder on the Run Page 24