Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

But Skelgill continues to shun such reassuring cover; he travels unswervingly upon the path. The habitat is neither woodland nor parkland, but somewhere in between. The ground cover is short and mainly grassy, with new growth pushing through last autumn’s crumbling leaf litter. Facing the moon, bare trunks and branches and their twin shadows beneath his feet are uniform in their blackness, sharper than their daytime counterparts – but, when he turns about, a different scene confronts him, dreamlike, a greenish monochrome, an indistinct water world of waving boughs and waiting claws, where distance and space cannot easily be judged, where pale boles of oak and beech take on a ghostly luminescence and glisten with the slick trails of slugs and snails; a world where the whispering sough of the wind might be the distant wash of waves, irregular and patchy in their breaking, sensed through the opaque depths that immerse him.

  But now he halts, for the arboretum suddenly gives way to a croquet lawn, hoary with dew, perhaps twice the size of a typical village bowling green. To progress further will expose him floodlit to onlookers – the dazzling moon eclipses all but the brightest constellations, Ursa Major, Pleiades, Cassiopeia, Orion, and planet Jupiter of course.

  Beyond the sward, the castle looms black and grey, like some great crouching spider, its many darkened windows watchful eyes, its central door an unforgiving mouth. Imposing towers bookend the main body, the crenelated silhouette stark and jagged against the milky midnight blue of the sky.

  As Skelgill takes in the scene his gaze settles upon a vague outline – a construction – in the centre of the lawn. Around its base are clustered several small tussocks, dark shapes crested with silver – and then as if by magic one of these hops – for they are grazing rabbits – alert sentinels that tell him no one is yet afoot.

  Drawn nearer, he scatters the creatures – and begins to perceive the form of the edifice. It is a simple ring of posts – twelve round stakes five feet tall – driven into the turf, creating a circle perhaps four paces in diameter. Ostensibly it could be something the gardener has rigged up to protect ground under repair. There are pale shapes draping each of the uprights. But as he closes to within a yard or so their nature becomes clear. His narrowed eyes signal his alarm – this is a crazy modern artwork, a circle of death – each post is adorned with a horned skull, bleached white, great eye sockets black as jet – jawbones gape in mute bleats, wired leg bones dangling and redundant.

  The ghoulish arrangement sees Skelgill drop his bass-bag and free his mobile phone from the breast pocket of his outer shell. But now he must remove his left glove, and he plucks with his teeth through the fabric of the Buff. The glove slips off only with difficulty and he bites on it while he manipulates the settings on the screen. He cannot risk the flash, and to disable it delays him a moment, and – before he can attempt the shot – a light flickers high in the tower to his right. Instinctively he drops to one knee behind the ring of posts, though it makes only a partial screen. The window is narrow and arched – barely more than an arrow-slit – and the flame seems to be a candle or a lantern that is being moved as if to follow the flight of a moth. As he watches there is just the vague impression of a person within – a glimpse of head and shoulders – perhaps fair hair, or perhaps a pale hood – but it would be too easy at this moment to imagine the castle’s white lady.

  And now a sudden sharp sound splits the silence – the metallic clank of an iron latch – it emanates not from the direction of the arrow-slit, but the main door in the centre of the castle. And dogs begin to bark.

  Skelgill is pricked into action. In a single movement he grabs the bottom of his bass-bag and shakes out the remaining contents, rises, turns and sprints away. Behind him the door throws a widening fan of neon upon the grass. The Alsatians spill out; their baying resonant about the stage-set created by the jutting towers. There comes the angry exclamation of a man – but Skelgill has breached the treeline – he careers onwards for another twenty yards, then strikes out at a tangent to the right of the path – and tumbles for the black shadow beneath a Wellingtonia’s low-slung boughs. He slithers against the great corked trunk and freezes.

  But the cry was evidently not directed at him. A wiry figure stands halfway between the door and the wooden henge, facing back towards the tower. And, now – incredibly it seems – he raises a rifle at the window. Yet it is not a bullet but a powerful torch that strikes its target – it must be mounted above the sight of the weapon – and the man again yells – a bellowed warning “Oi!” drawn out for effect.

  The beam illuminates the arched window, driving the shadows from its deep recess. Almost immediately the flame is extinguished and the man watches for a moment. Satisfied, he turns his attention outwardly. The dogs, their initial bravado short-lived, have fallen silent, and he tries to call them in by name – Hansel and Gretel, of course – and Skelgill might visualise the Grimms’ cannibalistic witch, were it not for his recognition of the harsh tones as those of the equally disagreeable gamekeeper, Jed Tarr.

  The man begins to play the flashlight methodically around the lawn, arcing slowly from right to left as Skelgill watches – and just in time he ducks low – the beam passes – but not by so many degrees – it steadies – there is the sharp crack of the gun – and the squeal of a wounded rabbit.

  ‘Gretel – pick it up! Gretel – off yer go! Oi – Hansel! What the hell are yer doing?’

  But the hounds have found Skelgill’s lure.

  When all is said and done, these indulged house-pets might be moderately effective guard dogs, but they are not the trained retrievers Jed Tarr is accustomed to intimidating. Why fetch a bloody twitching louse-infested coney when award-winning fare is on a plate? Indeed, why obey a human at all?

  The hounds neither dwell to savour the unexpected delicacy nor take any care to share – indeed, in the half-darkness it cannot be obvious to the man that they have fed. Ignoring Jed Tarr’s expletives they simply follow their noses to the edge of the lawn where Skelgill’s next titbit awaits. Thence, silver backed, black shadows hung beneath, they slink like wolves along the path, relentless in their pursuit of pie.

  Skelgill does not move a muscle. He is apprised of canines’ superior hearing and night vision, and their stratospheric sense of smell. As regards the latter, he is downwind (and upwind is the pub grub) – so an involuntary sneeze or twitch is his only enemy. Dog logic is anchored in the reptilian brain, where repetition rules, and as likely as not they have found discarded scraps upon this path before.

  A third discovery drives them on, Jed Tarr outstripped, blowing and cursing, the beam of his torch jerking up and down as he hobbles along, rifle in hand. His language is colourful – and even has Skelgill raising an eyebrow – and his threats to the dogs murderous. Yet to Skelgill’s ear there is suspicion in his voice – anxiety, too – for just why are the dogs behaving so?

  Skelgill waits until the expletives become less intelligible – it is a reasonable measure of the distance between him and his would-be pursuers. He readies himself to head south for the wall – away from both castle and its distracted guardians. If the dogs do their job and consume the food ahead of their surrogate master – as they surely will – Jed Tarr need know nothing of his incursion. Invisible beneath the tree, he permits himself a grimace of satisfaction – that is, until he returns his mobile phone to his zip pocket... and realises his glove is gone.

  10. CLUTCHING AT STRAWS

  ‘Guv – who ate all the pies?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘These pies – it says on the box there’s six.’

  DS Leyton is inspecting the takeaway carton branded ‘Langdale Arms’, now resting upon the cabinet in Skelgill’s office. Having arrived promptly, he has been waiting for the return of his superior for a scheduled ten a.m. meeting together with DS Jones, who is yet to appear.

  ‘I used them – as ground bait.’

  ‘You went fishing last night, Guv?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  DS Leyton retreats, though his featu
res remain quizzical. Patently he suspects his boss of having eaten them.

  ‘Bit expensive for ground bait ain’t it, Guv?’

  ‘Look, Leyton – I saved the last two for you, didn’t I?

  ‘Sure, Guv – I appreciate that.’ He digs into his back pocket. ‘That’s a tenner if I remember right.’

  Skelgill glowers across his desk.

  ‘Forget it, Leyton – I must owe you a tenner – call it quits.’

  DS Leyton’s expression of resignation tells a tale of many owed tenners – a story that may just have reached its unhappy ending as Skelgill blithely writes off the entire debt.

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  At this moment DS Jones materialises in the doorway bearing a canteen tray with two mugs and a glass of water. Tucked beneath one arm is a sheaf of papers, and as she attempts to push open the door with her elbow they slip from her grasp and scatter onto the tiled floor behind her. Immediately, from out of sight, the slick, suited personage of DI Alec Smart swoops to gather the spill. Apparently he has been shadowing her along the corridor. And also evident to those within the office is that his eyes are not on the job in hand. DS Jones sports a designer sweatshirt top and close-fitting stressed hipster jeans that showcase her athletic form. As she glances over her shoulder she notices the unwelcome attention – and, instead of crossing as she might to Skelgill’s desk, and bending to deposit the tray, she turns to place it upon the tall cabinet beside the box of pies.

  ‘Skel got you skivvying for him again, Emma?’

  DI Smart rises and takes a step into the office, pulling at the lapels of his hand-stitched jacket with bony fingers.

  ‘It was my turn, sir.’

  DI Smart sneers and his gaze now appraises her figure – he has her at his mercy while he keeps her documents by his side. Then he casts a cursory eye over the top sheet, and holds out the bundle, hanging on a little longer than is necessary before releasing it back into her custody.

  ‘I hear you’re setting up a sheep protection unit, Skel.’ He lifts a thigh and affects to brush away dust, his gaze tracking DS Jones as she takes her customary seat; she settles self-consciously, her knees pressed together and the papers covering her lap. ‘Should keep your little flock busy.’

  He cackles at his own joke. Skelgill is glaring at him, but has no retort to offer. DS Leyton is glumly watching his boss.

  ‘Don’t let me hold up your meeting.’

  The collective silence at least seems to have the effect of advancing DI Smart’s departure, though he is too self-important to take offence. He straightens his tie and casts a lingering look at DS Jones.

  ‘Hasta la vista, baby.’

  He nods to his male colleagues – DS Leyton reluctantly acknowledging in kind, Skelgill feeling no such obligation – and strides away.

  DS Leyton reaches to close the door. Skelgill lets out an Anglo-Saxon adjective-and-noun combination popular with disgruntled motorists. He turns with a scowl to DS Jones.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘I don’t know, Guv.’ She appears reluctant to elaborate, but Skelgill’s glare is persistent. ‘He passed me in the canteen and said he’s got something that’s ideal for me.’

  ‘That’s not for him to say.’

  DS Leyton rises and ostentatiously distributes the drinks from the tray. The intermission gives DS Jones a chance to compose a response.

  ‘He said he was going to set up a meeting with the Chief this afternoon, Guv.’

  Sullenly, Skelgill leans back and folds his arms. Then he appears to come to some unspoken conclusion. He casts a hand at the documents DS Jones still grasps upon her lap.

  ‘What’s Herdwick got to say?’

  DS Jones’s shoulders relax, as she turns to matters less contentious. The pages have become disordered, and it takes her a minute to sift through them. She hands out a copy of a single sheet to each of her colleagues. Skelgill lays his on the desk without attempting to read it and looks at her inquiringly.

  ‘On the face of it, Guv – nothing sinister.’ She scans her sheet and then paraphrases its content. ‘Cause of death: asphyxia due to aspiration of fluid into the air passages – i.e. drowning. No trace of alcohol or drugs in the bloodstream. No apparent injuries or illness – he was in good physical shape for his age.’

  She takes Skelgill’s silence as a signal to continue.

  ‘There is this, though, Guv.’ Now she turns her copy of the report towards her colleagues and indicates a sub-heading on the lower half of the page. ‘Abnormal concentration of corticotrophin-releasing hormone.’

  DS Leyton starts rather melodramatically.

  ‘Steady on, Emma – some of us nearly got expelled for using language like that.’

  DS Jones grins obligingly. Skelgill, however, is scowling – he looks unwilling to fall in with his sergeant’s classification, and keeps his counsel.

  ‘I’ve never heard of it before, either.’ She taps the page. ‘CRH for short – I’ll read it out: “Normally present in the bloodstream in a natural twenty-four-hour rhythm in non-stressful circumstances. Highest at eight a.m. – lowest overnight. Manages the body’s response to stress. A sudden episode can lead to elevated levels. It triggers a cascade of related fight-or-flight hormones.”’ She looks up to gauge the reactions of her colleagues. ‘But here’s the interesting thing – it says concentrations of up to ten times normal are associated with suicide victims who have been suffering from chronic depression.’

  DS Leyton shifts his bulk in his seat and scratches his head and sighs.

  ‘Sounds like he topped himself, Guv.’

  Skelgill is gnawing tenaciously at a thumbnail. His thoughts appear to be elsewhere, although his expression darkens to suggest he disapproves of such a conclusion. Then he reaches for the report and transfers it to his in-tray.

  ‘Aye, you’re probably right, Leyton.’

  *

  ‘Where are we going, Guv?’

  ‘Whitehaven.’

  ‘Am I allowed to know why?’

  Skelgill frowns. He wrenches the steering wheel two handed, right then left, cutting across the marked lanes to beat the amber lights of the Junction 40 roundabout.

  ‘Happen I’ll tell you when we get there.’

  He floors the accelerator. DS Jones lets go of the strap above the door and allows inertia to pull her head onto the restraint. She knows her boss well enough to read between the lines, and must suspect his insistence that she accompanies him has its roots in DI Smart’s attempt to hook her – possession being nine-tenths of the law (and Whitehaven being nine-tenths of the way to Ireland, as Skelgill puts it on occasion).

  ‘Is it connected to what you found at Little Langdale, Guv?’

  Now Skelgill flashes her a reprimanding glance – but her artful smile seems to disarm him – she will try her luck. He lifts his shoulders, both hands still gripping the wheel.

  ‘Maybe – but I don’t understand it myself – we’ll see, lass.’

  DS Jones watches him for a moment.

  ‘The local constable was trying to raise you, Guv.’

  ‘Aye – I spoke to Leyton.’ Skelgill stares into his rear-view mirror. ‘While you were at your aerobics.’

  DS Jones grins.

  ‘It’s called Body Tone.’

  Skelgill does not respond to this; he appears a little peeved.

  ‘I do it with a couple of the civilian girls, Guv – you could come along, you know?’

  Now he screws up his face – he seems to suspect she is humouring him.

  ‘No thanks.’

  His manner is ungrateful, and DS Jones seems a little offended. There is a pause of a few seconds before she speaks again.

  ‘DS Leyton said you found the tramp’s den in the woods?’

  Skelgill nods, though he declines to elaborate directly.

  ‘I had a chat with an old woman – claims she saw him belting down the street about half-past twelve.’

  DS Jones is alert to the connect
ion.

  ‘Guv, that would correspond to the estimated time of death – between midnight and two a.m.’

  ‘She reckons she heard footsteps a minute or two later – folk running the same way.’

  DS Jones frowns.

  ‘Someone chasing him, Guv?’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘She also told me they’re keeping wolves in the grounds at Blackbeck Castle.’

  DS Jones nods slowly, comprehending his scepticism. She makes another link.

  ‘These sheep mutilations, Guv – you don’t think people with dogs could be involved?’

  Skelgill ponders for a moment, pursing his lips doubtingly. He dismisses the hypothesis with a shake of his head.

  ‘Ivver sin a worried yowe?’

  DS Jones chuckles at his lapse into local dialect – though she knows he makes a serious point; at this time of year the local press is full of horror stories of heavily pregnant ewes falling prey to the dogs of ignorant offcomers.

  ‘Thankfully not, Guv.’

  ‘What did Arthur Hope have to say?’

  ‘One dead – decapitated – in Eskdale. One injured near the Whinlatter. About fifteen per cent mortality – now that the shepherds have rung round and compared markings on the strays they’ve picked up.’

  The muscles of Skelgill’s jaw tighten.

  ‘It’s been a mild winter – ten per cent’s more like normal for Herdwicks.’

  DS Jones narrows her eyes with concern.

  ‘If it continues, Guv – the killing – it’s going to be down to pure luck that we catch someone – how can we police half a million acres?’

  Skelgill stares ahead, his grey-green eyes unblinking. They are making swift progress westwards; much of the A66 between Penrith and Keswick is dual carriageway, with roller-coaster stretches that make for entertaining driving, especially at well over the speed limit.

  ‘This is the old road, you know? Used to be two-way.’ He tips his head to the right. ‘The new section coming back east is over there.’

  ‘I think I remember, Guv. We used to visit my cousins at a farm near High Lorton.’