Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘That’s when you wish you were on traffic patrol, Guv.’

  ‘Aye.’ Skelgill nods grimly. ‘I’m tempted to catch him as it is. I’ve seen a guy get six years for causing a death doing an identical overtake.’

  ‘I got his number, Guv.’

  Skelgill casts a sideways glance at his efficient subordinate.

  ‘You’ve memorised it?’

  ‘Aha.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Maybe pass it on to the Whitehaven boys – he’s no tourist, not with that trailer. At least they can keep an eye out for him.’

  DS Jones nods reluctantly. The incident has grounded them, an uncomfortable touchdown on planet police work, a land where misdemeanours minor and major abound – a reminder of the continual need to assess where and when to intervene. The interview with Rhian Roberts must begin to seem distant, metaphysical, and somewhat unreal.

  Skelgill slows the car – a junction approaches, and a sign for Santon Bridge.

  ‘Where are we going, by the way, Guv?’

  ‘Home – by the scenic route.’ He scowls innocently. ‘I’ve got a thing or two in mind.’

  DS Jones grins. She must suspect that afternoon tea is next on his agenda. However, her geography of Lakeland is sufficient to tell her that not only will this circuitous route take them over the oft-treacherous Hard Knott and Wrynose passes, but also that it leads into Little Langdale. So maybe there is more to Skelgill’s navigation than fruit scones and the eating up of time that may otherwise see her ensnared by the scheming DI Smart.

  But first they find themselves cast upon the horns of a dilemma.

  Rounding a sharp right-hand bend beyond the hamlet of Santon Bridge, beneath the wooded hill known as Irton Pike, the southern outlier of the Wast Water Screes, they come upon a road accident. It involves only one vehicle – a black Porsche Cayenne.

  In trying to negotiate the corner too fast it has met side-on with a dry stone wall; the sturdy ancient boundary unyielding, unlike the buckled coachwork. The aluminium trailer is detached, a wheel missing and badly misshapen, its load of rough-sawn timber and paving scattered along the verge. The driver – the balding middle-aged man – surveys the wreckage. He is short in stature, his distended stomach bulging from a Tattersall shirt to spill over the belt that supports his corduroys.

  Hearing the approach of the detectives’ car he looks up to reveal a face flushed red and distorted with anger. Quickly he takes a step out into the road, raising a palm that demands they stop and provide assistance. Skelgill swerves past him, watching with some curiosity in his wing mirror as the man fumes and yells and hops and stamps and disappears from sight as they slip round the next bend.

  ‘Guv – shouldn’t we...?’

  Skelgill cuts her short with a severe glance.

  ‘Jones – this is a murder investigation – I’ve not got time for folk with manners like that.’ He gives a flap of his arms and concentrates on the road ahead with renewed vigour. ‘Besides, there’s a café at the station at Dalegarth – they might still be serving if the last train’s not left.’

  He looks pleased with himself, as if a little wager has just come to fruition; with exaggerated craning of the neck he affects to admire the scenery that rises into relief as they penetrate deeper into fell country. Resignedly, DS Jones sinks back into her seat – although after a few moments’ silence she suddenly strikes up.

  ‘Guv – you just said murder investigation.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Did you mean it?’

  Skelgill hesitates for a moment.

  ‘I was thinking of the sheep.’

  He produces a wry grin, and says no more – yet there is something about his manner that suggests this is more than a joke. DS Jones switches tack.

  ‘I thought she was convincing, Guv – Mrs Roberts.’

  ‘There’s some in my family reckon so.’

  ‘You mean you don’t?’

  Skelgill forces out a breath, his compressed lips vibrating.

  ‘I’d say after today’s experience I’m a shade north of agnostic.’

  ‘She was so matter of fact, Guv – and people come to her – it’s not like she’s publically advertising miracles or trying to get rich or famous.’

  Skelgill nods; he seems largely in accord with his sergeant.

  ‘Few generations ago in these parts, if you were sick the nearest doctor was two days away in the back of an uncovered cart – if you could afford a doctor – or a cart. Small wonder folk knocked up the old crone at the top of the village, with her cauldron and her cat.’

  ‘But it would be old women, wouldn’t it, Guv – they lived the longest and their skills were in the kitchen – they’d know about herbs and natural cures – they’d be the keepers of the family wisdom – the wicce.’

  Again Skelgill can only agree.

  ‘Aye – my Granny could make a mean poultice – would draw a splinter overnight. Ma was always sending us round to her. She’d mumble some old gobbledygook while she was bandaging it up.’

  ‘A spell, Guv!’

  Skelgill frowns.

  ‘Aye – but where our Mrs Roberts crosses the line is this idea of energy – willing it, directing it.’ Skelgill narrows his eyes and performs a series of grimaces, as though he is running through a scenario in his mind. ‘I can’t see the Chief buying into this line of investigation – much as she has her own broomstick.’

  DS Jones smiles, and then nods reluctantly. They both fall silent, whether contemplating the supernatural aspect itself, or its questionable value as a bargaining chip to help Skelgill keep his team together. As they round a bend a white shape drifts out of the trees on their left, followed by another, and then another. DS Jones starts, but does not speak, as though she might be wondering if her imagination is playing tricks upon her. Then Skelgill laughs.

  ‘It’s the train, you wally.’

  Indeed, the ghostly shapes are puffs of steam; the road and the Ravenglass-to-Eskdale railway track have converged and they are rapidly gaining upon one of the little engines with its payload of early-season tourists. DS Jones relaxes, though she watches with interest as they overtake. The rolling stock and loco have a Lilliputian quality, hijacked by their oversized boiler-suited driver and his giant passengers, cramped and bowed in their coloured cagoules in the open-sided carriages.

  ‘They look frozen, Guv.’

  ‘Aye – they’ll be wanting their cocoa – we need to beat them to it.’

  Of course, the train is no express; it takes forty minutes to cover the seven miles from Ravenglass on the coast to Dalegarth station near Boot in Eskdale – but who would wish to rush England’s most scenic rail journey, whatever the weather? Thus Skelgill’s phobia of queuing whilst hungry (a phenomenon that must apply each and every time he lines up) is quickly left behind with the clouds of steam that mark the engine’s gentle progress.

  *

  ‘Look at that, Guv.’

  ‘Aye, it’s Birker Force – worth a visit on a rainy day.’

  Refreshments taken on board – mineral water in DS Jones’s case and tea and a brace of scones in Skelgill’s – they are back on the road, the fells beginning to close in on either side as they press deeper into Eskdale. Skelgill seems in good spirits, perhaps fortified by carbohydrates and excited by the prospect of the driving challenge that lies ahead. He cocks a head in the direction of the waterfall.

  ‘Here’s one for you and your languages – know why it’s called a force?’

  DS Jones ponders for a moment.

  ‘I’ve always assumed it’s descriptive, Guv – of the force of the water coming down over the edge.’

  Skelgill smirks rather superciliously; as he must have hoped, she has opted for the obvious explanation, and now he can demonstrate his superior knowledge.

  ‘How about if I said to you that Dettifoss in Iceland is the most powerful waterfall in Europe?’

  ‘Ah – I see, Guv – is it Nordic?’

>   Skelgill looks a little deflated, that she has so speedily made the connection. Cumbria’s era as a Viking fiefdom is reflected in many local names. Reluctantly he is obliged to confirm her hypothesis.

  ‘Aye – it’s not force – not as we know it – it’s never been force – it’s foss.’

  DS Jones has a follow-up question.

  ‘So what does foss mean?’

  ‘Waterfall.’

  ‘No, Guv – I mean in Norwegian – or Old Nordic, more like – the original etymology. In French it means pit.’

  Skelgill scowls; he looks like he regrets bringing up the subject. DS Jones raises her hips and slips her phone from her back pocket – she intends to ask the oracle. But then she makes a disappointed sound.

  ‘No signal.’

  Skelgill tuts disingenuously.

  ‘That’s the trouble with coming this way.’

  DS Jones grins – she knows Skelgill’s renegade alter ego is never happier than when he escapes the shackles of the electronic tag that is the mobile communications device. Meanwhile he is ducking his head to get a view through the passenger window.

  ‘Never mind the Vikings – here’s the Roman fort.’

  Skelgill does not jest. The incline has steepened, and the character of the surrounding landscape has made a swift transition from wooded dale to barren fell. Here the route snakes between Harter Fell and Hard Knott, where the col reached in due course takes its name from the latter. About a quarter of the way up this ascent is what must have been one of the Roman Empire’s least celebrated commissions, Hardknott Castle, a well-preserved garrison that once guarded the ‘Tenth Highway’, the route from the Roman naval base of Glannoventa (today’s Ravenglass) to the fort of Galava at Ambleside and on to Kendal. It is difficult to imagine what its detachment of five hundred Croatians would have made of such an assignment, the rainstorms of summer, the snowstorms of winter, and Skelgill’s unruly Brittonic ancestors snapping at their heels.

  ‘It’s turning into quite a history tour, Guv – you could almost say magical.’

  ‘Very witty, Jones. Want to stop?’

  She appears surprised by his suggestion.

  ‘Actually, Guv – I kind of figured we’d be calling at a less ancient castle.’

  Skelgill gives an involuntary tip of his head.

  ‘Aye, well – you’re right there.’

  DS Jones waves a hand at the roadside Roman ruins.

  ‘I’ve been here on school trips – it would seem strange to wander around without a clipboard and questionnaire, and teenage boys making rude noises in the bath house.’

  Skelgill forces a wry grin.

  ‘I can probably help you on the latter.’

  DS Jones suppresses a snigger.

  ‘Maybe we should just continue, Guv.’

  Skelgill pushes back into his seat and accelerates sharply.

  ‘Hang on to your hat – here comes Hard Knott.’

  This is not such an inappropriate statement – for in no time the track becomes improbably sheer and winding – a gradient of one-in-three makes it the steepest road in England, with hairpin bends treacherous beneath the thinnest skim of ice. But conditions are good today, and the route almost deserted, and Skelgill has no need to rely upon oncoming motorists to anticipate and yield to their climb. As they reach the col and begin the descent into the wilderness that stretches beyond, Skelgill’s phone signal cuts in and almost immediately a call comes through. Skelgill answers on speaker.

  ‘Hey up, Leyton.’

  ‘Guv – where are you?’

  ‘Just heading for Wrynose Bottom.’

  DS Leyton hesitates – of course to his Londoner’s ear this description sounds like a wind-up – but he is quick to fashion what he thinks is an apposite response.

  ‘Yeah, well – you can keep your rhino, I’m in the flamin’ lion’s den, Guv – Smart’s been prowling everywhere looking for you both.’

  ‘Let him prowl – what’s the griff?’

  ‘Nothing more yet on Pavlenko or your Doctor Wolfstein – other than we’ve got a line on him as formerly being a university professor in Prague – but it’s something else that I’ve remembered.’

  ‘Aye?’ Skelgill sounds underwhelmed.

  ‘What it is, Guv – when I was in the pub yesterday, incognito – and I’d ordered a pie –’

  ‘Leyton – you’re not still going on about the missing pie.’

  ‘No, Guv – it’s not that,’ (though he hesitates, evidently reminded of the said item) ‘but just then the phone rang on the bar and the Brummie geezer answered it – and he came over a bit strange – said he couldn’t talk now – so he hung up and went through the back with my order –’

  ‘Leyton does this have a punch line?’

  ‘Give us a break, Guv – I’m getting there – so I’m waiting on me Sweeney Todd, and then me old copper’s nose starts twitching – I don’t know why – and I pick up the phone and dial that code that gives you the last number – and I write it down – then the next thing all hell breaks lose – the National Park ranger bursts in shouting there’s a body in the lake – I mean tarn – and the phone business slipped my mind until –’

  ‘Leyton – we could lose the signal any minute.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv – anyway – this morning I rang that guest house in Keswick where Pavlenko stayed – in case he’d pitched up – and then just a while ago I was going through my notebook and I came across the phone number from the pub –’

  Skelgill inhales as though he is reaching the end of his tether, but DS Leyton detects this and blurts out what is indeed a kind of punch line.

  ‘It was the same flippin’ number, Guv – it was the B&B that phoned the pub at Little Langdale.’

  Skelgill glances searchingly at DS Jones.

  ‘We never mentioned that Pavlenko had stayed in Keswick.’

  DS Jones shakes her head vehemently.

  ‘Not even when I went to get details of the Polish girl, Guv.’

  DS Leyton’s wheezy voice comes back on line.

  ‘I didn’t think you would have, Guv.’

  ‘Remind me Leyton – the phone was in the hall, wasn’t it – under the stairs?’

  ‘That’s right, Guv – with a gnome money-box – so guests cough up when they use it.’

  Skelgill looks thoughtful – but DS Leyton breaks back in before he can pontificate.

  ‘Oh-oh, Guv – here’s the Chief just marched into the open plan.’

  ‘Tell me about the pie.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘You’re speaking to your wife, Leyton – about your dinner.’

  ‘She’s heading for my desk, Guv – she’ll be able to see your number on the display.’

  ‘Can’t hear you, Leyton – the signal’s going.’

  ‘Guv – I can hear you fine – what shall I –’

  Skelgill reaches forward and deftly terminates the call. Then he rips the handset from its mount and tosses it to DS Jones. Without needing to be told, she switches it off. Then she checks her own phone.

  ‘I’ve still got no signal, Guv – your network must be better than mine.’

  ‘Aye, well – you never know when you’re out in the fells and you might need to order a curry.’

  13. CASTLE & INN

  ‘Guv – the gates are opening.’

  Skelgill engages first gear and edges the idling estate towards the receding barriers that guard the main entrance of Blackbeck Castle. It is only a minute since he suggested they need a minor miracle to avoid being refused access, or simply ignored, and now his wish has been granted. A chestnut courier van is champing at the bit, waiting for the gap to enlarge sufficiently to squeeze through, but the gates hinge inwards and Skelgill goes with them. There is a short-lived mimed stand off, the driver gesticulating with frustration, until Skelgill presses his warrant card against the windscreen and the van backs up. The castle walls are breached.

  ‘This is a trick I learned from my dog
– when you’re going in and she’s coming out there’s no getting past her.’

  DS Jones chuckles apprehensively.

  ‘Let’s hope the Alsatians are not on the loose, Guv.’

  Skelgill shrugs indifferently, though he drives right up to the front door, and slews the car around so that the passenger side is nearest to the building. There is no obvious bell – the main entry phone system being located beside the perimeter gate, so Skelgill gives three raps of a large brass knocker in the shape of a woven Celtic triqueta. Immediately the dogs strike up from somewhere within, although their barking remains distant as the sound of light footsteps approaches and the door swings cautiously ajar.

  ‘We’re here to see Doctor Wolfstein.’

  Skelgill is again brandishing his credentials.

  ‘I sorry?’

  The female is in her mid-twenties, of medium height with short black hair and contrasting milky skin, and very pale blue eyes beneath fine arched brows. She is quite strikingly attractive, but equally distinctive is the two-piece orderly’s uniform she wears, which owes more to martial arts than domestic science. Charcoal in colour, it is of a soft material and well tailored, such that the belt tied around her midriff emphasises an hourglass figure. The trousers fall just below calf length, and on her feet are matching black ballet pumps. She glances nervously over her shoulder.

  ‘Doctor Wolfstein.’ Skelgill takes a step forward. ‘It is important. We are the police.’

  He speaks with exaggerated enunciation and stresses the final word. It seems he has detected both her deficiency in English and her surprise and confusion at their unannounced arrival within the normally impregnable confines of the wall. It is likely she assumed the courier had returned for some reason. As she backs away from his advance he sidles past, surreptitiously pulling DS Jones by the sleeve. Now they are inside, and turn to face her as she clings uncertainly to the door. Skelgill continues to display his warrant card.