Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Doctor Wolfstein.’

  It could be that he banks on the authorities – from wherever she may hail – having a rather more sinister reputation than the British police. If so, his hunch perhaps proves correct, for she closes the front door and with a tentative wave of one hand indicates they should follow her across what is a large shadowy hallway that extends along the front of the building. The décor is heavily oak-panelled, and huge oil paintings occupy much of the walls, Dantean scenes the minutiae of which are difficult to discern in the dimly lit surrounds. Skelgill is more taken by a stack of large boxes and oddly shaped parcels that bear customs stickers – presumably the delivery just received. She guides them into what might be the anteroom to a larger chamber, though it is sizable in its own right, with two long sash windows that overlook the croquet lawn at the rear. The walls are papered in flock of a fine heraldic pattern, and the pictures traditional hunting scenes. A pair of austere chesterfields face one another across a low coffee table on which are arrayed various county set and field sport periodicals; there is the air of a waiting room in a country medical practice.

  Without speaking the girl slips out, her pale eyes anxious. As she closes the door Skelgill scoops up a glossy fishing magazine – but rather than settle down to peruse it he strides to a window and gazes out. DS Jones remains near the entrance – indeed a noise must reach her sharp ears for, very carefully, she turns the handle and re-opens the door by just a crack. After listening for a few moments she crosses to Skelgill. She speaks in hushed tones.

  ‘Sounds like the girl’s getting told off, Guv – but he’s talking in a language I don’t recognise.’

  Skelgill is about to reply, but there is the crescendo of approaching footsteps and he gestures towards the nearest sofa. When Doctor Wolfstein enters, Skelgill is staring at a spring salmon and DS Jones admiring a country house interior. It behoves the tall man to speak first, though it is with grudging civility that he makes an oblique greeting.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure – the second time in three days, Inspector?’

  Though he addresses Skelgill his icy blue eyes appraise DS Jones as the two detectives rise, and under his scrutiny she self-consciously brushes back hair from her cheek. He does not suggest they sit again, nor make an offer of refreshments. Beneath his outward composure there is an underlying tremor – in his voice, and the muscles of his jaw. No doubt he disapproves of their guileful entry – however, he does not deign to acknowledge the feat.

  ‘It’s a different matter, sir – you are aware of the drowning in Little Langdale Tarn?’

  He nods slowly.

  ‘I believe I heard mention of it on your local news – some worthless vagrant.’

  Skelgill narrows his eyes – the man’s condescending manner is plainly not endearing.

  ‘Then you may have heard mention of our laws on squatter’s rights.’

  There is a stiffening in the man’s demeanour.

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with me, Inspector.’

  ‘I believe your estate includes Blackbeck Wood, sir.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Then there may be some legal relationship – there’s such a thing as adverse possession.’

  A hint of a furrow appears above the bridge of his aquiline nose.

  ‘Inspector, I have almost six thousand acres – to most of which there is unrestricted access – I can hardly be held responsible for people who camp without permission.’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple, I’m afraid sir – you’ll have read what the English courts can be like – Bleak House and all that.’

  The man is beginning to be rattled, and his tone becomes increasingly terse.

  ‘I don’t doubt that my lawyers can provide all the information you require, Inspector.’

  Skelgill puts his hands in his trouser pockets and gives an exaggerated and magnanimous shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘That may not be necessary, sir. It appears to us the drowning was accidental.’ He glances pointedly at DS Jones who nods in confirmation. ‘Meanwhile we have a tip-off that an organised crime syndicate is poised to commit a string of cashpoint robberies across the county – we’re keen to wrap this case up – but we are obliged to investigate to the satisfaction of the Coroner – another of our laws.’

  ‘I see.’

  It is apparent that Doctor Wolfstein doesn’t quite ‘see’ – but that he senses there is some deal about to be made. He raises a hand to his chin and rubs his neatly trimmed beard with a forefinger.

  ‘So if we could just get brief informal statements from you and your domestic staff to confirm what contact you have had with the deceased – we ought not need to trouble you again, sir.’

  The man folds his arms and tilts back his head, like an aristocrat unwillingly held at bay by a couple of impertinent peasants.

  ‘In my case the answer is that I have not set eyes upon the man – and I can assure you that my staff have certainly had no contact with him.’

  Skelgill nods generously.

  ‘How can you be sure of that, sir?’

  ‘They do not leave the property – they have no such desire or requirement.’

  ‘With respect, sir – you’ll appreciate that for the sake of the record we would need to ask them directly.’

  Now the man smirks, rather superciliously.

  ‘How is your Russian, Inspector?’

  Skelgill turns hopefully to DS Jones, though the alarm in her eyes rebuffs his inquiry.

  ‘Perhaps you would do the honours, sir?’

  The man hesitates, but the remnants of the grin continue to play at the corners of his mouth. After a moment he produces a tiny black and silver two-way radio from his belt at the small of his back. He presses a button and almost immediately a woman’s voice answers. He barks a curt order, the only intelligible word being the last, the name Martina. Within a minute the familiar young woman appears, along with another girl sporting the same uniform and who could almost be her twin – and might certainly be a sister. He introduces them as Natasha and Martina, the former being the woman who admitted them. They walk to within a couple of paces of the detectives, and stand facing them obediently. Still Doctor Wolfstein makes no suggestion that anyone be seated – it is clearly his intention to render the meeting as brief as possible.

  DS Jones pulls her notebook from the pocket of her denim jacket, but Skelgill gives a slight shake of the head to indicate it is not necessary. Via the landowner he provides a brief explanation of William Thymer’s background and demise, and asks whether either of the girls have seen him within the past week, and of their whereabouts in particular on Monday night. Not unexpectedly, answers are relayed back to the effect that neither of them is aware of Ticker’s existence (or lack of), nor have they left the castle grounds within the last month. While, of course, it is possible that Doctor Wolfstein puts words into their mouths, their economical responses are nothing if not rapid, which implies a certain legitimacy.

  They are dismissed, Doctor Wolfstein staring after them until they have left the room. He turns to Skelgill.

  ‘So you see, Inspector, it is as I anticipated.’

  Skelgill nods, perhaps a little humbly.

  ‘And just the two members of staff, sir – for a place this size?’

  The man does not appear disconcerted by the question.

  ‘My needs are simple, Inspector.’ He flicks a cool glance at DS Jones. ‘Cooking and housekeeping.’

  There is a silence. Skelgill is nodding, his face puckered into an expression of practical agreement. He tugs at the lapels of his jacket in a gesture of finality – but then he casually takes a couple of paces towards a window.

  ‘How about the grounds, sir – they must be a bit of a handful?’

  Doctor Wolfstein moves into line so as to achieve the same view as Skelgill.

  ‘I allow them to grow in a largely natural state, Inspector – my gamekeeper can assist if necessary.’

&nbs
p; ‘It’s a fair-sized lawn – I shouldn’t like to have to do that with my Flymo.’

  ‘I have a ride-on machine, Inspector.’

  Skelgill seems interested in this concept, and takes a couple more steps closer to the window. He peers through the glass.

  ‘Looks like your dogs have been getting to work with their bones, sir.’

  Doctor Wolfstein does not join him, and indeed now walks across in the opposite direction, to the door.

  ‘We have a mole infestation, Inspector. As I say, my gamekeeper is on hand for that sort of thing.’ He opens the door and keeps a grip of the handle, standing to one side in a manner that indicates he is waiting for them to leave.

  Skelgill shrugs amenably and obliges, indicating with a tip of the head to DS Jones that she should fall in. Doctor Wolfstein strides before them across the lobby. The hallway extends some sixty feet to either side, where it terminates in stone walls similar to the exterior of the building.

  ‘Must be a good view over the dale from the towers, sir.’

  The man seems to hesitate in the act of unfastening the latch.

  ‘They are follies, Inspector – mere decoration – there is no access. They would have to be scaled from the roof.’

  Skelgill makes an enlightened face to demonstrate his edification, but any further discussion is pre-empted by a boisterous reception from the German Shepherds, which have found their way to the front of the castle. Following an initial roll call, they seem drawn to Skelgill, nosing in a friendly but pushy way at his jacket.

  ‘Treats all gone – someone beat you to it.’

  Skelgill pats his pockets to demonstrate his point, and then squats on his haunches to fuss the animals.

  Doctor Wolfstein watches inscrutably, his eyes closely following the movements of Skelgill’s hands.

  *

  ‘What was all that about squatter’s rights and adverse possession, Guv?’

  Skelgill is driving slowly down the track from the castle, peering from side to side into the woodland.

  ‘I made it up.’

  DS Jones raises her eyebrows.

  ‘It sounded convincing – well, maybe until you mentioned Bleak House.’

  Skelgill forces a grin.

  ‘It did the job.’

  DS Jones looks like she is not entirely sure to which ‘job’ he refers.

  ‘And the back garden, Guv – the moles?’

  Skelgill glances sharply across at his sergeant. It is evident from her tone that she suspects some ulterior motive is at play.

  ‘There were mounds of soil in the middle of the lawn.’ His voice sounds rather distracted and he pauses reflectively before he continues. ‘Unless I was imagining things.’

  ‘He seemed a bit touchy about it, Guv.’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘He wanted us out.’

  ‘I got the distinct feeling he didn’t want us in. I notice he didn’t ask if we’d found Leonid Pavlenko.’

  Skelgill nods grimly.

  ‘What did you make of the KGB bodyguards?’

  DS Jones chuckles.

  ‘Actually, Guv – I didn’t think they were Russian – not from their accents.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’ve heard a fair amount of Russian used in my family – my great aunts and uncles from Ukraine – it’s still the lingua franca of the former Soviet Bloc – these girls could speak Russian and be from any one of twenty countries.’

  Skelgill remains pensive.

  ‘Guv – the information we got from them – you couldn’t really describe it as statement material?’

  Now Skelgill grins sardonically.

  ‘Aye, well – happen they wouldn’t notice that.’

  He is no more forthcoming on this point – but clearly things do not quite stack up – to go to the lengths of visiting and breaching the security of the castle simply to obtain information of a quality that could equally have been achieved with a telephone call – unless it comes down to wiling away the afternoon.

  ‘What about the gamekeeper, Guv – are we going to see him?’

  Skelgill scowls.

  ‘I think we know what his answer’s going to be, Jones.’

  She nods.

  ‘I can’t say I’m sorry, Guv.’

  Skelgill shoots her a searching glance.

  ‘What did you think of Wolfstein’s performance?’

  DS Jones folds her arms; perhaps she detects an underlying nuance in Skelgill’s question.

  ‘He’s creepy, Guv.’

  Again Skelgill nods.

  ‘Funny looking cleaner and cook.’

  DS Jones squirms in her seat; there is something that disconcerts her about Skelgill’s blunt yet oblique observation. It takes a few moments before her thoughts regroup along practical lines.

  ‘It will be interesting to hear what the team unearths, Guv – how come a professor from Prague ends up owning an English country estate?’

  ‘Aye – maybe there’ll be something there.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a connection, Guv – between Wolfstein and Pavlenko?’

  Skelgill hesitates for a moment.

  ‘Best not to look too hard for connections, Jones – you can usually find the wrong one.’

  His reply is characteristically cryptic, though DS Jones knows him well enough by now to understand this is not necessarily a case of being cantankerous. He simply dislikes to be pressed when he doesn’t yet know himself. Though she must wonder what cards he holds close to his chest, she does not pursue the point. As they reach the road he settles broodingly over the wheel. The time on the dashboard clock now reads almost six p.m. – if wiling away the afternoon was an objective he has succeeded. However, call it belt-and-braces, but as they weave through the tiny hamlet of Little Langdale he draws up outside the village inn.

  The landlord is nowhere to be seen, and it is to their evident surprise that a new barmaid comes forward to take their order. There is a cluster of early-evening patrons loitering around the servery, and Skelgill despatches his colleague to bag what is becoming a regular table over by the window. Meanwhile he watches the girl as she inexpertly wrestles with a hand-pump. She is shorter than her predecessor, with shoulder-length dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Her nose is long and a touch bulbous, and combines with relaxed smile lines to give her a somewhat melancholy appearance. She works purposefully, and does not attempt to engage him in conversation. Her attire is just a plain white close-fitting t-shirt and jeans; her figure modest, small breasts, a narrowing at the waist, and the plump curve of a belly suggestive of the very earliest showing of pregnancy. She must sense Skelgill’s attention, for she glances up at him, but then quickly lowers her eyes; however his stare is inquisitive rather than ogling.

  ‘Where are you from, love?’

  ‘Poland.’

  ‘Good for pike.’

  He grins mechanically and turns away with the glasses. There is a log fire crackling in the hearth close to their table and he sets down the drinks and shrugs off his jacket; DS Jones has already done likewise. Skelgill fishes a silvery object from a pocket and flicks it deftly into a brass coal scuttle.

  ‘What was that, Guv?’

  ‘Pie tray – I’ve been meaning to bin it all afternoon.’

  DS Jones chuckles.

  ‘So that was why the Alsatians were so friendly?’

  ‘Shortest way to a dog’s heart – ask Cleopatra.’

  ‘Aw, Guv – I’m sure she’s more loyal than that.’

  ‘Jones – she’d have your dinner off your plate the second you’re out of the room – she ate three quarters of a keema naan the other night – and the lime pickle.’

  DS Jones looks pained, though she must be secretly amused by the irony of Skelgill getting a taste of his own medicine. She cranes around to read the specials board beside the bar.

  ‘The steak-and-ale pie’s not on tonight, Guv.’

  ‘Tough on Leyton – I owe him one.’

  The new bar
maid notices their interest – perhaps she thinks they seek her attendance – she picks up a pad and begins to round the end of the bar. Skelgill mutters under his breath.

  ‘He’s not hung around getting a Polish replacement.’

  DS Jones raises her eyebrows, but the girl is upon them.

  ‘Yes please?’

  She addresses DS Jones, but Skelgill does not stand on ceremony – here is a gift horse as far as speed of service is concerned.

  ‘Cod and chips, love – and mushy peas.’

  The barmaid casts a suspicious glance at him – but she writes down some version of his order, and then nods to DS Jones.

  ‘Could I have the grilled sea bass with a salad instead of rice, please?’

  The girl makes more diligent notes.

  ‘I ask chef – I am sure no problem.’

  DS Jones smiles engagingly.

  ‘Spasybi.’

  ‘Bud’ laska.’

  The girl’s reply comes automatically as she turns away. Skelgill inhales to speak, but DS Jones’s eyes widen and she puts a finger hurriedly to her lips. When the barmaid has disappeared from sight she leans forward over the table. Skelgill frowns.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Guv – that was Ukrainian.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I just said thank you and she replied you’re welcome. In Ukrainian.’

  ‘Maybe she’s got a granny like yours.’

  DS Jones ponders for a moment.

  ‘It’s an ingrained thing, isn’t it – in every language there’s a gracias and a de nada, a merci and a de rien – someone thanks you and you say you’re welcome. In your native tongue it’s a reflex – you do it without thinking.’

  Skelgill looks perplexed – it is impossible to tell if he is more preoccupied by the idea that the girl might not be all that she claims, or the novelty of DS Jones’s premise.

  14. LIFT OFF

  ‘Now we’re sitting comfortably, shall I begin with Wolfstein or Pavlenko?’

  DS Leyton glances apprehensively from one to the other of his colleagues. They are ensconced in Skelgill’s office, suitably provisioned with hot drinks and – predictably in Skelgill’s case – a bacon roll from the canteen. The energetic spring song of a blackbird drifts in through the open window, carried on the cool, fresh morning air. In contrast, Skelgill and DS Jones both appear less than lively – Skelgill is yawning periodically, and the normally immaculate DS Jones has perhaps overslept, and arrived in a hurry in yesterday’s clothes and make-up unevenly applied at traffic lights. She has her slender fingers wrapped around an Americano.