Skelgill continues to sit with folded arms. Now he manufactures an expression patently designed to reassure his colleagues that whatever it was he did was above board.
‘I worked it out – with a bit of help.’
‘What kind of help, Guv?’
DS Leyton is intrigued, but Skelgill only taps his temple with an index finger. His manner is rather condescending, in that it might imply he believes such an approach could be a novelty to his subordinate. However, he deigns to elaborate.
‘I was considering, why would Wolfstein choose to settle in the Lakes? Then it suddenly struck me – that he could have gone to school round here. On Bass Lake, these sixth-formers came sculling past me – one of them was a German – though you wouldn’t have known it. I got George to check the Oakthwaite files – and sure enough Wolfstein was there – in the Seventies.’
Skelgill is again staring into the fire. From either side of him, sergeants Leyton and Jones trade glances – although if there is a message implicit in their exchange it is difficult to discern, other than it suggests a certain recurring bafflement at their superior’s methods. In the meantime, he continues.
‘Remember, Leyton – you told us that Blackbeck Castle – at about the same time – had been used by some kind of New Age sect?’ (DS Leyton nods in confirmation.) ‘I thought – what if that was when this black magic business started – if he’d been involved as a young man – then the coven kept going and he stayed in touch? One day he inherits the family fortune – it coincides with him needing to get out of Prague – the castle comes on the market and his old acquaintance Reginald Pope is on hand to sort him out a good deal.’
DS Leyton looks substantially satisfied with this explanation.
‘I always said there was something dodgy about Blackbeck, Guv.’
Skelgill rewards his sergeant with a generous tip of the head.
‘Old Ticker – he must have got wind of what they were up to – creeping about the woods – seeing stuff he shouldn’t have.’
‘Such as them doing away with Pavlenko, Guv?’
Skelgill nods, his features grim.
‘Even if they only suspected, Leyton – that Ticker knew – he had to follow suit.’
DS Leyton shakes his head with a certain reluctant admiration.
‘They did a good job of making it look like an accident, Guv.’
‘Aye, well – he was superstitious – he was easy meat.’
Skelgill glances across towards the bar – the press article about William Thymer remains pinned to the noticeboard. He frowns – perhaps considering the possibility that he and DS Jones inadvertently drew the publican’s attention to the old tramp. Although their interest had been entirely casual, to someone cognisant of Leonid Pavlenko’s fate it might have appeared quite the opposite.
DS Jones is contemplatively swirling the last of her milky drink around her mug.
‘That medical report, Guv – about the exceptional level of CRH hormone in his bloodstream.’ (Her colleagues each turn to regard her with a look of curiosity.) ‘We were inclined to put it down to depression – and write off the death as suicide – but the autopsy stated it could also be caused by a sudden trauma.’
Skelgill has first hand knowledge of how such an experience might play out. The involuntary contraction of his features has DS Leyton is watching him anxiously.
‘Reckon they just put the fear of God into him, Guv?’
Skelgill emits a short, mildly hysterical laugh,
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Leyton.’
DS Leyton takes a couple of gulps of beer, as though he is in sudden need of fortification.
‘Guv – you don’t think there’s anything in this black magic malarkey – do you?’
In DS Leyton’s question there is a certain naivety that suggests if his boss answers in the affirmative he is quite willing to go along with this greater authority. Skelgill’s reply, after some consideration, is however somewhat ambiguous.
‘I do recall a time when I believed in the Tooth Fairy – and sure enough it worked – a shilling in the morning.’
Skelgill tosses off the last of his ale and rises and strides across to the bar. He pulls himself a fresh measure – rather inexpertly, it must be said, too much brawn and too little patience, yielding a good third of a pint of froth. From beneath the counter he fishes out a clean glass and dispenses another, making a better job of it. Then he carries both back to the table. To DS Leyton’s evident surprise, Skelgill presents him with the more professional of the brace.
‘Oh – right, cheers, Guv...’
Skelgill senses his sergeant’s hesitation.
‘What’s up?’
‘Well, Guv – I was just thinking – about driving back.’
Still standing, Skelgill spreads out his arms to indicate their surroundings.
‘Leyton – it’s past two in the morning – this is an inn with rooms – we’ve nicked all the guests – who’s going anywhere on a night like this?’
DS Leyton appears a little flustered, but nonetheless he makes a kind of compliant nodding gesture with the whole upper half of his body.
‘Right, Guv – I suppose I’d better drop the missus a text – in case she wakes up and wonders where I am.’
Skelgill shrugs and slides between the furniture to resume his seat, as DS Leyton bends forwards with a grunt to retrieve his phone from his back pocket. DS Jones meanwhile is distracted by a new alert.
‘Wow – listen to this, Guv – they’ve found Eva – the Polish barmaid – and her replacement – both of them were locked in a strong-room in Jed Tarr’s cottage.’
DS Leyton lets out an exclamation of disapproval. He glowers fiercely, as if he now considers he went too easy on the man. DS Jones continues.
‘Except it describes them both as Ukrainian nationals.’ She lifts a hand in the direction of the bar. ‘Remember, Guv – when I said that second girl had answered me in Ukrainian?’
Skelgill’s features carry a knowing expression.
‘That’s what they’d do, isn’t it? Make them pretend they’re Polish – removes any suspicion in public – but once they’ve got a Ukrainian girl here she’s completely at their mercy – tell her if she runs away the police will lock her up as an illegal.’
DS Leyton absently taps the edge of his handset upon the surface of the table.
‘So where do you reckon they were holding Pavlenko’s girl?’
He looks to DS Jones to supply the answer, but it is Skelgill that interjects.
‘In the castle, Leyton. Like Rapunzel in the tower.’
As Skelgill adds this cryptic rider his eyes glaze over and he appears to be launched into an involuntary daydream. Whether he relives his surreal nocturnal experience, or the unsatisfactory relating of a doctored version of it to the Chief (in what proved a vain attempt to raise a search warrant), it would be impossible to know – but the trance ends with a sudden jolt that could be an imagined response to being shot at by Jed Tarr or equally to his very real dismissal by the Chief with a flea in his ear.
In any event, DS Jones has an immediate query.
‘I thought the towers were blanks, Guv – follies?’
Skelgill recovers his wits – and, indeed, frowns in an avuncular though censorious manner: that DS Jones had accepted Dr Wolfstein’s statement about the construction at face value.
‘Wait till we find the way in.’
DS Leyton has not been apprised of such matters.
‘What is this, Guv? It’s all news to me.’
Skelgill glances at each of his colleagues in turn.
‘Think about it – they’ve been using the abandoned mines for some of their ceremonies – they’ve got a private gate that virtually leads to the lower entrance – Tarr was a miner, Rick is a builder – I tell you there’s a tunnel in the castle grounds that leads into one of the towers. That’s where they kept Irina Yanukovych. Our boys will find it in the morning – mark my words.’
DS Leyton seems content with this explanation, but it highlights for him an associated conundrum.
‘I get the castle bit, Guv – and being next to the mines and all that – but I can’t believe it’s not Wolfstein who’s the brains behind the business – I mean, that woman – I know she was a bit of a stickler round her little B&B – but the head honcho of a witches’ coven?’
Skelgill glances casually at DS Jones.
‘I did some research, Leyton – evidently the leader is normally female.’
DS Jones nods obediently, and DS Leyton shrugs in acquiescence – but he is still troubled by some of the loose ends.
‘Fair enough, Guv – but then why did she draw our attention in the first place – by reporting Pavlenko missing? That seems bonkers to me.’
Skelgill turns to his sergeant; he seems to be trying to decide what kind of expression he should use – patronising, reprimanding, exasperated – but in the end he settles for a smile.
‘Because he never went missing, Leyton – not from Keswick, anyway.’
‘Come again, Guv?’
‘He came straight to Blackbeck – and never got away.’
DS Leyton remains nonplussed.
‘What are you saying, Guv?’
‘That the girl got a message to him – so he turned up at the castle – perhaps he called at the front gates – maybe they caught him later – in the forest – or trespassing in the grounds.’
‘But Keswick, Guv – what was that all about?’
Skelgill takes a drink of his beer and relaxes into the soft cushions of the sofa. His characteristic brusqueness appears to have deserted him, and patiently he begins to enlighten his sergeant.
‘Think about it, Leyton. We’ll know soon enough how he died – the same trick they used on Ticker and thought they were pulling on me – maybe something more direct? But assume he was killed on the Thursday, shortly after the last signal from his mobile. Now I don’t know if he managed to dump the handset – like he might have done with the charm that Ticker found – perhaps hoping it would leave a clue to his whereabouts – or if they got it and destroyed it – but either way they’d be worried that he could be traced to Blackbeck Castle, or nearby. So they hatch a plan. Three days later he checks into a B&B in Keswick, twenty-odd miles away, no apparent connection. That completely lifts any suspicion from Blackbeck – we’ve no reason to doubt the landlady’s word – and his bag’s there to prove it. She even gets the name wrong – perhaps to suggest his behaviour was shifty – which fits with him disappearing without being seen by her or the other guests. She also told us he’d got a Bartholomew map of Derwentwater – to put us off the scent – but, you know Leyton, no such map exists.’
DS Leyton is alternately nodding and shaking his head, a look of some awe in his eyes.
‘Cor blimey, Guv – it’s the perfect alibi – if a dead man can have an alibi.’ (His colleagues chuckle.) ‘But you know what I mean, Guv? We’d never in a million years suspect the landlady of making the whole thing up – she was so efficient you’d have her down as your ideal witness.’
Skelgill scowls.
‘Except she wasn’t efficient enough for you, Leyton – they might have known about the passport, but that hidden photograph blew the whole thing apart – if we didn’t twig at the time. And you discovered the phone call between the guest house and here at the pub.’
DS Leyton is unaccustomed to such unstinting praise, especially from Skelgill, and in the presence of another officer. Rather self-consciously he picks up his first unfinished beer and gazes down into the glass.
‘Just me and my big nose, Guv – sometimes I’ve got no idea where it’s going but I follow it all the same.’
Skelgill grins.
‘Steady on Leyton, that’s my speciality.’
‘Maybe I’m learning from you at last, Guv?’
‘You just stick to violent thugs, Leyton.’
DS Leyton shrugs. They have not spoken too much about this incident – though it will no doubt make its way into police folklore in the days to come, and DS Leyton will surely be recognised for his bravery.
‘It was you that got him with the axe, Guv.’
‘I was aiming at you, Leyton – for being so stupid.’
Now they all share in a round of relieved laughter. Skelgill silently raises a glass to his colleague, but DS Leyton continues to look uncomfortable beneath the burden of credit.
‘It was you that cracked it, Guv – you sussed out what was going on tonight – beats me how you did that.’
Skelgill grins.
‘That’s partly down to you, too, Leyton – insisting I should go fishing.’ Skelgill swallows some more beer. ‘The clue was right under my nose – or in front of my eyes, at least.’
‘What – the public schoolboys, rowing?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Know what day it is today, Leyton?’
DS Leyton looks at his watch.
‘Thursday, Guv – oh, you mean the date – it’s May Day.’
‘And last night was May Eve.’ Skelgill waves a hand about the pub. ‘This crowd call it Beltane.’
‘I’ve heard of that, Guv.’
‘It’s a big night if your business happens to be black magic – especially when there’s a full moon.’
DS Leyton nods, and now he becomes rather pensive and glances anxiously at DS Jones; she is clearly flagging, and has settled back into the comfort of the sofa, her eyelids beginning to droop.
‘What do you reckon they were up to, Guv?’
Skelgill, too, glances at DS Jones. Mildly, she returns his gaze – though his concern suggests an aversion to visiting this subject in her presence. He turns back to DS Leyton.
‘We’ll find out soon enough, Leyton – once we start throwing a few charges at them – I’d say we’re working on the spectrum between kidnap and murder, with plenty in between.’
Indeed, DS Jones seems to flinch at this analysis, and DS Leyton is quick to offer a distraction of sorts.
‘Not to mention killing all those sheep, Guv.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow – but DS Leyton’s response is an ironic chuckle.
‘Just as well our boys turned up when they did, Guv. Your farmer pal and his mates were getting right stuck in.’
Skelgill pulls a regretful face, though on which side the regret lies it is hard to tell.
‘Leyton – how come our mob managed to put in such a big appearance – I thought they were all supposed to be drafted onto Smart’s heist up at Carlisle?’
Now DS Leyton raises a finger as if he has been meaning to mention this matter.
‘Turns out DI Smart was working on duff gen, Guv – the snout’s taken the money and done a runner – so it was all called off about ten p.m.’ He grins conspiratorially. ‘The laugh is, Guv – a report came in from a member of the public of some geezers rustling a vanload of sheep up near Wigton – the Chief sent DI Smart as he was nearest – now the joke going round among the lads is he’s the man if there’s a ram raid.’
Skelgill chuckles – and DS Jones, too, is roused to join in. This is not an entirely new pun in Cumbrian police circles – but nonetheless it has ample life in its old legs as far as the unpopular DI Smart is concerned.
DS Leyton is still holding his phone, though he has not yet contrived to send the text to his better half – but now it rings. He accepts the call and listens to a lengthy explanation, his own contributions being largely along the lines of “Cor blimey” and “Struth”. His colleagues wait with growing interest for the conversation of sorts to end.
‘I better get back to HQ, Guv.’
‘Why – what’s up?’
‘We’ve found six more girls, Guv. All locked in. Rick’s place, in an outbuilding – that estate agent geezer, his gaff – those two sales reps – and even at both of the elderly ladies’ cottages.
Skelgill is nodding. A look of some triumph is spreading across his countenance. He st
ands up.
‘You’re right, Leyton – we need to get onto this.’
‘Nah, Guv.’ DS Leyton springs to his feet and places a hand on his superior’s upper arm. Then he indicates with a concerned bow of the head towards DS Jones, partly shielded behind Skelgill. ‘I can deal with this – they’re only looking for one extra bod to lend a hand – one of us that’s been directly on the case – you pick it up in the morning.’
‘It is the morning, Leyton.’
‘Guv – I’ve not even finished one pint – I’ll be fine to drive up.’
Skelgill bites the side of a cheek. He ponders for a moment or two.
‘What about the pies?’
‘I’ll take a couple with me, Guv – whack ’em in the microwave when I get there.’
‘Tell you what, Leyton – take the lot. I owe you.’
*
‘Guv, what made you risk coming into the cave?’
Skelgill stirs from his present reverie. They have each relaxed into facing ends of the accommodating country style sofa. The blaze in the hearth, too, has settled, there is the calming hiss of unseasoned timber and the occasional shift of a log with its attendant flurry of sparks. The lights are turned down low, and the warm glow of the fire cocoons them from the shadowy darkness of the old timbered room. A glinting brown bottle and a pair of half-filled liqueur glasses rest upon the table. He lifts his gaze from the grate to meet that of his colleague.
‘What else could I have done?’
‘Called for help.’
Skelgill shakes his head decisively.
‘There was no time – thanks to Smart and his latest useless supergrass we had no boots on the ground – and the Chief already thought I was crackers – she wasn’t interested.’
‘But even if you’d shouted down that you were the police.’
Skelgill looks perplexed, as if this idea never crossed his mind.
‘Aye, and then what? They’d have just cleared off in their cars – taken you who knows where.’
‘But once they knew you were onto them, Guv? Surely they’d have just abandoned us in the cave – I’m certain nobody recognised me – I only actually met Rick and Mrs Robinson – after that it was all in near darkness.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 25
