‘It is quite a vista is it not? I rather feel we torment our patients with the unachievable prospect.’
The voice – rich and throaty with a faint but discernable northern edge to it – is that of a woman, and she rises from behind a large desk to intercept him and offer her hand in greeting. Skelgill turns with a look of surprise – whether this is because, for the second time in almost as many days, his preconceptions of gender have been misplaced, or more specifically is due to the woman’s appearance, it is hard to know – but certainly his gaze lingers upon her.
‘Don’t worry, Inspector – I shall change if we go out onto the shop floor.’
She tilts her head in the direction of an alcove where there is a settee, a wall-mounted mirror and a clothes rail hung with various garments. That she apparently divines his reaction suggests she is accustomed to such attention. She must be in her early forties and, though her looks may be waning, her figure is trim and her attire – a simple ensemble of pencil skirt and white blouse – restrains feminine curves; the skirt is well above the knee and wrapped asymmetrically to reveal angles of the inner thigh, and the blouse could have a button or two more fastened in order to conceal the decorative underwear beneath. She has long glossy raven hair, parted but otherwise untied, and chestnut eyes – a combination that could speak of Mediterranean origins, were it not for a pale milky skin that contrasts starkly with a deep ochre lipstick and striking cat eye make-up. Significant heels raise her to DS Leyton’s height, just a few inches short of Skelgill. She introduces herself as Briony Boss – a name that has DS Leyton regarding her suspiciously as he waits his turn to exchange pleasantries. She ushers them to a casual seating area where refreshments are laid out.
‘All of the patients in Haresfell present a grave and immediate risk to the public – in spite of their medication and treatment, many are not stable. As you may have observed, our visiting conditions for females preclude dressing in a fashion that could be regarded as sexy – and the same rule applies to our patient-facing staff.’
She uses the word ‘sexy’ unselfconsciously, and proceeds to dispense the hot drinks and biscuits. That she does not elaborate implies she is satisfied her male visitors have got her gist: while there is a requirement to comply on the ‘shop-floor’, as she puts it, she sees no reason to compromise in her own private domain. They might speculate on her motives – simply the desire to look the way she wants, or an effective form of power dressing? If it is the latter, it does not extend to her manner, which is casual and friendly, and seems designed to put the detectives at their ease.
‘I believe you met our lead psychiatrist?’
Skelgill avails himself of an offered digestive and sits back upon the settee.
‘At our interview last week, madam – Dr Pettigrew?’
She smiles, a little coyly.
‘Oh, no – I was referring to this morning – Dr Gerald Bumfrey.’
Skelgill compresses his lips ruefully, and glances at DS Leyton, who shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. Perhaps the woman is ribbing them.
‘Aye – he seems to be a bit of a conspiracy theorist.’
‘The escape tunnel?’
Skelgill nods.
‘Staff poisoning patients of whom they disapprove?’
‘We didn’t exactly get that one, madam.’
She nods and leans forwards a little, inviting him to enlarge. She listens patiently while he regales her with the full list of charges. He is uncharacteristically disciplined in not making a joke of the matter, tempting though it must be – and despite her implied permission. However, he does end his account with a rather offhand reference to “no smoke without fire’. For a split second she bridles at this suggestion – but just as quickly she reins in her reaction. She folds her hands carefully upon her lap and smiles in a knowing way.
‘Of course, Inspector, we have called you in – I have called you in – and so in a sense there is both smoke and fire.’ Her manner is composed; she leans back and crosses one thigh over the other, revealing – viewed from Skelgill’s position – the merest glimpse of a stocking top. ‘But first I should stress that the definition of a breach of security is very broad indeed. You might imagine a patient being discovered attacking the perimeter fence with a pair of industrial wire-cutters – but a recordable event is a thousand times more likely to be a missing plastic kitchen utensil that has been accidentally discarded with potato peelings.’
The detectives smile in polite unison.
‘Naturally, madam.’
‘My career has been in hospital administration, Inspector – I have never yet held a post where there was not some shrinkage, as it is commonly called in the retail trade.’
Skelgill nods.
‘Staff helping themselves to NHS property?’
‘Anything from toilet rolls to bedpans.’ She shakes her head with an affected disbelief. ‘Of course – as you have experienced – here at Haresfell we have an infinitely stricter regime than a regular hospital – although the security procedure is focused upon preventing staff and visitors from accidentally bringing mobile phones or sharp or dangerous objects into the patient areas. But the mere fact that we have a uniformed presence ought to dissuade the casual pilferer. However, I understand it is human nature to be a magpie – and viewed by many as a right of employment rather than a crime against one’s fellow taxpayer.’
Skelgill seems to be listening with exaggerated interest. Meanwhile, DS Leyton, who has begun fidgeting in a manner that indicates he has a burning point to make, takes advantage of his superior’s silence.
‘I had this old uncle – used to work as a toolmaker in one of the big car factories in the seventies – when they were state-owned. He reckoned that’s the reason the British motor industry went down the Swanee. Because of all the thieving, know what I mean?’ (The other two look a little bemused – but he presses on regardless.) ‘I asked him, how bad was it? He replied, put it like this: every day, everybody has something! And the Security daren’t touch ’em – the unions had the place in an iron grip. If a guard so much as looked at someone suspiciously on their way out, it’d have been down-tools for a week. They were hiding twelve-volt batteries on slings under their overcoats, spark plugs in cigarette packets, wiper blades down their trouser legs – even windscreens, they used to half inch.’
‘Windscreens?’ Now Skelgill is intrigued, and is drawn off course by this improbable claim.
‘Not up their jumpers, Guv – obviously.’ DS Leyton shakes his head enthusiastically. ‘Apparently they used to sneak ’em out at lunch break and slide ’em under the fence where it bordered wasteland – then go round and collect ’em after they’d knocked off.’
‘Knocked off, Sergeant – an apposite term.’
It is possible Briony Boss is humouring him, though beneath the surface twinkle there is in the depths of her eyes a keen appreciation; he has made a relevant point. If Security is complicit in some conspiracy to defraud an employer, then its presence as a deterrent force may be considered token.
‘It’s bulk foodstuffs and garden tools you’ve had a problem with, madam?’
DS Leyton poses this question – it seems a natural extension of the practicalities of concealing large objects.
‘I don’t know the precise detail, Sergeant – I shall hand you over to Eric Blacklock, our Head of Security – but my understanding is that, yes, the missing items include those categories you mention. Apparently an entire shipment of Marmite has disappeared.’
She utters this latter phrase with a note of incredulity – which DS Leyton mirrors with an expression of distaste, as though the mere mention of the famous brand name has triggered a wave of post-traumatic nausea. Skelgill, on the other hand, nods in an appreciative sort of way, suggesting he could be tempted to commit such a larceny himself.
8. TEBAY
‘I reckon it’s all a bit of a storm in a teacup, Guv.’
DS Leyton examines the chunky morsel on the end of his fork
, dunks it in ketchup and pops it into his mouth. He nods approvingly as he chews. ‘Definitely my favourite, Guv, this Cumbrian sausage.’
‘Cumberland.’
‘Yeah, sorry, Guv – I keep forgetting that.’
‘It’s named after a type of pig, not a place.’
‘Peppery pig, Guv.’
DS Leyton grins broadly, but Skelgill, lacking his sergeant’s brood of small brats, is blind to the allusion and replies in earnest.
‘Aye – that’s because they make it with pepper – none of that poncey herb malarkey. Plus they chop the meat instead of mincing it so there’s something to get your teeth into. Proper sausage.’
DS Leyton nods, though he regards the half-eaten coil on his plate rather forlornly.
‘Wish the missus would get some in – except she’s back on my case about healthy eating – plus the nippers won’t touch anything that looks like part of an animal.’
Skelgill shrugs and attacks an improbably loaded forkful of his midday breakfast. After a minute he washes it down with a gulp of tea and smacks his lips.
‘It’s what I was expecting. Storm in a teacup.’
That this statement is at odds with Skelgill’s original determination to visit Haresfell at the expense of other investigations brings a frown to DS Leyton’s features. He was clearly surprised by his superior’s decision regarding priorities, and has been doubly perplexed by his behaviour since. However, he knows well enough that to point out this apparent contradiction would not win him any favour.
‘Thing is, Guv, it’s uncertain whether anything’s been stolen – or even hidden. The place is like a rabbit warren – and without a full-scale search you could never be sure.’
‘What did you make of Eric Blacklock?’
DS Leyton rubs one side of his head rather absently, holding his knife such that it sticks out like an antenna.
‘Seems a decent enough geezer – been there the best part of ten years – in the prison service before that. Old school, like – but he knows his stuff, despite all the new technology.’
‘Trust him?’
‘I should say so, Guv – and he don’t think it’s staff what’s doing the food pilfering. He says he wouldn’t put it past the delivery drivers to pull a fast one – reckons he’s got a brother-in-law in the distribution game who says it’s a regular dodge – deliver ninety-nine cases, distract the back-door man, get him to sign for a hundred. Driver scores a free case of beans.’
‘Or Marmite.’
‘Or Marmite, Guv. Not that I can imagine there’s much of a black market in it.’
‘There’s a black market in everything, Leyton. Though I’m surprised they let trucks in.’
‘They have to, Guv – there’s a thousand people on the site to feed. Blacklock says they get through a couple of tons of food a day.’
‘That’s just the inmates.’
DS Leyton grins obediently at Skelgill’s rather cruel observation. As one losing the inch war himself, he suffers mixed emotions when it comes to his superior’s unsympathetic attitude towards over-indulgence. This is compounded by the fact that Skelgill would give the average racehorse a run for its money in the eating stakes; even now he eyes up his colleague’s plate, beginning to assess what leftovers may be forthcoming.
‘There’s nothing on CCTV, Guv – and they’ve got cameras all over the joint – so I can’t see what the fuss is about. Blacklock reckons the Boss woman is just having a bit of a purge because of the Government cuts. Boss woman – ha!’
Skelgill appears to be only half listening. His eyes follow the aerobatics of hirundines that hawk for hatching flies over the ornamental pond beyond the large plate-glass windows of the service station cafeteria.
‘It’s taking a liberty, Leyton – getting the police to do the job for your internal Security.’ He sounds irked by this prospect.
‘I suppose if it improves their figures, Guv – reduces shrinkage, as she calls it.’
Skelgill appears unimpressed.
‘It’s a sledgehammer to crack a nut.’
DS Leyton suddenly glances up.
‘There’s a sledgehammer missing, Guv.’
Skelgill stares rather wanly.
‘What else?’
‘A shovel, a rake and a hoe – polythene sheeting – and some of that string they use to tie up sweet peas.’
Skelgill ponders for a moment.
‘Not exactly the stuff of the Great Escape, Leyton.’
DS Leyton shrugs, somewhat defeated.
‘Any road, Guv – a shovel or whatever could have fallen into a bush and been forgotten about. Like last week – I found my missing shears in the long grass.’
Skelgill allows himself a heartless grin.
‘Bet that wrecked your mower blades.’
‘I spotted the shears in the nick of time, Guv – I’d swear I hardly had to cut the lawn once a month when I lived down south.’
Skelgill’s gaze drifts again, and he is silent as he watches raindrops dapple the surface of the pond. After a few moments DS Leyton continues with his account.
‘Most likely it’s a member of staff who’s got an allotment. Blacklock suspects someone’s been nicking fertiliser and siphoning off the petrol they use for the rotavator.’
At this revelation Skelgill glances sufficiently sharply at his colleague to draw a reaction.
‘What, Guv?’
‘Fuel and fertiliser, Leyton.’ Skelgill screws up his features like a wrinkled soothsayer who sees inauspicious portents. ‘Last time I looked in my terrorist handbook they were two out of the three ingredients you need to make a bomb.’
DS Leyton’s eyes widen with alarm.
‘You serious, Guv?’
Skelgill returns his attention to his plate, and begins to assemble an assortment that includes some of each item of food. It is a tricky challenge, and requires all of his concentration. But when he eventually replies, it seems his words were uttered with ironic intent.
‘Like you say, Leyton – without a proper search we can speculate all we like. And if their systems are not watertight, we’re just barking at shadows.’
DS Leyton looks somewhat baffled.
‘I tried stamping on the shed floors, Guv.’
Skelgill’s retort is disparaging.
‘Not the tunnel, Leyton.’
DS Leyton’s wide mouth breaks into a sheepish grin.
‘Nah, Guv – I was thinking you could hide gear under the floorboards – but it all sounded pretty solid. Concrete base, I reckon.’
Skelgill puts down his fork on the table and feels the stubble on his chin with the fingers of his left hand.
‘What about any patients who would have access to the gardens and the stores?’
Now DS Leyton shakes his head decisively.
‘There’s none work in the stores or the staff kitchens. Some of ’em get to cook under supervision in special classrooms – part of their therapy. And in the more relaxed wards they have a kettle and a microwave so’s they can make those pot snacks.’
Skelgill nods and returns to address his diminishing supply of food. Indeed they both eat in silence for some minutes, before DS Leyton casually – in fact rather too casually for it to sound natural – poses a tentative, but perfectly fair, question.
‘How did you get on, Guv?’
That Skelgill has thus far been debriefing his sergeant is explained by some rather clandestine behaviour on his part that followed their meeting with Briony Boss. (At least, clandestine is how it had seemed to DS Leyton). This perspective was subsequently reinforced during their fifteen-minute journey from Haresfell to Tebay, when Skelgill had hijacked the conversation to recount a string of police incidents that had occurred in the vicinity, “before your time, Leyton”. Scenically unexceptional, the no-man’s land between the two great competing national parks of the Lakes and the Dales (no contest, according to Skelgill) is most notable as the conduit for three significant arteries: the concrete and tarmac
of the M6 motorway, the hewn embankments and cuttings of the West Coast Main Line, and – of course – the river valley of the rushing Lune. Accordingly, Skelgill’s anecdotes featured high-speed car chases, minor railway disasters and disorganised crime in the shape of salmon poaching. In listening patiently to such fishy tales, DS Leyton quite reasonably suspected avoidance tactics were afoot.
As for what Skelgill was avoiding, having left the company of the Director – on reflection a questionable formality, given the limited overview she was willing to impart to them – they were conducted to a transit area to be handed over to Eric Blacklock. Prior to the Head of Security’s arrival, Skelgill had suddenly sprung from his seat and crossed with what had seemed like indecent haste to engage with an attractive blonde woman who had unobtrusively materialised from an elevator. Her identity badge marked her out as a member of staff. Under the critical scrutiny of DS Leyton, they had conferred for a minute or two – during which time the woman, rather bizarrely, appeared for a moment to read Skelgill’s palm – before he sauntered back wearing the patently ingenuous expression he reserves for what might be called ‘buck-passing’ moments.
‘Time to divide and conquer, Leyton.’ His words had been accompanied by a forced grin. Then he had glanced ostentatiously at his wristwatch. ‘Meet you at reception in an hour.’
And, with that, he had returned to the waiting female, who had gazed at him rather admiringly (in DS Leyton’s assessment), and spirited him away through a security door. A glowering DS Leyton – thus jilted to wait for the apparently delayed Eric Blacklock – was forming the opinion that Skelgill’s meeting with this woman was not a chance encounter. Such a summary abandonment no doubt amplified the sergeant’s general anxiety, and heightened his irrational fear of being ‘discovered’ by those in authority – who inevitably would not believe he was a police officer and detain him at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 32
