‘Ah well man, at least you’re enjoying the company.’
It is difficult to discern if this is an ironic comment or not – but Arthur Kerr pats Skelgill on the forearm and simultaneously drains his glass. Skelgill rather snatches at the empty, and withdraws hastily.
While he is standing at the bar a sly-faced character enters with an even meaner-looking Lurcher at his side. The newcomer is hailed by an acquaintance; this diverts him from his path to the counter, but the dog spots Arthur Kerr’s young terrier, which has trailed Skelgill from their corner. Without fair warning the malevolent hound lunges at the terrier; heavily outgunned, the poor pup scrambles behind Skelgill’s legs. The Lurcher sways from side to side, assessing the best angle of attack. Before Skelgill can do much other than protectively widen his stance, there comes a sudden blur as Cleopatra – living up to her nickname “canine cannonball” – explodes from beneath the settle and sends the bigger dog sprawling across the stone flags. The yelping bully decides it has met its match and slinks back to its owner, who glares at Skelgill. There is, however, some quality about Skelgill in such situations – a presence greater than the confidence of a warrant card in his back pocket – that signals reverse gear is broken (if it were ever fitted as standard). Thus, in due course, the newcomer sensibly blinks first – and turns to vent his ire upon his vanquished dog. Skelgill calmly picks up the drinks and returns to his table.
Arthur Kerr is grinning.
‘Police dog?’
Skelgill smiles ruefully.
‘Rescue dog, you might say.’
‘She came to the rescue there, alreet.’
Skelgill affects a degree of modest pride.
‘At risk of trying to sound witty – you might say in our line we look out for the underdog.’
Arthur Kerr raises his glass and then downs almost half of its contents in one.
‘There you gan, then – divvent mither yersel wi’ us ordinary workers – it’s folks wi’ power you should have your eye on.’
That his Wearside accent has intensified, Skelgill can read into whatever he likes – it could be the alcohol is loosening his tongue – and perhaps that the incident amongst the dogs has contrived a feeling of comradely bonding.
‘The bigger the fish, Arthur, the craftier they come.’
To Skelgill this is a simple truism – you only get to be a thirty-pound pike by relentlessly outsmarting your prey and your competitors. It is a maxim that pertains well beyond the watery reaches of Bassenthwaite Lake. And, though Arthur Kerr is no angler, the sentiment has resonance for him.
‘I can see you’re a decent copper, man – an’ I’m no whistleblower, like – not against me workmates – me own kind.’
Skelgill leans over the table conspiratorially, and lowers his voice.
‘Arthur – when you said a minute back “they’re a canny lot” – you meant the people in authority – not the patients?’
‘Aye.’
‘What – such as the courts?’
‘Aye – the courts – the hospital administrators, clinicians – even your lot – at the top level, like.’ That he adds this rider suggests he has accepted Skelgill on the side of the artisans. ‘You must see it yersel, man – it’s all about justifying their existence – getting their snouts in the trough.’
Skelgill seems a little surprised by the man’s forthright cynicism – after all, in a more modest way he draws his own subsistence from the public purse.
‘You reckon that applies to Haresfell?’
Arthur Kerr downs a couple more swallows of beer.
‘Course it does, man – look at the section I work in. Pettigrew – you’ve met him, reet?’ (Skelgill nods.) ‘He’s gathered an entourage like he’s royalty. Snaps his fingers – the old pals act – next thing your Dr Walker’s on some spurious project – what’s the cost of that? Makes him look good, though. Plus there’s the eye candy factor. Meanwhile he’s lording it in a Jag – big house over at Kendal – flat in Didsbury – holiday property up here – bairns at Sedbergh. And his wife’s onto a cushy number – holding acting classes for four times my salary. I mean, what’s that about?’
‘At the hospital?’
‘Aye – she’s qualified psychologist, fair enough – but with all the cuts there’s no vacancies, so they’ve cooked up a whole new area of therapy just to accommodate her – they’ve converted the badminton courts into a drama studio – lighting rigs, costumes, make-up – the lot.’
Skelgill appears distracted, and when he eventually responds his mind seems to have moved on from Arthur Kerr’s grievances.
‘Aye, but Arthur – it’s petty thefts we’ve been notified about – and that’s come down from the Director.’ He takes a drink. ‘Are you telling me there’s something more sinister going on?’
Arthur Kerr shrugs, and for a moment it seems as though he is found wanting; he squirms and hauls up the pup and cradles it in his arms. Skelgill watches with some distaste as the man allows it to lick him around the mouth, hindering any reply he might make.
‘Like I said – them at top’s playing the system – feathering their own nests – suiting their own devices – you’ll won’t catch ’em at it though – they’re Teflon-coated – anything dodgy and it’s hushed up like it never existed.’
Under this hail of clichés and platitudes Skelgill sits back pensively. He reaches down rather absently to give Cleopatra a congratulatory pat – though somewhat belatedly in order for the dog to associate it with her heroics. Abruptly, however, he jerks around, for Arthur Kerr has once more placed a hand on his arm. Now the man’s grip is persistent. He dangles his empty tankard and smirks artfully.
‘I’ll tell yer what, man – why don’t we get a bottle of something stronger with your Government fund – my place is five minutes away – and if you have too many bevvies to drive you can always bunk down for the night – I’ve only got the one bed – but it’s a double, like.’
Out of sight beneath the settle, Skelgill’s injured left hand has balled into a fist.
10. CROW PARK
Tuesday morning finds Skelgill exercising Cleopatra. He has a half-day and, for once, he has eschewed the lure of Bassenthwaite Lake and opted for this more ubiquitous leisure pursuit. Indeed, rather out of character, he has gone with the flock (in both a metaphorical and literal sense), and wanders thoughtfully, a lone figure amongst a scattered crowd comprising Herdwick sheep, vaguely disoriented tourists, and more purposeful dog walkers like himself.
The location is Keswick. He has parked beside Derwentwater, near the Theatre By The Lake, at the public landing – a locus where customarily he would have a trailer attached to his car, his boat aboard, and hope in his heart. However he appears unconcerned by the self-imposed exile from angling and his gaze, which customarily would be scanning for signs of aquatic life, surveys his more immediate landside environs. The fact that the shorn field accommodates an ovine population as well as several visiting dogs is a local curiosity at odds with received wisdom – which holds that the only canines that ought to be among sheep are working Border Collies, and any others fair game for the shotgun. However, small clusters of Herdwicks graze apparently unperturbed – and undisturbed – and even those dogs that have been unleashed seem disinterested, instead finding their fun down at the shoreline where feral Greylag geese offer more formidable resistance.
That this is not a Skelgill kind of spot is immediately apparent. In his book, any place that draws people wearing ordinary shoes and carrying ice creams is to be avoided. Happily, lesser mortals lack the imagination to open an Ordnance Survey map and find solitude, which is where he will generally be. And, though the view south over Derwentwater is spectacular – if somewhat constricted this morning by hanging cloud and misty drizzle – the human presence taints it for him, rather in the way that if someone had taken a black marker to a Turner and added a few figures of their own to produce a half-baked Lowry. He does, however, halt and pay brief lip service to the panor
ama that unfolds as he crosses the rising pasture, for the lake as yet is bereft of craft, and its surface alluring, like mercury that has melted into Borrowdale and found its level in the valley; its mirrored surface reflects what peaks are visible: he nods at the distinctive pap of Catbells, just flirting with the cloud base, at fifteen hundred feet.
‘Is that you? My dear – how are you, darling?’
Thus Skelgill’s observations are short-lived. He turns and is about to reply when he realises the affectionate greeting is directed at Cleopatra, and the speaker has dropped upon one knee to stroke her. The person is swathed against the elements, indeed wears an ankle-length Driza-Bone stockman’s coat and an accessorised wide-brimmed suede hat, leaving little uncovered for identification purposes. A damp and portly chocolate Labrador noses Skelgill’s jacket pocket for treats, though it will be disappointed; the interesting aroma emanates from a polythene bag that recently contained pilchards.
‘She is in fine fettle, Daniel – and I never had you down as sufficiently tolerant to make a dog owner – you have proved me wrong.’
Skelgill, though mildly affronted by this barbed compliment, manages to grin affably.
‘And how are you, Alice?’
‘Justitia! Come away from the gentleman!’ The woman rises with an alacrity that belies her years, and gives her dog a sharp tug on its leash. ‘She is incorrigible, Daniel.’ The woman produces a fistful of small treats, which has both dogs agitating for a dividend.
‘May she have one?’
‘Aye – no problem. Just count your fingers.’
He regards the woman as she administers kibbles to each of the dogs in turn, making them first sit obediently. She has a strong, clear voice and a manner that conjures the image of a retired headmistress, accustomed to getting her way. She is tall for a female – almost the same height as Skelgill – and her bearing noble. The backs of her hands have a gardener’s tan, and beneath the broad brim of the hat the heavily lined skin of her face is weathered likewise; though vital pale blue eyes and regular features testify that she was once something of a beauty, perhaps an ingrained factor that drives her self-confidence.
‘You’ve not lost your touch, Alice.’
She smiles sardonically.
‘In the court, Daniel, I rarely encountered such willing subjects, so easily manipulated and so gratefully chastised.’ She waves long fingers in the air. ‘Midges wait for those who waver.’
She begins to move on and Skelgill, though inured to such low level no-see-um attacks, falls in alongside her, reversing the direction of his so far rather short excursion. He makes a little exclamation of discord.
‘You were always a fair Judge, Alice. We knew we’d need our ducks in a row whenever you were sitting.’
She seems pleased by this admission, if a little straightening of her shoulders is anything to go by.
‘I don’t imagine you were always thrilled by my judgements.’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘The law’s the law – if you left it up to our lot we’d be building prisons like there’s no tomorrow – and think what that would cost the taxpayer.’
‘It is certainly an expensive road to go down, both short term and long.’
Skelgill’s demeanour seems to take on a rather exaggerated casual air.
‘Aye – mind you – I was down at Haresfell recently – now that place burns serious money – they were telling me there’s five staff for each of the inmates.’
‘Patients, Daniel.’
Skelgill starts – as if this phrase, or its homophone at least, is one with which he has been systematically chastised at some formative age – but then he realises she is correcting his terminology.
‘Aye, of course – patients – what with you having been on the NHS Board.’
Alice Wright-Fotheringham was formerly a high-flying London barrister, the youngest of her generation to take silk. She had moved to Cumbria upon widowhood, to eke out the autumn years of her career, opting for the ‘quiet life’ of a County Court Judge. She became well known among the county set, and her profile and reputation led to several commissions such as that to which Skelgill refers. That the conversation has conveniently swung around to the ‘coincidence’ of Haresfell (not to mention Skelgill’s appearance at this dog-walking location popular with certain local regulars) might lead the cynic to suggest that some connivance is afoot.
‘It may be a drain on the public purse, Daniel, but I hear the current regime has made significant inroads into superfluous costs – for which I can assume a modicum of credit.’
‘How’s that, Alice?’
‘It was during my term as Chair that the incumbent Director was engaged – there was a sub-committee responsible for the actual recruitment, naturally – but the appointment had to be ratified by the full Board.’
‘That’d be Briony Boss. I met her. Not what I was expecting.’
Skelgill’s tone seems to cast a question mark – at least sufficiently so for his acquaintance to offer a justification.
‘She came with an almost unblemished track record – she had been second in command at Broadmoor, and had managed several metropolitan hospitals in the north-west of England – a very strong administrator, despite no clinical background to speak of.’
Skelgill nods and they continue in silence for a short while before he responds.
‘When you say unblemished?’
Alice Wright-Fotheringham tuts at his whippersnapper’s impertinence.
‘Oh – there was a press report after the appointment – some idle gossip – that she was being transferred to Haresfell because there had been an affair with another member of staff.’
Skelgill makes an “it’s the way of the world” gesture with his palms. Alice Wright-Fotheringham continues.
‘In any event, by the time she took up the post I believe she was divorced. And now my grapevine informs me that sanity has been restored to an expenses regime that was running amok.’ She turns to Skelgill and grins, perhaps a little sourly. ‘If you will excuse my somewhat politically incorrect turn of phrase.’
They have reached the sprung kissing gate that admits walkers into the meadow from Lake Road. Skelgill steps to one side and pulls it open, although Cleopatra contrives to tangle with Justitia and he is obliged to bundle the four of them out together less gallantly than he had intended. As they untangle and the two humans each step back from one another, Skelgill jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
‘My car’s beside the slipway, Alice. I take it you’ve walked down from home?’
The woman touches the brim of her hat in a sign of affirmation.
‘You should come here more often, Daniel – I believe our two pets get along swimmingly.’
Skelgill glances briefly across at the shoreline, as if he interprets this allusion literally. Cleopatra needs little encouragement to take to the water, and he has become concerned that before too long she will produce an untimely dive from his boat.
‘Aye – it’s a handy spot – do her good to meet other dogs.’
‘And you to socialise with long-lost acquaintances.’
There is a glint in the woman’s eye as she utters these words. Beneath the shadow of his hat, Skelgill’s cheeks seem to assume a pinker hue. He forces a bashful grin and glances rather unnaturally at his watch.
‘Aye, well – look after yourself, Alice.’
Cleopatra now finds some interest in the direction of Skelgill’s car, and he allows her to pull him around and away; he flashes a resigned expression as though he is unable to restrain her sudden momentum. A mischievous smile creases Alice Wright-Fotheringham’s lips. She calls out to him.
‘And, Daniel – you could always invite me fishing.’
Skelgill has already extracted his phone from his pocket, and now he makes an instinctive ducking movement and holds up the handset to acknowledge the former QC’s incisive parting shot. How does she know about that? However, he continues on his way and, composing himse
lf, dials DS Leyton’s mobile number. His sergeant answers promptly.
‘Alright, Guv – when you coming in?’
Skelgill checks his wristwatch, properly this time.
‘About two, I reckon – listen, Leyton – put a call in to Haresfell – see if we can get an interview with Frank Wamphray – the one who pretended to be the psychiatrist.’
‘Righto, Guv – what – the safto, like?’
‘As soon as.’
‘Wilco.’ DS Leyton falls silent, but Skelgill does not offer to sign off; he appears to be consumed by some sudden notion. ‘Anything else, Guv?’
‘Tell you what, Leyton – I’ll assume it’s on unless I hear otherwise – save me coming in – I’ll meet you down at Tebay instead.’ (Now it is DS Leyton who fails to respond – perhaps it is the prospect of yet another superfluous meal that troubles him.) ‘Alright, Leyton?’
‘Sound as a pound, Guv.’
*
‘Cor blimey, Guv – I’ve been trying to raise you.’
DS Leyton has entered the cafeteria at something of a canter, and is blowing hard. Skelgill carelessly glances at his handset, which is lying on the formica table top beside an empty plate.
‘It’s gone and put itself on silent – does that all the time.’
DS Leyton pauses for breath, but his alarmed features reveal his state of mind. Skelgill kicks out a chair for him.
‘Easy, Leyton – you’ll give yourself a coronary.’
At this the poor sergeant looks even more disturbed; his eyes widen and he drops down heavily opposite his boss.
‘That’s just it, Guv – he’s had a coronary.’
‘Who?’
‘Frank Wamphray – he’s dead, Guv – passed away about midday.’
Skelgill digs at his front teeth with the nail of his little finger. Then he glares at his empty plate as though it has been raided and he is about to accuse DS Leyton of the deed.
‘Wait there – I’m still hungry.’
When he returns a few minutes later he appears more composed. Whether this is due to the tray he bears with top-up rations, or because he has had time to digest the implications of DS Leyton’s news, it is hard to discern. Rather cursorily he pushes a mug of tea and a side plate with a bacon roll before his subordinate.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 34
