Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  *

  ‘I’m still starving, Leyton – fancy a cake or something?’

  ‘I’m stuffed, Guv.’ DS Leyton leans back in his seat and pats his ample paunch. ‘Though I can’t say I’m in any hurry to get back to that place.’

  The detectives have driven up to Tebay for lunch. An “out-of-earshot meeting”, as Skelgill has put it – although his colleague likely harbours suspicions that it is to make doubly sure he cannot be drafted into the press conference.

  ‘Won’t cost you, Leyton – gift horse and all that.’

  ‘I’ll pass, Guv – if it’s all the same – you go ahead.’

  Skelgill seems to be disheartened by his sergeant’s lack of enthusiasm, and makes no move to rise. It is possible he was hoping his colleague would do the running.

  ‘Aye – give me a minute.’

  DS Leyton folds his knife and fork carefully onto his plate. Despite Skelgill’s protestations of hunger, for once he has not scavenged the portion of Cumberland sausage that has defeated his subordinate.

  ‘Think there is a connection, Guv – between Meredith Bale and Harry Krille’s escape?’

  Though Skelgill’s contorted features are suggestive of some speculation on his part, he makes no reply.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – she keeps popping up – like a flippin’ jack-in-the-box.’

  Skelgill has his elbows on the table and his arms folded. He makes an indifferent shrug.

  ‘I’d put it down to chance, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton produces something of a sigh.

  ‘Right enough, Guv – my old uncle, the bookie – he used to say there was no skill in a winning streak – only in knowing when to call it a day.’

  Skelgill stares pensively at his empty plate.

  ‘Unless you know what you’re doing in the first place.’

  ‘Not many punters like that, Guv.’

  Skelgill raises a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Not like us, eh, Leyton?’

  DS Leyton grins rather lopsidedly, as if he is not sure whether this is an ironic statement or an indication that Skelgill does indeed have some method in mind. Now Skelgill leans back and stretches his arms above his head. He casts about the cafeteria, which is filling up with tired-looking tourists, predominantly middle-aged couples who have perhaps set out early from southern climes, running the gauntlet of England’s overcrowded motorways that skirt the suburbs of London, Birmingham and Manchester. Their reward is a plate of fish and chips, a treat that marks their arrival in the Lakes, with only winding lanes to navigate henceforth – unless the Scottish Highlands is their destination, in which case this ‘northern’ outpost may represent only the halfway point.

  ‘Leyton – when we go back – there’s a few folk we need to see.’

  DS Leyton immediately recognises this offhand form of ‘we’ as that which Skelgill employs to mean ‘you’. Thus his response is somewhat guarded.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Interview the horticultural therapist – any indications that Krille had this planned. Looks like he swiped the twine well in advance – check again with Security – what’s the worst he might have with him? Then the patient who took ill – see if there was collusion between him and Krille. There’ll need to be a doctor present – afterwards get an opinion on whether the seizure was faked.’

  DS Leyton is nodding, though his brows are knitted.

  ‘What about Meredith Bale – this malarkey with the letters, Guv? Hadn’t we better find out what’s been going on between her and Harry Krille?’

  Skelgill is now leaning sideways to look past his sergeant and through the window beyond. His reply is rather too casual.

  ‘Don’t worry, Leyton – I’ll take care of that one.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  There pass a few moments of silence, while Skelgill assesses the weather, or the birds, or whatever it is he is looking at – if there is anything at all. DS Leyton picks up the conversation.

  ‘What do you reckon about Harry Krille, Guv – about what he’s going to do?’

  Skelgill consults his wristwatch. The time is now after one p.m. On foot, Harry Krille might be twelve miles from Haresfell. By car, he could be swinging from boughs in Sherwood Forest, skimming stones on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, or composing limericks aboard a ferry bound for Ireland.

  ‘Think about it. If he had an accomplice on the outside, he could be anywhere – in a safe house. But he’s no gangster – he was a loner when he did his murder spree – and by all accounts he’s a loner still. And if he’s smart he’d know an accomplice would be the weak link – we’d pick up on it somewhere and track him down. If he wanted to get shifting, he’d need to have stolen or hijacked a car. I reckon we’d have heard about that by now. Okay – it’s possible to take someone hostage – make them drive you to their home – but you don’t know what you’re getting into – risk of the alarm being raised by a neighbour or a relative. If he’s planned it – and he’s had enough years to think about it – he’d want to do it on his terms – work to his strengths – what he feels comfortable with. He’s fit and he knows about survival in the countryside. Plus we’re bang in the middle of England’s biggest wilderness. It’s midsummer. There’s maximum cover for concealment – crops in the ground, fruit on trees, burgers in the bins. It’s not cold – a bit of bracken’s enough to keep you warm at night – and no one ever died of thirst in the Lakes. No need to make a fire to cook or keep warm at night. If I went and hid, Leyton, you wouldn’t find me for months.’

  DS Leyton seems entranced by Skelgill’s informed soliloquy – indeed he sits open-mouthed for several moments before he responds. He clamps his lips closed in a rather frog-like manner. Then a thought strikes him.

  ‘What about Frank Wamphray, Guv?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘What if he were ready to spill the beans on Harry Krille?’

  There is a long silence as Skelgill apparently considers this notion. But when he replies he seems to have dismissed the idea. He folds his arms and releases the breath he has been holding while concentrating.

  ‘I can’t see it, Leyton.’

  ‘Even by accident, Guv – Frank Wamphray just mouthing off about escapes and all that, like he did to us – gets too close for comfort.’

  ‘Krille would need to hear of it, Leyton – and then arrange for what – the injection?’ Skelgill shakes his head determinedly. ‘It’s not feasible.’

  But DS Leyton seems buoyed by his idea. He tilts his head and taps the side of his nose.

  ‘Wheels within wheels, Guv.’

  Skelgill grins resignedly at his irrepressible colleague.

  ‘Look, Leyton – keep your DCs on the job – fine – but don’t go giving them any ideas – else we’ll have some crackpot plot out of a detective story played back to us before we know it.’

  DS Leyton nods, satisfied that his superior has at least paid lip service to his suggestion. However, now he too reveals some concern, as shadows of doubt cloud his expression.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – we’re gonna be stretched – there ain’t many officers to go round right now – and them with young ’uns at school are starting to take their summer holidays.’

  Skelgill nods grimly. He shows no inclination to acknowledge that DS Leyton himself falls into this category.

  ‘At least the problem of finding manpower for the search falls to uniform, Leyton.’ He inhales and slowly exhales. ‘Not that I hold out much hope on that front.’

  Again discussion wanes as they each ponder their own perspectives upon this conundrum. While DS Leyton rather glumly twiddles his thumbs, Skelgill’s attention is attracted to his right, whence unfamiliar voices reach his ears. Perhaps it is the lilting southern American accent – two handsome boys aged about nine and twelve – or maybe the attractive sun-kissed mom that draws his gaze. There is no sign of a father, and the threesome has engaged in conversation with an elderly British couple at the next table. The younger boy is hold
ing court, the seniors inclining their heads with benevolent interest.

  ‘And when I was five Springer broke my thumb because I was being annoying.’

  Springer chips in:

  ‘You were.’

  The younger sibling grins widely.

  ‘I’m pretty sure I deserved it.’

  The old couple nod admiringly, as if the tale has been one of success in sport or exams. Skelgill, still watching, rises and his movement attracts the eye of the mom, who responds with an inviting smile. Skelgill grins, and shrugs rather ruefully as he turns for the exit.

  ‘Let’s roll, Leyton – I need to buy a map of Cumbria from the shop – mine are all at home.’ He pats his pockets as they weave between tables towards the mall. ‘Come to think of it, so’s my wallet.’

  17. THE YAT

  ‘Such an atmospheric pub – so steeped in history.’

  Skelgill looks about as though this is something that has not previously occurred to him. Having intercepted Dr Agnetha Walker near the M6 motorway junction for Penrith and the A66 – the midpoint of her route home from Haresfell – he has driven her protesting to The Yat at Gatewath, just a couple of miles thence. Now they find seats in the crowded, beamed bar room, at a small round table beside the hearth. An early evening fire crackles merrily as it explores a lattice of freshly laid logs. Burnished brasses and polished horseshoes are nailed along the soot-blackened oak lintel.

  ‘Aye – happen it is – old coaching inn – dates from the sixteen hundreds.’

  Skelgill, rather uncharacteristically, does not seem inclined to take the credit for this small aspect of his local heritage; instead he appears somewhat distracted – and perhaps his companion’s next remark touches upon his preoccupation.

  ‘I think we are attracting some interest.’

  The landlady, a striking tanned blonde wearing a revealing bodice top, has now materialised and is scrutinising them quizzically. Skelgill raises a hand in acknowledgement, and her expression softens to a smile. She calls out through the chatter that she will bring a menu – my darlin’ – but Skelgill points to the specials board, as if to indicate it will suffice. She inclines her head and yields to the presence of a leering drinker who dangles an empty jug, and tantalises his thirst by hauling pruriently on a handpump. Skelgill averts his gaze.

  ‘You must be well used to that, Annie.’

  In this ambiguous reply, Skelgill wraps a compliment with what might be a more pragmatic reference to her day job. She seems content to interpret it as the former, and indeed turns the tables with a teasing jibe of her own.

  ‘Dan – I sense competition for your attention.’

  Skelgill again glances towards the bar – and sure enough the landlady has an eye in their direction. He shrugs and shifts his chair so that he cannot so easily be diverted.

  ‘When folk know you’re in the police, they’re always curious about what you’re up to.’

  Dr Agnetha Walker responds with a small knowing grin, as though she does not entirely accept this explanation as valid under the circumstances. However, she folds her delicate fingers around her drink – a suitably slimline vodka and tonic – and assumes a business like manner.

  ‘And what are you up to this evening, Inspector?’

  Her tone implies an inclination to subvert whatever are his good intentions. But Skelgill does not play along. He sits back and cradles his pint, and it takes him a moment to formulate a reply.

  ‘I thought we might fix a date to finish the pike expedition – this weekend, maybe – but you must be feeling I’m like a bit of a Jonah.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  Skelgill takes a sip of his beer and grimaces as if it is bitter – which it is, by its trades description.

  ‘Every time I come near Haresfell there’s a new calamity. This morning me and my oppo Leyton were standing by the river – Harry Krille must have climbed the fence – right under our noses.’

  ‘But that is not your responsibility.’ Dr Agnetha Walker appears troubled by Skelgill’s assumption of blame. ‘That is a matter for Security.’

  Skelgill tests the clarity of his pint against the burgeoning fire.

  ‘We must look a bit dim – flapping about trying to make a connection out of a coincidence.’

  Dr Agnetha Walker regards him evenly.

  ‘But how is Harry Krille connected – to anything?’

  Skelgill puts down his glass and leans forwards on his elbows, his shoulders hunched. Pointedly he turns his head to and fro, but no one appears to be eavesdropping – patrons at adjacent tables are engrossed in their own conversations, and a healthy banter around the servery lays down a blanket of background noise. He makes a face like a contestant speculating an answer to a question master.

  ‘Meredith Bale?’

  Now his companion’s naturally startled brows seem to edge a millimetre or two higher.

  ‘But how?’

  Skelgill does not reply immediately. Perhaps he hopes she will elaborate of her own volition – but in the end her professional patience wins out and he continues.

  ‘She had this obsession – before she was arrested – she was writing to him.’

  There is the faintest tightening of Dr Agnetha Walker’s fingers around the glass that perhaps suggests this notion creates some impression – though her features offer no corroboration.

  ‘I know this, of course.’

  ‘What do you think about it?’

  ‘I have touched upon the subject with her – not recently, you understand – she is reluctant to talk and I have to tread carefully in order not to send her into her shell. She could perceive it as something that undermines her claim to sanity.’

  Skelgill gives a roll of his eyes.

  ‘It’s not exactly normal, is it?’

  Dr Agnetha Walker appears to contest this statement. She gives a shake of her head and then methodically brushes away a strand of blond hair that falls across a cheek.

  ‘You would be surprised how common. It even has a name – hybristophilia.’

  ‘Aye, aye – Bonnie and Clyde syndrome, eh?’

  She fixes him with her cool blue eyes.

  ‘Some females have a strong sexual attraction to men they perceive as extreme alpha males.’

  That she stops dead at this – her gaze defiant – seems to rattle Skelgill. He appears uncertain of exactly what kind of response is appropriate. There is a momentary stand off – but any tension is defused by the arrival of a young waiter bearing a pad, pencil poised. He is spotty faced and barely looks old enough to be in a public house. Skelgill seems relieved and gives him a hearty slap on the shoulder. He turns to Dr Agnetha Walker and recommends the special – a local variation on the Barnsley chop – she demurs and there is a small hiatus while they debate sides and sharing. When the waiter bows away Skelgill finds a firmer footing.

  ‘I know you’ve not been there long – but is it possible that Meredith Bale and Harry Krille have met – face to face, like?’

  She reacts to his inquiry with a slow puckering of her full lips, as though she is about to apply some gloss – or is imagining a kiss.

  ‘There is a detailed management plan for each patient. Among other things it is to ensure that certain individuals avoid one another – even when they are being moved around the site. It is the case with all such hospitals, but for Haresfell perhaps more important because it is mixed sex. I do not know what is specified for each of these two – but I would suspect it is to maintain segregation. Unless –’

  ‘Unless what, Annie?’

  That she has paused for thought heightens Skelgill’s interest. Her expression, however, carries no hint of controversy.

  ‘Well – if there were some experiment – if it were considered beneficial for them to interact under controlled circumstances.’

  ‘What – like a date?’

  ‘Oh, no – no – but perhaps in some group therapy – a drama class, for example.’

  ‘Who woul
d suggest that?’

  ‘It could be any of the therapists – even a nurse – there are regular team reviews of each patient’s progress. But it would have to be sanctioned by the Director.’

  Skelgill nods. Then he slowly combs the fingers of one hand through his hair, as though he is teasing out a thought from his memory bank.

  ‘Do you know if Harry Krille was writing back to her?’

  Her answer comes without hesitation.

  ‘I believe not – although he indicated he was willing to receive correspondence.’ She produces an ironic smile. ‘However, I doubt Meredith Bale were the sole member of his – how shall I put it? – appreciation society.’

  Skelgill rubs his chin – and suddenly appears disturbed by the discovery of a swathe of unshaven stubble. He casts the hand to one side, as if self-consciously trying to draw away his companion’s attention.

  ‘Happen the date didn’t go too well – so he legged it.’

  Dr Agnetha Walker reacts as though she is considering the merits of this idea, despite Skelgill’s patently flippant intent. She ponders for a moment and then reaches to lay a hand on his wrist.

  ‘Inspector, what do you think is his motive?’

  He frowns – this time the use of his title must seem strange, because her tone is entirely serious. Or perhaps it is the suggestion that he should possess some psychological intuition – when she is the expert in this regard. He pulls back and folds his arms.

  ‘Does he need one?’

  ‘But surely you must have some theory? What if you were in his shoes? Consider the situation – would you think of the fishes?’

  Skelgill shrugs his shoulders, seemingly reluctant to speculate. But after a few moments his eyes become glazed, and in due course he offers an insight of sorts.

  ‘If I’d been cooped up all those years – and they let me out gardening – with that view of the fells across the Lune – I’d want to start walking – imagine the fence wasn’t there – keep walking right out of sight.’

  ‘And then what would you do?’

  Skelgill looks a little alarmed – as though control of his faculties has been restored, having been hijacked without his consent. At first he does not respond, but Dr Agnetha Walker’s insistent gaze provides him with little other choice.