Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘I’d live off my wits – wait until the search was scaled down.’

  ‘Could you do that – live off your wits?’

  Skelgill nods, though his eyes narrow suspiciously.

  ‘Easy enough this time of year.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you be seen – by a member of the public?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Live in plain sight.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘So long as you camped where there’s good cover – all you’d need is a bivvy to keep dry. Near a beck – there’s no shortage of them. When I had to move – I’d act like a hillwalker. There’s thousands of folk treading the hill paths – no shepherd’s going to look at you twice. In this weather – keep your hood zipped up – who’s going to recognise you? It’s not like he’s wearing striped pyjamas.’

  ‘I suppose that was once the argument for an institutional uniform.’

  ‘By all accounts he was well kitted out – no need to steal something off a washing line or from a shop that would draw attention.’

  Now Dr Agnetha Walker nods pensively.

  ‘Do you suspect there is something connected to Meredith Bale that could give you a clue to his movements?’

  Skelgill appears uneasy – although his brooding expression may reflect some frustration that she has brought him full circle to his original question. He casts about the room, perhaps sidetracked by the prospect of their food arriving, assessing the progress of deliveries to other diners.

  ‘I like to keep an open mind.’ He scoffs. ‘It’s what my boss calls drawing a blank.’

  Dr Agnetha Walker smiles compassionately.

  ‘I am sure I heard you are one of the top detectives.’

  Skelgill is unprepared for this accolade, and in the flickering firelight his cheekbones reveal a flush of rouge. He makes a scornful face – it must be plain that his progress on matters related to Haresfell is pedestrian verging upon stationary.

  ‘Would she tell you, Annie – Meredith Bale? Since you’re working with her – winning her confidence?’

  ‘She is very clever. Manipulative. She only confides what she wants you to know.’

  ‘How did she react to what happened to Frank Wamphray?’ Skelgill again looks around in search of their meals, as if the answer to his question comes a poor second among his priorities.

  ‘Of course – the patients have not been informed about the nature of his death – of any suspicions. But – ’

  Her checking herself has an immediate impact.

  ‘But what? Are you saying there has been a reaction?’

  Now Dr Agnetha Walker seems to backtrack – she shifts in her seat and her trim figure takes on a rather more formal demeanour.

  ‘As you just intimated, it is never good practice to approach an inquiry with a prior interpretation in mind.’

  Skelgill narrows his eyes.

  ‘Depends what you know, doesn’t it?’

  Dr Agnetha Walker remains guarded.

  ‘Naturally – being aware of Meredith Bale’s history – one might be predisposed to read some sort of association into her response.’

  ‘So you did ask her?’

  ‘Oh, no – not directly – just about how she felt – she was friendly with Frank Wamphray and it was reasonable to sympathise.’

  ‘And was she upset?’

  ‘Dan, she is a psychopath.’

  This blunt declaration causes Skelgill to halt in the midst of forming his next question. He releases the breath and then inhales anew.

  ‘And, so?’

  ‘She was certainly not upset – but I felt I detected a little sense of triumph – that she wanted me to detect. It was the merest hint – and that is why I say one should not easily be drawn to conclusions.’

  Skelgill does not respond to this analysis. But it is clear his mind is running through some scenario or other. After a few moments’ silence he leans forwards and clasps his hands around his almost empty pint glass.

  ‘Annie – I might need your help – a bit of inside information.’

  ‘Are you talking about Meredith Bale?’

  ‘Aye, maybe – but also a couple of the characters that work at Haresfell.’

  Dr Agnetha Walker raises her glass and sips demurely, her expression unrevealing.

  ‘You appreciate that could place me in a compromising position?’

  Skelgill makes a face of ‘so be it’ and pushes back his chair.

  ‘Then I’d better get you another one of those – drink up, lass.’

  Automatically she does as he bids, though there is too much in her glass to swallow in one go. Skelgill begins to step away towards the bar.

  ‘But – my car is at Penrith.’

  Skelgill smirks offhandedly.

  ‘Don’t worry – if you need a room I’m well connected.’

  He strides away and quickly wins the willing attention of the landlady. Dr Agnetha Walker watches with some satisfaction and casually tosses off the last of her vodka.

  *

  ‘Jones.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Guv? I can hardly hear for the echo – it sounds like you’re in a toilet.’

  ‘Aye – well, you know the signal can be crap up here.’

  ‘It might be me, Guv – can you just wait while I move?’ She gives Skelgill no choice, and there is a muted silence before her voice comes back on the line. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Fine my end – I can hear traffic. Were you in a club?’

  ‘You’re still breaking up, Guv.’

  Skelgill takes the handset momentarily from his ear and checks the screen. He has maximum bars.

  ‘Jones – I need to be quick.’

  ‘Sure, Guv.’ She appears to hear this statement perfectly well.

  ‘When you told me about Meredith Bale writing to Krille – you said you’ve got a contact in the NHS for Greater Manchester.’

  ‘In human resources, aha?’

  ‘Can she do some sleuthing?’

  ‘It’s a he, Guv.’

  ‘Right. Whatever. Write down these names.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv? You went again.’

  But now Skelgill is disturbed by the sound of a door opening nearby.

  ‘Jones – I’ll send you a text – alright?’

  He waits, but there is no reply – it seems the line has dropped off. He glares at his mobile before pocketing it angrily. With one boot he kicks down the toilet lid and pulls the flush. As he bangs his way out of the cubicle and makes swiftly for the exit, the balding, bespectacled middle-aged gent standing at the rank of urinals glances disapprovingly over his shoulder; the man in a hurry has not washed his hands.

  *

  At around one a.m. on what is now Friday morning, a long brown shooting brake exits the M6 motorway and approaches Tebay services. At this hour there are many empty parking spaces near the entrance to the concourse, but the car stops some fifty yards short, beside a marked picnic area. Cloaked in darkness and backed by rather foreboding woodland, by day it is a pleasant grassy spot, a leafy oasis where birdsong and the gurgle of a stream provide respite for the traveller seeking a breath of fresh air. There are several trestle benches, a couple of waste bins, and – thoughtfully provided – a stone drinking trough for dogs. The only hint of authority is a sign that warns their owners will be fined if they do not clean up after them.

  From the driver’s side a man climbs out. Rangy in profile and a couple of inches above average height, he seems to be dressed for the weather. What little ambient neon filters through the drizzle reveals him to be wearing some kind of outdoor jacket, and a wide-brimmed hat. He turns up his collar, and in the act of closing the door he ducks towards the car and speaks loudly in a thick London accent.

  ‘Stay there, girl – I’ll be back in a mo.’

  He leaves the vehicle unlocked, and strides purposefully to the main services building. Although the shops in the small mall will be clos
ed, light emanating from large plate glass windows reveals the cafeteria to be operating, albeit that part of the seating area is roped off. An observer would see him join a queue of lorry drivers at the fast food counter, and turn in due course bearing a tray laden with a stack of assorted cartons. Unlike the truckers, however, who squeeze into seats at individual tables and tuck into their midnight feasts, the man with the hat veers away and half a minute later emerges into the cool of the night, backing out against the manual swing doors.

  He returns along the narrow footway that links the floodlit building to the shadowy picnic area. He places the tray upon a table adjacent to his car, and then reaches to open the passenger door. That his companion requires this assistance is explained when out tumbles a medium-sized dog, of mainly dark markings, and uncertain breed – but certainly some sturdy variety. After a short gambol about the sward, the creature tilts at its master, who is in the act of placing upon the damp ground what might be the opened carton of a cheeseburger.

  ‘There you go, girl – get yer ’ampsteads round that.’

  The animal requires no second invitation, pausing between bites only to confirm that this human treat really is intended to be a dog’s dinner. The man, meanwhile, munches with greater circumspection, punctuating his eating with various other Cockney exhortations to his pet. That he is pacing himself would appear sensible, going by the stack of foodstuffs he has purchased. Indeed, after a few minutes more it appears he is defeated – he has bitten off more than he can chew – and even the dog is unenthusiastic when offered a second portion. The man wipes his mouth on his sleeve and rises to his feet. He stretches his arms behind his head. Then he gives a sharp whistle and calls out.

  ‘Let’s roll, girl – Jockland ’ere we come.’

  And with that he abandons the unfinished meal, sees the dog into the passenger seat, rounds to the driver’s side, clambers in still wearing his coat and hat, and starts the engine. There is an ostentatious revving before the car pulls away, and when it does it sets off at speed, crossing diagonally the hatch of empty parking spaces to join the marked exit lane. But when it disappears from sight – as viewed from the picnic zone – it swerves into the petrol forecourt, slides between the pumps, hangs a left around the kiosk and loops back to the rear of the main services building. Here it draws to a halt. The driver emerges and is immediately admitted through a fire door by a member of staff.

  As the crow flies, Tebay is just eight miles from Haresfell.

  18. THE BIVVY

  ‘Reckon we can trust that dog, Guv?’

  Skelgill purses his lips.

  ‘Aye.’

  But DS Leyton glowers broodingly beneath his dark brows. The two detectives stand side by side in thick woodland, the leaf mulch damp underfoot and silent to the tread. Twenty yards away within a taped-off section a dog-handler is putting a Working Cocker through its paces. It seems the dog has detected its target, for the handler makes a thumbs-up sign in their direction.

  ‘I always think – with dogs, Guv – if they don’t want to bite you, they want to please.’ DS Leyton hunches his shoulders against drips from the canopy that find the back of his neck. ‘Just like I was reading about the Queen in the paper.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, Guv – people were writing in with stories of meeting the Queen. This woman says when she was a nipper the Queen visited their school, and she asks what’s your name little girl? She replies Elizabeth and the Queen’s eyes light up and she says that’s a lovely name – that’s my name, too.’

  Skelgill is looking askance at his sergeant.

  ‘Leyton – what’s this got to do with the dog?’

  ‘Thing is, Guv – the little girl – her name was Daphne.’

  Skelgill rolls his eyes.

  ‘I think we can take it the dog’s not so crafty, Leyton.’ Skelgill turns on his heel and begins to clamber up a rocky bank draped with a cascade of bright green ferns. ‘Come on, there’s nothing to see here.’

  *

  ‘Cheers, Leyton – what do I owe you?’

  Skelgill pats his pockets, but before he can plead his usual absence of funds his sergeant pre-empts him.

  ‘It’s on me, Guv – I won a monkey on the National Lottery last night.’

  Skelgill glances from his sergeant to the breakfast plate that has been placed before him. He scowls rather ungenerously.

  ‘Since when did they start offering exotic pets as prizes?’

  ‘Very funny, Guv – five hundred nicker.’

  Skelgill can’t conceal a look of envy.

  ‘You jammy git, Leyton – I’ve never won a penny.’

  DS Leyton puts on a sympathetic air.

  ‘You just gotta keep at it, Guv.’

  Skelgill shakes his head. He is already tucking into his first mouthful.

  ‘Did it the first week. Didn’t get a single number. Total waste of money.’

  DS Leyton’s features show a flash of exasperation – but then he becomes rather more reserved in his manner. Tentatively he picks up his knife and fork, and pauses with the implements held in mid air.

  ‘Thought I better take the missus out tonight, Guv – seeing as we can afford the danger money for the babysitter.’

  Skelgill continues to eat. He inclines his head in a gesture of assent. He understands that his subordinate is putting in an early bid to finish work on schedule – rather than at ‘Skelgill o’clock’, which can bear no relation whatsoever to contracted hours.

  ‘Should be fine, Leyton – provided there’s not a sighting of Krille. I’m taking Dr Walker fishing this afternoon, anyway.’

  ‘On a Friday, Guv?’

  Now Skelgill glares indignantly across the table.

  ‘It’s work, Leyton.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  DS Leyton discerns this is not a point to contest. Skelgill, however, evidently feels obliged to elaborate.

  ‘For a start – I did that charity auction to please the Chief. She can’t complain when I see it through.’ He stabs irritably at a sausage. ‘Second – I’ve asked Dr Walker to do a bit of digging for me – and I don’t mean for worms, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton nods encouragingly.

  ‘About Haresfell, Guv?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Skelgill returns his attention to his plate. DS Leyton is left to speculate upon his superior’s machinations.

  ‘There ought to be someone in there who knows what Harry Krille’s up to, Guv – even if they don’t realise it themself.’

  Skelgill gives his sergeant something of a one-eyed look, but he continues to eat. DS Leyton gesticulates over his shoulder.

  ‘And what was he doing here, Guv – hiding in those bushes?’

  ‘Think about it, Leyton – what’s this place good for?’

  ‘Fry-ups, chips, burgers – I mean if I’d been cooped up all those years, Guv.’ But now DS Leyton tails off. ‘Thing is – we had a uniformed officer on duty all day at the entrance – and CCTV recording through the night.’

  Skelgill points past his sergeant with his knife, as though he is taking aim for a demonstration of his prowess.

  ‘Look out there, Leyton – what do you see?’

  DS Leyton first flinches and then grunts as he heaves his bulk around to stare through the plate glass windows. After a few moments he replies hopefully.

  ‘Rain, Guv?’

  Skelgill tuts.

  ‘In the lorry park, Leyton.’

  ‘Oh, right you are, Guv – ruddy great artics.’ He pauses for a moment before the corollary of this suggestion becomes clear. ‘You reckon he’s hitched a lift?’

  Skelgill scowls.

  ‘Not hitched, Leyton – but how difficult is it to stow away?’

  DS Leyton begins to nod.

  ‘Not very, Guv – going by all that malarkey at Calais.’

  ‘That’s exactly where he could be by now.’

  DS Leyton suddenly looks vaguely amused.

  ‘Make a change for so
meone to go the other way, Guv. What chance the French catch him and send him back?’

  Skelgill forces a grin to acknowledge his subordinate’s attempt at irony.

  ‘He’s choosing to keep a low profile, Leyton. Think of all the holiday cottages he could have broken into – farm buildings – garden sheds. Instead he’s made a bivvy in a wood.’

  ‘Reckon that explains the polythene sheeting that went missing, Guv?’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘That and a length of twine – all you’d need to rig up a decent shelter. And clear polythene’s nigh on invisible. Lightweight. Easy to pack.’

  ‘PC Dodd reckoned there was a burger carton hidden under a rock, Guv. Think he got it from here?’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘Scavenged from the bins, Leyton – that picnic area.’

  DS Leyton appears doubtful about this idea.

  ‘Thing is, Guv, weather we’ve been having – can’t imagine anyone using that spot yesterday.’

  Skelgill looks up grimly.

  ‘Folk with dogs, Leyton – can’t bring them inside.’

  The mention of such must transport DS Leyton’s thoughts back to the tracker dog – and its inspection of what might have been a transient overnight camp.

  ‘Suppose he’d know how to make the best of it, Guv – what with all those survival guides in his room.’

  ‘What guides?’

  ‘I put it in my email, Guv.’

  ‘I didn’t get any email.’

  ‘I sent it last night, Guv – close of play – report on all the findings about Frank Wamphray – and Harry Krille’s escape.’

  Skelgill looks blank. He pulls his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and glowers at it accusingly.

  ‘This thing’s worse than useless, Leyton – anyway, my password’s expired – I don’t know what it is with these techy guys.’

  DS Leyton reaches stoically for his own handset. He places it on the table beside his plate and adjusts its position for his focal length.

  ‘No worries, Guv – I’ll give you the lowdown.’