Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  Skelgill raises an affirmative eyebrow over the rim of his mug.

  ‘Staring with Frank Wamphray, Guv – first off – funny thing this – you’d never guess what his job was before he was committed.’

  Skelgill looks irked. He is unwilling to play his sergeant’s little game.

  ‘Archbishop of York.’

  ‘What!’ DS Leyton throws up his hands in surprise. ‘How d’you know that, Guv?’

  Skelgill for a moment looks nonplussed. He holds his knife and fork against the table so their ends point vertically. DS Leyton breaks into a smile.

  ‘Nah – you’re right, Guv – he was a spook – worked for the Security Services.’

  Skelgill glowers.

  ‘Leyton – are you sure you didn’t get that from beyond the grave?’

  ‘Straight up, Guv – our boys have been through his records – he was in Berlin at the time the Wall came down. Makes you wonder – if that’s why someone was wary of him – knowing he was no mug on the eavesdropping front.’

  ‘Aye, well – something filled his head with conspiracy theories.’

  DS Leyton swipes at the screen of his phone.

  ‘There ain’t much new in the handling of the medicine, Guv. We’ve spoken to everyone who touched it in the normal course of events – right from the bulk deliveries they get in from the NHS distribution centre to it being signed out from the dispensary that serves Coniston Ward. The conclusion is it couldn’t have been accidentally contaminated – else there’d be other samples the same. Then all the correct protocols were followed, and no one can understand how it could have been tampered with – other than while it was being stored ready for signing out.’

  ‘Or Arthur Kerr made a switch.’

  DS Leyton nods enthusiastically.

  ‘I know, Guv – only trouble is, he’d need to have done it under the nose of the ward nurse – and she’s an old stager – right stickler – I don’t reckon you’d get much past her.’

  ‘Unless they were in cahoots.’

  Now DS Leyton scowls rather dejectedly.

  ‘If I’m honest, Guv, I can’t see it – she’s raging that she’s being linked to a deadly mistake – when all she did was sign out a dose of medicine.’

  Skelgill appears unmoved by this little scenario; perhaps unreasonably he glares at his subordinate, who senses his discontent and moves quickly on with his report.

  ‘Parking the nurses, Guv – there’s the CCTV analysis of the dispensary – what a palaver that was. In the end we roped in the security officer who processes all the photos for staff passes. So far she’s identified ninety per cent of the people who went in and out.’

  Skelgill looks alarmed.

  ‘Only ninety per cent?’

  ‘In the evening the lights are dimmed, Guv – and if you’ve got two or three folk going in or out together the camera doesn’t always get a clear shot. Truth be told, it’s set up for the access doors – that’s what their security policy’s all about – monitoring movements from one restricted zone to another.’

  Skelgill nods reluctantly.

  ‘So who did we identify?’

  ‘It’s quite a list, Guv – that place is like Clapham Junction.’ DS Leyton makes a clicking sound with his tongue as he scrolls down his page. ‘Thing is, they’ve got a kettle in there for staff use, plus the central computer terminal to check and update the patients’ medical records. There’s doctors, nurses, therapists, security, cleaners – about thirty folk all told – in the twenty-four hours before Frank Wamphray’s death. We’re working our way through them – course there’s some we’ve interviewed already – the Boss woman, Dr Pettigrew, your acquaintance Dr Walker, Eric Blacklock – and Arthur Kerr.’

  DS Leyton pauses to look up at his superior’s reaction. Skelgill is staring at the palm of one hand.

  ‘What news of fingerprints on the vial?’

  DS Leyton pulls a rather despondent face.

  ‘I put in a call to the lab while I was driving down, Guv. They’re having trouble separating them out – what with it being so small and the prints overlapping. They reckon there might be two or three sets – maybe more.’

  ‘We need that, Leyton.’

  ‘I’ll chase ’em up, Guv.’

  Skelgill gives a confirmatory twitch of the head.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘The geezer with the seizure, Guv.’

  Now Skelgill’s eyes narrow suspiciously. His sergeant is in a mischievous mood this morning – not unreasonably given his lottery bonanza – and a pun can be expected to follow this little rhyme. However, DS Leyton continues with a straight face.

  ‘Might be something there, Guv – might not. They wouldn’t let me interview him – even with a doctor present. He’s taken a depressive bout and won’t speak to nobody – not even his psychiatrist.’ DS Leyton scratches his head as if to emphasize his puzzlement. ‘Now is that covering up – or is it pukka? Whatever – they’ve put him on extra medication to keep him calmed down – so they reckon there’s no point in questioning him – even if he would answer we couldn’t rely on what he says ’cause of the drugs.’

  Skelgill is pensive.

  ‘What did the shrink think?’

  ‘It was Pettigrew, Guv – they put me onto him. Seems he’s got overall access to the medical records – knows all the patients. He didn’t attend to the chap who had the fit but he pulled up the report on his computer. Turns out he does have previous.’ (DS Leyton squints at the screen of his phone and reads falteringly.) ‘Non-epileptic paroxysmal disorder, that’s it – not regular – not even in the last twelve months – but often enough to make the attack in the allotment plausible. The doctor who was on call, his report says the patient had regained consciousness by the time he got there – what with them being right out in the grounds – so he couldn’t verify absolutely that it was a genuine fit. The horticultural therapist is only trained in basic first aid – so if the geezer was malingering he probably wouldn’t be able to tell.’

  Skelgill has the countenance befitting one receiving a string of unsatisfactory answers.

  ‘What did he say about the escape?’

  ‘More or less as we’ve already heard, Guv. Harry Krille turned his ankle digging. He’d been limping around for about twenty minutes and asked permission to rest in the shed. The others were finishing up – hoeing weeds between rows – and the next thing this one’s keeled over frothing at the mouth, flattened a load of runner beans.’

  ‘And how about collusion with Krille?’

  DS Leyton begins to nod but then quickly shakes his head lest he should give the wrong impression.

  ‘Says Krille was aloof, Guv – he weren’t pally with any of the rest – didn’t join in the banter – just got on with the gardening.’ DS Leyton licks his lips; his mouth is becoming dry and he takes a hasty sip from his mug. ‘Says he was really obsessive about it – had his own patch that he wouldn’t let anyone else touch – considered he was the only one doing it proper, like.’

  Skelgill nods and inhales quietly.

  ‘What’s he in for – the one who had the fit?’

  DS Leyton flashes a warning glance at his boss.

  ‘You don’t want to know, Guv.’ Now he wipes his upper lip, as if a film of perspiration has suddenly appeared. ‘He’s from Shetland – no connection to Krille – I had that checked out.’

  Skelgill reluctantly accepts this advice; for a moment there is perhaps in his eyes a flicker of sympathy for his sergeant.

  ‘How about the missing gear – what did the horticultural therapist have to say about that?’

  DS Leyton consults his handset once more.

  ‘He reckons there was no obvious pattern – there’s other practitioners leading groups doing gardening – and with stuff like rope and polythene being on flippin’ great rolls it’s hard to tell even if anything has disappeared. He says the odd tool occasionally doesn’t get checked back in – stuff genuinely gets dropped in the unde
rgrowth or buried – then they find it again another day. He says the main focus is always to make sure nothing dangerous gets taken back inside the hospital – they have to be searched every time.’ DS Leyton looks up from his notes. ‘Thing is, Guv – face it – give ’em gardening as an activity – you’ve got no choice but to let ’em have the proper kit.’

  ‘What’s Security’s position?’

  ‘Blacklock made a fair point, Guv – if some voice in your head is telling you to whack the geezer next to you with a shovel because he’s the devil incarnate – why would you hide the shovel?’

  Skelgill is finishing his last mouthful and he makes a resigned shrug; it is a fatalistic perspective. DS Leyton waits for a moment and then grins with evident satisfaction.

  ‘They’re red-faced about the escape, Guv – especially since you showed how easy it was.’

  Skelgill looks unconcerned.

  ‘I don’t reckon he took much with him, Leyton. A small rucksack would be handy – but there’s no indication he got hold of one. If I were Harry Krille I’d want a knife – axe, hacksaw, maybe.’

  ‘Most likely he’s got a pair of those secateurs like you used, Guv.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Aye, maybe – they’re no good for sharpening – but they cut the twine and you could trim stakes for a bivvy.’

  ‘Maybe we’d better put out an alert for anyone who wakes up to find their roses have been pruned in the night, Guv.’

  19. BASS LAKE

  Skelgill is huddled on the wooded west bank of Bassenthwaite Lake. He has beached his boat and climbed some twenty feet back from the water’s edge, up a steep bank. The view from within his makeshift shelter is framed by an uneven rectangle, and comprises half lake, half ground. The water is grey and uninviting; the forest floor is carpeted in orange pine needles, with protruding boulders that are covered in moss. A scattering of woodland plants add a touch of green – trailing fronds of bramble, curving foxglove stems, and clusters of enchanter’s nightshade – but the dense canopy has not encouraged lush growth. There are such things as ‘bothy bags’ – portable nylon shelters that protect the hillwalker or rambler from inclement weather. But why would Skelgill pay the inflated price for such an item when a camouflage motorbike cover and a pair of extending aluminium rod-rests do the job? He is ensconced amongst the unfolding roots of a Norway spruce, his back against the trunk. However, from the knees down his legs protrude from the elasticated opening and glisten with rain. The top of his head is pressed against the material and he is forced to crouch rather awkwardly to see out over the silvery surface. The backdrop is shrouded in mist, any detail diminishing as dusk advances. Sporadically he drinks tea from the lid of a flask, picks his nose, and flicks fir cones down the bank – but from within the cramped confines of his camp he is unable to get the required leverage to reach the shoreline. Persistent heavy rain – forecast to continue throughout the night and well into tomorrow – is intercepted by dense coniferous foliage above, but plump secondary drops gather and fall and crackle about his ears, and drips stream out of focus close before his eyes.

  There are no other sounds to speak of. The conditions are calm, and what few birds may sing at this late stage in the breeding season have already called it a day. There is an indistinct hum of traffic from the distant A66, but the air thick with moisture muffles its passage across the water. It is perhaps no surprise, then, that Skelgill starts when the unruly tone of his mobile breaches the peace.

  He wrestles to retrieve his handset from the breast pocket of his outdoor jacket; the confined refuge has now become an obstructive layer that threatens to defeat his efforts before the call diverts to messenger. His features reveal some hopeful anticipation – but this changes to a look of consternation as he recognises the caller’s number.

  ‘Leyton – it’s after eight.’

  ‘Sorry to disturb your expedition, Guv, but –’

  His sergeant sounds breathless. There are background noises of shrill voices: children resisting admonishment. Then the clunk of a door cuts the decibels.

  ‘What it is, Guv – you’d better get yourself down to Haresfell – there’s been an incident.’

  ‘What kind of incident?’

  ‘Dr Pettigrew’s wife, Guv – the psychologist that runs the drama classes – she’s been attacked – assailant unknown.’ DS Leyton clears his throat. ‘It’s not looking good, Guv.’

  ‘Right.’

  Skelgill stares across Bassenthwaite Lake into the indefinable middle distance. It takes a prompt from his sergeant to break his concentration.

  ‘What do you want to do, Guv?’

  ‘Is it just her – Mrs Pettigrew?’

  ‘Far as I know, Guv.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At home, Guv – when I got the call I had to drop the missus back from the restaurant.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at Threlkeld. Park up by the inn – next to the bus stop. Give me twenty-five minutes.’

  ‘Righto, Guv.’ DS Leyton clears his throat. ‘Er... what will you tell Dr Walker?’

  ‘She’s not with me.’

  ‘Oh – I thought you’d still be fishing.’

  ‘She couldn’t make it, Leyton – something came up at the hospital and she had to stay this afternoon.’

  ‘I see, Guv.’

  DS Leyton’s tone suggests he is calculating that his boss took off fishing anyway. However, he might also reflect that it did enable him to finish work on time – albeit he has now been obliged to abandon his celebratory meal. It seems unlikely that Skelgill will acknowledge his sacrifice.

  *

  ‘I thought this morning, Guv – at least the Chief would have something positive to tell the press – the discovery that Harry Krille had been around Tebay.’ DS Leyton shakes his head and turns out his fleshy bottom lip. ‘But this is going to be a setback.’

  Skelgill, disregarding the motorway speed limit, squints into the headlamps of oncoming traffic. His features are gaunt, cast into sharp contrast by each surge of light; indeed he looks haggard as he hunches over the steering wheel. His reply is somewhat oblique.

  ‘What are we supposed to do, Leyton?’

  A few moments’ silence ensues, while DS Leyton makes a series of supportive shrugs and indeterminate noises of exasperation. Then Skelgill continues.

  ‘All this bother, Leyton – it’s coming from within their four walls – it’s their house that’s not in order – now we’re taking the rap.’

  DS Leyton glances surreptitiously at Skelgill, as if unsure of his motivation. Perhaps his boss has received a message from on high that he has not shared – along the lines that enough is enough, and that it falls to Skelgill to put a stop to it. Or else.

  ‘There’s been half-a-dozen reported sightings of Krille, Guv – nearest one in the blacksmith’s at Gretna Green – furthest on the prom at Torquay. All of them too far apart to have been the same person. The geezer in Gretna turned out to be a German tourist.’

  Skelgill shakes his head dismissively.

  ‘I doubt any of them were Harry Krille.’

  ‘Probably not, Guv.’

  ‘Most likely he’s within a few miles of Tebay, Leyton.’ (Again DS Leyton looks sharply at his superior, as if he suspects some insider knowledge.) ‘Or in a bar full of dancing girls on the Champs-Élysées.’

  Now DS Leyton sighs.

  ‘That’s the Moulin Rouge, ain’t it, Guv?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘It’s all the same to me, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton ponders for a moment – but it would appear that France is not his strong suit either, and he reverts to the local angle.

  ‘I called back in at Tebay yesterday afternoon, Guv. The DC that was checking their CCTV footage had finished and had a few clips to show me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing much, Guv – a couple of odd characters – ha!’ He chortles. ‘One geezer looked a bit like you – came in after midnight for a big carr
yout – couldn’t really see him for his hat. But no danger of it being Harry Krille – according to the description he’s no more than five-seven.’

  ‘Aye, well – I’ve got that common look, Leyton – if they were after me there’d be hundreds of sightings all over the country.’

  DS Leyton frowns doubtfully; he would be entitled to disagree with Skelgill’s assessment, for there is something about his boss that most certainly makes him stand out from the crowd – although perhaps that is more about his rebellious nature than his physical appearance.

  ‘Still, look on the bright side, Guv – he don’t seem bent on any harm – it’s not like he’s gone on the rampage.’

  ‘Aye, well – give him a chance, Leyton – he’s only been out thirty-six hours. Maybe he’s saving it up for the weekend.’

  DS Leyton makes a face like he is evaluating this wisdom. But then another thought strikes him.

  ‘That reminds me, Guv – I got a message from George on the front desk – DS Jones was trying to get in touch with you.’

  ‘Aye?’

  Skelgill’s indifference is unconvincing.

  ‘Seems DI Smart’s wangled it with the Chief that they stay down in Manchester. The surveillance is getting results, and Smart reckons it’s going to kick off on Saturday night – whatever it is.’

  Skelgill remains silent. He stares pensively as headlights flash relentlessly into his narrowed eyes. Unblinking, he resists their interrogative glare like a prisoner determined not to yield.

  ‘Looks like we’re on our on own then, Leyton.’

  *

  ‘It is worse than we thought, Inspector.’

  ‘How can it be worse?’ The innocent note of inquiry in Skelgill’s voice could almost be a front for sarcasm.

  Briony Boss carefully adjusts her hair – clearly a displacement activity. She has applied extra layers of make up – fortifying her façade – and with dark shadows for eyes, she has a gothic look in the low light of her office, lit just by an Anglepoise lamp. From the Haresfell side she is the sole representative; Skelgill and DS Leyton sit broodingly across her desk.