Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  The boy glances ruefully at Skelgill and scrambles up the bank, to scuttle obediently around the corner of the building. A cloud unveils the sun, which angles dazzlingly from behind the woman, as she seems to teeter on the edge of the embankment. Skelgill narrows his eyes and is obliged to raise a shading hand in salute. She is well spoken, and addresses him apologetically.

  ‘I’m sorry – he can’t help it – he’d love to fish but I don’t know what to do – and it’s very expensive, of course. Sorry he disturbed you.’

  Skelgill, grimacing into the streaming rays of sunlight, must look rather fierce, for the woman clasps her hands apologetically to her bosom, and brings one knee forwards in front of the other, in a semblance of a curtsey. It is the kind of body language that would work on Skelgill in most circumstances, but on this occasion there is no such need.

  ‘No worries, love – it’s not easy to spook a salmon – even if there’s any to be spooked – and I’ve just got a local angler’s permit – only costs a couple of quid.’

  ‘Oh, well – that’s good to hear.’ The woman smiles with relief and lowers her hands, placing her palms on her haunches, her hips pushed forwards in an athletic stance. Skelgill’s comment, together with his accent, has probably revealed sufficient of his provenance, but she takes the opportunity to make conversation. ‘Are you from this area?’

  ‘Cumbria, aye – North Lakes.’ Now Skelgill hesitates, perhaps assessing how much he should say – and not forgetting that he is a Detective Inspector presently on duty (on lunch break, at a stretch), and that it behoves him to uphold the good reputation of the force. Then he evidently decides it is better if he asks the questions. ‘How about you – do you live here?’ He directs a tip of his head towards the small property.

  ‘Oh, no – if only – no, we are on vacation.’ She turns her upper body to consider the cottage with a longing gaze. Skelgill notices her supple movement and the curves of her figure, highlighted by the sun that glances off her sheer outfit. She looks back at him. ‘It’s a holiday home owned by my boss – he kindly let me borrow it for the week – it’s a bit of a hideaway, really.’

  She observes Skelgill for his reaction – there is a glint of intrigue in her eyes, and she smiles again, displaying even white teeth. But Skelgill – though he is looking directly at her – does not respond. Indeed, she might reasonably think she has offended him in some way – or even that he has suddenly been caught short and is embarrassed to be trapped beneath her gaze. Moreover, if this latter scenario were to have crossed her mind, his next action would reinforce the notion. Without a word he begins to back away, and then he seems to realise he ought to offer some explanation. He makes a brief hand gesture that might be a wave.

  ‘Must rush – I’ll see you later.’

  And with this he rotates completely and begins to splash with indecent haste towards the far bank. If salmon were spookable, now they are being spooked. The woman watches with a bemused expression; she might be wondering if his farewell is meant literally, or is simply the ambiguous northern British version of goodbye. Skelgill meanwhile has reached the opposite bank and is frantically reeling in his line. He secures the hook in the keeper, and sets off in an upstream direction, at something resembling a jog, though running in bootfoot waders that have been leaking for the last hour is not to be recommended. As he goes, he fishes in his top pocket for his mobile phone, and somehow contrives to tap out the instructions to make a call.

  ‘Leyton.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Get your car.’

  ‘Righto, Guv.’ It is clear to DS Leyton, from Skelgill’s urgent intonation and heavy breathing, that this is not an instruction to be queried.

  ‘Leyton – phone the estate agents in Keswick – Parish & Co, they are now – find out exactly when Dr Agnetha Walker took that cottage. Then call Jones and tell her to be ready to meet with us. Smart can drop her off. Maybe Tebay.’

  ‘Got it, Guv.’ DS Leyton pauses, while Skelgill’s gasps come down the line like he is working a pair of bellows. ‘Er – where I am going, Guv?’

  ‘Meet me at Hare’s Beck Foot. Wait by the inn. If I’m not out in five minutes, come in swinging.’

  ‘You’re onto something, Guv?’

  ‘I think I understand, Leyton.’

  *

  ‘You okay, Guv?’ DS Leyton has an anxious note in his voice. ‘I was just about to saunter in for a pint.’

  A dishevelled-looking Skelgill hauls his lanky form into the passenger seat of DS Leyton’s car.

  ‘Aye, fine.’

  But Skelgill, stone-faced, begins sucking at the knuckles of his left hand. DS Leyton watches doubtfully, and it takes a few moments’ observation before he is satisfied they can depart.

  ‘Which way, Guv?’

  ‘Get on the motorway – northbound – I need to look at the map.’

  ‘Roger.’ DS Leyton jams the car into gear and cuts a tight semi-circle into the gravel of the pub car park. ‘What went down, Guv?’

  Skelgill lowers the side window and spits into the wind. Then he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and binds it around his fist.

  ‘Just knocking a couple of heads together.’

  DS Leyton makes a series of odd facial expressions – as though he is rueing his absence and acting out a little cameo in lieu.

  ‘Anyone I know, Guv?’

  ‘Arthur Kerr.’ Skelgill runs the fingers of his right hand through his hair in a cursory attempt to restore some order. ‘And Eric Blacklock.’

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – what were they doing in there?’

  ‘It’s Kerr’s local – and I reckon old Blacklock’s no stranger.’

  ‘Proper little works canteen, Guv – what made you decide to join ’em?’

  Skelgill is purposefully unfolding his large-scale map of Cumbria.

  ‘An address he was able to supply me with. Holiday cottage.’

  ‘Who’s on holiday, Guv?’

  ‘That’s for us to find out.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  Skelgill is glowering and does not deign to elaborate. Instead he fires off a question.

  ‘How did you get on with Parishes?’

  DS Leyton wavers, as though he is not content with Skelgill’s answer to his previous query.

  ‘Er – what they said, Guv – the property at Bassenthwaite has been leased to Dr Agnetha Walker for six months – the tenancy agreement was signed two weeks ago today – that’d be the first Monday we came down to Haresfell.’

  Skelgill lowers his map and stares out through the windscreen. They have reached the nearest junction of the M6 motorway. DS Leyton accelerates up the on-slip and weaves through a convoy of trucks that labours on the incline like a herd of overburdened oxen.

  ‘I take it we’re in a hurry, Guv?’

  It is a couple of seconds before Skelgill snaps out of his reverie. He checks his wristwatch. His reply is somewhat oblique.

  ‘What’s the score with Jones?’

  ‘She ought to be at Tebay by now, Guv – they were past Lancaster when I spoke to her.’

  Skelgill makes a scoffing noise.

  ‘About time Smart did something useful.’

  DS Leyton chuckles.

  ‘So we’ll pick her up as planned, Guv?’

  ‘Aye. Then we’ll take the back roads.’

  This prompts Skelgill to return to his map. He holds it out at arm’s length, blocking his view ahead. He curses and anguishes over something or other – perhaps he bemoans the Lake District’s irregular topography, which has defied all but the Romans (and even them at times) from travelling as the crow may fly. For his part, DS Leyton is becoming fretful. Skelgill’s taciturnity seems designed to unsettle – and now he has them heading into the unknown. After a couple of minutes during which nothing more is forthcoming, DS Leyton ventures an inquiry.

  ‘Guv – I take it we’re on the trail of Meredith Bale?’

  Skelgill offers a grudging reply.

  �
��Aye.’

  ‘What about Harry Krille, Guv?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But, Guv –’ DS Leyton takes a hand off the steering wheel to rub the top of his head. He flashes a worried glance at his superior. ‘Hadn’t we better organise some back-up?’

  Skelgill is scowling at the drivers of vehicles whom they pass, taken by surprise and sometimes plainly irked when stared at by a wild-eyed passenger in a speeding car.

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Leyton.’

  This appears to be all he has to say on the matter. He settles into his seat, the map draped over his thighs like a travel rug. He folds his arms and closes his eyes, and gives every indication he is about to take a catnap. Then without warning he produces his mobile phone and calls up a number. He introduces himself with his official title and requests to be put through to “the Director” – it is evidently Haresfell. There is a short hiatus while he is transferred via Briony Boss’s PA. Once connected he does not beat about the bush.

  ‘Two more questions.’

  The Director must invite him to continue.

  ‘First – on Friday night when we discussed Meredith Bale’s disguise – you said it wasn’t unusual for Dr Walker and Dr Pettigrew to leave together.’

  It appears she affirms his statement. Skelgill’s rejoinder is blunt.

  ‘Who did you mean?’

  He listens intently – though his stern features reveal no clue to any feelings evoked by her response.

  ‘Second question.’ But now Skelgill falters. He lowers the handset and glances uneasily at DS Leyton, who makes a face of innocent concentration – in fact a counterproductive attempt to suggest that he is not eavesdropping. It leaves Skelgill still dissatisfied. After a moment’s thought he raises the phone. ‘I’ll text it to your mobile – you can give me a verbal yes or no. I’ll put you on hold.’

  DS Leyton steals a suspicious glance at his superior: not only does he have Briony Boss’s private number, but also he is giving her the opportunity to answer some question unwitnessed – and blatantly off the record. Skelgill taps out a message using the index finger of his injured hand. He transmits with a final decisive poke and then retrieves the call.

  ‘Got it?’

  Now he waits while Briony Boss considers his request. He sits in rigid anticipation, breathing heavily through his nostrils. The answer seems to take a disproportionately long time – but come it must, for with a single word – “Thanks” – he ends the call.

  DS Leyton exhales heavily, as if he has been holding back, eager to speak.

  ‘Here’s Tebay, Guv – look – there’s DS Jones by that picnic area. No sign of DI Smart’s motor. That’s her luggage beside her.’

  Skelgill sniffs.

  ‘Looks like he’s got the hump, Leyton.’

  ‘Looks like DS Jones has got the burgers, Guv.’

  25. SADGILL NOOK

  ‘Turn right, Leyton!’

  There is a screech of brakes and a squeal of tyres, and the dull thump of passengers being flung against the interior of DS Leyton’s car.

  ‘Take it easy, man!’

  In truth, Skelgill brackets this complaint with a pair of colourful adjective-noun combinations of Anglo-Saxon origin.

  ‘Leave it out, Guv – you said turn right!’

  DS Leyton – reasonably taking offence that the latter of these choice phrases was of a somewhat personal nature – responds with an unprintable postscript of his own, though it is one aimed at injustice in general, rather than directly at his capricious boss.

  ‘Aye – but let’s not kill us before we get there.’

  DS Leyton bristles with discontent. He has a fair point – had Skelgill given him any less warning he would not have been able to make the turn at all – and, once committed (by instinctively trusting his superior’s imperious command), it was a case of all or nothing. The manoeuvre had to be completed, or a ditch beckoned. What must be additionally galling is that, while the route is new to him, it cannot be to Skelgill, who boasts of knowing every byway in the county. He might have mentioned that this particular charted course begins with a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree hairpin off the main Penrith to Kendall highway.

  Skelgill cranes around to check upon DS Jones. Such concern is uncharacteristic, so it may be deduced that it is an additional oblique swipe at DS Leyton’s driving, to make doubly sure he fires the final salvo in the argument.

  ‘Alright, Jones?’

  ‘I’m fine, Guv.’ But she has lowered the window by a couple of inches, perhaps anticipating the onset of carsickness. ‘What is this road?’

  Skelgill frowns in mock censure – that she is a local lass and should know her geography – but it is a chance to show off his knowledge of Lakeland.

  ‘Longsleddale. Runs up to Harter Fell – two-five-three-nine.’ He refers to the summit height. ‘The road stops short – dead end at Sadgill.’

  ‘What is it – a village, Guv?’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘There’s not a hundred folk live in the entire dale – Sadgill’s just a farmstead.’

  ‘With a holiday cottage?’

  Skelgill nods forbiddingly.

  ‘Reckon so.’

  They fall silent as they anticipate what might be to come. The tiny hamlet of Sadgill – the one-word address extracted by Skelgill from a squealing Arthur Kerr – is one of Cumbria’s more isolated spots, which is saying something given the rugged nature of the region. Located at the navigable limit of a five-mile-long single-track straight, it sits a good six hundred feet above sea level, just below the source of the aptly named rushing River Sprint.

  Initially, clipped hedgerows that threaten to scour the sides of the car hem them in; occasionally, low whitewashed properties flash by, their frontages perilously close to the road, and rusting pickups are jammed into improbably tight strips of verge. However, DS Jones’s worries of queasiness prove unfounded – the route might be direct, but at regular intervals small bends restrict a driver’s visibility, and DS Leyton is obliged to set a steady pace for fear of meeting an oncoming tractor with zero wriggle room. As they gradually gain altitude, the dense hawthorn gives way to dry stone walls, and the view opens out. Narrow enclosures lie on either side, butting up to rising fellsides dappled by the shifting shadows of clouds. To port streams the river – by no means wide, indeed more of a beck – but clearly running with considerable force of water at the limit of its banks, and beginning to converge with the lane as the valley floor tapers. Skelgill is eyeing this feature with a critical eye.

  ‘The Sprint’s the fastest-rising river in England.’

  DS Leyton frowns.

  ‘What does that mean, Guv?’

  Skelgill casts him a disparaging glance.

  ‘It flows uphill, Leyton.’

  ‘Is that right, Guv?’

  Now Skelgill makes an exasperated gasp.

  ‘No, Leyton, you dolt – it means it floods quickly – look for yourself.’

  Indeed at this juncture the road dips and they come alongside a section of waterlogged meadow. DS Leyton glowers, though it may be the reflection of the sun as much as Skelgill’s casual insult that exaggerates his apparent displeasure. He looks to be seeking a suitable retort – until a timely cough from DS Jones reminds him that diplomacy is generally a better tactic with their boss. He opts for a more productive complaint.

  ‘Don’t like the look of that, Guv – what do we do if the road’s flooded?’

  Skelgill harrumphs.

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Leyton.’

  Knowing his superior’s erratic temper, this curiously literal idiom may well be intentionally flippant – but then DS Leyton’s fears are literally realised before he can respond. They round a curve to be confronted by water streaming across the tarmac. As far as is visible – perhaps fifty yards to the next bend – the road is inundated. DS Leyton slows to a halt.

  ‘Keep going, Leyton – what are you playing a
t, man?’

  Now DS Leyton looks pleadingly at Skelgill.

  ‘Struth, Guv – what if the engine stalls – and then we’re stuck and the flood rises – you know me and water, Guv.’

  Skelgill carelessly flicks a hand in an onwards direction.

  ‘Just take it easy – you’ll be fine.’

  ‘But, Guv –’

  Skelgill seems unconcerned.

  ‘Leyton – we’ll know how deep it is – we can wade out if necessary – anyway, it’s also the fastest falling river in England – and the water’s receding.’

  DS Leyton does not look convinced – quite likely Skelgill has plucked this dubious claim from the fiction section of his extensive mental library of ‘convenient facts of Lakeland’.

  ‘How can you be sure, Guv?’

  In a superior manner Skelgill now points to a wire mesh fence that fills a gap in a wall. About thirty inches above the water level is a tidemark of trapped straw and twigs and fronds of bracken.

  ‘See that? The worst of the rain was Friday night and Saturday. That’s where it would have peaked last night. This could be our best friend.’ He elbows DS Leyton like he is spurring a reluctant horse. ‘Step on it, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton swallows and without enthusiasm selects first gear. He enters the flood at a crawl, and lowers his window to watch with trepidation as the water begins to creep up the walls of his tyres.

  ‘Gawd ’elp me, Guv – the missus’ll go snooker loopy if this motor gets ruined – if I’d known we were doing this I’d have booked out a pool car.’

  Skelgill suddenly guffaws – and although the laughter sounds affected, he thumps his sergeant convivially between the shoulder blades.

  ‘Very funny, Leyton – that’s the spirit – now go for it – and once you’ve got a bow wave don’t slow down.’