Now for the first time she glances briefly at the bed, but quickly averts her eyes, and looks back at Skelgill. She begins to shift her weight from one foot to the other, a sign that she would like to leave.
‘Anything else, Betty – that you notice?’
She makes a cursory sweep of the room, now avoiding the bed. Too quickly, her gaze returns to Skelgill. She shakes her head. Skelgill glances at his subordinates, but they are both watching the woman, and appear to have nothing to add or ask.
‘Aye – well, thanks, Betty – we’ll let you go.’
The woman now turns, with more alacrity than she has demonstrated thus far – but in doing so she catches her left foot on the sand-filled draught stopper and gives a little shriek. She begins to put a hand to her mouth, but then for some reason she resists the urge and makes to continue on her way.
‘What is it, Betty?’
Now she turns rather hesitantly. She cannot very well deny the cause of her concern.
‘The snake.’
‘The snake?’
She points to the embroidered object, with its faded pattern of Hitchcockian birds rising against an ominous sky.
‘To block the draught – it belongs in Mr Declan’s room.’
Skelgill digs his hands into his pockets; he gives the impression of being a little disinterested, but that he is indulging the woman’s concern.
‘It wouldn’t be needed.’
However the maid seems perplexed – that a long-standing domestic arrangement has been violated.
‘I noticed it were gone yesterday evening, sir – I had to get some extra blankets from the press in Mr Declan’s room – Miss Cassandra and Master Brutus were wanting them because they weren’t warm enough the weekend before. I thought it was one of the family took it – I never imagined Mr Thwaites would have it for himself.’
‘Maybe he borrowed it earlier in the week – when there was no one else here?’
Now she shakes her head decisively.
‘I’m sure I would have seen it when I came in to vacuum yesterday, sir.’
Skelgill does not reply – but he nods in a way that seems to indicate he is certain she is right – and the matter is now explained.
‘What was his state of mind, Betty?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘How’s he been lately? His behaviour. Was he much affected by the deaths of Sir Sean and Declan?’
‘Naturally, sir – we all were.’ (She makes it sound like she has already got over it.) ‘Mr Thwaites didn’t seem too bad after Sir Sean went – we all knew it was coming, I suppose. But he’d not been himself since Mr Declan died – which is the other way round to what you’d have expected – Mr Declan being what they call the cantankerous sort, sir.’
‘Why do you think that was, Betty?’
She ponders blankly for a moment and then glances past DS Jones and DS Leyton to the bed.
‘It must have been – finding the body, sir – that’s enough to disturb any soul.’
She visibly shudders, and Skelgill holds up a palm, akin to a gesture of farewell.
‘Well, thanks, Betty – that’s helpful to know.’
Paradoxically, now she regards him expectantly, as though she anticipates sympathy for her own plight, but he simply waits until her long years of servitude kick in and she performs a little curtsey and removes herself. As her steps fade away Skelgill gently closes the door and manoeuvres the draught stopper into position. He steps back to admire his handiwork. Now DS Leyton pipes up.
‘Think that was the final nail in the coffin, Guv?’
Skelgill looks askance at his sergeant – that he would employ such a turn of phrase in the company of the deceased.
‘Steady on, Leyton.’
‘Sorry, Guv – what with that bird pattern an’ all – murder of crows they call ’em, don’t they?’
‘They’re not crows, Leyton – they’re jackdaws.’
‘Hang about, Guv – they’re all the same thing aren’t they? Crows, rooks, ravens, jackdaws – all black and strung up on farmers’ fences whenever I see ’em.’
Skelgill is suddenly pensive, and he seems unmoved by his sergeant’s loose speculation. Then he turns to DS Jones.
‘Can you make your phone into a torch?’
She looks surprised and gives a little start, having been largely an onlooker since they arrived in Thwaites’ room. However she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans.
‘Sure, Guv – what for?’
‘For one – I haven’t worked out how to do it on mine.’ Skelgill takes the handset now that she has activated the light setting. ‘For two – no Leyton – they’re not all the same.’
And with that he ducks into the hearth and, with scant concern for his attire, jams one elbow in the grate and thrusts his hand that holds the torch up into the flue. Almost immediately he makes a little gasp of discovery. Now he braces himself against the back of the hearth and reaches up with his other hand. There follow a couple of contortions and accompanying grunts and snorts, and then suddenly he slides down and pitches forwards onto the hearthrug. DS Jones darts in to rescue her phone – just as Skelgill deposits before him a tangled mass of twigs, straw, string, tufts of sheep’s wool, strands of horsehair, pieces of tinfoil, shiny crisp packets, strips of coloured polythene and lengths of frayed blue baler twine.
‘Struth, Guv – what is that?’ DS Leyton’s jaw falls agape.
Skelgill brushes off his hands and then runs his fingers through his hair – to questionable effect – for they are stained with soot and smeared with oily grime.
‘See Leyton – only jackdaws nest in chimneys.’
The three of them crowd around for a close-up view. The semi-disintegrated structure does not much resemble a bird’s nest – but nonetheless Skelgill’s analysis seems convincing, with authenticity provided by the dried fragments of guano that are stuck to many of the components. There are even some flakes of eggshell, very pale blue and speckled with chocolate brown and grey. Now DS Jones is the first to speak.
‘It was blocking the flue, Guv?’
‘Aye.’ Skelgill shoots her a sharp glance. ‘Must have been dislodged by a clod of snow that’s fallen down the chimney.’
DS Jones nods pensively, while DS Leyton glances across at the form lying cold beneath the bedcovers.
‘Cor blimey, Guv – it’s like that draught stopper brought bad luck.’
Skelgill nods slowly.
‘It’s one way of looking at it, Leyton.’
16. FROZEN
Saturday 1pm
Skelgill stamps his feet and rubs his hands together; he seems fogged by indecision, wreathed as he is by the clouds of his breath that hang in the air. He hovers beside his car outside the B&B at Buttermere. Like her siblings, Perdita has flown the nest – in her case, according to the landlady of his acquaintance, to return to Dublin. He digs his hands into his trouser pockets and slowly rotates on his heel, surveying the scene around him, a frozen landscape so still it could be a panoramic Christmas card. Through a gap in a belt of pines he has a view of Crummock Water, the shaded eastern fellside of Mellbreak rising beyond. Despite the clear skies the sun this time of year is no Sugar Ray, packing a punch too weak, steadily outpointed by the earthly elements. If the freeze continues for much longer the creeping ice might bridge the neck of water between Low Ling Crag and Hause Point – permitting him to walk out to the spot where the long-lost rowing boat decays 140 feet down. He stares broodingly; in ordinary circumstances this Saturday afternoon would most likely have found him upon his beloved Bass Lake, aboard his own craft, straining his sinews to winkle a winter pike out of its lair. But the weather – along with events at Crummock Hall – conspire to thwart him and he has not fished now for over a fortnight; his boat immobilised by pack ice at Peel Wyke harbour. Of course, the rivers on the whole keep flowing, for the ground water that produces them runs at a few degrees above freezing – but most species that he would covet are now ou
t of season until the spring; he might have to lift down his cobwebbed beachcaster and head for the coast.
Skelgill’s being stymied impacts not just upon his mood; it also affects his job. He is not a police officer that wants to pore over forensic reports and retire to ruminate clutching a pipe or sipping sirop de cassis, or to prop himself upon the crutch of the clichéd corporate incident room of gory photos and sensationalised press clippings assembled by a team of eager runners. Skelgill’s detective work is kinaesthetic in form – he must experience the evidence and evasion with his own five senses – and his method of problem solving enlists a mysterious sixth that he freely admits he neither comprehends nor commands – a subconscious synthesis of facts and intuition that probably has its workings nearer to his stomach than his brain. Gut feel, as his contemptuous critics might say. It finds its own way at those times when he is relieved of stress and hassle, yet occupied in some mildly repetitive deliberative mode. Angling often provides such conditions – thus at the moment he is doubly icebound. To solve the crime he must understand its nature – but he can’t answer this question until he can work out what it is. Like a cryptic crossword clue that seems unfathomable, gobbledegook, a riddle that all the staring at in the world will not help.
He clambers into his car and sets off in rather pensive fashion. As he slows for the cattle grid at the end of the driveway he notices the waxwings have gone, though there are still berries upon the abandoned cotoneasters. He slots his mobile phone into its hands-free clip and raises an eyebrow that there is a signal. Presently the lane, the winding B5289 to Lorton and Cockermouth, converges with the eastern shore of Crummock Water, and in half a mile he pulls into a passing space beneath Rannerdale Knotts that gives him a view directly out over Hause Point. The signal is weaker now; he calls DS Leyton.
‘Alright, Guvnor?’
‘Leyton – what’s the latest – on the four you and Jones are covering?’
‘We’re just pulling a report together – for when you get back in?’
His tone is hopeful and he expresses the statement as a question.
‘Who said I’m coming in?’
‘I just assumed –’
‘Get hold of Jones and call me back from my office. Stick me on loudspeaker.’
‘Straightaway, Guv?’
‘Make it twenty minutes – I need to do something.’
‘Wilco, Guv.’ DS Leyton hangs up with a sharp intake of breath that is indicative of a tough ask.
Skelgill leaves his engine idling and cautiously rounds to the back of his car, treading in tyre ruts that scar the frozen surface. He hauls up the tailgate and drags his battered aluminium Kelly kettle clanking from beneath a pile of outdoor clothing. Then he puts it aside for a moment while he has second thoughts and pulls his orange cagoule around his jacket and dons his tartan trapper hat. He rummages in storage crates and with a grunt of satisfaction locates a dented Kendal mint cake tin decorated with a scuffed design of alpine scenery. Inside are little polythene pouches, and from these he extracts a couple of dog-eared tea bags, half a dozen sugar lumps, and a rough measure of powdered milk, which he inserts successively into the round spout of the kettle. This is not the conventional way to use the device – but then convention and Skelgill make an oxymoron. And now he carries the improvisation a stage further. He takes a couple of tentative strides into the virgin snow towards the lake and squats down to trap the tall cylinder between his knees. He begins to feed handfuls of snow into the spout – a tricky job since its diameter is no more than two inches. However, he succeeds to his satisfaction and returns to the vehicle. Vigorously he rubs his hands and curses the cold, and wrings and shakes them before he continues. Next he jams the pot-like firebase into the crunchy snow-ice, and settles the kettle upon it, pressing down until the arrangement seems to be stable. Then he begins tearing sheets of newspaper, the local advertiser, and twisting them into tight spills, which he drops into the hollow centre, or chimney, of the kettle. From the vehicle he produces a stainless steel Sigg bottle and a box of long cook’s matches. He pours a dose of methylated spirits into the flue, and follows it with a lighted match. There is a small explosion and concomitant swearing as Skelgill almost has his eyebrows singed, and immediately purple and then orange tongues of flame begin to lick out of the mouth of the chimney. He busies himself with making more paper spills, adding them one at a time to replenish the fuel supply. There begins a hissing – it is the compacted ice liquefying beneath the firebase, and Skelgill adjusts the balance. Snow being considerably less dense than water, when after a couple of minutes it melts it must fill only a tenth of the cylinder, and Skelgill gingerly feeds in additional handfuls, muttering oaths each time he burns himself. He maintains a rumbling boil with a steady supply of spills.
After about five minutes he decides his snow tea is ready, and hauls the kettle off its base and carefully pours the precious brew into a chipped enamel mug. He kicks over the firebase and tosses the kettle into deeper snow and leaves them to cool. He slams shut the tailgate and carries his mug round to enter on the passenger side. He delves into the glove box and seems surprised to find half a packet of chocolate digestives. Now that the car is closed up, the interior quickly heats. He winds back the seat and looks over the semi-frozen expanse of Crummock Water to his left. He works his way steadily through the biscuits, slowly becoming immersed in the warming sensation of the hot sweet tea and velvety dunked melted chocolate. It is not exactly fishing, but he seems happier than he has been for some time. In the manner of an addict getting his fix, there is some mesmerising experience, and perhaps he is imagining himself at Whitehaven West Pier casting with optimism into the Irish Sea.
Indeed some revelation seems to come to him, for his gaze, for several minutes glazed, abruptly sharpens and there is a strange light in his grey-green eyes: no longer the hunted, but the hunter. Gut feel fuelled by his snack, perhaps? He gulps the last of his tea – grimacing a little as he swallows the soft slugs of biscuit base that lurk in the dregs – and with a sudden purpose clambers across into the driver’s seat and sets off. He is whistling Danny Boy.
There follows, however, a momentary setback in his new-found momentum – literally so, for he curses and slithers to a halt after only twenty yards and reverses, wheels spinning furiously to find their grip in the packed snow: he jumps out and retrieves his Kelly kettle and its base. He sets off again, and when his phone bursts into life he looks entirely perplexed.
‘That’s us, Guv?’
‘What is?’
DS Leyton senses some incongruity in Skelgill’s manner.
‘Twenty minutes, Guv – you said to give it.’
‘Aye.’
This “aye” infers that Skelgill has already forgotten about the call, and that he has better things to do. DS Leyton, meanwhile, is obliged to play for time.
‘DS Jones is just powdering her nose, Guv – she won’t be two ticks.’ He makes a rather curious humming sound that might be a soccer chant. ‘You watching the game tonight, Guv?’
‘Which game?’
‘World Cup qualifier – they’re saying England could win it this time round.’
‘Aye – and I’ll do a morris dance on the Chief’s desk waving St George’s cross hankies and wearing three lions grotts.’
DS Leyton chuckles. Skelgill employs the local slang for underpants.
‘Never know, Guv – she might join you. Maybe she’s got an outfit of her own.’
‘You can’t dance in cast iron, Leyton.’
DS Leyton is about to reply but Skelgill hears a door closing and instead DS Jones’s slightly breathless voice comes on the line.
‘Sorry, Guv – DI Smart just asked me to run a computer analysis for him.’
‘You told him where to shove it, I hope.’
‘In a manner of speaking, Guv.’
Skelgill huffs.
‘I’m on the move – the signal could drop anytime.’
There is a short silence and it
could be deduced that the two sergeants glance uncertainly at one another. DS Leyton strikes up.
‘I’ll go first, Guv.’ He clears his throat in the rather formal way of one preparing to deliver a valediction. ‘Starting with Edgar – and this business with the writ. My pal Billy down in the Economic Crime Directorate, he’s had a butcher’s at the documents filed with the court. It don’t look like there was anything criminal – just unprofessional – negligence, know what I mean?’ (Skelgill grunts, sounding displeased.) ‘Like you thought, Guv – he’s got director’s liability insurance but they’re contesting the cover – so he’s between a rock and a hard place. What Billy reckons is that, even if the insurance pays up, he’s gonna lose the case. So that’ll be his reputation down the Swanee. His best bet is to settle out of court and make it go away – no bad PR, like. For that, he’d need a couple of mil in readies.’
Skelgill is silent – but that probably indicates he is mulling over what DS Leyton has said. DS Leyton assumes he should continue.
‘Moving on to Brutus, Guv.’ There is now a longer pause and Skelgill can hear a rustling of papers, which might lead him to suspect his subordinates are conferring over some point. ‘Just finding the page, Guv. Here we go. Thing is – with him being this celebrity – Owain Jagger – it’s knowing where to start.’ He coughs again, more affectedly this time. ‘About what you mentioned, Guv – I went through the paparazzi shots of him. First off, I would say he’s usually got a dolly bird on his arm.’ (Another pause; perhaps for an apologetic glance at his colleague.) ‘But given we’re looking for a financial angle – there was one thing that struck me.’
‘What, Leyton?’ Skelgill is becoming impatient.
‘You know I’ve got family connections – turf accountancy?’
‘Your uncle’s a bookie, Leyton.’
‘Correct, Guv. So I’m tuned-in to the old gee-gees – and I noticed a good number of photos of Brutus at race meets. Now, your Ascot, your Epsom – you’d expect that – they’re on the nobs’ social calendar and he’d get corporate hospitality – plus they’re handy for Town – but he’s also been to the likes of Newmarket for the Guineas – that’s out in Suffolk – and he was at the St Ledger – fair enough, it’s one of the Classics – but that’s Doncaster, Guv – thick end of two hundred miles from London. And there’s others out in the sticks, not always big meets – Market Rasen, Wincanton.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 70
