The two men facing the bar turn disinterested stares upon the departing couple – although perhaps slightly less so in the case of DS Jones. Skelgill glowers in return as he passes, and nods to the landlord. The girl, Eva, has already moved out to collect their empty glasses, and casts a rather forlorn glance at their backs as they leave. By the time she returns to the sink behind the counter, the landlord has the pub’s telephone handset to his ear, and seems to be awaiting a response.
5. NEEDLES & HAYSTACKS
‘By all accounts, Guv, the border between the Ukraine and Poland leaks like a sieve – Customs reckon ten billion contraband cigarettes get smuggled through every year. A quarter of a million Ukrainians work in Poland in low-wage jobs the Poles have left behind. Immigration quoted me an annual figure of twelve million border crossings. Once you’re in Poland you’re in the Schengen Area.’
Skelgill is shaking his head.
‘Leyton, you’ll be on Mastermind at this rate.’
DS Leyton grins and taps his notepad with his knuckles.
‘I’d never remember all this, Guv – blimey, I struggle with my own date of birth.’
A mug of tea sits on the desk and Skelgill tastes it. He has allowed it to get cold. He swallows the lot in one gulp and pulls a face of disgust.
‘We’re not in Schengen.’
‘I know, Guv – but say you’ve got a couple of Polish pals living in Britain. They drive over to Poland for a few days – then only one of them returns – you come in place of the other geezer, using his passport.’
Skelgill nods.
‘I imagine there’s plenty just take their chance in the boot of a car.’
‘That as well, Guv.’
‘So what about Pavlenko?’
DS Leyton shakes his head.
‘No record of him entering Britain – or leaving the Ukraine. The border authorities in Kiev are investigating – but our boys are saying don’t hold your breath.’ He puts down his pad and folds his arms. ‘On the plus side, they’ve confirmed it’s a genuine passport, and it hasn’t been reported stolen – so it’s a fair bet that it’s him as came to Keswick and not some lookalike.’
Skelgill shrugs indifferently – he appears to need no convincing on this particular point.
‘We need a mobile number or a bank account – something we can trace.’
‘I’ve asked for all the usual details, Guv.’ DS Leyton looks a bit ruffled. ‘Want me to organise some door-to-door inquiries in Keswick – shops and cafés and other guest houses?’
Now Skelgill rather rounds on his subordinate.
‘Leyton, he’s not even officially missing – technically he’s the one who’s committed an offence – doing a runner from his B&B without paying. The Chief will start breathing fire if I ask for extra manpower to catch a petty crook. So unless you’re volunteering for some door-knocking –’
DS Leyton shrugs stoically. His suggestion is a speculative retort to his superior’s unreasonable expectation in the time available. However, it is common knowledge that Skelgill’s rival DI Alec Smart has been commandeering staff in anticipation of a salvo of cash machine raids – the dubious product of a tip-off from among his netherworld network of informants. Undoubtedly he schemes to enlist the services of DS Leyton and DS Jones – and in this relatively arid period before the Lake District floods with visitors on Good Friday, Skelgill is struggling to justify otherwise.
‘Seems like he’s just disappeared into thin air, Guv.’ DS Leyton rubs the top of his head absently. ‘Then again, I suppose he came out of it in the first place.’
‘What about Ukrainian contacts in the area?’
DS Leyton’s sagging countenance foretells of limited news.
‘There’s a Carlisle branch of the Association of Ukrainians in Great Britain – mainly for those folks and their families who fled here after the last war – but there’s only a scattering in Cumbria. The place is just a social club, Guv – like the Legion. They’ve got a Facebook page – but there’s no indication of Leonid Pavlenko trying to get in touch. I spoke to the branch secretary and he didn’t know of him – but he said they’d put out a request for information.’
Skelgill is leaning back with arms folded. With a stirrup kick he swivels the seat and gazes up at the map of the Lake District on the wall behind him. It seems likely he is revisiting his earlier remark about needles and haystacks, for his eyes dance about the shaded fells and green dales with their blue ribbon glacial lakes. Missing persons are a nagging thorn in the side of the police – every year some quarter of a million are reported, of which ninety-five per cent subsequently turn up safe and sound. The potential waste of police resources is therefore enormous – especially in times of austerity – and the ‘thin blue line’ does not easily translate into an effective blue drag net in a district as geographically challenging as the Lakes. And in this outdoor playground is the added dilemma presented daily by thoughtless enthusiasts who simply omit to mention they are spending a night or two wild camping in the hills. How is anyone to know whether they are safely tucked up in a sleeping bag, or bleeding to death beneath a precipice? Thus Skelgill’s present predicament is far from unfamiliar. And more than nine times out of ten he would be justified in closing the file and letting nature take its course. Yet some inertia within seems to resist this easy option – perhaps some underlying sense of unease, some accumulation of subtle signals received to date, still to manifest themselves as a tangible or logical objection.
As he ponders – and while DS Leyton appears to be distracted by measuring his feet, one against the other, perplexed by a hitherto unnoticed size discrepancy – the office door opens and DS Jones slowly enters, listening to her mobile phone. Skelgill turns and stares, and DS Leyton inhales to greet her – but she puts a silencing finger to her lips – and then employs the same digit to terminate the call.
‘Ah – that’s interesting.’
‘What is?’ Skelgill’s tone is harsh, as if he thinks it has been a social call.
DS Jones taps the display a couple of times, and then approaches Skelgill’s desk and slides her mobile in front of him.
‘Last night, Guv – about eleven-thirty – the duty desk took a call from this number. It was a female. She asked for the police and then rang off.’
Skelgill is still looking irked.
‘How many people do that every day?’
‘Well, there were a few hoax calls last night, Guv. But George is back on the desk this morning and he’s been checking through them, just in case. He asked me to listen to the recording – and the girl sounded familiar. What’s more, she asked for “Police who come today” – so I just rang the number.’ Now she rests a manicured nail upon the screen of her phone. ‘It’s the Langdale Arms, Guv. The call must have been from the Polish girl, Eva.’
Skelgill is gnawing at a recalcitrant thumbnail, and now he leans over the handset and stares at the screen.
‘You withheld your number?’
‘Aha.’
‘Who answered?’
‘I’m pretty certain it was the landlord, Guv.’
Skelgill continues to gaze unblinking at the phone, but then – to DS Jones’s dismay – he suddenly picks it up and tosses it to DS Leyton. Fortunately, despite a momentary juggle, he proves to be a safe pair of hands.
‘Leyton, redial that number. Say you just got cut off. Then ask if they serve pub lunches – say you’re about to climb Pike of Blisco from Great Langdale and you’re thinking of stopping off that way.’
DS Leyton looks bemused, but he knows better than to question Skelgill when he is in a capricious mood.
‘Hold your horses, Guv – I’d better write these down.’
He reaches for his notepad while Skelgill impatiently repeats the names. Then he presses the redial key and puts the handset to his ear. The call is answered promptly and he follows his superior’s instructions. The conversation takes under half a minute.
‘The geezer says twelve till t
wo, Guv.’
DS Leyton looks pleased with himself. Skelgill is frowning.
‘I know that, Leyton – we were there yesterday.’
Now DS Leyton glances from one of his colleagues to the other, as though he thinks there is some practical joke being perpetrated. He passes the mobile back to DS Jones and then turns to his superior.
‘I don’t get it, Guv.’
‘What you get, Leyton, is lunch on expenses – you’re going hillwalking.’
DS Leyton looks dismayed.
‘What about outdoor kit, Guv? I’ve not got anything with me.’
‘Never fear, Leyton – there’s plenty of spare gear in my car.’
As this excuse is demolished, DS Leyton’s expression of alarm intensifies.
‘Have pity, Guv – I got blisters on top of blisters last time I wore your old boots.’
Skelgill glares impatiently.
‘Leyton – you’re not actually going to climb Pike of Blisco. I’m about to show you a photograph so you know what it’s like, if asked. You just need to look the part. And for Pete’s sake don’t park too near the pub – at least arrive looking like you’ve done a bit of a hike.’
DS Leyton’s demeanour now shifts to one of tempered dismay. He surveys his ample stomach as it spills over the belt of his trousers.
‘That shouldn’t take too much doing, Guv.’
Skelgill grins, perhaps a touch maliciously.
‘You look out of breath just thinking about it, Leyton.’
DS Leyton gives a good-natured shrug of his broad shoulders. He glances appealingly at DS Jones.
‘Thing is – I’ve been meaning to get the family out – but with all the rain this winter – you ought to try dragging a couple of whining kids past the cinema when it’s blowing a gale and they can smell the pizza.’
DS Jones smiles sympathetically.
‘I noticed the Langdale Arms were advertising home-made steak-and-ale pie on their specials board. There was a news clipping pinned up – about it winning some award.’
DS Leyton casts a surreptitious glance at Skelgill. His boss is tapping away at his computer – perhaps retrieving the threatened mountain image – but there is no disguising the fleeting scowl that crosses his features at the mention of the acclaimed fare. DS Leyton tries to make light of the matter.
‘They ought to call it Scafell Pie.’
He forces a guffaw at his own joke – but Skelgill remains not amused.
‘That aside, Guv – what exactly is it I’m doing?’
Skelgill abruptly flips his screen round so the others can see. There is in fact no mountain summit, but instead a map of what appears to be Eastern Europe.
‘Finding out what the barmaid wanted – and why she hung up.’
DS Leyton’s brow furrows.
‘Couldn’t we just phone, Guv – and ask to speak to her?’
Skelgill suddenly looks surprised. He raises a finger in apparent wonderment.
‘Leyton – I never thought of that.’
‘Really, Guv?’
Now Skelgill tosses his hands up to the heavens.
‘Leyton, you dummkopf – of course I thought of it.’
‘Oh, right, Guv.’
Skelgill looks despairingly at DS Jones – she appears unsure of how to interpret his mood – but he seems now to be seeking her corroboration.
‘Yesterday, Leyton, when we called into the pub to ask about Pavlenko, this girl – I’m pretty sure – wanted to tell us something.’ He glances again at DS Jones, and she nods reflectively. ‘But the landlord was keeping a close eye on her. I let it pass – but I wouldn’t if I’d known she was going to phone after closing time last night. Now if Jones or I go swanning back in there the guy’s going to be suspicious – whereas you can pose as a dim-witted Cockney hillwalker.’ (DS Leyton’s features register some disapproval at this suggestion.) ‘Get a table well away from the bar – when she brings your award-winning pie, identify yourself and find out what she wants to tell us.’ Now he indicates loosely towards the map on his screen. ‘The city she said she’s from – Lublin – it’s only an hour from the Ukrainian border.’
DS Leyton is nodding, now comprehending.
‘Fair enough, Guv.’
Skelgill sits back and folds his arms.
‘What else had you got on today?’
DS Leyton blinks several times and reaches for his pad. He flips over a couple of pages and inhales rather wheezily.
‘Some mean assignments, Guv.’ There is something faintly sarcastic in his tone, that hints at retaliation for Skelgill’s disparaging remark about his provenance. ‘Theft of a mobility scooter from outside the Post Office in Grasmere – suspected joyrider. An organised raid on the allotments at Pooley Bridge – bolt-croppers used and two sacks of seed potatoes taken.’ He steals a glance at DS Jones, who is trying her best not to laugh. ‘Oh, yeah, Guv – and a decapitated sheep over by Kirkstone Pass.’
Now he looks up somewhat artfully to see if Skelgill is buying into his humour – but he is confronted by an expression as black as thunder.
6. KIRKSTONE PASS
‘The daffodils look unreal – they’re like birds, Guv – like a great migration of yellow-headed geese that’s descended on the shoreline in search of spring grazing.’
‘You’ll be reciting Wordsworth next, Jones.’
DS Jones chuckles.
‘This was where he got the inspiration, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye – couple of miles further – Glencoyne Bay.’
They are silent for a moment, Skelgill concentrating upon the curves of the road, DS Jones watching the crowded banks, amidst the botanical multitude each individual bloom glowing golden in the late morning sunshine.
‘You do have to pinch yourself sometimes, Guv – that we can be at work amongst this scenery.’
‘Aye – it’s double-edged though.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well – look at that.’
He lifts a hand from the steering wheel to gesture across the mill-pond-flat expanse of lake to their left.
‘Ullswater, Guv.’
‘Rising trout, Jones – and pike and perch – and even schelly.’
DS Jones grins. As he pronounces the latter name skelly, she can’t be sure if he is serious.
‘There’s always the weekend, Guv.’
‘Aye – and statistically it rains more on Saturdays and Sundays.’
‘I thought that was an urban myth?’
‘Weekdays, air pollution from commuters and trucks inhibits precipitation.’
‘Don’t we have more traffic at weekends?’
Skelgill grimaces at her unarguable logic.
‘Anyway, Jones – since when did the weather need any excuse to rain in the Lakes?’
She nods.
‘Maybe this dry spell will keep going, Guv?’
‘Don’t bet on it.’
They are heading south beside Ullswater, its nine miles of western shore hugged by the Penrith-to-Windermere trunk road. Considered by many as the most beautiful of the national park’s nineteen major lakes (and innumerable tarns), it owes its existence to not one – not two – but three glaciers that once rumbled off the Cumbrian mountains, and which gave rise to the ‘stretched-z’ shape that creates a pleasing series of constantly changing aspects for the traveller. But their final destination lies a little to the south. Reaching the hamlet of Patterdale, and leaving the lake behind, the gradient steepens and in just a short distance climbs a thousand feet through Kirkstone Pass, the surroundings a sudden contrast of bleak foreboding fells and screes, themselves towering another thousand feet above the lonely road. Astride the head of the pass, in splendid isolation, crouches the eponymous coaching inn, a welcome sight for weary wayfarers these past five hundred years, and it is here that Skelgill brings his car to a crunching halt. They disembark, blinking in the bright April light, the sky a cobalt blue that is unblemished by cloud, the air sharp and ringing with the s
taccato treble of meadow pipits.
‘It’s a couple of minutes down the Struggle – but it’s safer to park here.’
‘The Struggle, Guv?’
Skelgill is already striding away, weaving between weathered picnic tables that have been optimistically dragged onto the broad verge opposite the hostelry. Deserted now, certainly if the weather holds fair this elevated spot will be thronged in a few days’ time, as curious holidaymakers venture forth from their lodgings. He stretches to point out a junction some fifty yards ahead, a narrow lane that dives down the fellside and winds away over the shoulder of Snarker Pike and draws the eye to a tantalising glimpse of Windermere, four miles hence.
‘It’s what they call the south side of the pass – the lane up from Ambleside – it’s one-in-four in places – must have been a killer in the horsedrawn days when it was an unmetalled track.’
‘For the poor horses, at least, Guv.’
‘Aye – though the likes of us would have been hauling our bags barefoot.’
The Struggle is bordered on each side by dry stone walls and rocky verges, and admits passing vehicles only with difficulty. In what Wainwright rather ungenerously referred to as “the charabanc season” it can be a challenge to make the ascent from Ambleside to Kirkstone without sustaining damage to the undercarriage. But they encounter no such troubles; indeed they stride down the centre of the deserted lane. Skelgill is keeping a sharp eye out for a marker tied by the shepherd who yesterday evening reported the ovine casualty – a strand of blue baler twine wound unobtrusively around a post. After some four hundred or so yards, he spies his object.
‘Here we go – it’s beyond the opposite wall.’
A line of decaying stakes, formerly strung with wire, fronts the wall to their left – but the instruction is that the sheep’s carcase lies hidden from sight over the right-hand wall. Skelgill’s attention, however, seems to be focused on the verge itself.
‘What is it, Guv?’
‘Tyre tracks – see?’
The ground is well draining, and Skelgill’s discovery is not immediately obvious. He indicates with a tip of his boot an area of grass, cropped short by rabbits and perhaps enterprising sheep (which could, of course, account for the fatality, as road kill). There is just a faint impression, a pattern of knobbly indentations. He digs in his pocket and produces a pound coin, which he places carefully at the centre of the patch.
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 5
