‘You say you are brought on Polish passport – but remember – you speak only little English – so do not understand too much – it will make simple for you. Is more important you look like you have long journey – not come straight from boudoir.’
DS Jones looks earnestly at Skelgill.
‘Maybe I should sleep on the couch in my clothes tonight.’
Shevchenko replies in Ukrainian, and DS Jones’s cheeks seem to colour – although she keeps a straight face and hurriedly continues with the conversation.
‘What do you think they will ask me?’
‘Who knows – you have met Yashin – he is man of few words – he would rather not talk with me at all.’
Now DS Leyton clears his throat by way of introduction.
‘Captain – it’s DS Leyton speaking – any idea who the geezer’s going to be that’s meeting DS Jones?’
Shevchenko’s disembodied voice seems to take on a note of amusement.
‘You are Cockney – you sound like Eastenders – BBC is always favourite of my mother.’
DS Leyton takes hold of the lapels of his jacket and, from a seated position, does an amusing rendition of a Cockney walk.
‘Least you can understand me, squire – can’t always say that for my colleagues.’
Skelgill interjects.
‘Aye – we do that on purpose, Leyton – when you’re talking tripe.’
For the benefit of Shevchenko, DS Jones pours a little oil on these troubled waters.
‘We have our regional differences – just not quite on your scale.’
‘In our regions they speak different languages – but answer to question is no – no idea. Although I expect will be Polish, as we have discussed previously.’
Skelgill is nodding.
‘What chance they suspect something?’
‘Then they will not come – is no point risk to be identified – if they come, you can believe they do not know.’
‘We have CCTV at all of our railway stations – it’s common knowledge.’
‘But meeting prove nothing – you are going to record conversation?’
Skelgill hesitates. He glances with concern at DS Jones – their discussions to date have not found accord on the pros and cons of a wire.
‘We might.’
Shevchenko apparently blows out a lungful of smoke. He sounds a little scathing.
‘If I were meeting you – I would say, “Can I help?” – there is nothing given away.’
Again Skelgill looks anxiously at his female subordinate.
‘We might recognise the person straight off – then the game’s up.’
‘But if you do not?’
There is a considerable pause before Skelgill replies.
‘Then we take it to the next stage.’
There is silence from the loudspeaker, but after a few moments Shevchenko’s voice comes back on the line.
‘For me – the deeper you go the better.’
Skelgill is nodding grimly.
‘We’ll do our best – thanks for your help so far.’
‘You’re welcome – bud’ laska.’
He now continues in Ukrainian – DS Jones appears to understand, though she seems embarrassed, and her reply is somewhat blurted.
‘Spasybi, Juri.’
Skelgill glowers, but Shevchenko has a message for him.
‘Inspector – Lieutenant Stransky send best regards – she say she sorry not to join you in banya – but maybe next time?’
Skelgill is temporarily tongue-tied, but in this small hiatus Shevchenko clears the line. He is left staring at a rather nonplussed DS Leyton.
‘Guv – what’s a banya?’
18. THIN AIR
As the 20:15 Pendolino from London Euston slides like a great unblinking reptile into Penrith North Lakes only a handful of citizens wait in the cool spring dusk. The Easter long-weekend is over, and few folk have cause to travel north from here on a Tuesday evening. It is that time of day when darkness has not quite taken hold and yet artificial light does little to enhance visibility. A brace of feral pigeons strut anxiously about the feet of a bearded and bush-hatted tramp who squats in the right angle of the Victorian stone building and the Elizabethan concrete platform. The birds dart to retrieve bread flakes exploding from an untidily devoured burger, retreating from each foray lest they become too tempting a target. Fellow passengers have spaced themselves judiciously away from this little pocket of activity; the scene could be a long museum plaza decorated with statues, and the birds litter caught by a wind devil – but now the slowing train draws the people like iron filings to a passing magnet, as they spy attractive vacant double-seats that might elude their possession. There is a moment’s tension when the carriages come to a halt but no doors open, until an electronic signal disengages the locks. An orderly and roughly equal exchange of travellers then follows, although the rolling stock surely gains in testosterone.
Seen through the furtive eyes of the tramp, perhaps with a view to potential donations, disembarking are a local family – going by their accents – whose primary-age twin boys wear identical London Eye baseball caps and alternatively punch one another, a couple of dishevelled-looking businessmen, an elderly lady and gent – from the First Class section (rarely a good bet) – and, slowly approaching from one of the rear carriages, pulling an airline trolley-bag whose rattling wheels create a discernable Doppler effect, an attractive young woman who might be a foreign student (and hence unlikely to be in a position to offer charity).
The train pulls away and the new arrivals in their turn swing into the small sectioned-off concourse; only the nearest of the boys seems to notice the tramp, and he gets a whack in the ear for his trouble, the price of taking his eye off his opponent. “Pack ’eet, will thee!” emanates from the father, although with limited impact. The girl, meanwhile, seems less certain of her destination. She reaches the mahogany-and-glass partition and double doors and stops, and then she gazes rather wistfully at the overhead departures board. The tramp is now preoccupied with a milkshake; he has the lid off and is determinedly (and noisily) vacuuming up the last of the froth in the base of the cup.
‘Do you need some directions?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll show you.’
*
‘Leyton – what do you mean they’re on the bus?’
‘Apparently they both got on the bus, Guv – Jones and the guy you saw.’
‘I didn’t see him, Leyton – he was out of my line of sight – he opened the station doors and spoke to her – he never came out on the platform.’
‘Why did she go with him, Guv?’
‘I guess she didn’t recognise him.’ Skelgill rubs his chin with one hand as he talks into his mobile. The removal of his false beard has left some sticky substance behind. ‘She must have felt safe enough to go outside.’
‘And on the bus, Guv – it’s not like she’s getting into some stranger’s car – apparently there’s a dozen or more people on board.’
‘So where are Smart’s crew now?’
‘They’re right behind it, Guv – I spoke to them under a minute ago – it’s the Workington service, heading west on the A66.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Just coming off the M6, Guv – I’ll be two ticks.’
‘Make it one, Leyton – I could have done with you here before she went.’
‘I know, Guv – but that express gets a shift on – I’ve been busting a gut and it still beat me – I didn’t like to leave her at Oxenholme – I figured we needed to know she got on safely.’
Skelgill is still rubbing furiously.
‘Aye.’ He cannot question his colleague’s concern.
‘How will I recognise you, Guv?’
‘Very funny, Leyton.’
Skelgill is waiting outside the railway station. He has an old sleeping bag draped over one arm, and several bulging plastic carrier bags grasped by the fingers of the same hand, albeit th
ese contain lightweight items of outdoor clothing, chosen for their bulk. Directly in front there is a designated drop-off and pick-up zone, about a dozen restricted-use car parking spaces and, just a few yards further round as the traffic flows, a standing area reserved for buses. While DS Leyton was driving DS Jones to Kendal, to intercept and board the train one stop south, Skelgill had shambled the half mile from the local police station, having changed into his vagrant’s outfit (employing to good effect, it must be said, clothes from his own wardrobe). DI Smart’s team – whose charity Skelgill has reluctantly decided to accept (though he relayed this request through the Chief’s office, and not directly to Smart) – a cocky DS and a loquacious DC who with their sharp suits and Mancunian accents might have been cloned from their immediate boss, were not then in place. However their detail was, on arrival, to keep their heads down and tail DS Jones if the need arose.
Through narrowed eyes in the growing darkness Skelgill stares at the ruins of Penrith Castle, illuminated little more than fifty yards away. Built six hundred years ago as a defence against raids by the Scots, its red sandstone matches that of the station – and, given that at one time it fell into the ownership of the Lancaster & Carlisle Railway Company, there is a temptation to speculate whether its depleted condition owes something to the construction of the railway offices. However, it seems unlikely that any such conundrum occupies Skelgill’s thoughts at present – perhaps only that it is a castle, and a reminder of the temptation to draw a connection between the events he is investigating and the vaguely comparable edifice at Blackbeck.
‘Need a lift, squire?’
Skelgill is disturbed from his reverie – DS Leyton has arrived, and calls out across the interior of his car through the open passenger window. Skelgill dumps his gear in the back seat, and clambers into the front.
‘Where are they now?’
‘Jones is still on the bus. The tail’s right behind. They’re just passing north of Keswick. Starsky and Hutch are radioing every time there’s a stop – there’s been two so far.’
Skelgill permits himself a wry grin at his colleague’s description of DI Smart’s team.
‘Next stop’ll be Cockermouth.’
‘Want to catch ’em up, Guv?’
There is an eager note in DS Leyton’s voice. Skelgill is nodding rather absently, and it is not entirely clear if this is in direct response to the question. DS Leyton, however, takes it as a yes and only the head restraint saves his boss from whiplash. Despite the jolt, Skelgill remains focused.
‘What did they see?’
‘Male, middle-aged, balding, stocky, about five-eight, smart-casual clothes – they just walked over to the bus beside one another – he was talking, DS Jones was nodding.’
‘The Workington service is a shuttle – did he get off when it arrived?’
‘They didn’t say, Guv.’
‘It connects with the train – that’s why it didn’t hang about.’
DS Leyton presses the tip of his tongue against his upper lip as he concentrates on the curves of the traffic island that crosses above the motorway. Once he has beaten the last set of amber lights he relaxes and speaks again.
‘I’d better radio in about the trace, Guv – make sure it’s still working – it was fine while she was on the train.’
Skelgill grimaces. He had implored DS Jones to wear a substantial transmitter, but time, technological resources and – it must be said – DS Jones herself were ranged against him. Her argument is that a gadget hidden in a bag, or concealed in her clothing, could be both easy to discover and perhaps difficult to keep on one’s person. Moreover, he has been forced to concede that someone of Anya Davydenko’s means would certainly not possess a trackable smartphone – and that, while a basic pay-as-you-go handset would be more realistic, to appear authentic it would present the problem of needing to be programmed with her contacts from home – and thus they have decided it would be simpler if she has no mobile at all. And while they have not anticipated “Anya’s” credentials to be seriously tested, DS Jones has insisted that her disguise be convincing in every possible detail – thus she had even purchased locally branded underwear and toiletries in Kiev, to cover the eventuality that her belongings be covertly examined.
Of course, their expectation – indeed Skelgill’s plan as agreed with the Chief – was that DS Jones would simply draw out Yashin’s Cumbrian contact by meeting him at the railway station. At this juncture an arrest might well ensue. Failing that, and provided DS Jones feels in no danger, she will go so far as to allow the person to sufficiently incriminate himself, provided she remains in public view (or, at least, confident that her colleagues know her whereabouts). In consequence, they have settled upon a tiny in-ear tracking device that emits a GPS location signal every two minutes. This technology is employed in the preservation of rare migratory birds that must run the gauntlet of Mediterranean marksmen. It can be turned off by the wearer (though not the bird) should they feel there is a risk of detection. Indeed Skelgill has been quick to highlight this weakness – that all a shooter need do is obtain a scanner and dinner is served! No doubt his acuity in this regard owes something to various clandestine methods he employs to locate specimen fish.
By now DS Leyton is making rapid progress westwards, and they are only a couple of miles short of Keswick as he calls HQ.
‘It’s in Keswick, Sarge – moving towards the town centre.’ The DC responsible for monitoring the tracking device sounds a little apprehensive, as though he has an inkling this is not the plan.
‘What?’
‘Are you sure?’
Both officers exclaim in quick succession.
‘That’s what’s come up on the screen, sir – last signal about thirty seconds ago.’
Skelgill reaches across and places a palm on DS Leyton’s shoulder.
‘Do a u-turn.’
‘But, Guv?’
‘Turn the car round, Leyton!’
DS Leyton’s hesitancy is understandable; the exit for Keswick lies just ahead of them.
‘I want my bike, Leyton – get a shift on – it’s two minutes from here!’
By bike, Skelgill means his Triumph motorcycle – this much will be apparent to DS Leyton – and the sudden reality of being sprung into an emergency situation might explain Skelgill’s thinking: on two wheels he will command the road in a way that even DS Leyton’s driving cannot match. And his tone is uncompromising. As DS Leyton slews the car around, Skelgill terminates the radio connection with HQ and calls up DI Smart’s team in the tailing car. He is answered by a laconic, “Yup.”
‘Stop the bus.’
‘What’s that, pal?’
The voice is that of the DS.
‘Stop the bus, now!’
“Stop the bus, now!” is actually an abridged version of Skelgill’s bellowed instruction, and if these events one day become the subject of a ‘real crime’ TV reconstruction, or even – heaven forbid – a detective series, then this particular scene shall be notable for its high percentage of bleeped-out adjectives and nouns, with up to three bleeps in succession, such is Skelgill’s command of Anglo-Saxon. Notwithstanding, the choice of words has the desired effect, for the next response comes somewhat meekly.
‘We’re just doing it, sir.’
There then follows a minute of radio silence, until the line crackles back into life. Now the unenviable job has evidently been delegated to the DC. His voice is trembling and breathless.
‘She’s not on it, sir – nor the bloke she met.’
‘I know that you idiot.’ (Again there will be considerable editing.) ‘What did the driver say?’
‘I can’t believe it, sir – we stopped close behind both times and watched until the bus drove away – he said they got off at Threlkeld – and he thought it was odd – they went and stood in the bus shelter – it was only a yard from the door of the coach – that’s why we didn’t see them. Then a minute or so later we did notice a strange thing – it was
a black Porsche Cayenne that had been parked just after the stop – it came steaming past us before we even got out of the village.’
‘Did you get the number?’
‘Didn’t think to at the time, sir – but there was damage to the nearside.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘I’m just getting you to practise for when I see you.’ Skelgill sounds rather like a Dickensian judge handing down a death sentence. ‘Now get off the line and get back to Keswick as fast as your little Keystone Cops’ machine will carry you – park up south of the junction on High Hill – stop that Porsche if it comes your way – preferably by the pair of you lying in the road!’
Skelgill has to brace against the dashboard as DS Leyton brings the car to a shuddering halt before his house. He bales out like a pilot abandoning a badly winged World War I biplane, but then he swings around on the door and leans back inside.
‘Leyton – you take the Borrowdale road – lie up facing south, just after the mini-roundabout. He might not suspect he’s being tailed – he could just be covering his tracks. Get back on to HQ to check the next signal – but before you do, call Whitehaven. Jones took that car’s number last Wednesday – it’s got to be the same one – she was going to forward it – if she did, find out who he is and where he might be heading.’
‘Righto, Guv – what about you?’
‘I’ll blast into the town centre.’
‘How will I contact you, Guv?’
‘I’ll call you in a few minutes – I can jam the phone into my helmet – not very hi-tech but it does the job.’
*
‘Can you hear me, Leyton?’
‘Just about, Guv – it sounds like you’re in a hurricane.’
‘Aye, well – I’m doing ninety-five.’
‘Cor blimey – take it easy, squire.’
Skelgill evidently ignores this advice and drops a couple of gears to roar past a truck held up by a caravan.
‘What’s the latest?’
‘There was another signal just after I left your gaff – centre of Keswick – possibly stationary – could be the traffic lights near the car park.’
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 19
