Some time after midnight he had parked up in the deserted public lot in the centre of Keswick. With pubs and restaurants long closed and locals back to work after the Bank Holiday there was an unearthly sense of desolation. It was not only DS Jones that was gone – but it seemed everyone had gone. Skelgill might have believed he was walking in a dream, sole survivor in a scene from a horror movie just before the first zombie lurches into view. Despite the stark emptiness he had kept a low profile, sticking to the shadows and slipping through cobbled ginnels as he crisscrossed the old town. Quite what clue he was hoping to discover, perhaps even he did not know, but he had searched around, looking in shop doorways and windows, and in loading bays and gated yards. He had checked communal entrances to flats and the front gardens of nearby houses. He had shone his torch into almost every car and van he passed, and it was a wonder some householder, heading late to bed and drawing their curtains, had not spotted his suspicious behaviour and reported him as a sneak thief on the prowl. He had inspected the row of B&Bs where – in a fashion – these events had their origin just over a week earlier. He had stared pensively at the end property, Grisedale Vista, from where Leonid Pavlenko (erroneously called “Mr Leonard”) was reported missing. All of the guesthouses were in darkness, but he could make out from street level that there was another of Mrs Robinson’s notices in the front window. He scaled the steps to discover it stated, “Closed until Whitsun” – perhaps Easter had been a financial success (or maybe too much of a trial). He had paused to reinstate a gnome that was lying face down in a pool of water; it turned out to be the one with the fishing rod.
‘We don’t even know she got into that car, Leyton. She was last seen by the bus driver – standing in the shelter.’
‘But the transmitter, Guv – that went to Keswick.’
‘Aye, the transmitter.’
DS Leyton’s tiredness has translated into dark bags beneath his eyes. His heavy jowls seem more pronounced than usual, their contours raised by a day’s unshaven growth. He watches his boss with a pained expression: one that tells he worries not only for DS Jones, but also that he shares Skelgill’s agony. Skelgill has literally limped back into his office following a review with the Chief. She did of course show understanding (compassion would be too much to hope for), but in such circumstances there is no need to point an accusing finger – no matter that it was DI Smart’s team that allowed DS Jones to disappear from under their noses – it is plain where the responsibility lies, and Skelgill is not shirking it. (DI Smart, on the other hand, is attending an unspecified “emergency” in Carlisle, along with others who can be spared.) However, the decision has been taken to restrict on a need-to-know basis news of DS Jones’s predicament. The rationale for this is that a limited undercover operation was officially sanctioned, and DS Jones equipped accordingly – and in the absence of any definitive information concerning her whereabouts, or that her safety is threatened, there is a strategy, albeit tenuous, that says she will be best served if her superiors can hold their nerve. Skelgill has been given twenty-four hours before the lid must be lifted and all hell breaks loose.
‘I can’t see beyond pulling this Rick geezer in, Guv – I mean, what else can we do?’
Skelgill responds with a look of exasperation – though it is not aimed at his colleague, but the circumstances. He shakes his head and exhales deeply.
‘Leyton – I know where you’re coming from – but we’ve got nothing on him – not a shred of evidence.’
‘But the car was at the bus stop, Guv – then he drove to Keswick.’
‘Leyton – Smart’s pair of goons can’t even be certain that Rick is the guy she left the station with.’
‘But if we pull him, Guv – we can find out what he was up to.’
‘If we pull him, Leyton – and he is involved – the cat’s out of the bag.’
DS Leyton furrows his brow.
‘What are you saying, Guv – that we’re stuck in a Catch 22?’
‘Let’s just assume Jones is fine – that she reckons everything’s going to plan – she thinks the transmitter’s working and that we know where she is.’ Skelgill slaps his palms down upon the desk. ‘If we jump in with our size twelves – blow her cover – alert them that they’ve been infiltrated – what are they going to do?’
‘Well, Guv...’
‘If we’ve stumbled on a people-trafficking operation – or worse – are they going to present themselves to George at the front desk and say it’s a fair cop?’
Closing his eyes, DS Leyton scratches his head vigorously, as though he is trying to dislodge a particularly tenacious thought that might be useful at this moment.
‘Guv – we don’t have to reveal we’re looking for DS Jones – we could say it’s Anya Davydenko that we’re trying to find.’
‘That’s as likely to have the same result, Leyton – they’re going to ask themselves how come we fastened onto them so quickly.’ Skelgill’s features are grim. ‘Then they might start asking her.’
A look of trepidation slowly takes hold of DS Leyton’s countenance.
‘It don’t bear thinking about, Guv.’
‘So don’t think about it.’
With this retort Skelgill snaps unfairly at his sergeant – but the pressure is telling. DS Leyton, however, takes it on the chin.
‘This Rick geezer, Guv – I get your drift – about how we can’t be certain – but why else would he take that route – when he could have got home via Whitehaven in half the time?’
Skelgill nods. The inference is that the longer cross-country journey would minimise the chances of being spotted by a police patrol or inadvertently caught on camera. And there is also the possibility that another purpose lay behind Peter Henry Rick’s choice – one that he abandoned for some reason. But such speculation does not take them any closer to identifying DS Jones’s whereabouts. Skelgill grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. Then he reaches for his cup – he is drinking black coffee from the machine this morning – but it is empty and he crushes and tosses it away in frustration.
‘I’ll fetch us some more in a mo, Guv.’
DS Leyton swallows the last of his own drink and rises and digs into his pocket for change; he is keeping pace with Skelgill, though he must be running short of suitable cash. Skelgill, however, does not offer to pay; his eyes are fixed on the bare desk before him. DS Leyton makes as if to leave the room, but then he hesitates, and raises a finger, as though a penny has dropped. He turns back to face Skelgill; now there is a note of enthusiasm in his voice.
‘That’s it, Guv – she is safe isn’t she? So long as they think she’s Anya Davydenko.’
Skelgill looks up; he glares through narrowed eyes.
‘How do you work that out?’
DS Leyton seems taken aback by his superior’s hostility; after all, this is the strategy he has borne from his meeting with the Chief. He takes half a pace back and holds out his palms in a gesture of appeal.
‘They’ve gone to all this trouble to get her, Guv – she’s the precious commodity – why would they want her to come to any harm?’
Skelgill continues to stare – but there is a wild look in his eyes – as if he is shocked that his sergeant is dangerously missing the point. It must be ten seconds before he fashions a reply.
‘She’s taken it too far.’
In his voice there is a strangled note that rings somewhere on the scale between frustration and despair. DS Leyton requires a moment to process the meaning of this statement.
‘But she’s a smart cookie, Guv – a whole lot smarter than me, that’s for sure – she must have been confident in what she was doing – deciding to go along with it – she knew the tail were behind her, if she needed them to wade in.’
‘Aye – and she’s smart enough to know you don’t go solo.’
Now it is DS Leyton’s turn to harbour conflicting emotions. For Skelgill to make this assertion – he the undisputed champion, the number one exponent in th
e art of maverick detective work (only a tiny fraction of which is known to his superiors, and not a great deal more to his subordinates) – is a severe case of pots, kettles and the colour of soot. But his loyal sergeant – long suffering in turning a blind eye to his boss’s unconventional tactics – is not going to take Skelgill to task, probably never, and certainly not at such a juncture. Instead, he punches a fist into the opposing palm.
‘Think she’s in Keswick, Guv?’
It takes Skelgill a moment to disembark from the train of thought that was rushing him to an unwelcome destination. But eventually he swivels in his chair and gestures to one of the maps on the wall behind.
‘If that transmitter was deliberately switched off, how far could you get from the town centre in one minute fifty-nine seconds?’
DS Leyton looks baffled. But Skelgill waits patiently for his answer.
‘In a car, Guv – up to a mile, if you got a clear run of the lights and traffic.’
Skelgill is nodding.
‘That’s anywhere in Keswick, then.’ Scowling, he spins back around. ‘Not to mention that you could just keep on driving.’
DS Leyton pulls the coins from his pocket and weighs them reflectively in the palm of his hand.
‘If it were switched off, Guv – surely it’s most likely that DS Jones did it.’ Skelgill does not respond. But DS Leyton seems empowered to make a further suggestion. ‘I was thinking, Guv – say it was interfering with a car radio – you know – like a mobile phone each time it talks to a mast – giving itself away.’
Skelgill stares – rather vacantly, it must be said, despite this being an idea of some merit.
‘So why hasn’t she turned it back on?’
DS Leyton looks a tad crestfallen. He shrugs and tugs alternately at the shoulders of his jacket.
‘Maybe there’s a problem with the device – like you said, what if she thinks it’s working?’
Skelgill enters a few more moments’ brooding silence.
‘I hope she does.’
He says this with considerable emotion. It might seem a paradoxical statement – but DS Leyton appears to comprehend the point: provided DS Jones believes in a guardian angel, she will find the strength to see out her mission.
‘Damn technology, eh Guv?’
DS Leyton slips out. It seems he wishes to give his superior a moment alone, and it is several minutes before he returns with their drinks, plus bars of chocolate.
‘Cheers.’
‘You’re welcome, Guv.’ DS Leyton deftly slits the packaging of his snack with a thumbnail. ‘Not often I get one of these to myself – the kids are like gannets.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow.
‘Gannets only eat fish, Leyton.’
‘Not London gannets, Guv – they’ll eat anything – they’re allnivorous.’
Now Skelgill can’t resist a wry smile. He realises his sergeant is doing his best to sustain their morale, when really this ought to be his remit.
‘I was thinking of going fishing later.’
DS Leyton glances up – but if he is surprised, or even shocked, then he does not show it – and in any event, Skelgill’s response to an intractable predicament is never easy to forecast; he has learned that there are times when his boss is best left to his own devices.
‘Really, Guv – what’s good about now?’
‘This warm weather, Leyton – you know fish are cold blooded?’ (DS Leyton nods eagerly; Skelgill regards his enthusiasm with a doubting frown.) ‘The higher the water temperature, the more they eat. Now they’ve finished spawning, pike’ll even take a fly.’
20. MOON RISING
Esox lucius, the scientific name for the pike, is said to mean “pitiless water wolf” – though Skelgill’s own pursuit of the creature’s etymology (relentless, much like his pursuit of the creature itself) has revealed a more literal translation that he prefers: “great fish of the light”.
As the sun sets and the full moon rises to take its place in the pearly evening sky, it is illumination that Skelgill seeks – and not his regular quarry, the spotted wolf that lurks below. He has paddled out, slipping across the silvery meniscus that is the surface of Bassenthwaite Lake, his bow wave creasing the perfect reflection of Skiddaw’s great pyramid, its upper slopes aglow beneath the sun’s dying rays. With no wind – no need for an anchor, and too early in the season for there to be large squadrons of midges – he is becalmed with his thoughts and the occasional plaintive birdcall.
Of course, he has a line out. To sit in the boat, empty handed, would not only make him feel – and even look – naked, but also it would deprive him of his powers. Like a crossword solver without a pen, a drummer without sticks, an artist without a brush, stripped of his fishing gear his imagination is emasculated. In common with the copper lightning conductor on a church tower, through his rod – and the taut filament of nylon that penetrates the skin of the great body of water – is his channel of communion with nature’s latent forces. Thus he pays lip service to angling, and awaits inspiration to bite.
That he can be here at all owes much to DS Leyton. Skelgill’s intimation that he might fish had been recognised as an act of bravado, a valiant effort to demonstrate (perhaps to himself) that he had not lost his nerve, that he believed the situation was under control; but it was a cry for help. Consequently, later in the day – the longest day, of blank news, of pacing, of coffee by the gallon – his trusty lieutenant had rekindled the idea, pointing out that, while there was little but to sit and wait for some form of contact from DS Jones, surely it would benefit Skelgill to get a break? In response to this incontestable reasoning, Skelgill had insisted that DS Leyton, too, must go home and attend to his family’s routine – a sure fire way of taking one’s mind off the nagging worry that returns like a recalcitrant toothache. Curiously (it seemed to Skelgill, largely unfamiliar with such bath-time bedlam) DS Leyton had eschewed this offer and proposed a small venture of his own.
In the absence of a tangible lead, it remains DS Leyton’s assertion that Little Langdale is a hotspot of sorts as far as their investigation is concerned – and he persists with this view despite Skelgill’s reluctance to draw conclusions from the events they have recorded. As he had reiterated to his boss, there is no denying that William Thymer – Ticker – had suspiciously drowned in the village tarn, with various signs of (as DS Leyton put it) “hocus-pocus” about his camp, and in his possession a distinctive charm that potentially linked him to the missing Leonid Pavlenko. Pavlenko, in turn, was almost certainly in the vicinity (at nearby Coniston, at least), and had a note on the back of his girlfriend’s photograph that made reference to “black beck”. They have evidence from Kiev that this female, Irina Yanukovych, came to Cumbria, and there are further Eastern European connections in the area, including the Polish girl Eva who abruptly departed from the local inn having apparently tried to contact the police.
Thus DS Leyton’s proposal had been to spend the evening quietly tucked away, incognito, in a corner of the Langdale Arms. As he pointed out, the landlord believes he is a visitor on a walking holiday, lodging nearby, and expressly partial to the establishment’s renowned pies.
Skelgill had been sceptical. The idea that DS Leyton might hit upon some nugget of information, strike a rich seam of evidence that would lead them to DS Jones’s whereabouts, had seemed to him a most unlikely prospect. But he could not argue with his sergeant’s wish to do something. Rather than twiddle his thumbs (or dunk his kids) he could at least feel that he was making a positive contribution to the case. And with this sentiment, Skelgill could concur. He set aside his reservations and consented to the request – and now, at just past eight-thirty p.m., he receives a text message to confirm that his colleague is in situ. DS Leyton also reports that the pub is conveniently busy because there is an overflow of delegates from the latest conference being held at Blackbeck Castle.
Skelgill replaces his phone in one of the many pockets of his vest. It has the appearance
of a field medic’s garment, adorned as it is with various items of angling paraphernalia – disgorging forceps, line clippers, pliers and suchlike, spare flies and weights and lures, and iridescent imitation minnows that bristle with treble hooks. To accidentally sit upon Skelgill’s carelessly discarded waistcoat could be the precursor to a trip to the nearest A&E department. He retrieves the line that has gone slack out in the water – a ledgering rig baited with a brandling – he is ostensibly fishing for perch, a less troublesome catch – though at this time the fish are not troubling the worm. And ideas are not troubling his brain.
That Skelgill is drawn to his stamping ground, however, suggests he has some solution – it is just not yet available to his conscious mind. The facts and inferences he has gathered – many of which seem at best vaguely connected – perhaps bear relationships that, once understood, will explain one another, rather like individual jigsaw pieces that, triggered by a moment of insight, suddenly begin to fall into place and reveal the bigger picture. To appreciate the true nature of a great wood, when all one sees is trees, it is necessary to find that forest giant – not always so obvious at its foot – that can be scaled to provide a revealing overview.
Conscious analysis does not come easily to Skelgill, nor anyway does it offer the processing power to deal with a multiplicity of variables. Moreover, though he would claim that the much-vaunted managerial skill of “T-CUP” (thinking clearly under pressure) numbers among his abilities, right now he is burdened by guilt over DS Jones’s disappearance, which interrupts his deliberations at least every minute. And yet he and DS Leyton, discussing this several times over during the day, have concluded there was little more they could have done. DS Jones had to be given sufficient leeway to ‘play it by ear’. To penetrate the ring – to make a single arrest, even – she had to obtain evidence of a sufficient quality to demonstrate there was a crime afoot. Being offered directions at a railway station by a helpful stranger would receive short shrift from the Crown Prosecution Service, never mind a jury. Being accompanied to the correct bus, shown the right stop, being offered a lift – none of these actions are against the law – so it is easy to see why DS Jones played along (believing she was under the watchful eye of her colleagues). But, step by step, she had walked voluntarily into what was effectively her own abduction. Could they have foreseen this? Might they have anticipated a malfunction with the tracking device? On reflection, probably. But time and, above all, resources were limited. And now – with DI Smart’s operation apparently cracking off (the “Carlisle emergency”) – manpower is even more stretched. Indeed, the clandestine watch that was put on the premises of Rick & Co – to track his movements should he leave – had to be recalled when shifts changed over at six p.m. this evening.
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 21
