Leaving their lights blazing and engines running, the shadowy occupants of the pick-ups begin to disembark, though most – having noted the shotgun – stand prudently for cover behind their open doors. But not so the pair from the tractor. The driver – a big man – lowers himself from the cab with practised ease; the passenger – clearly unfamiliar with the arrangement of footholds – makes a less dignified landing. Then together they begin to advance upon Tarr.
‘Reet – is it thee who’s bin killing t’yowes?’
If he has not already recognised the powerful – if a little bowed – frame silhouetted by the array of headlights, Skelgill instantly knows this voice as belonging to retired hill farmer, Arthur Hope. And, though an armed adversary confronts the man, he demonstrates little regard for his own safety. Beside him the second figure is more wary. Short, stocky – and, frankly, somewhat overweight – and now placing a restraining hand on the farmer – and moving ahead alone – taking charge as the only professional trained to deal with such a situation – is the unmistakable form of DS Leyton.
‘Put the gun down.’
If Arthur Hope’s tone of voice sounded typically blunt, then DS Leyton’s carries a note of threat – one that belies the easy-going character who is always ready to cheer up his colleagues and fetch unlimited rounds of tea when times get tough around the office. He repeats the words and takes another pace forwards.
‘Tarr – put the gun down.’
Skelgill has risen to his feet. He may wonder what thoughts are running through Jed Tarr’s mind at this moment. That he is a hard case is not in doubt. Just meeting him confirms that fact – not to mention the disreputable CV that DS Leyton’s team has unearthed. He will not shirk at using violence. But will he be computing the odds? The gun is a traditional side-by-side affair. He might have more ammunition in his pockets, but two shots are all he has in hand. And, if he has counted, he and the coven behind him – for what it might be worth in a fight – are lined up against a menacing Londoner and fifteen aggrieved Cumbrian farmers – with whose precious livestock (indeed very livelihoods) he and his coterie have taken severe liberties. Discounting the belligerent Cockney, whom he could shoot, who on earth would sensibly take on fifteen aggrieved Cumbrian farmers? (Ask the 1972 All Blacks.)
But Tarr finds himself between a rock and a hard place.
His paymasters are behind him and an uncertain fate stands ahead.
As DS Leyton takes another step towards him, now approaching within to six feet, Tarr is prompted by his limited instincts.
The gun is still broken and – since he holds the dogs – his left hand is not free to snap up the barrel in the normal rapid manner a shooter would employ as he raises it to fire. Thus the action becomes more ungainly, one of leverage against the forearm – and in this moment Skelgill yells out.
‘Leyton!’
His cry causes a split second of distraction. Tarr turns his head to see where the voice has come from, still trying to close the gun. He finally succeeds – but only as Skelgill hurls the axe – and perhaps this is what his warning to his colleague meant.
In a Western of old, or perhaps a Bond movie of today, such an act would see the hatchet bury itself between the shoulder blades of the villain and terminate his role. But, accurate with his left arm though Skelgill might be, such an outcome would be too much to ask for.
However, there is a melodramatic outcome of sorts – for the spinning axe at least finds its target. It strikes Tarr on the back of a leg with the full force of its steel head – and instantly it takes him down onto one knee with a sharp cry of pain.
DS Leyton might give the appearance of being athletically challenged, but in this moment he lowers a shoulder and there is a blur as he barges Tarr completely off his feet. The gun discharges with a flash of orange and a colossal bang that reverberates about the rocky amphitheatre – but DS Leyton is not hit and the weapon clatters onto the stony ground as he brings his bulk to bear upon his foe. The dogs – watchful thus far – suddenly join the fray – but only by enthusiastically biting the ankles of their hissing and spitting and kicking keeper.
A second later Arthur Hope lumbers into action, and there is the thwack of solid thudding punches and corresponding groans. From behind this little stramash the line of farmers makes its charge. The coven now cowers yet closer together – the smaller members retreating to the back of the group. Skelgill watches, inhaling through bared teeth, a look of trepidation taking over his countenance; a citizens’ arrest of uncertain protocol is about to be enacted.
And then he sees – with perhaps a tinge of regret – a superior resolution as far as the law of the land is concerned – for into the mine swings another vehicle – and another, and two more – and to Skelgill’s relief they flicker with the reassuringly familiar blue lights of the emergency services.
*
By the time Skelgill has retrieved his rope from the iron anchor above the Apse and lowered himself by means of the Dülfersitz, the traditional gearless abseil, some sort of order has been established in the quarry below. He jogs across the bedrock.
Jed Tarr is handcuffed and lying face down.
DS Leyton has the gun safely in his possession.
Arthur Hope holds the two Alsatians on their leashes. (They recognise Skelgill and seem pleased to see him.)
The coven is being processed by the police – several of its male members are noticeably bruised and bleeding, and looking none too well for their introduction to the shepherding community. However, sympathy does not seem to be going about in large supply; most of the officers are local men, and like Skelgill they are well acquainted with their farming brethren. Skelgill makes a point of thanking each of the latter in person.
But he keeps his words of gratitude brief, for there is a more pressing matter. He detaches himself from the main throng and strides across to a uniformed constable who stands to attention beside a squad car.
‘Dodd.’
‘Sir – glad you’re alright.’
‘I need your car, Dodd.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’ve got to find DS Jones.’
‘We’ve got her, sir – she’s at the Langdale Arms with a WPC and the other girl. A paramedic has stayed just to check they’re okay.’
‘What?’
‘The tracker, sir – that’s how come we’re all here, sir.’
‘You mean Leyton didn’t call you?’
‘No, sir.’
Skelgill is nonplussed. PC Dodd continues.
‘The tracker began flashing, sir – about a quarter-to-eleven. It was moving south from Keswick – heading down this way. We tried to call you but there was no reply.’
‘Aye – I was on my bike – then I lost the signal.’
‘And we lost the tracker, too, sir – at about eleven-thirty p.m. – but then it came back on again just after midnight – we found her where you’d told her to hide, sir.’
Skelgill’s brow is furrowed and for a few moments he stands in pensive silence. The eager constable begins to look concerned – perhaps he has upset the plans of this infamously enigmatic officer?
‘She was in Keswick, you say?’
‘That’s right, sir – the signal started up more or less exactly at the point of the last trace on Tuesday night.’
Skelgill is nodding to himself.
‘Good job, Dodd.’
Now PC Dodd – who is no fool – is looking at Skelgill with a certain mixture of fascination and admiration. He risks interrupting his superior’s thoughts.
‘Sir?’
‘Aye?’
‘How did you know – to come here, sir?’
Skelgill manufactures a wry grin.
‘Let’s say I got my own signal.’
PC Dodd understands this is not to be questioned further. He nods obediently. However, in the avoidance of doubt, Skelgill adds a rider.
‘But if anyone asks – let’s say I received yours.’
‘I understand, sir.’
Now Skelgill revises his plan of taking the car – instead he strides across to the milling group of police and farmers. They have the recumbent coven members lined against the rock wall – most are huddled in their cloaks, a couple still hooded – but as Skelgill ranges along their line, like a witness at an identity parade, he finds familiar faces, some glowering, others frightened: Dr Wolfstein; Peter Henry Rick; the publican from the Langdale Arms and the two portly sales reps he and DS Jones had seen there; Reginald Pope of Pope & Parish land agents; then several he does not know, two of them elderly females; and finally – still hooded, but distinctive for the embroidered cloak – the Magistra.
Skelgill stands motionless for a moment. The person does not respond, but there is perhaps the hint of a flinch, as if it is apparent what is coming. He reaches down and flips back the hood.
Mrs Robinson.
“The leader is always female, Inspector.”
23. LOCK-IN
‘Guv – I just found the pies.’
‘It’s a reet proper lock-in, marra.’
Skelgill sounds buoyant; it must be adrenaline that refuses to abandon his bloodstream.
‘I’ve turned a blind eye to enough of ’em, Guv – ’bout time I had one of my own.’
DS Leyton resumes his seat at the hearth. Skelgill has kindled a crackling blaze, and the aroma of wood smoke fills the air. They have hauled close a sofa – on which lounge he and DS Jones – and an easy chair for DS Leyton. The men have pints of ale standing upon a low oak table, but DS Jones – who has been advised to avoid alcohol – nurses a mug of hot chocolate and has her feet tucked beneath her. The WPC has escorted Irina Yanukovych to hospital for a check-up. It is just after two a.m. and they have the Langdale Arms at their disposal.
‘Where are they then?’
‘In the oven, Guv – take half an hour – I thought it would be quicker than microwaving them individually.’
‘How many?’
‘About a dozen, Guv.’
‘Nice one, Leyton.’
DS Leyton grins and raises his glass.
‘Cheers, Guv.’
Skelgill reciprocates, and smacks his lips after a long draught.
‘He might be a crook – but he keeps a decent pint.’
‘Fancy him being Polish, eh, Guv? He covered that one up – what does it say over the door – Graham Parker?’
‘Maybe he covered it up too well.’
Skelgill’s remark hints at some suspicion hitherto unshared. DS Leyton shrugs and examines the clarity of his best bitter against the flames of the fire.
‘He had me fooled, Guv – then again, I struggle to tell a Brummie from a Scouser – you northerners all sound the same to me.’
Skelgill is about to reprimand his colleague for taking such a dire liberty with England’s geography and dialects – but there is a sharp electronic alert and DS Jones reaches for Skelgill’s phone. The pub’s Wi-Fi is providing access to real-time updates that are being posted by various teams of officers, hurriedly mobilised in the wake of the arrests – for perhaps DS Jones’s most significant revelation has been that other girls are likely being held at locations throughout the county. Now she scrolls through the latest news as her colleagues look on.
‘This is about him, Guv – the publican.’ She scans the contents of the message. ‘Real name Chechlacz. Admits to being Yashin’s direct contact. Claims his family moved from Poland to Wolverhampton when he was a teenager. Spent twenty years working in the licensed trade in the West Midlands. Moved to Prague in 2010 – ran a nightclub there until about six months ago.’
DS Leyton holds out an upturned palm.
‘There you go, Guv – that’s your Wolfstein connection – they must have had some dodgy business going on in Prague.’
Skelgill is nodding, though he holds his peace. Now DS Leyton addresses DS Jones.
‘So, if he’s the middleman – Chechlacz – how come he didn’t meet you at the station?’
She shakes her head.
‘I don’t know – I suppose he had to be at work here – with it being evening.’
DS Leyton nods equably.
‘What did the Rick geezer say to you?’
‘He said, “Come this way” a few times – but otherwise not a lot – and remember I was pretending not to speak English – so there was virtually no conversation.’
‘And you weren’t worried – when you got off the bus and into his motor?’
Again she shakes her head.
‘I knew DI Smart’s team would be right behind.’
DS Leyton flashes an alarmed glance at Skelgill, who is staring doggedly into the flames. It is evident that DS Jones does not yet know the full story. She follows her fellow sergeant’s gaze and looks inquiringly at Skelgill. After a moment he folds his arms and turns to speak to her.
‘The numskulls tailed the bus towards Cockermouth.’
It takes DS Jones a second or two to process the implications of this detail.
‘But you were tracking me.’
Skelgill remains silent, and though he nods it falls to DS Leyton to elucidate.
‘As far as Keswick, girl – then the signal stopped.’
Now DS Jones sucks in her cheeks, emphasising her prominent cheekbones. She gives a vexed shake of the head.
‘She tricked me – I saw no reason to be cautious – the guy dropped me off right outside the B&B – she was waiting at the door – she didn’t look a threat and I was excited – that they’d taken me to the place that Pavlenko had disappeared from – I knew I was onto something. She showed me to what was to be my room – there’s a complete bedsit in the basement – she said she’d bring me some tea – but, the next thing, I realised I was locked in.’
‘I said to the Guvnor, you vanished into thin air – didn’t I, Guv?’
Skelgill nods reluctantly.
‘But you knew I was there – didn’t you?’
What begins as a confident assertion ends on a note of rising apprehension. DS Leyton remains discomfited, while Skelgill appears torn about this matter. But DS Jones has a supplementary question.
‘But I saw you, Guv – about midnight?’
Now it is Skelgill’s turn to look alarmed.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a narrow skylight high up on the wall of the room – I saw you poking about outside the guest house – you did something with a gnome – I wondered if you were hiding a camera.’
Skelgill is genuinely shaken – to think he was just feet away from her! He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It takes him a few moments to respond – as if he is harbouring second thoughts about relating the details of her disappearance.
‘Thing is Jones – you were effectively underground – the transmitter couldn’t get through – neither from that cellar – nor the caves at Blackbeck.’
At this juncture DS Jones would seem entitled to express dissatisfaction with the performance of the insurance policy that was supposed to have underwritten her risky escapade. However, with the dawning realisation that they had lost track of her comes another revelation.
‘Guv – when you appeared in the cave – I’d only been there maybe ten or fifteen minutes.’
She evidently feels no requirement to iterate in full the implications of her observation, but – like PC Dodd an hour or so ago – she has deduced that Skelgill was somehow ahead of the game. DS Leyton, of course, has an even sharper perspective – having been directed earlier still by Skelgill to mobilise what local troops Arthur Hope could muster.
Skelgill continues to sit with folded arms. Now he manufactures an expression patently designed to reassure his colleagues that whatever it was he did was above board.
‘I worked it out – with a bit of help.’
‘What kind of help, Guv?’
DS Leyton is intrigued, but Skelgill only taps his temple with an index finger. His manner is rather condescending, in that it might imply he believes such an approach could be
a novelty to his subordinate. However, he deigns to elaborate.
‘I was considering, why would Wolfstein choose to settle in the Lakes? Then it suddenly struck me – that he could have gone to school round here. On Bass Lake, these sixth-formers came sculling past me – one of them was a German – though you wouldn’t have known it. I got George to check the Oakthwaite files – and sure enough Wolfstein was there – in the Seventies.’
Skelgill is again staring into the fire. From either side of him, sergeants Leyton and Jones trade glances – although if there is a message implicit in their exchange it is difficult to discern, other than it suggests a certain recurring bafflement at their superior’s methods. In the meantime, he continues.
‘Remember, Leyton – you told us that Blackbeck Castle – at about the same time – had been used by some kind of New Age sect?’ (DS Leyton nods in confirmation.) ‘I thought – what if that was when this black magic business started – if he’d been involved as a young man – then the coven kept going and he stayed in touch? One day he inherits the family fortune – it coincides with him needing to get out of Prague – the castle comes on the market and his old acquaintance Reginald Pope is on hand to sort him out a good deal.’
DS Leyton looks substantially satisfied with this explanation.
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 24
