Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

But it is plain he is now distracted. He snatches up his phone and jacket and turns to leave his office. DS Leyton sounds rather panicky.

  ‘Where’re you going, Guv?’

  Skelgill pauses briefly to answer.

  ‘Home.’ He grins a little manically. ‘Then Pirate Pete’s.’

  *

  ‘Black Beezer, thou reckon – pre-63?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Across the table Skelgill detects suspicion in the disconcertingly familiar grey-green eyes of his cousin – nay, third cousin – Adrian Oswaldtwistle, aka biker Mouse. Indeed the man, now in full motorcycling regalia, eases back in his seat and interlocks with some difficulty his muscular leather-clad arms. Skelgill meets his penetrating gaze in a way that is steely and yet not unblinking, knowing that a certain combination of determination and respect is required to set the right tone – that he means business, but that he appreciates he is encroaching upon politically sensitive territorial waters. After a few tense moments, Mouse relents. He releases the breath he has been holding, relaxes his arms, and lays one oil-ingrained hand palm upwards on the table of the small transport café in which they have rendezvoused – Pete’s Pit Stop.

  ‘Used to own one mesen, Skelgill.’ He makes a face that, somewhere beneath its deep-seated pugnacity, might hint at regret. ‘Fifteen year back. Proper Gold Flash, mind – colourwise, like?’

  Skelgill nods. He too relaxes, and reaches for his tea. It is a titanic mug – it must hold a pint – and he notices concentric tidemarks around the inside. Though Mouse’s answer is oblique he takes satisfaction in its unguarded delivery. Moreover, that his cousin calls him by his familiar moniker – “Skelgill” (a longstanding arrangement due to there being a sibling, Daniel Oswaldtwistle, now living out of the district). And to some extent it reflects the protocol of nicknames among the bikers’ chapter – a motley crew represented in the café by ‘Bert Bowlaff’, ‘Spike’, ‘Spanner’ and Jim Hawkins – the latter’s actually his real name, but one that hardly could be improved upon as one of the Penrith Pirates.

  For perhaps the first time in his chequered riding career Skelgill actually looks like a serious biker – for he wears a newly acquired all-black outfit of leathers, boots and helmet. Somewhat snug, it must be said – and contributing to his stiff-legged ‘cowpoke’s walk’ – the ensemble is the product of an impromptu pub negotiation. Eavesdropping upon a fellow drinker bemoaning that he had “lost his bottle” – following an incident involving several Herdwick sheep and a dry stone wall on the single track road leading up to Watendlath – Skelgill had not been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Further overhearing the man’s declaration that he was going to take up the safer sport of fishing, he was reminded that only that very morning he had been sorting through his rods and had determined to put up for sale a beachcasting rig that had fallen into disuse. A negotiation had ensued. Soon the pair were exchanging hyperbole and downplaying flaws, in the case of the outfit the likes of “Yon jacket’s got a bulletproof Kevlar lining,” and “Scrats ont’ skid-lid’ll polish up a treat.”

  As such, Skelgill’s entrance at the Pirates’ unofficial HQ has raised few eyebrows. Although on reflection perhaps Mouse had prepared his hearties for Skelgill’s arrival. Thus accepted into the fold, he now gently presses his point.

  ‘Does it ring any bells?’

  Mouse, however, might be keeping his powder dry.

  ‘Have you tried t’ BSA Owners’ Club?’

  ‘Is there one?’

  ‘Aye – course there is. Branch in Warrington’d be nearest, I reckon – else ower in Geordieland. Take your pick. They both organise runs through t’ Lakes.’

  Skelgill scowls. He decides to be more candid. ‘I’m speaking of Workington. It’s not exactly tourist country, Mouse.’

  Skelgill perceives that his cousin’s hackles rise – but there now berths alongside their table a monumental vessel – a distended stomach clad in an ill-fitting striped apron worn over biker leggings. High up in the rigging float two great flying saucers. This is ‘Pirate Pete’ – a human behemoth, proprietor, and active member of the motorcycling fraternity when not frying up. He bears in each giant paw a copiously heaped all-day breakfast, pre-paid by Skelgill. As the plates come in to land Mouse demonstrates a hitherto unseen alacrity in making a dart at the red plastic ketchup dispenser. After his first greedy mouthful, which may have begun to assuage his reservations, he gives a shrug.

  ‘I need more to go on, Skelgill.’

  For his part, Skelgill has not been tardy in tucking in, and now he too has to finish chewing before he can reply. Perhaps he prolongs the process in order to give himself time to compose a suitably worded entreaty.

  ‘There’s a cross-forces investigation in progress. Us and Greater Manchester. We’re the poor relations – I’m the poor relation.’ He makes a self-reproaching groan. ‘Someone’s doing their level best to make a monkey out of me.’

  In appealing to his cousin’s partisan instincts Skelgill hopes to elicit a modicum of pathos – and perhaps he sees a glimmer of optimism in a creased brow.

  ‘Have thee talked to Arthur Hope? It’s mainly vintage bikes he fixes.’

  Skelgill nods. This has occurred to him; Arthur Hope’s isolated sheep farm houses a café that attracts bikers from far and wide, and the old fellow is a motorcycling hobbyist; but he is reluctant to trouble a close family friend and mentor.

  ‘I reckoned you’d be more likely to have your ear to the ground.’ Skelgill now sails closer to the wind. He lowers his voice. ‘Besides – we’re talking drugs.’

  Mouse affects to recoil – behind the tangle of whiskers is a look of affront – but his eyes retain a cagey gleam. He glances proprietorially about the bikers’ mess; his surly crew, like bloated bluebottles upon carrion, barely stir from sucking up their baked beans.

  ‘You know our motto, Skelgill. Ride Clean.’

  This phrase smacks of satire, Skelgill knowing what he does of his cousin’s hell-raising past – and what he witnesses from time to time, members of the chapter tearing up the Lakeland lanes and passes; raucous meets, wild camping and wilder bonfires flared by gasoline that light up the fells. Indeed, for all he knows his cousin has invented this aphorism on the hoof. Insignia worn on jackets features a skull and crossbones, and the motto ‘Take No Prisoners’. The notorious Pirates might claim to ride clean – but as for how they spend their downtime he suspects that is probably a different matter. There is one other niggling fly in the ointment – Skelgill has read in the local Gazette of a simmering feud between motorcycle gangs from east and west Cumbria. Ostensibly a turf war over ‘runs’ – popular cruising routes, especially those that take in the spectacular high passes, Whinlatter, Newlands and Honister, along the boundary between the ancient east and west districts – now it strikes him there could be something more sinister afoot. If tensions are running high, then Mouse is hardly likely to pick up the phone to his Workington counterpart – from whom in any event no favours would be forthcoming.

  A silence of sorts descends while the pair eat assiduously; Pete’s mountainous brunches require a carefully planned strategic ascent. After some rewarding endeavour in the foothills, Skelgill speaks in somewhat beseeching tones.

  ‘Aye, well – if there’s a way you can put the word out – I’d much appreciate it.’ He shrugs as if, after all, it is of no great consequence. ‘It might be sommat and nowt – except I’ve got less than nowt to go on.’

  Still Mouse exhibits no great sympathy. In part this can be attributed to his inherent demeanour – that he invariably looks ready to fight. Skelgill can only hope the seed he has sown may bear fruit in the days to come. When Mouse does at last respond, it is with a somewhat mundane observation.

  ‘There’s folk got five or six bikes in their lock-ups. Some they only bring out once a year.’

  Skelgill nods. He tries to avoid giving any further impression of expectancy, and indeed takes up a more conversational approach.

  �
��What about you – what’s your latest project?’

  Mouse emits a grudging growl.

  ‘Nowt special – I’m doin’ up an old Kwacker – 636. Maria wants sommat a bit lighter for knocking about town.’ But now he grins, rather malevolently. ‘When I’ve done it’ll gan like kack off a shovel.’

  Skelgill notes the practical contradiction – speed limits versus velocity – but considers it would be churlish to point this out. Ironically it gives him the opportunity to test the claim made by Marty Graham.

  ‘Wouldn’t she be better off with a little motor – for the supermarket? And what if you pair have a bairn?’

  Mouse does not reply immediately, and Skelgill looks up from his plate to see he is glowering more fiercely than ever.

  ‘We live ower a shop – off licence, an’ all. An’ there’s a chippy int’ row.’ He ignores the reference to possible offspring. ‘Happen – the only car you’ll get me inside’s a long black yan.’

  This seems to be a categorical negation – not that Skelgill has attached any serious credence to Marty Graham’s patently desperate distraction tactic. He responds with a look of alarm to Mouse’s fatalistic retort.

  ‘Aye – well, take it easy, marra. I’ve only just put me suit into the cleaners.’

  Mouse acknowledges with a sharp grimace and scrapes energetically at his plate. The pair have been neck and neck in the quest to conquer Pete’s fry, and now they finish in more or less a dead heat. Sinking back, replete – as they both do – Skelgill absently pulls his mobile phone from the breast pocket of his leather jacket. It is still set to silent mode – and he realises there is a message. He conceals his alarm – it is a command to appear before the Chief, lacking any explanation. Casually he swallows the last of his tea and leans forward to place the heels of his hands on the edge of the table, an indication that he intends to rise.

  ‘I’d better make some tracks. I might take up your suggestion of a chinwag with Arthur Hope.’

  Now it is Mouse that suddenly looks expectantly at his cousin.

  ‘Can thee do us a favour, then – garn through Kezzick, are thee?’

  Skelgill hesitates. He is not sure it is a real plan.

  ‘Aye – I could be, aye – after I’ve called back in at the station.’

  Mouse reaches down beside him and carefully lifts a sleek matt black full-face crash helmet.

  ‘Can thee drop this off for Maria – she’s pulling pints in the Twa Tups. I gave a lass a lift into Pereth this morning.’

  Skelgill is put on the spot – though a detour is involved he cannot very well decline when he has come to ask his cousin for a potentially far more significant favour.

  ‘Aye – no bother.’

  *

  As Skelgill swings his Triumph Legend TT into the car park behind police headquarters he senses he has an audience, a cluster of plainclothes personnel beside the back entrance. He slams through the last couple of gears to produce a throaty double-roar from the 900cc triple; a non-biker might think it is a necessary operation. He slews into a vacant parking space, kicks down the side stand, cuts the engine and dismounts. But he realises his troublesome spine is playing up, and he takes a moment to flex his vertebrae, forcing his fists into the small of his back, closing his eyes as he tilts his face up to the bright summer sky. And then he feels the pressure of a hand upon his midriff.

  ‘Now I understand why you got so excited at the mention of the vintage motorcycle. And you have impounded it!’

  The voice belongs to DS Eve.

  Skelgill realises she must have been among the group – and a glance across tells him it is DI Smart and his Wirecutter team. DI Smart is affecting disinterest, but he can see that DS Wythenshawe and both of the young female detective constables are looking on. It is a smoking break. The two DCs wave their cigarettes daintily at shoulder height – but DS Wythenshawe has his cupped, aping the spiv-like manner of his superior. Skelgill lifts his visor – DS Eve shows no sign of having indulged in the habit. But still she has the palm of her hand pressed against his jacket, and there is a cat-like narrowing of her eyes, as though she revels in the texture of the leather. He does not yet know her well enough to decide if she is teasing him. Conscious of the onlookers, he moves from her reach and sweeps an arm stiffly over the length of the bike.

  ‘Nah – this is mine. It’s not as old as it looks – it’s the traditional styling. I don’t get to ride much.’

  She takes a step closer to him.

  ‘But today?’

  Her voice has taken on a purring quality. She strokes the swollen steel of the teardrop shaped petrol tank.

  ‘I went to talk to a – chap I know. He’s involved with the local Penrith bikers. You tend to get a better reception if you look the part.’ He gestures vaguely at the breast of his jacket with a gauntleted hand. ‘I’m on my way to see another fellow – runs a workshop on his farm, specialises in vintage models.’

  ‘Why don’t I come?’

  Before Skelgill can respond and as quickly as her suggestion DS Eve slips past him, steps on the rear footrest and with considerable ease mounts the pillion.

  ‘Aren’t I supposed to be given exposure to the grass roots?’

  Constrained in his suit and the confines of the helmet, Skelgill’s body language – perhaps a robotic tensing – cannot easily be read. Clad in black – stranded, now stationary in the sheltered suntrap that is the car park – he experiences a stifling rush of heat. Perspiration prickles his scalp. Yet for her part, in her slick leather leggings and the figure-hugging bolero jacket DS Eve looks like a model casually poised for a biker-chick photo shoot. Indeed, she unhooks the helmet that he has carried over his handlebars, and sets it between her thighs. She regards him provocatively, hands upon hips. He forces himself not to look at DI Smart’s coterie; he knows they will be agog. He realises that his stock objection to anyone ever hitching a ride – that he has no spare helmet – is nullified. However, there is the summons to see the Chief.

  ‘You might not be all that warm. Especially around your middle.’

  Even as he utters the protest, it feels like a limp excuse. Moreover, he delivers it without conviction.

  ‘Shan’t I have you for protection?’

  Skelgill snatches a sideways glance across the car park. Does he detect a pained look of dismay upon DI Smart’s weasely countenance?

  He tilts his head towards the building. ‘What about –’

  ‘I have finished with DI Smart for today – I planned to get onto the May fatalities with DS Leyton’

  Skelgill can hear his pulse in his temples; it might almost be the impatient throb of an idling engine. The temperature is becoming unbearable. His own voice sounds strangely disembodied.

  ‘Leyton can wait.’

  So, it seems, can the Chief.

  DS Eve smiles victoriously. She pulls on the helmet – she seems to know how to fasten and then adjust the strap. Skelgill, his jaw set, has to grab the handlebars and make an awkward hop-cum-lunge to get his left leg over the bike. His weight landing on the seat causes her to slide down against him. He turns his head to speak to her.

  ‘If you feel behind – there’s a sissy bar. Grab it with each hand. Keep yourself in place.’

  But DS Eve has other ideas. As he fires up the ignition and hauls the heavy machine off its stand her left arm snakes around his waist and she grips the buckle of the integral belt of his leather leggings, the coolness of her thumb shocking against his flesh. It is the cue for the Triumph to buck and surge; she arches her back like a one-handed rodeo rider.

  Simultaneously the driver door of a stylish yellow hatchback opens. It is a new vehicle and as such it would not have been familiar to Skelgill as he drove in, habitually scanning to see who was about. (DI Smart’s red convertible for instance, and DS Leyton’s rather tired family saloon.) This is DS Jones’s new car. She climbs out; her gaze tracks the motorbike as it rounds the corner of the building. Though her lips part her features remain comp
osed – perhaps she too senses scrutiny. And from the group – as she locks her car – DI Smart detaches himself. He takes a decisive drag of his cigarette, discards the butt, and – now smirking – saunters across to intercept her.

  8. FOUR WHEELS BAD

  Thursday, afternoon

  ‘You ride well – since you don’t get to do it often.’

  Skelgill’s tight jacket thwarts any puffing out of the chest, and his reaction comes over as something of an affected shrug. DS Eve has dismounted, nimbly, and watches as he runs through the shutting-down sequence – kill switch, lights, parking lock, choke and fuel tap. Perhaps uncharacteristically, and even to his own surprise, he returns the compliment.

  ‘You seemed to know what you were doing.’

  She slips off her helmet, the two-handed lifting action briefly exposing a tanned, toned midriff. Her dark complexion seems flushed. She casually shakes out her raven hair and regards him quizzically.

  ‘Let’s say I’m not a biking virgin.’

  There is a playful note in her voice, and Skelgill feels his own cheeks beginning to colour – and he experiences a fleeting hallucinatory rush of motion, an echo of their just-finished ride revisiting his body. She had been an uninhibited pillion passenger, marshalling the twin forces of inertia and momentum, her lithe form melding with his, together swaying to and fro, left and right, the fulcrum of her pelvis against the base of his spine, her inner thighs gripping like an equestrian guiding her mount. And she had been vocal, approving of daring overtakes, and manoeuvres when either speed or caution was called for, and – urged on – he chose the former.

  And now he feels an anticlimactic weakening; that his limbs are jelly and only the exoskeleton of the suit keeps him upright. The changed surroundings reflect the contrast – from the leafy winding rollercoaster of Borrowdale to the bleak uplands that now encircle them like one great undulating monolith, permanent, static, immune to the elements. Even in bright sunshine this lonely gateway to wild fell country can seem foreboding, warning the walker not to take lightly the challenge that lies ahead. Hope Farm is the last homely house – so why not check out if the hand-painted sign that says ‘Café’ is for real, or just a cruel joke played by the mean-spirited landowner.