Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Do you live near an Asda?’

  ‘Not far – Carlisle. I commute – it’s only forty minutes. I worked there before I joined Marty – at a Volkswagen dealership. I was their F&I manager.’

  ‘Come again?’ Skelgill wonders if she has cursed.

  ‘Finance and insurance. That’s where they make all their money.’ She gives an ironic laugh. ‘There’s no profit in new cars.’

  ‘There’s plenty in used ones, by the look of it.’

  ‘There can be. But there are risks attached. The credit side can be a bit hairy.’

  ‘Marty seems to be doing alright for himself.’

  She smiles reflectively.

  ‘I’d say that’s a fairly recent phenomenon.’

  ‘What – since he took you on?’

  Skelgill says this a little mischievously – and she recognises the compliment. However, her response has a note of qualification.

  ‘I think there’s more to it than that. But – yes – administration isn’t his strong suit.’

  ‘Aye, well – happen that’s another thing that runs in the family. That and black sheep.’

  Again Skelgill realises he has left ajar a door – any moment she might ask him what his job is. Perhaps he is pushing too hard, too soon, for information. But his words prove prophetic in an unexpected fashion – in the shape of a Herdwick ewe dozing upon the tarmac in a patch of sunlight – shorn of its shaggy fleece it displays a charcoal undercoat. Skelgill brakes and indicates with a palm towards the animal.

  ‘There’s your black sheep.’

  His companion coos with approval, although to Skelgill’s eye the creature is far from cute. As the sleepy sheep staggers to its feet and scarpers, Skelgill can’t help noticing that the woman’s bare arms are finely pimpled and beneath her tight blouse there are other indications that she may be feeling the cold.

  ‘Want to take my jacket?’

  ‘Oh – I’m fine – I’ve got an overnight bag in the boot – there’s a cardigan if I need it.’

  But she shivers.

  ‘There’s a pub coming up – Kirkstile Inn – we can get you a hot toddy.’

  She chuckles approvingly.

  ‘Well, maybe a G&T.’

  *

  ‘Are you sure these are not doubles?’

  Trish has returned from the ladies’ room; she had rather playfully declared that she must “powder her nose” while Skelgill was obtaining refills at the bar.

  ‘You don’t get owt for nowt round here, lass.’

  He gestures around the quaint “Inn with rooms”; they are seated in a cosy alcove off the public bar. His rustic turn of phrase might almost be intended to disguise deliberate ambiguity. Trish shrugs phlegmatically.

  ‘I suppose it’s these fancy gins they use nowadays – they taste stronger.’

  ‘Aye – landlord reckons that one’s flavoured with local bilberry – they make it up near Bass Lake.’

  She takes a mouthful, thirstily. He notes she does not dwell to savour the wild fruit.

  ‘But not with water from the lake, I hope?’

  She giggles – and Skelgill has to resist the urge to defend the clear waters of his beloved fishing haunt, of the lake flushed by the constant Cumbrian rains and the rushing River Derwent. But perhaps she detects some hesitation in his manner, for she reaches across the table and presses his hand – by way of thanks for the drinks? It strikes him that she has not once asked him what he thinks of her car – and he is beginning to wonder if she is treating this outing as a date – or at least the precursor to one. If so, he is partly to blame. That he has plied her with a second double gin certainly gives him a moral predicament. When they end the ‘road test’ and return for his motorbike, he certainly can’t let her drive her car home – she’ll be over the limit – and more if they have another drink. Will they have another drink? He is already on his second pint of local ale – albeit a low-gravity session brew, bolstered by hops for flavour. He should make his move.

  ‘So what’s it like being Marty’s right-hand woman?’

  ‘Girl Friday?’

  She chuckles again and ducks her head over her glass. He wonders if he detects dark roots in her bright blonde hair; it is hard to tell, for an untrained eye such as his. At least her manner does not seem defensive. Her suggestion of the more demeaning job title hints at disloyalty; perhaps the gin is doing its job.

  ‘Is that how he treats you?’

  But when Trish looks up she seems far from despondent. She leans forward to gaze at him; it is a pose that invites his perusal, and not just of her large dark eyes. He feels himself being drawn towards her.

  ‘He probably considers me to be dumber than I am.’

  ‘I can see why he might think –’

  Skelgill stalls mid-sentence.

  ‘That I’m just an attractive blonde with big tits?’

  He jerks back and holds up his hands in protest. Is she digging him out of his hole – or is she sounding him out for similar motives? Yet in her demeanour there is no antipathy – only alluring warmth. Notwithstanding – he retreats to safer ground.

  ‘But if you’re doing all his finance stuff – how can he think that?’

  Her eyes widen conspiratorially.

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty he keeps from me. Marty lives half his life in the world of the dark web – I mean – not literally – but, you know?’

  Skelgill nods encouragingly, though he does not really grasp the allusion.

  ‘He has contacts in the police, too. He boasts about it. There’s an inspector – whom he knew over at Penrith before the business went bust.’

  ‘Aye?’

  Skelgill is otherwise stunned into silence. Who? Helpfully, she elaborates.

  ‘A sleazy guy – thinks he’s the bees knees.’ (Already, he guesses whom.) ‘He called yesterday. Marty wasn’t in. He was pumping me –’ She involuntarily laughs and puts her hand over her mouth. ‘But he fell for it – he didn’t guess I’m not so dumb.’

  Though Skelgill is nodding convivially his head is in a small spin. Is she saying she covered up for Marty – or simply that she knows how to keep her own nose clean? And what about when she finds out that he, too, is a police inspector? He is reminded he is operating on borrowed time.

  ‘What did the copper want to know?’

  Trish sits back reflectively, her manner perhaps a hint more guarded now – or it could just be that alcohol and recall are somewhat incompatible.

  ‘Oh – Marty has some connections in Manchester. He wanted to know what I knew about them.’ With long pink nails she picks away a loose strand of blonde hair that has adhered to her lipstick. ‘Actually – those guys were at the showroom when you came – on Monday.’

  Skelgill feigns indifference, as though these are just mundane details of her job that she is relating to him. But his thoughts are working overtime. He hasn’t forgotten that she had evidently been briefed to head him off – a ham-fisted performance to which it now seems she was a reluctant conscript. And he realises DI Alec Smart may have seen the report on the system – about the BMW coupé with the cloned number plate – indeed DS Jones might properly have brought it to his attention – odds on she will have joined the dots long before anyone else. It would explain why Smart is sniffing around.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That I knew nothing about it – it’s not my business what Marty gets up to – I’m just front-of-house. He seemed to have no trouble with that.’

  She smiles contentedly, and Skelgill forces a grin, though the image of a preening DI Smart irks him.

  ‘What does Marty get up to – that’s got the CID on his case?’

  ‘Oh – the second-hand car trade – a lot happens off the books.’

  ‘You mean – like – cash deals?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, what – some VAT racket?’

  She shakes her head and regards him patiently.

  ‘VAT is only charged on the
margin for second-hand cars – but when it’s cash-in-hand who knows whether there’s any profit being made? I expect Marty can buy cheap in West Cumbria – sell for more in Manchester. And I can’t do the accounts without paperwork. I’ve got a file containing half a dozen cars still registered in the names of their old keepers. A car disappeared on Tuesday – Marty hasn’t said a word to me yet.’

  Skelgill nods comprehendingly – although her explanation leaves him a little baffled. Trish drinks and he sees she has almost finished. He senses she would prefer to chat about other things – but that she appreciates he is entertained by family misconduct. He grins roguishly.

  ‘So – I’d be alright for a cash deal from Marty – family discount?’

  Trish affects offence; she pouts, her full lips imploring.

  ‘I thought you wanted my baby?’

  He almost chokes on his drink – until he realises she means the MG. He makes a supplicatory gesture with his palms and a face of mea culpa – a reaction that appears to please her. She wags a finger at him – but then to his surprise she proceeds to answer his question.

  ‘A few weeks ago – he sold a car to someone he said was a cousin or something – a Megan Graham?’

  Skelgill manages to look perplexed – as if this is a person he cannot place.

  ‘Have you seen the size of the Graham clan?’

  Trish titters.

  ‘Well – anyway – that was a cash deal – so I expect there was a discount – and I haven’t seen an invoice – surprise, surprise.’

  Skelgill banks the unexpected information – improbable though it seems. He feels he is riding his luck – and takes this opportunity to play what might be his final card.

  ‘No offence – but I’d quite fancied that black sporty number next to where you’d parked your MG last time – the one with the white stripes.’

  She looks a little astonished.

  ‘That’s the one that was taken on Tuesday! It’s probably screeching around Manchester.’

  Skelgill nods musingly. He knows exactly where the car is, and that its screeching days are over. She regards him with a look of exaggerated sympathy.

  ‘But I think – what with your classic motorcycle – and things – you’re more of an MG kind of person.’

  ‘What is an MG-kind-of-person?’

  Trish knocks back the last of her drink, closing her eyes.

  ‘Independent. Individualistic. Probably the sort of person that doesn’t have on underwear beneath those biker leggings.’

  Skelgill colours. He is suddenly conscious of the tight fit of his leather trousers. There is little recourse but to drain his own glass, prise hers from her grip, and rise stiffly to his feet.

  10. LEATHER MAN

  Friday, early morning

  It is no mean feat to get up before dawn in midsummer in northern Britain. Crummock Water, the lake across which Skelgill once again finds himself staring in contemplation, has its latitude roughly on a level with the lower tip of Alaska – and so sunrise occurs at 4.30am, with twilight for a good hour prior. That said, it is well before designated breakfast time, and Skelgill – lacking his car and thus the wherewithal for self-sufficiency – finds his stomach protesting and his hangover worsening. The sudden strident trill of a wren in the gorse at his back jolts him like an alarm clock he has omitted to kill after waking prematurely.

  The bird relents and silence is soon restored. There is not a breath of wind. Crummock Water might be frozen, its surface in the flat grey morning light resembling an ice rink. He feels he could almost step out, supported by the taut meniscus, and slide to the spot where yesterday the radio antenna had projected. He shivers – it might be the memory of the freezing water – or simply his chilling discovery. But there is no trace of his exploits – the car and the motorcycle have gone, the farmers have gone, the forensic team that would have descended mob-handed is gone; even his carelessly discarded damp boxer shorts have gone.

  That Skelgill had somewhat peremptorily abandoned the scene could be attributed to several factors. He was probably half-hypothermic and thus disoriented. There was the unwelcome arrival of DI Smart – revelling in his humiliation – yes, an awkward few moments. There was DS Jones, plainly discomfited, though she did a good job of concealing it. But mostly – and this is how he sees it – he had immediately recognised the car. Only three days earlier it had been sitting on his cousin’s sales forecourt.

  Quite what he thought he was going to do – at that very moment he was unsure of. But – as he had stated to DS Jones – there was his promise to Mouse to deliver his girlfriend Maria’s helmet to the Twa Tups in Keswick – and the ride over the Newlands Pass had given him time to collect his thoughts and allow his erratic feelings to subside. It is yet to be established (or at least, he has yet hear) whether the biker dredged from the depths before him is the rider seen outside 26 Hempstead Avenue. But if he is – and Skelgill’s bones tell him yes – then there is a direct if circumstantial link between the scene of probable ‘county lines’ drug dealing and his cousin’s auto business. And, if what Trish has told him is correct, the car will easily be traceable to Marty’s Motor Mart. Whatever DI Smart is, he is not stupid – and besides (and now Skelgill’s headache jags at his temple), he has DS Jones.

  Not that Skelgill could in any way countenance brushing matters under the carpet; he has no loyalties to his wheeler-dealer cousin, and no history of liaison with him. But tenuous or not the familial connection might prove problematic. Thus compromised, he may find himself shifted off the case. Smart would be cock-a-hoop – he’d have DS Jones and DS Eve entirely at his beck and call. That is just not something he can contemplate. Things are bad enough – playing second fiddle – scratching about with local trivia while DI Smart gets to orchestrate Operation Wirecutter, the ‘Manchester connection’. And yet – if he were honest with himself – there is a silver lining, an inside track – as his productive sojourn with Trish has demonstrated. By circumventing protocol he has gained momentum. What he needs now is some direction to go with it.

  He looks at his watch. Then he shivers again – in the cool, calm of morning the leathers are not warm. Perversely, they seem to function better in the teeth of a self-induced 80mph headwind. He will be glad to get into something more comfortable – his own car, for one thing.

  *

  Skelgill is halted on the threshold of his office by the sight of his favoured mug – an oversized tankard that the catering staff rib him about when he inquires of its availability. It steams with scalding tea that can only be sourced from the canteen urn. These preferences are not widely known. And so he is only partially surprised to be met by the sight of DS Jones in her usual seat under the window, mid-conversation with DS Leyton, in his chair beside the grey filing cabinet. DS Jones smiles brightly – she has on another of her studenty outfits – pale blue slim jeans and pink pumps and matching sweatshirt that make her look younger than her twenty-six years. Skelgill, as is his wont, grimaces – it is an innate belligerence that obliges him to rebel against etiquette. He is tempted to add, to what do we own the honour? But he is reminded that she is still half in his team. In any event, DS Jones is unperturbed. DS Leyton, however, does not settle for such recalcitrance.

  ‘You alright, Guv? You’re looking a bit peaky.’

  ‘What day is it, Leyton?’

  ‘Friday, Guv.’

  Skelgill settles at his desk and regards the tea suspiciously.

  ‘That’d be it, then.’

  DS Leyton winks surreptitiously at DS Jones. They have heard this vague aphorism applied to every day of the week. They know it is all they will get when Skelgill has been up to something contentious – although sometimes it is simply that he does not want mithering.

  ‘We’re just waiting for DS Eve, Guv – there’s news coming in all over the shop.’ Skelgill makes an inarticulate grunt – he is raking in his desk for headache tablets, but to no avail. DS Leyton continues in his chipper manner. ‘Sounds lik
e you nearly got yourself into deep water, Guv.’ Skelgill glances up, his eyes suspicious. ‘Nah – I’m just pulling your leg, Guv – nifty piece of detective work – finding that sunken motor.’

  Skelgill reverts to slurping his tea.

  ‘Leyton – the aerial was sticking out of the lake.’

  ‘All the same, Guv – the divers have had a butcher’s – they reckon it was on a ledge – any minute it could have crumbled – we’d have been none the wiser. Davy Jones’s locker an’ all that.’

  ‘Lucky Arthur Hope was on hand.’ Skelgill grins ruefully. As an angler, he does not need to be told that Crummock Water off Hause Point is deep enough to submerge a ten-storey building. ‘Else I’d have had to drag the body out. Do we know who he is, yet?’

  But DS Leyton quickly shakes his head.

  ‘There was nothing on him, Guv. We’ve got no missing persons reports that match his description.’ He lifts his broad shoulders and lets them drop simultaneously. ‘Course – there’s nothing to say that he’s from around here. We’ve got a DC working on the motorbike – but with no plate numbers we’ve got one hand tied behind our back.’

  Skelgill inhales as if to speak – but then he lets the breath go and continues to gaze obdurately at his sergeant.

  ‘Best bet might be the car, Guv. It’s registered to a young geezer from Dalton-in-Furness. Except he reckons he sold it a month ago to a motor dealer in Workington. He’s got a receipt to prove it. If it’s been re-sold it looks like either the dealer or the new keeper hasn’t processed the admin yet.’

  Skelgill peers somewhat distractedly into his oversized mug.

  ‘Why don’t you get over to the dealer, then?’

  DS Leyton does not answer – but DS Jones clears her throat.

  ‘Guv – DI Smart has gone there – with DS Wythenshawe. He believes it might be connected to the Manchester end of the case – what with the cloned vehicle that was sighted nearby.’

  Skelgill realises she is being diplomatic – and, though he is sure he has not remotely hinted at his personal connection, he would not put it past her to have worked this out. He tips his head resignedly. This is something he has to accept. See what Smart comes up with. Perhaps in due course he can trump him with his ‘dumb blonde’ informer. He looks back at DS Leyton.