‘Pull in and turn off the engine.’
DS Eve does as bidden.
‘Is it the Mercedes?’
‘I’ve seen it before.’
‘For a biker you have a keen eye for cars.’
‘I’m nobbut a fair-weather biker. Mouse’ll gladly tell you that.’
He is no more forthcoming. They watch the car. In the absence of any explanation DS Eve takes the precaution of photographing it on her mobile – a simple means of capturing the registration. Nothing happens until, from further down the street, a large man lumbers, leading a lame-looking lurcher. The man lingers beside the Mercedes to light up a cigarette – the lurcher avails itself of the facility to urinate against the rear tyre. The pair move slowly past the two detectives without apparently noticing them, or despoiling their car. Two more minutes elapse, and then Skelgill reaches a decision. He opens his door.
‘Come on.’
DS Eve locks the vehicle. Skelgill has waited for her on the pavement. They fall in together – trying perhaps too hard not to look conspicuous – DS Eve seems tense, and Skelgill coiled for unknown action. As they reach the Mercedes he glances casually inside – but there is little on view – a crushed packet of cigarettes and a crumpled fast-food bag on the passenger seat, and an electronic vaping device in a recess of the central console. He grimaces disapprovingly.
They turn to face the property, outside which the car appears deliberately to be parked. It is semi-detached – ostensibly one of a homogenous row, with its harled walls and low-maintenance PVC windows. But whereas neighbouring houses exhibit signs of husbandry, this has a splintered fence of palings thirsty for creosote and a sparse desert of a garden starved of nourishment. Skelgill is looking at the upstairs windows; the curtains are drawn – in fact all of the curtains are drawn.
‘The front door’s open.’
It is DS Eve that jolts him from his speculation. He sees that the door is indeed ajar. There is no functioning gate and they approach via uneven paving slabs that rock underfoot. Skelgill pushes open the door to its full extent but does not enter. The hallway is in darkness and little advantageous light is cast from behind them. He looks at DS Eve and makes a ‘chatterbox’ gesture with the fingers and thumb of his left hand. She seems to understand. She takes a step closer and calls out.
‘Hello – anyone home?’
There is immediately the sound of movement – possibly from upstairs – just a single thud like a heavy footstep. Then perhaps a faint muffled tread and maybe the click of a door. DS Eve calls again.
‘Hello – are you okay?’
There might now be a further sound – if Skelgill had to guess, a wardrobe or cupboard being opened – but then only silence. He looks again at DS Eve and gives a jerk of his head for her to follow him. He enters the hallway and feels for the light switch – but either the bulb has blown or there is no power. He pats his breast pockets but he does not have his customary flashlight in this more casual jacket – but DS Eve is well versed in such circumstances – she engages the torch function on her phone to guide their way. She follows him as they cautiously mount the stairs, the boards creaking beneath their feet and Skelgill’s shadow preceding them like the stretched figure of Nosferatu in the eponymous horror movie.
They pause on the landing. The two adjacent doors of rear-facing rooms are closed. But Skelgill senses some presence in the opposite direction – the front bedroom. This door is almost shut but not fastened. Gingerly he pushes it open and steps over the threshold. There is a cloying smell of unwashed laundry and stale air – like a room that has been heavily overslept in – despite that it is now past 9pm. He locates the light switch but meets the same outcome as in the hallway. But now DS Eve steps alongside him to illuminate the scene. Skelgill hears her sharp intake of breath.
Sprawled on a stained double mattress is a half-naked girl – maybe late teenage, is Skelgill’s first impression. He can see her hair is lank and her limbs attenuated, her torso emaciated and shadows marking the hollows of her cheeks. Her thin lips are parted; her eyes open, staring. But all this seems part of the backdrop for some gritty modern theatrical drama, along with the litter of cigarette packs, food wrappers and discarded clothing that clings to the mattress like flotsam around a washed-up life raft – for glinting in the limelight, hanging by its tip from her right forearm, is a hypodermic needle. Skelgill seems frozen, transfixed by dread, as though they have lifted the lid of a sarcophagus to discover the distasteful delinquencies of the afterlife. But now DS Eve’s voice rings out with sudden urgency.
‘You know CPR?’
‘Who?’
‘CPR – resuscitation. We might be in time.’
Skelgill gathers his wits.
‘Aye – aye – course I do – CPR – aye.’
He kneels rather apprehensively beside the girl; who knows how many more needles are hidden amongst the detritus? DS Eve casts about with her beam and identifies an upturned wooden crate that serves as a nightstand. She balances the phone upon it. Then she presses a palm on Skelgill’s shoulder – as if to wish him good luck – and she promptly exits the room. Her boots rap out a drumroll on the stairs.
Skelgill has his hands suspended in mid air, his fingers splayed – it looks almost like some act of healing – except he does not want to touch her – repelled as he is by the sight of the syringe. First impressions have a way of cutting deep – just as in his mind’s eye he replays first aid classes – back in the day, with the mountain rescue – as a callow youth, long before he joined the police. There was the cocksure ex-skinhead instructor strutting about the unheated scout hut, his bovver boots thumping on the bare boards, his barked directions accompanied by belches of condensation – picking on Skelgill – making him recite multiple times – “Dr ABC ... Dr ABC” – danger, response, airway, breathing, circulation. Skelgill experiences an unfamiliar wave of nausea – he puts it down to carrot cake and no breakfast or lunch. He sets his jaw determinedly. Then suddenly he mouths the word, circulation – and repeats it aloud. For he is holding the girl’s right wrist – despite the syringe – and beneath the rough skin of his fisherman’s index finger he feels the feeblest pulse imaginable.
With some difficulty he arches his body over the girl until his ear lobe brushes her cracked dry lips. He waits – there is a deathly silence – he holds his breath – and, finally, hears hers – the like faintest soughing of a cool breeze over still water. His back almost gives out and he is forced to straighten with a gasp of pain. At this moment DS Eve returns – barely a minute since her departure. She halts in the doorway – as if she reads from his reaction that they are too late. But he turns to her, his eyes wide.
‘The lass is breathing – she’s got a pulse – for the time being, anyhow.’
DS Eve has a small carton in one hand.
‘Let me in. Please.’
Skelgill rises and steps aside. DS Eve takes his place. She drops the carton on the mattress and tugs a plastic evidence bag from her pocket. She inverts the bag and, working through the polythene, removes the syringe from the girl’s arm and lays the bag aside. Then she tears opens the sealed carton.
‘What is it?’
‘Naloxone spray kit – emergency antidote – it bonds with opioids and blocks their effect – even fentanyl. In the drug squad we carry them as standard – we’re often the first responders.’
Now she bends over the girl and with clinical efficiency administers a dose into one nostril. She sits upright and her shoulders heave – for she is still to recover from her dash to and from her car.
‘What now?’
‘We wait – it might take another shot if there is no improvement in a couple of minutes.’ She is watching the girl closely. ‘But – look – her breathing is becoming stronger already.’
Skelgill utters an expletive – it may be relief, or perhaps simply an expression of the bewilderment he has been battling.
‘I have called for an ambulance.’ DS Eve looks at S
kelgill to see he is staring at the girl. ‘I also carry a backup mobile – lone woman driver, and all that. By the way – the other car is gone.’
‘What?’
‘The Mercedes – it’s no longer there.’
Skelgill nods slowly – but now he is most definitely alert. His eyes gleam in the cold light of the LED. What about the sounds they heard when they arrived? It could not have been the girl. He turns and without explanation stalks from the room. Across the landing he opts for the door furthest from the external wall – it will be the back bedroom, the other the bathroom with its pipes and overflows. He enters, his left fist balled and held against his hip, his right arm raised and angled, his fingers stiff; it is a karate stance, poised to block and strike. But the room is empty – filled only by twilight – and the window is wide open and one of the curtains trails out. He strides over and leans out of the casement. Beneath is a flat roof – and, propped against it from ground level, its top rung protruding, an aluminium ladder; an escape route.
Skelgill curses under his breath. He stares out, his face grim. The scene is one of disharmony, of adjoining back gardens with their crooked fences and leaning sheds and rusting swings and rotting trampolines. As his vision blurs he barely registers the significant change in the pallor of the surrounding buildings – a spectral flickering indigo that marks the arrival of the emergency services. For he realises what has been most troubling him, the underlying source of his discord. The girl on the mattress – she reminds him of Jess.
13. ELEVENSES
Monday, late morning
‘Who wants first shot?’
DS Jones glances apprehensively across the canteen – DI Smart’s regular team are lounging, laughing boisterously; there are several strangers in their midst.
‘Guv – I have to go to a strategy meeting – there’s an undercover unit from the Manchester drug squad here to brief us. I think I’ll be called shortly.’
Skelgill scowls disapprovingly. This would be his reaction in any event, but DS Eve’s remarks about DI Smart’s intentions revisit him with an unpleasant jolt. However, DS Jones takes his silence as tacit approval for her to continue.
‘I’ve got some information on the various vehicles. Starting with DS Wythenshawe’s report on the hatchback that ended up in the lake. You know they interviewed the motor dealer on Friday –’ (Skelgill notices she doesn’t use the said trader’s name) ‘– he says he legitimately bought the car – which tallies with the former keeper’s account. It seems there was a mix up over the V5C – the registration document – the seller didn’t realise he should have completed part of it – so the transfer hadn’t been recorded. The dealer believes that the car was stolen last Tuesday night.’
This calls to Skelgill’s mind his cousin Marty’s glib remark, “No one would steal any of that lot!”
‘Why didn’t he report it?’
‘He claims he didn’t realise – he was away on Wednesday morning and when he saw it was missing he assumed his assistant had let a prospective customer have it out on loan for a couple of days. It seems like they’re a bit free and easy with their cars and the staff aren’t exactly on the same wavelength. It was only when we got in touch that they worked out it had been taken without permission.’
Skelgill rubs a knuckle against the stubble on his chin. Of course, he has been privy to an account that is a little at variance with this one. Indeed, his insider knowledge now requires him to be somewhat disingenuous.
‘What about CCTV?’
‘They don’t have it, Guv. The keys are kept in the back office in a cabinet that’s locked at night – but it’s open during the day. As we know, the car wasn’t hot-wired – the keys were in the ignition when you found it. In addition to the owner and his female assistant, there’s a mechanic, another part-time salesman who works weekends, and a teenage boy that does the valeting. It could have been a rogue employee – but there’s little to stop a determined thief from posing as a customer and snatching a set of keys to use later.’
‘Have we interviewed the staff?’
DS Jones’s expression suggests she has anticipated this question – and that she has been rather hoping Skelgill would not pose it. But it is unthinkable that potential witnesses could be casually overlooked when the car has been used in a probable murder. Clearly she feels she is between a rock and a hard place. She makes an inclusive gesture with her hands, encompassing the four of them around the table.
‘DI Smart said we should do it – that it’s a local matter.’
Given that this news could be interpreted as DI Smart simultaneously directing and belittling Skelgill’s team – an act undoubtedly designed to get under his skin – Skelgill’s reaction is a surprise to all concerned. Though his features remain stern, he shrugs phlegmatically.
‘Their loss. Our gain.’
There is a collective sense of relief, an easing of tense body language. DS Jones regards Skelgill curiously for a moment before she moves on.
‘The black BMW – that you saw again – on Saturday night.’ She pauses to glance briefly at DS Eve – who may just express the tiniest hint of smugness with the most fleeting of smiles. ‘There were three patrols on the southbound M6 in the stretch between Kendal and the M61 – but no positive sightings.’
DS Eve now sighs rather extravagantly – as if this is something that is familiar to her, and only to be expected. But she does not otherwise comment. DS Jones thus continues.
‘So – no further forward on the BMW – but the Mercedes you also saw in Workington – at the location of the most recent poisoning – it’s registered to an elderly lady who lives between Grasmere and Ambleside.’
Now Skelgill is perplexed. This is a long way from where he first saw it – he is sure he saw it – in the vicinity of Low Lorton. Could the ‘elderly lady’ have been visiting a friend? In Low Lorton – maybe. But on that estate in Salterbeck? However, he keeps his doubts to himself.
‘The road tax, insurance, MOT – they’re all up to date. We’ve had an officer from Ambleside call round twice yesterday – on the second occasion at 10pm – but there has been nobody home nor any trace of the car. It’s an isolated property with no immediate neighbours. I’ve put a DC onto tracking down relatives – to see if she has maybe gone away for a few days.’
DS Leyton shifts in his seat and clears his throat.
‘She don’t sound like your regular drug-runner.’
His fellow sergeants appear to concur with this observation. After all – the BMW – which is far more likely to be connected with the Manchester drugs gang – was leaving the area at speed minutes before the incident. But Skelgill snaps a response.
‘What’s your regular drug-runner?’
He is staring at DS Jones – but now DS Eve steps in.
‘If she’s away, on holiday – the car could have been taken without her knowledge – or it could be that she simply lets someone else have the use of it.’ She petitions Skelgill. ‘Is it too much of a coincidence that it happened to be parked outside the house in Workington, and its driver left while we were inside?’
Skelgill plainly thinks it is too much of a coincidence; too many coincidences are piling up. He growls unhappily. But the facts allow it. Saturday night’s Mercedes could even have been a different, near-identical car to the one that had subliminally troubled him when he noticed its driver’s odd behaviour a few days ago. But, preoccupied with a distressed Jess and the trauma of her poorly dog, he had paid only scant attention. He flings out a hand and exhales resignedly. His subordinates exchange apprehensive glances – as though they fear some volcanic activity – but suddenly DS Jones becomes distracted. Across the canteen DI Smart’s cortege has assembled and is filing out.
‘Looks like that’s my cue, Guv.’
DS Leyton sees Skelgill’s countenance blacken.
‘Keep your nose clean, volunteer for nothing, girl – that’s my motto!’
Skelgill looks at him disapprovingly – of c
ourse DS Leyton cannot know that his rather unsuitably worded attempt to pour oil on troubled waters only stirs his superior’s angst. There is an awkward silence while DS Jones gathers her personal possessions. It seems DI Smart has hung back at the exit – but Skelgill refuses to look over and give him the pleasure of having to watch DS Jones join him. Instead he barks out an order at DS Leyton.
‘What have you got on Swett Bennett and the Jam Eaters?’
‘Hah – sounds like an old pop band, Guv. Gerry and the Pacemakers – Bennie and the Jets – know what I mean?’ DS Leyton grins at DS Eve – who watches him with amusement – but his smile dissolves when he sees Skelgill is glaring at him murderously. ‘Righto, Guv – well – the Bennett geezer – got a top-line report from Workington.’ He locates the correct place in his notes. ‘Gordon Cyril Bennett – Swett must have been his nickname – aged forty-two. Stayed alone in a council flat in the town centre. No dependents or known relatives in the area. Long-term unemployed. Basically been living on benefits. Fairly extensive criminal record – all petty offences – possession of Class C drugs – housebreaking – shoplifting – couple of public order raps. Has sporadically attended the drugs and alcohol rehab centre – but not lately.’ DS Leyton pauses. His colleagues are watching in silence. ‘The body’s been identified by his former case worker from there.’
Skelgill is nodding. At least this represents some small advance.
‘What about the bike?’
But now DS Leyton shakes his head and looks dejectedly at his dense handwriting, as if willing it to rise from the page like a charmed cobra.
‘Queer thing is, Guv – no vehicles of any kind registered to him. Nothing whatsoever to connect him to that BSA.’
Skelgill’s irascibility is never far below the surface.
‘Except he were found dead beside it. Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence, Leyton. Plus the Jam Eaters wanted to know where he was.’
DS Leyton is somewhat flustered – but DS Eve is again ready to interject.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 42
