Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Look. I told you – I’m ill.’

  ‘What?’

  She gathers the raised hem of the slip in her right hand and with her left indicates to the small of her back. Skelgill suddenly realises there are marks covering an area the size of his two spread palms, running sideways from her spine and wrapping around her midriff on her left flank.

  ‘Hold on, lass.’

  He reaches back and tugs open one of the curtains. Now he has to suppress an exclamation of shock – for it looks for all the world to him as though she has some tropical disease – an angry rash of fluid-filled pustules, some of them weeping, others having burst and becoming dried and cracked, the area inflamed and blotched purple and bloody in places. Despite his best efforts he cannot entirely banish a note of incredulity from his voice.

  ‘How long have you had this?’

  ‘The spots for a couple of days – but I’ve not felt right for about a week – but now it’s the rash – it’s constant pain – it’s keeping me awake. It started just when we did the Shepherd’s Rake.’

  Skelgill feels shell-shocked. But he knows he must act. And – just the faintest lifeline – he feels he detects a note of relief in the girl’s voice.

  ‘Okay – cover yourself up. We need to get you seen to.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to hospital.’

  Skelgill gives a curt laugh.

  ‘Spoken like a true Graham.’

  *

  ‘Yes – there is no doubt it is shingles.’

  The duty GP at West Cumberland Hospital looks over her spectacles at Skelgill, who is seated rather uncomfortably on a makeshift seat, a folding step in the corner of the consultation room. The doctor has examined Jess on a bed screened off for the purposes of modesty, and has led her back to sit beside the computer terminal.

  ‘It did cross my mind – except I thought that’s something old folk get.’

  The woman types in details at breakneck speed. Skelgill is thinking when you want a job done give it to a busy person. She is of about his own age, rather trendily dressed in branded outdoor gear – and he has already noticed a fluorescent yellow cagoule and a cycling helmet suspended on hooks behind the door.

  ‘We are seeing more cases in younger people. These days when children get chicken pox they are kept at home. Consequently the background immunity in the population is falling – unless you are in my job.’ She gives a small toss of her head. ‘And of course, young adults lead more stressful lives.’

  She turns quickly to look interrogatively at Jess, who averts her eyes and shrugs – as though she understands the inquiry but does not wish to admit to its accuracy. The GP reverts to Skelgill; he nods in confirmation.

  ‘What’s to be done, doctor?’

  ‘Well – first of all – nothing to worry about. We obviously want to check something like this – there are worse things than shingles with an associated rash, as you can imagine.’ Skelgill seems to flinch and the GP clearly detects his reaction – and she continues briskly. She looks directly at Jess. ‘The outbreak is too advanced for us to give you antivirals – it has to be intercepted within the first seventy-two hours. You can’t pass on shingles – only chicken pox – and only by direct contact with the oozing blisters. I can see they are mainly over – so what is left is to manage their regression – unfortunately the nerve endings in the inflamed area can remain painful for some time. So I can prescribe you some stronger pain relief – and we should just see how it goes. Make an appointment to see your regular GP in a week – or come back to us if you can’t do that. Get as much rest as you can.’

  Skelgill is looking alarmed.

  ‘This lass is an athlete – she’s got an important run on Saturday – she’s been preparing all year – longer.’

  He wants to say all her life, but he realises the risk of hyperbole. As he speaks, the doctor turns her gaze upon Jess, closely watching her facial expression.

  ‘Is it a marathon?’

  Skelgill interjects.

  ‘That was just the training – the run’s hardly above thirty minutes.’

  The doctor swivels around fully on her chair to face Jess.

  ‘I have a daughter your age – I would be telling her to take it easy, try to catch up on your lost sleep. If you were to run you risk aggravating the rash.’

  Again Skelgill is on the case.

  ‘Would that be harmful?’

  ‘Not medically – it could just set back the healing of the broken skin. Abrasion might increase the likelihood of any scarring – the same as if you were to scratch as it becomes itchy – which it probably will. The pain, however, is just an unfortunate side-effect of the infection – when it becomes chronic we call it postherpetic neuralgia – but it is not the kind of pain of, say, a sprained ankle – which is clearly warning you not to use the injured limb.’

  For a few moments the trio sit in silence; the doctor has removed her spectacles and is watching Jess with a look of maternal concern.

  ‘Jessica – do you want to do this run?’

  Jess reacts like a schoolgirl cowed before the headmistress. She seems determined not to make eye contact, although after a moment she shrugs.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  In the corner, Skelgill jerks involuntarily.

  The doctor reaches out and gently places a palm on her shoulder.

  ‘Then go with your heart.’

  She darts a glance at Skelgill – having ignored his presence for these critical moments – and addresses him in a businesslike manner, as though he were the parent.

  ‘You could buy a couple of large non-adhesive dressings to tape over the affected area – to protect from the rubbing of her running vest. Otherwise just keep up the prescribed regime of painkillers.’ She hands him a printout, the prescription she has produced. ‘You can probably get all that at the pharmacy here.’

  Skelgill rises and thanks her on behalf of them both. As she ushers them out she wishes Jess well – and adds a final question to Skelgill.

  ‘You have had chicken pox, I take it, Mr Skelgill?’

  Skelgill produces a wry grin.

  ‘I’ve had everything pox.’

  *

  ‘We shan’t rush to any conclusions, lass. The main thing is, you take it easy – like the doctor says. Catch up on your sleep. See how you’re feeling tomorrow. Chances are it’ll be like chalk and cheese.’

  They are waiting in a busy foyer of the hospital for the prescription to be prepared. People, patients and porters constantly pass them, criss-crossing the area from one zone to another. Skelgill reflects that it could be an airport or a shopping mall. He notices that Jess pulls at her clothing at her left side and shifts in her seat. She responds to his attention.

  ‘It comes in waves. While I was in with the doctor it weren’t hurting at all. Now it’s back.’ Indeed she reaches and presses gingerly into the small of her back. ‘Even when I do get to sleep it wakes me up.’

  Skelgill feels her discomfort – of body and mind – it is a vicarious experience that is unfamiliar to him – more agonising than any pain he might suffer directly, a pain once-removed that reaches out with invisible tentacles, to infect through ties of blood. Much as he wishes to quiz her about her earlier rejection of his support – he has concluded she has enough on her plate. And he was wrong about her illness; a person can invent a headache, but not that abominable rash. He attempts some words of reassurance.

  ‘Whatever it is that’s been mithering you – don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re safe – plus we know Kelly’s in good hands while you’re recovering.’ He grins. ‘And I’ll be keeping an eye on your Ma, right?’

  The girl swallows – but at least she nods – if a little unconvincingly. Her tacit acknowledgement lends ammunition to his belief that there has been contact between mother and daughter. However, she eschews the opportunity to unload any further burden from her shoulders. Skelgill claps his hands together as if to signify their accord is settled. He stands up.<
br />
  ‘Listen out for your name, will you, lass? I just want to get a word with a patient – a cousin on my side of the family.’

  He grins rather sheepishly – although in fact at any one time half a dozen patients herein could be his relatives, such is the extent of the Graham clan in the area, supplemented by the somewhat rarer Skelgills – Mouse falling into the latter category. He announces his request to a friendly lady at the reception desk, but bolsters it with his police ID to pre-empt any red tape. The woman promptly makes a telephone call – and is evidently transferred to the ward – she listens for a few moments, nods, frowns and thanks the speaker. She turns her broad rosy-cheeked face back up to Skelgill.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector – but Mr Oswaldtwistle discharged himself this morning. It was against doctor’s advice – however there was nothing we could do. He informed the ward sister he has an important event to attend tomorrow night – some kind of meeting – he said he’s the president?’

  17. EVE OF BATTLE

  Friday, afternoon

  Skelgill jolts – and wakes – and finds that the race he is running is imagined. Before him stretches not a windswept fell, a rocky upward path strung with sinewy runners that he can’t catch because his back injury is so debilitating, but the deserted plain of Bassenthwaite Lake, its grey surface gently corrugated. His back is sore alright; he is rather doubled over beneath an alder on the shore just north of Peel Wyke. He had brought his flask and bait along, actually contemplating an hour’s fishing – but having checked his boat his enthusiasm had drained away – instead he wandered beyond the secluded inlet to this sheltered lunch spot. No doubt lack of sleep played some part in proceedings. Last night he had lain fitfully, drifting between consciousness and dream, his mind a maelstrom of ideas and images, scenes that were half real, half fantasy – people playing strange out-of-character roles: DS Jones as a car salesperson (it was DS Jones, and yet she looked like Trish); Marty Graham all along an undercover detective; Mouse a race marshal revving his motorbike on Haystacks’ summit; DS Eve a drug queen, empress of the Manchester gangs – and others – most troubling of all young Jess – whom he had discovered was missing from her bed-sit – he had tracked her to Megan Graham’s house in Hempstead Avenue – whereupon the door had opened and it had been Jess herself that admitted him, her lips painted scarlet, her outfit leaving no room for doubt as to what she was doing there. He had woken from this particular night terror in a cold sweat, horrified by his physical state – and had dressed and taken his overjoyed dog out for a nocturnal walk. But the distraction had proved illusory, and his thoughts had played a subconscious loop, each time he dropped his guard coming back around to Jess – and prompting him to wonder, to hope that she, at least, was sound asleep.

  He had eventually slept himself – overslept – and it was after eleven before he considered heading into HQ – a prospect that had seemed more than usually cheerless. With DS Jones out of circulation, and the others this morning pursuing inquiries, the idea of twiddling his thumbs at his desk held little appeal. He would be easy prey for a prowling DI Smart. Whether his disturbed night was some kind of metaphor for his circumstances – that the case is mired in confusion – he can’t be sure. He makes a despondent growl in his throat – aren’t dreams supposed to be your brain sorting out your troubles – doing the work that you can’t do yourself? His gaze tracks down from the horizon, the smooth skyline of Skiddaw, over its brindled flanks and its vague reflection in the surface of the lake, to the immediate shoreline at his feet, the mudstone pebbles that make killer ducks and drakes. There are only so many stones a detective can turn; there has to come a time when providence intervenes. As The Lambeth Walk breaks out from his mobile phone – it does not feel like that moment. Skelgill inhales heavily, like a reformed smoker who still bears the scars of his habit.

  ‘Leyton.’

  ‘Alright, Guv – must have missed you this morning.’

  Skelgill attempts to rise by rocking forwards, but a twinge from his spine counsels him against the manoeuvre. He slumps back against the trunk of the tree. He guesses his sergeant is being diplomatic – but in any event he opts not to disambiguate. A yawn comes upon him that he cannot conceal.

  ‘Sorry, Leyton – cat kept me awake last night, wailing like a banshee.’

  ‘Know what you mean, Guv – we’ve got one of them lives with us – a banshee, that is. Still – least when it’s a cat you can throw a shoe at it – flippin’ nippers, you have to tell ’em a story until they fall asleep. Reckon I know Room On The Broom off by heart.’

  Skelgill murmurs – perhaps an attempt at sympathy – despite that his sergeant’s literary reference passes over his head. However, DS Leyton seems keen to impart his reason for calling.

  ‘News from Workington, Guv. DS Underwood’s brother-in-law who knows the ex-Jam Eaters geezer – he’s come up with a titbit – don’t know if it means anything – but I thought I should bounce it off you.’

  ‘Bounce away.’

  ‘Well – apparently they’re meeting up – the Jam Eaters, I’m talking about – at the visitor centre at Whinlatter Pass, tonight at nine. Thing is, Guv – I looked it up – the visitor centre café closes at four – the gaff’ll be deserted.’

  Skelgill is squinting broodingly across Bassenthwaite Lake.

  ‘It’s got picnic tables and a car park, Leyton – off the road – hidden in the forest.’

  ‘What are you saying, Guv?’

  Skelgill shrugs, unseen by his colleague.

  ‘It’s a good place to meet – if there’s a crowd of you – and you don’t want to be seen.’

  ‘You thinking they’ll be up to some mischief, Guv?’

  Skelgill is thinking that Whinlatter Pass is one of the disputed boundary markers, west versus east, “Wukiton agin Pereth”, a local might say. And he is also thinking that Mouse, having discharged himself from hospital, plans tonight to attend an “important event” in his capacity as president. As far as he knows, his cousin holds this title solely as leader of the Penrith Pirates motorcycle gang.

  ‘Put it like this, Leyton – I can’t see them taking their teddy bears along.’

  *

  Long-eared owls haunt the extensive pine woods that cloak the fells between Braithwaite and High Lorton – and as dusk falls they migrate to their favoured hunting grounds, such as picnic areas, where after dark field mice congregate, attracted by a daily buffet of cast off crumbs and crusts and stale sausage rolls. But the owls, aloft in the tall larches that ring the Whinlatter visitor centre, for the time being are disappointed. Where for centuries men on horseback paused to rest their steeds beneath Whinlatter Top, this evening a modern incarnation – men possessed of horsepower their forbears cannot have imagined – gather amidst smoke and thunder to buck and circle, to gesticulate and roar. While the owls merely blink, the mice feel earthquakes and keep their distance.

  There must be about forty bikers in all. Arriving in threes and fours (perhaps so as to be less conspicuous), they coalesce into opposing cohorts, and line up to face one another across the secluded car park, a no-man’s land of some twenty paces between them. There is little to distinguish one group from the other. A uniform of black leather and oil-stained blue denim is the order of the day, and heavy buckled biker boots with silver-studded patterns. Those on the east of the clearing have a flag, a white skull and crossbones on a black background, fixed upon an evil-looking pikestaff; those on the west sport a more curious motif – yet somehow no less sinister – for all that it appears to be a sandwich of white bread with a red filling.

  When it seems there will be no further arrivals, the revving of the engines rises to a crescendo – and then is suddenly cut. Sounds of dusk – a blackbird singing its last sonata, the purr of a woodcock roding – are once more audible. Now the riders dismount. Helmets are removed – revealing heads that range from the shaven to the extravagantly hirsute – and from saddlebags weapons are drawn – a fearsome array of oversized
but legal motorcycle tools – and, more surreptitiously, there is the wrapping of lengths of spare sprocket chain around bare knuckles. The lines form up before the two rows of bikes. If there were any doubts about the intentions of the gathering, they are now dispelled.

  The sides look well matched. They are even in number – perhaps by agreement – and roughly similar in age – mostly in their late thirties and forties. The only obvious imbalance is that the ‘east’ have an oversized ogre of a character, who seems to have a striped apron dangling from beneath the front of his leather jacket; such bulk however has its swings and roundabouts, the downside being surely a lack of mobility. Two combatants now detach themselves from their respective ranks and step forward. When the giant might be expected – from the ‘east’ comes instead a shorter, though no less prepossessing figure, hunched and swaggering like a rhinoceros that is about to turn over a ranger’s truck; from the ‘west’ a more lanky, angular character, big of foot and devilish of face.

  They paw the ground like rutting stags – they bellow and feint in response to bloodthirsty exhortations from their followers, horrible entreaties of damage to be inflicted. And, then – just when it seems they will lunge and lock horns – simultaneously they turn their heads towards the entrance.

  It is a knight of the road, clad from head to toe in black. His machine has classic lines, and the keen eyes of an owl would pick out the famous Triumph logo emblazoned on the royal blue tank. He comes in at speed, kicking down the gears with great throaty protests of the engine. Spraying gravel he circles before the opposing ranks and slews to a halt between the startled protagonists. They lift their weapons – each fearing the interloper is on the other’s side. The black rider raises both arms in a gesture of peace. He tugs off his gauntlets and lays them on his petrol tank. Then he unfastens his helmet and wrenches it free – to reveal a craggy physiognomy, a face of determination, with teeth bared and grey-green gimlet eyes.