Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  Now the ‘east’ side fighter steps forward – it appears he recognises the newcomer. He grabs him roughly by the front of his jacket and seems to remonstrate, his features contorted with anger. His ‘west’ side opponent looks on grim faced – but there is a hint of intrigue that creeps into his countenance. The man on the Triumph appears unfazed by the violent reprimand; he sits stoically, knowing the storm will abate. When it does so he addresses them in turn, with a gesture that seems to acknowledge their status. This appears to buy their attention – and now he expounds – and as he does so his words evidently shock them – a recoiling, a shaking of heads – and they each turn to glance at their brooding ranks of would-be warriors. And now he produces from inside his jacket a scroll. Like some ancient king’s decree he unfurls it and reads aloud. This produces more looks of consternation from the two combatants. He turns the document and holds it out for both of them to see – they crowd in for proof of the revelation.

  This brings on a few moments of pondering. Then the rider speaks, in turn to each, his manner now a subtle blend of beseeching and demanding. When he concludes his proposition the antagonists glare fiercely at one another. Then both men turn and stalk back to their troops, calling them into huddles like the captains of sports teams dispensing pre-match pep talks. This situation pertains for a good couple of minutes – there ensues dissent among the ordinary ranks. The black rider waits patiently.

  Presently the powwows are resolved, and the leaders return to face one another across the black rider’s machine – and then – with some reluctance – they reach out and grasp hands. This brings a roar from the two ranks – it may be of approval, it may be of relief – yet it rings of some new kind of battle cry – no longer aimed at the opposing faction. And indeed now the clans return to their mounts, fire them up, and as if with practice form two lines that merge and ride out in parallel to the entrance, whence those under the sandwich banner peel off to the west, those under the skull and crossbones to the east.

  In the clearing the black rider folds away his proclamation and sits for a few moments. He nods with grim satisfaction – but all of a sudden he jerks – and delves into the flap pocket of his jacket. He extracts a mobile telephone, which he manipulates and raises to his right ear. He appears to listen – his features become alarmed – he puts away the handset and hurriedly dons his helmet and gloves. At the junction he turns to the west – and departs with an urgent roar from his steed.

  In the clearing, dusk and silence descend. One by one, field mice begin to appear, scurrying here and there beneath the picnic benches. Watching from the larches above, the long-eared owls flex their wings; the show is over; dinner is overdue.

  *

  Spurred on by Jess’s distress call, it takes Skelgill less than ten minutes to ride from Whinlatter Pass to the store at Low Lorton. He cuts his engine and freewheels the last thirty yards or so, not wishing to disturb the shopkeepers, who may be tucked up for their daily dawn start. He pushes his Triumph around the back of the property – no easy feat, for the gradient rises slightly against him – and so he arrives into Jess’s bedsit panting a little for breath. The sitting room is in darkness, but a glow emanates from the bedroom.

  ‘Alright, lass.’

  Jess is propped up in bed with her sidelight on. An open book lies face down on the coverlet. As he enters her eyes are actually closed, although it is apparent she is awake. Now she looks at him helplessly, her bottom lip turns out and she begins to cry. Skelgill takes the wicker chair beside the bed – and reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Come on lass – don’t give up – there’s time yet for a miracle cure.’

  But Jess shakes her head dejectedly.

  ‘Why me? Why did I have to get this?’ Beneath her plaintive words, Skelgill detects anger, grit even. He does not lose heart – but she continues despairingly. ‘I hardly slept last night – then I thought the pain was going today – and I got to sleep at nine – but it’s come back and woken me again.’

  ‘Is it sore now?’

  She nods tearfully. She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her nightgown.

  ‘Once it starts it’s constant.’

  Skelgill reaches for the packets of painkillers from her nightstand. There is paracetamol and the stronger prescribed drug, diclofenac. He squints at the small print on the latter.

  ‘Sometimes these things have to build up to the right concentration in your system. Happen you’re not quite there yet. Just be patient – relax.’

  However, Jess looks anything but relaxed. She might be in bed but her frustration is getting the better of her.

  ‘I’m so tired – I feel terrible – I want to sleep but I can’t.’ She screws up her face. ‘I’ll never do the run.’

  Skelgill is turning over the diclofenac blister pack between his fingers.

  ‘You can take these twice a day, right?’

  ‘I’ve had two today.’

  Skelgill pops out a pill.

  ‘Aye – well it’s getting on – it’ll soon be tomorrow – take your first one now.’

  ‘How can I?’

  Skelgill regards her intently.

  ‘Look – the doctor’s hardly going to prescribe you a lethal dose. And there’s no point taking one in the morning if you’ve not slept tonight – we may as well give up, then.’

  Jess stares at him for a moment; she seems reassured by his logic. She holds out her palm and takes the tablet and swallows it with some water.

  ‘That’s it – now you settle down, lass.’

  The girl does as bidden. She slides lower in the bed and pulls the coverlet up to her chin. Her eyes seem large and mournful, and look at him imploringly. It suddenly strikes Skelgill she has an absentee father – for how long that has been he has no idea – and a mother who may never have put her child’s welfare before her own. He sighs and settles back into the chair.

  ‘I remember the night before I did the run – when I set the record.’

  ‘Really?’

  He glances at her sharply.

  ‘I’m not that old, you know – I’m thirty-seven.’

  Jess grins kind-heartedly.

  ‘Happen it seems old to you, lass – more than a lifetime away, eh?’

  Skelgill leans towards the window and draws the curtain aside by a few inches – it is dark now and rain is beginning to patter against the pane.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, either. I tried counting sheep – using the old Cumbric – you know that, aye?’

  Jess shakes her head.

  ‘Arthur Hope taught me – and his lad, Jud – like they still use over in Borrowdale. Yan, tyan, tethera, methera, pimp – that’s one to five – and so it goes on. Dick’s ten and bumfit’s fifteen – sounds daft, eh, lass?’

  Jess grins encouragingly. Skelgill thinks he detects a flutter of her eyelids, perhaps a glazing of her eyes. She shifts a little and the book slides off the bed, but instinctively he leans forward and catches it. He secures it at the open page – near the beginning. He leans back again and scowls at the dense text. And yet he surprises himself by beginning to read aloud.

  ‘ “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.” ’

  He shakes his head and gives an exasperated gasp.

  ‘Whatever that means – it’s some sentence. Are you doing this for your exams?’

  He is still staring at the page – and when Jess does not answer he looks at her inquisitively. Her eyes are closed. Skelgill holds his brea
th. He watches – her own breathing is becoming deeper by the moment – her face carries an expression of calm repose. He presses the book shut and carefully places it on the nightstand. Then, trying not to generate a squeak from his leather biker’s jacket, he sinks back into the chair. Jess’s breathing continues evenly. He switches out the light.

  Then he feels a little vibration in his chest – it is not the kind of murmur of the heart, but something external – then he realises it is his mobile phone, set to silent. Gingerly he tears open the Velcro flap of his breast pocket and slides the handset free.

  He has received a text message – a photograph in fact.

  In the darkness the screen seems bright and he shades it with one hand from casting its radiation upon the slumbering teenager beside him.

  The image causes him no little consternation. It is the raven-haired DS Eve and another woman of about her age, and of strikingly similar appearance – although this can only be because they both wear leather jackets over tight pink tops – since her companion is blonde and blue-eyed. In this selfie, taken by DS Eve, they press their heads intimately together and raise glasses to the camera – and the background looks like it might be a pub. The caption confirms this.

  “WLTM – Kirkstile Inn – until closing 2nite???” And there is an emoji – a little motorbike.

  Now Skelgill does feel his heart beating more quickly. How did she know he’s out on his bike? And what is she – what are they – doing at the Kirkstile Inn? Drinking, obviously. And who is the blonde? And why does she or they want to meet him? However, he senses these questions unnecessarily complicate matters. He checks his watch – he could comfortably make it for last orders. Then it occurs to him that the mystery female could even be lodging there – in which case time is of no matter.

  He looks at Jess – she has undoubtedly succumbed to insentience – and yet surely the extra painkiller cannot have kicked in so quickly. Perhaps the pain itself has ebbed; perhaps it has gone altogether? And yet is some credit due to his calming presence? It is not a quality even he would claim for himself. Suddenly he yawns expansively; on top of his own lack of sleep, the confrontation at Whinlatter has drained him of adrenaline. It was a gamble – a risk, even, to his wellbeing. Sure – he had banked on Mouse, and ties of blood, both to gain a hearing and to get out of there in one piece – but if the Jam Eaters had decided that he was a ringer pulling a con-trick for the Pirates, then all hell might have broken loose. In the event his cousin’s angry reaction at having his guns spiked had stood him in good stead – his neutral role was made plain. And – by making them privy to the forensic report – he had successfully defused the ticking time bomb. They had no reason to fight – at least, not to fight one another (at least, not at this juncture). Instead – they had reason to listen to Skelgill – and, for the time being – to fall under his command.

  He sighs – and yawns again. He brings up the photograph of the two women, and their alluring invitation. The wicker chair is surprisingly comfortable. He makes a face of frustration and closes his eyes. Maybe he ought to count to fifty and decide. Yan, tyan, tethera ...

  18. RANNERDALE ALLIANCE

  Saturday, 10am

  Skelgill can hear the bleating of sheep. They sound like hogg lambs, mourning separation from their mothers. He opens his eyes to be reminded he is above the shop in Low Lorton. Beside him Jess is sleeping, her face serene. The wicker chair creaks as he rises; he could imagine it is his own joints that protest. He crosses to the front window – the rain is still falling heavily, and a bedraggled flock is being driven through the village. A murmur from behind causes him to turn – Jess has her eyes open – and a happy smile that he has never seen before.

  ‘I feel okay.’

  Skelgill executes a surreptitious fist pump.

  ‘Quick, lass – take another painkiller – in case it’s them that’s working – that’ll see you through.’

  Jess nods pensively. Now a little frown clouds her features.

  ‘I wish I had Kelly. I know I’d run better.’

  Skelgill is anticipating this objection.

  ‘I’ll make sure he’s brought down – he’ll be there at the finish line waiting for you – give you something to sprint for, eh?’

  She looks a little doubtful, but manages a half-smile.

  Skelgill consults his wristwatch.

  ‘We’re a bit late – but it was better you slept. There’s still plenty of time for a decent breakfast – then we’ll get you down to the start to do your warm up.’

  ‘The weather sounds terrible.’

  He cannot gainsay this – in the local parlance it is stotting (in ferocity only one grade below hoying) – but he contrives to put a positive spin on matters.

  ‘That’s what we call home advantage, lass. You’ve grown up with it.’

  ‘Alan Craggs is only from Langdale.’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘Aye – he runs for Langdale – but I happen to know he hails from Yorkshire – it’s much drier over there.’ Skelgill contrives an optimistic grin. ‘Besides – your new shoes are designed for the wet.’

  Jess nods – if a little unconvincingly. He expects she suffers nerves – he is feeling the butterflies himself – and if he were racing he would be doubly anxious. She sits up in bed – he realises that she wants to rise and he should leave her room. He pats his pockets – he can feel his various keys and wallet – but his phone is missing. Jess seems to appreciate his predicament – and she spots it lying on the rug beneath the chair. She reaches down easily – showing no sign of pain from the rash on her flank – and retrieves the handset.

  ‘You’ve just had a text.’

  When Skelgill sees the screen he turns automatically into the corner of the room, as if privately to digest the message. When he swings around his features are severe.

  ‘Listen, lass – there’s something come up – a bit sooner than I expected. I have to go right now. What I’m going to do – just as a back up – is get one of my colleagues to pick you up and take you down to the race – he’s called Sergeant Leyton – he’s a good bloke, okay?’

  ‘Oh.’

  He can see she is immediately crestfallen.

  ‘Don’t fret, lass – I’ll be there – remember I’m going up to mark the Shepherd’s Rake with chalk – so it’s just in case I’m tight on time.’

  He now does a most un-Skelgill-like thing – for he leans over her, grasps her head between his long-fingered hands, and plants a kiss on her crown.

  With pink blotches marking his prominent cheekbones he leaves the bedroom. He collects his crash helmet and gloves from a chair and exits onto the stone stair. Hurriedly he descends and takes refuge from the rain in an unlocked storeroom beneath. In quick succession he makes a series of phone calls. First, in urgent tones, to his cousin, Mouse. Second, with a similar degree of exigency, to farmer Arthur Hope – in fact it is the man’s son and Skelgill’s old mucker Jud Hope that takes the call. Third, with somewhat less haste, Skelgill rouses DS Leyton to twist his arm, sweetening the pill with the suggestion of a family outing. And, fourth, there is a short conversation with veterinary surgeon Harriet Skipton-James. Then – rather peculiarly – he hunkers down on a wholesale outer of Kendal mint cake.

  *

  It is a lone scout from the Jam Eaters that first picks up the black BMW. The car is taking a rather circuitous route from Workington – as if to cover its tracks, and several times has doubled back on itself, before heading east on the A66. But four wheels are no match for two, especially when the latter are in experienced hands – and the occupants of the car seem unaware that they are being skilfully tailed. In any event the mist and spray cause such poor visibility that a bike with no headlamp is rendered almost invisible – and the rider knows the roads well enough to drop back when it is expedient. Indeed, this particular Jam Eater just happens to be an ex-policeman, and a former motorbike cop at that. What is even less apparent to the occupants of the BMW, is
that before very long they are being followed not by a single rider but in fact by the entire Jam Eaters cohort – keeping in touch via their helmet mikes – riding in formation about a quarter of a mile behind.

  And when, in due course, the BMW turns south off the A66 and begins to head across country, the Penrith Pirates are notified. Closing from the east like a reserve cavalry detachment, they leave the A66 at Portinscale, and take the road for the Newlands Pass. It seems like the Lakeland topography is working in their favour.

  More information passes between the two bands, until so recently sworn enemies. The Pirates reach Buttermere and swing northwards – bemused folk step back onto the verges, gathering for the fell race at Gatesgarth, just two miles in the opposite direction. Coming south on the same road are the Jam Eaters. As they sweep through Low Lorton the black rider on the royal blue Triumph joins them. Skelgill. He weaves through the peloton – recipient of respectful nods – and pulls alongside the pack leader. Ahead of them – largely out of sight, but occasionally glimpsed – is the original scout, most closely tailing the BMW.

  And so, as the two hunting parties converge, their unwitting prey between them, the dale itself seems to close in, the great mist-shrouded flanks of Grasmoor tower above the narrow lane to the east, the bursting banks of Crummock Water press from the west. The BMW enters the short section of straight road at Rannerdale. The Pirates are waiting. They allow a small convoy of vehicles to pass – an old Defender that is slowing the rest down, a delivery van, its driver harassed and impatient, and a small silver hatchback – and then, five abreast, in four ranks, they block the road. Their engines set up a wall of noise, their headlamps a barrage of blazing lights. The BMW slides to a halt. Instantly the driver leans out of his window to remonstrate. The Pirates are implacable. They show no sign of yielding. The driver becomes irate – but at this point he must check his mirror – to see that behind him is an identical arrangement. The Jam Eaters have the BMW hemmed in. The pincer movement has succeeded.