An innocent party thus trapped might climb out of their car to ask just what is going on – to inquire if they have inadvertently got themselves stuck between two warring factions of the local Hell’s Angels – and to politely request to be allowed through. That the driver of the BMW does not do this – but instead begins to make surges at the foremost ranks of motorcyclists, fore and aft, as if threatening to shunt them out of the way suggests some understanding of his predicament. Of course, he could damage the expensive car – but as his desperation grows it appears he is prepared to take such risks. Still the lines of bikers hold their nerve. And then a pistol is waved out of the passenger window.
Suddenly the Pirates begin to move aside. It seems they have capitulated. But, wait! Now there is the steady chug of a much bigger engine – and through the mist looms a high-sided farm trailer pushed by a reversing tractor; it entirely blocks the lane. Now the BMW driver must decide whether to attempt to break instead through the Jam Eaters’ lines – but, too late – there is a loud clank and the rear end of the car is hoisted off the tarmac by the forks of a bale handler on a second tractor. Its drive wheels rendered useless, the BMW is going nowhere.
The occupants realise this – they abandon ship – they tumble out into the pouring rain unsuitably dressed – in just t-shirts and jeans – their muscular arms and torsos flexing. The passenger waves the gun – and he also has a hostage. He has wrenched open the rear door, and dragged out a young woman – and with one arm around her throat he holds the weapon to her head.
The hostage is DS Jones.
*
The standoff seems to last for an age – though it can actually only be a matter of seconds before, from the rear of the car, the rider of the blue Triumph, his rangy form black and glistening, running with beads of rain, his helmet still on, strides forward to confront the fugitives.
He lifts his rain-spattered visor and addresses the armed hostage-taker – the older of the two men.
‘Think carefully before you use that.’
‘We’ve got plenty of ammo, pal – clear your yokels out of our road.’
This is just an approximation of his vicious demand – for it is laced with profanities and contains the disparaging phrase Skelgill last heard used light-heartedly by DS Eve. He senses it will not be endearing to those looking on.
He stares icily at the man – he pays no attention to DS Jones – as if she holds no interest for him (she must be terrified, despite that she shows no sign of panic). After some moments Skelgill speaks.
‘You might have plenty of ammo – but have you got enough ammo?’
Skelgill jabs a finger into the air behind the two men – in the direction of the bale handler. There in the open-sided cab the driver – farmer Jack Nicholson – sits casually aiming a shotgun at their group. A full cartridge belt is draped over one shoulder.
That they are rattled is written on their faces – but it is a look that turns to greater disquiet as they suddenly become aware that it is not just one shotgun that has them covered. From over the wall on either side of the narrow a road, a pair of glinting barrels appear – behind them the steely eyes of Jack Nicholson’s twin grown-up daughters, local skeet champions – and, rising from his surely uncomfortable position hidden on the trailer, is Jud Hope, bearing his father’s old side-by-side Needham twelve gauge. He looks soaked to the skin; he looks mad.
Skelgill takes a step closer. He keeps his voice low, and it carries a harsh note that might be designed to threaten, were it not so unaffected.
‘So – let’s just review this. You’ve got a pea-shooter – and, what –?’ He gestures loosely at DS Jones, still without looking at her. ‘A bargaining chip?’ His tone is disparaging. ‘Listen. What do you hear?’
‘What are you talking about?’ It is the elder Savage that speaks.
Skelgill waits. The throb and pop of the forty idling motorbike engines, and the deeper bass rumble of the two big diesels blends with the background sibilance of the rain on the hard road and the surface of the lake, and the rush of water over rock and scree. It is an all-enveloping phenomenon, a suffocating blanket of sound that surely will conceal from the outside world whatever happens in the next few minutes. As men for whom fear and violence may be tools of the trade, perhaps they appreciate Skelgill’s meaning. Just in case they do not, he indicates in the direction of Crummock Water.
‘It was just over there that they found Swett Bennett. Drugged – and drowned. Local chap – like these folk around you.’
The two men are trying to look tough, unflappable, still in control – but their eyes reveal a different story.
But Skelgill knows the most dangerous kind of rat is the cornered rat – the rat that has nothing to lose – the rat that will hurl itself at the terrier in one last act of kamikaze defiance. He pulls off his gauntlets and throws them down upon the tarmac. Then he hauls off his helmet. The men stare at him in disbelief – for they recognise him from Marty Graham’s dealership. Is this a vigilante cop about to wreak vengeance upon them? But Skelgill does not allow any such line of thought to develop. He pulls his police warrant card from his top pocket and thrusts it forward.
‘I would suggest this is your best option. I’ll guarantee your safety.’
Skelgill stares. The fugitives begin to waver. They glance about furtively – as if assessing the overwhelming odds, the cards that are stacked against them. Then they look at one another; immediately Skelgill detects a threshold has been breached. Still holding the warrant card before their faces he reaches out with his free hand, his palm open. With a curse, the man with the gun turns it over and lets go of DS Jones. Skelgill looks at her for the first time and beckons with his head that she should move away. She complies.
‘Hey! No tricks – we’ve made a deal!’
The drug lord’s voice is harsh – and fearful – as if he suddenly suspects Skelgill will renege. And indeed there is a movement among the bikers – a frisson passes through their ranks, a collective scrape of boots on the tarmac, and there is the sense they are about to converge and do their worst – and send the hated drug dealers the way of their erstwhile comrade. But Skelgill holds up a warning hand – raising the pistol high above his head. And suddenly there comes – not the sound of the weapon being fired – but the penetrating if distant nee-naw of a police siren, its high-pitched Doppler shift signalling its approach. Skelgill hisses under his breath.
‘Better late than never.’ Expletives deleted.
When DI Smart comes pushing through the crowd – followed by DS Wythenshawe and three burly uniformed constables – he is clearly both confused and annoyed. The latter sentiment has perhaps more to do with the fact that his suit is becoming drenched – but it is certainly exacerbated when he finds Skelgill guarding the two men, spreadeagled against the stone wall on the lake side of the road.
‘What the hell’s going on?’
Skelgill looks relatively disinterested in the arrival of his colleague. He takes a few moments before he deigns to respond.
‘What’s going on is that law-abiding citizens of Cumbria are acting in self-defence – since the police have failed to protect them. That’s what’s going on, Smart. If you’ve got a problem with that, I suggest you have a word with them. You might need this.’ He hands DI Smart the gun and stalks away.
Skelgill plays no part in the formal arrest of the Savages. Instead he consults with Mouse and the leader of the Jam Eaters – and then with the Hopes and the Nicholsons. And finally he seeks out DS Jones – she has eschewed the offer of refuge in a police car – instead she has pulled on some waterproofs provided by one of the officers, and has waited patiently for her superior.
‘You okay, lass?’
She is clearly shaken – but she is tough; he knows well her resilience. She nods, though for a second her bottom lip tries to turn over. Skelgill is typically bluff.
‘You can tell me later how you got yourself into that situation.’
DS Jones grins
ruefully.
‘I’m wearing a concealed tracker, Guv – I just don’t think it worked very well in these hills – and what with the weather. DI Smart’s team took a while to catch up.’
Skelgill grimaces scathingly.
‘Where were they taking you?’
She shakes her head.
‘I don’t know. I think originally they intended for me to meet someone in Workington – but they got a call and started tailing a car – we were still following it when you stopped us. I heard mention of Gatesgarth.’
Skelgill inhales to speak – but her words cause him to have second thoughts and he is prompted to check his watch. His features show alarm.
‘That’s where I need to be – my cousin’s in a big fell race this morning – it’s called the Warnscale Horseshoe.’
‘I know, Guv.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes, Guv – you’ve been training her.’
Skelgill is scowling.
‘How do you know that?’
‘We all know, Guv – George on the front desk heard about it – he’s got a relative who’s connected with the race organisers or something.’ She grins sympathetically. ‘So we knew you were a bit distracted with it lately – that it’s the blue riband event of the fell running season.’
Skelgill produces an exasperated growl – but he knows there is not time to have this discussion.
‘I’ve got to get up onto Haystacks – to mark part of the route – I was going to use climbing chalk – but it’s too late to go home for that – I’ll have to drop in at me Ma’s place for some flour instead.’
‘Can I come with you, Guv? I mean – to watch the race.’
Skelgill frowns.
‘I’ve only got my bike – and no spare helmet – it could be dangerous for you.’
DS Jones chuckles.
‘Guv – I’ve just spent the morning with armed criminals.’
19. THE RUN
Saturday, midday
As he rides out of his home village of Buttermere Skelgill wonders if he has ever seen Sour Milk Gill looking so white, like a great strand of ectoplasm that erupts from a cavernous mouth on the dark face of Red Pike. The swollen beck that tumbles from Bleaberry Tarn is a virtual foaming waterfall for its entire thirteen hundred feet of descent into Buttermere Dubs. Beneath his wheels the road is running with water, as impromptu springs percolate from gaps in walls and bubble from culverts that cannot cope with the flow. He hopes DS Jones is keeping dry – standard waterproofs offer scant protection on a motorbike – but at least she is tucked in behind him, head down and arms wrapped around his waist – and only a few minutes to go.
At Gatesgarth the parking area is packed solid, despite the danger of flooding; Gatesgarthdale Beck is in full spate. Every local verge and driveway is loaded with abandoned vehicles; spectators are out in force. Skelgill grins when he spies DS Leyton’s car – his sergeant has used a ‘police aware’ sticker in his windscreen to claim a preferential spot. On his Triumph Skelgill has no such problems; he rides as close to the start/finish line as is possible, and slots in between a pair of vans that belong to the race marshals.
They have arrived in the nick of time. The runners – about fifty in all – have completed their warm-ups and, having shed their tracksuits, are assembled in the roped off paddock before the start. Skelgill’s heart sinks a little – that he will not be able to give a few last words of encouragement and advice to Jess – but he sees something that makes his spirits revive – Harriet Skipton-James, imperious in her tweeds and Barbour jacket, has breached security and is also in the paddock – she has Kelly on a leash, and Jess is down on her knees with her head pressed against the collie’s. Skelgill sees DS Leyton and his family looking on – beneath a brolly his wife cradles their youngest, while the long-suffering sergeant has his two older children restrained by the hoods of their anoraks, as they fight him to break away and get to the dog, their feet skidding about in the mud.
By the standards of the tiny Lakeland community, and despite the worst that Mother Nature has thrown at them, a huge crowd has gathered. Skelgill notices many familiar faces – even a glimpse of two of his brothers, he is sure – and half of those present are probably Grahams and he doesn’t know it. Certainly Jess is not going to be short of vocal support. And there is another faction on her side. Mouse has led the entire contingent of bikers up from Rannerdale – Pirates and Jam Eaters alike – although Skelgill suspects that the impeccable turnout has more to do with his promise of a free bar as part-payment for their assistance (quite how he will explain the bill to the Chief is a problem for another day). An additional distraction is a pair of svelte leather-clad females who have turned up on a Low Rider – a small crowd of bikers has gathered ostensibly to admire their Harley; Skelgill suspects an ulterior motive.
He manoeuvres his own machine until he can kick down the stand onto a flat rock. He hops off and helps DS Jones to dismount. He drops his gloves into his upturned helmet and hands it to her. She seems to understand she is to take it into her custody.
‘Alright, lass?’
DS Jones smiles, a little bemused.
‘Fine, Guv. What now?’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘They’re about to go off – look – they’ve set the clock.’ He points to the start and indeed the timer above the line has been changed from what was just before twelve noon to a series of zeros. ‘I need to go.’
‘Will you make it?’
‘Aye, just about. But, listen – have you got your phone?’
She shakes her head.
‘Just my temporary one – my cover.’
‘That should be fine – or borrow Leyton’s.’ He begins to back away. ‘Just in case – film the finish for me, will you? I may be some time.’
And Skelgill turns and jogs away.
*
As soon as Skelgill has cleared the plantation above Peggy’s Bridge he stops to look back. The dense conifers had obscured his view when he heard the starter’s pistol, but now he has a clear line of sight. Through the lowering gloom and opaque curtains of rain he can just make out runners strung like a line of multi-coloured washing on the opposite fellside, Fleetwith Pike. Alan Craggs is in the lead – his distinctive fluorescent yellow vest glowing like a light bulb – but Jess in her green outfit is hot on his heels. Skelgill had predicted Jess would outrun the heavier man in the uphill section of the race – but Alan Craggs is renowned for his fast starts, in which he tries to break the field. But he is not breaking Jess – she tails him doggedly. Skelgill guesses his first wind will expire soon – and if Jess can build up a big enough advantage she ought to be able to withstand his devastating sprint finish, summoned when most runners would have nothing left in the tank. Skelgill watches anxiously – now he sees Jess veer off to the left of the ridge and out of sight – the first shortcut. He thinks Alan Craggs detects her move – for the man appears to hesitate and glance back – it will have unnerved him that a close competitor has suddenly departed from the conventional route. Skelgill nods grimly – so far, it is going to plan – Jess looks in good shape – he just hopes the illness hasn’t taken more out of her than is apparent. And now Alan Craggs reaches the cloud base, and disappears into the mist. Skelgill is reminded he must put on a spurt himself.
He has further to go to reach the level of the cloud, on this side of the valley it is more diffuse and irregular – but all the same the summit of Haystacks is nowhere to be seen. And now he curses the events of the past eighteen hours – that have stranded him in his biker leathers, when he would have preferred to arrive here in mountaineering gear. Jogging uphill in the thick, tight-fitting outfit and biker boots is no easy matter; and there is a further irony, the stuff is keeping him dry – but inside he is sweating like the proverbial pig. He wipes rain from his face and moves on – he is reminded that only a fortnight ago he came up here in his funeral suit.
Skelgill is nearing the top of the rocky scramble, just below t
he summit plateau, when his mobile phone rings. He stops and rips open his breast pocket to extract the handset. His fingers are wet and numb and he has difficulty with the manoeuvre – indeed he is too slow and the call diverts. The number was withheld – and he curses under his breath – but almost immediately an alert tells him there is a voicemail – albeit it must be curt. He manages to redial and presses the phone to his right ear. His features are screwed up, as much as anything against the elements – but as he listens his face twists beyond such necessity, like that of a gargoyle hewn from the very stone around him, streaming with rainwater, contorted with horror.
The caller was Megan Graham.
*
The visibility on the top of Haystacks is no more than a dozen yards. This will disadvantage some of the runners, certainly those intending to navigate by the skyline – but it makes little difference to Skelgill, who is at home up here by dark or by daylight. Indeed, he breaks off from the walkers’ path so as to avoid the marshals at the tag-drop beside the summit cairn – and picks his way diagonally towards the precipice from where he has promised to mark the shortcut.
He checks his watch – his expression shows concern. The lead runners could appear at any moment – led he hopes by Jess – but there is even the small prospect that she has already passed and is finding her own way down to the Shepherd’s Rake.
In the gloom, swathed in mist and pelted by sheeting rain, the plateau exhibits such qualities as those Wainwright conjured with his keen draughtsman’s eye, the rock formations and gullies at once fairylike and grotesque, inviting and cautioning; the whole an adventure playground and a treacherous labyrinth; together the best and worst of times.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 50
