Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Happen that’s what I told you at the time, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton grins equably.

  ‘As I recall, so you did, Guv.’

  Skelgill may be about to embellish his mickey taking – but the swish of the sliding door at the far end of the carriage draws his attention.

  ‘Hey up – here’s Jones and her new pal.’

  DS Jones enters the lounge car ahead of her cabin mate; she has changed into casual clothes, black slim jeans and ankle boots and a close-fitting long-sleeved top, and she has freed her hair from the intricate style woven for the formal event earlier in the evening. Notwithstanding, Skelgill notices she attracts the eyes of the main group, male and female alike – but her unassuming charms are quickly eclipsed as she is followed into the carriage by the taller figure of the pale blonde, who still wears the chic outfit in which she arrived upon the platform. DS Jones spies her colleagues and turns to motion to the woman, as if she intends to introduce her – but there is an intervention.

  ‘Wiktoria!’

  The cry of recognition comes from the raven-haired woman Skelgill has labelled as Scandinavian – although even in the single word he hears a Russian inflexion and has to recalibrate his geography. Wiktoria – thus summoned, her name pronounced with a ‘V’ – shows fleeting annoyance, as if this calling out by strangers is tiresomely familiar – but then recognition sets in and her demeanour becomes amenable if slightly condescending – as though the other woman is not actually a friend, but an acquaintance of some marginally lower standing. All this Skelgill takes in at a glance. His first sentiment is to dislike the woman’s attitude – but then she does a more considerate thing – for she reaches to place a hand on DS Jones’s upper arm, and leans to confide in her, indicating with her free hand that she intends to speak with the other, and that DS Jones should continue. DS Jones smiles and nods and says something in response. The main group shift around in their seats – indeed the four males all stand to attention – and they make a space for the new arrival. DS Jones proceeds to join her colleagues.

  DS Leyton, perhaps taking his cue from the chivalrous act of the other men, rises – but Skelgill remains resolutely seated, as if refusing to be dictated to by the mores of others. DS Jones is unperturbed. She slips into the space beside DS Leyton. He speaks, his voice now more suitably hushed.

  ‘So who’s Wiktoria – some kind of VIP?’

  ‘You mean you don’t recognise her?’

  DS Jones speaks with tongue in cheek, as if she doesn’t expect him to. DS Leyton makes a face of concomitant bafflement.

  ‘Give us a Scooby, girl.’

  DS Jones has her mobile phone, and she deftly taps in a command and manipulates the image on the screen. She places the handset on the table such that both of her colleagues can see the display. DS Leyton leans over with interest; Skelgill is more reluctant – but nonetheless a squint betrays his curiosity. DS Leyton reads aloud.

  ‘“Wiktoria Adamska – former supermodel, fashion designer – third wife of Polish shipping magnate Artur Adamski.”’ But he shakes his jowls like a dog that has dunked its muzzle too deeply in a bowl of water. ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘She owns the Million Dollar clothing label.’

  Now DS Leyton shows a flicker of recognition.

  ‘Oh – yeah – reckon I’ve heard the missus mention that – does what it says on the tin, eh?’

  DS Jones smiles wistfully.

  ‘That outfit she’s wearing – plus the shoes and handbag – probably the equivalent of an average person’s annual take-home pay.’

  A whistle escapes DS Leyton’s lips and Skelgill can’t suppress a kind of scoffing sound that he submerges into his beer. Casually, he glances over – Wiktoria Adamska is seated beside the (now reclassified) Russian brunette, listening calmly to something she is relating. The men are pretending to be in conversation, but are clearly distracted by the woman’s majestic presence.

  ‘What’s she doing slumming it with us?’ Skelgill now mutters scornfully. ‘You’d think she’d be on a private jet.’

  DS Jones answers evenly.

  ‘She said she needed to travel at short notice – all tomorrow morning’s flights are in doubt – apparently Edinburgh airport closed at 8pm this evening due to snow.’

  ‘It’s the Baltic Blast!’

  DS Leyton’s interjection is rather gleefully macabre. Skelgill is quick to take him to task.

  ‘Where do you get that from?’

  ‘Just going by what the missus said, Guv – I phoned her after the dinner. It’s what they’re calling it on the BBC. Easterly gales blowing all the way from the Baltic – for the next three days. It’s gonna be like last year with knobs on. She reckons it’s been snowing in the north Lakes since teatime. Just as well we’re on the train – the M6 is closed at Shap by a jack-knifed lorry and the A1’s all snarled up at Scotch Corner. We’d be snookered if we were driving.’

  Skelgill glowers. He turns to the window – the soft suburban neon of Greater London flashes past like a continuous fusillade of silent tracer bullets.

  ‘Looks alright here.’

  ‘Hah – never snows in The Smoke, Guv – else the bookies’d have to pay out on a White Christmas. That’s their best little earner after the National – apart from when it’s a World Cup year.’

  Skelgill eschews the possible digression. He remains sceptical.

  ‘Last forecast I heard, it was going to miss us.’

  ‘Apparently it’s coming further down the country, Guv. Something about the jet screen, the missus said.’ DS Leyton takes a pull of his drink and exhales with enthusiasm. ‘Let’s hope we make it.’

  The pensive silence that settles upon the trio (during which Skelgill decides he cannot be bothered to correct Mrs Leyton’s Chinese whisper) is interrupted by an unfamiliar alert from DS Jones’s phone. DS Leyton remarks with a chuckle.

  ‘Tarzan likes your post.’

  Skelgill’s antennae are twitching.

  ‘What’s that?’

  DS Jones looks a little discomfited.

  ‘Oh – DI Smart follows my Instagram – I put up a picture of the awards.’

  ‘Tarzan?’ Skelgill’s tone is scathing. ‘Why do you call him that?’

  ‘Oh, no – that’s his own username.’

  Now Skelgill tuts. ‘And what the hell’s Instagram when it’s at home?’

  ‘It’s an app for sharing pictures and videos – it’s a good way of keeping in touch with my friends from uni.’

  Skelgill gestures dismissively at the handset.

  ‘So what’s he saying?’

  ‘It’s just a like, Guv – on my profile. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘It means he’s snooping on you. Look at the time.’ Skelgill shakes his head. However, his manner becomes a little less belligerent. ‘I just don’t get this social media lark. Don’t folk see they’re being exploited?’

  DS Jones seems relieved by his shift away from the specific instance. She reaches for her phone and quickly checks something. Then she indicates to the display.

  ‘I understand what you mean, Guv – but, look, Wiktoria Adamska has almost thirty million followers – and no one is forced to follow her. At least whatever she does or says isn’t distorted by the press.’

  ‘What’s that – press distortion? Never!’

  Simultaneously they look up in surprise – for they have been joined by the honey blonde with the sunken eyes – she is standing a yard away, drink in hand, swaying a little – although that might be the movement of the train as much as the side effects of the contents of her glass.

  ‘I certainly shan’t be distorting your achievements.’

  The detectives exchange puzzled glances – as if to ascertain which one of them must know her. The woman seems to sense their predicament.

  ‘Let me introduce myself – Jenny Hackett?’ There is the faintest inflexion of a question – as if the name, at least, ought to ring a bell – but not enough to emb
arrass her when it does not. Indeed, she continues quickly. ‘Crime correspondent for The Inquirer – my byline is Virginia. I was at The Grosvenor this evening. I witnessed your recognition – it seems you are an intrepid trio – hiding your northern lights beneath a bushel.’

  Skelgill is first to react.

  ‘Aye – happen we’ve not figured out Instagram yet.’ He grins wryly at DS Jones. ‘We only get a phone signal when it’s not raining – and that’s twice a year.’

  If the woman is who she claims to be, she certainly has the brass neck for the job – and now she slides into the bench seat beside Skelgill, close enough to brush against his shoulder, and he notices an intense perfume that reminds him of Parma Violets. It almost masks the ketones on her breath – but not sufficiently to dispel the inference of sustained drinking, albeit she does not sound inebriated. She rests her forearms on the table, cradling her tumbler; her nails look artificial – Skelgill is never sure about this kind of thing – and varnished to match a maroon silky blouse that is tight across the bosom, and worn loose over close-fitting black pants. Her outfit is smart and new looking – but unlikely to be what she would have worn for the gala dinner – perhaps she, like them, has changed.

  ‘Sergeant Leyton – congratulations – George Medal – now with bar.’

  She salutes with affected deference – although the impression is sincere.

  Skelgill watches as DS Leyton shrugs self-effacingly – and then looks to him for a lead as to how they ought to respond to a member of the press. But in the hiatus the woman turns to Skelgill and touches his upper arm.

  ‘Not that I wish to diminish your own achievements – Inspector Skelgill – and –’ (she nods to DS Jones) ‘Sergeant Jones.’

  She knows who they are well enough. Skelgill is instinctively on guard – but his inclination is to take the bull by the horns. He indicates with a jerk of his head the group she was with.

  ‘You’re obviously not on the train to pump us for information.’

  The woman gives a short ironic laugh.

  ‘I certainly should hope to be more subtle about it, Inspector – although if you are willing it would make an excellent feature. How about Skelly’s Heroes?’

  Skelgill glowers, but his subordinates would recognise that the suggestion – despite its rather crass denomination – most certainly piques his vanity. The woman pats his thigh, and he stiffens.

  ‘You’d need to consult the powers that be.’

  ‘I quite understand.’

  There is something about her intonation that causes Skelgill suddenly to wonder if she is an Australian, perhaps long naturalised, her accent now more neutral, her voice an amalgam of those in the London-based media amongst whom she circulates. The three police officers remain taciturn; Skelgill’s subordinates taking their cue from his stilted advice. Undeterred, Jenny Hackett continues.

  ‘To answer your question – no – I am bound for Edinburgh. There is a financial symposium at the International Conference Centre over the next two days. It is entitled ‘Wealth of Nations’ – although that is something of a misnomer – at least the word nations.’ Now she leans over the table and lowers her voice in a conspiratorial manner. ‘The white-haired gentleman halfway down the carriage is the keynote speaker. You don’t recognise him? I imagined – in your line of work –’

  DS Leyton takes the opportunity to restore a light-hearted note to the conversation.

  ‘I thought he was Albert Einstein – ’till the Guvnor put me right.’

  Skelgill now scowls disapprovingly – but Jenny Hackett merely grins.

  ‘Relatively speaking, he is making similarly iconoclastic waves. His name is Mikal Mital – and, if I may mix my metaphors – he promises to open a Pandora’s box upon money laundering, so the rumour mill has it.’

  That she hints at a more sinister subtext is not given the opportunity to develop, for DS Leyton is ready with a jovial rejoinder.

  ‘Cor blimey – he should have a word with my missus – she’s forever giving me grief about washing fivers in me trouser pockets!’

  The journalist smiles in an effort to humour him. But it seems she has other matters on her mind. She looks pointedly at DS Jones.

  ‘I see you are an acquaintance of Wiktoria Adamska.’

  DS Jones raises her palms in a display of modesty.

  ‘Oh, no – she didn’t have a reserved berth – I overheard her arguing with the guard and said it was no problem if she wanted to share my cabin. We leave the train at Carlisle, in any event.’

  Jenny Hackett lifts her glass and regards DS Jones pensively over the rim.

  ‘I have colleagues who would give their eye teeth to be in your shoes – your bed come to that – and I’m not just talking about the men – you are a delicious specimen. Ask dear Wiktoria!’

  DS Jones bursts into laughter – it can only be a shocked reflex – that this woman whom they have only just met has had the nerve to say such a thing – and that she has apparently conflated several risqué intimations. She sees that her male colleagues are speechless – DS Leyton’s jaw has dropped and Skelgill stares at her with a look of consternation. However, her response is composed.

  ‘I’m sure my travel companion would be the greater attraction – whatever the motivation.’

  The woman laughs throatily.

  ‘Wiktoria might surprise you. Indeed – should you find yourself in a position to pen a kiss-and-tell – just tip me the wink. It would be eye-wateringly lucrative.’

  DS Jones’s eyes have certainly widened. She flicks a glance at Skelgill – as if to suggest that Jenny Hackett is tipsier than they have judged. But now there is the intervention of the steward – who, on reflection, may have been eavesdropping.

  ‘Same again, sir?’

  Skelgill notes that, inexplicably, he has been elevated to the title sir. He wonders if it has something to do with the presence of the two females – perhaps even their perceived attitude towards him. But he looks questioningly at DS Leyton – whose expression of ambivalence morphs into a twitch of agreement.

  ‘Aye, why not.’

  ‘I too shall have the same again, Ruairidh!’ Jenny Hackett mangles the man’s name, confounded by the Gaelic spelling on his enamel badge. ‘A large Glenmorangie.’

  ‘It’s morangie, Madam – and Mr Bond has already reserved that for his and Sir Ewart’s party.’

  ‘Oh – I’m sure Eck will spare me a couple of fingers! Hah-ha!’ This quip she obviously thinks hilarious, and presses hard on Skelgill’s thigh to communicate her mirth. ‘Just tell him from me.’

  The steward gives no indication he will do any such thing. He turns to DS Jones, his lips twisted as though he has bitten into a lemon.

  ‘Just a tonic water for me, please.’

  ‘Oh, have a vodka with it – live dangerously!’ Jenny Hackett reaches to press her hand insistently.

  ‘No – it’s fine, really – just plain tonic, please.’

  The steward disappears behind his counter and into whatever compartment lies beyond. There is no public access to the rest of train – for the ‘Midnight Express’, as it is known, in winter is largely a mail and parcel service – rather like a freighter that takes on an exclusive contingent of paying passengers to supplement the income from its cargo. But at less than the cost of a London hotel room, it can be an efficient facility, killing two birds with one stone. It gets the long-distance traveller home before breakfast, with a night’s sleep thrown in. Well – of the two – home at least is generally guaranteed.

  ‘Which one’s Eck?’

  It is DS Leyton that quizzes the journalist. Jenny Hackett regards him with mock reproach.

  ‘You do lead cloistered lives. Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch. Former Conservative Home Office minister. He famously introduced the Golden Visas scheme – it led to a flood of foreign investment and fuelled the London property boom. Sadly he failed to detect the nationalists creeping up behind him – they swiped his Edinburgh seat at the l
ast election. Ambitions of becoming PM were put into abeyance. Now of all things he hosts a current affairs show on VoxNews. A travesty.’

  She regards each of them in turn, as if to assess their individual political persuasions; but perhaps she is disappointed. She reins in her voice, though the note of bitterness that conveyed the word travesty remains.

  ‘Do you know who is behind VoxNews?’

  DS Jones is first to respond.

  ‘Isn’t it sponsored by the Russian government?’

  Jenny Hackett’s tone becomes somewhat caustic.

  ‘Setting aside editorial control – it is Bogblokinov – the oligarch who owns what little of Mayfair that the Duke of Westminster doesn’t.’

  There is a brief silence – but now DS Leyton rejoins the debate.

  ‘What’s a Tory toff doing working for the communists?’

  ‘Ah, the romance of the rouble.’ Jenny Hackett wags an admonishing finger. ‘But since when was Russia controlled by left-wing ideologues?’

  ‘It’s still quite a coup.’ This is DS Jones.

  ‘Absolutely. They certainly got their man.’ Jenny Hackett glances at the group beyond DS Jones’s right shoulder. ‘Someone from Labour – or a loony left nationalist – would not have the same credibility. He is what Lenin called a Useful Idiot.’

  Skelgill, also looking at the man in question, now realises he must have seen him on the TV. And the name he has certainly heard, albeit he doubts he could have put it together with the face. He calculates that ‘Eck’ must be a contraction of his initials, rather than the more usual Scots diminutive of Alexander (first reduced to Alec, and thence simply Eck).

  ‘Who are the rest of that crew – are they all with the TV channel?’

  Jenny Hackett twists so that she faces Skelgill, as if to conceal that she is talking about them.

  ‘Oh, no – just his handler.’

  ‘Handler?’ DS Leyton cannot contain himself. ‘It gets more sinister by the second!’

  Jenny Hackett chuckles. ‘Oh, I say it in jest, of course. The black-haired woman, Ivanna Karenina – officially she is Eck’s producer.’ Now she hesitates, her voice lowered. ‘But since she previously worked as a senior executive at VoxNews headquarters in Moscow, we sceptical journalists rather suspect her declared status here in the UK is something of an artifice. Think of her as the ventriloquist and wee Eck as her dummy.’