‘Is it just the two of you that’s here right now?’
The owner grimaces sourly.
‘Yesterday afternoon the other staff were sent home. Last night we were expecting a company from Glasgow for their festive celebrations. They had booked out the hotel for exclusive use up to Christmas Eve. They called at about 5pm to say they could not risk the journey. I am not anticipating they will arrive now – not at all.’ In the flickering light of the candle the heavy creases in his countenance seem to deepen. ‘It was an important piece of business for us.’
Skelgill inhales in the manner that precedes informed pontification.
‘Play your cards right, sir – this is your chance to make a railway company look good for once.’
The hotelier appears to grasp the intimation that he will not be out of pocket for whatever now unfolds. Albeit without enthusiasm, he summons a note of cooperation.
‘I shall go and fire up the generator.’ He turns and begins to limp into the darkness, his stick tapping erratically on the stone flags. He mutters, half to himself, still with a hint of bitter irony in his voice. ‘And, of course, we have ample provisions.’
‘Shall we go?’
The girl again touches Skelgill’s sleeve, this time taking a light grip.
‘Aye – lead on.’
Initially she follows in the footsteps of Joost Merlyn. But whereas he has melted directly into the gloom she takes a sharp right turn along a corridor that opens up beside the staircase. Skelgill’s boots echo, yet the girl moves noiselessly. After twenty or so paces she stops and tugs at a door on the left – it is a walk-in cupboard, the shelves stacked with neatly folded white linen and towels. On the floor beneath lies a heap of the bags to which she referred. While she illuminates with the candle Skelgill stoops to inspect them. They remind him of the slings in which rocks are lowered upon the fells by helicopter in order to repair damaged footpaths.
‘Aye – a couple of them should do the trick.’
‘Then please take them.’
Skelgill gathers up two of the bags. As he rises, behind the girl some low-level lighting flickers into life in the corridor.
‘Ah – Mr Merlyn has turned on the generator.’ She blows out her candle and places the holder in a niche in the wall. ‘This way, please.’
She leads Skelgill to a further door, the last on the left. She presses a switch as she enters and fluorescent strips flash and pop and flood the room with their stark light. Blinking, it is an image that Skelgill recognises – to the extent that he has perused the Shake Holes Inn brochure, plucked out of boredom from the tourist information display while kicking his heels at Tebay motorway services. True to the photograph – and his recall – there is a rank of wellington boots, and Barbour jackets on a long row of pegs – but what most catches his eye is a wheeled hanging rack of all-in-one overalls. They resemble his outfit – other than their camouflage design (which perhaps Richard Bond will covet). Attached to each hanger is a protective facemask and pair of gloves.
‘These look like the ticket.’
‘Mr Merlyn has recently introduced paintball. Since we are next to the forest.’
‘Beats blasting pheasants, I reckon. And you can shoot your boss.’
She grins nervously.
‘Oh, yes – I have not tried it yet.’
She pauses and then inhales as if to add something – but it seems she suffers a change of heart. Skelgill considers her more carefully. He realises now the cause of her silent steps is that she is barefooted; and still she wears only the long nightgown. The air in the room is icy – it has double barn-style doors that are by their nature poorly sealed. Though he is warm enough, he can see his breath, and the girl’s as it comes in rapid puffs that seem to belie her calm exterior. She gazes at him suppliantly, her face tilted to reveal the smooth pale flesh of her throat. To his alarm he suffers a sudden flashback to a vampire movie watched in his youth. He starts.
‘Are you not cold, lass? – I can manage this now.’
‘Oh, no – I am from Vilnius.’
‘What’s that – Latvia?’
‘Lithuania.’
‘Sorry.’ His features contract with affected contrition.
She smiles patiently.
‘Most people do not get as close as Latvia. Or even the Baltic.’
Skelgill makes the connection with the prevailing storm. He grins wryly, a little relieved.
‘You’ve brought the weather, right enough.’
‘It is a little like home, yes.’ She seems consumed, perhaps by a memory – and for a moment once again appears about to speak. But she gives the faintest shake of her head. ‘Please – tell me what you would like and I shall help.’
Skelgill realises he is lingering – and that shortly Richard Bond will be breathing down his neck – and, besides, until the passengers are safely back here, he has no cause to dwell.
‘Aye, right. I’d say if you can stick all the adult-size wellies into one bag – I’ll put these suits in the other. That should do us.’
The girl works quickly and in only a minute she has the job done. While he is finishing off, and before he can object she has the bag over her shoulder and is ready to haul it away – he realises she must be stronger than she looks. Skelgill is hoping that the sledges will be suitable – it is not so much the weight of the bags but their awkward bulging shape. Although he suspects if necessary the ex-soldier will offer to lug both singlehandedly.
Back in the entrance hall there is no one about. But as they deposit their loads the main door flies open to reveal a beaming Richard Bond. He looks like a schoolboy bearing news to the dorm that he has discovered the tuck-shop unlocked.
‘Inspector, come and see what I’ve found!’
With the return of electrical power an external light above the porch has activated. In the fleeting moment that Skelgill hopes for a snowmobile a lusty whinny recalibrates his expectations – a small horse! It is already harnessed to a four-wheeled box trailer stacked with half a dozen plastic children’s sledges and what appears to be a golf flagpole.
In most circumstances this would be a bizarre sight. But Skelgill is getting used to Richard Bond’s methods. He can picture the scenario: parachuted behind enemy lines, Captain Bond and his unit improvise with the cooperation (or otherwise) of a local farmer. However, even in this genuine peacetime crisis, to press-gang the animal into service in such adverse conditions seems lacking in sentiment. Except – and Skelgill immediately recognises the breed – this is no show pony but a superb specimen of the Lakeland Fell variety. Adapted for life amongst the Cumbrian mountains, with its stocky build, shaggy black coat and great sweeping russet mane it is as hardy a beast as can be imagined; he has heard tell of individuals surviving for months trapped by snow, able to scrape for food with their powerful hooves. It probably beats a snowmobile hands down – and, if his amateur reading of equine body language is anything to go by, it is champing at the bit.
‘I’ve put a couple more ropes in the trailer. We’ll be able to use her to pull that fence down.’
‘Steady on, man.’
Skelgill can see that Richard Bond’s enthusiasm is again getting the upper hand. It seems he plans to take the pony all the way to the train. He’ll have them riding rollercoaster in the trailer down the embankment! But Skelgill decides to tackle each hurdle as it arises. Thus a small moment of generosity comes upon him.
‘Nice work, Richard.’ The man’s broad chest swells with the praise. ‘Let’s load this kit and get our skates on.’
Skelgill turns to the girl, who begins to lift her bag and heave it towards the door. He puts a halting palm on her shoulder. ‘That’s enough lass – leave it to us. The best help you can be is to get a decent-sized public room nice and warm – where we can thaw everyone out with a hot cuppa. Give us ninety minutes max.’
‘Would you like bacon rolls?’
‘Make that sixty minutes.’
5. EVACUATION
Thursday, 6.45am
As Skelgill and Richard Bond reach the rear end of the train they are required to divert through the deeper drift at its side. More ponderously, they pass beneath the glow of the lounge car, its windows steamed up and, even in the lee, becoming coated with snow. They each draw a stack of three sledges, a bag of gear roped on top. Their progress has been uneventful; the pony pulled the trailer without a murmur and is now stabled contentedly upon the sheltered deck of the bridge. Skelgill had gently persuaded Richard Bond that this was the optimum strategy, and gravity took care of delivering sledges and laundry bags to the trackside. Experiencing an attack of devilment Skelgill briefly entertained the idea of tobogganing down, and then of building a snowman ‘caddy’ to hold the golf flag – but his mountain rescue training kicked in, and basic rules such as avoiding gratuitous injury, and unnecessary timewasting, held sway. In the event they settled for rolling a ball in which to plant the marker beneath the footbridge, whence the equipment was easily towed up the more modest incline of the cutting.
Now he checks his watch while Richard Bond thumps on the door of the vestibule situated at the front end of the lounge car; it seems it has become his job so to bang. Skelgill nods with some satisfaction – the return trip has taken them twenty-two minutes. Though conditions are becoming progressively more difficult – in particular the depth of snow – they should get out in good time. And as the sound of the door being unfastened reaches their ears, the intrepid explorers might each secretly be expecting some version of a conqueror’s homecoming.
It is Ruairidh the guard who opens it. His expression seems unreasonably hostile – but Skelgill puts that down to a truncated repertoire, a spectrum from dour to disparaging. But when he retreats and DS Jones steps into the breach, Skelgill knows her well enough to understand something is badly amiss. But Richard Bond is already launching into jokes and guffaws as he heaves first one and then the other bag on board, and scrambles up behind them. Skelgill hangs back in the vestibule while Richard Bond enlists the guard to help him manhandle the gear round into the lounge car, where he might receive the plaudits he seeks. His departure heralds the appearance of a worried-looking DS Leyton. Skelgill turns to DS Jones. She takes a deep breath.
‘Guv – there’s one passenger missing. And one dead.’
What seems a long silence but which can only be a second or two is broken by DS Leyton.
‘Would you flippin’ Adam an’ Eve it, Guvnor?’
His words might seem facetious – however his tone is anything but. He lifts his broad shoulders and lets them drop with a great sigh. Questions begin to swirl in Skelgill’s mind like the flakes caught in the light beyond the glass. But he stares grimly at DS Jones, knowing that at any moment she will provide a far more orderly briefing.
‘The dead passenger is the elderly man, Mikal Mital. After you left, the guard knocked at all the compartments, but two people never came to the lounge car.’ She glances at DS Leyton for corroboration. ‘I went back with him. He used his master key. Compartment one was completely empty and has not been slept in. At that point we assumed the occupant was elsewhere on the train – in the toilet or something. Mikal Mital’s is the next cabin, number two. He was in bed, lying on his back – peacefully asleep, it looked like.’ She pauses. ‘And it appears to be natural causes, Guv.’
Skelgill has been inadvertently holding his breath. Now he exhales between bared teeth.
‘And the missing person?’
‘Named on the passenger list as Mr Harris. The guard has done a full search of the train. He checked the man on board at Euston. But the thing is, Guv – there’s no luggage – and the compartment looks untouched.’
‘What about signs of exit?’
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘As best we can we’ve looked outside all of the vestibule doors. Apart from where you and Richard Bond jumped out there’s no indication of marks in the snow.’
‘Who else knows about all this?’
‘The guard, obviously – and then just the driver. She’s up in her cab. I said we three would come along as soon as you got back.’
‘Right – let’s go.’ Skelgill takes a step but then halts abruptly. A second thought has struck him – it comes back to Lyndon B. Johnson’s principle. ‘Leyton – bring Bond, will you? Fill him in – top line.’
‘Righto, Guv – I’ll be with you in a jif.’
Skelgill and DS Jones make their way to the front of the train. Skelgill is a little shocked when he enters the driver’s compartment to see the windows entirely encased in snow. The sense of entombment intensifies the news he has been met with. The young woman swivels around in her seat. She is about to speak but Skelgill holds up a palm to silence her.
‘I know the story. I shan’t beat about the bush. There’s some investigation we could usefully do – and procedures we need to follow. But the first priority is to get everyone to safety.’ He gestures to include DS Jones. ‘We can come back here as necessary – it’s not that difficult a hike. And we’ll get a message out to summon back-up – I reckon we’ll get some priority given the new circumstances.’
The driver nods; she looks drawn and anxious, but before she can respond the sound of voices signals the imminent arrival of DS Leyton and Richard Bond. Skelgill can tell from the latter’s animated features that he is apprised of the situation. He immediately addresses Skelgill.
‘Do you want to extract the casualty? We can rig up a field stretcher. Carry him between two of us – then use the pony and trailer.’
At this suggestion the two sergeants’ eyes fall apprehensively upon Skelgill.
‘There’s folk better qualified than us to deal with that.’ Something about his tone implies a deeper meaning – which Richard Bond seems to get – and, besides, Skelgill has issued it as an order. He turns to DS Leyton, but puts a hand on the upper arm of Richard Bond. ‘Can you pair brief everybody. Leyton – you cover the little difficulty – keep it low key – Richard, you get them organised into the gear. Get their bags down onto the track and roped onto the sledges. Be ready to move out in – what’ (he looks at his watch) ‘fifteen minutes?’
Richard Bond almost salutes. He is revelling in being part of the official team. DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks, his features somewhat hangdog, the short straw being a familiar outcome.
‘One low-key-difficulty briefing coming right up.’
He and Richard Bond depart. Skelgill recapitulates with the driver his plan; they agree she will turn off the electrical power once they are all ready to leave; then they will move together as a body as swiftly as possible, and keep going to minimise the risk of anyone suffering from the effects of cold. Now he asks a belated question of both the driver and DS Jones.
‘How many of us are there?’
It is DS Jones who replies.
‘Thirteen, Guv – excluding the deceased – and the missing passenger.’
Skelgill furrows his brow. He regards the driver doubtingly.
‘I thought it would be more than that.’
She shakes her head, but all the same casts a worried glance at DS Jones.
‘We’ve been through the manifest, Guv. All ten cabins were taken but only three of them were shared. That’s six people. Another seven for solo occupancy makes thirteen – minus two. Then add back Laura and the guard.’
Skelgill is now nodding. He makes a face that suggests some small relief.
‘There’s plenty of choice of kit, then.’ He looks at the driver appraisingly. ‘Happen you should grab a set that fits – put the same aside for my sergeant. You’re not far off the same size.’ He turns to DS Jones. ‘I take it you’ve got the master key?’
She nods.
‘Show me.’
‘Sure, Guv.’
As they enter the lounge car the mood is subdued – obviously there is the shock news of their fellow passenger’s untimely demise, albeit he was presumably unknown to most of them. Richard Bond is still dispensing advice about fi
tting gear and packing belongings. They move through inconspicuously. Skelgill notices that the two Russian women are helping one another into their suits, and he catches a snippet of their conversation.
‘This is so unbecoming.’
The woman refers to the man-size overall that is inevitably bulky around her tall and slender model’s figure.
‘Think of it as a fashion opportunity, Wiktoria. I expect to see a creative interpretation on the slopes of St Moritz next season.’
This raises a laugh from Wiktoria Adamska.
‘Ivanna, at least I have my Cartiers to protect my eyes from the blizzard.’
Skelgill also takes in that ‘Eck’, Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch is glancing slyly at the pair as they dress, while the American Bill Faulkner, quietly getting on with his own business, in turn watches the former government minister, his expression dispassionate. The detectives pass through the interconnecting vestibule into the sleeping car. The ten cabins have their doors on the left as they look.
‘Do you want to see the empty one?’
Skelgill hesitates; it feels like an unnecessary diversion.
‘Aye, may as well.’
But it is a quick job; there is little of note other than what Skelgill already knows about the layout and facilities. It looks simply like a compartment made ready for occupancy. There is no indication of any disturbance. He merely sticks his head around the door for a few seconds.
‘Okay. Next.’
DS Jones is more circumspect in opening number two. She checks the corridor as if for prying eyes before unlocking the door. They shuffle inside.
DS Jones’s expression is anxious – and she seems almost relieved to find the body still in its resting place – indeed in its resting pose, as she has described.
It is a policeman’s lot to encounter this kind of sight – and much worse at times – but familiarity makes these first few moments no easier – and the presence of a fellow human, expired, has both of them descending into contemplative silence – for here is somebody’s relative, friend or loved one.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 58
