On reflection they must have had Samanta up and down the cellar ladder like a jack-in-the-box, in their quest for ever more exotic concoctions. And he remembers Joost Merlyn’s self-satisfied smirk as the tab escalated. Cocktails? Ka-ching! Poor Samanta, perhaps, run off her feet, arms overloaded, she dropped this bottle – and if Joost Merlyn has inspected, then no wonder he has castigated the hard-working girl.
Skelgill’s distaste for the man is renewed. Once more he feels impelled to confront the miserly landlord. Not least that his treatment of Samanta is despicable. But – hold on – he inhales deeply, his face a picture of discontent. It is not like him to get sidetracked by personal enmity – nor to resort to jibes or harbour grudges. Either punch his lights out – or forget it – for the time being. There is feedback from the others, and a search party to be organised. Better to focus. He decides this is a moment to let water pass under the bridge. There will be more bridges.
He returns to the ladder in the centre of the cellar and ascends. Joost Merlyn has been keeping watch. He prises himself from his armchair. Skelgill hands back the key. He does not comment on his findings.
‘Where else is there, sir?’
‘There’s nowhere else – your soldier man is checking the stables and the stores.’
‘What about this Bath House place?’
Skelgill’s tone is neutral. He seems to have caught the man off guard.
‘What?’ There is a moment’s hesitation. ‘It is nothing.’
‘Well – it’s not nothing, is it? I saw the sign across the car park – and it’s mentioned in your guided walk pamphlet.’
‘Ach.’ Joost Merlyn almost expectorates. ‘That is an exaggeration – the bath house is a ruin, a pile of stones. Some former owners produced that leaflet – there’s no call for history these days. You’d be wasting your time. It is bricked up. ’
‘All the same, sir – we still need to look. I wouldn’t be doing my job.’
12. BATHOLOGY
Friday, 10.30am
The bath house is the last structure a casual rambler would expect to stumble upon in this rugged rural corner of Cumbria. Even a hotel guest, following the marked trail and therefore in expectation of ‘something’, would find it incongruous. While the inn has a workmanlike perpendicular Georgian facade, austere and unornamented, here there is the sudden illusion of a time-travelling spacecraft having crash-landed in the forest. Set in a small round clearing, the bath house is a construction in the neoclassical style. From a circular stone base arises a chiselled Doric temple with its snow-capped domed roof supported by ten fluted columns. In the centre beneath the dome and otherwise exposed to the elements stands a sculpted statue; the brochure in Skelgill’s back pocket would tell him this is Hygeia, the Greek goddess of good health. She bears a chalice, and the fingers of her left hand caress the head of an asp that winds its way up a pedestal at her side.
For some this lofty vision might evoke feelings of enchantment – but Skelgill, ever practical, has his mind set on the more prosaic foundation. It resembles the lower storey of a medieval watchtower, a round turret of undressed rocks of local origin. Ostensibly its role is as a plinth to elevate the temple – but, in fact, reaching a height of perhaps seven feet, this must be the actual bath house itself, possibly a much older edifice. He guesses it was built over the sulphurous mineral spring that he can smell even now. It has no windows and – as Joost Merlyn had presaged – in effect no door, for the narrow portal beneath a stone lintel is indeed blocked – the single aspect that is displeasing to the eye, a slapdash score of courses of blue engineering bricks of a similar vintage to those forming the end walls of the cellar.
On his approach through the dark tunnel of rhododendrons, a steeply rising path that has received only a sprinkling of snow, Skelgill has followed no human tracks, and the snow in the clearing and around the bath house is virgin but for the spoor of a roe deer that has passed this way. Nonetheless, he satisfies himself that there is no other means of entry, and that none has been attempted, and circles the building. Back before the blocked doorway he faces outwards, his breath coming more steadily as his pulse rate eases. Even for a fellsman of his experience, the scene is uncannily silent; no sough of the wind, no mew of a buzzard, no bleating of sheep, no tractor chug of a farmer on the move; and not even the distant drone of traffic.
After a while, however, Skelgill fancies he can hear running water – it intrigues him what might be inside the tower base – a spout filling a stone bath of sorts, he supposes, where those Victorian diehards immersed themselves in hope. It would be cold, year round – although ironically in these sub-arctic conditions the ground water would provide protection against frost. He is reminded of Joost Merlyn’s belittling of history; neither is the subject his own bag – but to allow this hidden treasure to fall into ruin seems a travesty. But what chance the man would put his hand in his pocket to restore it – when a few paintball pistols will do the trick for the gung-ho urban clientele he aims to attract?
Skelgill ponders his next move. A wren momentarily appears on a protruding twig and gives its too-big-for-its-boots alarm call. ‘Jenny Wren’, indeed. Where has Jenny Hackett gone? As he had anticipated – and to the patent satisfaction of Richard Bond – the search of the inn had drawn a blank. That is to say, as far as she in person was concerned. Her luggage and toiletries remained, but of the most salient item in the detectives’ minds – the late Mikal Mital’s manuscript – there was no trace; nor could DS Leyton find her mobile telephone or wallet. Moreover, his sergeant’s questioning of her fellow passengers had proved unproductive. All retired collectively – shortly before midnight – and none admits to having arisen before breakfast, or having heard a disturbance in the night. Wiktoria Adamska’s earlier testimony is of course the exception to this rule, and had prompted DS Leyton to confide in his boss a revised hypothesis.
“What if it were Jenny Hackett in her room, Guv? Say she suspected that Wiktoria Adamska had the manuscript – sneaked in – nicked it – scarpered. Next thing it’ll be splashed all over the front pages.”
As Skelgill replays this notion his eyes narrow. Would Jenny Hackett seriously have considered making a dash for freedom? How desperate was she – is she – to impress her editor? It was still snowing heavily when they went to bed – and by his estimation had continued to do so until shortly before the visit of the helicopter. She could of course have waited for dawn – but that would have risked being seen by one of the patrons or staff. Besides, in spite of Richard Bond’s excitement about tracks leading from the tack room and across the courtyard, on closer inspection these proved to belong to the two detectives. No footprints extended beyond the winch point above which the chopper had hovered. Indeed, no new tracks could be discovered leading from the inn. This entailed falling back on the theory that, if Jenny Hackett had departed, she did so in the dark, while it was still snowing – and her footprints were subsequently buried.
Or, like ‘Mr Harris’, she is possessed of supernatural qualities!
Skelgill gives a frustrated gasp, his breath forming a confused cloud before him. There was one snippet of interest. When quizzed by DS Leyton as to whether Jenny Hackett had given any indication of her intentions, Ruairidh McLeod had asserted that, when the two teams (Dire Straits and The Pretenders) were seated together before their bar billiards contest, Jenny Hackett had declined a refill of wine, proclaiming that she “needed to keep a clear head” and had tapped the side of her nose. At the time the guard took this to mean so that she would perform well in the pub games – but with hindsight, who knows? However, Skelgill had dismissed the significance of this account. His recall is of Jenny Hackett filling her boots from the free bar – not to mention the potent cocktails later. He had expressed this doubt to his subordinate, but DS Leyton had offered a rejoinder.
“What if she were just getting everyone else smashed, Guv – especially Wiktoria Adamska – if she planned to creep into her room? We just assumed she was kn
ocking it back because of the night before – but for all we know she might hardly have touched a drop.”
Skelgill remains unconvinced by this argument. It would seem more likely to him – knowing what he does of Jenny Hackett’s personality and penchant for a tipple – that if she did concoct a plan to steal and make away with the manuscript, she did it under the influence of alcohol, a spur-of-the-moment whim that has likely led her into trouble.
The guard had also been questioned about the red kimono. His response had been that, yes, it was the identical colour, and, yes, it could have been Jenny Hackett whom he glimpsed slipping from view – but that he had no way of being one hundred per cent certain on either count. Corroboration, however, comes in the testimony of the remaining females – none of who lay claim to the said garment. So here is some small evidence to suggest that Jenny Hackett was prone to nocturnal wanderings. But did she finish at the inn what she started on the Midnight Express? Or has she gone back to the train?
Skelgill checks his watch. He has not shared his thoughts about Jenny Hackett’s motivation – nor indeed his reasons for setting out alone, among which the missing journalist is only secondary. His primary purpose is concealed in his backpack – the walkie-talkie and the conversation that is scheduled with DS Jones. His explanation to the others was that the train has been sealed off by order of the Coroner – standard protocol in the event of an unexplained death – and that only the police may cross the tapes. He had convened a meeting that comprised himself and DS Leyton, Richard Bond and his two associates, and Bill Faulkner. These he considered to be the most able bodied. On interrogating the latter three on their outdoor proficiency (Richard Bond’s skills he took as read), it emerged that, while the two younger men were athletic but not country types, Bill Faulkner confessed to being a fully paid-up duck hunter, indeed part-owner in a syndicate of two thousand acres of prime Louisiana coastal marshes, a shooting cabin that sleeps twelve, a brace of Labrador retrievers, and – by the sound of it – a different gun for every species he bags. It seems there is more than meets the eye to the quiet American, and that he is perfectly capable of covert operations, creeping about the countryside and interpreting the signs. Skelgill had noticed Richard Bond looking on with affected admiration, a glazed stare and a fixed smile that he suspected to be a cover for competitive envy. But Skelgill was convinced. And thus, for the purposes of avoiding a further calamity, he paired Messrs Bond and Faulkner respectively with each of the younger men. Richard Bond would take Egor and Bill Faulkner, François – this a relatively arbitrary choice, although Faulkner had joked that he also speaks French, albeit the New Orleans version. DS Leyton – to his poorly concealed relief – was once more delegated to man the fort. Clearly, under the circumstances, a police presence was required – both to reassure those remaining, and in the event of further unexpected developments.
The triumvirate of Skelgill, Bond and Faulkner had then pored over a map to agree upon a plan of action. Ulpha Beck cascades from north to south along the margin of the woodland. The pairs would split up and head in opposite directions, sticking to the bank of the stream. When they reached the respective polar limits of the plantation, they would each strike west across the open fell country, and swing around in a wide pincer movement, until they met up. In effect they would draw a circle around the inn. If tracks were found, the more experienced man was to follow and the second to report back. They had bemoaned the lack of a mobile signal. Of course, Skelgill had to keep mum about his radio. But giving it to one of them would be pointless – and it would defeat his own main objective. Besides, in his bones he held out no great hopes for their locating the missing journalist. But they will do their best, and Richard Bond’s cabin fever is circumvented for the time being. Meanwhile Skelgill may inspect the train, which is a mite more promising.
*
From the bath house it takes Skelgill about twenty minutes through the woods to reach the West Coast Main Line, and five more to find his way to the footbridge that carries the bridleway. Rather than descend immediately he walks to the centre of the bridge. It is the first time he has been able to survey the area in clear, bright conditions. At this distance the scene looks almost picturesque, it could be a still photograph of a snow-covered train deep in the steeply banked cutting, just about to turn the distant bend. But the astute observer would spot the clues: the front of the locomotive seems to merge into a bank of whiteness; and, at the rear, surely a moving train would clear a path, but no rails are visible. And one other point, of more interest to Skelgill – just beyond where the track begins to curve out of sight the top of a pylon protrudes from the snowdrift, and belatedly displays a red signal. Perhaps some form of power has been restored to the network?
On approach Skelgill finds signs that were less obvious from afar. The snow alongside the train is more heavily trodden than on his last visit, and white tape with familiar blue lettering (“police line do not cross”) has been strung from the rear carriage to a trackside post. With a practised dip he passes the barrier and enters the train by the door he knows to be the back of the sleeping car. It seems like an age since they boarded at Euston station – he reminds himself it was only thirty-six hours ago. On board he stands; all is quiet. He has seen no obvious fresh tracks coming down the embankment near the footbridge – although in the light of day it is not the exclusive means of approach. After a few moments, he calls out.
‘Jenny. Jenny – are you here?’
His exhortation is met with silence. He is not expecting a reply – although if she were aboard, surprised, a movement would more likely betray her presence. But he can see no logic for her to have remained, had she come here at all. He wonders – how well prepared would she have been – assuming she was in full possession of her wits? Richard Bond had postulated that she could wade into Ulpha Beck to conceal her tracks, and use the stream itself to guide her to Ulphathwaite – where there is of course access to a landline (although its significance would not have been apparent to him). But Skelgill had dismissed this as ‘SAS thinking’, beyond her metropolitan guile and physical limits. A more practical alternative would be to continue east to the M6 motorway. Vehicles will be abandoned with their keys left by order of the authorities, to facilitate clearance later. A car with a full tank of fuel would be a perfectly warm and comfortable haven, with a radio for company until the tow trucks arrived. An Asda lorry loaded with provisions – in his book – even better.
Certainly, if she did come to the train it would make sense to keep going in the same easterly direction. But why would she come to the train? There could only be one reason. Skelgill begins to make his way along the corridor of the sleeping car. In his mind’s eye he pictures Ruairidh McLeod; he imagines himself in the guard’s shoes, in the early hours of Thursday – and there goes the scarlet kimono! He does not trouble himself with any of the berths, but instead makes his way to the next vestibule and yanks open the normally power-assisted door of the lavatory.
On-board WCs have their own special position in the pantheon of public toilets, and are far from the most salubrious of their species; indeed they are places where the majority of travellers would rather not go, ahem. But the first-class nature of the Midnight Express, and – credit where it is due – thanks to what must have been the diligence of the guard-cum-steward-cum-orderly – the loo that Skelgill now enters is clean and pine-scented.
Skelgill, however, has no wish to dwell and he homes in on a maintenance panel above the toilet itself, attached to the bulkhead by four large plastic screws. It is apparent that the screw heads are damaged by the use of the wrong tool – a two pence coin, at a guess, going by the scarring around the drive slots. He has in his backpack a modest assortment scavenged from a tool chest in the tack room. He selects a wood chisel as an appropriately oversized screwdriver, and easily removes three of the fixings, two at the top and one at the bottom. He allows them to fall directly upon the floor. When he loosens the final screw the panel swings free, bu
t remains held in place, inverted.
He locates his railway-issue torch and shines it into the cavity now exposed. There are pipes and wires but, as far as he can establish, there is nothing else. He examines the interior and its various surfaces. Surely the dust and the debris in places are freshly disturbed? He ponders for a moment, his expression somewhat pained. He doubts that the forensics team had either time or, frankly, the notion to take samples from the washroom – but he suspects that if someone has recently tampered with the screws or the panel, or poked inside, they may have left traces, depending upon their degree of professional acumen. But this thought must now be put on hold, for his backpack crackles and DS Jones’s static-altered voice emanates from within.
‘Hi, Guv – it’s me here. Over.’
Skelgill delves for the handset.
‘Jones – it’s a bad time. Over.’
‘Guv – it’s noon. Over.’
‘I mean I’m in a toilet. Over.’
‘Oh.’
Skelgill grins wryly.
‘Listen – the signal’s crap. I’m on the train. Give me five minutes to get up on the footbridge. Over.’
‘Sure, Guv. Over and out.’
*
‘How’s that, Guv? Over.’
‘Aye – much better.’ Skelgill rests his elbows upon the snow-encrusted steel parapet of the footbridge. He is facing north, to the train, and the midwinter sun has reached its meagre zenith and slants across the cutting beneath, leaving the western embankment in deep shadow, but reflecting with startling brightness off the drifts on the east side. It is a contrast challenging on the eye, and as his gaze wanders from one side to the other he makes facial contortions accordingly. ‘Jones – before you start – in case this battery packs up – you need to know that Jenny Hackett’s disappeared. There’s no sign of her at the inn. Some outdoor gear’s gone. There’s no manuscript or mobile or wallet amongst her belongings. She possibly left during the night – during which Wiktoria Adamska reported an intruder in her room and the theft of an item she won’t identify. We can’t find any tracks. We’ve got three teams including me out looking for her now. If there’s a chopper passing this way, I wouldn’t mind if they could do a five-minute scout around.’ Skelgill hesitates but it is plain he has more to say. ‘Obviously if Mikal Mital’s big story suddenly breaks – we’ll know she’s smuggled it out. Over.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 70
