‘DS Jones will have ensured that her team contacted everyone that ought to be informed.’
Wiktoria Adamska narrows her eyes, as if to say he can’t possibly know that. Peremptorily she turns and strides elegantly towards the door. DS Leyton shuffles ahead of her to open it. As she departs she drains her glass and tilts it from side to side as if to suggest a refill calls. And without a backward glance she has the final word.
‘I don’t believe you are just sitting on your hands, Inspector.’
Skelgill looks a little sheepishly at DS Leyton. It would appear he feels they have come off worse in the exchange. He sets his jaw.
‘May as well haul in the guard, Leyton. Let’s see if we can think up a way of asking him what we want to know without setting alarm bells ringing amongst the lot of them.’
‘Mind you, Guv – we can probably trust him to keep his trap shut. He’s not exactly talkative at the best of times. Besides – him and the driver – I know it’s a private company – but they’re public officials really, aren’t they?’
‘Aye, if you say so.’
When DS Leyton returns with his quarry Skelgill is pouring himself another tea. He points the spout at the rather surly looking guard.
‘A cuppa, Mr McLeod?’
‘Ne’er say nae.’
Also way of not saying thank you, Skelgill notes; he uses the tactic himself when he senses someone is trying to butter him up.
There is, however, no battle of wills over sitting or standing – the guard painfully lowers himself into a chair, as if to emphasise his unfitness for any antics they might be about to put him up to. Skelgill does not recall such incapacities when it came to performing his duties on the train. With a grunt the guard helps himself to milk and sugar. Skelgill sees him eyeing the biscuits. Since only two survive, it is perhaps to his subordinate’s surprise that he offers the plate. The guard takes a shortbread finger and without ceremony dunks it in his mug, holding it for a few seconds. Skelgill is watching closely – perhaps it is the tension of whether he has submerged it for too long – but he successfully slots it into his mouth. Conscious of Skelgill’s attention he scowls rather belligerently – but Skelgill grins and more or less copies the procedure. He gives a wink to signify their social equivalence.
‘Mr McLeod – you’ll have gathered that we haven’t found Jenny Hackett.’ (The man’s expression remains truculent.) ‘Obviously, when communications are restored, or when we’re out of here – whichever comes first – I hope we find she’s made it to some place of safety.’ Skelgill looks at DS Leyton, who nods encouragingly. ‘But in the meantime we wouldn’t be doing our job if we just sit twiddling our thumbs. I want to get to the bottom of why she decided to take matters into her own hands, and risked setting out alone. It might give us a clue for where to look for her.’
He pauses deliberately. After a few moments the guard inclines his head.
‘Aye.’
His taciturnity permits only the monosyllable. Skelgill, however, is ready to elaborate.
‘She’s a colourful character – a bit of a live wire. She was getting into the spirit of things last night. On the walk here she had a self-inflicted brush with danger. In the early hours on the train you caught a glimpse of what was probably her. And prior to that she’d been getting familiar with all and sundry in the lounge car – including us, the police.’
‘Aye – Ah mind that.’
‘She was brass-necking it for a story – you know, a scoop they call it?’
The guard nods, though it is plain he remains suspicious of Skelgill’s direction of travel. His bushy ginger eyebrows have converged like jousting caterpillars.
‘And then you told DS Leyton that she hinted at having some plan up her sleeve. What we’re wondering is – had someone divulged information that she considered to be hot property?’
Ruairidh McLeod shrugs defiantly.
‘Ah wouldnae ken.’
Skelgill is undeterred.
‘Your travelling clientele – present company excepted – whichever way you look at them, they’re a VIP crowd.’
The guard grimaces.
‘At those ticket prices, what dae ye expect?’
Teeth bared, Skelgill draws an apologetic breath.
‘Happen the taxpayer was footing our bill. Saved the cost of a night in Mayfair – and put us back on the beat a day early.’ But now he makes a frustrated exclamation. ‘Well – it would have done.’
Unexpectedly, the guard leaps to their defence. His small beady eyes are suddenly alight with a previously unseen vehemence.
‘The high heid yins cannae blame youse fae that. We should all be claiming overtime.’
It seems the union man in him is alive and kicking, workers’ solidarity an ingrained reflex. Skelgill is encouraged.
‘If she got some titbit of gossip – nugget of news – we think it were most likely on the train. Like I say, we saw her doing the rounds – plying folk with drinks – you’ll remember you had a little ding-dong with her over the Glenmorangie.’ (Skelgill pronounces it to meet with Ruairidh McLeod’s satisfaction.) ‘From interviews with the other passengers, we’ve established that she went to bed at the same time as Mr Mital – and maybe some words were exchanged, possibly in either his or her compartment.’
The guard is nodding. His demeanour is lightening. Perhaps he was anticipating that, being singled out and hauled before this inquisition, some accusations were coming his way. Now he sees this is not the case.
‘Aye, right enough.’
Skelgill glances around. So they are in unison on this point.
‘What about Mr Mital? Other passengers saw Jenny Hackett drinking with him. We know she’d had her fair share – but I’m wondering, what about him?’
Skelgill pauses and Ruairidh McLeod suddenly realises he is expected to answer. But now he shakes his head determinedly. It is difficult to discern if he is pleased to be able to inform them, or disappointed because the answer will not be what they want to hear.
‘He wasnae drinking.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘It’s mah job tae sell alcohol. He said he’d work tae dae. And he came on board sober. That’s not tae say yer lady journalist didnae have a bottle in her luggage, ken?’
Skelgill’s expression is attentive. But his head is spinning from the concentration of effort – rarely has he ever had to beat so elaborately about the bush to flush out a single response. But now he can relax; and his next question is succinct.
‘When you saw the lady in the red nightgown – could she have come out of Mr Mital’s compartment? It was the last but one at the far end, as you were looking.’
The guard frowns. But perhaps he is just trying to replay the scene in his mind.
‘Aye – she could. But Ah didnae see that – Ah just caught a glimpse of her going round the corner. Ah didnae think much of it – guests use the toilets – smoke when they shouldnae, ken?’
‘You didn’t hear the click of the door closing – I mean with too short an interval for her to have got to the end of the corridor from her own cabin – she was in number seven, right?’
The guard shrugs. He seems not to remember this.
‘Ah didnae hear a button. Not above the noise of the train.’
Skelgill nods. He asks the guard several relatively innocuous questions, such as Jenny Hackett’s manner on arrival at the platform, and with whom she first sat in the lounge car; their purpose further to distract from the central point of interest. And when they conclude, in response to Ruairidh McLeod’s parting query about their tenure at Shake Holes Inn, Skelgill duplicates the answer supplied to Wiktoria Adamska. The detectives left alone once more, DS Leyton is eager to ratify his take-out from the interview.
‘What do you reckon, Guv? If he’s right, the only person that gave Mikal Mital a whisky was Jenny Hackett.’
Skelgill is looking pensive.
‘Jones reckons the toxicology indicates he may have consumed oth
er alcohol.’
‘Maybe he necked a couple of cheeky vodkas in the waiting room, Guv. If I recall, booze is buckshee in the first-class lounge at Euston. Or, like the guard says, she might have had a bottle stashed away.’ DS Leyton runs the fingers of one hand through his mane of dark hair. ‘They work quickly, don’t they – these date-rape drugs? It would be his last couple of drinks that we’re bothered about, yeah?’
Skelgill is nodding grimly. Then a wave of hopelessness seems to crash over him. But he heaves himself up and aims a kick at a recalcitrant log in the grate.
‘Leyton – let’s have a word with the driver. I’m not quite sure why – but I wouldn’t mind a chat with her.’
‘She’s kept her head down since we’ve been here, Guv.’
‘She’s probably still mithering herself about being at fault.’
DS Leyton makes a face of protest.
‘I don’t see what else she could have done. Besides, we took charge pretty much from the off. They were lucky to have us on board, Guv – else that Bond geezer would have had ’em kipping in igloos!’
Skelgill grins wryly. Evidently his sergeant is still irked that the former soldier has muscled in on his territory.
‘Aye – he’s a loose cannon, right enough.’
DS Leyton appears satisfied with this assessment.
‘I’ll go and find her, Guv.’
But as he rises to make for the door there comes a sharp knock and it opens sufficiently for a head to be inserted in the gap. It is the man in question, Richard Bond. DS Leyton glances at Skelgill and fleetingly pulls a face of panic – that they have narrowly escaped being overheard (or perhaps not). But Richard Bond seems unperturbed; his expression conveys that he wishes to make a polite enquiry. Seeing that they do not have company, he steps into the room. He has changed into a casual outfit of a tailored Tattersall shirt that emphasizes his muscular build, shocking maroon corduroy trousers, and heavy brown brogues.
‘May I have a quick word, Inspector? I gathered you were holding court in here.’
DS Leyton looks questioningly at his superior, but Skelgill indicates he should carry on with his mission and he leaves, carefully closing the door behind him. Skelgill rises; he does not intend for Richard Bond to make himself comfortable. But standing seems to suit the ex-military man, and true to form he comes directly to his point.
‘Inspector. About this American, Bill Faulkner. François privately informs me that his behaviour during the search gave cause for suspicion.’
Skelgill inwardly bemoans this news; the last thing he needs is another fly flailing about in the already crowded ointment.
‘In what way?’
‘He paid no heed to several promising sets of tracks that crossed their path. He dismissed them out of hand as animal prints. If he were a man of Montana I should bow to his superior knowledge – but this fellow hails from Louisiana; more snow falls in Hades.’
‘And what was your lad’s opinion of these tracks?’
Skelgill can see that this question rather takes the wind out of Richard Bond’s sails. Interviewed earlier, the young Frenchman had confessed to spending almost his entire life in urban Paris and London. His experience of following tracks in snow is probably limited to those made by skis. Richard Bond takes another tack.
‘I suggest that I go out again – to retrace the southern loop while there’s still enough daylight.’
Skelgill instinctively glances at the window; outside dusk is already falling.
‘Richard – you’d be cutting it fine. I can’t afford to go another man down.’
Richard Bond diplomatically scoffs at Skelgill’s suggestion that he might not make it back – for they both know that is unlikely – but Skelgill senses in his body language a reaction of relief. Perhaps he does not actually want to venture forth at all – but simply feels he needs to make the proposal – for his training will be always to offer a solution, not just a criticism (and hats off to that attitude) – and that his sole purpose is to bring attention to his deeper-felt concern over Bill Faulkner. But at this moment DS Leyton returns with the train driver in tow, and he enters without knocking.
‘Oh, sorry, Guv – didn’t realise you hadn’t finished. We’ll come back, shall we?’
Richard Bond intervenes before Skelgill can answer.
‘No – please enter – I shall leave you in private.’ He addresses Skelgill. ‘By the way – I have browbeaten that miserly Boer Merlyn into putting on afternoon tea at three-thirty – so those of us that missed lunch may refuel in good time for dinner.’
Skelgill signs his approval. With a meaningful nod, Richard Bond slips away. DS Leyton settles the train driver beside the hearth. She is a slight figure, and like many of the party in possession of a limited wardrobe, and today she is wearing her navy railway-issue cotton trousers and sky-blue shirt, which in tandem with her tied-back blonde hair gives the impression of an anxious schoolgirl. Skelgill moves to calm her nerves.
‘Seems our colleague, DS Jones, knows your kid sister.’
‘Oh.’
She is not sure how to react, perhaps anticipating that she is under investigation.
‘Aye – happen they’ve crossed paths before now.’
‘Jackie? Has she spoken to her, like?’
Her question is tentative, as if she feels it is not her place to ask. Skelgill, becoming fatigued by oblique conversation, decides it is simpler to take the bull by the horns.
‘Listen – Laura – between these four walls –’ He glances about and sees that DS Leyton is regarding him with trepidation. ‘We’re in contact with police HQ – we’ve got limited two-way radio service. I’ve kept it under my hat to avoid being inundated with daft requests.’ He waves a hand in the direction of the door. ‘Also – we’re investigating what could be a murder – in the case of Mikal Mital.’
The woman is nodding, concentrating hard on what Skelgill has to say – but her eyes widen with alarm when he mentions the possible crime.
‘There’s a good chance we’ll be airlifted out of here by tomorrow evening. In the meantime we’re waiting for some test results from the lab. It might just suit us to keep everyone together a touch longer. Once they’re back at Penrith – there’ll be nothing to stop them getting road transport – the M6 could be open tonight.’
‘I understand.’
‘You still look worried to me, lass.’
‘The train crashed while I was driving. There’s folk missing. And now there’s been a killing.’ Her voice rises with a note of hysteria.
Skelgill is scowling fiercely. His prediction has proved accurate.
‘Aye – maybe driving the train was your responsibility. But not the signalling network that didn’t warn you of an obstacle. Not the storm that’s brought half the country to a standstill. And definitely not what some shady passengers might have got up to. Listen – you acted impeccably – you kept everyone safe while they were on the train. And you’ve got three coppers as witnesses – at least two that’ll be taken seriously.’
She doesn’t get his self-deprecating joke – but DS Leyton only half suppresses a snigger, and with a delayed reaction she grins reluctantly.
‘There’ll be an investigation.’
‘Aye – and we’ll back you up. Don’t you fret, lass.’
The woman nods. She is silent for a few moments.
‘What you just said – that you’ve not told any of the others – not even Ruairidh – or Mr Bond?’
Skelgill leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.
‘In our job, you get a sense of who can keep something to themselves and who can’t. Besides, we’re all in the same boat – you’d have been dealing with this if we weren’t on board.’ He grins, perhaps a little ghoulishly. ‘Just your bad luck, hah!’
But the woman regards Skelgill earnestly.
‘What you’ve done is marvellous – to get us here – to safety. I dread to think what it would have been like trapped on the t
rain with no power, no light or heating.’
A little uncharacteristically Skelgill seems to feel the need to deflect the compliment.
‘It’s hardly been plain sailing, Laura. If you knew half of what’s spinning around inside our heads.’
He glances at DS Leyton, who nods supportively, but whose blank expression seems not to concur entirely with his superior’s assertion.
‘There’s no news on the missing lady – Jenny?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘As a matter of fact your oppo reckoned she hinted at some escapade – while you were waiting your turn at billiards.’
Laura Wilson frowns.
‘I don’t recall that.’
‘Did anything strike you – about her behaviour – that might explain her leaving?’
Her features become more troubled, but it seems she feels she ought to be able to contribute something of consequence.
‘Only that she was – well, a bit eccentric – and then she fell in that pit on the way here. I suppose if you were to nominate anyone that might do something strange, happen you’d pick her. But –’
The woman hesitates – it seems to Skelgill she is formulating her thoughts, rather than holding something back. He delays for a moment before offering a prompt.
‘But, what?’
‘Oh – I was just thinking that I quite liked her.’
Laura Wilson looks at Skelgill as though he may disapprove, given the nature of their discussion. But Skelgill makes a face that conveys “fair enough”. He relaxes back into his chair, as though he considers the matter complete.
‘How were you originally getting home?’
‘My shift was due to finish at Edinburgh. I would have hitched a lift on the next train down that stopped at Penrith.’
‘What about your guard?’
‘He lives in Edinburgh – he would have clocked off at Waverley when we changed crew. He would have been home.’
Skelgill now rises and offers some rather stilted praise for her cooperation. He accompanies her to the door and holds it open. She pauses beside him – and places a hand on his upper arm.
‘You can trust me to keep quiet. Thanks.’
And with that she stretches up and pecks him on the cheek. When Skelgill turns from closing the door he sees DS Leyton is silently chortling.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 73
