Murder at Shake Holes Read online

  Bruce Beckham

  __________

  Murder at Shake Holes

  A detective novel

  LUCiUS

  Text copyright 2019 Bruce Beckham

  All rights reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition first published by Lucius 2019

  Paperback edition first published by Lucius 2019

  For more details and Rights enquiries contact:

  [email protected]

  Cover design by Moira Kay Nicol

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Murder at Shake Holes is a stand-alone crime mystery, the thirteenth in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It is set primarily in and around the English Lake District – a National Park of 885 square miles that lies in the rugged northern county of Cumbria.

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Murder in Adland

  Murder in School

  Murder on the Edge

  Murder on the Lake

  Murder by Magic

  Murder in the Mind

  Murder at the Wake

  Murder in the Woods

  Murder at the Flood

  Murder at Dead Crags

  Murder Mystery Weekend

  Murder on the Run

  Murder at Shake Holes

  Murder at the Meet

  (Above: Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates)

  Murder, Mystery Collection

  The Dune

  The Sexopaths

  CONTENTS

  Glossary

  List of characters

  1. LONDON EUSTON

  2. THE LOUNGE CAR

  3. BUMP IN THE NIGHT

  4. RECONNAISANCE

  5. EVACUATION

  6. THE INN

  7. THE TRAIN

  8. INTERVIEWS

  9. PLAYING GAMES

  10. FLYING VISIT

  11. MISSING

  12. BATHOLOGY

  13. GAINED IN TRANSLATION

  14. ON THE CASE

  15. SHAKE HOLES

  Next in the series...

  Glossary

  Some of the British dialect words, slang and local usage appearing in ‘Murder at Shake Holes’ are as follows:

  Adam an’ Eve – believe

  Aboot – about

  Ah – I

  Arrows – darts

  Ars – I am

  Bait – packed lunch/sandwiches

  Baltic – freezing cold

  Beck – mountain stream

  Blag – persuade by guile

  Blighty – Britain

  Bob – shilling

  Bonce – head

  Buckshee – free

  Cannae – cannot

  Cooking lager – standard quality lager

  Cushat – wood pigeon

  Dae – do

  Deek – look/look at

  Derby – belly (= Derby Kelly)

  Didnae – did not

  Dinnae – don’t

  Donnat – idiot

  Fae – for

  Foily – smelly

  Frae – from

  Goolies – testicles

  Gregory – cheque (= Gregory Peck)

  Half-inch – steal (= pinch)

  Heid – head

  Her indoors – wife

  High heid yin – boss

  How’s-your-father – sexual intercourse

  Hunners – hundreds

  Irn-Bru – a Scots brand of soda, reputedly made from girders

  Jimmy – urinate (Jimmy Riddle = piddle)

  Jimmy hat – tartan cap with fake ginger hair

  Karsey – toilet

  Keg palace – pub that does not serve real ale

  Kegs – underwear

  Ken – know; you know

  Lass/lassie – girl, young woman

  Marra – mate (friend)

  Mind – remember

  Mithering – bothering

  Nobbut – only

  Oche – line from behind which darts are thrown (pronounced ‘ockey’)

  Owt – anything

  Pissed – drunk (inebriated)

  Polis – police

  Reet – right

  Scooby – clue (= Scooby Doo)

  Scratting – scratching

  Shake hole – collapsed shaft/sinkhole in limestone

  Spring-heeled Jack – a mythical urban figure capable of leaping over buildings

  Sommat – something

  Tae – to

  Tea leaf – thief

  The Smoke – London

  Twat – to hit

  Us – me

  Wasnae – was not

  Wean – infant

  Went – gone (Scots)

  Yer – your

  Yin – one, person

  Youse – you (plural)

  List of characters

  The detectives:

  DI Skelgill, 37 – Cumbrian

  DS Jones, 26 – Cumbrian

  DS Leyton, 37 – Londoner

  And, in order of appearance:

  Ruairidh McLeod, 59 – Scots; train guard & steward

  Richard Bond, 42 – naturalised British citizen; venture capitalist, former soldier

  Egor Volkov, 28 – Russian; employee of Richard Bond

  François Mouton, 29 – French; employee of Richard Bond

  Wiktoria Adamska, 32 – Russian; fashion designer, former supermodel

  Jenny Hackett, 44 – English; journalist

  Ivanna Karenina, 39 – Russian; TV producer

  Sir Ewart Cameron-Kinloch, 63 – Scots; TV presenter, former Cabinet Minister

  Bill Faulkner, 39 – American; banker & tourist

  Mikal Mital, 71 – naturalised American citizen; academic

  Laura Wilson, 34 – Cumbrian; train driver

  Mr Harris – details unknown; passenger

  Samanta, 25 – Lithuanian; housekeeper

  Joost Merlyn, 46 – South African; hotel landlord

  Lucinda Hobhouse, 38 – English; equestrian

  1. LONDON EUSTON

  Wednesday, approaching midnight

  ‘Looks like we’ve made it, Guv – there she blows.’

  The trio of Skelgill, Leyton and Jones – Skelgill flanked by his sergeants – cut a slightly incongruous jib as they lurch at something between a fast walk and the beginnings of a jog across the polished concourse of what is, by London standards, a relatively deserted Euston Station. Of course, there is nothing unusual about three people hurrying for a train – it is a daily occurrence (if not de rigueur) in all of the capital’s many rail termini – nor even particularly that they are clad in formal attire – at this time of the evening, approaching midnight (and especially this time of year, the last Wednesday before Christmas) thousands of revellers are on the great city’s neon-bathed streets seeking transport home, the majority, it must be said, unsuitably dressed and swaying on kerbs hailing in vain cabs that are already hired. No, if there is any inconsistency, it is something just hinted at by a small matter of detail: where DS Leyton and DS Jones tow wheeled trolley bags, black like their outfits and in keeping with their general smart appearance, Skelgill has on his shoulder a worn and faded army issue khaki rucksack. But his counter: why struggle with a daft trolley when you can have both hands free to repel would-be muggers? And no need to worry about it being snatched when your back is turned. Of course, for someone in the know th
ere is a much greater discordancy – indeed a virtual oxymoron – that of Skelgill in a dinner jacket and dicky bow. It is along such lines that he is evidently thinking.

  ‘Can’t wait to get this penguin suit off.’

  ‘Know what you mean, Guv – these flippin’ shoes are giving me corns.’

  DS Jones cannot suppress a laugh – for if anyone should complain it is her, keeping pace with her male colleagues despite four-inch heels and a cocktail mini-dress that required her to be assisted for the purposes of modesty into and out of the taxi that has brought them from a Park Lane hotel, an awards banquet, to their present location.

  ‘The Chief didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get away, Guv.’

  Skelgill makes scoffing sound.

  ‘I reckon the bigwigs have all got penthouse suites for the night, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton utters what may be a grumble of agreement – but DS Jones knows otherwise.

  ‘Actually, Guv – I was standing with her at the drinks reception – she was telling the Commissioner that she’s staying with her sister in Twickenham – to keep costs down.’

  Skelgill harrumphs.

  ‘She was making up for it in Bloody Marys.’

  DS Leyton turns to his female colleague.

  ‘You still in touch with that feller of yours, girl? Could have saved yourself a night on the train with us.’

  DS Jones looks suddenly rather bashful.

  ‘Oh, you know – it’s hard not to be in touch, with social media these days.’ She brightens. ‘But here I am.’

  Any further discussion that may prolong the moment of awkwardness is now truncated – for they reach their designated platform and are intercepted by a man in rail uniform.

  ‘Tickets please, ladies.’

  The guard is dour and unsmiling, and there is nothing about his demeanour to indicate that his words might be an attempt at humour, perhaps a reference to the way they are all dressed. Skelgill estimates him to be in his late fifties; balding, he is of a slightly shabby appearance, shoes scuffed and seams shiny, which is hardly the impression the rail company would wish to portray. Short and rather squat, he has a harsh Scots accent – which is perhaps to be expected, since the train terminates somewhere in the Highlands. DS Leyton, custodian of their travel documents, produces the necessary paperwork, a crumpled computer printout in lieu of the more standard credit-card-sized tickets. The official pores over the item; his eyes appear unmoving though his lips tremble as if he might be silently reciting some ode to procrastination, waiting for the momentum of the little group of passengers to dissipate; and indeed they do sink slowly back upon their heels, defeated by bureaucracy.

  ‘Who’s the lucky yin?’

  ‘What’s that, mate?’

  Without raising his head the man regards them from beneath unkempt ginger eyebrows. He hands the document back to DS Leyton.

  ‘Three passengers, two cabins. Nine and ten – sleeping car, first door.’

  Without waiting for a reaction he appears to lose interest in their presence – for another group of travellers approaches in haste, three men in smart business suits, and he shifts to intercept them. Skelgill and company realise they are at liberty to move on.

  ‘Tickets please, ladies.’

  ‘You are incorrigible, Ruairidh, my man – is Glenmorangie replenished?’

  The question is loudly brayed with an English public school accent.

  ‘I’ve told you before, sir, it’s morangie.’ He pronounces the word to rhyme with ‘orangey’, with the stress on the first syllable.

  ‘A Scotch by any other name, my good chap.’

  ‘Ye drank us dry on yer last trip doon, sir.’

  Skelgill, eavesdropping, notices the guard’s concession to status, calling the man ‘sir’ – and as he glances back he sees the foremost of the three men, the elder, a tall, well-built, tanned figure in his forties, slip a fold of banknotes into the railway employee’s hand.

  The sleeping carriage is immediately adjacent to the guard’s van and Skelgill’s colleagues are already lifting their cases aboard. DS Leyton’s voice reaches him.

  ‘You take number ten, girl – at least you’ll only have us snoring on one side of you.’

  As he passes her compartment and catches her eye Skelgill raises his eyebrows in a curious gesture, perhaps an advance apology along such lines.

  ‘Mine’s a Jennings if you beat us to the bar.’

  DS Jones flashes him a smile as she heaves her bag onto the upper bunk. Skelgill proceeds to the next cabin to find DS Leyton scratching his dark tousled head.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guvnor – you can’t swing a cat in here. You want the top or the bottom?’

  ‘I’m not fussed, Leyton – I used to kip in a chest of drawers – worked me way up.’

  ‘Maybe I should have the bottom, Guv – seeing as you’re in the mountain rescue.’

  Skelgill scowls as though he disapproves of his sergeant’s logic – but it would have been his choice, and he swings his rucksack onto the narrow berth. DS Leyton is examining the fixtures and fittings, and discovers a tiny washbasin concealed beneath a hinged shelf. He glances around pensively.

  ‘I suppose there’s a proper karsey somewhere.’

  Skelgill is still frowning.

  ‘What do you mean proper karsey?’

  DS Leyton looks surprised that his superior does not immediately go along with his reasoning.

  ‘Must be tempting – middle of the night, Guv – have a Jimmy in the sink instead of traipsing down the train trying to find it.’

  For a man who spends much of his spare time inhabiting wild country lacking any form of ablution facilities, Skelgill seems unreasonably prim.

  ‘Don’t get any bright ideas, Leyton.’

  But his sergeant continues musingly.

  ‘Not so easy for a lady, of course.’

  ‘Leyton! Can we talk about something else?’

  DS Leyton is shocked by the severity of his superior’s retort.

  ‘Righto, Guv.’ However, he is not entirely subdued. ‘Bit of a queer thing – don’t you reckon – these shared cabins?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well – unless you pay for the whole caboodle – like Admin have done for DS Jones – you never know who you’re gonna bunk up with. You could get a right old weirdo. Pervert – strangler – anything.’

  ‘Leyton – how much have you had to drink?’

  ‘Only the same as you, Guv – but you know me, I’m not a big drinker. And I’m out of practice – the nippers are needing driven everywhere these days – all the flippin’ clubs they’re in, sleepovers and whatnot. Can’t even have a beer watching the footie.’

  Skelgill is frowning, as if irked by the suggestion that he might be a ‘big drinker’ by his subordinate’s estimation. However, he relents.

  ‘Aye, well – it were flowing free tonight, hard to avoid – even if you’re no fan of wine.’

  ‘Reckon I could get used to it, Guv. Though, I must say, it all tastes the same to me. I wouldn’t know a Claret from a Bordeaux.’

  Skelgill is about to respond – but a raised voice, female and shrill, reaches them from beyond their cabin – indeed it has an echoing quality that sounds like it emanates from outwith the carriage itself. Skelgill, who as yet has only removed his shoes, pads out onto the corridor to see that DS Jones – herself barefooted but still wearing her cocktail dress – has also had cause to investigate, and is standing at the open door, leaning out and looking onto the platform.

  ‘I repeat – I must travel on this train!’

  ‘Madam, Ah repeat – all cabins are taken.’

  Ruairidh, the guard, is standing his ground, his feet planted apart. A woman confronts him. She looks in her early thirties. She is tall and strikingly dressed in an unfastened horizontally striped fur coat over a short leopard-pattern dress, crazily patterned stockings, and platform shoes that mirror the dress and cause her to tower above the man. Her hair is immacula
te, a long straight blonde coiffure so perfect that it looks almost artificial. To Skelgill’s eye she is of foreign extraction, perhaps Slavic – a broad face with prominent cheekbones and pale eyes that narrow as they rise. Her make up, too, proclaims a fashion statement that seems from beyond these shores. Her accent, however, is perfectly British, and lacks any regional brogue. She appears determined to get her way.

  ‘I have an open first-class ticket – it is the most expensive fare. I expect to travel to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Then ye’ll have tae wait until the morning, Madam. The first train leaves at 6:12. Arrives 11:09. Ye’ll need tae go tae King’s Cross.’

  The woman literally stamps her foot.

  ‘I need to go on this train.’ She flails an arm that has pale gold bangles jangling and sends a designer handbag flapping in the air – then she gestures first at leopard-skin luggage that matches her dress and then more generally in frustration around her. ‘What else do you expect me to do at this time of night, you halfwit?’

  To Skelgill’s consternation DS Jones steps down onto the platform and approaches the pair. He moves up, observing from the open carriage door. Perhaps she senses that tempers might flare beyond control, and has decided to mediate. That said, the Scotsman grins with a certain masochistic satisfaction, as though the insult has merely served to bolster his contrariness. The woman inhales as if she intends to continue with her tirade, but the sight of DS Jones – Cinderella-like, barefoot in her evening gown and no less striking in her own way than the diva herself – serves to give her pause for thought. It is DS Jones who speaks.

  ‘I’m travelling with two male colleagues. My organisation had to book a cabin for sole occupancy for me – so there is a vacant berth. I’m leaving the train at Carlisle – if you’re going on to Edinburgh you’ll have it to yourself when you wake. I’ll just be sleeping in jeans and t-shirt so that I can grab my stuff and go – so you should hardly be disturbed.’

  ‘Ah dinnae ken aboot that –’

  But the objection that Ruairidh wrestles to formulate does not come quickly enough, and the woman snatches the projecting handles of her matching wheeled suitcases – one enormous, the other tiny, like a Great Dane and a Chihuahua – and pushes past him. She aims directly at DS Jones, hands her control of the oversized valise, links their free arms and hustles her at pace towards the train.