Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 21

  ‘I, er – think they’re fine – just getting on with their work.’

  ‘I see, sir – okay. Well, that’s about it for now.’ He takes a long breath. ‘Oh – just one thing I wanted to ask?’

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘How’s Pictorial doing these days?’

  ‘You mean the magazine?’

  ‘That’s it, sir – one of my Scottish colleagues mentioned you had an involvement with them?’

  Now Dermott Goldsmith seems to be floundering about in search of some small lifeline.

  ‘Oh, we, er – we place ads with them – and they cover some of our client’s events – cocktail evenings, sponsored awards dinners, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I see, sir – that must be what it was.’

  *

  Skelgill is turning over in his mind his various conversations of the past couple of hours when his phone rings again. It must interrupt him at an especially profound moment, for he glowers at the handset, ignores it for some while, and then rather barks his greeting when the caller refuses to give up.

  ‘Skelgill.’

  There is a sudden stiffening of his demeanour. Then an unfamiliar change of tone.

  ‘Yes Ma’am.’

  ‘Sorry Ma’am – I was just finishing a call to a potential witness on my mobile, Ma’am.’

  ‘Right Ma’am – of course, Ma’am.’

  ‘I realise it’s important, Ma’am – I’ll make it my top priority.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Ma’am.’

  The caller abruptly clears, and Skelgill is left with the handset dangling and the distinct impression that there is only one thing that will find him in deeper water than if he does not soon crack the Bewaldeth case, and that is defeat in the Blencathra Shield.

  37. IT’S NOT CRICKET

  Ten p.m. on Thursday finds Skelgill, apparently in the midst of a euphoric daydream, and largely oblivious to the beery commotion around him, staring thoughtfully through a bright pale-amber pint of Cumbrian ale at the distorted image of the Man-of-the-Match trophy on the bar just behind it. His Man-of-the-Match trophy, no less.

  *

  Yet the game hadn’t begun auspiciously for Skelgill, who turned up at the local sports ground fifteen minutes late – much to the consternation of his teammates. Fortunately, the opposition had won the toss and inserted Penrith in to bat. Skelgill’s tardiness, therefore, was less of a problem, since he was listed well down the order. Next he discovered he had omitted to pack a white shirt, which meant he would have to wear the pale-blue garment in which he had arrived for work that morning, and suffer the accompanying jibes from the changing room. Meanwhile, in ponderous style his team proceeded to prop and cop their way in the face of accurate and at times hostile Carlisle bowling to the ominously modest total of 111, for the loss of five wickets – a score that would not have brought home the Blencathra Shield in the last decade. The services of Skelgill, padded up and due to go in at number eight, had thus not been required (a further relief to him, since he had also forgotten his box), and instead he had spent much of the innings chatting with DS Jones, whom he had spotted sitting alongside a couple of the admin staff on a bench on the far boundary. Most of the crowd – which numbered a good hundred – plus the non-batters, were thronged around the pavilion, their attentions divided between on-field events (or lack of) and the ducking of errant cricket balls emanating from a group of young lads who had raided the spare kit and were setting about themselves in Bothamesque fashion. Certainly there had been no such danger from the direction of the middle.

  There had then followed a short tea-interval, in which DS Jones had declined to participate, and during which Skelgill was regaled with sarcastic comments along the lines of:

  ‘Ah, yuv graced us with yer presence, then.’

  ‘Can’t yow stop wuk for a minute, lad?’

  ‘It’s not wuk ’e’s up ter – eh, Skelly, lad?’

  ‘Aye – we saw yer sniffin’ round Fast-Track.’

  ‘Is she a nat’rel blonde, eh Skelly?’

  ‘Yon lad’s got no chance – t’lass’ll eat ’im alive.’

  This interchange was interspersed with much guffawing, and solid thumping between Skelgill’s shoulder blades. For the second time that day, he was relieved that DS Jones had remained well out of earshot.

  *

  As fate would have it, when Penrith took the field Skelgill had been promptly posted to the deep – more or less in front of DS Jones’s vantage point – on the grounds that he has a ‘good arm’. In the meantime, the team’s regular pair of opening bowlers began to ply their trade. However, while Penrith had scratched around for runs in their innings, Carlisle experienced no such difficulties, with ten coming off the first over, and a score of thirty-five for nought being clocked up by the end of the sixth. At this rate they would win at a canter. One batter in particular – a sullen stranger suspected of being on assignment from the Leicestershire force – was especially making hay, and continued to post the ball to all corners of the ground. As tendrils of discontent began to insinuate themselves among the uneasy home crowd, rumblings about his origins began to surface. Following another clean hit for six by the East Midlander, the most vocal local wag – despite being a policeman – was unable to contain himself any longer and yelled out, “Bloody ringer!” – thus drawing angry rebuttals from the assembled Carlisle batters-in-waiting.

  With the score already past seventy, in the next over things had gone from bad to worse for Penrith – and for Skelgill in particular. Fielding right on the rope at deep long leg, DS Jones almost beside him, Skelgill was halfway through an anecdote when a cry went up of, “Skelly – catch eet!” The bowler had pitched one short and the big East Midlander had gone for a hook. Skelgill initially reacted by setting off to his left, following the line of the shot, but the batsman had spliced the ball and it was instead sailing high in the direction of fine third man. Skelgill, whose cracked off-white boots had seen better days, and were now lacking half their studs, suddenly picked up the flight and abruptly changed direction, slipping on the dewy outfield as he did so. This lost him a precious second, and as he dashed frantically across it looked like he wouldn’t make it. At the last moment, however, he took off in a swallow dive and made the catch in his outstretched, but weaker, right hand inches above the turf – only to land with a crunching impact that jolted the ball free of his grip. To add insult to injury it rolled over the boundary for four, and Skelgill acquired a great green smear across his expensive shirt. (Later in the pub an old lady would advise him to “soak it int’ yow’s milk.”)

  This event, of course, was manna from heaven for the wag, now in full sardonic flow:

  ‘Skelgill – what can thee catch?’

  Given the current lack of progress in the Bewaldeth case, the significance of this remark was not lost on a good many present, including the Chief, who had silently appeared at the side of the congregation, unashamedly intending to bask in the reflected glory of the rightful outcome.

  Skelgill threw the ball back angrily to the keeper and stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

  ‘Nice try, Guv.’ DS Jones had encouraged him, but he was too absorbed in self-admonishment to respond. Thankfully, as Skelgill was later able to reflect, this turned out to be his nadir.

  At the end of the over the Penrith skipper, a fresh-faced DC, had trotted down from slip to speak with the disconsolate Skelgill.

  ‘Hard luck, Sir.’ His brown eyes were calm beneath a bloodstained bandage (batting earlier without a helmet he’d taken a vicious bouncer square on the brow). ‘It was a miracle you even got to that.’ (An embarrassed shrug from Skelgill.) ‘Look, Sir – we need this bastard out. Will you take this over?’ He tossed the ball to his surprised superior.

  Thus Skelgill had come on to bowl. He asked the skip for a run-saving ring of fielders and meanwhile marked out his fourteen-pace run up. The East Midlander, now facing, after a single off the last ball, was five short of h
is half-century, and seemed to be steering Carlisle home to their fourth victory in a row.

  Umpire to Skelgill: “Right-arm over?”

  Skelgill to umpire: “Left-arm round.”

  Umpire to batsman: “Left-arm round.”

  The batter moved his guard across to middle and took up his stance. Skelgill’s first delivery, a loosener, was overpitched, and was deservedly despatched to the boundary for four. The next would have suffered the same fate, but for a smart bit of work by the skipper at mid-off. There were rumblings in the pavilion, and the wag could be heard winding up for his next broadside. Then came the turning point. The first two half volleys had been meat and drink to the batsman, his eye firmly in. But Skelgill is a lot faster a bowler than his medium-pacer’s run up suggests. With a fisherman’s whip and timing – that can send a fly skimming a good sixty yards across the water – he is deceptively quick. His third delivery was short of a length and the East Midlander instinctively leaned back to pull – but the ball was upon him and before he knew it he had spooned it back down the wicket high above Skelgill’s head. Instantly, up went the panic-inducing chorus of “Catch eeeet!”

  Skelgill, neck craned skywards and eyes bulging, turned from his follow-through and like a man possessed levelled the stumps, the non-striker and the umpire – but emerged triumphantly from the resulting ruck clutching the ball. As he was surrounded by jubilant teammates, he caught a glimpse of DS Jones on the boundary, hopping about and clapping excitedly.

  As the applause died down for the retreating East Midlander, out for 49, the wag took the opportunity to punctuate the silence.

  ‘Aye – ’e can catch ’em off’ve ’is own bowling!’

  But the careful listener might have detected a first hint of jubilation – and perhaps, even, hope – beneath the thickly layered sarcasm.

  The incoming batter had let Skelgill’s next two balls go through to the keeper, but the final delivery of the over, pitched just short on middle-and-leg had forced him to play – but it lifted barely a couple of inches and struck the back pad ankle-high. Plumb LBW! The Penrith team went up in unison – but it had seemed to Skelgill that the great appeal was actually preceded by the Carlisle umpire’s resolute, “Not out.” Skelgill had walked back to his position in the field deep in thought.

  As is often the case, the next over had brought another wicket – again not without controversy, since the batsmen, caught-behind off a snick to the keeper that was audible halfway to Brough, had refused to walk and had to be sent on his way by the Penrith umpire, in the shape of George, the Desk Sergeant. Such insubordination on the part of the opposition simply served to heighten the determination of the home side and its supporters.

  The wag took the opportunity to introduce a touch of hyperbole.

  ‘They dunt like eet when they’re ont’ run!’

  Though this met with the general approval of those around him, it was hard to ignore the facts. Carlisle needed only twenty-seven runs to win, with eight wickets still in hand. The gloating was severely one-sided.

  Skelgill, however, had other ideas. On the grounds that he would get no assistance from the surly Carlisle umpire officiating at his end, he switched to bowl over the wicket at the start of his next over. Although this decision brought perplexed expressions to the faces of his teammates, they were quickly dissolved as he proceeded to hit the dead spot on the pitch and take out the batsmen’s off-peg with an unplayable grubber.

  The very next ball Skelgill repeated the feat. And then, with the crowd roaring him in – he did it again! A hat-trick. All bowled. All grubbers!

  Carlisle had subsided to 85 for 5 and chaos broke out. There was a fourth wicket in Skelgill’s over – this time a simple caught-and-bowled as he fooled the batter with a slow delivery – and then another run-out in the following over as Carlisle’s panic-stricken lower order began to scramble for singles.

  With the tension mounting and the light fading into dusk, two further wickets fell (both to Skelgill). But the score was edging ever closer to the modest Penrith total. Indeed, it stood at 101 for 9 when Carlisle’s last man came out to the middle. A tall, craggy paceman, he had been responsible for the blow that had earlier cracked the Penrith skipper’s skull. He looked like he was more than capable of swinging a bat, but Skelgill wasn’t about to allow him that luxury. He glanced at his skipper as he walked back to his mark and gave an almost imperceptible nod. The unseen message was passed on to the fielders. Skelgill spun on his heel and sprinted in, unleashing his fastest delivery of the match. It whistled past the astonished giant’s nose and had him hopping backwards like a great mantis. The next ball embedded itself in his ribcage with a satisfying thud and saw him complaining (between gasps) to the umpire.

  A Carlisle player, calling from the pavilion, had appealed for leniency.

  ‘Come off it, lads – he’s a Number Eleven.’

  But the wag, now in full partisan flow, was ready for him.

  ‘Get on wi’it – if yer kernt tek eet – yer shunt dish eet owt!’

  The number eleven didn’t have to tek eet much longer. Stepping fearfully away from Skelgill’s third approach he was suckered and clean bowled by an arrowing yorker. A tumultuous roar went up from the boundary; grown men hugged one another (and took turns with DS Jones – who had gravitated to the centre of the excitement); small boys streamed out to the middle; and the wag surreptitiously stowed his baseball cap out of sight, having bet someone – at the point that Skelgill had come on to bowl – that he would eat it if Penrith won.

  Sportingly, the Carlisle captain and his team shuffled onto the outfield to clap-in the winners, and Skelgill (doing his best to appear modest and surprised by his achievements) was given the honour of leading his side off. Even the big paceman shook his hand, wincing and admitting, “I’d ’ave done t’same mesen, marra.”

  Thereafter, for most participants it had been a case of frantically stuffing one’s kit into one’s bag, and of joining the exodus to a favoured local alehouse, The Cross Keys. When Skelgill finally surfaced, his sweaty exploits requiring him to take a shower, he’d found DS Jones waiting for him in the growing gloom.

  ‘Give you a lift to The Keys, Guv?’

  ‘I thought you had to look after your Dad tonight?’

  ‘Time enough to buy you a drink – you were brilliant, Guv.’

  Skelgill had grinned ruefully.

  ‘If I could do that on purpose I’d be playing for England.’

  *

  Thus it was that Skelgill subsequently finds himself, several pints later, perched at the bar and alone with his thoughts. DS Jones has duly purchased a celebratory round as promised, departing shortly after the presentations by the Chief, including the Man-of-the-Match award to a bashful Skelgill, for his haul of 7 wickets for 18 runs in 4.2 overs – a record in the long and illustrious history of the Blencathra Shield.

  But it is not upon his wizardry with the ball that he now reflects, nor the Chief’s public words of congratulation. A little later – before taking her leave – she had motioned him aside to impart the disconcerting news that his time was running out; she referred to the murder of Ivan Tregilgis. She needs a result, and if – just like this evening – it requires a change of bowling (so to speak) to bring that about – then so be it. DI Smart will be taking over the case unless there is significant progress by close of play on Monday.

  Skelgill sighs and slips off the barstool. Leaving his pint and his trophy where they stand, he casually makes his way through a door marked for the gents. They are situated across a yard at the back of the pub. But Skelgill is merely using this route to make an inconspicuous exit. A ginnel leads from the yard into the main street, and from there he can pick up a taxi. But, just as he passes the door of the toilets, out stumbles the wag, more than a little the worse for wear – though jubilant, nonetheless.

  ‘Skel, marra – yer won it off yer own back!’

  ‘Aye, thanks – it’s bat, isn’t it?’

  38.
READING

  Skelgill, en route to the office on Friday morning, becomes diverted by an ‘all-cars’ emergency call following a bizarre incident on the northbound M6. Evidently, a hostile convoy of animal-rights protestors and ramshackle hippies’ charabancs has been shadowing a travelling circus. As they neared junction 41 these wacky races had abruptly halted owing to a sizeable and probably mutually intentional coming together of those in the van. The entire carriageway was blocked by debris, a minor pitched battle broke out between the opposing forces, and assorted exotic species of animals were reported to be roaming southbound and in adjacent fields (although this proved to be somewhat exaggerated). By the time Skelgill reaches the scene, however, things have cooled down, and several of the protagonists (all of the hairy variety, it seems) are being led away towards a fleet of brightly marked police patrol cars. Skelgill makes himself useful by circulating among the smouldering groups and unceremoniously snuffing out any remaining flickers of enmity with a few well-chosen words of Anglo-Saxon wisdom. This action ultimately wins him the respect of the parties, and in no time he is enjoying strong tea and home-made rock cakes inside an immaculate gipsy caravan with a trio of exceedingly attractive female acrobats (although he half suspects this is a ploy to keep his policeman’s nose from poking where it isn’t wanted). Thankfully nobody has been seriously injured in the confrontation, which was more handbags than handguns, and the vehicles are soon safely lined up on the hard shoulder. The circus elders opt to continue their journey towards Scotland, and not press charges (and, yes, they’ll go right now, thanks, and – no thanks – they won’t need an escort) in return for the police sending back the new age travellers whence they came. Skelgill is later amused to hear of a twist in the tale, concerning a pair of enthusiastic constables who radioed to say they had cornered a group of escaped llamas, while simultaneously a farmer’s wife was telephoning to report that strange men in black were rustling her valuable rare-breed wool-alpaca flock.