Murder on the Run Page 5

  ‘Guvnor?’

  ‘Reckon I just saw your car.’

  ‘You in Workington, Guv?’

  ‘Aye. Why not?’

  ‘Not your usual stamping ground.’

  ‘Had to see a man about a motor.’

  ‘A motor?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Leyton.’

  ‘You getting a new one, Guv?’

  Skelgill tuts. Then a notion strikes him.

  ‘Your missus need a runabout, Leyton?’

  ‘She don’t drive, Guv – that’s why we have to live near the school and the shops.’ DS Leyton groans resignedly. ‘That’s why my other flippin’ job’s a cabbie.’

  ‘Well – you can come back and get me, then.’

  ‘But – I thought you were off duty today, Guv?’

  Skelgill snorts disparagingly.

  ‘Reckon I’m fighting a losing battle, Leyton – you’re the last straw.’

  DS Leyton hesitates; he gathers his thoughts.

  ‘You in that transport caff, Guv? By the roundabout?’

  ‘Aye – want me to order you a burger?’

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – no thanks – I’ve just had me sarnies on the hoof – giving me jip, they are. Besides – I’d better not –’

  But whatever DS Leyton had better not do, he thinks the better of stating it. Into the hiatus Skelgill tosses a suggestion.

  ‘I’ll get you a takeaway tea – that’ll sort you out.’

  ‘But – er, Guv –’

  ‘Leyton – where’s the fire? Since when have we been on emergency call-out?’

  DS Leyton makes a reluctant sound that becomes a distinctive grunt as he swings his car into a sharp u-turn, incurring the disapprobation of other road users.

  *

  ‘This is the street – on your right.’

  ‘You sure, Guv?’

  ‘Course I’m sure, Leyton – look – there’s the sign – told you this was the quickest way.’

  A muttered hallelujah escapes DS Leyton’s compressed lips. Skelgill, insisting he knew best, had switched off the navigation device and in no time had them trapped in a one-way system out of which they seemed unable to escape. A combination of DS Leyton’s growing consternation and Skelgill’s natural impatience soon culminated in one of their infamous descents into unprintable Anglo-Saxon usage, until – clearly by fluke, but claimed as knowledge by Skelgill – the latter insisted they ignore a ‘No Entry’ sign that put them on the right course. Despatched on his mission by greater powers than Skelgill, DS Leyton has been on something of tenterhooks – and there are other complicating factors that he has not found means of conveying to Skelgill in the ten minutes (that should have been five, according to his satnav) it has taken them to find their way into one of Workington’s sprawling housing estates. One such factor is about to come to notice. As he hangs a hasty right into Hempstead Avenue, a sideways glance reveals his superior’s jaw is set. A shiny red convertible is parked ostentatiously on the grass verge outside what must be their destination, number 26. Indeed, in a street of few cars there is a definite cluster of vehicles: a marked police car, an ambulance, and a couple of saloons, one that Skelgill recognises as a pool car that he knows to be speedy and liked by DS Leyton. There is also a small gathering of onlookers, and neighbours pretending to tend their front gardens.

  ‘What’s Smart doing here?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Guv.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘About DI Smart – I mean – the Chief decided – er, um –’

  Skelgill however is already out of the car and DS Leyton has to scuttle after him. Before he can cobble together a palatable explanation DI Smart emerges from the open front door, which is placed at the side of the narrow semi-detached house. DI Smart ignores the uniformed constable there stationed – he moves with the hunched demeanour of a celebrated detective expecting to be greeted by massed ranks of paparazzi. He eschews the path and strides across the border and lawn towards his car. He glances at Skelgill but does not break stride.

  ‘Wasting your time in there, cock. Cuckoo’s flown the nest. Coffin-dodger wants putting out of his misery.’

  Skelgill stiffens, girding his loins for the expected confrontation; but for once the precocious DI Smart seems to have no interest in crossing swords. He hurries over the unkempt grass – and now a blur of movement draws Skelgill’s attention away. A few paces behind a woman follows in DI Smart’s wake, her long raven hair swept back. She is slender, of medium height and Mediterranean complexion; she wears a black bolero jacket and tight fitting tan leather trousers and pointed boots. There is something of the Spanish gipsy – almost flamenco – as with a flourish she raises a mottled red apple to her mouth, all the time fixing him with the huge pools of her dark eyes.

  She holds the fruit in place with angular taloned fingers – Skelgill hears the crunch as she passes within a yard – but she does not break stride and – though he has to fight the urge – he does not turn to follow her progress. Instead he watches the approach of a third person, a male detective sergeant – one of DI Smart’s regular crew that, like the inspector, hails from Manchester. His gaze wilts sheepishly under Skelgill’s angry eye – but nonetheless he winks at DS Leyton – there being some camaraderie in the ranks, albeit their seniors do not see eye to eye. The man carries a sports holdall and casually jangles a set of car keys.

  Skelgill senses a great weight of frustration descending upon him. Clearly DI Smart is leaving and has no intention of talking to him – or of sharing any information. When at last he feels he can look round he sees the woman melting into DI Smart’s two-seater – she kicks up her legs, the muscles of her calves flexing. DI Smart closes the door and glances back at Skelgill – and regales him with what can only be described as a ghoulish grin. The woman turns her head, her expression all but implacable – if it weren’t for the eyes. She takes another slow bite of the apple. Now there is a protesting screech of tyres; Skelgill sees the woman yield to her own inertia, pressed back into the seat. A few seconds later, as the car lurches around the corner, he catches a glimpse of the bitten fruit rolling across into the gutter.

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘DS Eve, Guv – Greater Manchester Police.’

  Skelgill seems to be staring off into the distance, and DS Leyton realises his superior has had enough of asking questions – but that nevertheless he ought to supply some answers.

  ‘What it is, Guv – the Chief thinks it’s county lines. That’s why DI Smart’s here – just to have a sniff around – in case there’s a connection with Operation Wirecutter.’ He makes a resigned sigh. ‘Seems like there ain’t.’

  ‘So, what – we clean up the mess?’

  DS Leyton has the hangdog look of a messenger knowing he will be shot after imparting his news.

  ‘The Chief wants the teams to work together on this –’

  ‘Aye – like Smart obviously is.’ Skelgill’s intervention is curt. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate DI Smart’s summary departure.

  ‘Guv – DI Smart’s in cahoots with the GMP drug squad – that’s why DS Eve’s been seconded to us. There’s a particularly nasty gang they’re trying to crack – it’s got lines going all over the North West – right up to the border. They reckon maybe even into Scotland.’

  Skelgill is pensive. He narrows his eyes – his gaze falls upon a row of starlings on the ridge tiles of the small block, yellow-gaped fledglings whistling for food, seemingly ignorant of the predatory lesser black-backed gulls that patrol the skies, or even the hedgehopping hawk that might in the blink of an eye snatch one away. Without direct personal experience, he knows enough of what DS Leyton refers to – so-called ‘county lines’ – the lucrative mobile phone lines sent out to the provinces by metropolitan gangs, circumventing local drug-dealing networks – or, indeed, putting a county line in place where supply never before existed. A recent spike in drug-related incidents has set alarm bells ringing. In r
esponse Operation Wirecutter has been established, and DI Smart is prominent in its regional execution. Skelgill seems to relent. He tilts his head towards the property.

  ‘So – what’s the griff?’

  ‘Top line, Guv – all I know, there’s some geezer in hospital – teenager – overdose or whatever – not expected to pull through.’ DS Leyton makes a face of dismay. ‘That’ll be the third in the last two months, Guv. It’s getting to be a right old can of worms – after all these years that we’ve kept the lid on it.’

  Skelgill makes a scoffing sound.

  ‘That’s more by luck than judgement, Leyton. They’ve never been interested in Cumbria. Not enough folk and not enough money.’

  DS Leyton nods resignedly.

  ‘Seems like county lines is changing all that, Guv. Ninety-nine percent of the profit goes straight into the pocket of Mr Big.’

  As they speak about this, two paramedics clad in hi-vis jackets, a female and a male emerge from the front door. They are engrossed in conversation. The man states, “I would have applied a tourniquet – there was no need for the vet to have died from a wound like that.”

  Exchanging nods the pair pass the detectives and advance to their vehicle. Now the woman replies, “It were definitely that milk maid stabbed him, weren’t it?”

  A look of confusion crosses Skelgill’s countenance, but DS Leyton merely chuckles.

  ‘I reckon they’re talking about Ennerdale, Guv.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The soap – on the telly – last episode there was a murder scene in the dairy. The missus is right into it.’

  ‘Sounds like you are, an’ all, Leyton.’ Skelgill’s tone is a little scathing; he is peeved that he was taken in. ‘Come on.’

  He leads the way – he flashes his warrant card at the constable on the door – who nods dutifully – though he is a local Workington man and does not know them. DS Leyton gives him a friendly, “Alright, mate.”

  The hallway is merely a cramped standing area of a square yard at the foot of a darkened staircase with a door to the left – to the front room – and another to the right, into what must be the kitchen or diner. The left-hand door is open and Skelgill can see a woman sitting on a sofa, leaning forward as if she might be pouring tea, indeed he hears her say, “There you go, Mr Booth – now let it cool, my dear.”

  The woman – in her mid-fifties, perhaps – seems to be a care worker – for she is wearing what might pass as an ancillary nurse’s outfit, and there is a logo on each sleeve just below the shoulder. Skelgill is still holding his warrant card – and he displays it as he enters. The man whom she addresses – ‘Mr Booth’ – is sitting upon a second sofa, against the wall behind the door, facing the front window and – just to its right – a huge TV set that is showing what DS Leyton could tell his boss is a repeat of the most recent episode of Ennerdale; the sound is muted and subtitles are displayed, and it looks like a murder is imminent. The man seems to be watching, although it is hard to tell if his rheumy eyes track the subtitles. His age is indeterminate – maybe between seventy-five and eighty-five, Skelgill thinks. He is frail and shrunken; his clothes look too big. He is in need of a shave and haircut.

  There are grimy nets across the window and the curtains themselves are partly drawn. Wall lights are switched on but two of the four bulbs have blown. Skelgill is no domestic engineer but he notices that cobwebs drape the shades and that dust coats not just the surfaces but lies in a layer upon the carpet, forming a dark line around the skirting boards where it is even more thickly accumulated. There is a glass-fronted cabinet with a collection of ornaments, and more on top of it, and on the mantelpiece a wedding photo – old and faded but perhaps it is the man before them, now a ghost of his former self. The air is stale in an indefinable way – a mixture of dry dust and yet damp plaster – but a bright spike of scintillating aroma sends colours shooting through Skelgill’s brain and he spies – in almost total contrast to everything about the room – a bowl of fresh apples in the centre of the low table between the angle of the two couches.

  ‘He says it’s his nephew.’ It is the nurse that speaks – but in saying this, looking at the old man, she gives a quick shake of her head and makes a doubtful expression, turning out her bottom lip.

  Without taking his eyes off the television, the old man speaks.

  ‘You’re not my wife.’ Now he looks conspiratorially at Skelgill and DS Leyton in turn. ‘She’s an imposter. She doesn’t fool me.’

  The woman clears her throat somewhat indignantly.

  ‘Mr Booth – I’m not your wife – I’m your care worker. Mrs Booth – your wife, Mildred died – six years ago.’

  The man looks at her. He does not speak. Then he looks again at Skelgill and DS Leyton.

  ‘Why have you come back?’ He gestures at the television set with the control that he holds in one gnarled hand. ‘See – it’s working fine. I didn’t call you. It must have been Mildred. It doesn’t need fixed.’

  Then without warning he rises unsteadily. His frame is crooked, exaggeratedly so, it seems – but in fact he is intentionally leaning over the table. Two-handed, he picks up the turned wooden fruit bowl. He offers it to Skelgill.

  ‘Have an apple, young man. An apple a day keeps the doctor away – did you know that?’

  Skelgill glances anxiously at the woman. She seems to give a miniscule nod. He reaches and takes one. The old man puts down the bowl and resumes his seat; immediately his attention returns to the flickering TV set. Skelgill drops the apple into his jacket pocket. Now he addresses the man.

  ‘Mr Booth – what’s your nephew’s name?’

  The man turns his head slowly and gazes blankly at Skelgill.

  ‘Your nephew – he’s been staying with you – is that right, sir?’

  A few seconds pass before there is a reply.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Mildred. She sees to all the family.’

  Skelgill looks at the care worker – she shrugs helplessly.

  ‘What’s his name, sir – your nephew? Mr Booth – is his surname Booth, as well?’

  The repeating of his name seems to draw the man’s interest – and now again he rises shakily. He lifts the fruit bowl.

  ‘Have an apple, young man. An apple a day keeps the doctor away – did you know that?’

  Skelgill’s hand moves instinctively towards his pocket – but he resists the urge to show that he already has one, and instead takes another. Now, as the man sits down he glances at the woman and inclines his head to indicate he is intending to leave the room.

  ‘We’ll just check your nephew’s bedroom, if you don’t mind, sir.’

  He does not expect nor wait for a response, and turns and follows DS Leyton – who by dint of standing nearest to the door is now ahead of him. His sergeant mounts the staircase to his immediate left and begins to tramp rather ponderously up – too slowly for Skelgill’s liking. As he stops to create a gap he hears the old man’s voice.

  ‘I don’t know why you called them out, Mildred – look, it’s working fine.’

  Up ahead of him by simple elimination a quick glance tells DS Leyton that of the two bedrooms, front and rear – there is also a bathroom off the tiny landing – it is the rear that the casualty has been using. But it looks like he has been travelling light. Other than a great deal of mess – plates smeared with caked-on ketchup, takeaway food cartons, crushed soft drink cans, an ashtray overflowing with butts – and the smell of unwashed bedding – there is little of note.

  *

  Skelgill appraises the property. It is typical of much of Workington’s real estate, former council houses, some that are now in private ownership, schemes small and large, mostly in good repair if soulless places, with 1950s austerity stitched into their fabric, the likes of which can be found the length of England, from Kent to Cumbria, where an unassuming majority go about their lives. This house was once well tended. But now its paintwork is flaking. Glazed pots beneath the front window contai
n dead shrubs. A hosepipe lies tangled beyond a rusting wrought iron gate towards the rear. Weeds sprout from between paving stones and around the downpipe from the gutter. The borders are overgrown with long grass and weeds. The lawn – though in need of a cut – retains some semblance of its former self; perhaps a neighbour has occasionally obliged.

  Now DS Leyton emerges from the front door. In the privacy of the kitchen he has been in receipt of a debriefing from the care worker. Before returning to Skelgill’s side he addresses the flagging constable, suggesting he should radio in to base – since he can probably leave for tea and other more pressing duties.

  ‘It’s a terrible thing, Guv.’

  It is not immediately apparent to Skelgill to what his sergeant refers. He does not answer, awaiting clarification.

  ‘Hard to believe that poor old geezer’s managing on his tod. That care worker’s only allocated twenty minutes a day for her call. Make sure he’s okay – stick a ready meal in the microwave.’

  Skelgill is grim faced. Still he remains silent – but this does not stem from some sort of belligerence that may relate, for instance, to DI Smart – but instead that today’s experience compounds feelings he has not yet processed (or even acknowledged) that came to him in the church at Buttermere, at the wake at the inn, upon Haystacks.

  ‘It’s when you know you’re grown up.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  DS Leyton is looking perplexed. But now Skelgill waves away his inquiry and turns to walk towards their car. He shrugs and inhales.

  ‘That’s what I’d call an unreliable witness, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton is nodding. He unlocks the car with his remote and they both climb in.

  ‘Truth be told, Guv – the woman wasn’t much better. Reckons she didn’t even know the so-called nephew was living there. Said it was only by chance that she found him – she needed to use the bathroom and saw his foot sticking out from behind the bedroom door. Dialled 999.’

  ‘I got the feeling she didn’t think he was a nephew.’

  ‘She said she’s been calling on Mr Booth for over two years. His dementia didn’t used to be so severe. He’d never mentioned anyone – and social services have no records of family members.’