Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 8

  9. LITTLE LANGDALE

  ‘Where are you, Guv – it sounds like you’re in a pub?’

  ‘You ought to have been a detective, Leyton.’

  ‘Very good, Guv – I’ll remember that one.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows to nobody in particular.

  ‘I’m still at Little Langdale, Leyton – bird in the hand.’

  ‘I can recommend the pie, Guv – I was just saying to the missus I should have bought a couple and saved her cooking.’

  ‘I’ll bring you some back if you want, Leyton – you can have them tomorrow night.’

  ‘Blimey, Guv – don’t trouble yourself – know what I mean?’

  Skelgill shrugs, this gesture also invisible to his colleague.

  ‘Anyway – what’s the story?’

  DS Leyton hesitates for a moment – there are strident background noises that could be the sound of small children engaging in some form of aquatic sibling rivalry. Skelgill has evidently called his sergeant’s mobile at bath time.

  ‘Did you get my message, Guv – is that why you’re ringing?’

  Skelgill momentarily takes his handset away from his ear and taps at the screen. He scowls.

  ‘I’ve had none come through – the signal’s worse than useless over here – I’ve only got one bar now.’

  ‘Oh, right, Guv.’ The penny seems to drop with DS Leyton that his superior has called him not out of urgency but more likely boredom. ‘Actually it was no news really, Guv – just that they’ll have some preliminary test results on the drowning victim by about ten in the morning.’

  Skelgill does not respond directly to this information. He glances across towards the bar and lowers his voice.

  ‘I’ve not been able to raise Jones – did she get anything on the Polish barmaid?’

  DS Leyton grunts painfully, as though an object has just hit him. There is the slam of a door and the commotion diminishes measurably.

  ‘Sorry, Guv – I’ll just leave them to drown each other – the Polish girl, you said?’

  ‘Aye – Jones’s mobile is going through to voicemail.’

  ‘I think she said something about a fitness class, Guv.’

  Skelgill scoffs dismissively.

  ‘What’s she up to that nonsense for?’

  ‘Beats me, Guv – cost of these gym memberships.’ (Skelgill inhales, as if he is about to pontificate further, but DS Leyton appears keen to return to work matters.) ‘Apparently the landlord didn’t have any details – reckoned she’d upped and left this morning – got the bus to Coniston and on to Manchester airport – story fitted in with what he’d told me.’

  ‘Did you come in here – with Jones?’

  ‘No, Guv – I thought, no point in blowing my cover as the dim-witted Cockney tourist.’

  There is more than a hint of sarcasm in DS Leyton’s tone.

  ‘Very funny, Leyton.’ Skelgill shakes his head mirthlessly. ‘Still, it might come in handy, yet.’

  ‘I reckoned so, Guv.’ DS Leyton sounds a touch mollified. ‘I thought employers are supposed to get ID details – for tax and national insurance and whatnot?’

  ‘They probably are – but a pound to a penny she was paid cash in hand. Did we get a full name?’

  ‘The geezer reckons she told him but he couldn’t remember – claims it was unpronounceable.’

  Skelgill again looks over to the bar, where the landlord is occupied in laboriously writing a customer’s food order on a small triplicate notepad.

  ‘So we’ve just got his word for her impromptu departure.’

  ‘Want me to check out her journey in the morning, Guv? The bus driver will surely remember – can’t be many folks get aboard in that one-horse place.’

  ‘Aye, why not.’

  Skelgill sounds pensive and lacking in enthusiasm. DS Leyton, meanwhile, is clearly under pressure to resume his peacekeeping duties – but out of politeness he evidently feels unable to terminate the conversation.’

  ‘How did you get on, Guv?’

  Skelgill’s response is perhaps unfairly gruff.

  ‘Found the old boy’s hideaway – up in Blackbeck Wood.’

  ‘Anything suspicious, Guv?’

  ‘Leyton – I’m always suspicious – I’m suspicious when I find a dead vole on the doorstep – even though I live with a congenitally murderous cat.’ He strums his nails impatiently on the wooden table. ‘And when there’s no dead vole I’m suspicious of the dog.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  Now it is DS Leyton who sounds distracted. The hullaballoo has intensified despite the barrier of the door between him and his unruly offspring.

  ‘Guv – if you don’t mind – I think I’m going to need to separate these two.’

  Skelgill hisses an expletive.

  ‘Leyton – that racket’s only two?’

  ‘You want to hear ‘em when they’re hungry as well as tired, Guv.’

  *

  ‘Your young lady not with you this evening, Inspector?’

  Skelgill is roused from his thoughts. The publican, who has been kept busy manning the pumps, stands before his table with a clutch of empty pint glasses trapped between the plump fingers of each hand. Skelgill stares at the bitten nails before he raises his gaze; he glowers as though he suspects the man’s inquiry to be disingenuous.

  ‘You referring to Sergeant Jones?’

  The man shuffles back an inch or two, sensing Skelgill’s disapproval.

  ‘That’s it, Inspector – she called in this afternoon – nasty business in the lake.’

  ‘Tarn.’

  ‘Tarn – of course, Inspector.’

  Skelgill does not offer any opinion on the incident. The silent hiatus obliges the loitering landlord to reveal the true purpose of his unsolicited approach.

  ‘Was there some problem as regards Eva?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘When your... Sergeant Jones... was asking about her – I assumed there must be a connection with the drowning?’

  Skelgill folds his arms and grimaces.

  ‘Yesterday she was admiring the boots your barmaid was wearing – maybe she just wanted to know where to buy them.’ If his disinterest is affected, he carries it off with authenticity. ‘You know what women are like.’

  The publican gives a nervous laugh, unconvincing in its bravado. He seems uncertain of where next to tread, and retreats to safer territory.

  ‘Can I get you a refill, Inspector – the ordinary bitter’s in good form – a decent driver’s beer?’

  Skelgill looks askance at his half empty pint.

  ‘I was thinking of having supper.’

  The man is resting the glasses against his substantial paunch; they rattle as he nods encouragingly.

  ‘We’ve got faggots new on the menu tonight, Inspector.’

  Skelgill frowns warily.

  ‘I thought that was Black Country haggis?’

  The publican grins accommodatingly.

  ‘All ingredients sourced locally, Inspector – our butcher delivers daily from Kendal.’

  Skelgill shakes his head somewhat ungratefully.

  ‘I’ll stick with the pie.’

  ‘No problem, sir – would that be with chips and peas or with boiled potatoes and salad?’ (Skelgill’s scowl suffices as an answer.) ‘Chips it is, Inspector – you’re a man after my own heart. Be about ten minutes, sir – as we’ve got a few in tonight.’

  Skelgill nods dismissively. His mobile rests on the table beside his beer, and he is distracted by the arrival of a text message. The man backs away, bowing rather subserviently, before turning to shamble off with his load of clinking glassware. Skelgill meanwhile opens the message – the number is unfamiliar, but its sender begins by introducing himself as the redheaded constable who attended the drowning earlier. Skelgill methodically scrolls through what is quite a lengthy communication and then slumps back in his seat, inhaling and holding the breath for several seconds while he ponders the message’
s import, his eyes glazed. Then his mind seems to focus – he rises and pulls his jacket off the back of the chair. He heads across to the bar, tugging his wallet from his hip pocket. The landlord is this moment emerging from the kitchen – having presumably placed Skelgill’s order with the chef – and at the sight of his customer preparing to leave looks somewhat alarmed. But before he can speak Skelgill takes control of the situation.

  ‘That pie – forget the trimmings and I’ll take it in a doggy bag – in fact make it half a dozen and they’ll see me through the week.’

  *

  ‘Clarice – you’re certain it was William Thymer that you saw?’

  The old woman – short and plump and wearing glasses that magnify her eyes so they appear to fill the lenses, and who has already informed Skelgill several times that she is ninety-two – adjusts her hearing aid with one hand and with the other presses down on the head of an uncomfortable-looking tortoiseshell cat that she has pinned upon her lap.

  ‘What’s that, young ’un?’

  Skelgill leans closer and in the same movement helps himself to another chocolate digestive biscuit. He is seated upon a small sofa at right angles to the woman, whose own high-backed chair faces the television set – the picture still displayed, though the sound muted – in what is a cosy cottage-style sitting room, blackened oak beams lining its low ceiling. Opposite him on the sealed chimney breast a wall-mounted electric fire has all its bars glowing orange, and he has already removed his jacket in response to the stifling heat; the chocolate on the biscuits is melting, and he licks his fingers after transferring what will be his third to his plate. His eye falls upon a framed photograph of a group of small children clustered around the old lady herself – it is one of several such images hung about the walls – and the woman seems to notice it draws his attention.

  ‘I’m a Great Nan, yer know? Eight so far and two in t’oven. That was me ninetieth birthday – they came from all ower.’

  Skelgill smiles respectfully. He takes a sip of tea and a bite of his biscuit. He seems in no hurry to reprise his question – but perhaps a deliberate tactic underlies his silence, in order to avoid being subjected to an exposition of a dynastic nature. The constable’s text message that has brought him here – hampered in its timeous delivery by the mountainous environs – has informed him that an eyewitness of sorts has come forward, Clarice Cartwright being that observer. Now, casually munching, he speaks again, more loudly this time.

  ‘What made you look out of the bedroom window, Clarice – after midnight?’

  The woman gives the cat several firm strokes, its features stretching as its fur is drawn tight from its head.

  ‘I wo’ lettin’ in Lotty – she comes in when she knows I’m going to bed – sleeps ont’ quilt, eh?’

  Skelgill gathers that Lotty is the squished feline.

  ‘And you saw William Thymer, Clarice – you saw Ticker?’

  The woman nods several times.

  ‘Looked like devil ’isself wo’ after ’im.’

  ‘He ran past – in the direction of the tarn?’

  ‘Lowpin.’ She pulls vigorously at the cat’s skin. ‘He wo’ flaiten alright.’

  In an exaggerated manner Skelgill raises his eyebrows to show he understands that her graphic dialect tells of the tramp jumping with fear. He glances across at the window; the curtains are still open and beyond the small mullioned frame there is complete darkness. Little Langdale, like many such hamlets set deep in Lakeland’s fells, is not overburdened with street lighting. The woman seems to divine his misgivings. She fixes him with her bulbous fishlike gaze and lifts a finger towards the ceiling.

  ‘Moon had risen ower yon pike – it wo’ plenty bright enough.’

  ‘And how long after you got into bed did you hear the other footsteps?’

  ‘Minute or two.’ She sucks in her lips momentarily. ‘I’d ’ave deeked but I’d took out me teeth by then.’

  Skelgill appears unfazed by this logic – he reaches for another biscuit and holds it up approvingly, which pleases the old lady.

  ‘And it was more than one person?’

  The woman gets to work again on the cat as a precursor to her reply.

  ‘Sounded like when fell runners come through t’village – a group on ’em together.’

  ‘But no voices?’

  Now she shakes her head and, as Skelgill watches with some alarm, she dispenses a couple of solid thumps upon the tolerant feline’s cranium – perhaps this action corresponds to a negative response. However, as he reaches for his cup of tea he can’t fail to hear the creature’s throaty purr.

  ‘Is it unusual for folk to be up and about – at that time of night?’

  Now the lady rubs the cat’s head with a side-to-side motion – this could be an indication of uncertainty.

  ‘Since these offcomers arrived there’s bin goings on.’

  ‘Clarice – do you mean at the Langdale Arms?’

  ‘Aye – and ower at castle – yon foreign gadgee.’ With the heel of a hand she gives the cat a solid dunt in one ear. ‘He sacked local folk as wukt there – and they say he keeps wolves – roaming wild int’ grounds.’

  Skelgill narrows his eyes and leans forwards with his elbows on his thighs. It will not surprise him that Blackbeck Castle’s proprietor’s name – Wolfstein – and his conspicuous ownership of a brace of Alsatians have already become twisted by hearsay. (In fact he might marvel that the rumour mill has not made the leap directly to werewolf.) Though Clarice Cartwright is still mobile about her modest abode, she probably relies upon visitors for her news and gossip. Indeed it was from her twice-weekly charlady that she learned of William Thymer’s unfortunate demise, and through the same woman’s good offices that her report of his nocturnal flight was relayed to the local bobby and thence to Skelgill. Now, as he munches companionably, he must be speculating as to the reliability of her testimony. Witnesses are notoriously inaccurate at the best of times – and throw into the equation such variables as a hearing aid and thick-lensed spectacles (neither of which may have been worn at the time) and an unlit village street at well past midnight – and it is tempting to conclude that the account has been invented, imagined, embellished, or possibly even dreamt.

  *

  The charcoal-clad figure that drops noiselessly beside Blackbeck Castle’s grey forest gate crouches for a second, poised like a panther in a patch of pale moonlight. He wears fine gloves and a close-fitting hat, and a Buff around his throat pulled up over his nose – exposing only glinting eyes that dart about, quick to alert him to danger. His top is a soft-shell that makes no sound, his climber’s trousers likewise, and rubber soled trail shoes complement the burglar’s silent ensemble.

  What separates this intruder from the conventional sneak thief, however, is his next act. Still on his haunches he slips off a small backpack and extracts first a bulging hessian bass-bag, and then a leather sheath from which he draws a wicked-looking filleting knife. He spreads out the bag and sets to work upon its contents with the flickering blade. Some thirty or more cuts made, he regards his handiwork. Tugging down his muffler, he picks up a portion and stuffs it into his mouth: while the bag and knife owe their origins to angling, the comestible hails from the Langdale Arms – it is in fact a slice of pie.

  The ‘burglar’ is DI Daniel Skelgill.

  Munching pensively he considers the scene, for the time being seemingly at ease. Behind him the wall curves away north and south, disappearing behind trunks and dark gatherings of shrubs. If Dr Wolfstein’s five-kilometre assessment of the perimeter is accurate – a circuit of just over three miles in Skelgill’s money – then it encloses private grounds of some five hundred acres, and Blackbeck Castle itself stands about half a mile from his position.

  Although his previous inspection – accompanied by DS Jones – revealed no footway outside the gate, this is not the case within. A distinct shadow ahead of him stripes the rough vegetation, wider than a badger-path, though as purposefully
straight. It leads due west from the forest entrance, presumably towards the castle. He sets out along its course. His customary pace is brisk – a good five miles per hour – and a few minutes’ walking should bring him close to the rear of the property.

  And now he allows an insight into what might appear more madness than method as regards the pie (or in fact pies – for he has sacrificed four of his bulk buy of six). Thirty paces from the gate he delves into the bass-bag and takes out a second morsel. Rather than eat it, however, he drops it onto the path. For a man whose stomach rattles with a mere five chocolate digestives (and nothing else since a hurried bowl of dry cereal first thing), such self-restraint is remarkable – and would certainly confound his colleague DS Leyton, who at this instant ought to be dozing replete at his fireside before the ten o’clock news. And Skelgill’s ascetic determination to eke out his supply solely for his mysterious purpose seems to hold, for at regular intervals he marks his progress with successive deposits.

  A gentle north-easterly is cool across his shoulder, its murmur punctuated by the occasional too-woo of a Tawny Owl (and the unsynchronised too-wit of a mate in reply). Long-eared bats fresh from hibernation are on the wing, and more than once Skelgill’s sharp ears pick up their shrill cries as they hawk skilfully about the canopy. Above all – above breeze and bird and bat – a waxing gibbous moon casts solid black shadows beneath towering ornamental conifers, ideal for emergency concealment.